This is a modern-English version of Athens: Its Rise and Fall, Complete, originally written by Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron.
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.
Scroll to the bottom of this page and you will find a free ePUB download link for this book.
ATHENS: ITS RISE AND FALL
by Edward Bulwer Lytton
CONTENTS
DEDICATION.
TO HENRY FYNES CLINTON, ESQ., etc., etc. AUTHOR OF “THE FASTI HELLENICI.”
TO HENRY FYNES CLINTON, ESQ., etc., etc. AUTHOR OF “THE FASTI HELLENICI.”
My Dear Sir,
Dear Sir,
I am not more sensible of the distinction conferred upon me when you allowed me to inscribe this history with your name, than pleased with an occasion to express my gratitude for the assistance I have derived throughout the progress of my labours from that memorable work, in which you have upheld the celebrity of English learning, and afforded so imperishable a contribution to our knowledge of the Ancient World. To all who in history look for the true connexion between causes and effects, chronology is not a dry and mechanical compilation of barren dates, but the explanation of events and the philosophy of facts. And the publication of the Fasti Hellenici has thrown upon those times, in which an accurate chronological system can best repair what is deficient, and best elucidate what is obscure in the scanty authorities bequeathed to us, all the light of a profound and disciplined intellect, applying the acutest comprehension to the richest erudition, and arriving at its conclusions according to the true spirit of inductive reasoning, which proportions the completeness of the final discovery to the caution of the intermediate process. My obligations to that learning and to those gifts which you have exhibited to the world are shared by all who, in England or in Europe, study the history or cultivate the literature of Greece. But, in the patient kindness with which you have permitted me to consult you during the tedious passage of these volumes through the press—in the careful advice—in the generous encouragement—which have so often smoothed the path and animated the progress—there are obligations peculiar to myself; and in those obligations there is so much that honours me, that, were I to enlarge upon them more, the world might mistake an acknowledgment for a boast.
I am just as aware of the honor you've given me by allowing me to write this history in your name as I am grateful for the help I've received throughout my work from that remarkable book, where you have championed the significance of English scholarship and provided an enduring contribution to our understanding of the Ancient World. For anyone seeking true connections between causes and effects in history, chronology is not just a dull and mechanical list of dates, but a way to explain events and explore the philosophy behind facts. The publication of the Fasti Hellenici has shed light on a time when a precise chronological system can best address gaps and clarify what is unclear in the limited sources we have. This work showcases a deep and disciplined intellect, combining sharp insight with extensive knowledge, and drawing conclusions based on the essence of inductive reasoning, which ties the thoroughness of the final finding to the caution exercised during the process. My gratitude for that knowledge and the gifts you have shared with the world is felt by all who study the history or appreciate the literature of Greece, whether in England or Europe. However, in the patient kindness with which you have allowed me to consult you during the lengthy process of these volumes being published—in your thoughtful advice and generous encouragement—there are specific debts of gratitude that are personal to me; and in those debts, there is so much that honors me that, if I were to elaborate further, the world might confuse gratitude for arrogance.
With the highest consideration and esteem,
Believe me, my dear sir,
Most sincerely and gratefully yours,
EDWARD LYTTON BULWER
London, March, 1837.
With the utmost respect and admiration,
Trust me, my dear sir,
Most sincerely and gratefully yours,
EDWARD LYTTON BULWER
London, March, 1837.ADVERTISEMENT.
The work, a portion of which is now presented to the reader, has occupied me many years—though often interrupted in its progress, either by more active employment, or by literary undertakings of a character more seductive. These volumes were not only written, but actually in the hands of the publisher before the appearance, and even, I believe, before the announcement of the first volume of Mr. Thirlwall’s History of Greece, or I might have declined going over any portion of the ground cultivated by that distinguished scholar 1. As it is, however, the plan I have pursued differs materially from that of Mr. Thirlwall, and I trust that the soil is sufficiently fertile to yield a harvest to either labourer.
The work, part of which is now being presented to the reader, has taken me many years to complete—though its progress has often been interrupted by more demanding jobs or by literary projects that were more enticing. These volumes were not only written but were actually with the publisher before the release, and I believe, even before the announcement of the first volume of Mr. Thirlwall’s History of Greece, or I might have chosen not to cover any of the territory explored by that distinguished scholar 1. However, the approach I’ve taken is significantly different from Mr. Thirlwall’s, and I hope that the ground is fertile enough to yield a harvest for both of us.
Since it is the letters, yet more than the arms or the institutions of Athens, which have rendered her illustrious, it is my object to combine an elaborate view of her literature with a complete and impartial account of her political transactions. The two volumes now published bring the reader, in the one branch of my subject, to the supreme administration of Pericles; in the other, to a critical analysis of the tragedies of Sophocles. Two additional volumes will, I trust, be sufficient to accomplish my task, and close the records of Athens at that period when, with the accession of Augustus, the annals of the world are merged into the chronicle of the Roman empire. In these latter volumes it is my intention to complete the history of the Athenian drama—to include a survey of the Athenian philosophy—to describe the manners, habits, and social life of the people, and to conclude the whole with such a review of the facts and events narrated as may constitute, perhaps, an unprejudiced and intelligible explanation of the causes of the rise and fall of Athens.
Since it’s the letters, more than the military strength or the institutions of Athens, that have made her famous, my goal is to provide a detailed look at her literature alongside a complete and unbiased account of her political history. The two volumes I’ve published so far take the reader through the peak leadership of Pericles in one part and offer a critical analysis of the tragedies of Sophocles in the other. I hope that two more volumes will be enough to finish my task and wrap up the history of Athens at the point when, with Augustus’ rise, the records of the world merge into the story of the Roman Empire. In these upcoming volumes, I plan to complete the history of Athenian drama, include an overview of Athenian philosophy, describe the customs, habits, and social life of the people, and wrap it all up with a review of the facts and events discussed that may provide an unbiased and clear explanation of why Athens rose and fell.
As the history of the Greek republics has been too often corruptly pressed into the service of heated political partisans, may I be pardoned the precaution of observing that, whatever my own political code, as applied to England, I have nowhere sought knowingly to pervert the lessons of a past nor analogous time to fugitive interests and party purposes. Whether led sometimes to censure, or more often to vindicate the Athenian people, I am not conscious of any other desire than that of strict, faithful, impartial justice. Restlessly to seek among the ancient institutions for illustrations (rarely apposite) of the modern, is, indeed, to desert the character of a judge for that of an advocate, and to undertake the task of the historian with the ambition of the pamphleteer. Though designing this work not for colleges and cloisters, but for the general and miscellaneous public, it is nevertheless impossible to pass over in silence some matters which, if apparently trifling in themselves, have acquired dignity, and even interest, from brilliant speculations or celebrated disputes. In the history of Greece (and Athenian history necessarily includes nearly all that is valuable in the annals of the whole Hellenic race) the reader must submit to pass through much that is minute, much that is wearisome, if he desire to arrive at last at definite knowledge and comprehensive views. In order, however, to interrupt as little as possible the recital of events, I have endeavoured to confine to the earlier portion of the work such details of an antiquarian or speculative nature as, while they may afford to the general reader, not, indeed, a minute analysis, but perhaps a sufficient notion of the scholastic inquiries which have engaged the attention of some of the subtlest minds of Germany and England, may also prepare him the better to comprehend the peculiar character and circumstances of the people to whose history he is introduced: and it may be well to warn the more impatient that it is not till the second book (vol. i., p. 181) that disquisition is abandoned for narrative. There yet remain various points on which special comment would be incompatible with connected and popular history, but on which I propose to enlarge in a series of supplementary notes, to be appended to the concluding volume. These notes will also comprise criticisms and specimens of Greek writers not so intimately connected with the progress of Athenian literature as to demand lengthened and elaborate notice in the body of the work. Thus, when it is completed, it is my hope that this book will combine, with a full and complete history of Athens, political and moral, a more ample and comprehensive view of the treasures of the Greek literature than has yet been afforded to the English public. I have ventured on these remarks because I thought it due to the reader, no less than to myself, to explain the plan and outline of a design at present only partially developed.
As the history of the Greek republics has often been skewed to serve intense political factions, I hope you'll excuse me for taking a moment to clarify that, regardless of my own political beliefs as they relate to England, I have not intentionally twisted the lessons of the past or similar times to fit transient interests or party agendas. Whether I sometimes criticize or more often defend the Athenian people, my only aim has been to pursue strict, faithful, and impartial justice. Relentlessly searching among ancient institutions for examples of the modern can turn a judge into an advocate, taking on the role of a historian with the ambition of a pamphleteer. Although I'm writing this work not for academics but for the general public, I cannot overlook certain topics that, while seemingly trivial, have gained importance and intrigue through insightful theories or famous debates. In studying the history of Greece (and since Athenian history covers almost all the significant events in the history of the entire Hellenic race), readers should expect to wade through a lot of detail and somewhat tedious content if they wish to attain a clear understanding and broad perspective. To minimize interruptions in the narrative of events, I've tried to keep the earlier sections focused on details that, while not offering exhaustive analysis, may give the general reader enough insight into the scholarly inquiries that have engaged some of the most brilliant minds of Germany and England and better prepare them to understand the unique character and circumstances of the people whose history they are exploring. It may also be wise to warn the more impatient that it's not until the second book (vol. i., p. 181) that I shift from analysis to storytelling. There are still various topics where in-depth discussion would disrupt the flow of a coherent and accessible history, but I plan to elaborate on these in a series of supplementary notes at the end of the final volume. These notes will also include critiques and examples of Greek writers that are not closely tied to the development of Athenian literature enough to warrant extensive discussion within the main text. Thus, when this work is finished, I hope that it will present a thorough and complete history of Athens—political and moral—alongside a broader and deeper look into the treasures of Greek literature than has been made available to the English-speaking public until now. I've shared these remarks because I felt it was important for both the reader and myself to explain the plan and outline of a project that is currently only partially fleshed out.
London, March, 1837.
London, March 1837.
CONTENTS OF ALL BOOKS IN DETAIL
BOOK I
CHAPTER
I Situation and Soil of Attica.—The Pelasgians its earliest
Inhabitants.—Their Race and Language akin to the Grecian.—
Their varying Civilization and Architectural Remains.—
Cecrops.—Were the earliest Civilizers of Greece foreigners
or Greeks?—The Foundation of Athens.—The Improvements
attributed to Cecrops.—The Religion of the Greeks cannot
be reduced to a simple System.—Its Influence upon their
Character and Morals, Arts and Poetry.—The Origin of
Slavery and Aristocracy.
II The unimportant consequences to be deduced from the admission
that Cecrops might be Egyptian.—Attic Kings before
Theseus.—The Hellenes.—Their Genealogy.—Ionians and
Achaeans Pelasgic.—Contrast between Dorians and Ionians.—
Amphictyonic League.
III The Heroic Age.—Theseus.—His legislative Influence upon
Athens.—Qualities of the Greek Heroes.—Effect of a
Traditional Age upon the Character of a People.
IV The Successors of Theseus.—The Fate of Codrus.—The
Emigration of Nileus.—The Archons.—Draco.
V A General Survey of Greece and the East previous to the
Time of Solon.—The Grecian Colonies.—The Isles.—Brief
account of the States on the Continent.—Elis and the
Olympic Games.
VI Return of the Heraclidae.—The Spartan Constitution and
Habits.—The first and second Messenian War.
VII Governments in Greece.
VIII Brief Survey of Arts, Letters, and Philosophy in Greece,
prior to the Legislation of Solon.
BOOK I
CHAPTER
I Situation and Soil of Attica.—The Pelasgians were its earliest
inhabitants.—Their race and language were similar to the Greeks.—
Their changing civilization and architectural remains.—
Cecrops.—Were the earliest civilizers of Greece foreigners
or Greeks?—The founding of Athens.—The improvements
credited to Cecrops.—Greek religion cannot
be simplified into one system.—Its influence on their
character, morals, arts, and poetry.—The origin of
slavery and aristocracy.
II The minor consequences of the idea that Cecrops might be Egyptian.—Attic kings before
Theseus.—The Hellenes.—Their genealogy.—Ionians and
Achaeans being Pelasgic.—The contrast between Dorians and Ionians.—
Amphictyonic League.
III The Heroic Age.—Theseus.—His legislative influence on
Athens.—Qualities of the Greek heroes.—The effect of a
traditional age on the character of a people.
IV The successors of Theseus.—The fate of Codrus.—The
emigration of Nileus.—The Archons.—Draco.
V A general overview of Greece and the East before the
time of Solon.—The Greek colonies.—The islands.—A brief
overview of the states on the continent.—Elis and the
Olympic Games.
VI Return of the Heraclidae.—The Spartan constitution and
habits.—The first and second Messenian Wars.
VII Governments in Greece.
VIII A brief overview of arts, letters, and philosophy in Greece,
before the legislation of Solon.
BOOK II
CHAPTER
I The Conspiracy of Cylon.—Loss of Salamis.—First Appearance
of Solon.—Success against the Megarians in the Struggle for
Salamis.—Cirrhaean War.—Epimenides.—Political State of
Athens.—Character of Solon.—His Legislation.—General View
of the Athenian Constitution.
II The Departure of Solon from Athens.—The Rise of Pisistratus.
—Return of Solon.—His Conduct and Death.—The Second and
Third Tyranny of Pisistratus.—Capture of Sigeum.—Colony
In the Chersonesus founded by the first Miltiades.—Death of
Pisistratus.
III The Administration of Hippias.—The Conspiracy of Harmodius
and Aristogiton.—The Death of Hipparchus.—Cruelties of
Hippias.—The young Miltiades sent to the Chersonesus.—The
Spartans Combine with the Alcmaeonidae against Hippias.—The
fall of the Tyranny.—The Innovations of Clisthenes.—His
Expulsion and Restoration.—Embassy to the Satrap of Sardis.
—Retrospective View of the Lydian, Medean, and Persian
Monarchies.—Result of the Athenian Embassy to Sardis.—
Conduct of Cleomenes.—Victory of the Athenians against the
Boeotians and Chalcidians.—Hippias arrives at Sparta.—The
Speech of Sosicles the Corinthian.—Hippias retires to
Sardis.
IV Histiaeus, Tyrant of Miletus, removed to Persia.—The
Government of that City deputed to Aristagoras, who invades
Naxos with the aid of the Persians.—Ill Success of that
Expedition.—Aristagoras resolves upon Revolting from the
Persians.—Repairs to Sparta and to Athens.—The Athenians
and Eretrians induced to assist the Ionians.—Burning of
Sardis.—The Ionian War.—The Fate of Aristagoras.—Naval
Battle of Lade.—Fall of Miletus.—Reduction of Ionia.—
Miltiades.—His Character.—Mardonius replaces Artaphernes
in the Lydian Satrapy.—Hostilities between Aegina and
Athens.—Conduct of Cleomenes.—Demaratus deposed.—Death
Of Cleomenes.—New Persian Expedition.
V The Persian Generals enter Europe.—Invasion of Naxos,
Carystus, Eretria.—The Athenians Demand the Aid of Sparta.
—The Result of their Mission and the Adventure of their
Messenger.—The Persians advance to Marathon.—The Plain
Described.—Division of Opinion in the Athenian Camp.—The
Advice of Miltiades prevails.—The Drear of Hippias.—The
Battle of Marathon.
BOOK II
CHAPTER
I The Cylon Conspiracy.—Loss of Salamis.—First Appearance
of Solon.—Victory over the Megarians in the Fight for
Salamis.—Cirrhaean War.—Epimenides.—Political Situation
in Athens.—Character of Solon.—His Laws.—General Overview
of the Athenian Constitution.
II Solon Leaves Athens.—The Rise of Pisistratus.
—Solon Returns.—His Actions and Death.—Pisistratus’s Second
and Third Tyrannies.—Capture of Sigeum.—Colony
in the Chersonesus founded by the first Miltiades.—Death
of Pisistratus.
III The Rule of Hippias.—The Conspiracy of Harmodius
and Aristogiton.—Hipparchus’s Death.—Hippias's Cruelties.—
The young Miltiades sent to the Chersonesus.—The
Spartans join with the Alcmaeonidae against Hippias.—The
fall of the Tyranny.—Clisthenes's Reforms.—His
Expulsion and Return.—Embassy to the Satrap of Sardis.—
Review of the Lydian, Medean, and Persian
Monarchies.—Outcome of the Athenian Embassy to Sardis.—
Actions of Cleomenes.—Athenian Victory over the
Boeotians and Chalcidians.—Hippias arrives at Sparta.—
The Speech of Sosicles the Corinthian.—Hippias retreats to
Sardis.
IV Histiaeus, Ruler of Miletus, taken to Persia.—The
Governance of that City handed to Aristagoras, who invades
Naxos with the help of the Persians.—Failed Expedition.—
Aristagoras decides to Revolt against the
Persians.—Goes to Sparta and to Athens.—The Athenians
and Eretrians convinced to support the Ionians.—Burning
of Sardis.—The Ionian War.—Fate of Aristagoras.—Naval
Battle of Lade.—Fall of Miletus.—Conquest of Ionia.—
Miltiades.—His Character.—Mardonius replaces Artaphernes
in the Lydian Satrapy.—Conflicts between Aegina and
Athens.—Actions of Cleomenes.—Demaratus is deposed.—Death
of Cleomenes.—New Persian Campaign.
V Persian Generals enter Europe.—Invasion of Naxos,
Carystus, Eretria.—Athenians Request Sparta's Support.
—Outcome of their Mission and the Adventure of their
Messenger.—Persians advance to Marathon.—The Plain
Explained.—Divided Opinions in the Athenian Camp.—
Advice of Miltiades takes precedence.—The Fear of Hippias.—
The Battle of Marathon.
BOOK III
CHAPTER
I The Character and Popularity of Miltiades.—Naval expedition.
—Siege of Paros.—Conduct of Miltiades.—He is Accused and
Sentenced.—His Death.
II The Athenian Tragedy.—Its Origin.—Thespis.—Phrynichus.—
Aeschylus.—Analysis of the Tragedies of Aeschylus.
III Aristides.—His Character and Position.—The Rise of
Themistocles.—Aristides is Ostracised.—The Ostracism
examined.—The Influence of Themistocles increases.—The
Silver—mines of Laurion.—Their Product applied by
Themistocles to the Increase of the Navy.—New Direction
given to the National Character.
IV The Preparations of Darius.—Revolt of Egypt.—Dispute for
The Succession to the Persian Throne.—Death of Darius.—
Brief Review of the leading Events and Characteristics of
his Reign.
V Xerxes conducts an Expedition into Egypt.—He finally resolves
on the Invasion of Greece.—Vast Preparations for the
Conquest of Europe.—Xerxes arrives at Sardis.—Despatches
Envoys to the Greek States, demanding Tribute.—The Bridge
of the Hellespont.—Review of the Persian Armament at
Abydos.—Xerxes encamps at Therme.
VI The Conduct of the Greeks.—The Oracle relating to Salamis.—
Art of Themistocles.—The Isthmian Congress.—Embassies to
Argos, Crete, Corcyra, and Syracuse.—Their ill Success.—
The Thessalians send Envoys to the Isthmus.—The Greeks
advance to Tempe, but retreat.—The Fleet despatched to
Artemisium, and the Pass of Thermopylae occupied.—Numbers
of the Grecian Fleet.—Battle of Thermopylae.
VII The Advice of Demaratus to Xerxes.—Themistocles.—Actions off
Artemisium.—The Greeks retreat.—The Persians invade
Delphi, and are repulsed with great Loss.—The Athenians,
unaided by their Allies, abandon Athens, and embark for
Salamis.—The irresolute and selfish Policy of the
Peloponnesians.—Dexterity and Firmness of Themistocles.—
Battle of Salamis.—Andros and Carystus besieged by the
Greeks.—Anecdotes of Themistocles.—Honours awarded to him
in Sparta.—Xerxes returns to Asia.—Olynthus and Potidaea
besieged by Artabazus.—The Athenians return Home.—The
Ostracism of Aristides is repealed.
VIII Embassy of Alexander of Macedon to Athens.—The Result of his
Proposals.—Athenians retreat to Salamis.—Mardonius
occupies Athens.—The Athenians send Envoys to Sparta.—
Pausanias succeeds Cleombrotus as Regent of Sparta.—Battle
of Plataea.—Thebes besieged by the Athenians.—Battle of
Mycale.—Siege of Sestos.—Conclusion of the Persian War.
BOOK III
CHAPTER
I The Character and Popularity of Miltiades.—Naval expedition.
—Siege of Paros.—Miltiades' Actions.—He is Accused and
Sentenced.—His Death.
II The Athenian Tragedy.—Its Origin.—Thespis.—Phrynichus.—
Aeschylus.—Analysis of Aeschylus’ Tragedies.
III Aristides.—His Character and Role.—The Rise of
Themistocles.—Aristides is Ostracized.—The Ostracism
Explained.—The Influence of Themistocles Grows.—The
Silver—Mines of Laurion.—Their Yield Used by
Themistocles to Build Up the Navy.—New Direction
for National Character.
IV The Preparations of Darius.—Revolt of Egypt.—Struggle for
The Succession to the Persian Throne.—Death of Darius.—
Brief Overview of the Key Events and Traits of
his Reign.
V Xerxes Leads an Expedition into Egypt.—He Ultimately Decides
to Invade Greece.—Massive Preparations for the
Conquest of Europe.—Xerxes Arrives at Sardis.—Sends
Envoys to the Greek States, Demanding Tribute.—The Bridge
of the Hellespont.—Review of the Persian Forces at
Abydos.—Xerxes Encamps at Therme.
VI The Actions of the Greeks.—The Oracle Related to Salamis.—
The Strategy of Themistocles.—The Isthmian Congress.—
Embassies to Argos, Crete, Corcyra, and Syracuse.—Their Poor Outcomes.—
The Thessalians Send Envoys to the Isthmus.—The Greeks
Move Towards Tempe, but Retreat.—The Fleet Sent to
Artemisium, and the Pass of Thermopylae Secured.—Size
of the Greek Fleet.—Battle of Thermopylae.
VII Demaratus’ Advice to Xerxes.—Themistocles.—Actions Off
Artemisium.—The Greeks Retreat.—The Persians Invade
Delphi, but are Repelled with Heavy Losses.—The Athenians,
Without Help from Their Allies, Leave Athens and Embark for
Salamis.—The Hesitant and Selfish Policy of the
Peloponnesians.—The Tact and Determination of Themistocles.—
Battle of Salamis.—Andros and Carystus Besieged by the
Greeks.—Stories About Themistocles.—Honors Given to Him
in Sparta.—Xerxes Returns to Asia.—Olynthus and Potidaea
Besieged by Artabazus.—The Athenians Return Home.—The
Ostracism of Aristides is Lifted.
VIII Embassy of Alexander of Macedon to Athens.—The Outcome of His
Proposals.—Athenians Retreat to Salamis.—Mardonius
Takes Control of Athens.—The Athenians Send Envoys to Sparta.—
Pausanias Becomes the Regent of Sparta After Cleombrotus.—Battle
of Plataea.—Thebes Besieged by the Athenians.—Battle of
Mycale.—Siege of Sestos.—End of the Persian War.
BOOK IV
CHAPTER
I Remarks on the Effects of War.—State of Athens.—Interference
of Sparta with respect to the Fortifications of Athens.—
Dexterous Conduct of Themistocles.—The New Harbour of the
Piraeus.—Proposition of the Spartans in the Amphictyonic
Council defeated by Themistocles.—Allied Fleet at Cyprus
and Byzantium.—Pausanias.—Alteration in his Character.—
His ambitious Views and Treason.—The Revolt of the Ionians
from the Spartan Command.—Pausanias recalled.—Dorcis
replaces him.—The Athenians rise to the Head of the Ionian
League.—Delos made the Senate and Treasury of the Allies.—
Able and prudent Management of Aristides.—Cimon succeeds
To the Command of the Fleet.—Character of Cimon.—Eion
besieged.—Scyros colonized by Atticans.—Supposed Discovery
of the Bones of Theseus.—Declining Power of Themistocles.
—Democratic Change in the Constitution.—Themistocles
ostracised.—Death of Aristides.
II Popularity and Policy of Cimon.—Naxos revolts from the
Ionian League.—Is besieged by Cimon.—Conspiracy and
Fate of Pausanias.—Flight and Adventures of Themistocles.
—His Death.
III Reduction of Naxos.—Actions off Cyprus.—Manners of
Cimon.—Improvements in Athens.—Colony at the Nine Ways.
—Siege of Thasos.—Earthquake in Sparta.—Revolt of Helots,
Occupation of Ithome, and Third Messenian War.—Rise and
Character of Pericles.—Prosecution and Acquittal of Cimon.
—The Athenians assist the Spartans at Ithome.—Thasos
Surrenders.—Breach between the Athenians and Spartans.—
Constitutional Innovations at Athens.—Ostracism of Cimon.
IV War between Megara and Corinth.—Megara and Pegae garrisoned
by Athenians.—Review of Affairs at the Persian Court.—
Accession of Artaxerxes.—Revolt of Egypt under Inarus.—
Athenian Expedition to assist Inarus.—Aegina besieged.—The
Corinthians defeated.—Spartan Conspiracy with the Athenian
Oligarchy.—Battle of Tanagra.—Campaign and Successes of
Myronides.—Plot of the Oligarchy against the Republic.—
Recall of Cimon.—Long Walls completed.—Aegina reduced.—
Expedition under Tolmides.—Ithome surrenders.—The
Insurgents are settled at Naupactus.—Disastrous Termination
of the Egyptian Expedition.—The Athenians march into
Thessaly to restore Orestes the Tagus.—Campaign under
Pericles.—Truce of five Years with the Peloponnesians.—
Cimon sets sail for Cyprus.—Pretended Treaty of Peace with
Persia.—Death of Cimon.
V Change of Manners in Athens.—Begun under the Pisistratidae.—
Effects of the Persian War, and the intimate Connexion with
Ionia.—The Hetaerae.—The Political Eminence lately
acquired by Athens.—The Transfer of the Treasury from Delos
to Athens.—Latent Dangers and Evils.—First, the Artificial
Greatness of Athens not supported by Natural Strength.—
Secondly, her pernicious Reliance on Tribute.—Thirdly,
Deterioration of National Spirit commenced by Cimon in the
Use of Bribes and Public Tables.—Fourthly, Defects in
Popular Courts of Law.—Progress of General Education.—
History.—Its Ionian Origin.—Early Historians.—Acusilaus.
—Cadmus.—Eugeon.—Hellanicus.—Pherecides.—Xanthus.—View
of the Life and Writings of Herodotus.—Progress of
Philosophy since Thales.—Philosophers of the Ionian and
Eleatic Schools.—Pythagoras.—His Philosophical Tenets and
Political Influence.—Effect of these Philosophers on
Athens.—School of Political Philosophy continued in Athens
from the Time of Solon.—Anaxagoras.—Archelaus.—Philosophy
not a thing apart from the ordinary Life of the Athenians.
BOOK IV CHAPTER I Remarks on the Effects of War. — State of Athens. — Sparta's Interference with Athens' Fortifications. — The Clever Tactics of Themistocles. — The New Harbor of Piraeus. — The Spartans’ Proposal in the Amphictyonic Council is Defeated by Themistocles. — Allied Fleet at Cyprus and Byzantium. — Pausanias. — Changes in His Character. — His Ambitious Goals and Treason. — The Ionians Revolt from Spartan Command. — Pausanias is Recalled. — Dorcis Takes His Place. — The Athenians Rise to Lead the Ionian League. — Delos Becomes the Senate and Treasury for the Allies. — Skilled and Wise Management by Aristides. — Cimon Takes Command of the Fleet. — Character of Cimon. — Eion is Besieged. — Scyros is Colonized by Athenians. — The Alleged Discovery of Theseus's Bones. — The Declining Power of Themistocles. — Democratic Changes in the Constitution. — Themistocles is Ostracized. — Death of Aristides. II Popularity and Policies of Cimon. — Naxos Revolts from the Ionian League. — It is Besieged by Cimon. — The Conspiracy and Fate of Pausanias. — The Flight and Adventures of Themistocles. — His Death. III The Reduction of Naxos. — Actions off Cyprus. — Cimon's Conduct. — Improvements in Athens. — Colony at the Nine Ways. — Siege of Thasos. — Earthquake in Sparta. — Revolt of Helots, Occupation of Ithome, and the Third Messenian War. — The Rise and Character of Pericles. — Cimon is Prosecuted and Acquitted. — The Athenians Assist the Spartans at Ithome. — Thasos Surrenders. — A Rift Grows Between the Athenians and Spartans. — Constitutional Changes in Athens. — Cimon is Ostracized. IV War Between Megara and Corinth. — Megara and Pegae are Garrisoned by Athenians. — A Review of Events at the Persian Court. — The Accession of Artaxerxes. — The Revolt of Egypt Under Inarus. — Athenian Expedition to Assist Inarus. — Aegina is Besieged. — The Corinthians are Defeated. — Spartan Conspiracy with the Athenian Oligarchy. — Battle of Tanagra. — Campaign and Successes of Myronides. — Plot by the Oligarchy Against the Republic. — Recall of Cimon. — Long Walls are Completed. — Aegina is Reduced. — Expedition Under Tolmides. — Ithome Surrenders. — The Insurgents are Settled at Naupactus. — Disastrous End to the Egyptian Expedition. — The Athenians March into Thessaly to Restore Orestes the Tagus. — Campaign Under Pericles. — Five-Year Truce with the Peloponnesians. — Cimon Sails for Cyprus. — Pretended Treaty of Peace with Persia. — Death of Cimon. V Change of Customs in Athens. — Begun Under the Pisistratidae. — Effects of the Persian War and Close Ties with Ionia. — The Hetaerae. — The Recent Political Prominence of Athens. — The Transfer of the Treasury from Delos to Athens. — Hidden Dangers and Problems. — First, Athens's Artificial Greatness Isn't Backed by Natural Strength. — Second, Her Harmful Dependence on Tribute. — Third, Decline in National Spirit Initiated by Cimon through Bribes and Public Tables. — Fourth, Flaws in Popular Courts of Law. — Progress of General Education. — History. — Its Ionian Roots. — Early Historians. — Acusilaus. — Cadmus. — Eugeon. — Hellanicus. — Pherecides. — Xanthus. — Overview of the Life and Writings of Herodotus. — Evolution of Philosophy Since Thales. — Philosophers from the Ionian and Eleatic Schools. — Pythagoras. — His Philosophical Beliefs and Political Influence. — Impact of These Philosophers on Athens. — The School of Political Philosophy Continuously Exists in Athens Since the Time of Solon. — Anaxagoras. — Archelaus. — Philosophy as Part of Everyday Life for Athenians.
BOOK V
CHAPTER
I Thucydides chosen by the Aristocratic Party to oppose
Pericles.—His Policy.—Munificence of Pericles.—Sacred
War.—Battle of Coronea.—Revolt of Euboea and Megara—
Invasion and Retreat of the Peloponnesians.—Reduction of
Euboea.—Punishment of Histiaea.—A Thirty Years’ Truce
concluded with the Peloponnesians.—Ostracism of Thucydides.
II Causes of the Power of Pericles.—Judicial Courts of the
dependant Allies transferred to Athens.—Sketch of the
Athenian Revenues.—Public Buildings the Work of the People
rather than of Pericles.—Vices and Greatness of Athens had
the same Sources.—Principle of Payment characterizes the
Policy of the Period.—It is the Policy of Civilization.—
Colonization, Cleruchia.
III Revision of the Census.—Samian War.—Sketch of the Rise and
Progress of the Athenian Comedy to the Time of Aristophanes.
IV The Tragedies of Sophocles.
BOOK V
CHAPTER
I Thucydides was chosen by the Aristocratic Party to oppose
Pericles.—His Policy.—Pericles's Generosity.—Sacred
War.—Battle of Coronea.—Revolt of Euboea and Megara—
Invasion and Retreat of the Peloponnesians.—Conquest of
Euboea.—Punishment of Histiaea.—A Thirty Years’ Truce
was established with the Peloponnesians.—Ostracism of Thucydides.
II Reasons for Pericles's Power.—Judicial Courts of the
dependent Allies moved to Athens.—Overview of the
Athenian Revenues.—Public Buildings were the Work of the People
rather than Pericles himself.—The Vices and Greatness of Athens had
the same Origins.—Principle of Payment defines the
Policy of the Period.—It's the Policy of Civilization.—
Colonization, Cleruchia.
III Revision of the Census.—Samian War.—Overview of the Rise and
Progress of Athenian Comedy up to the Time of Aristophanes.
IV The Tragedies of Sophocles.ATHENS: ITS RISE AND FALL
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
Situation and Soil of Attica.—The Pelasgians its earliest Inhabitants.—Their Race and Language akin to the Grecian.—Their varying Civilization and Architectural Remains.—Cecrops.—Were the earliest Civilizers of Greece foreigners or Greeks?—The Foundation of Athens.—The Improvements attributed to Cecrops.—The Religion of the Greeks cannot be reduced to a simple System.—Its Influence upon their Character and Morals, Arts and Poetry.—The Origin of Slavery and Aristocracy.
Situation and Soil of Attica.—The Pelasgians, its earliest inhabitants.—Their race and language are similar to the Greeks.—Their diverse civilization and architectural remains.—Cecrops.—Were the first civilizers of Greece foreigners or Greeks?—The founding of Athens.—The improvements credited to Cecrops.—The religion of the Greeks can't be boiled down to a simple system.—Its influence on their character and morals, arts, and poetry.—The origin of slavery and aristocracy.
I. To vindicate the memory of the Athenian people, without disguising the errors of Athenian institutions;—and, in narrating alike the triumphs and the reverses—the grandeur and the decay—of the most eminent of ancient states, to record the causes of her imperishable influence on mankind, not alone in political change or the fortunes of fluctuating war, but in the arts, the letters, and the social habits, which are equal elements in the history of a people;—this is the object that I set before me;—not unreconciled to the toil of years, if, serving to divest of some party errors, and to diffuse through a wider circle such knowledge as is yet bequeathed to us of a time and land, fertile in august examples and in solemn warnings—consecrated by undying names and memorable deeds.
I. To honor the memory of the Athenian people, without hiding the mistakes of Athenian institutions;—and in telling both the victories and the defeats—the greatness and the decline—of one of the most notable ancient states, to document the reasons for its lasting impact on humanity, not just in political shifts or the ever-changing outcomes of war, but also in the arts, literature, and social customs, which are all vital parts of a people's history;—this is the goal I've set for myself;—I’m willing to put in years of effort if it helps clear away some party biases and spreads a greater understanding of the knowledge we still have about a time and place rich in impressive examples and serious lessons—marked by everlasting names and notable actions.
II. In that part of earth termed by the Greeks Hellas, and by the Romans Graecia 2, a small tract of land known by the name of Attica, extends into the Aegaean Sea—the southeast peninsula of Greece. In its greatest length it is about sixty, in its greatest breadth about twenty-four, geographical miles. In shape it is a rude triangle,—on two sides flows the sea—on the third, the mountain range of Parnes and Cithaeron divides the Attic from the Boeotian territory. It is intersected by frequent but not lofty hills, and, compared with the rest of Greece, its soil, though propitious to the growth of the olive, is not fertile or abundant. In spite of painful and elaborate culture, the traces of which are yet visible, it never produced a sufficiency of corn to supply its population; and this, the comparative sterility of the land, may be ranked among the causes which conduced to the greatness of the people. The principal mountains of Attica are, the Cape of Sunium, Hymettus, renowned for its honey, and Pentelicus for its marble; the principal streams which water the valleys are the capricious and uncertain rivulets of Cephisus and Ilissus 3,—streams breaking into lesser brooks, deliciously pure and clear. The air is serene—the climate healthful —the seasons temperate. Along the hills yet breathe the wild thyme, and the odorous plants which, everywhere prodigal in Greece, are more especially fragrant in that lucid sky;—and still the atmosphere colours with peculiar and various taints the marble of the existent temples and the face of the mountain landscapes.
II. In the part of the world called Hellas by the Greeks and Graecia by the Romans 2, there’s a small area known as Attica, which juts into the Aegean Sea—the southeastern peninsula of Greece. It’s about sixty geographical miles long and around twenty-four miles wide at its widest point. The shape is somewhat like a rough triangle—two sides are bordered by the sea, while on the third side, the mountain ranges of Parnes and Cithaeron separate Attica from Boeotia. The region is dotted with frequent but not very tall hills, and compared to the rest of Greece, the soil, while good for growing olives, isn’t very fertile or abundant. Despite intensive and careful agricultural efforts, which are still evident, it has never produced enough grain to support its population. This relative scarcity of the land's resources may have contributed to the people’s greatness. The main mountains in Attica include Cape Sunium, Hymettus, famous for its honey, and Pentelicus, known for its marble. The key streams that water the valleys are the unpredictable rivulets of Cephisus and Ilissus 3, which break into smaller, beautifully clear brooks. The air is calm, the climate is healthy, and the seasons are mild. Wild thyme and fragrant plants still grow on the hills, and these aromatic plants, abundant throughout Greece, are particularly sweet in this clear sky; the atmosphere also tints the marble of the existing temples and the landscapes of the mountains with unique and varied hues.
III. I reject at once all attempt to penetrate an unfathomable obscurity for an idle object. I do not pause to inquire whether, after the destruction of Babel, Javan was the first settler in Attica, nor is it reserved for my labours to decide the solemn controversy whether Ogyges was the contemporary of Jacob or of Moses. Neither shall I suffer myself to be seduced into any lengthened consideration of those disputes, so curious and so inconclusive, relative to the origin of the Pelasgi (according to Herodotus the earliest inhabitants of Attica), which have vainly agitated the learned. It may amuse the antiquary to weigh gravely the several doubts as to the derivation of their name from Pelasgus or from Peleg—to connect the scattered fragments of tradition—and to interpret either into history or mythology the language of fabulous genealogies. But our subtlest hypotheses can erect only a fabric of doubt, which, while it is tempting to assault, it is useless to defend. All that it seems to me necessary to say of the Pelasgi is as follows:—They are the earliest race which appear to have exercised a dominant power in Greece. Their kings can be traced by tradition to a time long prior to the recorded genealogy of any other tribe, and Inachus, the father of the Pelasgian Phoroneus, is but another name for the remotest era to which Grecian chronology can ascend 4. Whether the Pelasgi were anciently a foreign or a Grecian tribe, has been a subject of constant and celebrated discussion. Herodotus, speaking of some settlements held to be Pelaigic, and existing in his time, terms their language “barbarous;” but Mueller, nor with argument insufficient, considers that the expression of the historian would apply only to a peculiar dialect; and the hypothesis is sustained by another passage in Herodotus, in which he applies to certain Ionian dialects the same term as that with which he stigmatizes the language of the Pelasgic settlements. In corroboration of Mueller’s opinion we may also observe, that the “barbarous-tongued” is an epithet applied by Homer to the Carians, and is rightly construed by the ancient critics as denoting a dialect mingled and unpolished, certainly not foreign. Nor when the Agamemnon of Sophocles upbraids Teucer with “his barbarous tongue,” 6 would any scholar suppose that Teucer is upbraided with not speaking Greek; he is upbraided with speaking Greek inelegantly and rudely. It is clear that they who continued with the least adulteration a language in its earliest form, would seem to utter a strange and unfamiliar jargon to ears accustomed to its more modern construction. And, no doubt, could we meet with a tribe retaining the English of the thirteenth century, the language of our ancestors would be to most of us unintelligible, and seem to many of us foreign. But, however the phrase of Herodotus be interpreted, it would still be exceedingly doubtful whether the settlements he refers to were really and originally Pelasgic, and still more doubtful whether, if Pelasgia they had continued unalloyed and uncorrupted their ancestral language. I do not, therefore, attach any importance to the expression of Herodotus. I incline, on the contrary, to believe, with the more eminent of English scholars, that the language of the Pelasgi contained at least the elements of that which we acknowledge as the Greek;—and from many arguments I select the following:
III. I immediately dismiss any attempt to delve into an unfathomable mystery for a trivial reason. I won’t pause to consider whether Javan was the first settler in Attica after the fall of Babel, nor is it my job to settle the serious debate about whether Ogyges lived at the same time as Jacob or Moses. I also refuse to get drawn into a lengthy discussion of the disputes—so fascinating yet inconclusive—about the origins of the Pelasgi (whom Herodotus calls the earliest inhabitants of Attica), which have perplexed scholars without resolution. It might entertain a historian to seriously weigh the various doubts regarding the source of their name from Pelasgus or Peleg—to piece together the scattered bits of tradition—and to interpret the mythical genealogies as either history or mythology. However, our most intricate theories can only create a structure of doubt, which, although tempting to challenge, is pointless to defend. What seems necessary to say about the Pelasgi is this: they are the earliest people who appear to have held significant power in Greece. Their kings can be traced through tradition to a time long before the documented genealogy of any other tribe, and Inachus, the father of the Pelasgian Phoroneus, is just another name for the earliest period that Greek history can reach 4. Whether the Pelasgi were originally a foreign or Greek tribe has been a topic of ongoing and notable debate. Herodotus, discussing some settlements believed to be Pelasgic during his time, calls their language “barbarous;” however, Mueller, with a strong argument, believes that the historian was referring only to a specific dialect; this hypothesis is supported by another passage in Herodotus, where he uses the same term to describe certain Ionian dialects. In support of Mueller’s view, we should note that "barbarous-tongued" is a term Homer assigns to the Carians, rightly understood by ancient critics as indicating a dialect that was mixed and unrefined, certainly not foreign. Likewise, when Agamemnon from Sophocles criticizes Teucer for “his barbarous tongue,” 6 no scholar would think that Teucer is being criticized for not speaking Greek; rather, he is being rebuked for speaking Greek inelegantly and rudely. It’s clear that those who preserved a language in its earliest form, with the least alteration, would sound strange and unfamiliar to those accustomed to its more modern usage. And no doubt, if we encountered a tribe that spoke the English of the thirteenth century, the language of our ancestors would be unintelligible to most of us and would seem foreign to many. However, regardless of how Herodotus's phrase is interpreted, it remains highly questionable whether the settlements he mentions were truly and originally Pelasgic, and even more doubtful whether, if they were Pelasgic, they maintained their ancestral language untainted and unchanged. Therefore, I do not attach any significance to Herodotus's statement. On the contrary, I tend to agree with the more distinguished English scholars that the language of the Pelasgi included at least some elements of what we recognize as Greek;—from numerous arguments, I select the following:
1st. Because, in the states which we know to have been peopled by the Pelasgi (as Arcadia and Attica), and whence the population were not expelled by new tribes, the language appears no less Greek than that of those states from which the Pelasgi were the earliest driven. Had they spoken a totally different tongue from later settlers, I conceive that some unequivocal vestiges of the difference would have been visible even to the historical times.
1st. Because in the regions that we know were inhabited by the Pelasgi (like Arcadia and Attica), and where the population wasn't forced out by new tribes, the language seems just as Greek as that of the areas from which the Pelasgi were first displaced. If they had spoken a completely different language from the later settlers, I believe that some clear signs of that difference would have been evident even in historical times.
2dly. Because the Hellenes are described as few at first—their progress is slow—they subdue, but they do not extirpate; in such conquests—the conquests of the few settled among the many—the language of the many continues to the last; that of the few would influence, enrich, or corrupt, but never destroy it.
2dly. Because the Greeks are initially described as few—their progress is slow—they conquer, but they do not completely eliminate; in these conquests—the victories of the few among the many—the language of the many persists until the end; that of the few may influence, enrich, or corrupt, but it never destroys it.
3dly. Because, whatever of the Grecian language pervades the Latin 7, we can only ascribe to the Pelasgic colonizers of Italy. In this, all ancient writers, Greek and Latin, are agreed. The few words transmitted to us as Pelasgic betray the Grecian features, and the Lamina Borgiana (now in the Borgian collection of Naples, and discovered in 1783) has an inscription relative to the Siculi or Sicani, a people expelled from their Italian settlements before any received date of the Trojan war, of which the character is Pelasgic— the language Greek.
3dly. Because, whatever aspects of the Greek language appear in Latin 7, we can only attribute to the Pelasgic colonizers of Italy. In this, all ancient writers, both Greek and Latin, agree. The few words that have come down to us as Pelasgic show Greek characteristics, and the Lamina Borgiana (now in the Borgian collection of Naples and discovered in 1783) has an inscription related to the Siculi or Sicani, a group that was driven from their Italian settlements before any known date of the Trojan War, with the script being Pelasgic—the language being Greek.
IV. Of the moral state of the Pelasgi our accounts are imperfect and contradictory. They were not a petty horde, but a vast race, doubtless divided, like every migratory people, into numerous tribes, differing in rank, in civilization 8, and in many peculiarities of character. The Pelasgi in one country might appear as herdsmen or as savages; in another, in the same age, they might appear collected into cities and cultivating the arts. The history of the East informs us with what astonishing rapidity a wandering tribe, once settled, grew into fame and power; the camp of to-day—the city of to-morrow—and the “dwellers in the wilderness setting up the towers and the palaces thereof.” 9 Thus, while in Greece this mysterious people are often represented as the aboriginal race, receiving from Phoenician and Egyptian settlers the primitive blessings of social life, in Italy we behold them the improvers in agriculture 10 and first teachers of letters. 11
IV. Our accounts of the moral state of the Pelasgi are incomplete and contradictory. They were not a small group, but a large race, likely divided like any migratory people into many tribes, differing in rank, civilization 8, and various unique characteristics. The Pelasgi in one region might have been seen as herdsmen or savages; in another, in the same era, they might have formed cities and developed the arts. The history of the East shows how quickly a wandering tribe can grow into fame and power once settled; today’s camp can become tomorrow’s city, and the “dwellers in the wilderness setting up the towers and the palaces thereof.” 9 Therefore, while in Greece this enigmatic people are often depicted as the original inhabitants, receiving the basic elements of social life from Phoenician and Egyptian settlers, in Italy we see them as the innovators in agriculture 10 and the first teachers of writing. 11
Even so early as the traditional appearance of Cecrops among the savages of Attica, the Pelasgians in Arcadia had probably advanced from the pastoral to the civil life; and this, indeed, is the date assigned by Pausanias to the foundation of that ancestral Lycosura, in whose rude remains (by the living fountain and the waving oaks of the modern Diaphorte) the antiquary yet traces the fortifications of “the first city which the sun beheld.” 12 It is in their buildings that the Pelasgi have left the most indisputable record of their name. Their handwriting is yet upon their walls! A restless and various people—overrunning the whole of Greece, found northward in Dacia, Illyria, and the country of the Getae, colonizing the coasts of Ionia, and long the master-race of the fairest lands of Italy,—they have passed away amid the revolutions of the elder earth, their ancestry and their descendants alike unknown;—yet not indeed the last, if my conclusions are rightly drawn: if the primitive population of Greece— themselves Greek—founding the language, and kindred with the blood, of the later and more illustrious Hellenes—they still made the great bulk of the people in the various states, and through their most dazzling age: Enslaved in Laconia—but free in Athens—it was their posterity that fought the Mede at Marathon and Plataea,—whom Miltiades led,—for whom Solon legislated,—for whom Plato thought,— whom Demosthenes harangued. Not less in Italy than in Greece the parents of an imperishable tongue, and, in part, the progenitors of a glorious race, we may still find the dim track of their existence wherever the classic civilization flourished,—the classic genius breathed. If in the Latin, if in the Grecian tongue, are yet the indelible traces of the language of the Pelasgi, the literature of the ancient, almost of the modern world, is their true descendant!
Even in the early days of Cecrops showing up among the tribes in Attica, the Pelasgians in Arcadia had probably moved from a nomadic lifestyle to a more settled, civilized one; this is the time that Pausanias attributes to the founding of the ancient Lycosura, where in its rough remains (by the living fountain and the swaying oaks of present-day Diaphorte), historians can still see the fortifications of “the first city that the sun looked upon.” 12 The Pelasgians have left the clearest mark of their existence in their architecture. Their handwriting is still evident on their walls! They were a restless and diverse people—spreading throughout all of Greece, found north in Dacia, Illyria, and the land of the Getae, colonizing the shores of Ionia, and long being the dominant race in the most beautiful regions of Italy—they have faded away amid the changes of ancient times, their roots and descendants largely unknown; yet, if my conclusions are correct, they were not the last. The original population of Greece—Greek themselves—established the language and were related to the bloodline of the later and more renowned Hellenes—they still made up the majority of the population in the various states, even during their brightest era: Enslaved in Laconia but free in Athens, it was their descendants who fought the Medes at Marathon and Plataea—led by Miltiades—for whom Solon made laws—for whom Plato theorized—whom Demosthenes addressed. In Italy, as well as in Greece, they are the ancestors of an enduring language and, in part, the forebears of a glorious race. We can still find faint traces of their existence wherever classical civilization thrived—wherever the spirit of classic culture flourished. If in Latin, if in Greek, there are still indelible marks of the Pelasgian language, the literature from ancient times, and even modern times, is their true legacy!
V. Despite a vague belief (referred to by Plato) of a remote and perished era of civilization, the most popular tradition asserts the Pelasgic inhabitants of Attica to have been sunk into the deepest ignorance of the elements of social life, when, either from Sais, an Egyptian city, as is commonly supposed, or from Sais a province in Upper Egypt, an Egyptian characterized to posterity by the name of Cecrops is said to have passed into Attica with a band of adventurous emigrants.
V. Despite a vague belief (mentioned by Plato) in a distant and lost era of civilization, the most popular tradition claims that the Pelasgic people of Attica had fallen into complete ignorance of the basics of social life. It is commonly thought that an Egyptian, known to later generations as Cecrops, came to Attica from Sais, either a city in Egypt or a province in Upper Egypt, along with a group of adventurous emigrants.
The tradition of this Egyptian immigration into Attica was long implicitly received. Recently the bold skepticism of German scholars —always erudite—if sometimes rash—has sufficed to convince us of the danger we incur in drawing historical conclusions from times to which no historical researches can ascend. The proofs upon which rest the reputed arrival of Egyptian colonizers, under Cecrops, in Attica, have been shown to be slender—the authorities for the assertion to be comparatively modern—the arguments against the probability of such an immigration in such an age, to be at least plausible and important. Not satisfied, however, with reducing to the uncertainty of conjecture what incautiously had been acknowledged as fact, the assailants of the Egyptian origin of Cecrops presume too much upon their victory, when they demand us to accept as a counter fact, what can be, after all, but a counter conjecture. To me, impartially weighing the arguments and assertions on either side, the popular tradition of Cecrops and his colony appears one that can neither be tacitly accepted as history, nor contemptuously dismissed as invention. It would be, however, a frivolous dispute, whether Cecrops were Egyptian or Attican, since no erudition can ascertain that Cecrops ever existed, were it not connected with a controversy of some philosophical importance, viz., whether the early civilizers of Greece were foreigners or Greeks, and whether the Egyptians more especially assisted to instruct the ancestors of a race that have become the teachers and models of the world, in the elements of religion, of polity, and the arts.
The tradition of Egyptian immigration into Attica has long been accepted without question. Recently, the bold skepticism of German scholars—who are always knowledgeable, if sometimes hasty—has shown us the risks involved in making historical conclusions about times where no historical research can reach. The evidence supporting the supposed arrival of Egyptian colonizers under Cecrops in Attica is weak, and the sources for this claim are relatively recent. The arguments against the likelihood of such immigration occurring in that era are at least plausible and significant. However, instead of just casting doubt on what was carelessly accepted as fact, those challenging the idea of Cecrops’ Egyptian origins make a mistake in assuming they have won the argument when they ask us to accept their counterclaim, which is really just another conjecture. Weighing the arguments and claims on both sides, the common story of Cecrops and his colony seems to be something that cannot simply be regarded as history nor easily dismissed as fiction. It would be a pointless argument whether Cecrops was Egyptian or Attican, since no scholarship can prove that Cecrops ever existed, if it were not tied to a debate of some philosophical significance—namely, whether the early civilizers of Greece were outsiders or Greeks, and whether the Egyptians specifically helped educate the ancestors of a race that has become the teachers and models of the world in religion, governance, and the arts.
Without entering into vain and futile reasonings, derived from the scattered passages of some early writers, from the ambiguous silence of others—and, above all, from the dreams of etymological analogy or mythological fable, I believe the earliest civilizers of Greece to have been foreign settlers; deducing my belief from the observations of common sense rather than from obscure and unsatisfactory research. I believe it,
Without engaging in pointless and ineffective arguments based on the scattered writings of some early authors, the ambiguous silence of others, and especially the misconceptions of etymological connections or mythical tales, I believe that the first civilizers of Greece were foreign settlers. I base this belief on common sense observations rather than obscure and unsatisfactory research. I believe it,
First—Because, what is more probable than that at very early periods the more advanced nations of the East obtained communication with the Grecian continent and isles? What more probable than that the maritime and roving Phoenicians entered the seas of Greece, and were tempted by the plains, which promised abundance, and the mountains, which afforded a fastness? Possessed of a superior civilization to the hordes they found, they would meet rather with veneration than resistance, and thus a settlement would be obtained by an inconsiderable number, more in right of intelligence than of conquest.
First—Because what is more likely than that, in very early times, the more advanced nations of the East established contact with the Greek mainland and islands? What’s more likely than that the seafaring and adventurous Phoenicians sailed into the waters of Greece, drawn by the fertile plains that promised plenty and the mountains that provided a refuge? With a more advanced civilization than the tribes they encountered, they would likely be met with respect rather than opposition, allowing for a settlement to be established by a small number, based more on their knowledge than on conquest.
But, though this may be conceded with respect to the Phoenicians, it is asserted that the Egyptians at least were not a maritime or colonizing people: and we are gravely assured, that in those distant times no Egyptian vessel had entered the Grecian seas. But of the remotest ages of Egyptian civilization we know but little. On their earliest monuments (now their books!) we find depicted naval as well as military battles, in which the vessels are evidently those employed at sea. According to their own traditions, they colonized in a remote age. They themselves laid claim to Danaus: and the mythus of the expedition of Osiris is not improbably construed into a figurative representation of the spread of Egyptian civilization by the means of colonies. Besides, Egypt was subjected to more than one revolution, by which a large portion of her population was expelled the land, and scattered over the neighbouring regions 13. And even granting that Egyptians fitted out no maritime expedition—they could easily have transplanted themselves in Phoenician vessels, or Grecian rafts—from Asia into Greece. Nor can we forget that Egypt 14 for a time was the habitation, and Thebes the dominion, of the Phoenicians, and that hence, perhaps, the origin of the dispute whether certain of the first foreign civilizers of Greece were Phoenicians or Egyptians: The settlers might come from Egypt, and be by extraction Phoenicians: or Egyptian emigrators might well have accompanied the Phoenician. 15
But while this may be accepted regarding the Phoenicians, it is claimed that the Egyptians at least were not a seafaring or colonizing people: and we are seriously told that in those ancient times, no Egyptian ship had entered the Greek seas. However, we know very little about the earliest ages of Egyptian civilization. On their oldest monuments (now their books!) we see depicted naval as well as military battles, where the vessels are clearly those used at sea. According to their own stories, they colonized in ancient times. They even claimed descent from Danaus, and the myth of the expedition of Osiris could be interpreted as a symbolic representation of the spread of Egyptian civilization through colonies. Moreover, Egypt went through several revolutions, which resulted in a large portion of its population being expelled and scattered across the neighboring regions 13. And even if we assume that the Egyptians did not organize any maritime expeditions—they could easily have migrated using Phoenician ships or Greek rafts—from Asia to Greece. We also cannot forget that Egypt 14 for a time was inhabited by the Phoenicians and that Thebes was under their control, which may explain the debate about whether some of the earliest foreign civilizers of Greece were Phoenicians or Egyptians: The settlers might have come from Egypt and been of Phoenician descent, or Egyptian emigrants may well have accompanied the Phoenicians. 15
2dly. By the evidence of all history, savage tribes appear to owe their first enlightenment to foreigners: to be civilized, they conquer or are conquered—visit or are visited. For a fact which contains so striking a mystery, I do not attempt to account. I find in the history of every other part of the world, that it is by the colonizer or the conqueror that a tribe neither colonizing nor conquering is redeemed from a savage state, and I do not reject so probable an hypothesis for Greece.
2dly. According to all recorded history, primitive tribes seem to owe their initial understanding to outsiders: to become civilized, they either conquer or get conquered—visit or get visited. This fact, which holds a remarkable mystery, is one I won’t try to explain. I observe in the history of every other region of the world that it is the colonizer or conqueror who helps a tribe that isn’t colonizing or conquering to rise from a primitive state, and I won’t dismiss such a likely theory for Greece.
3dly. I look to the various arguments of a local or special nature, by which these general probabilities may be supported, and I find them unusually strong: I cast my eyes on the map of Greece, and I see that it is almost invariably on the eastern side that these eastern colonies are said to have been founded: I turn to chronology, and I find the revolutions in the East coincide in point of accredited date with the traditional immigrations into Greece: I look to the history of the Greeks, and I find the Greeks themselves (a people above all others vain of aboriginal descent, and contemptuous of foreign races) agreed in according a general belief to the accounts of their obligations to foreign settlers; and therefore (without additional but doubtful arguments from any imaginary traces of Eastern, Egyptian, Phoenician rites and fables in the religion or the legends of Greece in her remoter age) I see sufficient ground for inclining to the less modern, but mere popular belief, which ascribes a foreign extraction to the early civilizers of Greece: nor am I convinced by the reasonings of those who exclude the Egyptians from the list of these primitive benefactors.
3rd. I look at the various local or specific arguments that support these general probabilities, and I find them unusually strong: I glance at the map of Greece and see that these eastern colonies are almost always said to have been founded on the eastern side: I check the timeline and see that events in the East align with the traditional dates of migrations into Greece: I examine Greek history and find that the Greeks themselves (a people particularly proud of their native ancestry and dismissive of foreign races) agreed on a general belief in their indebtedness to foreign settlers; therefore, (without relying on additional questionable arguments from any supposed traces of Eastern, Egyptian, or Phoenician practices and stories in the religion or legends of ancient Greece) I find enough reason to lean towards the older, more popular belief that attributes a foreign origin to the early civilizers of Greece: nor am I swayed by the arguments of those who omit the Egyptians from the list of these original benefactors.
It being conceded that no hypothesis is more probable than that the earliest civilizers of Greece were foreign, and might be Egyptian, I do not recognise sufficient authority for rejecting the Attic traditions claiming Egyptian civilizers for the Attic soil, in arguments, whether grounded upon the fact that such traditions, unreferred to by the more ancient, were collected by the more modern, of Grecian writers—or upon plausible surmises as to the habits of the Egyptians in that early age. Whether Cecrops were the first—whether he were even one—of these civilizers, is a dispute unworthy of philosophical inquirers 16. But as to the time of Cecrops are referred, both by those who contend for his Egyptian, and those who assert his Attic origin, certain advances from barbarism, and certain innovations in custom, which would have been natural to a foreigner, and almost miraculous in a native, I doubt whether it would not be our wiser and more cautious policy to leave undisturbed a long accredited conjecture, rather than to subscribe to arguments which, however startling and ingenious, not only substitute no unanswerable hypothesis, but conduce to no important result. 17
It’s accepted that the most likely explanation is that the first civilizers of Greece were from outside the region, potentially from Egypt. I don't see enough evidence to dismiss the Attic traditions that claim Egyptian civilizers influenced the Attic area, whether the arguments are based on the fact that these traditions, not mentioned by earlier writers, were gathered by more modern Greek authors—or on reasonable guesses about Egyptian customs during that early time. The debate over whether Cecrops was the first or even part of these civilizers isn’t worth the attention of serious philosophers 16. However, discussions about the time of Cecrops, raised by those who support his Egyptian roots and those who argue for his Attic origins, mention certain advancements from primitive society and specific changes in customs that would make sense for a foreigner but seem almost miraculous for a native. I wonder if it might be wiser and more cautious for us to leave a long-held belief undisturbed rather than agree with arguments that, despite being surprising and clever, not only fail to provide an unchallengeable hypothesis but also lead to no significant conclusion. 17
VI. If Cecrops were really the leader of an Egyptian colony, it is more than probable that he obtained the possession of Attica by other means than those of force. To savage and barbarous tribes, the first appearance of men, whose mechanical inventions, whose superior knowledge of the arts of life—nay, whose exterior advantages of garb and mien 18 indicate intellectual eminence, till then neither known nor imagined, presents a something preternatural and divine. The imagination of the wild inhabitants is seduced, their superstitions aroused, and they yield to a teacher—not succumb to an invader. It was probably thus, then, that Cecrops with his colonists would have occupied the Attic plain—conciliated rather than subdued the inhabitants, and united in himself the twofold authority exercised by primeval chiefs—the dignity of the legislator, and the sanctity of the priest. It is evident that none of the foreign settlers brought with them a numerous band. The traditions speak of them with gratitude as civilizers, not with hatred as conquerors. And they did not leave any traces in the establishment of their language:—a proof of the paucity of their numbers, and the gentle nature of their influence—the Phoenician Cadmus, the Egyptian Cecrops, the Phrygian Pelops, introduced no separate and alien tongue. Assisting to civilize the Greeks, they then became Greeks; their posterity merged and lost amid the native population.
VI. If Cecrops was truly the leader of an Egyptian colony, it's likely that he took possession of Attica through means other than force. To savage and barbaric tribes, the first sight of men with their mechanical inventions, superior knowledge of practical arts—indeed, even their outward appearances of dress and demeanor 18 suggest an intellectual greatness that had never been known or imagined before, appears something supernatural and divine. The wild inhabitants' imaginations are captivated, their superstitions triggered, and they submit to a teacher—not yield to an invader. It’s probably how Cecrops and his colonists managed to settle the Attic plain—by winning over rather than conquering the locals, and uniting in himself the dual authority held by early leaders—the respect of a legislator and the reverence of a priest. Clearly, none of the foreign settlers arrived with a sizable group. Traditions remember them fondly as civilizers, not with disdain as conquerors. They left no significant traces of their own language, which shows both their small numbers and the gentle nature of their influence—the Phoenician Cadmus, the Egyptian Cecrops, and the Phrygian Pelops introduced no separate and foreign tongue. Helping to civilize the Greeks, they eventually became Greeks themselves; their descendants blended in and were lost among the native population.
VII. Perhaps, in all countries, the first step to social improvement is in the institution of marriage, and the second is the formation of cities. As Menes in Egypt, as Fohi in China, so Cecrops at Athens is said first to have reduced into sacred limits the irregular intercourse of the sexes 19, and reclaimed his barbarous subjects from a wandering and unprovidential life, subsisting on the spontaneous produce of no abundant soil. High above the plain, and fronting the sea, which, about three miles distant on that side, sweeps into a bay peculiarly adapted for the maritime enterprises of an earlier age, we still behold a cragged and nearly perpendicular rock. In length its superficies is about eight hundred, in breadth about four hundred, feet 20. Below, on either side, flow the immortal streams of the Ilissus and Cephisus. From its summit you may survey, here, the mountains of Hymettus, Pentelicus, and, far away, “the silver-bearing Laurium;” below, the wide plain of Attica, broken by rocky hills—there, the islands of Salamis and Aegina, with the opposite shores of Argolis, rising above the waters of the Saronic Bay. On this rock the supposed Egyptian is said to have built a fortress, and founded a city 21; the fortress was in later times styled the Acropolis, and the place itself, when the buildings of Athens spread far and wide beneath its base, was still designated polis, or the CITY. By degrees we are told that he extended, from this impregnable castle and its adjacent plain, the limit of his realm, until it included the whole of Attica, and perhaps Boeotia 22. It is also related that he established eleven other towns or hamlets, and divided his people into twelve tribes, to each of which one of the towns was apportioned—a fortress against foreign invasion, and a court of justice in civil disputes.
VII. Maybe, in all countries, the first step toward social improvement is through marriage, and the second is by forming cities. Just as Menes did in Egypt and Fohi in China, Cecrops in Athens is said to have first set boundaries on the chaotic relationships between men and women 19, pulling his primitive people away from a nomadic and uncertain lifestyle, relying on the meager resources of an unproductive land. High above the plain and facing the sea, which is about three miles away and curves into a bay perfect for the maritime ventures of an earlier time, we can still see a rugged and nearly vertical rock. Its length measures about eight hundred feet, and its width about four hundred feet 20. Below, on either side, flow the timeless streams of the Ilissus and Cephisus. From its peak, you can view the mountains of Hymettus, Pentelicus, and far away, "the silver-bearing Laurium;" below lies the vast plain of Attica, dotted with rocky hills—over there, the islands of Salamis and Aegina, along with the opposite shores of Argolis, rising above the waters of the Saronic Bay. On this rock, the supposed Egyptian is said to have constructed a fortress and founded a city 21; the fortress was later called the Acropolis, and the area itself, when the buildings of Athens spread widely beneath it, was still referred to as polis, or the CITY. Gradually, we hear that he expanded, from this stronghold and its surrounding plain, the borders of his domain until it encompassed all of Attica and possibly Boeotia 22. It is also said that he established eleven other towns or villages and divided his people into twelve tribes, assigning each tribe one of the towns as a fortress against foreign attacks and a court for civil disputes.
If we may trust to the glimmering light which, resting for a moment, uncertain and confused, upon the reign of Cecrops, is swallowed up in all the darkness of fable during those of his reputed successors,—it is to this apocryphal personage that we must refer the elements both of agriculture and law. He is said to have instructed the Athenians to till the land, and to watch the produce of the seasons; to have imported from Egypt the olive-tree, for which the Attic soil was afterward so celebrated, and even to have navigated to Sicily and to Africa for supplies of corn. That such advances from a primitive and savage state were not made in a single generation, is sufficiently clear. With more probability, Cecrops is reputed to have imposed upon the ignorance of his subjects and the license of his followers the curb of impartial law, and to have founded a tribunal of justice (doubtless the sole one for all disputes), in which after times imagined to trace the origin of the solemn Areopagus.
If we can rely on the faint light that briefly shines on Cecrops's reign, which gets lost in the darkness of myths about his supposed successors, we must credit this legendary figure with the foundations of both agriculture and law. He is said to have taught the Athenians how to farm and observe seasonal crops; to have brought the olive tree from Egypt, which made the Attic land famous; and even to have traveled to Sicily and Africa for grain supplies. It's clear that these advancements from a primitive state didn’t happen overnight. More likely, Cecrops is thought to have imposed laws on his subjects' ignorance and his followers' unruliness, establishing a court of justice (probably the only one for all disputes), from which later generations believed the serious Areopagus originated.
VIII. Passing from these doubtful speculations on the detailed improvements effected by Cecrops in the social life of the Attic people, I shall enter now into some examination of two subjects far more important. The first is the religion of the Athenians in common with the rest of Greece; and the second the origin of the institution of slavery.
VIII. Moving on from these uncertain ideas about the specific improvements made by Cecrops in the social life of the Attic people, I will now explore two much more significant topics. The first is the religion of the Athenians, shared with the rest of Greece; and the second is the origins of the institution of slavery.
The origin of religion in all countries is an inquiry of the deepest interest and of the vaguest result. For, the desire of the pious to trace throughout all creeds the principles of the one they themselves profess—the vanity of the learned to display a various and recondite erudition—the passion of the ingenious to harmonize conflicting traditions—and the ambition of every speculator to say something new upon an ancient but inexhaustible subject, so far from enlightening, only perplex our conjectures. Scarcely is the theory of to-day established, than the theory of to-morrow is invented to oppose it. With one the religion of the Greeks is but a type of the mysteries of the Jews, the event of the deluge, and the preservation of the ark; with another it is as entirely an incorporation of the metaphysical solemnities of the Egyptian;—now it is the crafty device of priests, now the wise invention of sages. It is not too much to say, that after the profoundest labours and the most plausible conjectures of modern times, we remain yet more uncertain and confused than we were before. It is the dark boast of every pagan mythology, as one of the eldest of the pagan deities, that “none among mortals hath lifted up its veil!”
The origin of religion in all countries is a topic of great interest but unclear results. The desire of the devout to find common principles across all faiths, the learned's need to show off their extensive knowledge, the clever attempts to reconcile conflicting traditions, and the ambition of every thinker to contribute something new to an ancient but endless topic only complicate our understanding. Hardly has today's theory been established when tomorrow's theory appears to contradict it. For some, the religion of the Greeks is simply a reflection of the Jewish mysteries, including the story of the flood and the preservation of the ark; for others, it's completely rooted in the metaphysical rituals of the Egyptians. Sometimes it's viewed as a cunning scheme of priests, while at other times it's thought of as the wise creation of philosophers. It isn’t an exaggeration to say that, despite the intense efforts and seemingly reasonable theories of modern times, we are left even more uncertain and bewildered than before. It is the common claim of every pagan mythology, as one of the earliest pagan deities proclaimed, that "no mortal has ever lifted its veil!"
After, then, some brief and preliminary remarks, tending to such hypotheses as appear to me most probable and simple, I shall hasten from unprofitable researches into the Unknown, to useful deductions from what is given to our survey—in a word, from the origin of the Grecian religion to its influence and its effects; the first is the province of the antiquary and the speculator; the last of the historian and the practical philosopher.
After some brief introductory comments on the hypotheses that I find most likely and straightforward, I will move away from unproductive inquiries into the Unknown to focus on useful conclusions drawn from what is available for us to examine—in other words, from the origins of Greek religion to its influences and effects; the former is the domain of the antiquarian and theorist; the latter belongs to the historian and practical philosopher.
IX. When Herodotus informs us that Egypt imparted to Greece the names of almost all her deities, and that his researches convinced him that they were of barbarous origin, he exempts from the list of the Egyptian deities, Neptune, the Dioscuri, Juno, Vesta, Themis, the Graces, and the Nereids 23. From Africa, according to Herodotus, came Neptune, from the Pelasgi the rest of the deities disclaimed by Egypt. According to the same authority, the Pelasgi learned not their deities, but the names of their deities (and those at a later period), from the Egyptians 24. But the Pelasgi were the first known inhabitants of Greece—the first known inhabitants of Greece had therefore their especial deities, before any communication with Egypt. For the rest we must accept the account of the simple and credulous Herodotus with considerable caution and reserve. Nothing is more natural—perhaps more certain—than that every tribe 25, even of utter savages, will invent some deities of their own; and as these deities will as naturally be taken from external objects, common to all mankind, such as the sun or the moon, the waters or the earth, and honoured with attributes formed from passions and impressions no less universal;—so the deities of every tribe will have something kindred to each other, though the tribes themselves may never have come into contact or communication.
IX. When Herodotus tells us that Egypt gave Greece the names of almost all its gods, and that his research led him to believe they had barbaric roots, he excludes Neptune, the Dioscuri, Juno, Vesta, Themis, the Graces, and the Nereids from the list of Egyptian gods 23. According to Herodotus, Neptune came from Africa, while the remaining gods rejected by Egypt came from the Pelasgi. He also states that the Pelasgi learned not their gods but the names of their gods (and some later ones) from the Egyptians 24. However, the Pelasgi were the first known inhabitants of Greece, meaning they had their own unique gods before any interaction with Egypt. For the rest, we should view Herodotus's account, which is simple and gullible, with a healthy dose of skepticism. It is only natural—perhaps even more certain—that every tribe 25, even the most primitive, will create their own gods. These deities are likely to be inspired by universal elements found in nature, such as the sun, moon, water, or earth, and will be given characteristics derived from common human emotions and experiences; thus, the gods of each tribe will share similarities, even if the tribes themselves have never interacted.
The mythology of the early Greeks may perhaps be derived from the following principal sources:—First, the worship of natural objects;— and of divinities so formed, the most unequivocally national will obviously be those most associated with their mode of life and the influences of their climate. When the savage first intrusts the seed to the bosom of the earth—when, through a strange and unaccountable process, he beholds what he buried in one season spring forth the harvest of the next—the EARTH itself, the mysterious garner, the benign, but sometimes the capricious reproducer of the treasures committed to its charge—becomes the object of the wonder, the hope, and the fear, which are the natural origin of adoration and prayer. Again, when he discovers the influence of the heaven upon the growth of his labour—when, taught by experience, he acknowledges its power to blast or to mellow—then, by the same process of ideas, the HEAVEN also assumes the character of divinity, and becomes a new agent, whose wrath is to be propitiated, whose favour is to be won. What common sense thus suggests to us, our researches confirm, and we find accordingly that the Earth and the Heaven are the earliest deities of the agricultural Pelasgi. As the Nile to the fields of the Egyptian— earth and heaven to the culture of the Greek. The effects of the SUN upon human labour and human enjoyment are so sensible to the simplest understanding, that we cannot wonder to find that glorious luminary among the most popular deities of ancient nations. Why search through the East to account for its worship in Greece? More easy to suppose that the inhabitants of a land, whom the sun so especially favoured— saw and blessed it, for it was good, than, amid innumerable contradictions and extravagant assumptions, to decide upon that remoter shore, whence was transplanted a deity, whose effects were so benignant, whose worship was so natural, to the Greeks. And in the more plain belief we are also borne out by the more sound inductions of learning. For it is noticeable that neither the moon nor the stars—favourite divinities with those who enjoyed the serene nights, or inhabited the broad plains of the East—were (though probably admitted among the Pelasgic deities) honoured with that intense and reverent worship which attended them in Asia and in Egypt. To the Pelasgi, not yet arrived at the intellectual stage of philosophical contemplation, the most sensible objects of influence would be the most earnestly adored. What the stars were to the East, their own beautiful Aurora, awaking them to the delight of their genial and temperate climate, was to the early Greeks.
The mythology of early Greeks likely came from a few main sources: first, the worship of natural objects. The gods they formed from this would clearly be those most tied to their way of life and the impact of their climate. When a primitive person first plants a seed in the ground—witnessing the strange and inexplicable process that allows what he buried in one season to sprout into a harvest the next—the EARTH itself, the mysterious storehouse, the nurturing but sometimes unpredictable source of what was entrusted to it, becomes the focus of wonder, hope, and fear, which naturally leads to worship and prayer. Furthermore, when he realizes the impact of the heavens on the growth of his crops—understanding through experience its power to destroy or enhance—then, through the same train of thought, HEAVEN also takes on the role of a god, becoming a new force whose anger needs to be appeased and whose favor must be sought. What common sense suggests, our studies back up, showing that the Earth and Heaven are the original deities for the agricultural Pelasgians. Just as the Nile is vital to the fields of Egyptians, earth and heaven are crucial for Greek farming. The effects of the SUN on human work and pleasure are so obvious that it’s no surprise that this brilliant star was among the most revered gods of ancient civilizations. Why look to the East to explain its worship in Greece? It’s simpler to believe that the people of a land particularly blessed by the sun recognized and honored it because it was good, rather than trying to resolve countless contradictions and wild theories regarding a distant place where a god, whose effects were so positive and whose worship felt so natural to the Greeks, originated. Our straightforward belief is also supported by sound academic reasoning. It’s interesting to note that neither the moon nor the stars—popular deities among those who enjoyed clear nights or lived in the expansive plains of the East—received the same intense and respectful worship from the Pelasgians, even if they were possibly included among their deities. For the Pelasgians, who hadn't yet reached the stage of philosophical thought, the most visible sources of influence were the ones they revered the most. Just as the stars were to the East, their own lovely Aurora, awakening them to the pleasures of their mild and temperate climate, was to the early Greeks.
Of deities, thus created from external objects, some will rise out (if I may use the expression) of natural accident and local circumstance. An earthquake will connect a deity with the earth—an inundation with the river or the sea. The Grecian soil bears the marks of maritime revolution; many of the tribes were settled along the coast, and perhaps had already adventured their rafts upon the main. A deity of the sea (without any necessary revelation from Africa) is, therefore, among the earliest of the Grecian gods. The attributes of each deity will be formed from the pursuits and occupations of the worshippers— sanguinary with the warlike—gentle with the peaceful. The pastoral Pelasgi of Arcadia honoured the pastoral Pan for ages before he was received by their Pelasgic brotherhood of Attica. And the agricultural Demeter or Ceres will be recognised among many tribes of the agricultural Pelasgi, which no Egyptian is reputed, even by tradition 26, to have visited.
Of the gods created from external things, some will emerge (if I can put it that way) from natural events and local situations. An earthquake connects a god to the earth, while a flood links them to the river or the sea. The land of Greece shows signs of past maritime changes; many tribes settled along the coast and may have already taken their rafts out to sea. A sea god (without any need for a revelation from Africa) is, therefore, one of the earliest Greek gods. The characteristics of each god will be shaped by the activities and interests of their followers—violent with warriors and gentle with peaceful people. The pastoral Pelasgians of Arcadia worshipped the pastoral Pan for many years before he was accepted by their Pelasgian counterparts in Attica. And the agricultural Demeter, or Ceres, will be recognized among many tribes of the farming Pelasgians, which no Egyptian is believed, even by tradition 26, to have visited.
The origin of prayer is in the sense of dependance, and in the instinct of self-preservation or self-interest. The first objects of prayer to the infant man will be those on which by his localities he believes himself to be most dependant for whatever blessing his mode of life inclines him the most to covet, or from which may come whatever peril his instinct will teach him the most to deprecate and fear. It is this obvious truth which destroys all the erudite systems that would refer the different creeds of the heathen to some single origin. Till the earth be the same in each region—till the same circumstances surround every tribe—different impressions, in nations yet unconverted and uncivilized, produce different deities. Nature suggests a God, and man invests him with attributes. Nature and man, the same as a whole, vary in details; the one does not everywhere suggest the same notions—the other cannot everywhere imagine the same attributes. As with other tribes, so with the Pelasgi or primitive Greeks, their early gods were the creatures of their own early impressions.
The origin of prayer comes from a sense of dependence and the instinct for self-preservation or self-interest. The first things that early humans prayed to would be those they believed they relied on most for the blessings they desired in their lives, or from which dangers would come that their instincts warned them to be wary of. This clear truth disproves all the complex theories that try to trace the various beliefs of different cultures back to a single source. As long as different regions of the earth exist—until every tribe faces the same circumstances—different experiences in nations that have not yet been converted or civilized will lead to different gods. Nature inspires the idea of a God, and humans attribute various qualities to Him. Nature and humanity, as a whole, differ in specifics; one does not always suggest the same ideas, and the other cannot always envision the same qualities. Just like other tribes, the Pelasgi or early Greeks had gods that emerged from their own early experiences.
As one source of religion was in external objects, so another is to be found in internal sensations and emotions. The passions are so powerful in their effects upon individuals and nations, that we can be little surprised to find those effects attributed to the instigation and influence of a supernatural being. Love is individualized and personified in nearly all mythologies; and LOVE therefore ranks among the earliest of the Grecian gods. Fear or terror, whose influence is often so strange, sudden, and unaccountable—seizing even the bravest —spreading through numbers with all the speed of an electric sympathy —and deciding in a moment the destiny of an army or the ruin of a tribe—is another of those passions, easily supposed the afflatus of some preternatural power, and easily, therefore, susceptible of personification. And the pride of men, more especially if habitually courageous and warlike, will gladly yield to the credulities which shelter a degrading and unwonted infirmity beneath the agency of a superior being. TERROR, therefore, received a shape and found an altar probably as early at least as the heroic age. According to Plutarch, Theseus sacrificed to Terror previous to his battle with the Amazons;—an idle tale, it is true, but proving, perhaps, the antiquity of a tradition. As society advanced from barbarism arose more intellectual creations—as cities were built, and as in the constant flux and reflux of martial tribes cities were overthrown, the elements of the social state grew into personification, to which influence was attributed and reverence paid. Thus were fixed into divinity and shape, ORDER, PEACE, JUSTICE, and the stern and gloomy ORCOS 27, witness of the oath, avenger of the perjury.
As one source of religion comes from external objects, another can be found in internal feelings and emotions. The passions are so impactful on individuals and nations that it's not surprising to see these effects attributed to the instigation and influence of a supernatural being. Love is often individualized and personified in almost all mythologies, which is why LOVE ranks among the earliest of the Grecian gods. Fear or terror, which can be strange, sudden, and unexplainable—gripping even the bravest—spreading through crowds with lightning speed—can quickly determine the fate of an army or the downfall of a tribe. This is another one of those passions that easily lend itself to being seen as the act of some supernatural power and therefore can be easily personified. The pride of people, especially those who are usually brave and warlike, will willingly bend to the beliefs that protect a shameful and unusual weakness under the influence of a higher being. TERROR, then, took on a form and found an altar at least as early as the heroic age. According to Plutarch, Theseus made a sacrifice to Terror before his battle with the Amazons;—it may be a silly story, but it possibly indicates the age of a tradition. As society progressed from barbarism, more intellectual creations emerged—cities were built, and as martial tribes constantly rose and fell, the elements of the social order began to personify, to which people attributed influence and paid respect. Thus, ORDER, PEACE, JUSTICE, and the stern and gloomy ORCOS 27, witness of oaths, avenger of perjury, became established as deities.
This, the second source of religion, though more subtle and refined in its creations, had still its origin in the same human causes as the first, viz., anticipation of good and apprehension of evil. Of deities so created, many, however, were the inventions of poets— (poetic metaphor is a fruitful mother of mythological fable)—many also were the graceful refinements of a subsequent age. But some (and nearly all those I have enumerated) may be traced to the earliest period to which such researches can ascend. It is obvious that the eldest would be connected with the passions—the more modern with the intellect.
This second source of religion, while more subtle and refined in its creations, still originated from the same human causes as the first: the hope for good and the fear of evil. Many of the deities created this way were the inventions of poets—(poetic metaphor is a rich source of mythological stories)—and many others were elegant refinements from a later time. However, some (and almost all those I’ve mentioned) can be traced back to the earliest period that such research can reach. It’s clear that the oldest would be linked to human passions, while the more modern ones are connected to intellect.
It seems to me apparent that almost simultaneously with deities of these two classes would arise the greater and more influential class of personal divinities which gradually expanded into the heroic dynasty of Olympus. The associations which one tribe, or one generation, united with the heaven, the earth, or the sun, another might obviously connect, or confuse, with a spirit or genius inhabiting or influencing the element or physical object which excited their anxiety or awe: And, this creation effected—so what one tribe or generation might ascribe to the single personification of a passion, a faculty, or a moral and social principle, another would just as naturally refer to a personal and more complex deity:—that which in one instance would form the very nature of a superior being, in the other would form only an attribute—swell the power and amplify the character of a Jupiter, a Mars, a Venus, or a Pan. It is in the nature of man, that personal divinities once created and adored, should present more vivid and forcible images to his fancy than abstract personifications of physical objects and moral impressions. Thus, deities of this class would gradually rise into pre-eminence and popularity above those more vague and incorporeal—and (though I guard myself from absolutely solving in this manner the enigma of ancient theogonies) the family of Jupiter could scarcely fail to possess themselves of the shadowy thrones of the ancestral Earth and the primeval Heaven.
It seems clear to me that almost at the same time as the deities of these two types, a greater and more powerful class of personal gods would emerge, gradually evolving into the heroic dynasty of Olympus. The connections that one tribe, or one generation, made with heaven, the earth, or the sun could easily be linked, or confused, by another tribe with a spirit or genius inhabiting or influencing the elements or physical objects that stirred their feelings of anxiety or awe. This creation led to what one tribe or generation might attribute to the single personification of an emotion, a skill, or a moral and social principle, while another would just as naturally attribute those to a personal and more complex deity. What in one case would define the very essence of a superior being, in another would simply be an attribute that enhances the power and character of a Jupiter, a Mars, a Venus, or a Pan. It’s human nature that once personal deities are created and worshipped, they will evoke stronger and more vivid images in people's minds than abstract representations of physical objects and moral impressions. Thus, deities of this class would gradually rise in prominence and popularity over those more vague and incorporeal. And while I don't intend to completely unravel the mystery of ancient theogonies in this way, the family of Jupiter could hardly fail to take over the shadowy thrones of ancestral Earth and the primeval Heaven.
A third source of the Grecian, as of all mythologies, was in the worship of men who had actually existed, or been supposed to exist. For in this respect errors might creep into the calendar of heroes, as they did into the calendar of saints (the hero-worship of the moderns), which has canonized many names to which it is impossible to find the owners. This was probably the latest, but perhaps in after-times the most influential and popular addition to the aboriginal faith. The worship of dead men once established, it was natural to a people so habituated to incorporate and familiarize religious impressions—to imagine that even their primary gods, first formed from natural impressions (and, still more, those deities they had borrowed from stranger creeds)—should have walked the earth. And thus among the multitude in the philosophical ages, even the loftiest of the Olympian dwellers were vaguely supposed to have known humanity;—their immortality but the apotheosis of the benefactor or the hero.
A third source of Greek mythology, like all mythologies, came from the worship of real people who either existed or were believed to exist. This can lead to mistakes in the list of heroes, much like those found in the list of saints (the hero-worship of modern times), which has canonized many names whose true owners are impossible to find. This was likely the last addition, but over time, it became the most influential and popular part of the original faith. Once the worship of dead people was established, it seemed natural for a culture so accustomed to integrating and familiarizing religious ideas to think that even their main gods, who were initially inspired by natural impressions (and even more so, deities borrowed from other beliefs)—could have walked the earth. So, during the philosophical ages, many people believed that even the greatest of the Olympian gods had some connection to humanity; their immortality was just the deification of a benefactor or hero.
X. The Pelasgi, then, had their native or aboriginal deities (differing in number and in attributes with each different tribe), and with them rests the foundation of the Greek mythology. They required no Egyptian wisdom to lead them to believe in superior powers. Nature was their primeval teacher. But as intercourse was opened with the East from the opposite Asia—with the North from the neighbouring Thrace, new deities were transplanted and old deities received additional attributes and distinctions, according as the fancy of the stranger found them assimilate to the divinities he had been accustomed to adore. It seems to me, that in Saturn we may trace the popular Phoenician deity—in the Thracian Mars, the fierce war-god of the North. But we can scarcely be too cautious how far we allow ourselves to be influenced by resemblance, however strong, between a Grecian and an alien deity. Such a resemblance may not only be formed by comparatively modern innovations, but may either be resolved to that general likeness which one polytheism will ever bear towards another, or arise from the adoption of new attributes and strange traditions;—so that the deity itself may be homesprung and indigenous, while bewildering the inquirer with considerable similitude to other gods, from whose believers the native worship merely received an epithet, a ceremony, a symbol, or a fable. And this necessity of caution is peculiarly borne out by the contradictions which each scholar enamoured of a system gives to the labours of the speculator who preceded him. What one research would discover to be Egyptian, another asserts to be Phoenician; a third brings from the North; a fourth from the Hebrews; and a fifth, with yet wilder imagination, from the far and then unpenetrated caves and woods of India. Accept common sense as our guide, and the contradictions are less irreconcilable—the mystery less obscure. In a deity essentially Greek, a Phoenician colonist may discover something familiar, and claim an ancestral god. He imparts to the native deity some Phoenician features—an Egyptian or an Asiatic succeeds him—discovers a similar likeness—introduces similar innovations. The lively Greek receives—amalgamates—appropriates all: but the aboriginal deity is not the less Greek. Each speculator may be equally right in establishing a partial resemblance, precisely because all speculators are wrong in asserting a perfect identity.
X. The Pelasgians had their own native or original gods (varying in number and characteristics with each tribe), and they are the foundation of Greek mythology. They didn’t need Egyptian wisdom to believe in higher powers. Nature was their first teacher. However, as connections were made with the East from Asia and with the North from neighboring Thrace, new gods were introduced and old gods took on new traits depending on how the outsiders found them similar to the gods they worshipped. I think we can see the popular Phoenician god in Saturn, and in the Thracian Mars, the fierce war god of the North. But we have to be careful about how much we let ourselves be swayed by similarities, no matter how strong, between a Greek god and a foreign one. Such similarities might arise from modern changes, or they might reflect the general likeness that one polytheism has to another, or come from adopting new traits and foreign traditions. This means that a god might be homegrown and native while confusing the inquirer with striking similarities to other gods, from whom the native worship simply borrowed a name, a ritual, a symbol, or a story. This need for caution is especially highlighted by the contradictions that each scholar who loves a particular theory produces against the work of their predecessors. What one researcher claims is Egyptian, another insists is Phoenician; a third attributes it to the North; a fourth to the Hebrews; and a fifth, with an even wilder imagination, takes it from the distant, unexplored caves and forests of India. Accepting common sense as our guide makes these contradictions easier to reconcile and the mystery less puzzling. In a god that is essentially Greek, a Phoenician colonist might find something familiar and claim it as their ancestral god. They add some Phoenician traits to the native god—then an Egyptian or Asiatic takes over—finds a similar likeness—and introduces similar changes. The lively Greek accepts—blends—appropriates everything: but the original deity remains distinctly Greek. Each theorist can be right in pointing out a partial resemblance exactly because all theorists are wrong in claiming a perfect identity.
It follows as a corollary from the above reasonings, that the religion of Greece was much less uniform than is popularly imagined; 1st, because each separate state or canton had its own peculiar deity; 2dly, because, in the foreign communication of new gods, each stranger would especially import the deity that at home he had more especially adored. Hence to every state its tutelary god—the founder of its greatness, the guardian of its renown. Even in the petty and limited territory of Attica, each tribe, independent of the public worship, had its peculiar deities, honoured by peculiar rites.
It follows from the reasoning above that the religion of Greece was much less uniform than commonly thought; first, because each city-state had its own unique deity; second, because when new gods were introduced from abroad, each outsider would especially bring in the god they had worshipped at home. This resulted in each city having its own protective god—the founder of its greatness and the guardian of its reputation. Even in the small and confined area of Attica, each tribe, apart from public worship, had its own specific deities, honored by unique rituals.
The deity said to be introduced by Cecrops is Neith, or more properly Naith 28—the goddess of Sais, in whom we are told to recognise the Athene, or Minerva of the Greeks. I pass over as palpably absurd any analogy of names by which the letters that compose the word Keith are inverted to the word Athene. The identity of the two goddesses must rest upon far stronger proof. But, in order to obtain this proof, we must know with some precision the nature and attributes of the divinity of Sais—a problem which no learning appears to me satisfactorily to have solved. It would be a strong, and, I think, a convincing argument, that Athene is of foreign origin, could we be certain that her attributes, so eminently intellectual, so thoroughly out of harmony with the barbarism of the early Greeks, were accorded to her at the commencement of her worship. But the remotest traditions (such as her contest with Neptune for the possession of the soil), if we take the more simple interpretation, seem to prove her to have been originally an agricultural deity, the creation of which would have been natural enough to the agricultural Pelasgi;—while her supposed invention of some of the simplest and most elementary arts are sufficiently congenial to the notions of an unpolished and infant era of society. Nor at a long subsequent period is there much resemblance between the formal and elderly goddess of Daedalian sculpture and the glorious and august Glaucopis of Homer—the maiden of celestial beauty as of unrivalled wisdom. I grant that the variety of her attributes renders it more than probable that Athene was greatly indebted, perhaps to the “Divine Intelligence,” personified in the Egyptian Naith—perhaps also, as Herodotus asserts, to the warlike deity of Libya—nor less, it may be, to the Onca of the Phoenicians 29, from whom in learning certain of the arts, the Greeks might simultaneously learn the name and worship of the Phoenician deity, presiding over such inventions. Still an aboriginal deity was probably the nucleus, round which gradually gathered various and motley attributes. And certain it is, that as soon as the whole creation rose into distinct life, the stately and virgin goddess towers, aloof and alone, the most national, the most majestic of the Grecian deities—rising above all comparison with those who may have assisted to decorate and robe her, embodying in a single form the very genius, multiform, yet individual as it was, of the Grecian people—and becoming among all the deities of the heathen heaven what the Athens she protected became upon the earth.
The deity introduced by Cecrops is Neith, or more accurately, Naith 28—the goddess of Sais, whom we are told to recognize as the Athene or Minerva of the Greeks. I find any connection between the names that reverses the letters in "Keith" to "Athene" to be obviously ridiculous. The similarity between the two goddesses needs much stronger evidence. To establish this, we need to understand more clearly the nature and attributes of the Sais goddess—a challenge that no scholar seems to have satisfactorily addressed. A strong argument for Athene being of foreign origin would be if we could be sure her attributes, which are highly intellectual and seem out of place with the primitive mindset of the early Greeks, were assigned to her from the start of her worship. However, the earliest traditions (like her contest with Neptune for control of the land) suggest—if we take a simpler view—that she was originally an agricultural goddess, a concept that would have made sense to the farming Pelasgians; her supposed invention of some basic and essential crafts aligns well with the ideas of a rough and early stage of society. Even later, there isn’t much resemblance between the formal, aged goddess depicted in Daedalian sculpture and the glorious and wise Glaucopis in Homer—the maiden of unmatched beauty and intelligence. I admit that the variety of her attributes makes it likely that Athene was significantly influenced by, perhaps, the “Divine Intelligence” personified in the Egyptian Naith—maybe also, as Herodotus claims, by the warlike goddess of Libya—or possibly even by the Onca of the Phoenicians 29, from whom the Greeks might have learned both certain arts and the name and worship of the Phoenician deity associated with those inventions. Still, an indigenous goddess was probably at the core, around which various and diverse attributes accumulated. It's certain that as soon as all creation emerged into distinct existence, the dignified and virgin goddess rose, standing apart and alone, as the most national and majestic of the Greek deities—surpassing any who may have helped to elaborate and adorn her, embodying in one form the multifaceted yet unified spirit of the Greek people—and becoming among all the gods of the pagan pantheon what the Athens she protected became on Earth.
XI. It may be said of the Greeks, that there never was a people who so completely nationalized all that they borrowed from a foreign source. And whatever, whether in a remoter or more recent age, it might have appropriated from the creed of Isis and Osiris, one cause alone would have sufficed to efface from the Grecian the peculiar character of the Egyptian mythology.
XI. It can be said about the Greeks that there has never been a people who so fully made their own everything they borrowed from other cultures. And whatever they might have taken from the beliefs of Isis and Osiris, either from ancient times or more recent ones, one reason alone would have been enough to erase the unique aspects of Egyptian mythology from Greek culture.
The religion of Egypt, as a science, was symbolical—it denoted elementary principles of philosophy; its gods were enigmas. It has been asserted (on very insufficient data) that in the earliest ages of the world, one god, of whom the sun was either the emblem or the actual object of worship, was adored universally throughout the East, and that polytheism was created by personifying the properties and attributes of the single deity: “there being one God,” says Aristotle, finely, “called by many names, from the various effects which his various power produces.” 30 But I am far from believing that a symbolical religion is ever the earliest author of polytheism; for a symbolical religion belongs to a later period of civilization, when some men are set apart in indolence to cultivate their imagination, in order to beguile or to instruct the reason of the rest. Priests are the first philosophers—a symbolical religion the first philosophy. But faith precedes philosophy. I doubt not, therefore, that polytheism existed in the East before that age when the priests of Chaldea and of Egypt invested it with a sublimer character by summoning to the aid of invention a wild and speculative wisdom—by representing under corporeal tokens the revolutions of the earth, the seasons, and the stars, and creating new (or more probably adapting old and sensual) superstitions, as the grosser and more external types of a philosophical creed 31. But a symbolical worship—the creation of a separate and established order of priests—never is, and never can be, the religion professed, loved, and guarded by a people. The multitude demand something positive and real for their belief—they cannot worship a delusion—their reverence would be benumbed on the instant if they could be made to comprehend that the god to whom they sacrificed was no actual power able to effect evil and good, but the type of a particular season of the year, or an unwholesome principle in the air. Hence, in the Egyptian religion, there was one creed for the vulgar and another for the priests. Again, to invent and to perpetuate a symbolical religion (which is, in fact, an hereditary school of metaphysics) requires men set apart for the purpose, whose leisure tempts them to invention, whose interest prompts them to imposture. A symbolical religion is a proof of a certain refinement in civilization—the refinement of sages in the midst of a subservient people; and it absorbs to itself those meditative and imaginative minds which, did it not exist, would be devoted to philosophy. Now, even allowing full belief to the legends which bring the Egyptian colonists into Greece, it is probable that few among them were acquainted with the secrets of the symbolical mythology they introduced. Nor, if they were so, is it likely that they would have communicated to a strange and a barbarous population the profound and latent mysteries shrouded from the great majority of Egyptians themselves. Thus, whatever the Egyptian colonizers might have imported of a typical religion, the abstruser meaning would become, either at once or gradually, lost. Nor can we—until the recent age of sophists and refiners—clearly ascertain any period in which did not exist the indelible distinction between the Grecian and Egyptian mythology: viz.—that the first was actual, real, corporeal, household; the second vague, shadowy, and symbolical. This might not have been the case had there been established in the Grecian, as in the Egyptian cities, distinct and separate colleges of priests, having in their own hands the sole care of the religion, and forming a privileged and exclusive body of the state. But among the Greeks (and this should be constantly borne in mind) there never was, at any known historical period, a distinct caste of priests 32. We may perceive, indeed, that the early colonizers commenced with approaches to that principle, but it was not prosecuted farther. There were sacred families in Athens from which certain priesthoods were to be filled— but even these personages were not otherwise distinguished; they performed all the usual offices of a citizen, and were not united together by any exclusiveness of privilege or spirit of party. Among the Egyptian adventurers there were probably none fitted by previous education for the sacred office; and the chief who had obtained the dominion might entertain no irresistible affection for a caste which in his own land he had seen dictating to the monarch and interfering with the government. 33
The religion of Egypt was symbolic—it represented basic philosophical concepts; its gods were mysteries. Some have claimed (with very little evidence) that in the earliest days of the world, one god, represented by the sun either as a symbol or the actual object of worship, was worshipped universally in the East, and that polytheism arose from personifying the characteristics and traits of this single deity: “there being one God,” Aristotle wisely said, “called by many names, due to the various effects his diverse power produces.” 30 But I don’t believe that a symbolic religion is ever the initial source of polytheism; a symbolic religion comes later in civilization, when some people are set apart in idleness to develop their imaginations in order to entertain or educate others' reasoning. Priests are the first philosophers—a symbolic religion is the first philosophy. But faith comes before philosophy. I have no doubt that polytheism existed in the East before the time when the priests of Chaldea and Egypt elevated it by bringing in wild and speculative thoughts—by using physical symbols to represent the movements of the earth, the seasons, and the stars, and creating new (or more likely adapting old and sensual) superstitions as the coarser, more external expressions of a philosophical belief 31. However, a symbolic worship—the establishment of a separate and formal order of priests—can never be the religion that a people embrace, treasure, and protect. The masses want something tangible and real to believe in—they can’t worship a falsehood—their reverence would immediately diminish if they realized that the god they sacrificed to was not a real force capable of doing good or evil, but merely a symbol of a specific season or an unhealthy element in the air. Thus, in Egyptian religion, there was one belief for the common people and another for the priests. Moreover, creating and maintaining a symbolic religion (which is essentially an inherited metaphysical system) needs people dedicated to that purpose, whose free time leads them to create, and whose interests drive them to deception. A symbolic religion shows a level of sophistication in civilization—the sophistication of thinkers amid a submissive populace; it draws in those reflective and imaginative minds that, if it didn’t exist, would engage in philosophy. Now, even if we fully accept the stories that bring Egyptian settlers into Greece, it’s likely that few of them understood the secrets of the symbolic mythology they brought with them. Even if they did, it’s improbable that they would have revealed to a strange and primitive society the deep and hidden mysteries that were concealed from most Egyptians themselves. Therefore, whatever the Egyptian settlers may have introduced regarding a symbolic religion, its deeper meaning would likely become lost, either immediately or over time. And we cannot—until the recent era of thinkers and refiners—clearly identify any time when the clear distinction between Greek and Egyptian mythology did not exist: that is, the first was actual, real, physical, and domestic; the second was vague, shadowy, and symbolic. This might not have been the case had there been established in Greek cities, like in Egypt, distinct and separate colleges of priests, controlling the religion and forming a privileged and exclusive group within the state. But among the Greeks (and this is an important point to remember) there has never been a distinct class of priests at any known historical time 32. We can see that the early settlers began to approach that idea, but it was never fully realized. There were sacred families in Athens from which certain priesthoods were filled—but even these individuals were not otherwise distinguished; they carried out all the usual duties of a citizen and were not linked by any exclusive privileges or political factions. Among the Egyptian adventurers, it’s likely that none were adequately trained for the priestly role; and the leader who gained power might not have had a strong attachment to a class that he had seen wielding control over the monarch and interfering in governance back in his own country. 33
Thus, among the early Greeks, we find the chiefs themselves were contented to offer the sacrifice and utter the prayer; and though there were indeed appointed and special priests, they held no imperious or commanding authority. The Areopagus at Athens had the care of religion, but the Areopagites were not priests. This absence of a priestly caste had considerable effect upon the flexile and familiar nature of the Grecian creed, because there were none professionally interested in guarding the purity of the religion, in preserving to what it had borrowed, symbolical allusions, and in forbidding the admixture of new gods and heterogeneous creeds. The more popular a religion, the more it seeks corporeal representations, and avoids the dim and frigid shadows of a metaphysical belief. 34
Thus, among the early Greeks, we see that the leaders themselves were willing to offer sacrifices and say prayers. Even though there were specific priests, they didn’t have any overwhelming power or authority. The Areopagus in Athens looked after religious matters, but the members weren’t priests. The lack of a priestly class had a significant impact on the flexible and approachable nature of Greek religion, as there was no professional group dedicated to maintaining the purity of the faith, preserving its symbolic meanings, or preventing the introduction of new gods and different beliefs. The more popular a religion becomes, the more it seeks physical representations and steers clear of the vague and cold shadows of abstract beliefs. 34
The romantic fables connected with the Grecian mythology were, some home-sprung, some relating to native heroes, and incorporating native legends, but they were also, in great measure, literal interpretations of symbolical types and of metaphorical expressions, or erroneous perversions of words in other tongues. The craving desire to account for natural phenomena, common to mankind—the wish to appropriate to native heroes the wild tales of mariners and strangers natural to a vain and a curious people—the additions which every legend would receive in its progress from tribe to tribe—and the constant embellishments the most homely inventions would obtain from the competition of rival poets, rapidly served to swell and enrich these primary treasures of Grecian lore—to deduce a history from an allegory—to establish a creed in a romance. Thus the early mythology of Greece is to be properly considered in its simple and outward interpretations. The Greeks, as yet in their social infancy, regarded the legends of their faith as a child reads a fairy tale, credulous of all that is supernatural in the agency—unconscious of all that may be philosophical in the moral.
The romantic stories tied to Greek mythology were, in part, homegrown, some focused on local heroes, and included native legends. However, they were also largely literal interpretations of symbolic types and metaphorical expressions, or misguided interpretations of words from other languages. The strong desire to explain natural events—a common trait among people—led to attempts to link local heroes to the wild stories of sailors and outsiders, which appealed to a vain and curious society. Each legend naturally picked up additions as it traveled from tribe to tribe, and the constant embellishments from competing poets helped to expand and enrich these foundational treasures of Greek culture. This process created histories from allegories and established beliefs through stories. Therefore, the early mythology of Greece should be viewed through its straightforward and surface meanings. The Greeks, still in their social infancy, saw the legends of their beliefs much like a child sees a fairy tale, believing in everything supernatural represented in the stories, while remaining unaware of the philosophical messages behind the morals.
It is true, indeed, that dim associations of a religion, sabaean and elementary, such as that of the Pelasgi (but not therefore foreign and philosophical), with a religion physical and popular, are, here and there, to be faintly traced among the eldest of the Grecian authors. We may see that in Jupiter they represented the ether, and in Apollo, and sometimes even in Hercules, the sun. But these authors, while, perhaps unconsciously, they hinted at the symbolical, fixed, by the vitality and nature of their descriptions, the actual images of the gods and, reversing the order of things, Homer created Jupiter! 35
It’s true that there are faint connections between a basic, ancient religion like that of the Pelasgi (which isn’t completely foreign or philosophical) and a more physical, popular religion that can be found in some of the earliest Greek writers. For example, they represented Jupiter as the ether and Apollo, and sometimes even Hercules, as the sun. However, while these writers might have unintentionally suggested something symbolic, they primarily focused on the gods' actual images and, in a twist of events, it was Homer who essentially created Jupiter! 35
But most of the subtle and typical interpretations of the Grecian mythology known to us at present were derived from the philosophy of a later age. The explanations of religious fables—such, for instance, as the chaining of Saturn by Jupiter, and the rape of Proserpine by Pluto, in which Saturn is made to signify the revolution of the seasons, chained to the courses of the stars, to prevent too immoderate a speed, and the rape of Proserpine is refined into an allegory that denotes the seeds of corn that the sovereign principle of the earth receives and sepulchres 36;—the moral or physical explanation of legends like these was, I say, the work of the few, reduced to system either from foreign communication or acute invention. For a symbolical religion, created by the priests of one age, is reinstated or remodelled after its corruption by the philosophers of another.
But most of the subtle and typical interpretations of Grecian mythology that we know today came from the philosophy of a later era. The explanations of religious myths—like, for example, Saturn being chained by Jupiter and Proserpine being abducted by Pluto, where Saturn represents the changing seasons, tied to the movements of the stars to prevent excessive speed, and Proserpine's abduction is reinterpreted as a symbol for the seeds of corn that the earth’s ruling principle takes and buries 36;—the moral or physical explanations of legends like these were, I would say, the work of a few, either systematized through foreign influence or clever invention. A symbolic religion created by the priests of one generation is either restored or reshaped after its degradation by the philosophers of another.
XII. We may here pause a moment to inquire whence the Greeks derived the most lovely and fascinating of their mythological creations—those lesser and more terrestrial beings—the spirits of the mountain, the waters, and the grove.
XII. We can take a moment to ask where the Greeks got the most beautiful and intriguing of their mythological creations—those lesser and more earthly beings—the spirits of the mountain, the waters, and the grove.
Throughout the East, from the remotest era, we find that mountains were nature’s temples. The sanctity of high places is constantly recorded in the scriptural writings. The Chaldaean, the Egyptian, and the Persian, equally believed that on the summit of mountains they approached themselves nearer to the oracles of heaven. But the fountain, the cavern, and the grove, were no less holy than the mountain-top in the eyes of the first religionists of the East. Streams and fountains were dedicated to the Sun, and their exhalations were supposed to inspire with prophecy, and to breathe of the god. The gloom of caverns, naturally the brooding-place of awe, was deemed a fitting scene for diviner revelations—it inspired unearthly contemplation and mystic revery. Zoroaster is supposed by Porphyry (well versed in all Pagan lore, though frequently misunderstanding its proper character) to have first inculcated the worship of caverns 37; and there the early priests held a temple, and primeval philosophy its retreat 38. Groves, especially those in high places, or in the neighbourhood of exhaling streams, were also appropriate to worship, and conducive to the dreams of an excited and credulous imagination; and Pekah, the son of Remaliah, burnt incense, not only on the hills, but “under every green tree.” 39
Throughout the East, from the earliest times, mountains were seen as nature’s temples. The sacredness of high places is frequently noted in religious texts. The Chaldaeans, Egyptians, and Persians all believed that being on top of mountains brought them closer to heavenly messages. However, the spring, the cave, and the grove were just as holy as mountain tops in the eyes of the earliest religious figures of the East. Streams and springs were dedicated to the Sun, and their vapors were thought to inspire prophecy and carry the essence of the divine. The darkness of caves, naturally a place of deep reflection, was considered a fitting backdrop for divine revelations—it sparked otherworldly contemplation and mystical reverie. Zoroaster is believed by Porphyry (who was well-versed in pagan knowledge, though often misinterpreting its true nature) to have first promoted the worship of caves 37; and there, early priests maintained a temple, and ancient philosophy found its sanctuary 38. Groves, especially those on high ground or near fragrant streams, were also suitable for worship, enhancing the visions of an excited and gullible imagination; and Pekah, son of Remaliah, burned incense not only on the hills but “under every green tree.” 39
These places, then—the mountain, the forest, the stream, and the cavern, were equally objects of sanctity and awe among the ancient nations.
These places—the mountain, the forest, the stream, and the cavern—were equally seen as sacred and awe-inspiring by ancient civilizations.
But we need not necessarily suppose that a superstition so universal was borrowed, and not conceived, by the early Greeks. The same causes which had made them worship the earth and the sea, extended their faith to the rivers and the mountains, which in a spirit of natural and simple poetry they called “the children” of those elementary deities. The very soil of Greece, broken up and diversified by so many inequalities, stamped with volcanic features, profuse in streams and mephitic fountains, contributed to render the feeling of local divinity prevalent and intense. Each petty canton had its own Nile, whose influence upon fertility and culture was sufficient to become worthy to propitiate, and therefore to personify. Had Greece been united under one monarchy, and characterized by one common monotony of soil, a single river, a single mountain, alone might have been deemed divine. It was the number of its tribes—it was the variety of its natural features, which produced the affluence and prodigality of its mythological creations. Nor can we omit from the causes of the teeming, vivid, and universal superstition of Greece, the accidents of earthquake and inundation, to which the land appears early and often to have been exposed. To the activity and caprice of nature—to the frequent operation of causes, unrecognised, unforeseen, unguessed, the Greeks owed much of their disposition to recur to mysterious and superior agencies—and that wonderful poetry of faith which delighted to associate the visible with the unseen. The peculiar character not only of a people, but of its earlier poets—not only of its soil, but of its air and heaven, colours the superstition it creates: and most of the terrestrial demons which the gloomier North clothed with terror and endowed with malice, took from the benignant genius and the enchanting climes of Greece the gentlest offices and the fairest forms;—yet even in Greece itself not universal in their character, but rather the faithful reflections of the character of each class of worshippers: thus the graces 40, whose “eyes” in the minstrelsey of Hesiod “distilled care-beguiling love,” in Lacedaemon were the nymphs of discipline and war!
But we don't have to assume that a superstition as widespread as this was borrowed rather than created by the early Greeks. The same reasons that led them to worship the earth and the sea also extended their beliefs to the rivers and the mountains, which they poetically referred to as “the children” of those elemental gods. The very landscape of Greece, characterized by numerous differences and marked by volcanic activity, rich in streams and sulfurous springs, helped foster a deep and intense sense of local divinity. Each small region had its own river, whose impact on fertility and culture was significant enough to be worthy of worship and personification. If Greece had been unified under a single monarchy with a uniform landscape, only one river or one mountain might have been considered divine. It was the diversity of its tribes and the variety in its natural environment that led to the richness and abundance of its mythological stories. We cannot ignore the role that earthquakes and floods played in the vibrant, lively, and widespread superstitions of Greece, as the land often faced these challenges. The unpredictable nature and the frequent occurrence of unknown and unexpected events influenced the Greeks' tendency to turn to mysterious and powerful forces, along with the beautiful poetry of faith that loved to connect the seen and the unseen. The distinct character of the people, as well as that of their earlier poets—not just the land but also its air and sky—influenced the superstitions they created. Most of the earthly spirits, which the darker North portrayed as terrifying and malicious, received from the kind nature and charming climate of Greece the gentlest characteristics and the fairest appearances. Yet even in Greece, these spirits were not universally perceived; they rather reflected the unique traits of each group of worshippers. So, the Graces 40, whose “eyes” in the poetry of Hesiod “distilled care-beguiling love,” were seen in Lacedaemon as the nymphs of discipline and war!
In quitting this subject, be one remark permitted in digression: the local causes which contributed to superstition might conduct in after times to science. If the Nature that was so constantly in strange and fitful action, drove the Greeks in their social infancy to seek agents for the action and vents for their awe, so, as they advanced to maturer intellect, it was in Nature herself that they sought the causes of effects that appeared at first preternatural. And, in either stage, their curiosity and interest aroused by the phenomena around them—the credulous inventions of ignorance gave way to the eager explanations of philosophy. Often, in the superstition of one age, lies the germe that ripens into the inquiry of the next.
When moving on from this topic, let me make one side note: the local reasons that led to superstition could eventually lead to science. If the unpredictable and strange forces of Nature pushed the Greeks in their early days to find explanations for what they experienced and outlets for their fear, then as they developed more mature minds, they turned to Nature itself to find the reasons behind effects that initially seemed supernatural. In both cases, their curiosity and interest in the phenomena around them— the naive creations of ignorance evolved into the eager explanations of philosophy. Often, within the superstition of one era lies the seed that grows into the inquiry of the next.
XIII. Pass we now to some examination of the general articles of faith among the Greeks; their sacrifices and rites of worship.
XIII. Let's now take a look at the general articles of faith among the Greeks, including their sacrifices and worship practices.
In all the more celebrated nations of the ancient world, we find established those twin elements of belief by which religion harmonizes and directs the social relations of life, viz., a faith in a future state, and in the providence of superior powers, who, surveying as judges the affairs of earth, punish the wicked and reward the good 41. It has been plausibly conjectured that the fables of Elysium, the slow Cocytus, and the gloomy Hades, were either invented or allegorized from the names of Egyptian places. Diodorus assures us that by the vast catacombs of Egypt, the dismal mansions of the dead— were the temple and stream, both called Cocytus, the foul canal of Acheron, and the Elysian plains 42; and, according to the same equivocal authority, the body of the dead was wafted across the waters by a pilot, termed Charon in the Egyptian tongue. But, previous to the embarcation, appointed judges on the margin of the Acheron listened to whatever accusations were preferred by the living against the deceased, and if convinced of his misdeeds, deprived him of the rites of sepulture. Hence it was supposed that Orpheus transplanted into Greece the fable of the infernal regions. But there is good reason to look on this tale with distrust, and to believe that the doctrine of a future state was known to the Greeks without any tuition from Egypt;—while it is certain that the main moral of the Egyptian ceremony, viz., the judgment of the dead, was not familiar to the early doctrine of the Greeks. They did not believe that the good were rewarded and the bad punished in that dreary future, which they imbodied in their notions of the kingdom of the shades. 43
In all the more well-known nations of the ancient world, we see the two main elements of belief that shape and guide the social relationships of life: a belief in an afterlife and in the oversight of higher powers who, like judges, observe the affairs of the earth, punishing the wicked and rewarding the good 41. It's been suggested that the legends of Elysium, the slow Cocytus, and the dark Hades were either created or inspired by the names of Egyptian locations. Diodorus tells us that near the vast catacombs of Egypt, the gloomy homes of the dead included the temple and stream both named Cocytus, the foul channel of Acheron, and the Elysian fields 42; and according to the same uncertain source, the body of the deceased was ferried across the waters by a pilot known as Charon in the Egyptian language. However, before embarking, appointed judges on the banks of the Acheron listened to any accusations made by the living against the dead, and if they were convinced of his wrongdoings, they denied him the burial rites. Thus, it was thought that Orpheus brought to Greece the story of the underworld. Yet, there's good reason to approach this tale with skepticism and to believe that the Greeks already knew about the idea of an afterlife without any influence from Egypt; — while it's clear that the central moral of the Egyptian rituals, namely, the judgment of the dead, was not a common belief in early Greek doctrine. They didn't think that the good were rewarded and the bad punished in that bleak future, which they depicted in their ideas of the realm of shadows. 43
XIV. Less in the Grecian deities than in the customs in their honour, may we perceive certain traces of oriental superstition. We recognise the usages of the elder creeds in the chosen sites of their temples— the habitual ceremonies of their worship. It was to the east that the supplicator turned his face, and he was sprinkled, as a necessary purification, with the holy water often alluded to by sacred writers as well as profane—a typical rite entailed from Paganism on the greater proportion of existing Christendom. Nor was any oblation duly prepared until it was mingled with salt—that homely and immemorial offering, ordained not only by the priests of the heathen idols, but also prescribed by Moses to the covenant of the Hebrew God. 44
XIV. We can see certain signs of Eastern superstition more in the customs honoring Greek gods than in the deities themselves. We recognize the practices of older beliefs in the chosen locations of their temples and the regular rituals of their worship. The person praying would turn their face east and was sprinkled with holy water for purification, a common rite referenced by both sacred and secular writers—a practice passed down from Paganism to a large part of today's Christianity. No offering was properly prepared until it was mixed with salt—a simple and ancient offering, required not only by the priests of pagan idols but also commanded by Moses for the covenant with the Hebrew God. 44
XV. We now come to those sacred festivals in celebration of religious mysteries, which inspire modern times with so earnest an interest. Perhaps no subject connected with the religion of the ancients has been cultivated with more laborious erudition, attended with more barren result. And with equal truth and wit, the acute and searching Lobeck has compared the schools of Warburton and St. Croix to the Sabines, who possessed the faculty of dreaming what they wished. According to an ancient and still popular account, the dark enigmas of Eleusis were borrowed from Egypt;—the drama of the Anaglyph 45. But, in answer to this theory, we must observe, that even if really, at their commencement, the strange and solemn rites which they are asserted to have been—mystical ceremonies grow so naturally out of the connexion between the awful and the unknown—were found so generally among the savages of the ancient world—howsoever dispersed —and still so frequently meet the traveller on shores to which it is indeed a wild speculation to assert that the oriental wisdom ever wandered, that it is more likely that they were the offspring of the native ignorance 46, than the sublime importation of a symbolical philosophy utterly ungenial to the tribes to which it was communicated, and the times to which the institution is referred. And though I would assign to the Eleusinian Mysteries a much earlier date than Lobeck is inclined to affix 47, I search in vain for a more probable supposition of the causes of their origin than that which he suggests, and which I now place before the reader. We have seen that each Grecian state had its peculiar and favourite deities, propitiated by varying ceremonies. The early Greeks imagined that their gods might be won from them by the more earnest prayers and the more splendid offerings of their neighbours; the Homeric heroes found their claim for divine protection on the number of the offerings they have rendered to the deity they implore. And how far the jealous desire to retain to themselves the favour of tutelary gods was entertained by the Greeks, may be illustrated by the instances specially alluding to the low and whispered voice in which prayers were addressed to the superior powers, lest the enemy should hear the address, and vie with interested emulation for the celestial favour. The Eleusinians, in frequent hostilities with their neighbours, the Athenians, might very reasonably therefore exclude the latter from the ceremonies instituted in honour of their guardian divinities, Demeter and Persephone (i. e., Ceres and Proserpine). And we may here add, that secrecy once established, the rites might at a very early period obtain, and perhaps deserve, an enigmatic and mystic character. But when, after a signal defeat of the Eleusinians, the two states were incorporated, the union was confirmed by a joint participation in the ceremony 48 to which a political cause would thus give a more formal and solemn dignity. This account of the origin of the Eleusinian Mysteries is not indeed capable of demonstration, but it seems to me at least the most probable in itself, and the most conformable to the habits of the Greeks, as to those of all early nations.
XV. We now turn to the sacred festivals celebrating religious mysteries, which generate significant interest in modern times. No topic related to ancient religion has been explored with more extensive study, yet yielded such meager results. Similarly, the insightful Lobeck has compared the schools of Warburton and St. Croix to the Sabines, who had the ability to dream of what they desired. According to an ancient and still popular tale, the dark enigmas of Eleusis were borrowed from Egypt— the drama of the Anaglyph 45. However, in response to this theory, we must note that even if the strange and solemn rites they are claimed to have been—the mystical ceremonies—naturally arise from the connection between the terrifying and the unknown, and are found so broadly among the ancient world's scattered tribes, it is still a wild theory to suggest that the Eastern wisdom ever reached those shores. It is more likely these rites were products of local ignorance 46 rather than an exalted importation of a symbolic philosophy that was entirely incompatible with the tribes it was introduced to and the period to which the institution relates. While I would attribute a much earlier date to the Eleusinian Mysteries than Lobeck does 47, I find myself searching in vain for a more plausible explanation of their origins than the one he proposes, which I now present to the reader. We've noted that each Greek state had its own distinct and favorite deities, honored through various ceremonies. Early Greeks believed they could win the favor of their gods away from their neighbors through more fervent prayers and lavish offerings; the Homeric heroes based their claims for divine protection on the number of offerings they had given to the deity they called upon. The Greeks' intense desire to keep the favor of their guardian gods can be illustrated through the practice of speaking prayers in low, whispered tones to avoid alerting the enemy, who might then compete for divine favor. The Eleusinians, often at odds with their neighbors, the Athenians, could reasonably choose to exclude them from the ceremonies held in honor of their guardian deities, Demeter and Persephone (i.e., Ceres and Proserpine). Moreover, it can be noted that once secrecy was established, the rites could at an early stage acquire, and possibly warrant, an enigmatic and mysterious character. However, following a significant defeat of the Eleusinians, when the two states merged, that union was formalized through their shared participation in the ceremony 48, which thus gained a more official and solemn significance. This explanation for the origin of the Eleusinian Mysteries is not definitively provable, but it still appears to me the most probable explanation, and aligns best with the customs of the Greeks, as well as those of all early civilizations.
Certain it is that for a long time the celebration of the Eleusinian ceremonies was confined to these two neighbouring states, until, as various causes contributed to unite the whole of Greece in a common religion and a common name, admission was granted all Greeks of all ranks, male and female,—provided they had committed no inexpiable offence, performed the previous ceremonies required, and were introduced by an Athenian citizen.
It's clear that for a long time, the celebration of the Eleusinian ceremonies was limited to these two neighboring states. Over time, as various factors brought all of Greece together under a shared religion and identity, admission was granted to all Greeks of all ranks, both men and women—provided they hadn’t committed any unforgivable offenses, completed the required previous ceremonies, and were introduced by an Athenian citizen.
With the growing flame and splendour of Athens, this institution rose into celebrity and magnificence, until it appears to have become the most impressive spectacle of the heathen world. It is evident that a people so imitative would reject no innovations or additions that could increase the interest or the solemnity of exhibition; and still less such as might come (through whatsoever channel) from that antique and imposing Egypt, which excited so much of their veneration and wonder. Nor do I think it possible to account for the great similarity attested by Herodotus and others, between the mysteries of Isis and those of Ceres, as well as for the resemblance in less celebrated ceremonies between the rites of Egypt and of Greece, without granting at once, that mediately, or even immediately, the superstitious of the former exercised great influence upon, and imparted many features to, those of the latter. But the age in which this religious communication principally commenced has been a matter of graver dispute than the question merits. A few solitary and scattered travellers and strangers may probably have given rise to it at a very remote period; but, upon the whole, it appears to me that, with certain modifications, we must agree with Lobeck, and the more rational schools of inquiry, that it was principally in the interval between the Homeric age and the Persian war that mysticism passed into religion—that superstition assumed the attributes of a science—and that lustrations, auguries, orgies, obtained method and system from the exuberant genius of poetical fanaticism.
As Athens grew in power and glory, this institution became well-known and magnificent, seemingly becoming the most impressive spectacle of the ancient world. It's clear that a people so adept at imitation would embrace any innovations or additions that could enhance the interest or seriousness of their displays, especially those that might come from the ancient and awe-inspiring Egypt, which they revered and were fascinated by. I also don't think we can explain the significant similarities noted by Herodotus and others between the mysteries of Isis and those of Ceres, as well as the likenesses in less famous ceremonies between the rites of Egypt and Greece, without acknowledging that the superstitions of the former greatly influenced and shaped those of the latter. However, the age when this religious exchange mainly began has sparked more debate than it deserves. A few isolated travelers and strangers may have initiated this exchange at a very early stage, but overall, it seems to me that, with some adjustments, we should align with Lobeck and the more rational schools of thought, agreeing that it was mainly during the time between the Homeric age and the Persian wars that mysticism merged with religion, that superstition took on the characteristics of science, and that rituals, auguries, and ecstatic celebrations gained structure and system from the overflowing creativity of poetic enthusiasm.
That in these august mysteries, doctrines contrary to the popular religion were propounded, is a theory that has, I think, been thoroughly overturned. The exhibition of ancient statues, relics, and symbols, concealed from daily adoration (as in the Catholic festivals of this day), probably, made a main duty of the Hierophant. But in a ceremony in honour of Ceres, the blessings of agriculture, and its connexion with civilization, were also very naturally dramatized. The visit of the goddess to the Infernal Regions might form an imposing part of the spectacle: spectral images—alternations of light and darkness—all the apparitions and effects that are said to have imparted so much awe to the mysteries, may well have harmonized with, not contravened, the popular belief. And there is no reason to suppose that the explanations given by the priests did more than account for mythological stories, agreeably to the spirit and form of the received mythology, or deduce moral maxims from the representation, as hackneyed, as simple, and as ancient, as the generality of moral aphorisms are. But, as the intellectual progress of the audience advanced, philosophers, skeptical of the popular religion, delighted to draw from such imposing representations a thousand theories and morals utterly unknown to the vulgar; and the fancies and refinements of later schoolmen have thus been mistaken for the notions of an early age and a promiscuous multitude. The single fact (so often insisted upon), that all Greeks were admissible, is sufficient alone to prove that no secrets incompatible with the common faith, or very important in themselves, could either have been propounded by the priests or received by the audience. And it may be further observed, in corroboration of so self-evident a truth, that it was held an impiety to the popular faith to reject the initiation of the mysteries—and that some of the very writers, most superstitious with respect to the one, attach the most solemnity to the ceremonies of the other.
That in these important mysteries, ideas contrary to the mainstream religion were presented is a theory that has, I believe, been thoroughly disproven. The display of ancient statues, relics, and symbols, hidden from everyday worship (as is done in today's Catholic festivals), was probably a key duty of the Hierophant. However, during a ceremony honoring Ceres, the blessings of agriculture and its connection to civilization were also naturally dramatized. The goddess's visit to the Underworld might have been a significant part of the spectacle: ghostly images—fluctuations of light and dark—all the apparitions and effects that are said to have created so much awe in the mysteries likely aligned with, rather than contradicted, the popular beliefs. There's no reason to think that the explanations given by the priests did more than clarify mythological stories in line with the accepted mythology or derive moral lessons from the representations, as worn-out, straightforward, and ancient as most moral sayings are. However, as the audience's intellectual understanding grew, philosophers, skeptical of mainstream religion, reveled in drawing a thousand theories and morals from such grand representations, which were entirely unknown to the general public. The whims and refinements of later thinkers have thus been mistaken for the ideas of an earlier era and a mixed crowd. The single fact (often emphasized) that all Greeks were allowed to participate is enough proof that no secrets incompatible with common faith, or significant in themselves, could have been presented by the priests or accepted by the audience. Furthermore, it can be pointed out, to support this self-evident truth, that it was considered an offense to the popular faith to reject the initiation into the mysteries—and that some of the very writers who were most superstitious regarding the one, attribute the greatest seriousness to the ceremonies of the other.
XVI. Sanchoniathon wrote a work, now lost, on the worship of the serpent. This most ancient superstition, found invariably in Egypt and the East, is also to be traced through many of the legends and many of the ceremonies of the Greeks. The serpent was a frequent emblem of various gods—it was often kept about the temples—it was introduced in the mysteries—it was everywhere considered sacred. Singular enough, by the way, that while with us the symbol of the evil spirit, the serpent was generally in the East considered a benefactor. In India, the serpent with a thousand heads; in Egypt, the serpent crowned with the lotos-leaf, is a benign and paternal deity. It was not uncommon for fable to assert that the first civilizers of earth were half man, half serpent. Thus was Fohi of China 49 represented, and thus Cecrops of Athens.
XVI. Sanchoniathon wrote a work, now lost, about the worship of the serpent. This very old belief, found consistently in Egypt and the East, is also reflected in many of the legends and ceremonies of the Greeks. The serpent was a common symbol for various gods—it was often present in temples—it was part of the mysteries—it was regarded as sacred everywhere. Interestingly, while in our culture the serpent symbolizes evil, in the East it was generally seen as a benefactor. In India, the serpent with a thousand heads; in Egypt, the serpent crowned with the lotus leaf is a kind and fatherly deity. It was not unusual for myths to claim that the first civilizers of the earth were part man, part serpent. This is how Fohi of China 49 was depicted, and similarly for Cecrops of Athens.
XVII. But the most remarkable feature of the superstition of Greece was her sacred oracles. And these again bring our inquiries back to Egypt. Herodotus informs us that the oracle of Dodona was by far the most ancient in Greece 50, and he then proceeds to inform us of its origin, which he traces to Thebes in Egypt. But here we are beset by contradictions: Herodotus, on the authority of the Egyptian priests, ascribes the origin of the Dodona and Lybian oracles to two priestesses of the Theban Jupiter—stolen by Phoenician pirates—one of whom, sold into Greece, established at Dodona an oracle similar to that which she had served at Thebes. But in previous passages Herodotus informs us, 1st, that in Egypt, no priestesses served the temples of any deity, male or female; and 2dly, that when the Egyptians imparted to the Pelasgi the names of their divinities, the Pelasgi consulted the oracle of Dodona on the propriety of adopting them; so that that oracle existed before even the first and fundamental revelations of Egyptian religion. It seems to me, therefore, a supposition that demands less hardy assumption, and is equally conformable with the universal superstitions of mankind (since similar attempts at divination are to be found among so many nations similarly barbarous) to believe that the oracle arose from the impressions of the Pelasgi 51 and the natural phenomena of the spot; though at a subsequent period the manner of the divination was very probably imitated from that adopted by the Theban oracle. And in examining the place it indeed seems as if Nature herself had been the Egyptian priestess! Through a mighty grove of oaks there ran a stream, whose waters supplied a fountain that might well appear, to ignorant wonder, endowed with preternatural properties. At a certain hour of noon it was dry, and at midnight full. Such springs have usually been deemed oracular, not only in the East, but in almost every section of the globe.
XVII. The most striking aspect of Greece's superstitions was its sacred oracles, which lead us back to Egypt. Herodotus tells us that the oracle of Dodona was the oldest in Greece 50, and he goes on to explain its origins, which he links to Thebes in Egypt. However, we encounter contradictions: Herodotus, based on information from Egyptian priests, claims that the origins of the Dodona and Libyan oracles were two priestesses of the Theban Jupiter—captured by Phoenician pirates—one of whom, sold into Greece, established an oracle at Dodona similar to the one she served at Thebes. Yet, earlier, Herodotus states that, in Egypt, no priestesses served any deity, male or female; and that when the Egyptians shared the names of their gods with the Pelasgi, the Pelasgi consulted the oracle of Dodona to decide if they should adopt them. This suggests that the oracle existed before even the earliest revelations of Egyptian religion. Therefore, it seems more reasonable and in line with common human superstitions (since similar divination attempts are found among many similarly primitive cultures) to believe that the oracle emerged from the perceptions of the Pelasgi 51 and the natural phenomena of the site; although, at a later stage, the method of divination was likely influenced by the Theban oracle. Examining the location, it indeed appears as if Nature itself had been the Egyptian priestess! A powerful grove of oaks surrounded a stream, whose waters fed a fountain that might well seem, to unknowing onlookers, to have supernatural qualities. At noon, it was dry, and at midnight, it was full. Such springs have typically been regarded as oracular, not only in the East but in almost every part of the world.
At first, by the murmuring of waters, and afterward by noises among the trees, the sacred impostors interpreted the voice of the god. It is an old truth, that mystery is always imposing and often convenient. To plain questions were given dark answers, which might admit of interpretation according to the event. The importance attached to the oracle, the respect paid to the priest, and the presents heaped on the altar, indicated to craft and ambition a profitable profession. And that profession became doubly alluring to its members, because it proffered to the priests an authority in serving the oracles which they could not obtain in the general religion of the people. Oracles increased then, at first slowly, and afterward rapidly, until they grew so numerous that the single district of Boeotia contained no less than twenty-five. The oracle of Dodona long, however, maintained its pre-eminence over the rest, and was only at last eclipsed by that of Delphi 52, where strong and intoxicating exhalations from a neighbouring stream were supposed to confer prophetic phrensy. Experience augmented the sagacity of the oracles, and the priests, no doubt, intimately acquainted with all the affairs of the states around, and viewing the living contests of action with the coolness of spectators, were often enabled to give shrewd and sensible admonitions,—so that the forethought of wisdom passed for the prescience of divinity. Hence the greater part of their predictions were eminently successful; and when the reverse occurred, the fault was laid on the blind misconstruction of the human applicant. Thus no great design was executed, no city founded, no colony planted, no war undertaken, without the advice of an oracle. In the famine, the pestilence, and the battle, the divine voice was the assuager of terror and the inspirer of hope. All the instincts of our frailer nature, ever yearning for some support that is not of the world, were enlisted in behalf of a superstition which proffered solutions to doubt, and remedies to distress.
At first, with the sound of flowing water, and later with rustling leaves, the sacred impostors interpreted the god's voice. It's an old truth that mystery is always impressive and often convenient. Simple questions received vague answers that could be interpreted in light of events. The significance of the oracle, the respect given to the priest, and the gifts piled on the altar pointed out a lucrative profession for those with cunning and ambition. This job became even more enticing for its members because it offered the priests an authority in serving the oracles that they couldn’t achieve in the general religion of the people. The number of oracles then increased, initially slowly, and later rapidly, until the single region of Boeotia boasted no fewer than twenty-five. However, the oracle of Dodona long held its top position among them, only to be finally overshadowed by Delphi 52, where potent and intoxicating vapors from a nearby stream were believed to grant prophetic frenzy. Experience enhanced the insight of the oracles, and the priests were likely well-informed about the affairs of surrounding states, observing the active struggles like spectators, which often allowed them to provide keen and sensible advice—so the foresight of wisdom was mistaken for divine insight. As a result, most of their predictions were remarkably successful; when they were not, the blame was placed on the misinterpretation by the seeker. Thus, no significant plan was carried out, no city founded, no colony established, and no war waged without the counsel of an oracle. During famines, plagues, and battles, the divine voice eased fear and inspired hope. All the instincts of our fragile nature, always longing for support not from this world, were rallied in favor of a superstition that offered answers to doubts and solutions to distress.
Besides this general cause for the influence of oracles, there was another cause calculated to give to the oracles of Greece a marked and popular pre-eminence over those in Egypt. A country divided into several small, free, and warlike states, would be more frequently in want of the divine advice, than one united under a single monarchy, or submitted to the rigid austerity of castes and priestcraft; and in which the inhabitants felt for political affairs all the languid indifference habitual to the subjects of a despotic government. Half a century might pass in Egypt without any political event that would send anxious thousands to the oracle; but in the wonderful ferment, activity, and restlessness of the numerous Grecian towns, every month, every week, there was some project or some feud for which the advice of a divinity was desired. Hence it was chiefly to a political cause that the immortal oracle of Delphi owed its pre-eminent importance. The Dorian worshippers of Apollo (long attached to that oracle, then comparatively obscure), passing from its neighbourhood and befriended by its predictions, obtained the mastership of the Peloponnesus;— their success was the triumph of the oracle. The Dorian Sparta (long the most powerful of the Grecian states), inviolably faithful to the Delphian god, upheld his authority, and spread the fame of his decrees. But in the more polished and enlightened times, the reputation of the oracle gradually decayed; it shone the brightest before and during the Persian war;—the appropriate light of an age of chivalry fading slowly as philosophy arose!
Besides this general reason for the influence of oracles, there was another factor that made the oracles of Greece particularly prominent and popular compared to those in Egypt. A country divided into several small, independent, and warlike states would need divine guidance more often than one governed by a single monarchy or constrained by strict social classes and priestly control, where the people felt a typical indifference toward political matters, much like subjects of a despotic regime. In Egypt, half a century could go by without a political event that would drive thousands to seek the oracle’s counsel; however, in the dynamic, active, and restless environment of the many Greek towns, there was always some project or conflict each month, even each week, that required the guidance of a deity. This political context primarily contributed to the exceptional importance of the immortal oracle of Delphi. The Dorian followers of Apollo (who were long associated with that oracle while it was still relatively obscure) moved from its region and benefited from its predictions, gaining control over the Peloponnesus; their success marked the oracle’s triumph. Dorian Sparta (once the most powerful of the Greek states), staunchly loyal to the Delphian god, upheld his authority and spread the reputation of his prophecies. However, in the more refined and enlightened periods, the oracle's reputation gradually waned; it shone the brightest before and during the Persian war—fading slowly like the light of an age of chivalry as philosophy began to rise!
XVIII. But the practice of divination did not limit itself to these more solemn sources—its enthusiasm was contagious—its assistance was ever at hand 53. Enthusiasm operated on the humblest individuals. One person imagined himself possessed by a spirit actually passing into his soul—another merely inspired by the divine breath—a third was cast into supernatural ecstasies, in which he beheld the shadow of events, or the visions of a god—a threefold species of divine possession, which we may still find recognised by the fanatics of a graver faith! Nor did this suffice: a world of omens surrounded every man. There were not only signs and warnings in the winds, the earthquake, the eclipse of the sun or moon, the meteor, or the thunderbolt—but dreams also were reduced to a science 54; the entrails of victims were auguries of evil or of good; the flights of birds, the motions of serpents, the clustering of bees, had their mystic and boding interpretations. Even hasty words, an accident, a fall on the earth, a sneeze (for which we still invoke the ancient blessing), every singular or unwonted event, might become portentous, and were often rendered lucky or unlucky according to the dexterity or disposition of the person to whom they occurred.
XVIII. But the practice of divination didn't just come from serious sources—its excitement was infectious—its support was always available 53. Enthusiasm affected even the simplest people. One person thought he was possessed by a spirit actually entering his soul—another felt inspired by a divine presence—a third was thrown into supernatural trances, where he saw glimpses of events or visions of a god—a threefold type of divine possession that we can still see acknowledged by the zealots of more serious faiths! And that wasn't all: a world of omens surrounded every individual. There were not only signs and warnings in the winds, earthquakes, solar or lunar eclipses, meteors, or lightning strikes—but dreams were also treated as a science 54; the organs of sacrificed animals were omens of good or bad fortune; the flights of birds, the movements of snakes, the swarming of bees all had their mysterious and foreboding meanings. Even careless words, accidents, a fall, a sneeze (for which we still call upon the old blessing), any unusual event could be seen as significant, and were often considered lucky or unlucky depending on the skill or attitude of the person to whom they happened.
And although in later times much of this more frivolous superstition passed away—although Theophrastus speaks of such lesser omens with the same witty disdain as that with which the Spectator ridicules our fears at the upsetting of a salt-cellar, or the appearance of a winding-sheet in a candle,—yet, in the more interesting period of Greece, these popular credulities were not disdained by the nobler or wiser few, and to the last they retained that influence upon the mass which they lost with individuals. And it is only by constantly remembering this universal atmosphere of religion, that we can imbue ourselves with a correct understanding of the character of the Greeks in their most Grecian age. Their faith was with them ever—in sorrow or in joy—at the funeral or the feast—in their uprisings and their downsittings—abroad and at home—at the hearth and in the market-place—in the camp or at the altar. Morning and night all the greater tribes of the elder world offered their supplications on high: and Plato has touchingly insisted on this sacred uniformity of custom, when he tells us that at the rising of the moon and at the dawning of the sun, you may behold Greeks and barbarians—all the nations of the earth—bowing in homage to the gods.
And even though in later times much of this more trivial superstition faded away—although Theophrastus talks about such minor omens with the same witty disregard as the Spectator mocks our fears about spilling salt or seeing a shroud in a candle—during the more fascinating period of Greece, these popular beliefs were not dismissed by the nobler or wiser few, and they continued to influence the masses long after they were disregarded by individuals. It’s only by consistently keeping this universal atmosphere of religion in mind that we can gain a proper understanding of the character of the Greeks in their most Greek era. Their faith was always with them—in sorrow or joy—at funerals or feasts—in their rise and fall—both abroad and at home—at the hearth and in the marketplace—in the camp or at the altar. Morning and night, all the major tribes of the ancient world offered their prayers to the heavens: and Plato poignantly highlighted this sacred consistency of practice when he tells us that at the rising of the moon and the dawn of the sun, you could see Greeks and non-Greeks—all the nations of the earth—bowing down in reverence to the gods.
XIX. To sum up, the above remarks conduce to these principal conclusions; First, that the Grecian mythology cannot be moulded into any of the capricious and fantastic systems of erudite ingenuity: as a whole, no mythology can be considered more strikingly original, not only because its foundations appear indigenous, and based upon the character and impressions of the people—not only because at no one period, from the earliest even to the latest date, whatever occasional resemblances may exist, can any identify be established between its most popular and essential creations, and those of any other faith; but because, even all that it borrowed it rapidly remodelled and naturalized, growing yet more individual from its very complexity, yet more original from the plagiarisms which it embraced; Secondly, that it differed in many details in the different states, but under the development of a general intercourse, assisted by a common language, the plastic and tolerant genius of the people harmonized all discords —until (catholic in its fundamental principles) her religion united the whole of Greece in indissoluble bonds of faith and poetry—of daily customs and venerable traditions; Thirdly, that the influence of other creeds, though by no means unimportant in amplifying the character, and adding to the list of the primitive deities, appears far more evident in the ceremonies and usages than the personal creations of the faith. We may be reasonably skeptical as to what Herodotus heard of the origin of rites or gods from Egyptian priests; but there is no reason to disbelieve the testimony of his experience, when he asserts, that the forms and solemnities of one worship closely resemble those of another; the imitation of a foreign ceremony is perfectly compatible with the aboriginal invention of a national god. For the rest, I think it might be (and by many scholars appears to me to have been) abundantly shown, that the Phoenician influences upon the early mythology of the Greeks were far greater than the Egyptian, though by degrees, and long after the heroic age, the latter became more eagerly adopted and more superficially apparent.
XIX. To sum up, the points made lead to these main conclusions; First, Greek mythology cannot be reshaped into any of the whimsical and elaborate systems of scholarly creativity: as a whole, no mythology stands out as more uniquely original, not only because its foundations seem native and based on the character and feelings of the people—not only because at no period, from the earliest to the latest, can any firm connection be made between its most popular and essential elements and those of any other belief; but also because anything it borrowed was quickly adapted and integrated, becoming even more distinctive due to its very complexity, and more original due to the influences it accepted. Secondly, it varied in many details across different regions, but with overall interaction, aided by a shared language, the adaptable and accepting nature of the people harmonized all differences—until (universal in its core principles) its religion united all of Greece in unbreakable ties of faith and poetry—of everyday practices and ancient traditions. Thirdly, the impact of other religions, while certainly significant in enriching the character and expanding the list of the original deities, is more clearly seen in the rituals and customs than in the personal creations of the faith. We might reasonably doubt what Herodotus heard from Egyptian priests about the origins of rites or gods; however, there's no reason to question his observation when he states that the forms and ceremonies of one worship closely resemble those of another; mimicking a foreign ceremony is completely compatible with the indigenous invention of a national god. For the rest, I believe it has been (and many scholars seem to agree) clearly demonstrated that Phoenician influences on the early mythology of the Greeks were much more significant than those from Egypt, although gradually, and long after the heroic era, the latter became more eagerly accepted and more superficially visible.
In quitting this part of our subject, let it be observed, as an additional illustration of the remarkable nationality of the Grecian mythology, that our best light to the manners of the Homeric men, is in the study of the Homeric gods. In Homer we behold the mythology of an era, for analogy to which we search in vain the records of the East—that mythology is inseparably connected with the constitution of limited monarchies,—with the manners of an heroic age:—the power of the sovereign of the aristocracy of heaven is the power of a Grecian king over a Grecian state:—the social life of the gods is the life most coveted by the Grecian heroes;—the uncertain attributes of the deities, rather physical or intellectual than moral—strength and beauty, sagacity mixed with cunning—valour with ferocity—inclination to war, yet faculties for the inventions of peace; such were the attributes most honoured among men, in the progressive, but still uncivilized age which makes the interval so pre-eminently Grecian— between the mythical and historic times. Vain and impotent are all attempts to identify that religion of Achaian warriors with the religion of oriental priests. It was indeed symbolical—but of the character of its believers; typical—but of the restless, yet poetical, daring, yet graceful temperament, which afterward conducted to great achievements and imperishable arts: the coming events of glory cast their shadows before, in fable.
As we wrap up this part of our discussion, it's worth noting, as a further example of the distinct nationality of Greek mythology, that our best insight into the ways of the Homeric people comes from studying the Homeric gods. In Homer, we see the mythology of a particular era, for which we find no comparable records in the East—this mythology is deeply tied to the structure of limited monarchies and the customs of a heroic age: the power of the heavenly aristocracy mirrors the authority of a Greek king over a Greek state; the social lives of the gods reflect the lives most desired by Greek heroes; the uncertain traits of the deities, mostly physical or intellectual rather than moral—strength and beauty, cleverness mingled with deceit—bravery alongside brutality—an inclination for war yet the capacity for peaceful inventions; these were the qualities most valued by people during that transitional, yet still uncivilized, period that makes the time distinctly Greek—between mythical and historical eras. All efforts to link the religion of Achaean warriors with that of oriental priests are ultimately futile and fruitless. It was indeed symbolic—but symbolizing the character of its adherents; emblematic—but of the restless yet poetic, bold yet graceful spirit that later led to significant achievements and enduring arts: the impending events of glory cast their shadows ahead in fable.
XX. There now opens to us a far more important inquiry than that into the origin and form of the religion of the Greeks; namely, the influences of that religion itself upon their character—their morals —their social and intellectual tendencies.
XX. We now face a much more important question than the origin and form of Greek religion; specifically, the impact that religion had on their character—their morals—their social and intellectual trends.
The more we can approach the Deity to ourselves—the more we can invest him with human attributes—the more we can connect him with the affairs and sympathies of earth, the greater will be his influence upon our conduct—the more fondly we shall contemplate his attributes, the more timidly we shall shrink from his vigilance, the more anxiously we shall strive for his approval. When Epicurus allowed the gods to exist, but imagined them wholly indifferent to the concerns of men, contemplating only their own happiness, and regardless alike of our virtues or our crimes;—with that doctrine he robbed man of the divinity, as effectually as if he had denied his existence. The fear of the gods could not be before the eyes of votaries who believed that the gods were utterly careless of their conduct; and not only the awful control of religion was removed from their passions, but the more beautiful part of its influence, resulting not from terror but from hope, was equally blasted and destroyed: For if the fear of the divine power serves to restrain the less noble natures, so, on the other hand, with such as are more elevated and generous, there is no pleasure like the belief that we are regarded with approbation and love by a Being of ineffable majesty and goodness—who compassionates our misfortunes—who rewards our struggles with ourselves. It is this hope which gives us a pride in our own natures, and which not only restrains us from vice, but inspires us with an emulation to arouse within us all that is great and virtuous, in order the more to deserve his love, and feel the image of divinity reflected upon the soul. It is for this reason that we are not contented to leave the character of a God uncertain and unguessed, shrouded in the darkness of his own infinite power; we clothe him with the attributes of human excellence, carried only to an extent beyond humanity; and cannot conceive a deity not possessed of the qualities—such as justice, wisdom, and benevolence—which are most venerated among mankind. But if we believe that he has passed to earth—that he has borne our shape, that he has known our sorrows—the connexion becomes yet more intimate and close; we feel as if he could comprehend us better, and compassionate more benignly our infirmities and our griefs. The Christ that has walked the earth, and suffered on the cross, can be more readily pictured to our imagination, and is more familiarly before us, than the Dread Eternal One, who hath the heaven for his throne, and the earth only for his footstool 55. And it is this very humanness of connexion, so to speak, between man and the Saviour, which gives to the Christian religion, rightly embraced, its peculiar sentiment of gentleness and of love.
The closer we can bring the Divine to ourselves—the more we can attribute human traits to him—the more we can link him to our earthly concerns and feelings, the greater his influence will be on our behavior. The more we admire his qualities, the more we will shy away from his watchfulness, and the more we will strive for his approval. When Epicurus acknowledged the gods' existence but viewed them as completely indifferent to human affairs, only focused on their own happiness and unconcerned with our virtues or sins, he stripped humanity of divinity just as effectively as if he had denied it altogether. If worshippers believed the gods didn't care about their actions, then the fear of the gods disappeared, along with the powerful control of religion over their passions. Even the more uplifting aspects of religion, which arise not from fear but from hope, were also diminished: while the fear of divine power might restrain less noble individuals, those of higher and more generous character find no greater joy than the belief that we are seen with approval and love by a Being of immense majesty and goodness—who understands our struggles and rewards our efforts to improve ourselves. It’s this hope that gives us pride in our own nature, restraining us from vice while inspiring us to develop all that is noble and virtuous, so we may be more deserving of his love and feel the divine presence reflected in our souls. That’s why we aren’t satisfied to leave the nature of God uncertain and shrouded in the mystery of his infinite power; we attribute to him the qualities of human excellence, enhanced beyond what humans can achieve, and we cannot imagine a deity lacking attributes—like justice, wisdom, and kindness—that are deeply valued by humanity. But when we believe he has come to earth—that he has taken our form, that he has experienced our sorrows—the connection feels even more intimate. We sense that he understands us better and compassionates our weaknesses and grief more kindly. The Christ who walked the earth and suffered on the cross can be envisioned more easily and feels more present to us than the Awe-Inspiring Eternal One, who has heaven for his throne and the earth only for his footstool 55. It is this very human connection, so to speak, between humanity and the Savior that gives Christianity, when embraced correctly, its unique sense of gentleness and love.
But somewhat of this connexion, though in a more corrupt degree, marked also the religion of the Greeks; they too believed (at least the multitude) that most of the deities had appeared on earth, and been the actual dispensers of the great benefits of social life. Transferred to heaven, they could more readily understand that those divinities regarded with interest the nations to which they had been made visible, and exercised a permanent influence over the earth, which had been for a while their home.
But a similar connection, though in a more corrupted way, was also evident in the religion of the Greeks; they too believed (at least the common people) that most of the gods had appeared on earth and actually provided the significant benefits of social life. Once transferred to heaven, they could more easily understand that those deities took an interest in the nations where they had made their presence known and exerted a lasting influence over the earth, which had been their home for a time.
Retaining the faith that the deities had visited the world, the Greeks did not however implicitly believe the fables which degraded them by our weaknesses and vices. They had, as it were—and this seems not to have been rightly understood by the moderns—two popular mythologies— the first consecrated to poetry, and the second to actual life. If a man were told to imitate the gods, it was by the virtues of justice, temperance, and benevolence 56; and had he obeyed the mandate by emulating the intrigues of Jupiter, or the homicides of Mars, he would have been told by the more enlightened that those stories were the inventions of the poets; and by the more credulous that gods might be emancipated from laws, but men were bound by them—“Superis sea jura” 57—their own laws to the gods! It is true, then, that those fables were preserved—were held in popular respect, but the reverence they excited among the Greeks was due to a poetry which flattered their national pride and enchained their taste, and not to the serious doctrines of their religion. Constantly bearing this distinction in mind, we shall gain considerable insight, not only into their religion, but into seeming contradictions in their literary history. They allowed Aristophanes to picture Bacchus as a buffoon, and Hercules as a glutton, in the same age in which they persecuted Socrates for neglect of the sacred mysteries and contempt of the national gods. To that part of their religion which belonged to the poets they permitted the fullest license; but to the graver portion of religion—to the existence of the gods—to a belief in their collective excellence, and providence, and power—to the sanctity of asylums—to the obligation of oaths—they showed the most jealous and inviolable respect. The religion of the Greeks, then, was a great support and sanction to their morals; it inculcated truth, mercy, justice, the virtues most necessary to mankind, and stimulated to them by the rigid and popular belief that excellence was approved and guilt was condemned by the superior powers 58. And in that beautiful process by which the common sense of mankind rectifies the errors of imagination—those fables which subsequent philosophers rightly deemed dishonourable to the gods, and which the superficial survey of modern historians has deemed necessarily prejudicial to morals—had no unworthy effect upon the estimate taken by the Greeks whether of human actions or of heavenly natures.
Retaining the belief that the gods had come to Earth, the Greeks didn’t blindly accept the stories that showed them through our weaknesses and vices. They had, as it seems not to have been fully understood by modern people, two prominent mythologies—the first dedicated to poetry and the second to real life. If someone was told to imitate the gods, it meant emulating the qualities of justice, self-control, and kindness 56; and if they tried to imitate Jupiter’s schemes or Mars’s violent acts, the more enlightened individuals would let them know those tales were just poetical fabrications; while the more gullible would insist that gods might be freed from laws, but humans were bound by them—“Superis sea jura” 57—their own laws for the gods! So yes, those tales were preserved and held in popular esteem, but the reverence they inspired among the Greeks came from the poetry that flattered their national pride and captivated their taste, rather than from the serious teachings of their religion. Keeping this distinction in mind will give us significant insights, not just into their religion, but also into what seem to be contradictions in their literary history. They allowed Aristophanes to portray Bacchus as a clown and Hercules as a glutton while at the same time they prosecuted Socrates for ignoring the sacred mysteries and showing disrespect for the national gods. They granted the fullest freedom to the part of their religion tied to the poets; however, to the more serious aspects of religion—like the existence of the gods, their collective goodness, providence, and power, the sanctity of safe havens, and the duty of oaths—they held the strictest and most inviolable respect. The Greeks’ religion, therefore, was a significant support and endorsement of their morals; it taught truth, compassion, justice, and the essential virtues for humanity, and encouraged them through the strong and widely held belief that excellence was rewarded and wrongdoing was punished by the higher powers 58. In that wonderful process where the common sense of humanity corrects the mistakes of imagination—those tales which later philosophers recognized as dishonorable to the gods, and which modern historians’ cursory reviews have deemed harmful to morals—had no degrading impact on the Greeks' assessment of either human actions or divine nature.
XXI. For a considerable period the Greeks did not carry the notion of divine punishment beyond the grave, except in relation to those audacious criminals who had blasphemed or denied the gods; it was by punishments in this world that the guilty were afflicted. And this doctrine, if less sublime than that of eternal condemnation, was, I apprehend, on regarding the principles of human nature, equally effective in restraining crime: for our human and short-sighted minds are often affected by punishments, in proportion as they are human and speedy. A penance in the future world is less fearful and distinct, especially to the young and the passionate, than an unavoidable retribution in this. Man, too fondly or too vainly, hopes, by penitence at the close of life, to redeem the faults of the commencement, and punishment deferred loses more than half its terrors, and nearly all its certainty.
XXI. For a long time, the Greeks didn't believe in divine punishment after death, except for those bold criminals who had disrespected or denied the gods; it was through punishments in this world that the guilty were punished. And while this idea might not be as profound as the concept of eternal damnation, it was, I think, just as effective in preventing crime when we consider human nature: our human and short-sighted minds are often influenced by punishments that are immediate and human. A penance in the afterlife is less frightening and clear, especially to the young and passionate, than a punishment that is unavoidable in this life. People, either too hopeful or too proud, believe that by repenting at the end of their lives, they can make up for their early mistakes, and a punishment that is postponed loses more than half of its fear and almost all of its certainty.
As long as the Greeks were left solely to their mythology, their views of a future state were melancholy and confused. Death was an evil, not a release. Even in their Elysium, their favourite heroes seem to enjoy but a frigid and unenviable immortality. Yet this saddening prospect of the grave rather served to exhilarate life, and stimulate to glory:—“Make the most of existence,” say their early poets, “for soon comes the dreary Hades!” And placed beneath a delightful climate, and endowed with a vivacious and cheerful temperament, they yielded readily to the precept. Their religion was eminently glad and joyous; even the stern Spartans lost their austerity in their sacred rites, simple and manly though they were—and the gayer Athenians passed existence in an almost perpetual circle of festivals and holydays.
As long as the Greeks focused only on their mythology, their ideas about the afterlife were bleak and unclear. Death was seen as a bad thing, not a release. Even in their Elysium, their favorite heroes seemed to suffer from a cold and undesirable immortality. Yet this grim view of death actually encouraged them to embrace life and strive for greatness: “Make the most of life,” their early poets urged, “because dreary Hades is coming soon!” Living in a pleasant climate and having a lively and cheerful nature, they easily followed this advice. Their religion was incredibly joyful and happy; even the serious Spartans lost their sternness during their sacred rituals, which, although simple and manly, were still significant—and the more carefree Athenians spent their lives in an almost never-ending cycle of celebrations and holy days.
This uncertainty of posthumous happiness contributed also to the desire of earthly fame. For below at least, their heroes taught them, immortality was not impossible. Bounded by impenetrable shadows to this world, they coveted all that in this world was most to be desired 59. A short life is acceptable to Achilles, not if it lead to Elysium, but if it be accompanied with glory. By degrees, however, prospects of a future state, nobler and more august, were opened by their philosophers to the hopes of the Greeks. Thales was asserted to be the first Greek who maintained the immortality of the soul, and that sublime doctrine was thus rather established by the philosopher than the priest. 60
This uncertainty about happiness after death also fueled the desire for fame in this life. After all, their heroes taught them that immortality wasn’t impossible here. Surrounded by impenetrable shadows in this world, they longed for everything that was most desirable in it 59. A short life is fine for Achilles, not if it leads to Elysium, but if it comes with glory. Gradually, however, their philosophers opened up the idea of a future state, one that was nobler and more magnificent, to the hopes of the Greeks. Thales is said to be the first Greek to argue for the immortality of the soul, and this profound idea was established more by the philosopher than by the priest. 60
XXII. Besides the direct tenets of religion, the mysteries of the Greeks exercised an influence on their morals, which, though greatly exaggerated by modern speculators, was, upon the whole, beneficial, though not from the reasons that have been assigned. As they grew up into their ripened and mature importance—their ceremonial, rather than their doctrine, served to deepen and diffuse a reverence for religious things. Whatever the licentiousness of other mysteries (especially in Italy), the Eleusinian rites long retained their renown for purity and decorum; they were jealously watched by the Athenian magistracy, and one of the early Athenian laws enacted that the senate should assemble the day after their celebration to inquire into any abuse that might have sullied their sacred character. Nor is it, perhaps, without justice in the later times, that Isocrates lauds their effect on morality, and Cicero their influence on civilization and the knowledge of social principles. The lustrations and purifications, at whatever period their sanctity was generally acknowledged, could scarcely fail of salutary effects. They were supposed to absolve the culprit from former crimes, and restore him, a new man, to the bosom of society. This principle is a great agent of morality, and was felt as such in the earlier era of Christianity: no corrupter is so deadly as despair; to reconcile a criminal with self-esteem is to readmit him, as it were, to virtue.
XXII. Besides the direct beliefs of religion, the mysteries of the Greeks influenced their morals, which, while often exaggerated by modern thinkers, were overall beneficial, though not for the reasons usually given. As these mysteries developed and gained importance, their ceremonies—rather than their teachings—helped to strengthen and spread respect for religious matters. Despite the immorality of other mysteries (especially in Italy), the Eleusinian rites preserved their reputation for purity and decorum; they were closely monitored by the Athenian authorities, and one of the early Athenian laws required the senate to meet the day after the celebration to investigate any abuse that might have tarnished their sacred nature. It is perhaps not without reason that in later times, Isocrates praised their effect on morality, and Cicero acknowledged their influence on civilization and understanding of social principles. The purifications and rites, whenever their sanctity was recognized, could hardly fail to have positive effects. They were believed to absolve the wrongdoer from past sins and restore him, as a new person, to the community. This principle is a significant force for morality and was felt as such in the earlier days of Christianity: nothing is as destructive as despair; reconciling a criminal with their self-esteem is akin to reintegrating them, so to speak, into virtue.
Even the fundamental error of the religion in point of doctrine, viz., its polytheism, had one redeeming consequence in the toleration which it served to maintain—the grave evils which spring up from the fierce antagonism of religious opinions, were, save in a few solitary and dubious instances, unknown to the Greeks. And this general toleration, assisted yet more by the absence of a separate caste of priests, tended to lead to philosophy through the open and unchallenged portals of religion. Speculations on the gods connected themselves with bold inquiries into nature. Thought let loose in the wide space of creation—no obstacle to its wanderings—no monopoly of its commerce—achieved, after many a wild and fruitless voyage, discoveries unknown to the past—of imperishable importance to the future. The intellectual adventurers of Greece planted the first flag upon the shores of philosophy; for the competition of errors is necessary to the elucidation of truths; and the imagination indicates the soil which the reason is destined to culture and possess.
Even the main mistake of the religion regarding its beliefs, specifically its polytheism, had one positive outcome: it helped promote tolerance. The serious problems that arise from intense clashes of religious views were, apart from a few rare and questionable cases, not present among the Greeks. This overall tolerance, further supported by the lack of a separate group of priests, helped pave the way for philosophy through the open and accepted nature of religion. Ideas about the gods connected with bold investigations into nature. Thought was free to roam throughout creation—without barriers to its exploration or control over its journey—eventually making discoveries that were previously unknown and crucial for the future. The intellectual pioneers of Greece were the first to explore the realm of philosophy; because different errors need to compete for the truth to be clarified, and imagination points to the areas where reason will eventually grow and flourish.
XXIII. While such was the influence of their religion on the morals and the philosophy of the Greeks, what was its effect upon their national genius?
XXIII. While this was the impact of their religion on the morals and philosophy of the Greeks, what effect did it have on their national character?
We must again remember that the Greeks were the only nation among the more intellectual of that day, who stripped their deities of symbolical attributes, and did not aspire to invent for gods shapes differing (save in loftier beauty) from the aspect and form of man. And thus at once was opened to them the realm of sculpture. The people of the East, sometimes indeed depicting their deities in human forms, did not hesitate to change them into monsters, if the addition of another leg or another arm, a dog’s head or a serpent’s tail, could better express the emblem they represented. They perverted their images into allegorical deformities; and receded from the beautiful in proportion as they indulged their false conceptions of the sublime. Besides, a painter or a sculptor must have a clear idea presented to him, to be long cherished and often revolved, if we desire to call forth all the inspiration of which his genius may be capable; but how could the eastern artist form a clear idea of an image that should represent the sun entering Aries, or the productive principle of nature? Such creations could not fail of becoming stiff or extravagant, deformed or grotesque. But to the Greek, a god was something like the most majestic or the most beautiful of his own species. He studied the human shape for his conceptions of the divine. Intent upon the natural, he ascended to the ideal. 61
We have to remember that the Greeks were the only nation among the more intellectual ones of their time that stripped their gods of symbolic attributes and didn’t try to create forms for their deities that were different (except in greater beauty) from the appearance and shape of humans. This opened up the world of sculpture for them. The Eastern people, while sometimes depicting their deities in human forms, didn't hesitate to transform them into monsters if adding another leg, arm, a dog's head, or a serpent's tail would better express the idea they represented. They twisted their images into allegorical distortions and strayed from beauty as they indulged their false ideas of the sublime. Moreover, a painter or sculptor needs a clear idea that can be cherished and contemplated frequently to draw out all the inspiration his talent can provide; but how could an Eastern artist form a clear image that represented the sun entering Aries or the creative principle of nature? Such creations inevitably became stiff or extravagant, deformed or grotesque. But for the Greeks, a god was something akin to the most majestic or beautiful of their own kind. They studied the human form for their ideas of the divine. Focused on the natural, they rose to the ideal. 61
If such the effect of the Grecian religion upon sculpture, similar and equal its influence upon poetry. The earliest verses of the Greeks appear to have been of a religious, though I see no sufficient reason for asserting that they were therefore of a typical and mystic, character. However that be, the narrative succeeding to the sacred poetry materialized all it touched. The shadows of Olympus received the breath of Homer, and the gods grew at once life-like and palpable to men. The traditions which connected the deities with humanity—the genius which divested them of allegory—gave at once to the epic and the tragic poet the supernatural world. The inhabitants of heaven itself became individualized—bore each a separate character—could be rendered distinct, dramatic, as the creatures of daily life. Thus—an advantage which no moderns ever have possessed—with all the ineffable grandeur of deities was combined all the familiar interest of mortals; and the poet, by preserving the characteristics allotted to each god, might make us feel the associations and sympathies of earth, even when he bore us aloft to the unknown Olympus, or plunged below amid the shades of Orcus.
If that's the effect of Grecian religion on sculpture, it had a similar and equal influence on poetry. The earliest verses of the Greeks seem to have been religious, but I see no good reason to say they were therefore typical or mystical. Regardless, the narratives that followed the sacred poetry brought everything to life. The shadows of Olympus were animated by Homer, making the gods feel real and tangible to people. The traditions that linked deities with humanity—the creativity that stripped them of allegory—gave both epic and tragic poets access to the supernatural world. The inhabitants of heaven became individual characters, each with their own traits, able to be depicted distinctly and dramatically like the people of everyday life. Thus—an advantage that no moderns have ever had—combined all the incredible majesty of the gods with the familiar interests of mortals; and the poet, by keeping the unique characteristics of each god, could make us feel the connections and emotions of earth, even as he elevated us to the mysterious Olympus or took us deep into the shadows of the underworld.
The numerous fables mixed with the Grecian creed, sufficiently venerable, as we have seen, not to be disdained, but not so sacred as to be forbidden, were another advantage to the poet. For the traditions of a nation are its poetry! And if we moderns, in the German forest, or the Scottish highlands, or the green English fields, yet find inspiration in the notions of fiend, and sprite, and fairy, not acknowledged by our religion, not appended as an apocryphal adjunct to our belief, how much more were those fables adapted to poetry, which borrowed not indeed an absolute faith, but a certain shadow, a certain reverence and mystery, from religion! Hence we find that the greatest works of imagination which the Greeks have left us, whether of Homer, of Aeschylus, or of Sophocles, are deeply indebted to their mythological legends. The Grecian poetry, like the Grecian religion, was at once half human, half divine—majestic, vast, august —household, homely, and familiar. If we might borrow an illustration from the philosophy of Democritus, its earthlier dreams and divinations were indeed the impressions of mighty and spectral images inhabiting the air. 62
The many fables intertwined with Greek beliefs, respected enough not to be disregarded, but not so sacred as to be off-limits, were another benefit to the poet. The stories of a nation are its poetry! And if we modern folks, in the German woods, the Scottish highlands, or the lush English fields, still find inspiration in concepts of spirits, and fairies, not recognized by our faith, nor added as an unofficial part of our beliefs, how much more were those fables suited for poetry, which drew not an absolute faith, but a certain shadow, a certain reverence and mystery, from religion! Thus, we see that the greatest works of imagination the Greeks left us, whether by Homer, Aeschylus, or Sophocles, rely heavily on their mythological stories. Greek poetry, like Greek religion, was both human and divine—majestic, vast, august—domestic, homely, and familiar. If we borrow an illustration from Democritus’s philosophy, its earthly dreams and visions were indeed impressions of powerful and ghostly images living in the air. 62
XXIV. Of the religion of Greece, of its rites and ceremonies, and of its influence upon the moral and intellectual faculties—this— already, I fear, somewhat too prolixly told—is all that at present I deem it necessary to say. 63
XXIV. Regarding the religion of Greece, its rituals and ceremonies, and its impact on moral and intellectual abilities—this— I’m afraid I’ve already explained it a bit too extensively. This is all I think is necessary to mention for now. 63
We have now to consider the origin of slavery in Greece, an inquiry almost equally important to our accurate knowledge of her polity and manners.
We now need to look at the origins of slavery in Greece, which is almost as important for accurately understanding its political system and culture.
XXV. Wherever we look—to whatsoever period of history—conquest, or the settlement of more enlightened colonizers amid a barbarous tribe, seems the origin of slavery—modified according to the spirit of the times, the humanity of the victor, or the policy of the lawgiver. The aboriginals of Greece were probably its earliest slaves 64,—yet the aboriginals might be also its earliest lords. Suppose a certain tribe to overrun a certain country—conquer and possess it: new settlers are almost sure to be less numerous than the inhabitants they subdue; in proportion as they are the less powerful in number are they likely to be the more severe in authority: they will take away the arms of the vanquished—suppress the right of meetings—make stern and terrible examples against insurgents—and, in a word, quell by the moral constraint of law those whom it would be difficult to control merely by, physical force;—the rigidity of the law being in ratio to the deficiency of the force. In times semi-civilized, and even comparatively enlightened, conquerors have little respect for the conquered—an immense and insurmountable distinction is at once made between the natives and their lords. All ancient nations seem to have considered that the right of conquest gave a right to the lands of the conquered country. William dividing England among his Normans is but an imitator of every successful invader of ancient times. The new-comers having gained the land of a subdued people, that people, in order to subsist, must become the serfs of the land 65. The more formidable warriors are mostly slain, or exiled, or conciliated by some remains of authority and possessions; the multitude remain the labourers of the soil, and slight alterations of law will imperceptibly convert the labourer into the slave. The earliest slaves appear chiefly to have been the agricultural population. If the possession of the government were acquited by colonizers 66,— not so much by the force of arms as by the influence of superior arts —the colonizers would in some instances still establish servitude for the multitude, though not under so harsh a name. The laws they would frame for an uncultured and wretched population, would distinguish between the colonizers and the aboriginals (excepting perhaps only the native chiefs, accustomed arbitrarily to command, though not systematically to enslave the rest). The laws for the aboriginal population would still be an improvement on their previous savage and irregulated state—and generations might pass before they would attain a character of severity, or before they made the final and ineffaceable distinction between the freeman and the slave. The perturbed restlessness and constant migration of tribes in Greece, recorded both by tradition and by history, would consequently tend at a very remote period to the institution and diffusion of slavery and the Pelasgi of one tribe would become the masters of the Pelasgi of another. There is, therefore, no necessity to look out of Greece for the establishment of servitude in that country by conquest and war. But the peaceful colonization of foreign settlers would (as we have seen) lead to it by slower and more gentle degrees. And the piracies of the Phoenicians, which embraced the human species as an article of their market, would be an example, more prevalent and constant than their own, to the piracies of the early Greeks. The custom of servitude, thus commenced, is soon fed by new sources. Prisoners of war are enslaved, or, at the will of the victor, exchanged as an article of commerce. Before the interchange of money, we have numerous instances of the barter of prisoners for food and arms. And as money became the medium of trade, so slaves became a regular article of sale and purchase. Hence the origin of the slave-market. Luxury increasing slaves were purchased not merely for the purposes of labour, but of pleasure. The accomplished musician of the beautiful virgin was an article of taste or a victim of passion. Thus, what it was the tendency of barbarism to originate, it became the tendency of civilization to increase.
XXV. No matter where we look in history—whether it's through conquest or the arrival of more advanced colonizers among a primitive tribe—it seems that slavery began in these situations, adapted to the values of the time, the compassion of the conquerors, or the rules set by lawmakers. The indigenous people of Greece were likely its earliest slaves 64,—but they may have also been its first rulers. Imagine a tribe overwhelming and claiming a territory: new settlers will probably be fewer in number than the people they conquer; the smaller their numbers, the harsher their rule is likely to be. They will disarm the defeated, restrict gatherings, impose strict punishments on rebels, and essentially rely on the moral power of law to control those who would be difficult to manage with sheer force; with the strictness of the law increasing as the available force decreases. In semi-civilized times and even relatively enlightened eras, conquerors show little respect for those they've conquered—a clear and significant distinction arises between the natives and their rulers. All ancient societies seemed to believe that the right of conquest entitled them to the lands of the conquered. William distributing England among his Normans is just copying every successful invader from ancient times. The newcomers, having taken control of a subdued population's land, compel that population, for their survival, to become the serfs of the land 65. Most of the strongest warriors are either killed, exiled, or brought over through remnants of power and possessions; the common people remain laborers of the land, and slight changes in the law can gradually turn the laborer into a slave. The earliest slaves were mainly from the agricultural class. If colonizers gained control of the government 66,—not just through military might but also through the influence of superior skills—they might still enforce servitude for the masses, although not under overtly harsh terminology. The laws they would create for an uneducated and miserable population would differentiate between the colonizers and the natives (perhaps only excluding the local chiefs who were used to commanding but not systematically enslaving the rest). The laws for the indigenous population would still be an improvement over their previous savage and unregulated state—and it could take generations before they became harsh enough to clearly distinguish between the free and the enslaved. The constant upheaval and migration of tribes in Greece, noted in both tradition and history, would likely promote the establishment and spread of slavery, with one group of Pelasgi becoming the masters of another. Therefore, it is unnecessary to look beyond Greece for the origins of servitude through conquest and war. However, the peaceful colonization by outside settlers would lead to it, as we have seen, through more gradual and gentle means. The piracy of the Phoenicians, who treated human beings as commodities in their trade, would serve as a more prominent and continuous example for early Greek piracy. The practice of slavery, once begun, quickly grows from new sources. War prisoners are enslaved or exchanged for goods at the victor's discretion. Before the introduction of money, we have many examples of exchanging prisoners for food and weapons. And as money became the medium of trade, slaves turned into common items of buy and sell. Thus emerged the slave market. As luxury increased, slaves were bought not only for labor but also for pleasure. The skilled musician or beautiful virgin became a matter of taste or an object of desire. So, what barbarism initially brought about, civilization tended to amplify.
Slavery, then, originated first in conquest and war, piracy, or colonization: secondly, in purchase. There were two other and subordinate sources of the institution—the first was crime, the second poverty. If a free citizen committed a heinous offence, he could be degraded into a slave—if he were unable to pay his debts, the creditor could claim his person. Incarceration is merely a remnant and substitute of servitude. The two latter sources failed as nations became more free. But in Attica it was not till the time of Solon, several centuries after the institution of slavery at Athens, that the right of the creditor to the personal services of the debtor was formally abolished.
Slavery originally came from conquest and war, piracy, or colonization; next, it came from buying and selling people. There were also two minor sources of this system: the first was crime, and the second was poverty. If a free citizen committed a serious crime, he could be reduced to slavery; if he couldn’t pay his debts, the creditor could claim him. Incarceration is just a leftover and a replacement for servitude. The latter two sources diminished as nations became more free. However, in Attica, it wasn’t until the time of Solon, several centuries after slavery was established in Athens, that the creditor's right to the personal services of the debtor was officially abolished.
A view of the moral effects of slavery—of the condition of the slaves at Athens—of the advantages of the system and its evils—of the light in which it was regarded by the ancients themselves, other and more fitting opportunities will present to us.
A look at the moral impact of slavery—the situation of the slaves in Athens—its benefits and drawbacks—and how the ancients themselves viewed it—will come up at more appropriate times.
XXVI. The introduction of an hereditary aristocracy into a particular country, as yet uncivilized, is often simultaneous with that of slavery. A tribe of warriors possess and subdue a territory;—they share its soil with the chief in proportion to their connexion with his person, or their military services and repute—each becomes the lord of lands and slaves—each has privileges above the herd of the conquered population. Suppose again, that the dominion is acquired by colonizers rather than conquerors; the colonizers, superior in civilization to the natives,—and regarded by the latter with reverence and awe, would become at once a privileged and noble order. Hence, from either source, an aristocracy permanent and hereditary 67. If founded on conquest, in proportion to the number of the victors, is that aristocracy more or less oligarchical. The extreme paucity of force with which the Dorians conquered their neighbours, was one of the main causes why the governments they established were rigidly oligarchical.
XXVI. The introduction of a hereditary aristocracy into an uncivilized country often happens at the same time as the introduction of slavery. A group of warriors takes control of a territory; they share the land with the chief based on their connection to him or their military service and reputation—each becomes a landowner and master of slaves—each holds privileges above the conquered population. Now, let’s consider if the territory is taken over by colonizers instead of conquerors; the colonizers, who are more advanced in civilization than the natives and are seen with respect and fear by them, would quickly become a privileged and noble class. Thus, from either situation, a permanent and hereditary aristocracy forms 67. If established through conquest, the aristocracy becomes more or less oligarchical depending on the number of victors. The very limited power with which the Dorians conquered their neighbors was a major reason why the governments they created were strictly oligarchical.
XXVII. Proceeding onward, we find that in this aristocracy, are preserved the seeds of liberty and the germe of republicanism. These conquerors, like our feudal barons, being sharers of the profit of the conquest and the glory of the enterprise, by no means allow undivided and absolute authority to their chiefs. Governed by separate laws— distinguished by separate privileges from the subdued community, they are proud of their own freedom, the more it is contrasted with the servitude of the population: they preserve liberty for themselves— they resist the undue assumptions of the king 68—and keep alive that spirit and knowledge of freedom which in after times (as their numbers increase, and they become a people, distinct still from the aboriginal natives, who continue slaves) are transfused from the nobles to the multitude. In proportion as the new race are warlike will their unconscious spirit be that of republicanism; the connexion between martial and republican tendencies was especially recognised by all ancient writers: and the warlike habits of the Hellenes were the cradle of their political institutions. Thus, in conquest (or sometimes in immigration) we may trace the origin of an aristocracy 69, as of slavery, and thus, by a deeper inquiry, we may find also that the slavery of a population and the freedom of a state have their date, though dim and undeveloped, in the same epoch.
XXVII. As we move forward, we see that within this aristocracy lie the seeds of freedom and the beginnings of republicanism. These conquerors, similar to our feudal lords, who share in the benefits of their conquest and the glory of the endeavor, do not grant their leaders complete and absolute power. Governed by distinct laws and enjoying separate privileges from the conquered people, they take pride in their own freedom, especially when contrasted with the servitude of the population. They maintain their liberty and resist the king's overreaches 68, keeping alive the spirit and understanding of freedom, which later (as their numbers grow and they evolve into a distinct people from the indigenous population that remains enslaved) will be passed down from the nobles to the masses. The more the new population is warlike, the more their inherent spirit will embody republicanism; ancient writers particularly noted the connection between military and republican tendencies: the fighting spirit of the Hellenes shaped their political institutions. Thus, through conquest (or at times through immigration), we can trace the roots of an aristocracy 69, just as we can the origins of slavery, and through deeper investigation, we can discover that the subjugation of a population and the freedom of a state have their beginnings, albeit obscure and underdeveloped, in the same period.
XXVIII. I have thought that the supposed Egyptian colonization of Attica under Cecrops afforded the best occasion to treat of the above matters, not so much in reference to Cecrops himself as to the migration of Eastern and Egyptian adventurers. Of such migrations the dates may be uncertain—of such adventurers the names may be unknown. But it seems to me impossible to deny the fact of foreign settlements in Greece, in her remoter and more barbarous era, though we may dispute as to the precise amount of the influence they exercised, and the exact nature of the rites and customs they established.
XXVIII. I believe that the supposed Egyptian colonization of Attica under Cecrops is the best opportunity to discuss these topics, not so much regarding Cecrops himself but rather the movement of Eastern and Egyptian explorers. The dates of these migrations might be uncertain, and the names of these explorers may be unknown. However, it seems impossible to deny that there were foreign settlements in Greece during her earlier and more primitive period, even though we can argue about the exact impact they had and the specific rituals and customs they introduced.
A belief in the early connexion between the Egyptians and Athenians, encouraged by the artful vanity of the one, was welcomed by the lively credulity of the other. Many ages after the reputed sway of the mythical Cecrops, it was fondly imagined that traces of their origin from the solemn Egypt 70 were yet visible among the graceful and versatile people, whose character was as various, yet as individualized, as their religion—who, viewed in whatsoever aspect of their intellectual history, may appear constantly differing, yet remain invariably Athenian. Whether clamouring in the Agora—whether loitering in the Academe—whether sacrificing to Hercules in the temple—whether laughing at Hercules on the stage—whether with Miltiades arming against the Mede—whether with Demosthenes declaiming against the Macedonian—still unmistakeable, unexampled, original, and alone—in their strength or their weakness, their wisdom or their foibles their turbulent action, their cultivated repose.
A belief in the early connection between the Egyptians and Athenians, fueled by the clever pride of one, was embraced by the enthusiastic gullibility of the other. Many ages after the legendary reign of the mythical Cecrops, it was lovingly imagined that traces of their origin from the solemn Egypt 70 were still visible among the graceful and adaptable people, whose character was as diverse yet as individual as their religion—who, seen in any aspect of their intellectual history, may seem constantly different, yet always remain distinctly Athenian. Whether shouting in the Agora—whether hanging out in the Academe—whether sacrificing to Hercules in the temple—whether laughing at Hercules on the stage—whether with Miltiades gearing up against the Mede—whether with Demosthenes speaking out against the Macedonian—still unmistakable, unparalleled, original, and unique—in their strength or their weakness, their wisdom or their quirks, their chaotic action, their refined calm.
CHAPTER II.
The unimportant consequences to be deduced from the admission that Cecrops might be Egyptian.—Attic Kings before Theseus.—The Hellenes.—Their Genealogy.—Ionians and Achaeans Pelasgic.—Contrast between Dorians and Ionians.—Amphictyonic League.
The minor implications of accepting that Cecrops might have been Egyptian.—The Attic Kings before Theseus.—The Hellenes.—Their ancestry.—The Ionians and Achaeans as Pelasgic.—The difference between the Dorians and Ionians.—Amphictyonic League.
I. In allowing that there does not appear sufficient evidence to induce us to reject the tale of the Egyptian origin of Cecrops, it will be already observed, that I attach no great importance to the dispute: and I am not inclined reverently to regard the innumerable theories that have been built on so uncertain a foundation. An Egyptian may have migrated to Attica, but Egyptian influence in Attica was faint and evanescent;—arrived at the first dawn of historical fact, it is with difficulty that we discover the most dubious and shadowy vestiges of its existence. Neither Cecrops nor any other Egyptian in those ages is recorded to have founded a dynasty in Attica—it is clear that none established a different language—and all the boasted analogies of religion fade, on a close examination, into an occasional resemblance between the symbols and attributes of Egyptian and Grecian deities, or a similarity in mystic ceremonies and solemn institutions, which, for the most part, was almost indisputably formed by intercourse between Greece and Egypt in a far later age. Taking the earliest epoch at which history opens, and comparing the whole character of the Athenian people—moral, social, religious, and political—with that of any Egyptian population, it is not possible to select a more startling contrast, or one in which national character seems more indelibly formed by the early and habitual adoption of utterly opposite principles of thought and action. 71
I. While there's not enough evidence to completely dismiss the story of Cecrops' Egyptian origins, it's clear that I'm not overly invested in the debate. I don't feel the need to treat the countless theories built on such shaky ground with much respect. An Egyptian may have come to Attica, but any Egyptian influence there was minimal and short-lived. At the earliest moments of recorded history, we struggle to find even the faintest traces of it. Neither Cecrops nor any other Egyptian is noted to have founded a dynasty in Attica; it's clear that none established a different language. The celebrated similarities in religion often dissolve upon closer inspection into occasional similarities between the symbols and attributes of Egyptian and Greek gods, or parallels in mystical rituals and formal institutions, which were largely developed through interactions between Greece and Egypt much later. When we look at the earliest point where history begins and compare the overall character of the Athenian people—moralistic, social, religious, and political—with that of any Egyptian population, we're left with a striking contrast, highlighting how national character seems to be deeply shaped by the early and consistent adoption of entirely different principles of thought and behavior. 71
I said that Cecrops founded no dynasty: the same traditions that bring him from Egypt give him Cranaus, a native, for his successor. The darkness of fable closes over the interval between the reign of Cranaus and the time of Theseus: if tradition be any guide whatsoever, the history of that period was the history of the human race—it was the gradual passage of men from a barbarous state to the dawn of civilization—and the national mythi only gather in wild and beautiful fictions round every landmark in their slow and encumbered progress.
I mentioned that Cecrops didn't establish a dynasty: the same stories that bring him from Egypt also name Cranaus, a local, as his successor. The details of what happened between Cranaus's reign and the time of Theseus are shrouded in myth. If tradition holds any truth at all, that period reflects the journey of humanity—from a savage existence to the beginnings of civilization—and the national myths only weave in wild and captivating tales around significant milestones in their slow and difficult progress.
It would be very possible, by a little ingenious application of the various fables transmitted to us, to construct a history of imagined conquests and invented revolutions; and thus to win the unmerited praise of throwing a new light upon those remote ages. But when fable is our only basis—no fabric we erect, however imposing in itself, can be rightly entitled to the name of history. And, as in certain ancient chronicles it is recorded merely of undistinguished monarchs that they “lived and died,” so such an assertion is precisely that which it would be the most presumptuous to make respecting the shadowy kings who, whether in Eusebius or the Parian marble, give dates and chronicles to the legendary gloom which preceded the heroic age.
It would be entirely possible, with a bit of clever use of the various fables passed down to us, to create a story of imagined victories and made-up revolutions; this could earn undeserved praise for shedding new light on those ancient times. But when fable is our only foundation, no structure we build, no matter how grand it may be, can rightly be called history. Just like in some ancient records where it simply states about indistinct rulers that they “lived and died,” making such a claim about the shadowy kings who, whether in Eusebius or the Parian marble, provide dates and accounts to the legendary darkness before the heroic age would be the most arrogant assumption.
The principal event recorded in these early times, for which there seems some foundation, is a war between Erechtheus of Athens and the Eleusinians;—the last assisted or headed by the Thracian Eumolpus. Erechtheus is said to have fallen a victim in this contest. But a treaty afterward concluded with the Eleusinians confirmed the ascendency of Athens, and, possibly, by a religious ceremonial, laid the foundation of the Eleusinian mysteries. In this contest is introduced a very doubtful personage, under the appellation of Ion (to whom I shall afterward recur), who appears on the side of the Athenians, and who may be allowed to have exercised a certain influence over them, whether in religious rites or political institutions, though he neither attained to the throne, nor seems to have exceeded the peaceful authority of an ally. Upon the dim and confused traditions relative to Ion, the wildest and most luxuriant speculations have been grafted—prolix to notice, unnecessary to contradict.
The main event noted from these early times, which has some basis in fact, is a war between Erechtheus of Athens and the Eleusinians, the latter being led or supported by the Thracian Eumolpus. Erechtheus is said to have died in this battle. However, a treaty eventually made with the Eleusinians secured Athens's dominance and possibly, through a religious ceremony, established the foundation of the Eleusinian mysteries. In this conflict, a very questionable character named Ion appears on the side of the Athenians. He may have had some influence over them, whether in religious practices or political matters, though he never became king and does not seem to have gone beyond the peaceful authority of an ally. The vague and unclear traditions about Ion have led to a plethora of wild and intricate speculations—too extensive to address in detail and unnecessary to refute.
II. During this period there occurred—not rapidly, but slowly—the most important revolution of early Greece, viz., the spread of that tribe termed the Hellenes, who gradually established their predominance throughout the land, impressed indelible traces on the national character, and finally converted their own into the national name.
II. During this time, a significant revolution in early Greece happened—not quickly, but gradually—the spread of the tribe known as the Hellenes, who slowly became the dominant group across the land, left lasting marks on the national character, and ultimately turned their own name into the national identity.
I have already expressed my belief that the Pelasgi were not a barbarous race, speaking a barbarous tongue, but that they were akin to the Hellenes, who spoke the Grecian language, and are considered the proper Grecian family. Even the dubious record of genealogy (which, if fabulous in itself, often under the names of individuals typifies the affinity of tribes) makes the Hellenes kindred to the Pelasgi. Deucalion, the founder of the Hellenes, was of Pelasgic origin—son of Prometheus, and nephew of Atlas, king of the Pelasgic Arcadia.
I've already shared my belief that the Pelasgi weren't a savage people who spoke a primitive language; they were actually related to the Hellenes, who spoke Greek and are considered the true Greek lineage. Even the questionable records of genealogy (which might be fanciful but often represent the connections between tribes through individual names) show that the Hellenes are related to the Pelasgi. Deucalion, the founder of the Hellenes, was of Pelasgic descent—son of Prometheus and nephew of Atlas, king of the Pelasgic Arcadia.
However this may be, we find the Hellenes driven from Phocis, their earliest recorded seat, by a flood in the time of Deucalion. Migrating into Thessaly, they expelled the Pelasgi; and afterward spreading themselves through Greece, they attained a general ascendency over the earlier habitants, enslaving, doubtless, the bulk of the population among which they formed a settlement, but ejecting numbers of the more resolute or the more noble families, and causing those celebrated migrations by which the Pelasgi carried their name and arts into Italy, as well as into Crete and various other isles. On the continent of Greece, when the revolution became complete, the Pelasgi appear to have retained only Arcadia, the greater part of Thessaly 72, the land of Dodona, and Attica.
However this may be, we find the Greeks driven from Phocis, their earliest known home, by a flood during Deucalion's time. They migrated into Thessaly, where they expelled the Pelasgians; and afterward, spreading throughout Greece, they gained dominance over the earlier inhabitants, likely enslaving most of the population in the areas where they settled, while driving out many of the more determined or noble families. This led to those famous migrations that took the Pelasgians to Italy, as well as to Crete and various other islands. On the mainland of Greece, when the transition was complete, the Pelasgians seem to have only retained Arcadia, most of Thessaly 72, the land of Dodona, and Attica.
There is no reason to suppose the Hellenes more enlightened and civilized than the Pelasgi; but they seem, if only by the record of their conquests, to have been a more stern, warlike, and adventurous branch of the Grecian family. I conclude them, in fact, to have been that part of the Pelasgic race who the longest retained the fierce and vigorous character of a mountain tribe, and who found the nations they invaded in that imperfect period of civilization which is so favourable to the designs of a conqueror—when the first warlike nature of a predatory tribe is indeed abandoned—but before the discipline, order, and providence of a social community are acquired. Like the Saxons into Britain, the Hellenes were invited 73 by the different Pelasgic chiefs as auxiliaries, and remained as conquerors. But in other respects they rather resembled the more knightly and energetic race by whom in Britain the Saxon dynasty was overturned:— the Hellenes were the Normans of antiquity. It is impossible to decide the exact date when the Hellenes obtained the general ascendency or when the Greeks received from that Thessalian tribe their common appellation. The Greeks were not termed Hellenes in the time in which the Iliad was composed—they were so termed in the time of Hesiod. But even in the Iliad, the word Panhellenes, applied to the Greeks, testifies the progress of the revolution 74, and in the Odyssey, the Hellenic name is no longer limited to the dominion of Achilles.
There’s no reason to think the Hellenes were more enlightened and civilized than the Pelasgi; however, they appear, at least from their record of conquests, to have been a tougher, more warlike, and adventurous branch of the Greek family. I believe they were actually the part of the Pelasgic race that held onto the fierce and vigorous nature of a mountain tribe for the longest time and encountered nations they invaded during that early period of civilization which is so advantageous for a conqueror—when the initial aggressive nature of a raiding tribe is indeed left behind—but before the organization, order, and foresight of a social community are developed. Similar to how the Saxons entered Britain, the Hellenes were invited 73 by various Pelasgic leaders as allies and ended up as conquerors. In other respects, they bore a resemblance to the more chivalrous and dynamic group that eventually overthrew the Saxon dynasty in Britain: the Hellenes were the Normans of ancient times. It is impossible to pinpoint the exact time when the Hellenes gained general dominance or when the Greeks received their common name from that Thessalian tribe. The Greeks weren’t called Hellenes during the time when the Iliad was written—they were referred to as such in the time of Hesiod. But even in the Iliad, the term Panhellenes, used for the Greeks, indicates the progress of the revolution 74, and in the Odyssey, the Hellenic name is no longer restricted to Achilles' domain.
III. The Hellenic nation became popularly subdivided into four principal families, viz., the Dorians, the Aeolians, the Ionians, and Achaeans, of which I consider the former two alone genuinely Hellenic. The fable which makes Dorus, Aeolus, and Xuthus, the sons of Helen, declares that while Dorus was sent forth to conquer other lands, Aeolus succeeded to the domain of Phthiotis, and records no conquests of his own; but attributes to his sons the origin of most of the principal families of Greece. If rightly construed, this account would denote that the Aeolians remained for a generation at least subsequent to the first migration of the Dorians, in their Thessalian territories; and thence splitting into various hordes, descended as warriors and invaders upon the different states of Greece. They appear to have attached themselves to maritime situations, and the wealth of their early settlements is the theme of many a legend. The opulence of Orchomenus is compared by Homer to that of Egyptian Thebes. And in the time of the Trojan war, Corinth was already termed “the wealthy.” By degrees the Aeolians became in a great measure blended and intermingled with the Dorians. Yet so intimately connected are the Hellenes and Pelasgi, that even these, the lineal descendants of Helen through the eldest branch, are no less confounded with the Pelasgic than the Dorian race. Strabo and Pausanias alike affirm the Aeolians to be Pelasgic, and in the Aeolic dialect we approach to the Pelasgic tongue.
III. The Hellenic nation was commonly divided into four main groups: the Dorians, the Aeolians, the Ionians, and the Achaeans, of which I believe only the first two are truly Hellenic. The myth that describes Dorus, Aeolus, and Xuthus as the sons of Helen states that while Dorus was sent out to conquer other lands, Aeolus took over the region of Phthiotis, with no conquests of his own; instead, he is credited with the origins of many of the main families in Greece. If interpreted correctly, this story suggests that the Aeolians stayed for at least one generation after the Dorians first migrated, in their Thessalian lands; and from there, they split into various groups, coming down as warriors and invaders into different parts of Greece. They seemed to favor coastal areas, and the wealth of their early settlements is the subject of many legends. Homer's poetry compares the wealth of Orchomenus to that of Egyptian Thebes. By the time of the Trojan War, Corinth was already known as “the wealthy.” Gradually, the Aeolians became largely blended and mixed with the Dorians. However, the Hellenes and Pelasgi are so closely connected that even they, the direct descendants of Helen through the eldest line, are often confused with both the Pelasgic and Dorian peoples. Both Strabo and Pausanias agree that the Aeolians are Pelasgic, and in the Aeolic dialect, we get closer to the Pelasgic language.
The Dorians, first appearing in Phthiotis, are found two generations afterward in the mountainous district of Histiaeotis, comprising within their territory, according to Herodotus, the immemorial Vale of Tempe. Neighboured by warlike hordes, more especially the heroic Lapithae, with whom their earliest legends record fierce and continued war, this mountain tribe took from nature and from circumstance their hardy and martial character. Unable to establish secure settlements in the fertile Thessalian plains, and ranging to the defiles through which the romantic Peneus winds into the sea, several of the tribe migrated early into Crete, where, though forming only a part of the population of the isle, they are supposed by some to have established the Doric constitution and customs, which in their later settlements served them for a model. Other migrations marked their progress to the foot of Mount Pindus; thence to Dryopis, afterward called Doris; and from Dryopis to the Peloponnesus; which celebrated migration, under the name of the “Return of the Heraclidae,” I shall hereafter more especially describe. I have said that genealogy attributes the origin of the Dorians and that of the Aeolians to Dorus and Aeolus, sons of Helen. This connects them with the Hellenes and with each other. The adventures of Xuthus, the third son of Helen, are not recorded by the legends of Thessaly, and he seems merely a fictitious creation, invented to bring into affinity with the Hellenes the families, properly Pelasgic, of the Achaeans and Ionians. It is by writers comparatively recent that we are told that Xuthus was driven from Thessaly by his brothers—that he took refuge in Attica, and on the plains of Marathon built four towns—Oenoe, Marathon, Probalinthus, and Tricorythus 75, and that he wedded Creusa, daughter of Erechtheus, king of Attica, and that by her he had two sons, Achaeus and Ion. By some we are told that Achaeus, entering the eastern side of Peloponnesus, founded a dominion in Laconia and Argolis; by others, on the contrary, that he conducted a band, partly Athenian, into Thessaly, and recovered the domains of which his father had been despoiled 76. Both these accounts of Achaeus, as the representative of the Achaeans, are correct in this, that the Achaeans, had two settlements from remote periods—the one in the south of Thessaly—the other in the Peloponnesus.
The Dorians, first seen in Phthiotis, are later found two generations later in the mountainous region of Histiaeotis, which includes, according to Herodotus, the ancient Vale of Tempe. Surrounded by fierce groups, especially the heroic Lapithae, with whom their earliest stories record intense and ongoing conflict, this mountain tribe drew their tough and warrior-like nature from both their environment and circumstances. Unable to establish stable settlements in the fertile plains of Thessaly, and moving through the narrow paths where the scenic Peneus flows into the sea, several members of the tribe migrated early to Crete. There, while they made up only part of the island's population, some believe they set up the Doric constitution and customs, which later served as a model for their other settlements. Other migrations took them to the base of Mount Pindus; then to Dryopis, later known as Doris; and from Dryopis to the Peloponnesus; this famous migration, called the “Return of the Heraclidae,” will be discussed in more detail later. I mentioned that genealogy links the Dorians and the Aeolians to Dorus and Aeolus, sons of Helen. This ties them to the Hellenes and to each other. The tales of Xuthus, the third son of Helen, are not found in the legends of Thessaly, and he seems to be a fictional character created to connect the families that are mainly Pelasgic, specifically the Achaeans and Ionians, with the Hellenes. More recent writers tell us that Xuthus was exiled from Thessaly by his brothers—that he sought refuge in Attica and built four towns on the plains of Marathon—Oenoe, Marathon, Probalinthus, and Tricorythus 75, and that he married Creusa, daughter of Erechtheus, king of Attica, and they had two sons, Achaeus and Ion. Some say that Achaeus, entering the eastern side of Peloponnesus, established a rule in Laconia and Argolis; others claim, instead, that he led a group, partly Athenian, into Thessaly and reclaimed the lands his father had lost 76. Both versions of Achaeus, as representing the Achaeans, are correct in that the Achaeans had two settlements from ancient times—one in southern Thessaly and the other in the Peloponnesus.
The Achaeans were long the most eminent of the Grecian tribes. Possessed of nearly the whole of the Peloponnesus, except, by a singular chance, that part which afterward bore their name, they boasted the warlike fame of the opulent Menelaus and the haughty Agamemnon, the king of men. The dominant tribe of the heroic age, the Achaeans form the kindred link between the several epochs of the Pelasgic and Hellenic sway—their character indeed Hellenic, but their descent apparently Pelasgic. Dionysius of Halicarnassus derives them from Pelasgus himself, and they existed as Achaeans before the Hellenic Xuthus was even born. The legend which makes Achaeus the brother of Ion, tends likewise to prove, that if the Ionians were originally Pelasgic, so also were the Achaeans. Let us then come to Ion.
The Achaeans were for a long time the most prominent of the Greek tribes. They controlled almost all of the Peloponnesus, except for the area that later took their name, which was a surprising twist of fate. They took pride in the warlike reputation of the wealthy Menelaus and the proud Agamemnon, the king of men. As the leading tribe of the heroic age, the Achaeans connect the different periods of the Pelasgic and Hellenic eras—their traits are indeed Hellenic, but their origins seem to be Pelasgic. Dionysius of Halicarnassus traces their roots back to Pelasgus himself, and they were known as Achaeans even before the Hellenic Xuthus was born. The legend that makes Achaeus the brother of Ion also suggests that if the Ionians were originally Pelasgic, then so were the Achaeans. Now, let's move on to Ion.
Although Ion is said to have given the name of Ionians to the Atticans, yet long before his time the Iaones were among the ancient inhabitants of the country; and Herodotus (the best authority on the subject) declares that the Ionians were Pelasgic and indigenous. There is not sufficient reason to suppose, therefore, that they were Hellenic conquerors or Hellenic settlers. They appear, on the contrary, to have been one of the aboriginal tribes of Attica:—a part of them proceeded into the Peloponnesus (typified under the migration thither of Xuthus), and these again returning (as typified by the arrival of Ion at Athens), in conjunction with such of their fraternity as had remained in their native settlement, became the most powerful and renowned of the several divisions of the Attic population. Their intercourse with the Peloponnesians would lead the Ionians to establish some of the political institutions and religious rites they had become acquainted with in their migration; and thus may we most probably account for the introduction of the worship of Apollo into Attica, and for that peaceful political influence which the mythical Ion is said to have exercised over his countrymen.
Although Ion is said to have named the Ionians after the Atticans, long before his time, the Iaones were among the ancient inhabitants of the area. Herodotus, the best source on this topic, claims that the Ionians were Pelasgic and native. Therefore, there's not enough reason to believe that they were Hellenic conquerors or settlers. Instead, they seem to have been one of the original tribes of Attica: some of them moved into the Peloponnesus (represented by Xuthus's migration) and later returned (as illustrated by Ion's arrival in Athens). Together with those who had stayed in their homeland, they became the most powerful and well-known group in the Attic population. Their interactions with the Peloponnesians likely led the Ionians to adopt some of the political systems and religious practices they encountered during their migration. This is probably how the worship of Apollo was introduced to Attica, along with the peaceful political influence that the mythical Ion is said to have had over his fellow countrymen.
At all events, we cannot trace, any distinct and satisfactory connexion between this, the most intellectual and brilliant tribe of the Grecian family, and that roving and fortunate Thessalian horde to which the Hellenes gave the general name, and of which the Dorians were the fittest representative and the most powerful section. Nor, despite the bold assumptions of Mueller, is there any evidence of a Hellenic conquest in Attica. 77
At any rate, we can't find a clear and satisfactory connection between this, the most intellectual and brilliant group of the Greek family, and that wandering and successful Thessalian group that the Hellenes labeled in general terms, with the Dorians being the most fitting representative and the strongest faction. Also, despite Mueller's bold claims, there is no proof of a Hellenic conquest in Attica. 77
And that land which, according to tradition and to history, was the early refuge of exiles, derived from the admission and intercourse of strangers and immigrants those social and political improvements which in other states have been wrought by conquest.
And that land, which according to tradition and history was the initial refuge for exiles, gained its social and political advancements from the arrival and interaction of outsiders and immigrants, improvements that in other nations came about through conquest.
IV. After the Dorians obtained possession of the Peloponnesus, the whole face of Greece was gradually changed. The return of the Heraclidae was the true consummation of the Hellenic revolution. The tribes hitherto migratory became fixed in the settlements they acquired. The Dorians rose to the rank of the most powerful race of Greece: and the Ionians, their sole rivals, possessed only on the continent the narrow soil of Attica, though their colonies covered the fertile coast of Asia Minor. Greece thus reduced to two main tribes, the Doric and the Ionian, historians have justly and generally concurred in noticing between them the strongest and most marked distinctions,—the Dorians grave, inflexible, austere,—the Ionians lively, versatile, prone to change. The very dialect of the one was more harsh and masculine than that of the other; and the music, the dances of the Dorians, bore the impress of their severe simplicity. The sentiment of veneration which pervaded their national character taught the Dorians not only, on the one hand, the firmest allegiance to the rites of religion—and a patriarchal respect for age—but, on the other hand, a blind and superstitious attachment to institutions merely on account of their antiquity—and an almost servile regard for birth, producing rather the feelings of clanship than the sympathy of citizens. We shall see hereafter, that while Athens established republics, Sparta planted oligarchies. The Dorians were proud of independence, but it was the independence of nobles rather than of a people. Their severity preserved them long from innovation—no less by what was vicious in its excess than by what was wise in its principle. With many great and heroic qualities, they were yet harsh to enemies—cruel to dependants—selfish to allies. Their whole policy was to preserve themselves as they were; if they knew not the rash excesses, neither were they impelled by the generous emotions, which belong to men whose constant aspirations are to be better and to be greater;—they did not desire to be better or to be greater; their only wish was not to be different. They sought in the future nothing but the continuance of the past; and to that past they bound themselves with customs and laws of iron. The respect in which they held their women, as well as their disdain of pleasure, preserved them in some measure from the licentiousness common to states in which women are despised; but the respect had little of the delicacy and sentiment of individual attachment—attachment was chiefly for their own sex 78. The Ionians, on the contrary, were susceptible, flexile, and more characterized by the generosity of modern knighthood than the sternness of ancient heroism. Them, not the past, but the future, charmed. Ever eager to advance, they were impatient even of the good, from desire of the better. Once urged to democracy— democracy fixed their character, as oligarchy fixed the Spartan. For, to change is the ambition of a democracy—to conserve of an oligarchy. The taste, love, and intuition of the beautiful stamped the Greeks above all nations, and the Ionians above all the Greeks. It was not only that the Ionians were more inventive than their neighbours, but that whatever was beautiful in invention they at once seized and appropriated. Restless, inquisitive, ardent, they attempted all things, and perfected art—searched into all things, and consummated philosophy.
IV. After the Dorians took control of the Peloponnesus, the entire landscape of Greece changed gradually. The return of the Heraclidae marked the true completion of the Hellenic revolution. The tribes that had been nomadic became settled in the territories they claimed. The Dorians rose to become the most powerful group in Greece, while the Ionians, their only rivals, were confined to the limited land of Attica on the mainland, although their colonies stretched across the fertile coast of Asia Minor. Greece, thus simplified into two main groups—the Dorians and the Ionians—has been recognized by historians for their strong and distinct differences: the Dorians were serious, rigid, and austere, while the Ionians were lively, adaptable, and inclined to change. The dialect of the Dorians was harsher and more masculine compared to that of the Ionians, and the Dorian music and dances reflected their disciplined simplicity. The Dorian national character was permeated by a sense of reverence that taught them, on one hand, steadfast loyalty to religious practices and a patriarchal respect for elders, but on the other hand, a blind and superstitious loyalty to institutions solely due to their age and an almost servile respect for lineage, which fostered a sense of clanship rather than civic unity. We will see later that while Athens established republics, Sparta set up oligarchies. The Dorians took pride in their independence, though it was more the independence of nobles than of the general populace. Their strictness kept them resistant to change—not only because of the destructive extremes, but also because of the wise principles they upheld. Despite their many great and heroic traits, they were harsh to enemies, cruel to dependents, and selfish towards allies. Their entire approach was to maintain their existing way of life; while they might not indulge in reckless extremes, they also lacked the noble aspirations that drive people to improve and elevate themselves; they had no desire to be better or greater; their only goal was to remain unchanged. They sought nothing in the future except the continuation of the past, to which they bound themselves with rigid customs and laws. Their respect for women, along with their disdain for pleasure, somewhat shielded them from the moral decay often seen in societies that devalue women; however, their respect lacked the nuance and emotional depth of personal attachment—it was primarily a bond among their own gender. In contrast, the Ionians were sensitive, adaptable, and more aligned with the generosity of modern chivalry than with the harshness of ancient heroism. They were captivated not by the past but by the future. Always eager to progress, they grew impatient even with what was good, driven by the desire for something better. Once they were encouraged towards democracy, democracy shaped their identity just as oligarchy shaped that of the Spartans. For a democracy, change is an ambition, while for an oligarchy, conservation is key. The taste, love, and intuition for beauty set the Greeks apart from all other nations, with the Ionians at the forefront among the Greeks. It wasn't just that the Ionians were more inventive than their neighbors; they quickly seized and claimed whatever was beautifully invented. Restless, curious, and passionate, they explored everything and refined art—they probed deeply into all matters and perfected philosophy.
The Ionic character existed everywhere among Ionians, but the Doric was not equally preserved among the Dorians. The reason is evident. The essence of the Ionian character consisted in the spirit of change —that of the Dorian in resistance to innovation. When any Doric state abandoned its hereditary customs and institutions, it soon lost the Doric character—became lax, effeminate, luxurious—a corruption of the character of the Ionians; but no change could assimilate the Ionian to the Doric; for they belonged to different eras of civilization—the Doric to the elder, the Ionian to the more advanced. The two races of Scotland have become more alike than heretofore; but it is by making the highlander resemble the lowlander—and not by converting the lowland citizen into the mountain Gael. The habits of commerce, the substitution of democratic for oligarchic institutions, were sufficient to alter the whole character of the Dorians. The voluptuous Corinth—the trading Aegina (Doric states)—infinitely more resembled Athens than Sparta.
The Ionic character was present everywhere among Ionians, but the Doric was not as consistently maintained among the Dorians. The reason is clear. The core of the Ionian character was rooted in a spirit of change, while the Dorian character was defined by a resistance to innovation. When any Doric state abandoned its traditional customs and institutions, it quickly lost its Doric identity—becoming lax, effeminate, and luxurious—a degradation of the Ionian character; however, no change could turn an Ionian into a Dorian, as they belonged to different stages of civilization—the Doric to the older stage and the Ionian to the more advanced one. The two ethnic groups in Scotland have become more similar than in the past; but this happened by making the Highlander resemble the Lowlander, not by changing the Lowland citizen into a mountain Gael. The patterns of trade and the shift from oligarchic to democratic institutions were enough to fundamentally change the entire Dorian character. The indulgent Corinth and the trading Aegina (Doric states) closely resembled Athens much more than Sparta.
It is, then, to Sparta, that in the historical times we must look chiefly for the representative of the Doric tribe, in its proper and elementary features; and there, pure, vigorous, and concentrated, the Doric character presents a perpetual contrast to the Athenian. This contrast continued so long as either nation retained a character to itself;—and (no matter what the pretences of hostility) was the real and inevitable cause of that enmity between Athens and Sparta, the results of which fixed the destiny of Greece.
It is, therefore, to Sparta that we must primarily look in historical times for the true representation of the Doric tribe in its basic and original traits; and there, vibrant, strong, and focused, the Doric character stands in constant contrast to the Athenian. This contrast lasted as long as either nation maintained its distinct identity;—and regardless of any claims of hostility, this was the actual and unavoidable reason for the rivalry between Athens and Sparta, the outcomes of which shaped the fate of Greece.
Yet were the contests of that enmity less the contests between opposing tribes than between those opposing principles which every nation may be said to nurse within itself; viz., the principle to change, and the principle to preserve; the principle to popularize, and the principle to limit the governing power; here the genius of an oligarchy, there of a people; here adherence to the past, there desire of the future. Each principle produced its excesses, and furnishes a salutary warning. The feuds of Sparta and Athens may be regarded as historical allegories, clothing the moral struggles, which, with all their perils and all their fluctuations, will last to the end of time.
Yet the conflicts of that rivalry were less about battles between opposing tribes and more about the conflicting principles that every nation holds within itself: the principle of change versus the principle of preservation; the principle of making power accessible to the masses versus the principle of limiting that governing power; here the brilliance of an oligarchy, there the voice of the people; here a commitment to the past, there a yearning for the future. Each principle led to its own excesses and serves as an important warning. The disputes between Sparta and Athens can be seen as historical allegories, representing the moral struggles that, despite all their dangers and shifts, will endure until the end of time.
V. This period is also celebrated for the supposed foundation of that assembly of the Grecian states, called the Amphictyonic Confederacy. Genealogy attributes its origin to a son of Deucalion, called Amphictyon. 79
V. This time is also recognized for the alleged founding of the alliance of Greek states known as the Amphictyonic Confederacy. Its origin is traced back to a son of Deucalion named Amphictyon. 79
This fable would intimate a Hellenic origin, since Deucalion is the fabled founder of the Hellenes; but out of twelve tribes which composed the confederacy, only three were Hellenic, and the rest Pelasgic. But with the increasing influence of the Dorian oracle of Delphi, with which it was connected, it became gradually considered a Hellenic institution. It is not possible to decipher the first intention of this league. The meeting was held at two places, near Anthela, in the pass of Thermopylae, and Delphi; at the latter place in the spring, at the former in the autumn. If tradition imputed to Amphictyon the origin of the council, it ascribed to Acrisius, king of Argos 80, the formation of its proper power and laws. He is said to have founded one of the assemblies, either that in Delphi or Thermopylae (accounts vary), and to have combined the two, increased the number of the members, and extended the privileges of the body. We can only interpret this legend by the probable supposition, that the date of holding the same assembly at two different places, at different seasons of the year, marks the epoch of some important conjunction of various tribes, and, it may be, of deities hitherto distinct. It might be an attempt to associate the Hellenes with the Pelasgi, in the early and unsettled power of the former race: and this supposition is rendered the more plausible by the evident union of the worship of the Dorian Apollo at Delphi with that of the Pelasgian Ceres at Thermopylae 81. The constitution of the league was this— each city belonging to an Amphictyonic state sent usually two deputies—the one called Pylagoras, the other Hieromnemon. The functions of the two deputies seem to have differed, and those of the latter to have related more particularly to whatsoever appertained to religion. On extraordinary occasions more than one pylagoras was deputed—Athens at one time sent no less than three. But the number of deputies sent did not alter the number of votes in the council. Each city had two votes and no more, no matter how many delegates it employed.
This fable suggests a Greek origin since Deucalion is considered the mythical founder of the Greeks. However, out of the twelve tribes that made up the confederation, only three were Greek, while the others were Pelasgic. With the growing influence of the Dorian oracle at Delphi, which was connected to it, it gradually came to be seen as a Greek institution. The original purpose of this league is unclear. Meetings took place in two locations, near Anthela in the pass of Thermopylae, and at Delphi; the former was in the autumn and the latter in the spring. While tradition attributes the founding of the council to Amphictyon, it credits Acrisius, king of Argos 80, with establishing its actual power and laws. He is said to have created one of the assemblies, either at Delphi or Thermopylae (accounts vary), merged the two, increased the membership, and expanded the privileges of the council. We can interpret this legend as an indication that holding the same assembly in two different locations at different times of the year signifies an important alliance among various tribes, and possibly among deities that were previously distinct. It may have been an effort to unite the Greeks with the Pelasgians during the earlier and unstable supremacy of the former group: this idea is supported by the clear connection between the worship of the Dorian Apollo at Delphi and the Pelasgian Ceres at Thermopylae 81. The structure of the league was that each city in an Amphictyonic state typically sent two representatives—one called Pylagoras and the other Hieromnemon. The roles of the two representatives seemed to differ, with the latter focusing more specifically on matters related to religion. On special occasions, more than one Pylagoras could be sent—Athens once sent as many as three. However, the number of representatives sent did not change the number of votes in the council. Each city had two votes and no more, regardless of how many delegates it sent.
All the deputies assembled,—solemn sacrifices were offered at Delphi to Apollo, Diana, Latona, and Minerva; at Thermopylae to Ceres. An oath was then administered, the form of which is preserved to us by Aeschines.
All the deputies gathered—solemn sacrifices were made at Delphi to Apollo, Diana, Latona, and Minerva; at Thermopylae to Ceres. An oath was then taken, the wording of which is preserved for us by Aeschines.
“I swear,” runs the oath, “never to subvert any Amphictyonic city— never to stop the courses of its waters in peace or in war. Those who attempt such outrages I will oppose by arms; and the cities that so offend I will destroy. If any ravages be committed in the territory of the god, if any connive at such a crime, if any conceive a design hostile to the temple, against them will I use my hands, my feet, my whole power and strength, so that the offenders may be brought to punishment.”
“I swear,” the oath states, “never to undermine any Amphictyonic city— never to disrupt its water supply in peace or in war. I will oppose anyone who tries such acts with force; and I will destroy the cities that commit such offenses. If any damage occurs in the god's territory, if anyone turns a blind eye to such a crime, if anyone thinks of a plan against the temple, I will use my hands, my feet, and all my strength to ensure that those offenders are punished.”
Fearful and solemn imprecations on any violation of this engagement followed the oath.
Fearful and serious curses on anyone who breaks this promise followed the oath.
These ceremonies performed, one of the hieromnemons 82 presided over the council; to him were intrusted the collecting the votes, the reporting the resolutions, and the power of summoning the general assembly, which was a convention separate from the council, held only on extraordinary occasions, and composed of residents and strangers, whom the solemnity of the meeting congregated in the neighbourhood.
These ceremonies completed, one of the hieromnemons 82 led the council; he was responsible for collecting the votes, reporting the resolutions, and calling the general assembly, which was a separate gathering from the council, held only on special occasions, and made up of both locals and visitors brought together by the significance of the meeting.
VI. Throughout the historical times we can trace in this league no attempt to combine against the aggression of foreign states, except for the purposes of preserving the sanctity of the temple. The functions of the league were limited to the Amphictyonic tribes and whether or not its early, and undefined, and obscure purpose, was to check wars among the confederate tribes, it could not attain even that object. Its offices were almost wholly confined to religion. The league never interfered when one Amphictyonic state exercised the worst severities against the other, curbing neither the ambition of the Athenian fleet nor the cruelties of the Spartan sword. But, upon all matters relative to religion, especially to the worship of Apollo, the assembly maintained an authority in theory supreme—in practice, equivocal and capricious.
VI. Throughout history, we can see that this league made no attempts to unite against the aggression of foreign states, except for the purpose of protecting the temple's sanctity. The league's functions were limited to the Amphictyonic tribes, and whether its early, vague, and unclear purpose was to prevent wars among the allied tribes, it couldn't achieve even that goal. Its activities were mostly focused on religion. The league never stepped in when one Amphictyonic state imposed harsh penalties on another, neither limiting the ambitions of the Athenian fleet nor the cruelties of the Spartan sword. However, regarding matters of religion, especially the worship of Apollo, the assembly claimed to have supreme authority—in practice, though, it was often uncertain and unpredictable.
As a political institution, the league contained one vice which could not fail to destroy its power. Each city in the twelve Amphictyonic tribes, the most unimportant as the most powerful, had the same number of votes. This rendered it against the interest of the greater states (on whom its consideration necessarily depended) to cement or increase its political influence and thus it was quietly left to its natural tendency to sacred purposes. Like all institutions which bestow upon man the proper prerogative of God, and affect authority over religious and not civil opinions, the Amphictyonic council was not very efficient in good: even in its punishment of sacrilege, it was only dignified and powerful whenever the interests of the Delphic temple were at stake. Its most celebrated interference was with the town of Crissa, against which the Amphictyons decreed war B. C. 505; the territory of Crissa was then dedicated to the god of the temple.
As a political institution, the league had one flaw that ultimately undermined its power. Each city in the twelve Amphictyonic tribes, whether insignificant or dominant, had an equal number of votes. This arrangement made it against the interests of the larger states—on which its relevance depended—to strengthen or expand its political influence, so it effectively drifted toward purely religious purposes. Like all institutions that give humans a divine privilege and influence over religious rather than civil matters, the Amphictyonic council was not very effective in promoting good. Even in punishing sacrilege, it was only authoritative and impactful when the interests of the Delphic temple were involved. Its most renowned intervention was against the town of Crissa, which the Amphictyons declared war on in 505 B.C.; the territory of Crissa was then consecrated to the god of the temple.
VII. But if not efficient in good, the Amphictyonic council was not active in evil. Many causes conspired to prevent the worst excesses to which religious domination is prone,—and this cause in particular. It was not composed of a separate, interested, and permanent class, but of citizens annually chosen from every state, who had a much greater interest in the welfare of their own state than in the increased authority of the Amphictyonic council 83. They were priests but for an occasion—they were citizens by profession. The jealousies of the various states, the constant change in the delegates, prevented that energy and oneness necessary to any settled design of ecclesiastical ambition. Hence, the real influence of the Amphictyonic council was by no means commensurate with its grave renown; and when, in the time of Philip, it became an important political agent, it was only as the corrupt and servile tool of that able monarch. Still it long continued, under the panoply of a great religious name, to preserve the aspect of dignity and power, until, at the time of Constantine, it fell amid the ruins of the faith it had aspired to protect. The creed that became the successor of the religion of Delphi found a mightier Amphictyonic assembly in the conclaves of Rome. The papal institution possessed precisely those qualities for directing the energies of states, for dictating to the ambition of kings, for obtaining temporal authority under spiritual pretexts—which were wanting to the pagan.
VII. But while the Amphictyonic council wasn't effective in doing good, it also didn't engage in evil. Several factors worked together to prevent the worst abuses often linked to religious power—this was a key reason. It wasn't made up of a separate, self-serving, and permanent class, but rather of citizens chosen each year from every state, who cared much more about the welfare of their own state than about increasing the authority of the Amphictyonic council 83. They were priests only occasionally—they were citizens by profession. The rivalries among the different states and the constant change in delegates hindered the energy and unity needed for any long-term ecclesiastical ambitions. As a result, the actual influence of the Amphictyonic council was far less significant than its grave reputation; when it became an important political player during Philip's time, it was merely a corrupt and submissive tool of that skilled monarch. Nevertheless, for a long time, it continued to project an image of dignity and power under the guise of a great religious name until, during Constantine’s era, it collapsed along with the faith it had aimed to protect. The belief system that replaced the religion of Delphi found a more powerful Amphictyonic assembly in the councils of Rome. The papal institution had exactly the qualities needed to direct state energies, dictate the ambitions of kings, and obtain worldly power under spiritual pretenses—qualities that were lacking in the pagan system.
CHAPTER III.
The Heroic Age.—Theseus.—His legislative Influence upon Athens.— Qualities of the Greek Heroes.—Effect of a Traditional Age upon the Character of a People.
The Heroic Age.—Theseus.—His legislative influence on Athens.— Qualities of the Greek heroes.—Impact of a traditional era on the character of a people.
I. As one who has been journeying through the dark 84 begins at length to perceive the night breaking away in mist and shadow, so that the forms of things, yet uncertain and undefined, assume an exaggerated and gigantic outline, half lost amid the clouds,—so now, through the obscurity of fable, we descry the dim and mighty outline of the HEROIC AGE. The careful and skeptical Thucydides has left us, in the commencement of his immortal history, a masterly portraiture of the manners of those times in which individual prowess elevates the possessor to the rank of a demigod; times of unsettled law and indistinct control;—of adventure—of excitement;—of daring qualities and lofty crime. We recognise in the picture features familiar to the North: the roving warriors and the pirate kings who scoured the seas, descended upon unguarded coasts, and deemed the exercise of plunder a profession of honour, remind us of the exploits of the Scandinavian Her-Kongr, and the boding banners of the Dane. The seas of Greece tempted to piratical adventures: their numerous isles, their winding bays, and wood-clad shores, proffered ample enterprise to the bold— ample booty to the rapacious; the voyages were short for the inexperienced, the refuges numerous for the defeated. In early ages, valour is the true virtue—it dignifies the pursuits in which it is engaged, and the profession of a pirate was long deemed as honourable in the Aegean as among the bold rovers of the Scandinavian race 85. If the coast was thus exposed to constant incursion and alarm, neither were the interior recesses of the country more protected from the violence of marauders. The various tribes that passed into Greece, to colonize or conquer, dislodged from their settlements many of the inhabitants, who, retreating up the country, maintained themselves by plunder, or avenged themselves by outrage. The many crags and mountains, the caverns and the woods, which diversify the beautiful land of Greece, afforded their natural fortresses to these barbarous hordes. The chief who had committed a murder, or aspired unsuccessfully to an unsteady throne, betook himself, with his friends, to some convenient fastness, made a descent on the surrounding villages, and bore off the women or the herds, as lust or want excited to the enterprise. No home was safe, no journey free from peril, and the Greeks passed their lives in armour. Thus, gradually, the profession and system of robbery spread itself throughout Greece, until the evil became insufferable—until the public opinion of all the states and tribes, in which society had established laws, was enlisted against the freebooter—until it grew an object of ambition to rid the neighbourhood of a scourge—and the success of the attempt made the glory of the adventurer. Then naturally arose the race of heroes—men who volunteered to seek the robber in his hold—and, by the gratitude of a later age, the courage of the knight-errant was rewarded with the sanctity of the demigod. At that time, too, internal circumstances in the different states— whether from the predominance of, or the resistance to, the warlike Hellenes, had gradually conspired to raise a military and fierce aristocracy above the rest of the population; and as arms became the instruments of renown and power, so the wildest feats would lead to the most extended fame.
I. Just like someone who's been wandering through darkness starts to see the night fade into mist and shadows, revealing shapes that are still unclear but appear larger than life, we can now glimpse the hazy outline of the HEROIC AGE through the murky legends. The meticulous and skeptical Thucydides gives us a brilliant depiction of the customs from that time at the start of his timeless history, where individual bravery elevated a person to the status of a demigod; a time of lawlessness and vague authority; filled with adventure, excitement, daring feats, and noble crimes. In this portrayal, we see familiar elements from the North: the wandering warriors and pirate kings who roamed the seas, attacked unprotected shores, and considered looting a respectable profession, remind us of the tales of the Scandinavian Her-Kongr and the ominous flags of the Danes. The waters of Greece lured pirates: its many islands, winding bays, and wooded coasts offered plenty of opportunities for the bold and abundant treasure for the greedy; the trips were short for those inexperienced, and there were many hideouts for the defeated. In ancient times, bravery was the ultimate virtue—it gave dignity to the activities it was involved in, and being a pirate was long seen as honorable in the Aegean, just like among the daring raiders of Scandinavia. If the coasts were constantly attacked and alarmed, the interior of the country wasn't safe from marauders either. Various tribes that came into Greece to settle or conquer displaced many locals, who retreated inland and survived by looting or seeking revenge through violence. The numerous cliffs and mountains, caves, and forests that make up the beautiful landscape of Greece served as natural strongholds for these savage groups. A chief who had committed murder or unsuccessfully sought an unstable throne would retreat with his friends to a secure hideout, raid nearby villages, and take women or livestock, driven by desire or need. No home felt secure, and no journey was risk-free as the Greeks lived their lives in armor. Over time, the practice of robbery spread throughout Greece until it became unbearable—until public opinion across all states and tribes that had established laws turned against the bandit—until it became an ambition to free the community from this menace—and success in this endeavor brought glory to the brave. From this naturally arose a class of heroes—men who volunteered to hunt down the robbers in their lairs—whose courage was honored by future generations, earning them the reverence of demigods. During this time, the internal dynamics within different states—whether due to the dominance of or resistance against the warlike Hellenes—gradually helped elevate a fierce military aristocracy above the rest of the population; and as warfare became the path to fame and power, the most audacious acts guaranteed the widest recognition.
II. The woods and mountains of Greece were not then cleared of the first rude aboriginals of nature—wild beasts lurked within its caverns;—wolves abounded everywhere—herds of wild bulls, the large horns of which Herodotus names with admiration, were common; and even the lion himself, so late as the invasion of Xerxes, was found in wide districts from the Thracian Abdera to the Acarnanian Achelous. Thus, the feats of the early heroes appear to have been mainly directed against the freebooter or the wild beast; and among the triumphs of Hercules are recorded the extermination of the Lydian robbers, the death of Cacus, and the conquest of the lion of Nemea and the boar of Erymanthus.
II. The forests and mountains of Greece weren't cleared of the primitive original inhabitants—wild animals were hiding in its caves; wolves were everywhere—herds of wild bulls, with the large horns that Herodotus admired, were common; and even the lion, as late as Xerxes' invasion, was found in vast areas from Thracian Abdera to Acarnanian Achelous. So, the early heroes' feats mainly focused on fighting off the bandits or wild animals; among Hercules' achievements are the elimination of the Lydian thieves, the defeat of Cacus, and the slaying of the Nemean lion and the Erymanthian boar.
Hercules himself shines conspicuously forth the great model of these useful adventurers. There is no doubt that a prince 86, so named, actually existed in Greece; and under the title of the Theban Hercules, is to be carefully distinguished, both from the god of Egypt and the peaceful Hercules of Phoenicia 87, whose worship was not unknown to the Greeks previous to the labours of his namesake. As the name of Hercules was given to the Theban hero (originally called Alcaeus), in consequence of his exploits, it may be that his countrymen recognised in his character or his history something analogous to the traditional accounts of the Eastern god. It was the custom of the early Greeks to attribute to one man the actions which he performed in concert with others, and the reputation of Hercules was doubtless acquired no less as the leader of an army than by the achievements of his personal prowess. His fame and his success excited the emulation of his contemporaries, and pre-eminent among these ranks the Athenian Theseus.
Hercules stands out as a prominent example of these adventurous figures. There's no doubt that a prince 86, by that name, really existed in Greece; and it's important to distinguish him, known as the Theban Hercules, from the Egyptian god and the peaceful Hercules of Phoenicia 87, whose worship the Greeks were aware of before the labors of his namesake. The name Hercules was given to the Theban hero (originally called Alcaeus) due to his exploits, suggesting that his fellow countrymen saw something in his character or history that resonated with the traditional stories of the Eastern god. Early Greeks often attributed the actions of a group to a single person, and Hercules gained his reputation not only as a powerful individual but also as a leader of an army. His fame and success inspired his peers, most notably the Athenian Theseus.
III. In the romance which Plutarch has bequeathed to us, under the title of a “History of Theseus,” we seem to read the legends of our own fabulous days of chivalry. The adventures of an Amadis or a Palmerin are not more knightly nor more extravagant.
III. In the story that Plutarch has left us, titled “History of Theseus,” we feel like we're reading the legends from our own incredible days of chivalry. The adventures of an Amadis or a Palmerin are neither more knightly nor more outlandish.
According to Plutarch, Aegeus, king of Athens, having no children, went to Delphi to consult the oracle how that misfortune might be repaired. He was commanded not to approach any woman till he returned to Athens; but the answer was couched in mystic and allegorical terms, and the good king was rather puzzled than enlightened by the reply. He betook himself therefore to Troezene, a small town in Peloponnesus, founded by Pittheus, of the race of Pelops, a man eminent in that day for wisdom and sagacity. He communicated to him the oracle, and besought his interpretation. Something there was in the divine answer which induced Pittheus to draw the Athenian king into an illicit intercourse with his own daughter, Aethra. The princess became with child; and, before his departure from Troezene, Aegeus deposited a sword and a pair of sandals in a cavity concealed by a huge stone 88, and left injunctions with Aethra that, should the fruit of their intercourse prove a male child, and able, when grown up, to remove the stone, she should send him privately to Athens with the sword and sandals in proof of his birth; for Aegeus had a brother named Pallas, who, having a large family of sons, naturally expected, from the failure of the direct line, to possess himself or his children of the Athenian throne; and the king feared, should the secret of his intercourse with Aethra be discovered before the expected child had arrived to sufficient strength to protect himself, that either by treason or assassination the sons of Pallas would despoil the rightful heir of his claim to the royal honours. Aethra gave birth to Theseus, and Pittheus concealed the dishonour of his family by asserting that Neptune, the god most honoured at Troezene, had condescended to be the father of the child:—the gods were very convenient personages in those days. As the boy grew up, he evinced equal strength of body and nobleness of mind; and at length the time arrived when Aethra communicated to him the secret of his birth, and led him to the stone which concealed the tokens of his origin. He easily removed it, and repaired by land to Athens.
According to Plutarch, Aegeus, the king of Athens, who had no children, went to Delphi to ask the oracle how he could fix that problem. He was told not to approach any woman until he returned to Athens; however, the answer was given in mysterious and symbolic language, leaving the good king more confused than enlightened. So, he went to Troezene, a small town in Peloponnesus, founded by Pittheus, a wise and insightful man from the family of Pelops. He shared the oracle's message with Pittheus and asked for an explanation. There was something in the divine response that led Pittheus to get Aegeus involved in a secret relationship with his own daughter, Aethra. The princess became pregnant; and before leaving Troezene, Aegeus hid a sword and a pair of sandals in a cave covered by a huge stone 88, instructing Aethra that if their child turned out to be a boy and was strong enough to lift the stone when he grew up, she should secretly send him to Athens with the sword and sandals as proof of his heritage. This was important because Aegeus had a brother named Pallas, who had many sons and expected to take over the Athenian throne due to Aegeus’s lack of direct heirs. The king worried that if the secret of his relationship with Aethra were discovered before their child was old enough to defend himself, Pallas's sons might use treachery or violence to seize the throne from the rightful heir. Aethra gave birth to Theseus, and Pittheus hid the family's shame by claiming that Neptune, the god most revered in Troezene, was the child's father—gods were very convenient figures back then. As Theseus grew up, he showed both physical strength and noble character; eventually, Aethra revealed the secret of his birth to him and took him to the stone that hid the symbols of his origin. He easily lifted it and made his way to Athens.
At that time, as I have before stated, Greece was overrun by robbers: Hercules had suppressed them for awhile; but the Theban hero was now at the feet of the Lydian Omphale, and the freebooters had reappeared along the mountainous recesses of the Peloponnesus; the journey by land was therefore not only longer, but far more perilous, than a voyage by sea, and Pittheus earnestly besought his grandson to prefer the latter. But it was the peril of the way that made its charm in the eyes of the young hero, and the fame of Hercules had long inspired his dreams by night 89, and his thoughts by day. With his father’s sword, then, he repaired to Athens. Strange and wild were the adventures that befell him. In Epidauria he was attacked by a celebrated robber, whom he slew, and whose club he retained as his favourite weapon. In the Isthmus, Sinnis, another bandit, who had been accustomed to destroy the unfortunate travellers who fell in his way by binding them to the boughs of two pine trees (so that when the trees, released, swung back to their natural position, the victim was torn asunder, limb by limb), was punished by the same death he had devised for others; and here occurs one of those anecdotes illustrative of the romance of the period, and singularly analogous to the chivalry of Northern fable, which taught deference to women, and rewarded by the smiles of the fair the exploits of the bold. Sinnis, “the pine bender,” had a daughter remarkable for beauty, who concealed herself amid the shrubs and rushes in terror of the victor. Theseus discovered her, praying, says Plutarch, in childish innocence or folly, to the plants and bushes, and promising, if they would shelter her, never to destroy or burn them. A graceful legend, that reminds us of the rich inventions of Spenser. But Theseus, with all gentle words and soothing vows, allured the maiden from her retreat, and succeeded at last in obtaining her love and its rewards.
At that time, as I mentioned earlier, Greece was overrun by bandits. Hercules had kept them at bay for a while, but the Theban hero was now submitted to the Lydian Omphale, and the robbers had returned to the mountainous areas of the Peloponnesus. As a result, traveling by land was not only longer but also much riskier than taking a boat. Pittheus strongly urged his grandson to choose the latter. However, the danger of the journey made it all the more appealing to the young hero, and the fame of Hercules had long filled his dreams at night and his thoughts during the day. So, with his father’s sword, he set out for Athens. He encountered strange and wild adventures along the way. In Epidauria, he was attacked by a notorious robber, whom he killed, keeping the robber's club as his favorite weapon. In the Isthmus, Sinnis, another bandit known for killing unfortunate travelers by tying them to the boughs of two pine trees (so that when the trees were released, they would swing back and tear the victim apart), met the same fate he had devised for others. Here we find one of those tales that highlight the romance of the era, closely resembling the chivalry of Northern legends, which valued respect for women and rewarded daring deeds with the smiles of the fair. Sinnis, known as “the pine bender,” had a daughter known for her beauty, who hid among the shrubs and reeds in fear of the victor. Theseus found her, praying—according to Plutarch, in either childish innocence or folly—to the plants and bushes, promising that if they would protect her, she would never harm or burn them. It's a lovely legend that reminds us of the rich creativity of Spenser. But Theseus, with gentle words and comforting promises, lured the maiden from her hiding place and ultimately succeeded in winning her love and its rewards.
Continued adventures—the conquest of Phaea, a wild sow (or a female robber, so styled from the brutality of her life)—the robber Sciron cast headlong from a precipice—Procrustes stretched on his own bed— attested the courage and fortune of the wanderer, and at length he arrived at the banks of the Cephisus. Here he was saluted by some of the Phytalidae, a sacred family descended from Phytalus, the beloved of Ceres, and was duly purified from the blood of the savages he had slain. Athens was the first place at which he was hospitably entertained. He arrived at an opportune moment; the Colchian Medea, of evil and magic fame, had fled from Corinth and taken refuge with Aegeus, whose affections she had insnared. By her art she promised him children to supply his failing line, and she gave full trial to the experiment by establishing herself the partner of the royal couch. But it was not likely that the numerous sons of Pallas would regard this connexion with indifference, and faction and feud reigned throughout the city. Medea discovered the secret of the birth of Theseus; and, resolved by poison to rid herself of one who would naturally interfere with her designs on Aegeus, she took advantage of the fear and jealousies of the old king, and persuaded him to become her accomplice in the premeditated crime. A banquet, according to the wont of those hospitable times, was given to the stranger. The king was at the board, the cup of poison at hand, when Theseus, wishing to prepare his father for the welcome news he had to divulge, drew the sword or cutlass which Aegeus had made the token of his birth, and prepared to carve with it the meat that was set before him. The sword caught the eye of the king—he dashed the poison to the ground, and after a few eager and rapid questions, recognised his son in his intended victim. The people were assembled—Theseus was acknowledged by the king, and received with joy by the multitude, who had already heard of the feats of the hero. The traditionary place where the poison fell was still shown in the time of Plutarch. The sons of Pallas ill brooked the arrival and acknowledgment of this unexpected heir to the throne. They armed themselves and their followers, and prepared for war. But one half of their troops, concealed in ambush, were cut off by Theseus (instructed in their movements by the treachery of a herald), and the other half, thus reduced, were obliged to disperse. So Theseus remained the undisputed heir to the Athenian throne.
Continued adventures—the defeat of Phaea, a wild sow (or a female bandit, named for her brutal life)—the bandit Sciron thrown off a cliff—Procrustes stretched out on his own bed—demonstrated the bravery and luck of the wanderer, and eventually, he reached the banks of the Cephisus. Here, he was greeted by some members of the Phytalidae, a sacred family descended from Phytalus, who was favored by Ceres, and he was properly purified from the blood of the savages he had killed. Athens was the first place where he was warmly welcomed. He arrived at a convenient time; the Colchian Medea, known for her evil and magical ways, had fled from Corinth and sought refuge with Aegeus, whose heart she had captured. Using her magic, she promised him children to continue his dwindling line, and she fully tried this out by becoming the partner of the royal bed. But it was unlikely that the many sons of Pallas would accept this relationship without objection, and conflict and rivalry erupted throughout the city. Medea learned of Theseus's birth and, determined to eliminate anyone who might threaten her plans with Aegeus, preyed on the fears and jealousy of the old king, persuading him to help her carry out her malicious scheme. A banquet, in keeping with the hospitality of the time, was held for the newcomer. The king was at the table, the cup of poison ready, when Theseus, wanting to prepare his father for the good news he had to share, drew the sword or cutlass that Aegeus had given him as a symbol of his lineage and began to cut the meat in front of him. The sword caught the king's attention—he knocked the poison to the ground, and after a few quick questions, recognized his son in the young man he had nearly killed. The people were gathered—Theseus was acknowledged by the king and received with joy by the crowd, who had already heard of the hero's exploits. The traditional spot where the poison spilled was still shown in Plutarch's time. The sons of Pallas were not pleased with the arrival and recognition of this unexpected heir to the throne. They armed themselves and their followers and readied for battle. But half of their troops, hidden in ambush, were taken out by Theseus (informed of their movements by the betrayal of a herald), and the remaining forces, now weakened, were forced to scatter. Thus, Theseus became the undisputed heir to the Athenian throne.
IV. It would be vain for the historian, but delightful for the poet, to follow at length this romantic hero through all his reputed enterprises. I can only rapidly sketch the more remarkable. I pass, then, over the tale how he captured alive the wild bull of Marathon, and come at once to that expedition to Crete, which is indissolubly intwined with immortal features of love and poetry. It is related that Androgeus, a son of Minos, the celebrated King of Crete, and by his valour worthy of such a sire, had been murdered in Attica; some suppose by the jealousies of Aegeus, who appears to have had a singular distrust of all distinguished strangers. Minos retaliated by a war which wasted Attica, and was assisted in its ravages by the pestilence and the famine. The oracle of Apollo, which often laudably reconciled the quarrels of princes, terminated the contest by enjoining the Athenians to appease the just indignation of Minos. They despatched, therefore, ambassadors to Crete, and consented, in token of submission, to send every ninth year a tribute of seven virgins and seven young men. The little intercourse that then existed between states, conjoined with the indignant grief of the parents at the loss of their children, exaggerated the evil of the tribute. The hostages were said by the Athenians to be exposed in an intricate labyrinth, and devoured by a monster, the creature of unnatural intercourse, half man half bull; but the Cretans, certainly the best authority in the matter, stripped the account of the fable, and declared that the labyrinth was only a prison in which the youths and maidens were confined on their arrival—that Minos instituted games in honour of Androgeus, and that the Athenian captives were the prize of the victors. The first victor was the chief of the Cretan army, named Taurus, and he, being fierce and unmerciful, treated the slaves he thus acquired with considerable cruelty. Hence the origin of the labyrinth and the Minotaur. And Plutarch, giving this explanation of the Cretans, cites Aristotle to prove that the youths thus sent were not put to death by Minos, but retained in servile employments, and that their descendants afterward passed into Thrace, and were called Bottiaeans. We must suppose, therefore, in consonance not only with these accounts, but the manners of the age, that the tribute was merely a token of submission, and the objects of it merely considered as slaves. 90
IV. It would be pointless for a historian, but great for a poet, to explore in detail this romantic hero through all his supposed adventures. I can only quickly outline the most notable ones. So, skipping the story of how he captured the wild bull of Marathon, I’ll jump straight to the expedition to Crete, which is deeply connected to timeless themes of love and poetry. It's said that Androgeus, a son of Minos, the famous King of Crete, who was worthy of such a father by his bravery, was murdered in Attica; some believe it was due to Aegeus's jealousy, who seemed to have an unusual distrust of all notable strangers. Minos responded with a war that devastated Attica, made worse by famine and disease. The oracle of Apollo, which often wisely resolved the conflicts of rulers, ended the war by advising the Athenians to placate Minos's rightful anger. Therefore, they sent ambassadors to Crete and agreed to send a tribute of seven virgins and seven young men every nine years as a sign of submission. The little interaction between states at that time, combined with the parents' sorrow over the loss of their children, made the tribute seem even more terrible. The Athenians claimed the captives were trapped in a complicated labyrinth and devoured by a monster, a creature of unnatural union, half man and half bull. However, the Cretans, certainly the best source on this matter, stripped away the myth and stated that the labyrinth was just a prison where the youths and maidens were held upon their arrival—that Minos held games in honor of Androgeus, and that the Athenian captives were the prizes for the winners. The first winner was the leader of the Cretan army, named Taurus, who was fierce and ruthless, treating the captives he won with great cruelty. Thus, the origins of the labyrinth and the Minotaur began. And Plutarch, providing this explanation from the Cretans, references Aristotle to argue that the youths sent were not killed by Minos, but kept in servile jobs, and that their descendants later moved to Thrace, becoming known as the Bottiaeans. Therefore, we must assume, in line with these accounts and the customs of the time, that the tribute was merely a sign of submission, with its recipients simply seen as slaves. 90
Of Minos himself all accounts are uncertain. There seems no sufficient ground to doubt, indeed, his existence, nor the extended power which, during his reign, Crete obtained in Greece. It is most probable that it was under Phoenician influence that Crete obtained its maritime renown; but there is no reason to suppose Minos himself Phoenician.
Of Minos himself, all accounts are unclear. There doesn't seem to be enough reason to doubt his existence, nor the considerable power that Crete had during his reign in Greece. It's highly likely that Crete gained its maritime reputation due to Phoenician influence, but there's no reason to believe that Minos himself was Phoenician.
After the return of Theseus, the time came when the tribute to Crete was again to be rendered. The people murmured their dissatisfaction. “It was the guilt of Aegeus,” said they, “which caused the wrath of Minos, yet Aegeus alone escaped its penalty; their lawful children were sacrificed to the Cretan barbarity, but the doubtful and illegitimate stranger, whom Aegeus had adopted, went safe and free.” Theseus generously appeased these popular tumults: he insisted on being himself included in the seven.
After Theseus returned, it was time for the tribute to Crete to be paid again. The people complained about it. “It was Aegeus’s fault,” they said, “that Minos was angry, yet only Aegeus avoided the consequences; our legitimate children were sacrificed to the cruelty of Crete, while the questionable and illegitimate outsider that Aegeus took in was left unharmed.” Theseus kindly calmed the crowd's unrest: he insisted on being one of the seven himself.
V. Twice before had this human tribute been sent to Crete; and in token of the miserable and desperate fate which, according to vulgar belief, awaited the victims, a black sail had been fastened to the ship.
V. This human tribute had been sent to Crete twice before; and as a sign of the terrible and hopeless fate that, according to popular belief, awaited the victims, a black sail had been attached to the ship.
But this time, Aegeus, inspired by the cheerful confidence of his son, gave the pilot a white sail, which he was to hoist, if, on his return, he bore back Theseus in safety: if not, the black was once more to be the herald of an unhappier fate. It is probable that Theseus did not esteem this among the most dangerous of his adventures. At the court of the wise Pittheus, or in the course of his travels, he had doubtless heard enough of the character of Minos, the greatest and most sagacious monarch of his time, to be convinced that the son of the Athenian king would have little to fear from his severity. He arrived at Crete, and obtained the love of Ariadne, the daughter of Minos. Now follows a variety of contradictory accounts, the most probable and least poetical of which are given by Plutarch; but as he concludes them all by the remark that none are of certainty, it is a needless task to repeat them: it suffices to relate, that either with or without the consent of Minos, Theseus departed from Crete, in company with Ariadne, and that by one means or the other he thenceforth freed the Athenians from the payment of the accustomed tribute. As it is obvious that with the petty force with which, by all accounts, he sailed to Crete, he could not have conquered the powerful Minos in his own city, so it is reasonable to conclude, as one of the traditions hath it, that the king consented to his alliance with his daughter, and, in consequence of that marriage, waived all farther claim to the tribute of the Athenians. 91
But this time, Aegeus, inspired by his son's cheerful confidence, gave the pilot a white sail to raise if, on his return, he brought Theseus back safely; if not, the black sail would signal a more unfortunate fate. It's likely that Theseus didn't consider this one of his most dangerous adventures. At the court of the wise Pittheus or during his travels, he had probably heard enough about Minos, the greatest and most clever king of his time, to feel assured that the son of the Athenian king had little to fear from his harshness. He arrived in Crete and won the love of Ariadne, the daughter of Minos. There are many conflicting stories about what happened next, but the most believable and least dramatic ones come from Plutarch; however, he concludes that none of them are certain, so it's unnecessary to repeat them. It's enough to say that either with Minos's permission or without it, Theseus left Crete with Ariadne, and somehow, he freed the Athenians from their usual tribute. It's clear that with the limited force he had when he sailed to Crete, he could not have defeated the powerful Minos in his own city, so it’s reasonable to assume, as one of the legends suggests, that the king agreed to his marriage with his daughter and, as a result, gave up any further claims to the Athenian tribute. 91
Equal obscurity veils the fate of the loving Ariadne; but the supposition which seems least objectionable is, that Theseus was driven by storm either on Cyprus or Naxos, and Ariadne being then with child, and rendered ill by the violence of the waves, was left on shore by her lover while he returned to take charge of his vessel; that she died in childbed, and that Theseus, on his return, was greatly afflicted, and instituted an annual festival in her honour. While we adopt the story most probable in itself, and most honourable to the character of the Athenian hero, we cannot regret the various romance which is interwoven with the tale of the unfortunate Cretan, since it has given us some of the most beautiful inventions of poetry;—the Labyrinth love-lighted by Ariadne—the Cretan maid deserted by the stranger with whom she fled—left forlorn and alone on the Naxian shore—and consoled by Bacchus and his satyr horde.
Equal uncertainty surrounds the fate of the loving Ariadne; however, the least objectionable assumption is that Theseus was caught in a storm either on Cyprus or Naxos. At that time, Ariadne was pregnant and, suffering from the rough waves, was left on the shore by her lover while he went back to secure his ship. She died during childbirth, and upon his return, Theseus was deeply saddened and established an annual festival in her honor. While we accept the story that seems most plausible and most honorable to the character of the Athenian hero, we cannot overlook the various romantic elements woven into the tale of the unfortunate Cretan. These elements have inspired some of the most beautiful creations in poetry—the Labyrinth lit by Ariadne's love—the Cretan maid abandoned by the stranger she fled with—left lonely and alone on the shores of Naxos—comforted by Bacchus and his satyr followers.
VI. Before he arrived at Athens, Theseus rested at Delos, where he is said to have instituted games, and to have originated the custom of crowning the victor with the palm. Meanwhile Aegeus waited the return of his son. On the Cecropian rock that yet fronts the sea, he watched the coming of the vessel and the waving of the white sail: the masts appeared—the ship approached—the white sail was not visible: in the joy and the impatience of the homeward crew, the pilot had forgotten to hoist the appointed signal, and the old man in despair threw himself from the rock and was dashed to pieces. Theseus received the news of his father’s death with sorrow and lamentation. His triumph and return were recorded by periodical festivals, in which the fate of Aegeus was typically alluded to, and the vessel of thirty oars with which he had sailed to Crete was preserved by the Athenians to the times of Demetrius the Phalerean—so often new-pieced and repaired, that it furnished a favourite thesis to philosophical disputants, whether it was or was not the same vessel which Theseus had employed.
VI. Before he got to Athens, Theseus took a break at Delos, where he supposedly started games and introduced the tradition of crowning the winner with a palm branch. Meanwhile, Aegeus anxiously awaited his son's return. On the rocky hill that overlooks the sea, he watched for the ship’s arrival and the waving of the white sail: the masts appeared—the ship was getting closer—but the white sail wasn’t visible: in the excitement and impatience of the crew coming home, the pilot forgot to raise the designated signal, and the old man, in despair, threw himself from the rock and was crushed to death. Theseus received the news of his father's death with deep sadness and mourning. His victory and return were celebrated through regular festivals that referred to Aegeus’s fate, and the thirty-oared ship he had used to sail to Crete was kept by the Athenians until the time of Demetrius the Phalerean—so often repaired that it sparked a popular debate among philosophers about whether it was still the same ship Theseus had used.
VII. Possessed of the supreme power, Theseus now bent his genius to the task of legislation, and in this part of his life we tread upon firmer ground, because the most judicious of the ancient historians 92 expressly attributes to the son of Aegeus those enactments which so mainly contributed to consolidate the strength and union of the Athenian people.
VII. With supreme power in his hands, Theseus now focused his talents on creating laws, and during this part of his life, we stand on more solid ground because the wisest of the ancient historians 92 clearly credits the son of Aegeus with the laws that significantly helped strengthen and unify the Athenian people.
Although Cecrops is said to have brought the tribes of Attica under one government, yet it will be remembered that he had divided the territory into twelve districts, with a fortress or capital to each. By degrees these several districts had become more and more distinct from each other, and in many cases of emergency it was difficult to obtain a general assembly or a general concurrence of the people; nay, differences had often sprung up between the tribes, which had been adjusted, not as among common citizens, by law, but as among jealous enemies, by arms and bloodshed. It was the master policy of Theseus to unite these petty commonwealths in one state. He applied in person, and by all the arte of persuasion, to each tribe: the poor he found ready enough to listen to an invitation which promised them the shelter of a city, and the protection of a single government from the outrage of many tyrants: the rich and the powerful were more jealous of their independent, scattered, and, as it were, feudal life. But these he sought to conciliate by promises that could not but flatter that very prejudice of liberty which naturally at first induced them to oppose his designs. He pledged his faith to a constitution which should leave the power in the hands of the many. He himself, as monarch, desired only the command in war, and in peace the guardianship of laws he was equally bound to obey. Some were induced by his persuasions, others by the fear of his power, until at length he obtained his object. By common consent he dissolved the towns’- corporations and councils in each separate town, and built in Athens one common prytaneum or council-hall, existent still in the time of Plutarch. He united the scattered streets and houses of the citadel, and the new town that had grown up along the plain, by the common name of “Athens,” and instituted the festival of the Panathenaea, in honour of the guardian goddess of the city, and as a memorial of the confederacy. Adhering then to his promises, he set strict and narrow limits to the regal power, created, under the name of eupatrids or well-born, an hereditary nobility, and divided into two orders (the husbandmen and mechanics) the remainder of the people. The care of religion, the explanation of the laws, and the situations of magistrates, were the privilege of the nobles. He thus laid the foundation of a free, though aristocratic constitution—according to Aristotle, the first who surrendered the absolute sway of royalty, and receiving from the rhetorical Isocrates the praise that it was a contest which should give most, the people of power, or the king of freedom. As an extensive population was necessary to a powerful state, so Theseus invited to Athens all strangers willing to share in the benefits of its protection, granting them equal security of life and law; and he set a demarcation to the territory of the state by the boundary of a pillar erected in the Isthmus, dividing Ionia from Peloponnesus. The Isthmian games in honour of Neptune were also the invention of Theseus.
Although Cecrops is credited with uniting the tribes of Attica under one government, it's important to note that he divided the land into twelve districts, each with its own fortress or capital. Over time, these districts grew more distinct from one another, making it difficult to gather a general assembly or achieve consensus among the people during emergencies. In fact, conflicts often arose between the tribes, resolved not through common laws like citizens, but as if they were enemies, through violence and bloodshed. Theseus had the ambitious goal of bringing these small communities together into a single state. He personally approached each tribe and employed all means of persuasion. The poorer individuals were eager to accept his invitation for the safety of a city and the protection of a single government from multiple tyrants, while the wealthy and powerful were more protective of their independence and feudal-like lifestyles. He sought to win them over with promises that flattered their desire for liberty, which initially caused them to resist his plans. He committed to a constitution that would keep power in the hands of the majority. As king, he only wanted control in wartime and promised to uphold the laws in peace, which he had to obey as well. Some were swayed by his arguments, while others were intimidated by his strength until he ultimately achieved his goal. By agreement, he disbanded the towns' corporations and councils, establishing a single council hall, or prytaneum, in Athens, which still existed during Plutarch’s time. He merged the scattered streets and houses of the citadel with the new town that had developed in the plain under the unified name of “Athens,” and instituted the festival of the Panathenaea to honor the city’s protective goddess and commemorate the alliance. Staying true to his promises, he limited royal power, created a hereditary nobility called the eupatrids or "well-born," and divided the remaining population into two groups: the agriculturalists and the craftsmen. The nobles had the responsibility for religious matters, legal interpretations, and the roles of magistrates. In this way, he established a foundation for a free, albeit aristocratic, constitution—according to Aristotle, he was the first to relinquish absolute royal power, and he received praise from the orator Isocrates for initiating a struggle that would benefit either the powerful or the king of freedom. Recognizing that a large population was essential for a strong state, Theseus invited all outsiders willing to enjoy the benefits of its protection to Athens, granting them equal rights to life and law. He marked the territory of the state with a pillar erected at the Isthmus, separating Ionia from Peloponnesus. The Isthmian games in honor of Neptune were also created by Theseus.
VIII. Such are the accounts of the legislative enactments of Theseus. But of these we must reject much. We may believe from the account of Thucydides that jealousies among some Attic towns—which might either possess, or pretend to, an independence never completely annihilated by Cecrops and his successors, and which the settlement of foreigners of various tribes and habits would have served to increase—were so far terminated as to induce submission to the acknowledged supremacy of Athens as the Attic capital; and that the right of justice, and even of legislation, which had before been the prerogative of each separate town (to the evident weakening of the supreme and regal authority), was now concentrated in the common council-house of Athens. To Athens, as to a capital, the eupatrids of Attica would repair as a general residence 93. The city increased in population and importance, and from this period Thucydides dates the enlargement of the ancient city, by the addition of the Lower Town. That Theseus voluntarily lessened the royal power, it is not necessary to believe. In the heroic age a warlike race had sprung up, whom no Grecian monarch appears to have attempted to govern arbitrarily in peace, though they yielded implicitly to his authority in war. Himself on a newly-won and uncertain throne, it was the necessity as well as the policy of Theseus to conciliate the most powerful of his subjects. It may also be conceded, that he more strictly defined the distinctions between the nobles and the remaining classes, whether yeomen or husbandmen, mechanics or strangers; and it is recorded that the honours and the business of legislation were the province of the eupatrids. It is possible that the people might be occasionally convened—but it is clear that they had little, if any, share in the government of the state. But the mere establishment and confirmation of a powerful aristocracy, and the mere collection of the population into a capital, were sufficient to prepare the way for far more democratic institutions than Theseus himself contemplated or designed. For centuries afterward an oligarchy ruled in Athens; but, free itself, that oligarchy preserved in its monopoly the principles of liberty, expanding in their influence with the progress of society. The democracy of Athens was not an ancient, yet not a sudden, constitution. It developed itself slowly, unconsciously, continuously—passing the allotted orbit of royalty, oligarchy, aristocracy, timocracy, tyranny, till at length it arrived at its dazzling zenith, blazed—waned—and disappeared.
VIII. These are the accounts of the laws enacted by Theseus. However, we need to dismiss quite a bit of this. According to Thucydides, there were rivalries among certain Attic towns, which either genuinely had or pretended to have an independence that was never fully eradicated by Cecrops and his successors. The settlement of various groups of foreigners only seemed to amplify these rivalries. Eventually, these tensions subsided enough for these towns to accept Athens as the recognized capital. The authority to deliver justice and even to legislate, which previously belonged to each individual town (weakening the overall royal power), became centralized in the Athens council. The aristocrats of Attica would gather in Athens as their primary residence 93. The city grew in population and significance, and Thucydides marks this time as the beginning of the expansion of the ancient city with the addition of the Lower Town. It’s unnecessary to believe that Theseus intentionally reduced royal power. During the heroic age, a warrior class emerged that no Greek king seems to have tried to control in peace, although they submitted to his authority during war. With a recently gained and unstable throne, Theseus needed to win over the most powerful of his subjects, both out of necessity and strategy. It's likely that he more clearly defined the differences between the nobles and other classes, such as farmers, artisans, or foreigners. It's noted that the honors and responsibilities of legislation were managed by the eupatrids. The people may have been called together occasionally, but it’s clear they had little, if any, role in the governance of the state. The mere establishment of a strong aristocracy and the simple gathering of the population into a capital laid the groundwork for far more democratic systems than Theseus had envisioned. For centuries, an oligarchy ruled Athens; however, despite being restrictive, this oligarchy maintained the principles of freedom, which grew in influence alongside societal progress. The democracy of Athens was neither ancient nor sudden. It developed gradually, almost unconsciously—moving through the eras of monarchy, oligarchy, aristocracy, timocracy, and tyranny until it finally reached its brilliant peak, shone brightly—faded—and vanished.
After the successful issue of his legislative attempts, we next hear of Theseus less as the monarch of history than as the hero of song. On these later traditions, which belong to fable, it is not necessary to dwell. Our own Coeur de Lion suggests no improbable resemblance to a spirit cast in times yet more wild and enterprising, and without seeking interpretations, after the fashion of allegory or system, of each legend, it is the most simple hypothesis, that Theseus really departed in quest of adventure from a dominion that afforded no scope for a desultory and eager ambition; and that something of truth lurks beneath many of the rich embellishments which his wanderings and exploits received from the exuberant poetry and the rude credibility of the age. During his absence, Menestheus, of the royal race of Attica, who, Plutarch simply tells us, was the first of mankind that undertook the profession of a demagogue, ingratiated himself with the people, or rather with the nobles. The absence of a king is always the nurse of seditions, and Menestheus succeeded in raising so powerful a faction against the hero, that on his return Theseus was unable to preserve himself in the government, and, pouring forth a solemn curse on the Athenians, departed to Scyros, where he either fell by accident from a precipice, or was thrown down by the king. His death at first was but little regarded; in after-times, to appease his ghost and expiate his curse, divine honours were awarded to his memory; and in the most polished age of his descendants, his supposed remains, indicated by an eagle in the skeleton of a man of giant stature, with a lance of brass and a sword by his side, were brought to Athens in the galley of Cimon, hailed by the shouts of a joyous multitude, “as if the living Theseus were come again.”
After his successful legislative efforts, we hear less about Theseus as a historical king and more as a legendary hero. There’s no need to delve into the later stories that belong to myth. Our own Richard the Lionheart suggests a striking parallel to a spirit from a time even wilder and more adventurous. Without analyzing every legend for hidden meanings, it makes the most sense to think that Theseus truly left his kingdom in search of adventure, feeling constrained by an environment that didn’t satisfy his restless ambition. There’s likely some truth hidden beneath the many colorful embellishments added to his travels and achievements by the passionate storytelling of the era. While he was away, Menestheus, hailing from the noble blood of Attica and noted by Plutarch as the first person to practice demagoguery, won over the people, especially the elites. A king's absence often breeds unrest, and Menestheus managed to rally such a strong faction against Theseus that upon his return, Theseus found it impossible to regain control. He left Athens in anger, cursing the Athenians, and went to Scyros, where he either fell by accident from a cliff or was pushed by the king. Initially, his death went largely unnoticed; later, to calm his spirit and atone for his curse, he was honored as a divine figure. In the refined age of his descendants, his supposed remains—identified by an eagle alongside the skeleton of a giant man with a bronze spear and sword—were brought back to Athens in Cimon’s ship, celebrated by a joyful crowd as if the living Theseus had returned.
X. I have not altogether discarded, while I have abridged, the legends relating to a hero who undoubtedly exercised considerable influence over his country and his time, because in those legends we trace, better than we could do by dull interpretations equally unsatisfactory though more prosaic, the effigy of the heroic age—not unillustrative of the poetry and the romance which at once formed and indicated important features in the character of the Athenians. Much of the national spirit of every people, even in its most civilized epochs, is to be traced to the influence of that age which may be called the heroic. The wild adventurers of the early Greece tended to humanize even in their excesses. It is true that there are many instances of their sternness, ferocity, and revenge;—they were insolent from the consciousness of surpassing strength;—often cruel from that contempt of life common to the warlike. But the darker side of their character is far less commonly presented to us than the brighter—they seem to have been alive to generous emotions more readily than any other race so warlike in an age so rude—their affections were fervid as their hatreds—their friendships more remarkable than their feuds. Even their ferocity was not, as with the Scandinavian heroes, a virtue and a boast—their public opinion honoured the compassionate and the clement. Thus Hercules is said first to have introduced the custom of surrendering to the enemy the corpses of their slain; and mildness, justice, and courtesy are no less his attributes than invincible strength and undaunted courage. Traversing various lands, these paladins of an elder chivalry acquired an experience of different governments and customs, which assisted on their return to polish and refine the admiring tribes which their achievements had adorned. Like the knights of a Northern mythus, their duty was to punish the oppressor and redress the wronged, and they thus fixed in the wild elements of unsettled opinion a recognised standard of generosity and of justice. Their deeds became the theme of the poets, who sought to embellish their virtues and extenuate their offences. Thus, certain models, not indeed wholly pure or excellent, but bright with many of those qualities which ennoble a national character, were set before the emulation of the aspiring and the young:—and the traditional fame of a Hercules or a Theseus assisted to inspire the souls of those who, ages afterward, broke the Mede at Marathon, and arrested the Persian might in the Pass of Thermopylae. For, as the spirit of a poet has its influence on the destiny and character of nations, so TIME itself hath his own poetry, preceding and calling forth the poetry of the human genius, and breathing inspirations, imaginative and imperishable, from the great deeds and gigantic images of an ancestral and traditionary age.
X. I haven't completely thrown out the legends of a hero who clearly had a significant impact on his country and his era, even while I've shortened them. These legends give us a better glimpse of the heroic age than dull interpretations that are unsatisfactory, though more straightforward. They reflect the poetry and romance that shaped and highlighted important aspects of the Athenian character. Much of the national spirit of any people, even in their most civilized times, can be traced back to the influence of what we might call the heroic age. The wild adventurers of early Greece humanized even through their extremes. It's true that they showed sternness, ferocity, and a desire for revenge; they were often arrogant because of their superior strength and sometimes cruel, due to their common disdain for life as warriors. However, we see their darker traits much less often than their brighter ones—they seemed more in touch with generous feelings than any other warlike race in such a rough age. Their affections were as intense as their hatreds, and their friendships were more noteworthy than their conflicts. Even their violence wasn’t viewed as a virtue or a source of pride, like it was with the Scandinavian heroes; public opinion valued compassion and mercy. As such, Hercules is said to have been the first to introduce the practice of returning the bodies of slain enemies, and kindness, justice, and courtesy are just as much his traits as unstoppable strength and fearless bravery. As they traveled through different lands, these champions of an earlier chivalry gained knowledge of various governments and customs, which helped them polish and refine the tribes that admired their achievements upon their return. Much like the knights of Northern myths, they were meant to punish the oppressor and help those wronged, thereby establishing a recognized standard of generosity and justice amidst the chaotic opinions of their time. Their deeds became the focus of poets, who aimed to highlight their virtues and soften their wrongdoings. This way, certain models—though not entirely pure or perfect—filled with qualities that uplift a national character, were set for the aspiring and the young to admire. The lasting fame of Hercules or Theseus inspired the souls of those who, centuries later, defeated the Medes at Marathon and halted Persian supremacy at Thermopylae. Just as a poet's spirit influences the fate and character of nations, so too does TIME have its own poetry, which comes before and inspires the poetry of human creativity, breathing imaginative and lasting inspiration from the remarkable deeds and giant figures of a legendary, ancestral age.
CHAPTER IV.
The Successors of Theseus.—The Fate of Codrus.—The Emigration of Nileus.—The Archons.—Draco.
The Successors of Theseus.—The Fate of Codrus.—The Emigration of Nileus.—The Archons.—Draco.
I. The reputed period of the Trojan war follows close on the age of Hercules and Theseus; and Menestheus, who succeeded the latter hero on the throne of Athens, led his countrymen to the immortal war. Plutarch and succeeding historians have not failed to notice the expression of Homer, in which he applies the word demus or “people” to the Athenians, as a proof of the popular government established in that state. But while the line has been considered an interpolation, as late at least as the time of Solon, we may observe that it was never used by Homer in the popular and political sense it afterward received. And he applies it not only to the state of Athens, but to that of Ithaca, certainly no democracy. 94
I. The well-known period of the Trojan War occurs right after the time of Hercules and Theseus; Menestheus, who took over the Athenian throne from Theseus, led his fellow citizens into the legendary war. Plutarch and later historians have pointed out Homer’s use of the term demus or “people” when referring to the Athenians as evidence of the popular government in that city. However, while some have viewed that line as an addition, possibly as late as the era of Solon, it’s important to note that Homer never used it in the political sense that it later acquired. He uses it not just for Athens but also for Ithaca, which was definitely not a democracy. 94
The demagogue king appears to have been a man of much warlike renown and skill, and is mentioned as the first who marshalled an army in rank and file. Returning from Troy, he died in the Isle of Melos, and was succeeded by Demophoon, one of the sons of Theseus, who had also fought with the Grecian army in the Trojan siege. In his time a dispute between the Athenians and Argives was referred to fifty arbiters of each nation, called Ephetae, the origin of the court so styled, and afterward re-established with new powers by Draco.
The demagogue king was known for his great military reputation and skill, and he is recognized as the first to organize an army in a structured formation. After returning from Troy, he died on the Isle of Melos, and was succeeded by Demophoon, one of Theseus's sons, who also fought with the Greek army during the Trojan War. During his time, a disagreement between the Athenians and Argives was handed over to fifty representatives from each city, known as Ephetae, which is where the court of that name originated and was later re-established with new authority by Draco.
To Demophoon succeeded his son Oxyntes, and to Oxyntes, Aphidas, murdered by his bastard brother Thymaetes. Thymaetes was the last of the race of Theseus who reigned in Athens. A dispute arose between the Boeotians and the Athenians respecting the confines of their several territories; it was proposed to decide the difference by a single combat between Thymaetes and the King of the Boeotians. Thymaetes declined the contest. A Messenian exile, named Melanthus, accepted it, slew his antagonist by a stratagem, and, deposing the cowardly Athenian, obtained the sovereignty of Athens. With Melanthus, who was of the race of Nestor, passed into Athens two nobles of the same house, Paeon and Alcmaeon, who were the founders of the Paeonids and Alcmaeonids, two powerful families, whose names often occur in the subsequent history of Athens, and who, if they did not create a new order of nobility, at least sought to confine to their own families the chief privileges of that which was established.
To Demophoon succeeded his son Oxyntes, and to Oxyntes, Aphidas, who was murdered by his half-brother Thymaetes. Thymaetes was the last of Theseus's line to rule in Athens. A dispute arose between the Boeotians and the Athenians regarding the borders of their territories; it was suggested that this conflict be settled by a duel between Thymaetes and the King of the Boeotians. Thymaetes refused to fight. A Messenian exile named Melanthus took up the challenge, killed his opponent using a clever trick, and, taking down the cowardly Athenian, gained control of Athens. Along with Melanthus, who descended from Nestor, came two nobles from the same family, Paeon and Alcmaeon, who founded the Paeonids and Alcmaeonids, two influential families that often appear in the later history of Athens, and who, if they didn't create a new order of nobility, at least aimed to reserve the main privileges of the established nobility for their own families.
II. Melanthus was succeeded by his son Codrus, a man whose fame finds more competitors in Roman than Grecian history. During his reign the Dorians invaded Attica. They were assured of success by the Delphian oracle, on condition that they did not slay the Athenian king. Informed of the response, Codrus disguised himself as a peasant, and, repairing to the hostile force, sought a quarrel with some of the soldiers, and was slain by them not far from the banks of the Ilissus 95. The Athenians sent to demand the body of their king; and the Dorians, no longer hoping of success, since the condition of the oracle was thus violated, broke up their encampment and relinquished their design. Some of the Dorians had already by night secretly entered the city and concealed themselves within its walls; but, as the day dawned, and they found themselves abandoned by their associates and surrounded by the foe, they fled to the Areopagus and the altars of the Furies; the refuge was deemed inviolable, and the Dorians were dismissed unscathed—a proof of the awe already attached to the rites of sanctuary 96. Still, however, this invasion was attended with the success of what might have been the principal object of the invaders. Megara 97, which had hitherto been associated with Attica, was now seized by the Dorians, and became afterward a colony of Corinth. This gallant but petty state had considerable influence on some of the earlier events of Athenian history.
II. Melanthus was followed by his son Codrus, a man whose reputation is more recognized in Roman history than in Greek. During his rule, the Dorians invaded Attica. They were guaranteed victory by the Delphian oracle, as long as they didn't kill the Athenian king. Once Codrus learned of this, he disguised himself as a peasant and went to the enemy camp, where he started a fight with some of the soldiers and got killed by them not far from the banks of the Ilissus 95. The Athenians sent a message demanding their king's body; seeing that the oracle's condition was broken, the Dorians lost hope and dismantled their camp, abandoning their plans. Some Dorians had secretly entered the city by night and hid within its walls, but as day broke and they realized they were deserted by their allies and surrounded by enemies, they fled to the Areopagus and the altars of the Furies. This refuge was considered sacred, and the Dorians were allowed to leave unharmed—a testament to the respect already given to the rights of sanctuary 96. Nonetheless, this invasion led to the success of what might have been the main goal of the invaders. Megara 97, which had previously been linked to Attica, was taken by the Dorians and later became a colony of Corinth. This brave but small state had a significant impact on some of the early events in Athenian history.
III. Codrus was the last of the Athenian kings. The Athenians affected the motives of reverence to his memory as an excuse for forbidding to the illustrious martyr the chance of an unworthy successor. But the aristocratic constitution had been morally strengthened by the extinction of the race of Theseus and the jealousy of a foreign line; and the abolition of the monarchy was rather caused by the ambition of the nobles than the popular veneration for the patriotism of Codrus. The name of king was changed into that of archon (magistrate or governor); the succession was still made hereditary, but the power of the ruler was placed under new limits, and he was obliged to render to the people, or rather to the eupatrids, an account of his government whenever they deemed it advisable to demand it.
III. Codrus was the last king of Athens. The Athenians pretended to honor his memory as a reason to prevent an unworthy successor from taking his place. However, the aristocratic system had actually become stronger due to the end of Theseus's lineage and the rivalry with foreign families; the monarchy’s end was more about the nobles’ ambition than the public’s respect for Codrus’s patriotism. The title of king was changed to archon (magistrate or governor); succession remained hereditary, but the ruler’s power was limited, and he had to report to the people, or more specifically, to the eupatrids, whenever they chose to ask for it.
IV. Medon, the son of Codrus, was the first of these perpetual archons. In that age bodily strength was still deemed an essential virtue in a chief; and Nileus, a younger brother of Medon, attempted to depose the archon on no other pretence than that of his lameness.
IV. Medon, the son of Codrus, was the first of these perpetual archons. In that time, physical strength was still considered a key trait in a leader; and Nileus, Medon's younger brother, tried to overthrow the archon for no reason other than his lameness.
A large portion of the people took advantage of the quarrel between the brothers to assert that they would have no king but Jupiter. At length Medon had recourse to the oracle, which decided in his favour; and Nileus, with all the younger sons of Codrus, and accompanied by a numerous force, departed from Athens, and colonized that part of Asia Minor celebrated in history under the name of Ionia. The rise, power, and influence of these Asiatic colonies we shall find a more convenient opportunity to notice. Medon’s reign, thus freed from the more stirring spirits of his time, appears to have been prosperous and popular; it was an era in the ancient world, when the lameness of a ruler was discovered to be unconnected with his intellect! Then follows a long train of archons—peaceable and obscure. During a period estimated at three hundred years, the Athenians performed little that has descended to posterity—brief notices of petty skirmishes, and trivial dissensions with their neighbours, alone diversify that great interval. Meanwhile, the Ionian colonies rise rapidly into eminence and power. At length, on the death of Alcmaeon —the thirteenth and last perpetual archon—a new and more popular change was introduced into the government. The sway of the archon was limited to ten years. This change slowly prepared the way to changes still more important. Hitherto the office had been confined to the two Neleid houses of Codrus and Alcmaeon;—in the archonship of Hippomenes it was thrown open to other distinguished families; and at length, on the death of Eryxias, the last of the race of Codrus, the failure of that ancient house in its direct line (indirectly it still continued, and the blood of Codrus flowed through the veins of Solon) probably gave excuse and occasion for abolishing the investment of the supreme power in one magistrate; nine were appointed, each with the title of archon (though the name was more emphatically given to the chief of the number), and each with separate functions. This institution continued to the last days of Athenian freedom. This change took place in the 24th Olympiad.
A large number of people took advantage of the argument between the brothers to declare that they would accept no king but Jupiter. Eventually, Medon turned to the oracle, which ruled in his favor; and Nileus, along with all the younger sons of Codrus, and a large force, left Athens and settled in the area of Asia Minor known in history as Ionia. We’ll find a better chance to discuss the rise, power, and influence of these Asian colonies. Medon’s reign, now free from the more disruptive figures of his time, seems to have been successful and well-liked; it was a time in the ancient world when it was discovered that a ruler's physical impairments had nothing to do with his intelligence! Following this was a long succession of archons—peaceful and unremarkable. Over a period estimated at three hundred years, the Athenians did little that has been remembered—only brief mentions of small skirmishes and minor disputes with their neighbors break up that long stretch. Meanwhile, the Ionian colonies quickly grew in prominence and strength. Finally, after the death of Alcmaeon—the thirteenth and last perpetual archon—a new and more popular form of government was introduced. The archon's term was limited to ten years. This change gradually paved the way for even more significant changes. Until then, the position had been restricted to the two Neleid families of Codrus and Alcmaeon;—during the archonship of Hippomenes, it opened up to other notable families; and eventually, with the death of Eryxias, the last descendant of Codrus, the decline of that ancient lineage in its direct line (although it continued indirectly, with the blood of Codrus running through Solon's veins) likely provided the reason and opportunity to end the concentration of supreme power in a single magistrate; nine were appointed, each titled archon (though the title was most prominently used for the chief among them), each with distinct responsibilities. This system lasted until the final days of Athenian freedom. This change took place in the 24th Olympiad.
V. In the 39th Olympiad, Draco, being chief archon, was deputed to institute new laws in B. C. 621. He was a man concerning whom history is singularly brief; we know only that he was of a virtuous and austere renown—that he wrote a great number of verses, as little durable as his laws 98. As for the latter—when we learn that they were stern and bloody beyond precedent—we have little difficulty in believing that they were inefficient.
V. In the 39th Olympiad, Draco, serving as chief archon, was tasked with creating new laws in 621 B.C. He is a figure about whom history provides very few details; we only know that he was known for his virtue and strictness—that he wrote a considerable number of poems, as transient as his laws 98. As for those laws—when we hear that they were harsh and excessively brutal, it's easy to believe that they were ineffective.
VI. I have hastened over this ambiguous and uninteresting period with a rapidity I trust all but antiquaries will forgive. Hitherto we have been in the land of shadow—we approach the light. The empty names of apocryphal beings which we have enumerated are for the most part as spectres, so dimly seen as to be probably delusions—invoked to please a fanciful curiosity, but without an object to satisfy the reason or excuse the apparition. If I am blamed for not imitating those who have sought, by weaving together disconnected hints and subtle conjectures, to make a history from legends, to overturn what has been popularly believed, by systems equally contradictory, though more learnedly fabricated;—if I am told that I might have made the chronicle thus briefly given extend to a greater space, and sparkle with more novel speculation, I answer that I am writing the history of men and not of names—to the people and not to scholars—and that no researches however elaborate, no conjectures however ingenious, could draw any real or solid moral from records which leave us ignorant both of the characters of men and the causes of events. What matters who was Ion, or whence the first worship of Apollo? what matter revolutions or dynasties, ten or twelve centuries before Athens emerged from a deserved obscurity?—they had no influence upon her after greatness; enigmas impossible to solve—if solved, but scholastic frivolities.
VI. I’ve rushed through this unclear and dull period quickly, and I hope that most people will forgive me, except for the history enthusiasts. Until now, we’ve been in the land of shadows, but we’re coming into the light. The empty names of made-up beings that we’ve listed are mostly just like ghosts—so faintly seen that they could easily be illusions, summoned to satisfy a whimsical curiosity but without anything to truly satisfy reason or explain their existence. If I’m criticized for not following those who have tried to stitch together unrelated clues and clever guesses to create a history from legends, trying to overturn popular beliefs with equally contradictory yet more scholarly fabrications; if I’m told that I could have made this brief chronicle longer and filled with more new ideas, I respond that I am writing the history of people, not just names—for the general public, not for scholars—and that no matter how thorough the research or how clever the guesses, they can’t draw any real or solid morals from records that keep us in the dark about both the characters of people and the reasons behind events. What does it matter who Ion was, or where the first worship of Apollo came from? What does it matter about revolutions or dynasties ten or twelve centuries before Athens came out of its deserved obscurity? They had no impact on her later greatness; they’re puzzles that are impossible to solve—if they could be solved, they’d just be academic nonsense.
Fortunately, as we desire the history of a people, so it is when the Athenians become a people, that we pass at once from tradition into history.
Fortunately, just as we want to understand the history of a people, it’s the same when the Athenians become a people, as we transition immediately from tradition to history.
I pause to take a brief survey of the condition of the rest of Greece prior to the age of Solon.
I take a moment to look over the state of the rest of Greece before Solon's time.
CHAPTER V.
A General Survey of Greece and the East previous to the time of Solon.—The Grecian Colonies.—The Isles.—Brief account of the States on the Continent.—Elis and the Olympic Games.
A General Survey of Greece and the East before the time of Solon.—The Greek Colonies.—The Islands.—A brief overview of the States on the Continent.—Elis and the Olympic Games.
I. On the north, Greece is separated from Macedonia by the Cambunian mountains; on the west spreads the Ionian, on the south and east the Aegean Sea. Its greatest length is two hundred and twenty geographical miles; its greatest width one hundred and forty. No contrast can be more startling than the speck of earth which Greece occupies in the map of the world, compared to the space claimed by the Grecian influences in the history of the human mind. In that contrast itself is the moral which Greece has left us—nor can volumes more emphatically describe the triumph of the Intellectual over the Material. But as nations, resembling individuals, do not become illustrious from their mere physical proportions; as in both, renown has its moral sources; so, in examining the causes which conduced to the eminence of Greece, we cease to wonder at the insignificance of its territories or the splendour of its fame. Even in geographical circumstance Nature had endowed the country of the Hellenes with gifts which amply atoned the narrow girth of its confines. The most southern part of the continent of Europe, it contained within itself all the advantages of sea and land; its soil, though unequal in its product, is for the most part fertile and abundant; it is intersected by numerous streams, and protected by chains of mountains; its plains and valleys are adapted to every product most necessary to the support of the human species; and the sun that mellows the fruits of nature is sufficiently tempered not to relax the energies of man. Bordered on three sides by the sea, its broad and winding extent of coast early conduced to the spirit of enterprise; and, by innumerable bays and harbours, proffered every allurement to that desire of gain which is the parent of commerce and the basis of civilization. At the period in which Greece rose to eminence it was in the very centre of the most advanced and flourishing states of Europe and of Asia. The attention of its earlier adventurers was directed not only to the shores of Italy, but to the gorgeous cities of the East, and the wise and hoary institutions of Egypt. If from other nations they borrowed less than has been popularly supposed, the very intercourse with those nations alone sufficed to impel and develop the faculties of an imitative and youthful people;—while, as the spirit of liberty broke out in all the Grecian states, producing a restless competition both among the citizens in each city and the cities one with another, no energy was allowed to sleep until the operations of an intellect, perpetually roused and never crippled, carried the universal civilization to its height. Nature herself set the boundaries of the river and the mountain to the confines of the several states—the smallness of each concentrated power into a focus—the number of all heightened emulation to a fever. The Greek cities had therefore, above all other nations, the advantage of a perpetual collision of mind—a perpetual intercourse with numerous neighbours, with whom intellect was ever at work—with whom experiment knew no rest. Greece, taken collectively, was the only free country (with the exception of Phoenician states and colonies perhaps equally civilized) in the midst of enlightened despotisms; and in the ancient world, despotism invented and sheltered the arts which liberty refined and perfected 99: Thus considered, her greatness ceases to be a marvel—the very narrowness of her dominions was a principal cause of it—and to the most favourable circumstances of nature were added circumstances the most favourable of time.
I. To the north, Greece is separated from Macedonia by the Cambunian mountains; to the west lies the Ionian Sea, and to the south and east, the Aegean Sea. Its greatest length is 220 geographical miles, and its greatest width is 140. No contrast is more striking than the small area Greece occupies on the world map, compared to the significant influence of Greek culture on human history. This contrast encapsulates the legacy Greece has left us—no amount of writing can express more powerfully the victory of intellect over material concerns. Just like individuals, nations don’t gain fame based solely on their physical size; both derive their renown from deeper moral foundations. Therefore, when exploring the factors that contributed to Greece's greatness, we stop being surprised by the smallness of its territory or the vastness of its reputation. Even in geographical terms, Nature gifted the land of the Hellenes with advantages that compensated for its limited size. As the southernmost part of Europe, it had the benefits of both land and sea; its soil, although inconsistent in yield, is mostly fertile and productive; there are countless rivers running through it, and it is sheltered by mountain ranges; its plains and valleys support all essential crops for human survival, and the sun that ripens nature's fruits is balanced enough not to tire humanity. Bordered by the sea on three sides, its broad and winding coastline fostered a spirit of adventure early on; with countless bays and harbors, it offered every incentive for the pursuit of profit, which is the driving force behind commerce and the foundation of civilization. At the time Greece rose to prominence, it was located at the center of the most developed and thriving states in Europe and Asia. The focus of its early explorers was directed not only to the shores of Italy but also to the opulent cities of the East and the ancient and wise institutions of Egypt. Even if they borrowed less from other nations than commonly believed, the very interaction with those nations was enough to stimulate and nurture the talents of an imitative and youthful people; as the spirit of liberty surged in all the Greek states, igniting fierce competition both among citizens within each city and between different cities, no energy was allowed to stagnate until the constant activity of a vibrant intellect elevated universal civilization to its peak. Nature itself set the boundaries of rivers and mountains to define the states—the small size of each sharpened focus of power—and the number of these states heightened competition to an intense level. Therefore, Greek cities, more than any other nations, enjoyed continuous intellectual exchange—a relentless interaction with numerous neighbors engaged in the pursuit of knowledge and experimentation. Collectively, Greece was the only truly free country (with the possible exception of Phoenician states and similarly advanced colonies) surrounded by enlightened despotisms; in the ancient world, despotism nurtured and sheltered the arts that freedom later refined. Thus, when viewed in this light, Greece's greatness becomes less of a mystery—the very smallness of its territories was a major factor in its achievements, and the most favorable natural circumstances were enhanced by equally favorable historical conditions.
If, previous to the age of Solon, we survey the histories of Asia, we find that quarter of the globe subjected to great and terrible revolutions, which confined and curbed the power of its various despotisms. Its empires for the most part built up by the successful invasions of Nomad tribes, contained in their very vastness the elements of dissolution. The Assyrian Nineveh had been conquered by the Babylonians and the Medes (B. C. 606); and Babylon, under the new Chaldaean dynasty, was attaining the dominant power of western Asia. The Median monarchy was scarce recovering from the pressure of barbarian foes, and Cyrus had not as yet arisen to establish the throne of Persia. In Asia Minor, it is true, the Lydian empire had attained to great wealth and luxury, and was the most formidable enemy of the Asiatic Greeks, yet it served to civilize them even while it awed. The commercial and enterprising Phoenicians, now foreboding the march of the Babylonian king, who had “taken counsel against Tyre, the crowning city, whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are the honourable of the earth,” at all times were precluded from the desire of conquest by their divided states 100, formidable neighbours, and trading habits.
If we look at the histories of Asia before Solon's time, we see that part of the world faced major and intense upheavals that limited and controlled the power of its various dictators. Most of its empires were built from the successful invasions of nomadic tribes, and their sheer size held the seeds of their own downfall. Nineveh in Assyria had been conquered by the Babylonians and the Medes (B.C. 606), and Babylon, now under the new Chaldaean dynasty, was gaining dominant power in western Asia. The Median monarchy was just starting to recover from pressure from barbarian enemies, and Cyrus had not yet emerged to establish the Persian throne. In Asia Minor, the Lydian empire had indeed achieved great wealth and luxury and was the most formidable enemy of the Asiatic Greeks, but it also helped to civilize them even while intimidating them. The commercial and enterprising Phoenicians, sensing the advance of the Babylonian king who had “taken counsel against Tyre, the crowning city, whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are the honorable of the earth,” were always held back from wanting to conquer due to their divided states, strong neighbors, and trading priorities.
In Egypt a great change had operated upon the ancient character; the splendid dynasty of the Pharaohs was no more. The empire, rent into an oligarchy of twelve princes, had been again united under the sceptre of one by the swords of Grecian mercenaries (B. C. 616); and Neco, the son of the usurper—a man of mighty intellect and vast designs—while he had already adulterated the old Egyptian customs with the spirit of Phoenician and Greek adventure, found his field of action only in the East (defeats Josiah B. C. 609). As yet, then, no foreign enemy had disturbed the early rise of the several states of Greece; they were suffered to form their individual demarcations tranquilly and indelibly; and to progress to that point between social amenities and chivalric hardihood, when, while war is the most sternly encountered, it the most rapidly enlightens. The peace that follows the first war of a half-civilized nation is usually the great era of its intellectual eminence.
In Egypt, a major change had transformed the ancient character; the glorious dynasty of the Pharaohs was gone. The empire, torn into a faction of twelve princes, had been united again under the rule of one through the swords of Greek mercenaries (B.C. 616). Neco, the son of the usurper—a man of great intellect and ambitious plans—had mixed the old Egyptian customs with the adventurous spirit of the Phoenicians and Greeks, but he only found his opportunities in the East (defeating Josiah B.C. 609). At that time, no foreign enemy had disrupted the early development of the various city-states of Greece; they were allowed to establish their distinct borders peacefully and permanently and to move toward a balance between social grace and heroic bravery, where, even as war was fiercely fought, it also spurred rapid enlightenment. The peace that follows the initial conflict of a somewhat uncivilized nation is typically the beginning of its intellectual greatness.
II. At this time the colonies in Asia Minor were far advanced in civilization beyond the Grecian continent. Along the western coast of that delicious district—on a shore more fertile, under a heaven more bright, than those of the parent states—the Aeolians, Ionians, and Dorians, in a remoter age, had planted settlements and founded cities (probably commenced under Penthilus, son of Orestes, about B. C. 1068). The Aeolian colonies (the result of the Dorian immigrations) 101 occupied the coasts of commenced Mysia and Caria—on the mainland twelve cities—the most renowned of which were Cyme and Smyrna; and the islands of the Heccatonnesi, Tenedos, and Lesbos, the last illustrious above the rest, and consecrated by the muses of Sappho and Alcaeus. They had also settlements about Mount Ida. Their various towns were independent of each other; but Mitylene, in the Isle of Lesbos, was regarded as their common capital. The trade of Mitylene was extensive—its navy formidable.
II. At this time, the colonies in Asia Minor were much more advanced in civilization compared to the Greek mainland. Along the western coast of this beautiful region—on shores that were more fertile and under a brighter sky than those of the parent states—the Aeolians, Ionians, and Dorians had established settlements and founded cities (probably started by Penthilus, son of Orestes, around 1068 B.C.). The Aeolian colonies (resulting from Dorian migrations) 101 occupied the coasts of Mysia and Caria—on the mainland, there were twelve cities, the most famous of which were Cyme and Smyrna; and the islands of the Heccatonnesi, Tenedos, and Lesbos, the last being particularly notable and celebrated by the muses of Sappho and Alcaeus. They also had settlements near Mount Ida. Their various towns were independent of one another; however, Mitylene, on the Isle of Lesbos, was regarded as their common capital. Mitylene's trade was extensive, and its navy was formidable.
The Ionian colonies (probably commenced about 988 B. C.), founded subsequently to the Aeolian, but also (though less immediately) a consequence of the Dorian revolution, were peopled not only by Ionians, but by various nations, led by the sons of Codrus. In the islands of Samos and Chios, on the southern coast of Lydia, where Caria stretches to the north, they established their voluptuous settlements known by the name “Ionia.” Theirs were the cities of Myus, and Priene, Colophon, Ephesus, Lebedus, Teos, Clazomene, Erythrae, Phocae, and Miletus:—in the islands of Samos and Chios were two cities of the same name as the isles themselves. The chief of the Ionian cities at the time on which we enter, and second perhaps in trade and in civilization to none but the great Phoenician states, was the celebrated Miletus—founded first by the Carians—exalted to her renown by the Ionians (Naval dominion of Miletus commenced B. C. 750). Her streets were the mart of the world; along the Euxine and the Palus Maeotis, her ships rode in the harbours of a hundred of her colonies. Here broke the first light of the Greek philosophy. But if inferior to this, their imperial city, each of the Ionian towns had its title to renown. Here flourished already music, and art, and song. The trade of Phocae extended to the coasts of Italy and Gaul. Ephesus had not yet risen to its meridian—it was the successor of Miletus and Phocaea. These Ionian states, each independent of the other, were united by a common sanctuary—the Panionium (Temple of Neptune), which might be seen far off on the headland of that Mycale afterward the witness of one of the proudest feats of Grecian valour. Long free, Ionia became tributary to the Lydian kings, and afterward to the great Persian monarchy.
The Ionian colonies (likely started around 988 B.C.), founded after the Aeolian ones and influenced, though not directly, by the Dorian revolution, were populated not just by Ionians but by various peoples led by the sons of Codrus. In the islands of Samos and Chios, along the southern coast of Lydia where Caria extends to the north, they created their luxurious settlements known as "Ionia." They established cities like Myus, Priene, Colophon, Ephesus, Lebedus, Teos, Clazomenae, Erythrae, Phocaea, and Miletus; in Samos and Chios, there were cities sharing the same names as the islands themselves. At the time we are discussing, the leading Ionian city, second only to the great Phoenician states in trade and civilization, was the famous Miletus—originally founded by the Carians and then enhanced to its glory by the Ionians (Miletus’s naval power began in 750 B.C.). Its streets were the center of commerce; along the Euxine and the Palus Maeotis, its ships docked in the ports of many of its colonies. This is where the first light of Greek philosophy emerged. However, even if they weren't as prominent as Miletus, each of the Ionian towns had its own claim to fame. Music, art, and poetry were already thriving here. The trade of Phocaea reached the shores of Italy and Gaul. Ephesus had not yet reached its peak—it was the successor to Miletus and Phocaea. These Ionian states, each independent from one another, were connected by a shared sanctuary—the Panionium (Temple of Neptune), which could be seen from afar on the headland of Mycale, later renowned for one of the proudest acts of Greek bravery. Long independent, Ionia eventually became subject to the Lydian kings and later to the powerful Persian empire.
In the islands of Cos and Rhodes, and on the southern shores of Caria, spread the Dorian colonies—planted subsequently to the Ionian by gradual immigrations. If in importance and wealth the Aeolian were inferior to the Ionian colonies, so were the Dorian colonies to the Aeolian. Six cities (Ialyssus, Camirus, and Lindus, in Rhodes; in Cos, a city called from the island; Cnidus and Halicarnassus, on the mainland) were united, like the Ionians, by a common sanctuary—the Temple of Apollo Triopius.
In the islands of Cos and Rhodes, as well as along the southern coast of Caria, the Dorian colonies spread—established later than the Ionian colonies through gradual immigration. While the Aeolian colonies were less important and wealthy compared to the Ionian colonies, the Dorian colonies were also lesser than the Aeolian. Six cities (Ialyssus, Camirus, and Lindus in Rhodes; one city named after the island in Cos; and Cnidus and Halicarnassus on the mainland) were connected, just like the Ionians, by a shared sanctuary—the Temple of Apollo Triopius.
Besides these colonies—the Black Sea, the Palus Maeotis, the Propontis, the coasts of Lower Italy, the eastern and southern shores of Sicily 102, Syracuse, the mightiest of Grecian offspring, and the daughter of Corinth,—the African Cyrene,—not enumerating settlements more probably referable to a later date, attested the active spirit and extended navigation of early Greece.
Besides these colonies—the Black Sea, the Sea of Azov, the Sea of Marmara, the coasts of Lower Italy, the eastern and southern shores of Sicily 102, Syracuse, the strongest of Greek cities, and the daughter of Corinth—the African city of Cyrene—not counting settlements that likely belong to a later period—showed the active spirit and extensive navigation of early Greece.
The effect of so vast and flourishing a colonization was necessarily prodigious upon the moral and intellectual spirit of the mother land. The seeds scattered over the earth bore their harvests to her garner.
The impact of such extensive and thriving colonization was inevitably huge on the moral and intellectual character of the homeland. The seeds spread across the globe returned their benefits to her storehouse.
III. Among the Grecian isles, the glory of Minos had long passed from Crete (about 800 B. C.). The monarchical form of government had yielded to the republican, but in its worst shape—the oligarchic. But the old Cretan institutions still lingered in the habits of private life;—while the jealousies and commotions of its several cities, each independent, exhausted within itself those powers which, properly concentrated and wisely directed, might have placed Crete at the head of Greece.
III. Among the Greek islands, the glory of Minos had long faded from Crete (around 800 B.C.). The monarchy had given way to a form of government that was republican, but in its worst form—an oligarchy. However, the old Cretan traditions still persisted in everyday life;—while the rivalries and uprisings of its independent cities drained the energies that, if united and wisely managed, could have made Crete the leading power in Greece.
Cyprus, equally favoured by situation with Crete, and civilized by the constant influence of the Phoenicians, once its masters, was attached to its independence, but not addicted to warlike enterprise. It was, like Crete, an instance of a state which seemed unconscious of the facilities for command and power which it had received from nature. The Island of Corcyra (a Corinthian colony) had not yet arrived at its day of power. This was reserved for that period when, after the Persian war, it exchanged an oligarchic for a democratic action, which wore away, indeed, the greatness of the country in its struggles for supremacy, obstinately and fatally resisted by the antagonist principle.
Cyprus, just like Crete, benefited from its location and was shaped by the ongoing influence of the Phoenicians, who were once its rulers. While it valued its independence, it wasn't particularly inclined towards military endeavors. Similar to Crete, it was an example of a state that seemed unaware of the natural advantages it had for power and leadership. The island of Corcyra (a colony of Corinth) had not yet reached its peak strength. That came later, after the Persian war, when it transitioned from an oligarchy to a democracy. This change ultimately weakened the country as it struggled for dominance, facing stubborn and ultimately destructive opposition.
Of the Cyclades—those beautiful daughters of Crete—Delos, sacred to Apollo, and possessed principally by the Ionians, was the most eminent. But Paros boasted not only its marble quarries, but the valour of its inhabitants, and the vehement song of Archilochus.
Of the Cyclades—those stunning daughters of Crete—Delos, sacred to Apollo and mainly held by the Ionians, was the most notable. But Paros had not just its marble quarries; it also had the bravery of its people and the passionate poetry of Archilochus.
Euboea, neighbouring Attica, possessed two chief cities, Eretria and Chalcis, governed apparently by timocracies, and frequently at war with each other. Though of importance as connected with the subsequent history of Athens, and though the colonization of Chalcis was considerable, the fame of Euboea was scarcely proportioned to its extent as one of the largest islands of the Aegean; and was far outshone by the small and rocky Aegina—the rival of Athens, and at this time her superior in maritime power and commercial enterprise. Colonized by Epidaurus, Aegina soon became independent; but the violence of party, and the power of the oligarchy, while feeding its energies, prepared its downfall.
Euboea, which is next to Attica, had two main cities, Eretria and Chalcis, that were seemingly run by timocracies and were often at war with each other. Despite its importance to the later history of Athens and the significant colonization efforts by Chalcis, Euboea's reputation didn’t match its size as one of the largest islands in the Aegean. It was greatly overshadowed by the small, rocky Aegina, which rivaled Athens and was at that time stronger in maritime power and commercial activities. Colonized by Epidaurus, Aegina quickly gained independence; however, the intense political factions and the strength of the oligarchy, while boosting its energy, also set the stage for its decline.
IV. As I profess only to delineate in this work the rise and fall of the Athenians, so I shall not deem it at present necessary to do more than glance at the condition of the continent of Greece previous to the time of Solon. Sparta alone will demand a more attentive survey.
IV. Since my goal in this work is just to outline the rise and fall of the Athenians, I won’t consider it necessary right now to dive deeper into the state of the Greek continent before Solon’s time. Sparta will require a closer look.
Taking our station on the citadel of Athens, we behold, far projecting into the sea, the neighbouring country of Megaris, with Megara for its city. It was originally governed by twelve kings; the last, Hyperion, being assassinated, its affairs were administered by magistrates, and it was one of the earliest of the countries of Greece which adopted republican institutions. Nevertheless, during the reigns of the earlier kings of Attica, it was tributary to them 103. We have seen how the Dorians subsequently wrested it from the Athenians 104; and it underwent long and frequent warfare for the preservation of its independence from the Dorians of Corinth. About the year 640, a powerful citizen named Theagenes wrested the supreme power from the stern aristocracy which the Dorian conquest had bequeathed, though the yoke of Corinth was shaken off. The tyrant—for such was the appellation given to a successful usurper—was subsequently deposed, and the democratic government restored; and although that democracy was one of the most turbulent in Greece, it did not prevent this little state from ranking among the most brilliant actors in the Persian war.
From our vantage point on the citadel of Athens, we can see the neighboring region of Megaris, with its city, Megara, extending into the sea. It was originally ruled by twelve kings; after the last king, Hyperion, was assassinated, magistrates took over the administration, making it one of the first places in Greece to adopt republican governance. However, during the reigns of the earlier kings in Attica, it was a tribute state to them 103. We have seen how the Dorians later took it from the Athenians 104; and it faced long and frequent wars to maintain its independence from the Dorians of Corinth. Around the year 640, a powerful citizen named Theagenes seized control from the strict aristocracy left by the Dorian conquest, though the influence of Corinth was diminished. The tyrant—what a successful usurper is called—was later overthrown, and the democratic government was restored; and while that democracy was one of the most tumultuous in Greece, it did not stop this small state from being one of the key players in the Persian war.
V. Between Attica and Megaris we survey the Isle of Salamis—the right to which we shall find contested both by Athens and the Megarians.
V. Between Attica and Megaris, we examine the Isle of Salamis—the ownership of which we will find disputed by both Athens and the Megarians.
VI. Turning our eyes now to the land, we may behold, bordering Attica—from which a mountainous tract divides it—the mythological Boeotia, the domain of the Phoenician Cadmus, and the birthplace of Polynices and Oedipus. Here rise the immemorial mountains of Helicon and Cithaeron—the haunt of the muses; here Pentheus fell beneath the raging bands of the Bacchanals, and Actaeon endured the wrath of the Goddess of the Woods; here rose the walls of Thebes to the harmony of Amphion’s lyre—and still, in the time of Pausanias, the Thebans showed, to the admiration of the traveller, the place where Cadmus sowed the dragon-seed—the images of the witches sent by Juno to lengthen the pains of Alcmena—the wooden statue wrought by Daedalus— and the chambers of Harmonia and of Semele. No land was more sanctified by all the golden legends of poetry—and of all Greece no people was less alive to the poetical inspiration. Devoted, for the most part, to pastoral pursuits, the Boeotians were ridiculed by their lively neighbours for an inert and sluggish disposition—a reproach which neither the song of Hesiod and Pindar, nor the glories of Thebes and Plataea, were sufficient to repel. As early as the twelfth century (B. C.) royalty was abolished in Boeotia—its territory was divided into several independent states, of which Thebes was the principal, and Plataea and Cheronaea among the next in importance. Each had its own peculiar government; and, before the Persian war, oligarchies had obtained the ascendency in these several states. They were united in a league, of which Thebes was the head; but the ambition and power of that city kept the rest in perpetual jealousy, and weakened, by a common fear and ill-smothered dissensions, a country otherwise, from the size of its territories 105 and the number of its inhabitants, calculated to be the principal power of Greece. Its affairs were administered by eleven magistrates, or boeotarchs, elected by four assemblies held in the four districts into which Boeotia was divided.
VI. Looking at the land now, we can see, bordering Attica—separated by a hilly area—the legendary Boeotia, the realm of the Phoenician Cadmus, and the birthplace of Polynices and Oedipus. Here rise the ancient mountains of Helicon and Cithaeron—the home of the muses; here Pentheus met his fate at the hands of the frenzied Bacchanals, and Actaeon faced the wrath of the Goddess of the Woods; here the walls of Thebes were built to the music of Amphion's lyre—and even in Pausanias's time, the Thebans showed to the awe of travelers the spot where Cadmus planted the dragon's teeth—the figures of the witches sent by Juno to prolong Alcmena's suffering—the wooden statue made by Daedalus—and the homes of Harmonia and Semele. No land was more blessed by the legendary tales of poetry—and among all of Greece, no people were less receptive to poetic inspiration. Mostly focused on farming, the Boeotians were mocked by their lively neighbors for their slow and lazy nature—a criticism that neither the works of Hesiod and Pindar, nor the glory of Thebes and Plataea, could counter. As early as the twelfth century (B.C.), monarchy was abolished in Boeotia—its land was split into several independent states, with Thebes being the largest, and Plataea and Cheronaea being among the next most important. Each had its own form of government; and before the Persian war, oligarchies were predominant in these various states. They were united in a league, with Thebes as the leader; however, the ambition and power of that city created constant jealousy among the others and weakened, through shared fear and unresolved conflicts, a region that, due to its size and population, was meant to be the leading power of Greece. Its affairs were managed by eleven magistrates, or boeotarchs, chosen by four assemblies held in the four districts into which Boeotia was divided.
VII. Beyond Boeotia lies Phocis, originally colonized, according to the popular tradition, by Phocus from Corinth. Shortly after the Dorian irruption, monarchy was abolished and republican institutions substituted. In Phocis were more than twenty states independent of the general Phocian government, but united in a congress held at stated times on the road between Daulis and Delphi. Phocis contained also the city of Crissa, with its harbour and the surrounding territory inhabited by a fierce and piratical population, and the sacred city of Delphi, on the southwest of Parnassus.
VII. Beyond Boeotia is Phocis, which, according to popular tradition, was originally settled by Phocus from Corinth. Shortly after the Dorian invasion, the monarchy was abolished and replaced with republican institutions. Phocis had more than twenty states that were independent from the overall Phocian government, but they came together in a congress held regularly along the road between Daulis and Delphi. Phocis also included the city of Crissa, with its harbor and the surrounding area inhabited by a fierce and pirate-like population, as well as the sacred city of Delphi, located on the southwest side of Parnassus.
VIII. Of the oracle of Delphi I have before spoken—it remains only now to point out to the reader the great political cause of its rise into importance. It had been long established, but without any brilliant celebrity, when happened that Dorian revolution which is called the “Return of the Heraclidae.” The Dorian conquerors had early steered their course by the advice of the Delphian oracle, which appeared artfully to favour their pretensions, and which, adjoining the province of Doris, had imposed upon them the awe, and perhaps felt for them the benevolence, of a sacred neighbour. Their ultimate triumph not only gave a striking and supreme repute to the oracle, but secured the protection and respect of a race now become the most powerful of Greece. From that time no Dorian city ever undertook an enterprise without consulting the Pythian voice; the example became general, and the shrine of the deity was enriched by offerings not only from the piety of Greece, but the credulous awe of barbarian kings. Perhaps, though its wealth was afterward greater, its authority was never so unquestioned as for a period dating from about a century preceding the laws of Solon to the end of the Persian war. Delphi was wholly an independent state, administered by a rigid aristocracy 106; and though protected by the Amphictyonic council, received from its power none of those haughty admonitions with which the defenders of a modern church have often insulted their charge. The temple was so enriched by jewels, statues, and vessels of gold, that at the time of the invasion of Xerxes its wealth was said to equal in value the whole of the Persian armament and so wonderful was its magnificence, that it appeared more like the Olympus of the gods than a human temple in their honour. On the ancient Delphi stands now the monastery of Kastri. But still you discover the terraces once crowded by fans—still, amid gloomy chasms, bubbles the Castalian spring—and yet permitted to the pilgrim’s gaze is the rocky bath of the Pythia, and the lofty halls of the Corycian Cave.
VIII. I've previously talked about the oracle of Delphi; now I just need to highlight to the reader the major political reasons for its rise in importance. It had been established for a long time but without any great fame until the Dorian revolution known as the "Return of the Heraclidae." The Dorian conquerors initially followed the guidance of the Delphian oracle, which seemed to cleverly support their claims and, being close to the province of Doris, instilled in them both respect and maybe even goodwill from their sacred neighbor. Their eventual victory not only gave the oracle a significant and supreme reputation but also ensured the protection and respect from a race that became the most powerful in Greece. From that time forward, no Dorian city would take on an endeavor without consulting the Pythian voice; this practice became common, and the shrine of the deity was enriched by offerings not just from the devotion of Greece but also from the awe of foreign kings. Although its wealth grew later, its authority was never as unchallenged as during the period from about a century before Solon's laws to the end of the Persian war. Delphi was entirely an independent state, governed by a strict aristocracy 106; and although it was protected by the Amphictyonic council, it did not receive any of those arrogant rebukes often used by defenders of modern churches against their followers. The temple was so filled with jewels, statues, and gold vessels that at the time of Xerxes' invasion, its wealth was said to equal the entire Persian army’s resources, and its magnificence was so extraordinary that it seemed more like Olympus for the gods than a human temple in their honor. Today, on the site of ancient Delphi stands the monastery of Kastri. But you can still see the terraces that were once crowded with visitors—amid the dark chasms, the Castalian spring still bubbles—and the rocky bath of the Pythia and the grand halls of the Corycian Cave are still visible to pilgrims.
IX. Beyond Phocis lies the country of the Locrians, divided into three tribes independent of each other—the Locri Ozolae, the Locri Opuntii, the Locri Epicnemidii. The Locrians (undistinguished in history) changed in early times royal for aristocratic institutions.
IX. Beyond Phocis is the land of the Locrians, divided into three tribes that are independent of one another—the Locri Ozolae, the Locri Opuntii, and the Locri Epicnemidii. The Locrians, who are not particularly notable in history, shifted from royal to aristocratic systems in ancient times.
The nurse of the Dorian race—the small province of Doris—borders the Locrian territory to the south of Mount Oeta; while to the west of Locris spreads the mountainous Aetolia, ranging northward from Pindus to the Ambracian Bay. Aetolia gave to the heroic age the names of Meleager and Diomed, but subsequently fell into complete obscurity. The inhabitants were rude and savage, divided into tribes, nor emerged into importance until the latest era of the Grecian history. The political constitution of Aetolia, in the time referred to, is unknown.
The nurse of the Dorian race—the small province of Doris—borders the Locrian territory to the south of Mount Oeta; to the west of Locris lies the mountainous Aetolia, stretching north from Pindus to the Ambracian Bay. Aetolia produced notable figures of the heroic age, like Meleager and Diomed, but later faded into complete obscurity. The residents were primitive and fierce, divided into tribes, and did not gain significance until the later period of Greek history. The political system of Aetolia during that time is unknown.
X. Acarnania, the most western country of central Greece, appears little less obscure at this period than Aetolia, on which it borders; with Aetolia it arose into eminence in the Macedonian epoch of Greek history.
X. Acarnania, the most western region of central Greece, seems almost as obscure during this period as Aetolia, which it borders; along with Aetolia, it gained prominence during the Macedonian era of Greek history.
XI. Northern Greece contains two countries—Thessaly and Epirus.
XI. Northern Greece includes two regions—Thessaly and Epirus.
In Thessaly was situated the long and lofty mountain of the divine Olympus, and to the more southern extreme rose Pindus and Oeta. Its inhabitants were wild and hardy, and it produced the most celebrated breed of horses in Greece. It was from Thessaly that the Hellenes commenced their progress over Greece—it was in the kingdoms of Thessaly that the race of Achilles held their sway; but its later history was not calculated to revive the fame of the Homeric hero; it appears to have shared but little of the republican spirit of the more famous states of Greece. Divided into four districts (Thessaliotis, Pelasgiotis, Phthiotis, and Hestiaeotis), the various states of Thessaly were governed either by hereditary princes or nobles of vast possessions. An immense population of serfs, or penestae, contributed to render the chiefs of Thessaly powerful in war and magnificent in peace. Their common country fell into insignificance from the want of a people—but their several courts were splendid from the wealth of a nobility.
In Thessaly stood the tall and majestic mountain of Olympus, while further south rose Pindus and Oeta. The people there were fierce and resilient, and it was known for producing the best horses in Greece. The Hellenes began their journey across Greece from Thessaly, and it was in the realms of Thessaly that Achilles's lineage ruled; however, its later history did little to enhance the legacy of the Homeric hero, as it seemed to lack the republican spirit found in the more renowned Greek states. Divided into four regions (Thessaliotis, Pelasgiotis, Phthiotis, and Hestiaeotis), the various states of Thessaly were governed by hereditary princes or wealthy nobles. A large population of serfs, or penestae, helped make the leaders of Thessaly strong in battle and splendid in peace. Their shared land lost significance due to the scarcity of its people—but their individual courts were extravagant, thanks to the wealth of the nobility.
XII. Epirus was of somewhat less extent than Thessaly, and far less fertile; it was inhabited by various tribes, some Greek, some barbarian, the chief of which was the Molossi, governed by kings who boasted their descent from Achilles. Epirus has little importance or interest in history until the sun of Athens had set, during the ascendency of the Macedonian kings. It contained the independent state of Ambracia, peopled from Corinth, and governed by republican institutions. Here also were the sacred oaks of the oracular Dodona.
XII. Epirus was slightly smaller than Thessaly and much less fertile; it was home to different tribes, some Greek and some non-Greek, the most prominent of which were the Molossi, ruled by kings who claimed they were descendants of Achilles. Epirus doesn't hold much significance or interest in history until the decline of Athens, during the rise of the Macedonian kings. It included the independent state of Ambracia, settled by people from Corinth and governed by republican systems. Here, too, were the sacred oaks of the oracle at Dodona.
XIII. We now come to the states of the Peloponnesus, which contained eight countries.
XIII. We now turn our attention to the regions of the Peloponnesus, which consisted of eight areas.
Beyond Megaris lay the territory of Corinth: its broad bay adapted it for commerce, of which it availed itself early; even in the time of Homer it was noted for its wealth. It was subdued by the Dorians, and for five generations the royal power rested with the descendants of Aletes 107, of the family of the Heraclidae. By a revolution, the causes of which are unknown to us, the kingdom then passed to Bacchis, the founder of an illustrious race (the Bacchiadae), who reigned first as kings, and subsequently as yearly magistrates, under the name of Prytanes. In the latter period the Bacchiadae were certainly not a single family, but a privileged class—they intermarried only with each other,—the administrative powers were strictly confined to them —and their policy, if exclusive, seems to have been vigorous and brilliant. This government was destroyed, as under its sway the people increased in wealth and importance; a popular movement, headed by Cypselus, a man of birth and fortune, replaced an able oligarchy by an abler demagogue (B. C. 655). Cypselus was succeeded by the celebrated Heriander (B. C. 625), a man, whose vices were perhaps exaggerated, whose genius was indisputable. Under his nephew Psammetichus, Corinth afterward regained its freedom. The Corinthians, in spite of every change in the population, retained their luxury to the last, and the epistles of Alciphron, in the second century after Christ, note the ostentation of the few and the poverty of the many. At the time now referred to, Corinth—the Genoa of Greece—was high in civilization, possessed of a considerable naval power, and in art and commerce was the sole rival on the Grecian continent to the graceful genius and extensive trade of the Ionian colonies.
Beyond Megaris was the territory of Corinth: its wide bay made it ideal for trade, and it took advantage of this early on; even in Homer's time, it was known for its wealth. It was conquered by the Dorians, and for five generations, the royal power was held by the descendants of Aletes 107, from the Heraclidae family. Through a revolution, the causes of which remain unknown to us, the kingdom then shifted to Bacchis, the founder of a notable lineage (the Bacchiadae), who ruled first as kings and later as annual magistrates, known as Prytanes. During this later period, the Bacchiadae were definitely not just a single family, but a privileged class—they only married each other, held the administrative powers exclusively, and their policy, while exclusive, seems to have been dynamic and impressive. This government fell apart as the populace grew in wealth and significance; a popular movement led by Cypselus, a man of noble birth and wealth, replaced a skilled oligarchy with a more skilled demagogue (B.C. 655). Cypselus was followed by the famous Heriander (B.C. 625), a man whose vices were perhaps exaggerated, but whose talent was undeniable. Under his nephew Psammetichus, Corinth eventually regained its freedom. Despite all the changes in the population, the Corinthians maintained their luxury until the end, and the letters of Alciphron, from the second century after Christ, highlight the extravagance of the few and the impoverishment of the many. At that time, Corinth—the Genoa of Greece—was advanced in civilization, had a notable naval force, and in art and trade was the only rival on the Greek continent to the elegant talent and extensive trade of the Ionian colonies.
XIV. Stretching from Corinth along the coast opposite Attica, we behold the ancient Argolis. Its three principal cities were Argos, Mycenae, and Epidaurus. Mycenae, at the time of the Trojan war, was the most powerful of the states of Greece; and Argos, next to Sicyori, was reputed the most ancient. Argolis suffered from the Dorian revolution, and shortly afterward the regal power, gradually diminishing, lapsed into republicanism 108. Argolis contained various independent states—one to every principal city.
XIV. Stretching from Corinth along the coast facing Attica, we see the ancient Argolis. Its three main cities were Argos, Mycenae, and Epidaurus. Mycenae, during the time of the Trojan war, was the most powerful state in Greece; and Argos, after Sicyori, was thought to be the oldest. Argolis went through the Dorian revolution, and soon after, the royal power, which was gradually decreasing, transitioned into a republic 108. Argolis had various independent states—one for each main city.
XV. On the other side of Corinth, almost opposite Argolis, we find the petty state of Sicyon. This was the most ancient of the Grecian states, and was conjoined to the kingdom of Agamemnon at the Trojan war. At first it was possessed by Ionians, expelled subsequently by the Dorians, and not long after seems to have lapsed into a democratic republic. A man of low birth, Orthagoras, obtained the tyranny, and it continued in his family for a century, the longest tyranny in Greece, because the gentlest. Sicyon was of no marked influence at the period we are about to enter, though governed by an able tyrant, Clisthenes, whose policy it was to break the Dorian nobility, while uniting, as in a common interest, popular laws and regal authority.
XV. On the other side of Corinth, almost across from Argolis, we find the small state of Sicyon. This was the oldest of the Greek states and was connected to the kingdom of Agamemnon during the Trojan War. Initially, it was inhabited by Ionians, who were later expelled by the Dorians, and not long after, it seems to have shifted into a democratic republic. A man of humble origins, Orthagoras, took control as a tyrant, and his family held power for a century, making it the longest tyranny in Greece because it was the mildest. Sicyon had little significant influence during the period we are about to discuss, although it was ruled by an effective tyrant, Clisthenes, whose strategy was to weaken the Dorian nobility while merging popular laws with royal authority for a common benefit.
XVI. Beyond Sicyon we arrive at Achaia. We have already seen that this district was formerly possessed by the Ionians, who were expelled by some of the Achaeans who escaped the Dorian yoke. Governed first by a king, it was afterward divided into twelve republics, leagued together. It was long before Achaia appeared on that heated stage of action, which allured the more restless spirits of Athens and Lacedaemon.
XVI. After Sicyon, we reach Achaia. We've already noted that this area was once held by the Ionians, who were driven out by some Achaeans who escaped the Dorian control. Initially ruled by a king, it was later split into twelve republics that formed an alliance. It took a long time before Achaia became part of the intense action that attracted the more restless minds from Athens and Sparta.
XVII. We now pause at Elis, which had also felt the revolution of the Heraclidae, and was possessed by their comrades the Aetolians.
XVII. We now stop at Elis, which had also experienced the upheaval of the Heraclidae and was held by their allies, the Aetolians.
The state of Elis underwent the general change from monarchy to republicanism; but republicanism in its most aristocratic form;— growing more popular at the period of the Persian wars, but, without the convulsions which usually mark the progress of democracy. The magistrates of the commonwealth were the superintendents of the Sacred Games. And here, diversifying this rapid, but perhaps to the general reader somewhat tedious survey of the political and geographical aspect of the states of Greece, we will take this occasion to examine the nature and the influence of those celebrated contests, which gave to Elis its true title to immortality.
The state of Elis transitioned from monarchy to republicanism, but it was republicanism in its most aristocratic form. It became more popular during the era of the Persian wars, without the upheavals that usually accompany the rise of democracy. The officials of the commonwealth were in charge of the Sacred Games. Now, to break up this quick but possibly tedious overview of the political and geographical landscape of the Greek states, we’ll take this opportunity to explore the nature and impact of those famous competitions that gave Elis its true claim to fame.
XVIII. The origin of the Olympic Games is lost in darkness. The legends which attribute their first foundation to the times of demigods and heroes, are so far consonant with truth, that exhibitions of physical strength made the favourite diversion of that wild and barbarous age which is consecrated to the heroic. It is easy to perceive that the origin of athletic games preceded the date of civilization; that, associated with occasions of festival, they, like festivals, assumed a sacred character, and that, whether first instituted in honour of a funeral, or in celebration of a victory, or in reverence to a god,—religion combined with policy to transmit an inspiring custom to a more polished posterity. And though we cannot literally give credit to the tradition which assigns the restoration of these games to Lycurgus, in concert with Iphitus, king of Elis, and Cleosthenes of Pisa, we may suppose at least that to Elis, to Pisa, and to Sparta, the institution was indebted for its revival.
XVIII. The origins of the Olympic Games are shrouded in mystery. The stories that link their founding to the times of demigods and heroes are somewhat true, as competitions showcasing physical strength were the favored pastime of that rough and primitive era dedicated to heroism. It's clear that the beginnings of athletic events predate civilization; that, tied to festive occasions, they took on a sacred quality, whether they were first created to honor a funeral, to celebrate a victory, or to pay tribute to a god—religion and politics came together to pass down an inspiring tradition to a more refined future. And while we can't fully trust the legend that credits the revival of these games to Lycurgus, along with Iphitus, the king of Elis, and Cleosthenes of Pisa, we can at least assume that Elis, Pisa, and Sparta played significant roles in bringing them back.
The Dorian Oracle of Delphi gave its sanction to a ceremony, the restoration of which was intended to impose a check upon the wars and disorders of the Peloponnesus. Thus authorized, the festival was solemnized at the temple of Jupiter, at Olympia, near Pisa, a town in Elis. It was held every fifth year; it lasted four days. It consisted in the celebration of games in honour of Jupiter and Hercules. The interval between each festival was called, an Olympiad. After the fiftieth Olympiad (B. C. 580), the whole management of the games, and the choice of the judges, were monopolized by the Eleans. Previous to each festival, officers, deputed by the Eleans, proclaimed a sacred truce. Whatever hostilities were existent in Greece, terminated for the time; sufficient interval was allowed to attend and to return from the games. 109
The Dorian Oracle of Delphi approved a ceremony aimed at putting a stop to the wars and chaos in the Peloponnesus. With this authorization, the festival took place at the temple of Jupiter in Olympia, close to the town of Pisa in Elis. It occurred every five years and lasted for four days. The event included games held in honor of Jupiter and Hercules. The time between each festival was called an Olympiad. After the fiftieth Olympiad (B.C. 580), the Eleans took full control of the games and the selection of the judges. Before each festival, officers chosen by the Eleans announced a sacred truce. Any ongoing hostilities in Greece paused for this period, allowing enough time for people to travel to and from the games. 109
During this period the sacred territory of Elis was regarded as under the protection of the gods—none might traverse it armed. The Eleans arrogated indeed the right of a constant sanctity to perpetual peace; and the right, though sometimes invaded, seems generally to have been conceded. The people of this territory became, as it were, the guardians of a sanctuary; they interfered little in the turbulent commotions of the rest of Greece; they did not fortify their capital; and, the wealthiest people of the Peloponnesus, they enjoyed their opulence in tranquillity;—their holy character contenting their ambition. And a wonderful thing it was in the midst of those warlike, stirring, restless tribes—that solitary land, with its plane grove bordering the Alpheus, adorned with innumerable and hallowed monuments and statues—unvisited by foreign wars and civil commotion—a whole state one temple!
During this time, the sacred land of Elis was seen as protected by the gods—nobody was allowed to enter it armed. The Eleans took on the role of guardians of eternal peace; although this right was sometimes challenged, it was usually respected. The people of this area became, in a sense, the keepers of a sanctuary; they rarely got involved in the conflicts of the rest of Greece, didn’t build defenses for their capital, and, as the wealthiest individuals in the Peloponnesus, they enjoyed their riches in peace—finding satisfaction in their sacred status. It was remarkable that amid those aggressive, restless tribes, there existed that quiet land, with its peaceful grove along the Alpheus, filled with countless revered monuments and statues—untouched by foreign wars and civil strife—a whole state functioning as one grand temple!
At first only the foot-race was exhibited; afterward were added wrestling, leaping, quoiting, darting, boxing, a more complicated species of foot-race (the Diaulus and Dolichus), and the chariot and horse-races. The Pentathlon was a contest of five gymnastic exercises combined. The chariot-races 110 preceded those of the riding horses, as in Grecian war the use of chariots preceded the more scientific employment of cavalry, and were the most attractive and splendid part of the exhibition. Sometimes there were no less than forty chariots on the ground. The rarity of horses, and the expense of their training, confined, without any law to that effect, the chariot-race to the highborn and the wealthy. It was consistent with the vain Alcibiades to decline the gymnastic contests in which his physical endowments might have ensured him success, because his competitors were not the equals to the long-descended heir of the Alcmaeonidae. In the equestrian contests his success was unprecedented. He brought seven chariots into the field, and bore off at the same time the first, second, and fourth prize 111. Although women 112, with the exception of the priestesses of the neighbouring fane of Ceres, were not permitted to witness the engagements, they were yet allowed to contend by proxy in the chariot-races; and the ladies of Macedon especially availed themselves of the privilege. No sanguinary contest with weapons, no gratuitous ferocities, no struggle between man and beast (the graceless butcheries of Rome), polluted the festival dedicated to the Olympian god. Even boxing with the cestus was less esteemed than the other athletic exercises, and was excluded from the games exhibited by Alexander in his Asiatic invasions 113. Neither did any of those haughty assumptions of lineage or knightly blood, which characterize the feudal tournament, distinguish between Greek and Greek. The equestrian contests were indeed, from their expense, limited to the opulent, but the others were impartially free to the poor as to the rich, the peasant as the noble,—the Greeks forbade monopoly in glory. But although thus open to all Greeks, the stadium was impenetrably closed to barbarians. Taken from his plough, the boor obtained the garland for which the monarchs of the East were held unworthy to contend, and to which the kings of the neighbouring Macedon were forbidden to aspire till their Hellenic descent had been clearly proved 114. Thus periodically were the several states reminded of their common race, and thus the national name and character were solemnly preserved: yet, like the Amphictyonic league, while the Olympic festival served to maintain the great distinction between foreigners and Greeks, it had but little influence in preventing the hostile contests of Greeks themselves. The very emulation between the several states stimulated their jealousy of each other: and still, if the Greeks found their countrymen in Greeks they found also in Greeks their rivals.
At first, only the footrace was included; later on, they added wrestling, jumping, discus throwing, javelin throwing, boxing, a more complex type of footrace (the Diaulus and Dolichus), and chariot and horse races. The Pentathlon was a competition featuring five combined athletic events. The chariot races 110 came before the horse races, just like how chariots were used in Greek warfare before more skilled cavalry tactics were developed, and they were the most exciting and impressive part of the games. Sometimes, there would be as many as forty chariots competing. The rarity of horses and the cost of their training meant that, without any specific laws, chariot racing was generally limited to the elite and wealthy. It was in line with the vain Alcibiades to avoid athletic contests where his physical abilities could have guaranteed him triumph, simply because his opponents didn’t match the long-standing prestige of the Alcmaeonidae family. However, he achieved unmatched success in equestrian events, bringing seven chariots to the competition and winning the first, second, and fourth prizes 111. Although women 112, except for the priestesses of the nearby temple of Ceres, weren’t allowed to watch the events, they could still participate by proxy in the chariot races, and the women of Macedon took advantage of this privilege. There were no bloody fights with weapons, no pointless brutality, no man versus beast struggles (the disgraceful slaughters seen in Rome) tainting the festival dedicated to the Olympian god. Even boxing with gloves was considered less prestigious than other athletic events and was excluded from the games showcased by Alexander during his invasions of Asia 113. There were no arrogant claims of lineage or noble blood, as seen in feudal tournaments, that created a divide among Greeks. The equestrian contests were certainly limited to the wealthy due to their costs, but the other events were open to everyone, the poor as well as the rich, the peasant as well as the noble—the Greeks prohibited monopolizing glory. Yet, even with this openness for all Greeks, the stadium was strictly off-limits to non-Greeks. Taken from his plow, a simple farmer could win the crown that Eastern monarchs were deemed unworthy to compete for, and which kings from neighboring Macedon were forbidden to claim until their Hellenic ancestry was clearly established 114. This way, the various city-states were periodically reminded of their common heritage, and the national identity and character were officially upheld. However, like the Amphictyonic League, while the Olympic festival maintained a strong distinction between foreigners and Greeks, it had little effect in preventing conflicts among the Greeks themselves. The intense rivalry between the different states fueled their jealousy of each other; even among Greeks, they were both countrymen and competitors.
We can scarcely conceive the vast importance attached to victory in these games 115; it not only immortalized the winner, it shed glory upon his tribe. It is curious to see the different honours characteristically assigned to the conqueror in different states. If Athenian, he was entitled to a place by the magistrates in the Prytaneum; if a Spartan, to a prominent station in the field. To conquer at Elis was renown for life, “no less illustrious to a Greek than consulship to a Roman!” 116 The haughtiest nobles, the wealthiest princes, the most successful generals, contended for the prize 117. And the prize (after the seventh Olympiad) was a wreath of the wild olive!
We can hardly imagine the huge importance attached to victory in these games 115; it not only made the winner famous, but it also brought glory to his tribe. It's interesting to see the different honors typically given to the victor in various states. If he was Athenian, he got a spot with the magistrates in the Prytaneum; if he was Spartan, he earned a prominent position on the battlefield. Winning in Elis meant lasting fame, “no less glorious for a Greek than a consulship for a Roman!” 116 The most arrogant nobles, the richest princes, and the most successful generals competed for the prize 117. And the prize (after the seventh Olympiad) was a wreath of wild olive!
Numerous other and similar games were established throughout Greece. Of these, next to the Olympic, the most celebrated, and the only national ones, were the Pythian at Delphi, the Nemean in Argolis, the Isthmian in Corinth; yet elsewhere the prize was of value; at all the national ones it was but a garland—a type of the eternal truth, that praise is the only guerdon of renown. The olive-crown was nothing!— the shouts of assembled Greece—the showers of herbs and flowers—the banquet set apart for the victor—the odes of imperishable poets—the public register which transmitted to posterity his name—the privilege of a statue in the Altis—the return home through a breach in the walls (denoting by a noble metaphor, “that a city which boasts such men has slight need of walls” 118), the first seat in all public spectacles; the fame, in short, extended to his native city— bequeathed to his children—confirmed by the universal voice wherever the Greek civilization spread; this was the true olive-crown to the Olympic conqueror!
Many other similar games were held across Greece. Next to the Olympics, the most famous and the only national ones were the Pythian games in Delphi, the Nemean games in Argolis, and the Isthmian games in Corinth. While other contests offered valuable prizes, the national games only awarded a garland—a symbol of the enduring truth that praise is the only reward for greatness. The olive crown was insignificant! The cheers of assembled Greece, the showers of herbs and flowers, the feast held for the victor, the odes of timeless poets, the public record that preserved his name for future generations, the honor of a statue in the Altis, the homecoming through a breach in the walls (signifying that “a city proud of such men has little need for walls” 118), the best seat at all public events; in short, the fame extended to his hometown—passed down to his children—acknowledged by everyone wherever Greek civilization reached; this was the true olive crown for the Olympic champion!
No other clime can furnish a likeness to these festivals: born of a savage time, they retained the vigorous character of an age of heroes, but they took every adjunct from the arts and the graces of civilization. To the sacred ground flocked all the power, and the rank, and the wealth, and the intellect, of Greece. To that gorgeous spectacle came men inspired by a nobler ambition than that of the arena. Here the poet and the musician could summon an audience to their art. If to them it was not a field for emulation 119, it was at least a theatre of display.
No other place can compare to these festivals: they were born from a wild time and kept the strong spirit of a heroic age, but they borrowed everything from the arts and the refinement of civilization. All the power, status, wealth, and intellect of Greece gathered at this sacred site. Men driven by a greater ambition than just competition in the arena came to this stunning event. Here, the poet and the musician could draw an audience to their craft. While it may not have been a stage for rivalry 119, it was certainly a venue for showcasing talent.
XIX. The uses of these games were threefold;—1st, The uniting all Greeks by one sentiment of national pride, and the memory of a common race; 2dly, The inculcation of hardy discipline—of physical education throughout every state, by teaching that the body had its honours as well as the intellect—a theory conducive to health in peace—and in those ages when men fought hand to hand, and individual strength and skill were the nerves of the army, to success in war; but, 3dly, and principally, its uses were in sustaining and feeding as a passion, as a motive, as an irresistible incentive—the desire of glory! That desire spread through all classes—it animated all tribes—it taught that true rewards are not in gold and gems, but in men’s opinions. The ambition of the Altis established fame as a common principle of action. What chivalry did for the few, the Olympic contests effected for the many—they made a knighthood of a people.
XIX. The purposes of these games were threefold: 1st, to unite all Greeks through a shared sense of national pride and a memory of a common heritage; 2nd, to promote tough discipline and physical education across each state, teaching that the body deserves recognition just like the mind—a principle beneficial for health in peaceful times—and in an era when hand-to-hand combat was vital and personal strength and skill were crucial for military success; but 3rd, and most importantly, their main purpose was to nurture and fuel a passion, a drive, an unstoppable motivator—the desire for glory! This desire spread across all social classes—it inspired all tribes—it emphasized that true rewards aren't found in gold and jewels, but in how people perceive you. The ambition of the Altis created fame as a shared principle of action. What chivalry did for a select few, the Olympic contests achieved for the masses—they transformed the entire population into a brotherhood of honor.
If, warmed for a moment from the gravity of the historic muse, we might conjure up the picture of this festival, we would invoke the imagination of the reader to that sacred ground decorated with the profusest triumphs of Grecian art—all Greece assembled from her continent, her colonies, her isles—war suspended—a Sabbath of solemnity and rejoicing—the Spartan no longer grave, the Athenian forgetful of the forum—the highborn Thessalian, the gay Corinthian— the lively gestures of the Asiatic Ionian;—suffering the various events of various times to confound themselves in one recollection of the past, he may see every eye turned from the combatants to one majestic figure—hear every lip murmuring a single name 120— glorious in greater fields: Olympia itself is forgotten. Who is the spectacle of the day? Themistocles, the conqueror of Salamis, and the saviour of Greece! Again—the huzzas of countless thousands following the chariot-wheels of the competitors—whose name is shouted forth, the victor without a rival!—it is Alcibiades, the destroyer of Athens! Turn to the temple of the Olympian god, pass the brazen gates, proceed through the columned aisles 121, what arrests the awe and wonder of the crowd! Seated on a throne of ebon and of ivory, of gold and gems—the olive-crown on his head, in his right hand the statue of Victory, in his left; wrought of all metals, the cloud-compelling sceptre, behold the colossal masterpiece of Phidias, the Homeric dream imbodied 122—the majesty of the Olympian Jove! Enter the banquet-room of the conquerors—to whose verse, hymned in a solemn and mighty chorus, bends the listening Spartan—it is the verse of the Dorian Pindar! In that motley and glittering space (the fair of Olympia, the mart of every commerce, the focus of all intellect), join the throng, earnest and breathless, gathered round that sunburnt traveller;—now drinking in the wild account of Babylonian gardens, or of temples whose awful deity no lip may name—now, with clinched hands and glowing cheeks, tracking the march of Xerxes along exhausted rivers, and over bridges that spanned the sea—what moves, what hushes that mighty audience? It is Herodotus reading his history! 123
If we take a moment to step back from the weight of history, and imagine this festival, we invite the reader to envision that sacred ground adorned with the most magnificent achievements of Greek art—all of Greece gathered from her mainland, her colonies, her islands—war put on hold—it's a day of solemnity and celebration—the Spartan no longer serious, the Athenian forgetting about politics—the noble Thessalian, the cheerful Corinthian—the animated gestures of the Asiatic Ionian;—allowing the various events of different times to blend into a single memory of the past, he may see every eye turned from the fighters to one grand figure—hear every lip whispering a single name 120— glorious in greater arenas: Olympia itself is overlooked. Who is the star of the day? Themistocles, the conqueror of Salamis, and the savior of Greece! Once more—the cheers of countless thousands following the chariot wheels of the competitors—whose name rings out, the unbeatable champion!—it's Alcibiades, the destroyer of Athens! Go to the temple of the Olympian god, pass through the bronze gates, move along the columned aisles 121, what captures the awe and wonder of the crowd! Sitting on a throne of ebony and ivory, gold and gems—the olive crown on his head, in his right hand the statue of Victory, in his left; crafted from all the metals, the cloud-commanding scepter, behold the colossal masterpiece of Phidias, the Homeric dream brought to life 122—the greatness of Olympian Zeus! Enter the banquet hall of the victors—to whose verses, sung in a powerful and solemn chorus, the listening Spartan bows—it is the verse of the Dorian Pindar! In that colorful and sparkling space (the festival of Olympia, the market of every trade, the center of all intellect), join the eager and breathless crowd, gathered around that sun-tanned traveler;—now soaking in the wild tales of the Babylonian gardens, or of temples whose terrifying deity no one dares name—now, with clenched hands and flushed cheeks, tracking the journey of Xerxes along drained rivers, and over bridges that crossed the sea—what stirs, what silences that immense audience? It is Herodotus reading his history! 123
Let us resume our survey.
Let's continue our survey.
XX. Midland, in the Peloponnesus, lies the pastoral Arcady. Besides the rivers of Alpheus and Erymanthus, it is watered by the gloomy stream of Styx; and its western part, intersected by innumerable brooks, is the land of Pan. Its inhabitants were long devoted to the pursuits of the herdsman and the shepherd, and its ancient government was apparently monarchical. The Dorian irruption spared this land of poetical tradition, which the oracle of Delphi took under no unsuitable protection, and it remained the eldest and most unviolated sanctuary of the old Pelasgic name. But not very long after the return of the Heraclidae, we find the last king stoned by his subjects, and democratic institutions established. It was then parcelled out into small states, of which Tegea and Mantinea were the chief.
XX. Midland, located in the Peloponnesus, encompasses the pastoral Arcady. In addition to the rivers Alpheus and Erymanthus, it is fed by the dark waters of Styx; its western region, crisscrossed by countless streams, is the territory of Pan. The people here were long dedicated to the lives of herdsmen and shepherds, and its early government was seemingly monarchical. The Dorian invasion left this land of poetic tradition relatively untouched, as the oracle of Delphi provided it with appropriate protection, allowing it to remain the oldest and most pristine sanctuary of the ancient Pelasgic name. However, not long after the return of the Heraclidae, we see the last king stoned to death by his subjects, leading to the establishment of democratic systems. It was then divided into small states, with Tegea and Mantinea being the most significant.
XXI. Messenia, a fertile and level district, which lies to the west of Sparta, underwent many struggles with the latter power; and this part of its history, which is full of interest, the reader will find briefly narrated in that of the Spartans, by whom it was finally subdued. Being then incorporated with that country, we cannot, at the period of history we are about to enter, consider Messenia as a separate and independent state. 124
XXI. Messenia, a rich and flat area located to the west of Sparta, went through many conflicts with Sparta; this part of its history, filled with intrigue, can be found summarized in the story of the Spartans, who ultimately conquered it. Since it was then merged with that region, we cannot view Messenia as a separate and independent state during the historical period we are about to discuss. 124
And now, completing the survey of the Peloponnesus, we rest at Laconia, the country of the Spartans.
And now, finishing our exploration of the Peloponnesus, we pause in Laconia, the land of the Spartans.
CHAPTER VI.
Return of the Heraclidae.—The Spartan Constitution and Habits.—The first and second Messenian War.
Return of the Heraclidae.—The Spartan Constitution and Habits.—The first and second Messenian War.
I. We have already seen, that while the Dorians remained in Thessaly, the Achaeans possessed the greater part of the Peloponnesus. But, under the title of the Return of the Heraclidae (or the descendants of Hercules), an important and lasting revolution established the Dorians in the kingdoms of Agamemnon and Menelaus. The true nature of this revolution has only been rendered more obscure by modern ingenuity, which has abandoned the popular accounts for suppositions still more improbable and romantic. The popular accounts run thus:—Persecuted by Eurystheus, king of Argos, the sons of Hercules, with their friends and followers, are compelled to take refuge in Attica. Assisted by the Athenians, they defeat and slay Eurystheus, and regain the Peloponnesus. A pestilence, regarded as an ominous messenger from offended heaven, drives them again into Attica. An oracle declares that they shall succeed after the third fruit by the narrow passage at sea. Wrongly interpreting the oracle, in the third year they make for the Corinthian Isthmus. At the entrance of the Peloponnesus they are met by the assembled arms of the Achaeans, Ionians, and Arcadians. Hyllus, the eldest son of Hercules, proposes the issue of a single combat. Echemus, king of Tegea, is selected by the Peloponnesians. He meets and slays Hyllus, and the Heraclidae engage not to renew the invasion for one hundred years. Nevertheless, Cleodaeus, the son, and Aristomachus, the grandson, of Hyllus, successively attempt to renew the enterprise, and in vain. The three sons of Aristomachus (Aristodemus, Temenus, and Cresphontes), receive from Apollo himself the rightful interpretation of the oracle. It was by the Straits of Rhium, across a channel which rendered the distance between the opposing shores only five stadia, that they were ordained to pass; and by the Return of the third fruit, the third generation was denoted. The time had now arrived:—with the assistance of the Dorians, the Aetolians, and the Locrians, the descendants of Hercules crossed the strait, and established their settlement in Peloponnesus (B. C. 1048).
I. We've already seen that while the Dorians were in Thessaly, the Achaeans controlled most of the Peloponnesus. However, under the banner of the Return of the Heraclidae (or the descendants of Hercules), a significant and lasting change allowed the Dorians to take over the kingdoms of Agamemnon and Menelaus. The true nature of this change has only become more complicated due to modern interpretations, which have set aside traditional stories for even more unlikely and fantastical theories. The traditional stories go like this: Persecuted by Eurystheus, king of Argos, the sons of Hercules, along with their allies, are forced to seek refuge in Attica. With help from the Athenians, they defeat and kill Eurystheus, reclaiming the Peloponnesus. A plague, seen as a bad omen from an angry god, drives them back to Attica. An oracle states they will succeed after the third fruit by the narrow passage at sea. Misinterpreting the oracle, in the third year, they head for the Corinthian Isthmus. At the entrance to the Peloponnesus, they encounter the united forces of the Achaeans, Ionians, and Arcadians. Hyllus, Hercules's eldest son, suggests resolving the conflict through single combat. Echemus, king of Tegea, is chosen by the Peloponnesians. He meets and kills Hyllus, and the Heraclidae agree not to invade again for a hundred years. Despite this, Cleodaeus, Hyllus's son, and Aristomachus, his grandson, attempt to resume the effort, but unsuccessfully. The three sons of Aristomachus (Aristodemus, Temenus, and Cresphontes) receive the true interpretation of the oracle directly from Apollo. They were meant to cross the Straits of Rhium, where the distance between the shores was only five stadia, and the Third Fruit referred to the third generation. The time had come: with the support of the Dorians, Aetolians, and Locrians, the descendants of Hercules crossed the strait and established their settlement in the Peloponnesus (B.C. 1048).
II. Whether in the previous expeditions the Dorians had assisted the Heraclidae, is a matter of dispute—it is not a matter of importance. Whether these Heraclidae were really descendants of the Achaean prince, and the rightful heritors of a Peloponnesian throne, is a point equally contested and equally frivolous. It is probable enough that the bold and warlike tribe of Thessaly might have been easily allured, by the pretext of reinstating the true royal line, into an enterprise which might plant them in safer and more wide domains, and that while the prince got the throne, the confederates obtained the country 125. All of consequence to establish is, that the Dorians shared in the expedition, which was successful—that by time and valour they obtained nearly the whole of the Peloponnesus—that they transplanted the Doric character and institutions to their new possessions, and that the Return of the Heraclidae is, in fact, the popular name for the conquest of the Dorians. Whatever distinction existed between the Achaean Heraclidae and the Doric race, had probably been much effaced during the long absence of the former among foreign tribes, and after their establishment in the Peloponnesus it soon became entirely lost. But still the legend that assigned the blood of Hercules to the royalty of Sparta received early and implicit credence, and Cleomenes, king of that state, some centuries afterward, declared himself not Doric, but Achaean.
II. Whether the Dorians helped the Heraclidae in earlier expeditions is debated—it isn’t really important. Whether these Heraclidae were truly descendants of the Achaean prince and rightful heirs to a throne in Peloponnesus is another point of contention and equally trivial. It’s quite possible that the bold and warlike tribe from Thessaly could have been easily drawn in by the promise of restoring the true royal line to undertake a venture that would plant them in safer and more expansive lands, while the prince took the throne and the allies gained the territory 125. What really matters to establish is that the Dorians participated in the successful expedition—that over time and through bravery they acquired nearly all of Peloponnesus—that they introduced Doric culture and systems to their new lands, and that the Return of the Heraclidae essentially refers to the Dorian conquest. Any distinction that existed between the Achaean Heraclidae and the Doric people had probably faded significantly during the long absence of the former among foreign groups, and after their settlement in Peloponnesus, it became completely lost. However, the legend that connected the blood of Hercules to the royal lineage of Sparta gained early and unquestioned acceptance, and Cleomenes, king of that state, several centuries later, claimed he was not Doric but Achaean.
Of the time employed in consummating the conquest of the invaders we are unable to determine—but, by degrees, Sparta, Argos, Corinth, and Messene, became possessed by the Dorians; the Aetolian confederates obtained Elis. Some of the Achaeans expelled the Ionians from the territory they held in the Peloponnesus, and gave to it the name it afterward retained, of Achaia. The expelled Ionians took refuge with the Athenians, their kindred race.
Of the time spent in completing the defeat of the invaders, we can't say for sure—but gradually, Sparta, Argos, Corinth, and Messene fell under Dorian control; the Aetolian allies took over Elis. Some of the Achaeans kicked the Ionians out of the land they occupied in the Peloponnesus and named it Achaia, a name it kept afterward. The expelled Ionians found refuge with the Athenians, their relatives.
The fated house of Pelops swept away by this irruption, Sparta fell to the lot of Procles and Eurysthenes 126, sons of Aristodemus, fifth in descent from Hercules; between these princes the royal power was divided, so that the constitution always acknowledged two kings—one from each of the Heracleid families. The elder house was called the Agids, or descendants of Agis, son of Eurysthenes; the latter, the Eurypontids, from Eurypon, descendant of Procles. Although Sparta, under the new dynasty, appears to have soon arrogated the pre-eminence over the other states of the Peloponnesus, it was long before she achieved the conquest even of the cities in her immediate neighbourhood. The Achaeans retained the possession of Amyclae, built upon a steep rock, and less than three miles from Sparta, for more than two centuries and a half after the first invasion of the Dorians. And here the Achaeans guarded the venerable tombs of Cassandra and Agamemnon.
The fated house of Pelops was swept away by this invasion, and Sparta became the domain of Procles and Eurysthenes 126, sons of Aristodemus, who was five generations removed from Hercules. The royal power was shared between these two princes, so the constitution always recognized two kings—one from each of the Heracleid families. The elder house was known as the Agids, or descendants of Agis, son of Eurysthenes; the younger was called the Eurypontids, named after Eurypon, a descendant of Procles. Although Sparta soon began to assert its dominance over the other states of the Peloponnesus under this new dynasty, it took a long time before she conquered even the nearby cities. The Achaeans held on to Amyclae, situated on a steep rock and less than three miles from Sparta, for more than two and a half centuries after the Dorians first invaded. Here, the Achaeans protected the ancient tombs of Cassandra and Agamemnon.
III. The consequences of the Dorian invasion, if slowly developed, were great and lasting. That revolution not only changed the character of the Peloponnesus—it not only called into existence the iron race of Sparta—but the migrations which it caused made the origin of the Grecian colonies in Asia Minor. It developed also those seeds of latent republicanism which belonged to the Dorian aristocracies, and which finally supplanted the monarchical government—through nearly the whole of civilized Greece. The revolution once peacefully consummated, migrations no longer disturbed to any extent the continent of Greece, and the various tribes became settled in their historic homes.
III. The effects of the Dorian invasion, though gradual, were significant and long-lasting. This revolution not only transformed the character of the Peloponnesus—it gave rise to the iron-willed people of Sparta—but it also initiated migrations that led to the founding of the Greek colonies in Asia Minor. Additionally, it nurtured the seeds of latent republicanism that existed within the Dorian aristocracies, which ultimately replaced the monarchical system throughout much of civilized Greece. Once the revolution was peacefully achieved, migrations no longer significantly disrupted the Greek mainland, and the various tribes became established in their historic territories.
IV. The history of Sparta, till the time of Lycurgus, is that of a state maintaining itself with difficulty amid surrounding and hostile neighbours; the power of the chiefs diminished the authority of the kings; and while all without was danger, all within was turbulence. Still the very evils to which the Spartans were subjected—their paucity of numbers—their dissensions with their neighbours—their pent up and encompassed situation in their mountainous confines—even the preponderating power of the warlike chiefs, among whom the unequal divisions of property produced constant feuds—served to keep alive the elements of the great Doric character; and left it the task of the first legislative genius rather to restore and to harmonize, than to invent and create.
IV. The history of Sparta, up until the time of Lycurgus, is the story of a state struggling to survive among hostile neighbors; the power of the leaders weakened the authority of the kings; and while there was danger outside, there was chaos inside. Yet, the very challenges the Spartans faced—their small population—their conflicts with neighbors—their isolated and surrounded position in the mountains—even the dominant power of the militaristic leaders, among whom the unequal distribution of property caused constant fights—helped to keep alive the elements of the strong Doric character; and it was up to the first legislative genius to restore and harmonize rather than to invent and create.
As I am writing the history, not of Greece, but of Athens, I do not consider it necessary that I should detail the legendary life of Lycurgus. Modern writers have doubted his existence, but without sufficient reason:—such assaults on our belief are but the amusements of skepticism. All the popular accounts of Lycurgus agree in this— that he was the uncle of the king (Charilaus, an infant), and held the rank of protector—that unable successfully to confront a powerful faction raised against him, he left Sparta and travelled into Crete, where all the ancient Doric laws and manners were yet preserved, vigorous and unadulterated. There studying the institutions of Minos, he beheld the model for those of Sparta. Thence he is said to have passed into Asia Minor, and to have been the first who collected and transported to Greece the poems of Homer 127, hitherto only partially known in that country. According to some writers, he travelled also into Egypt; and could we credit one authority, which does not satisfy even the credulous Plutarch, he penetrated into Spain and Libya, and held converse with the Gymnosophists of India.
As I write about history, not of Greece in general, but of Athens specifically, I don’t think it’s necessary to go into the legendary life of Lycurgus. Modern writers have questioned his existence, but without good reason—these challenges to our beliefs are just the distractions of skepticism. All the popular stories about Lycurgus agree on this: he was the uncle of the king (Charilaus, who was just a baby) and served as a protector. Unable to face a powerful faction that rose against him, he left Sparta and traveled to Crete, where all the ancient Doric laws and customs were still preserved in their original form. There, studying the systems of Minos, he found inspiration for those of Sparta. From there, he is said to have moved on to Asia Minor, where he was the first to gather and bring to Greece the poems of Homer 127, which had only been partly known in that region. Some writers claim he also traveled to Egypt, and if we could believe one source, which even the credulous Plutarch doesn’t fully accept, he went as far as Spain and Libya and interacted with the Gymnosophists of India.
Returned to Sparta, after many solicitations, he found the state in disorder: no definite constitution appears to have existed; no laws were written. The division of the regal authority between two kings must have produced jealousy—and jealousy, faction. And the power so divided weakened the monarchic energy without adding to the liberties of the people. A turbulent nobility—rude, haughty mountain chiefs— made the only part of the community that could benefit by the weakness of the crown, and feuds among themselves prevented their power from becoming the regular and organized authority of a government 128. Such disorders induced prince and people to desire a reform; the interference of Lycurgus was solicited; his rank and his travels gave him importance; and he had the wisdom to increase it by obtaining from Delphi (the object of the implicit reverence of the Dorians) an oracle in his favour.
Returned to Sparta, after many requests, he found the state in chaos: there didn’t seem to be a clear constitution, and there were no written laws. The split of royal power between two kings likely created jealousy—and jealousy led to factionalism. This division of power weakened the monarch’s authority without enhancing the people’s freedoms. A rebellious nobility—rough, arrogant mountain chiefs—was the only group in society that could take advantage of the crown’s weakness, and their internal conflicts kept them from becoming a unified and organized government 128. Such disorder prompted both the prince and the people to seek a reform; Lycurgus’s intervention was requested; his noble status and travels gave him influence; and he wisely strengthened it by securing an oracle from Delphi (the revered site for the Dorians) in his favor.
Thus called upon and thus encouraged, Lycurgus commenced his task. I enter not into the discussion whether he framed an entirely new constitution, or whether he restored the spirit of one common to his race and not unfamiliar to Sparta. Common sense seems to me sufficient to assure us of the latter. Let those who please believe that one man, without the intervention of arms—not as a conqueror, but a friend—could succeed in establishing a constitution, resting not upon laws, but manners—not upon force, but usage—utterly hostile to all the tastes, desires, and affections of human nature: moulding every the minutest detail of social life into one system—that system offering no temptation to sense, to ambition, to the desire of pleasure, or the love of gain, or the propensity to ease—but painful, hard, steril, and unjoyous;—let those who please believe that a system so created could at once be received, be popularly embraced, and last uninterrupted, unbroken, and without exciting even the desire of change for four hundred years, without having had any previous foundation in the habits of a people—without being previously rooted by time, custom, superstition, and character into their breasts. For my part, I know that all history furnishes no other such example; and I believe that no man was ever so miraculously endowed with the power to conquer nature. 129
Called upon and encouraged, Lycurgus began his task. I'm not going to discuss whether he created a completely new constitution or revived one that was already familiar to his people and not unknown to Sparta. To me, common sense suggests the latter. Let those who wish believe that one man, without resorting to violence—not as a conqueror, but as a friend—could establish a constitution based not on laws, but on customs—not on force, but on practices—totally opposed to all human tastes, desires, and feelings: shaping every tiny aspect of social life into one system—which offers no appeal to the senses, ambition, pleasure, love for profit, or the desire for comfort—but is painful, hard, barren, and joyless;—let those who wish believe that a system designed this way could be readily accepted, widely embraced, and maintain stability, unbroken and without anyone yearning for change for four hundred years, without any prior foundation in the people's habits—without being deeply embedded over time, through custom, superstition, and character in their hearts. For my part, I know that no other example like this exists in all of history; and I believe that no one has ever been so miraculously gifted with the ability to conquer nature. 129
But we have not the smallest reason, the slightest excuse, for so pliant a credulity. We look to Crete, in which, previous to Lycurgus, the Dorians had established their laws and customs, and we see at once the resemblance to the leading features of the institutions of Lycurgus; we come with Aristotle to the natural conclusion, that what was familiar to the Dorian Crete was not unknown to the Dorian Sparta, and that Lycurgus did not innovate, but restore and develop, the laws and the manners which, under domestic dissensions, might have undergone a temporary and superficial change, but which were deeply implanted in the national character and the Doric habits. That the regulations of Lycurgus were not regarded as peculiar to Sparta, but as the most perfect development of the Dorian constitution, we learn from Pindar 130, when he tells us that “the descendants of Pamphylus and of the Heraclidae wish always to retain the Doric institutions of Aegimius.” Thus regarded, the legislation of Lycurgus loses its miraculous and improbable character, while we still acknowledge Lycurgus himself as a great and profound statesman, adopting the only theory by which reform can be permanently wrought, and suiting the spirit of his laws to the spirit of the people they were to govern. When we know that his laws were not written, that he preferred engraving them only on the hearts of his countrymen, we know at once that he must have legislated in strict conformity to their early prepossessions and favourite notions. That the laws were unwritten would alone be a proof how little he introduced of what was alien and unknown.
But we have no reason at all, not even the slightest excuse, for such a flexible belief. We look to Crete, where, before Lycurgus, the Dorians established their laws and customs, and we immediately notice the similarities to the main features of Lycurgus's institutions. We arrive at the natural conclusion—along with Aristotle—that what was common in Dorian Crete was not unfamiliar to Dorian Sparta. Lycurgus didn’t innovate; he restored and developed laws and customs that, due to domestic conflicts, may have experienced temporary and superficial changes but were deeply rooted in the national character and Dorian habits. We learn from Pindar 130 that the regulations of Lycurgus were not seen as unique to Sparta, but as the most refined development of the Dorian constitution, as he mentions that “the descendants of Pamphylus and the Heraclidae wish always to retain the Doric institutions of Aegimius.” When viewed this way, Lycurgus's legislation loses its miraculous and unlikely nature, but we still recognize him as a remarkable and insightful statesman who embraced the only theory capable of bringing about lasting reform while aligning the spirit of his laws with the spirit of the people they were meant to govern. Knowing that his laws were unwritten and that he chose to engrave them only in the hearts of his fellow citizens shows that he must have legislated in complete accordance with their early beliefs and cherished ideas. The fact that the laws were unwritten alone demonstrates how little he introduced that was foreign and unknown.
V. I proceed to give a brief, but I trust a sufficient outline, of the Spartan constitution, social and political, without entering into prolix and frivolous discussions as to what was effected or restored by Lycurgus—what by a later policy.
V. I will provide a brief but hopefully adequate overview of the Spartan constitution, both social and political, without diving into long-winded and trivial debates about what was accomplished or reinstated by Lycurgus versus later policies.
There was at Sparta a public assembly of the people (called alia), as common to other Doric states, which usually met every full moon—upon great occasions more often. The decision of peace and war—the final ratification of all treaties with foreign powers—the appointment to the office of counsellor, and other important dignities—the imposition of new laws—a disputed succession to the throne,—were among those matters which required the assent of the people. Thus there was the show and semblance of a democracy, but we shall find that the intention and origin of the constitution were far from democratic. “If the people should opine perversely, the elders and the princes shall dissent.” Such was an addition to the Rhetra of Lycurgus. The popular assembly ratified laws, but it could propose none—it could not even alter or amend the decrees that were laid before it. It appears that only the princes, the magistrates, and foreign ambassadors had the privilege to address it.
At Sparta, there was a public assembly of the people (called alia), similar to other Doric states, which typically met every full moon—more often for significant events. The assembly made decisions on peace and war, finalized treaties with foreign powers, appointed counselors and other important officials, imposed new laws, and handled disputed successions to the throne—all issues that required the people's approval. So there was an appearance of democracy, but the intention and foundation of the constitution were far from democratic. “If the people were to think wrongly, the elders and the princes shall disagree.” This was an addition to the Rhetra of Lycurgus. The popular assembly could ratify laws, but it couldn't propose any—it couldn't even change or amend the decrees presented to it. It seems that only the princes, the magistrates, and foreign ambassadors were allowed to speak to it.
The main business of the state was prepared by the Gerusia, or council of elders, a senate consisting of thirty members, inclusive of the two kings, who had each but a simple vote in the assembly. This council was in its outline like the assemblies common to every Dorian state. Each senator was required to have reached the age of sixty; he was chosen by the popular assembly, not by vote, but by acclamation. The mode of election was curious. The candidates presented themselves successively before the assembly, while certain judges were enclosed in an adjacent room where they could hear the clamour of the people without seeing the person, of the candidate. On him whom they adjudged to have been most applauded the election fell. A mode of election open to every species of fraud, and justly condemned by Aristotle as frivolous and puerile 131. Once elected, the senator retained his dignity for life: he was even removed from all responsibility to the people. That Mueller should consider this an admirable institution, “a splendid monument of early Grecian customs,” seems to me not a little extraordinary. I can conceive no elective council less practically good than one to which election is for life, and in which power is irresponsible. That the institution was felt to be faulty is apparent, not because it was abolished, but because its more important functions became gradually invaded and superseded by a third legislative power, of which I shall speak presently.
The main business of the state was handled by the Gerusia, or council of elders, a senate made up of thirty members, including the two kings, who each had just one simple vote in the assembly. This council resembled the assemblies typical of every Dorian state. Each senator had to be at least sixty years old; they were selected by the popular assembly, not through a vote, but by acclamation. The election process was unusual. Candidates took turns presenting themselves to the assembly, while certain judges were placed in a separate room where they could hear the crowd's reaction but not see the candidates. The judges chose the candidate who received the loudest applause. This method of election was susceptible to all kinds of manipulation and was rightly criticized by Aristotle as trivial and childish 131. Once elected, a senator held the position for life and was exempt from any accountability to the people. It seems quite extraordinary that Mueller would view this as an admirable system, "a splendid monument of early Grecian customs." I can't imagine a less effective elective council than one where the election lasts for life and where power goes unchecked. The flaws in this institution were evident, not because it was abolished, but because its more significant functions were gradually taken over and replaced by a third legislative power, which I will discuss shortly.
The original duties of the Gerusia were to prepare the decrees and business to be submitted to the people; they had the power of inflicting death or degradation without written laws, they interpreted custom, and were intended to preserve and transmit it. The power of the kings may be divided into two heads—power at home—power abroad: power as a prince—power as a general. In the first it was limited and inconsiderable. Although the kings presided over a separate tribunal, the cases brought before their court related only to repairs of roads, to the superintendence of the intercourse with other states, and to questions of inheritance and adoption.
The original responsibilities of the Gerusia were to prepare the laws and matters to be presented to the people; they had the authority to impose death or punishment without written laws, they interpreted customs, and were meant to preserve and pass them down. The power of the kings can be split into two main areas—power at home and power abroad: power as a ruler and power as a military leader. At home, their authority was limited and not very significant. Even though the kings led a separate court, the cases heard in their court were only about road repairs, managing relations with other states, and issues of inheritance and adoption.
When present at the council they officiated as presidents, but without any power of dictation; and, if absent, their place seems easily to have been supplied. They united the priestly with the regal character; and to the descendants of a demigod a certain sanctity was attached, visible in the ceremonies both at demise and at the accession to the throne, which appeared to Herodotus to savour rather of Oriental than Hellenic origin. But the respect which the Spartan monarch received neither endowed him with luxury nor exempted him from control. He was undistinguished by his garb—his mode of life, from the rest of the citizens. He was subjected to other authorities, could be reprimanded, fined, suspended, exiled, put to death. If he went as ambassador to foreign states, spies were not unfrequently sent with him, and colleagues the most avowedly hostile to his person associated in the mission. Thus curbed and thus confined was his authority at home, and his prerogative as a king. But by law he was the leader of the Spartan armies. He assumed the command—he crossed the boundaries, and the limited magistrate became at once an imperial despot! 132 No man could question—no law circumscribed his power. He raised armies, collected money in foreign states, and condemned to death without even the formality of a trial. Nothing, in short, curbed his authority, save his responsibility on return. He might be a tyrant as a general; but he was to account for the tyranny when he relapsed into a king. But this distinction was one of the wisest parts of the Spartan system; for war requires in a leader all the license of a despot; and triumph, decision, and energy can only be secured by the unfettered exercise of a single will. Nor did early Rome owe the extent of her conquests to any cause more effective than the unlicensed discretion reposed by the senate in the general. 133
When they were at the council, they acted as presidents, but without the power to dictate; and when they were absent, it seems their roles were easily filled. They combined the roles of priest and king; their descendants, seen as demigods, had a certain sacredness associated with them, evident in the rituals during death and when taking the throne, which Herodotus thought had more of an Eastern than a Greek feel. However, the respect the Spartan king received didn't mean he lived in luxury or was beyond control. He dressed like the other citizens and lived no differently. He was subject to various authorities, could be reprimanded, fined, suspended, exiled, or even killed. If he went as an ambassador to other nations, spies were often sent along with him, and he had colleagues who were openly hostile to him on the mission. Thus, his authority at home and his royal powers were limited. Yet, by law, he was the leader of the Spartan armies. He took command, crossed borders, and at that moment, the limited magistrate turned into an imperial ruler! No one could question his power—no laws restricted him. He raised armies, gathered funds from foreign states, and sentenced people to death without even a trial. In short, nothing limited his authority except the accountability he faced upon his return. He could be a tyrant as a general; however, he had to justify that tyranny once he returned to his role as king. This distinction was one of the smartest parts of the Spartan system, as war requires a leader to have the freedom of a despot; victory, decisiveness, and energy are only possible through the unrestricted exercise of a single will. Early Rome also owed the breadth of its conquests to the unchecked discretion that the Senate granted to its general.
VI. We have now to examine the most active and efficient part of the government, viz., the Institution of the Ephors. Like the other components of the Spartan constitution, the name and the office of ephor were familiar to other states in the great Dorian family; but in Sparta the institution soon assumed peculiar features, or rather, while the inherent principles of the monarchy and the gerusia remained stationary, those of the ephors became expanded and developed. It is clear that the later authority of the ephors was never designed by Lycurgus or the earlier legislators. It is entirely at variance with the confined aristocracy which was the aim of the Spartan, and of nearly every genuine Doric 134 constitution. It made a democracy as it were by stealth. This powerful body consisted of five persons, chosen annually by the people. In fact, they may be called the representatives of the popular will—the committee, as it were, of the popular council. Their original power seems to have been imperfectly designed; it soon became extensive and encroaching. At first the ephoralty was a tribunal for civil, as the gerusia was for criminal, causes; it exercised a jurisdiction over the Helots and Perioeci, over the public market, and the public revenue. But its character consisted in this:—it was strictly a popular body, chosen by the people for the maintenance of their interests. Agreeably to this character, it soon appears arrogating the privilege of instituting an inquiry into the conduct of all officials except the counsellors. Every eighth year, selecting a dark night when the moon withheld her light, the ephors watched the aspect of the heavens, and if any shooting star were visible in the expanse, the kings were adjudged to have offended the Deity and were suspended from their office until acquitted of their guilt by the oracle of Delphi or the priests at Olympia. Nor was this prerogative of adjudging the descendants of Hercules confined to a superstitious practice: they summoned the king before them, no less than the meanest of the magistrates, to account for imputed crimes. In a court composed of the counsellors (or gerusia), and various other magistrates, they appeared at once as accusers and judges; and, dispensing with appeal to a popular assembly, subjected even royalty to a trial of life and death. Before the Persian war they sat in judgment on the King Cleomenes for an accusation of bribery;—just after the Persian war, they resolved upon the execution of the Regent Pausanias. In lesser offences they acted without the formality of this council, and fined or reprimanded their kings for the affability of their manners, or the size 135 of their wives. Over education—over social habits-over the regulations relative to ambassadors and strangers—over even the marshalling of armies and the number of troops, they extended their inquisitorial jurisdiction. They became, in fact, the actual government of the state.
VI. Now we need to look at the most active and effective part of the government, which is the Ephors. Like other parts of the Spartan constitution, the title and role of ephor were known to other states in the broader Dorian family; however, in Sparta, this institution quickly took on unique characteristics. While the fundamental aspects of the monarchy and the gerusia remained unchanged, the ephors expanded and developed. It's clear that the later authority of the ephors wasn't intended by Lycurgus or earlier lawmakers. It completely conflicted with the limited aristocracy that the Spartans and nearly every true Doric constitution aimed for. It created a sort of democracy in a sneakily deceptive way. This powerful group consisted of five members, elected annually by the people. Essentially, they can be seen as representatives of the popular will—the committee of the public council. Their initial power seems to have been poorly planned; it quickly grew extensive and intrusive. At first, the ephoralty was a court for civil issues, while the gerusia handled criminal cases; it had authority over the Helots and Perioeci, as well as the public market and finances. But its defining feature was that it was strictly a popular body, chosen by the people to protect their interests. In line with this role, they quickly began to claim the right to investigate the actions of all officials except the counsellors. Every eighth year, on a dark night when the moon was hidden, the ephors would observe the skies, and if a shooting star appeared, the kings were considered to have offended the gods and were suspended from their positions until proven innocent by the oracle of Delphi or the priests at Olympia. This power to judge the descendants of Hercules wasn't limited to just superstitious rituals; they summoned the kings, just like the lowest magistrates, to answer for any alleged wrongdoings. In a court made up of the counsellors (or gerusia) and various other magistrates, they acted as both accusers and judges, bypassing the need for a popular assembly and even putting royalty on trial for life and death. Before the Persian war, they judged King Cleomenes for accusations of bribery; shortly after the Persian war, they decided to execute Regent Pausanias. For lesser offenses, they operated without the formalities of this council, fining or reprimanding their kings for being too friendly or for the appearance of their wives. They extended their oversight to education, social customs, regulations regarding ambassadors and foreigners, and even the organization of armies and troop counts. They effectively became the actual governing body of the state.
It is easy to perceive that it was in the nature of things that the institution of the ephors should thus encroach until it became the prevalent power. Its influence was the result of the vicious constitution of the gerusia, or council. Had that assembly been properly constituted, there would have been no occasion for the ephors. The gerusia was evidently meant, by the policy of Lycurgus, and by its popular mode of election, for the only representative assembly. But the absurdity of election for life, with irresponsible powers, was sufficient to limit its acceptation among the people. Of two assemblies—the ephors and the gerusia—we see the one elected annually, the other for life—the one responsible to the people, the other not—the one composed of men, busy, stirring, ambitious, in the vigour of life—the other of veterans, past the ordinary stimulus of exertion, and regarding the dignity of office rather as the reward of a life than the opening to ambition. Of two such assemblies it is easy to foretell which would lose, and which would augment, authority. It is also easy to see, that as the ephors increased in importance, they, and not the gerusia, would become the check to the kingly authority. To whom was the king accountable? To the people:—the ephors were the people’s representatives! This part of the Spartan constitution has not, I think, been sufficiently considered in what seems to me its true light; namely, that of a representative government. The ephoralty was the focus of the popular power. Like an American Congress or an English House of Commons, it prevented the action of the people by acting in behalf of the people. To representatives annually chosen, the multitude cheerfully left the management of their interests 136. Thus it was true that the ephors prevented the encroachments of the popular assembly;—but how? by encroaching themselves, and in the name of the people! When we are told that Sparta was free from those democratic innovations constant in Ionian states, we are not told truly. The Spartan populace was constantly innovating, not openly, as in the noisy Agora of Athens, but silently and ceaselessly, through their delegated ephors. And these dread and tyrant FIVE—an oligarchy constructed upon principles the most liberal—went on increasing their authority, as civilization, itself increasing, rendered the public business more extensive and multifarious, until they at length became the agents of that fate which makes the principle of change at once the vital and the consuming element of states. The ephors gradually destroyed the constitution of Sparta; but, without the ephors, it may be reasonably doubted whether the constitution would have survived half as long. Aristotle (whose mighty intellect is never more luminously displayed than when adjudging the practical workings of various forms of government) paints the evils of the ephoral magistrature, but acknowledges that it gave strength and durability to the state. “For,” 137 he says, “the people were contented on account of their ephors, who were chosen from the whole body.” He might have added, that men so chosen, rarely too selected from the chiefs, but often from the lower ranks, were the ablest and most active of the community, and that the fewness of their numbers gave energy and unity to their councils. Had the other part of the Spartan constitution (absurdly panegyrized) been so formed as to harmonize with, even in checking, the power of the ephors; and, above all, had it not been for the lamentable errors of a social system, which, by seeking to exclude the desire of gain, created a terrible reaction, and made the Spartan magistrature the most venal and corrupt in Greece—the ephors might have sufficed to develop all the best principles of government. For they went nearly to recognise the soundest philosophy of the representative system, being the smallest number of representatives chosen, without restriction, from the greatest number of electors, for short periods, and under strong responsibilities. 138
It’s clear that it was inevitable for the institution of the ephors to encroach until it became the dominant power. Their influence stemmed from the flawed structure of the gerusia, or council. If that assembly had been properly organized, there would have been no need for the ephors. The gerusia was clearly intended, according to Lycurgus's policy and its popular election method, to be the only representative assembly. However, the ridiculous idea of lifetime elections with unchecked powers was enough to limit its acceptance among the people. Between the two assemblies—the ephors and the gerusia—we see one chosen annually and the other for life; one responsible to the people and the other not; one made up of active, ambitious men in the prime of life, and the other of veterans past their prime, viewing their role more as a reward for a lifetime of service than as a chance for ambition. It’s easy to predict which of these two assemblies would lose authority and which would gain it. As the ephors grew in power, they, not the gerusia, would become the check on the king’s authority. The king was accountable to the people—the ephors were the representatives of the people! I believe this aspect of the Spartan constitution has not been given enough consideration in its true form, which is that of a representative government. The ephors were the center of popular power. Like an American Congress or an English House of Commons, they represented the people, managing their interests on their behalf. The public willingly entrusted their interests to representatives chosen annually. So, it was true that the ephors prevented the power of the popular assembly—but how? By encroaching themselves, all in the name of the people! When we hear that Sparta was free from the democratic changes common in Ionian states, that’s not entirely accurate. The Spartan populace was constantly making changes—not openly, like the bustling Agora of Athens, but quietly and continuously, through their elected ephors. And these feared and powerful FIVE—an oligarchy formed on the most liberal principles—increased their authority as civilization advanced and made public affairs more complex, eventually becoming the agents of a fate that made change both the lifeblood and the destructive force of states. The ephors gradually dismantled Sparta's constitution; but without them, it’s reasonable to doubt that the constitution would have lasted as long. Aristotle, whose brilliant mind shines brightest when analyzing the practical workings of different government forms, highlights the problems with the ephoral magistracy but acknowledges that it contributed to the strength and longevity of the state. “For,” he says, “the people were satisfied because of their ephors, who were elected from the entire population.” He could have added that those chosen often came not only from the elite but also from lower ranks, representing the most capable and active members of society, and that their small number provided energy and unity to their decision-making. If the other part of the Spartan constitution—excessively praised—had been designed to work with, and even check, the power of the ephors; and especially if it hadn’t been for the unfortunate flaws of a social system that, in trying to eliminate profit-seeking, caused a major backlash, making the Spartan magistracy the most corrupt in Greece—the ephors might have been enough to foster all the best principles of governance. Since they almost embodied the most solid philosophy of the representative system, comprising the fewest representatives chosen without restriction from the largest pool of voters, for short terms, and under strong accountability.
I pass now to the social system of the Spartans.
I will now discuss the social system of the Spartans.
VII. If we consider the situation of the Spartans at the time of Lycurgus, and during a long subsequent period, we see at once that to enable them to live at all, they must be accustomed to the life of a camp;—they were a little colony of soldiers, supporting themselves, hand and foot, in a hostile country, over a population that detested them. In such a situation certain qualities were not praiseworthy alone—they were necessary. To be always prepared for a foe—to be constitutionally averse to indolence—to be brave, temperate, and hardy, were the only means by which to escape the sword of the Messenian and to master the hatred of the Helot. Sentinels they were, and they required the virtues of sentinels: fortunately, these necessary qualities were inherent in the bold mountain tribes that had long roved among the crags of Thessaly, and wrestled for life with the martial Lapithae. But it now remained to mould these qualities into a system, and to educate each individual in the habits which could best preserve the community. Accordingly the child was reared, from the earliest age, to a life of hardship, discipline, and privation; he was starved into abstinence;—he was beaten into fortitude;—he was punished without offence, that he might be trained to bear without a groan;—the older he grew, till he reached manhood, the severer the discipline he underwent. The intellectual education was little attended to: for what had sentinels to do with the sciences or the arts? But the youth was taught acuteness, promptness, and discernment—for such are qualities essential to the soldier. He was stimulated to condense his thoughts, and to be ready in reply; to say little, and to the point. An aphorism bounded his philosophy. Such an education produced its results in an athletic frame, in simple and hardy habits—in indomitable patience—in quick sagacity. But there were other qualities necessary to the position of the Spartan, and those scarce so praiseworthy—viz., craft and simulation. He was one of a scanty, if a valiant, race. No single citizen could be spared the state: it was often better to dupe than to fight an enemy. Accordingly, the boy was trained to cunning as to courage. He was driven by hunger, or the orders of the leader over him, to obtain his food, in house or in field, by stealth;—if undiscovered, he was applauded; if detected, punished. Two main-springs of action were constructed within him—the dread of shame and the love of country. These were motives, it is true, common to all the Grecian states, but they seem to have been especially powerful in Sparta. But the last produced its abuse in one of the worst vices of the national character. The absorbing love for his native Sparta rendered the citizen singularly selfish towards other states, even kindred to that which he belonged to. Fearless as a Spartan,—when Sparta was unmenaced he was lukewarm as a Greek. And this exaggerated yet sectarian patriotism, almost peculiar to Sparta, was centred, not only in the safety and greatness of the state, but in the inalienable preservation of its institutions;—a feeling carefully sustained by a policy exceedingly jealous of strangers 139. Spartans were not permitted to travel. Foreigners were but rarely permitted a residence within the city: and the Spartan dislike to Athens arose rather from fear of the contamination of her principles than from envy at the lustre of her fame. When we find (as our history proceeds) the Spartans dismissing their Athenian ally from the siege of Ithome, we recognise their jealousy of the innovating character of their brilliant neighbour;—they feared the infection of the democracy of the Agora. This attachment to one exclusive system of government characterized all the foreign policy of Sparta, and crippled the national sense by the narrowest bigotry and the obtusest prejudice. Wherever she conquered, she enforced her own constitution, no matter how inimical to the habits of the people, never dreaming that what was good for Sparta might be bad for any other state. Thus, when she imposed the Thirty Tyrants on Athens, she sought, in fact, to establish her own gerusia; and, no doubt, she imagined it would become, not a curse, but a blessing to a people accustomed to the wildest freedom of a popular assembly. Though herself, through the tyranny of the ephors, the unconscious puppet of the democratic action, she recoiled from all other and more open forms of democracy as from a pestilence. The simple habits of the Spartan life assisted to confirm the Spartan prejudices. A dinner, a fine house, these sturdy Dorians regarded as a pitiable sign of folly. They had no respect for any other cultivation of the mind than that which produced bold men and short sentences. Them, nor the science of Aristotle, nor the dreams of Plato were fitted to delight. Music and dancing were indeed cultivated among them, and with success and skill; but the music and the dance were always of one kind—it was a crime to vary an air 140 or invent a measure. A martial, haughty, and superstitious tribe can scarcely fail to be attached to poetry,—war is ever the inspiration of song,—and the eve of battle to a Spartan was the season of sacrifice to the Muses. The poetical temperament seems to have been common among this singular people. But the dread of innovation, when carried to excess, has even worse effect upon literary genius than legislative science; and though Sparta produced a few poets gifted, doubtless, with the skill to charm the audience they addressed, not a single one of the number has bequeathed to us any other memorial than his name. Greece, which preserved, as in a common treasury, whatever was approved by her unerring taste, her wonderful appreciation of the beautiful, regarded the Spartan poetry with an indifference which convinces us of its want of value. Thebes, and not Sparta, has transmitted to us the Dorian spirit in its noblest shape: and in Pindar we find how lofty the verse that was inspired by its pride, its daring, and its sublime reverence for glory and the gods. As for commerce, manufactures, agriculture,—the manual arts—such peaceful occupations were beneath the dignity of a Spartan—they were strictly prohibited by law as by pride, and were left to the Perioeci or the Helots.
VII. If we look at the Spartans during Lycurgus's time and for a long period after, it’s clear that for them to survive, they had to be accustomed to a military lifestyle; they were a small group of soldiers living in a hostile land with a population that despised them. In this context, certain qualities weren’t just commendable—they were essential. Being always ready for an enemy, having a natural aversion to laziness, being brave, disciplined, and tough were the only ways to avoid the Messenian sword and deal with the Helots' hatred. They were sentinels and needed the virtues of sentinels. Luckily, these crucial traits were already present in the bold mountain tribes that had long roamed the crags of Thessaly and fought fiercely for survival against the martial Lapithae. But it was necessary to shape these qualities into a system and teach each individual the habits that would best support the community. So, from a young age, children were raised to endure hardship, discipline, and deprivation; they were trained to fast and withstand hunger, beaten into resilience, and punished even when not at fault to prepare them to endure silently; as they matured into manhood, the discipline became even tougher. Intellectual education received little attention: what did sentinels need with sciences or arts? However, youth was taught to be sharp, quick, and perceptive—qualities vital for soldiers. They were encouraged to express their thoughts concisely and respond swiftly; to speak little, but meaningfully. An aphorism defined their philosophy. This type of education resulted in a strong physique, simple and tough lifestyles, endless patience, and quick intelligence. But there were also other necessary traits for Spartans that were not as praiseworthy—namely, cunning and deceit. They belonged to a small, though brave, race. No single citizen could be spared from the state: sometimes, trickery was better than confronting an enemy. Thus, boys were trained in guile just as much as in bravery. Hunger or the orders of their leaders pushed them to acquire food stealthily, whether from homes or fields; if they did it unnoticed, they were praised; if caught, they faced punishment. Two main motivators were instilled in them—the fear of shame and love for their country. These were indeed common motives among all Greek states, but they seemed particularly strong in Sparta. However, this devotion led to one of the worst flaws in the national character. The overwhelming love for Sparta made the citizen notably selfish towards other states, even those closely related. Fearless as a Spartan—when Sparta was safe, they were indifferent as Greeks. This intense yet narrow patriotism, almost unique to Sparta, focused not only on the safety and greatness of the state, but also on the unchanging preservation of its institutions; this sentiment was carefully maintained by a policy that was very wary of outsiders 139. Spartans were not allowed to travel. Foreigners were rarely given permission to live in the city; and Spartans’ dislike for Athens stemmed more from fear of being influenced by its principles than from envy of its prestige. When we see (as our history continues) Spartans dismissing their Athenian ally from the siege of Ithome, it highlights their apprehension about the innovative nature of their brilliant neighbor; they feared the contagious effects of Athenian democracy. This loyalty to a singular government approach defined all of Sparta's foreign policies and stifled a national perspective through the narrowest biases and dullest prejudices. Wherever they conquered, they imposed their own constitution, regardless of how unsuitable it was for the local customs, never considering that what worked for Sparta might be harmful for others. Thus, when they imposed the Thirty Tyrants on Athens, they aimed to establish their own gerusia, believing it would not be a curse, but a benefit to a people used to the most extreme freedom of a popular assembly. Though themselves, through the tyranny of the ephors, became unwitting pawns of democratic actions, they recoiled from all more open forms of democracy as if they were a plague. The simple Spartan lifestyle reinforced their existing prejudices. A well-laid dinner or a nice house were seen as unfortunate signs of foolishness by these sturdy Dorians. They valued only that form of intellectual cultivation that produced bold men and concise speech. Neither the science of Aristotle nor the ideals of Plato were appealing to them. Music and dance were indeed practiced among them, and they excelled at it; however, the music and dancing were uniform—it was frowned upon to change a tune 140 or create a new rhythm. A proud, martial, and superstitious tribe is bound to appreciate poetry—war is always an inspiration for songs—and the eve of battle was a time for Spartans to sacrifice to the Muses. The poetic spirit seemed widespread among this unique people. But extreme resistance to innovation can stifle literary creativity even more than legislative endeavors; and although Sparta produced a few poets undoubtedly skilled enough to entertain their audiences, not a single one has left us anything besides their name. Greece, which preserved everything approved by her infallible taste and deep appreciation for beauty, regarded Spartan poetry with indifference, revealing its lack of value. Thebes, not Sparta, has passed down the Dorian spirit in its most noble form; and in Pindar, we find verses inspired by its pride, daring, and deep reverence for glory and the gods. As for commerce, manufacturing, and agriculture—manual trades—such peaceful activities were considered beneath a Spartan’s dignity; they were strictly prohibited by both law and pride, and left to the Perioeci or Helots.
VIII. It was evidently necessary to this little colony to be united. Nothing unites men more than living together in common. The syssitia, or public tables, an institution which was common in Crete, in Corinth 141, and in Megara, effected this object in a mode agreeable to the Dorian manners. The society at each table was composed of men belonging to the same tribe or clan. New members could only be elected by consent of the rest. Each head of a family in Sparta paid for his own admission and that of the other members of his house. Men only belonged to them. The youths and boys had their own separate table. The young children, however, sat with their parents on low stools, and received a half share. Women were excluded. Despite the celebrated black broth, the table seems to have been sufficiently, if not elegantly, furnished. And the second course, consisting of voluntary gifts, which was supplied by the poorer members from the produce of the chase—by the wealthier from their flocks, orchards, poultry, etc., furnished what by Spartans were considered dainties. Conversation was familiar, and even jocose, and relieved by songs. Thus the public tables (which even the kings were ordinarily obliged to attend) were rendered agreeable and inviting by the attractions of intimate friendship and unrestrained intercourse.
VIII. It was clearly essential for this small colony to be united. Nothing brings people together like living in close quarters. The syssitia, or public tables, an institution common in Crete, Corinth 141, and Megara, served this purpose in a way that suited Dorian customs. The members at each table were made up of men from the same tribe or clan. New members could only join with the agreement of the others. Each family head in Sparta paid for their own admission and for the admission of other family members. Only men were allowed to join. Young men and boys had their own separate table. However, young children sat with their parents on low stools and received half a portion. Women were not allowed. Despite the renowned black broth, the table appears to have been adequately, if not elegantly, supplied. The second course, made up of voluntary contributions from poorer members through hunting and from wealthier members through their flocks, orchards, poultry, etc., provided what Spartans considered delicacies. Conversation was casual and even playful, often accompanied by songs. Thus, the public tables (which even kings usually had to attend) were made enjoyable and inviting through the warmth of friendship and open conversation.
IX. The obscurest question relative to the Spartan system is that connected with property. It was evidently the intention of Lycurgus or the earlier legislators to render all the divisions of land and wealth as equal as possible. But no law can effect what society forbids. The equality of one generation cannot be transmitted to another. It may be easy to prevent a great accumulation of wealth, but what can prevent poverty? While the acquisition of lands by purchase was forbidden, no check was imposed on its acquisition by gift or testament; and in the time of Aristotle land had become the monopoly of the few. Sparta, like other states, had consequently her inequalities—her comparative rich and her positive poor—from an early period in her known history. As land descended to women, so marriages alone established great disparities of property. “Were the whole territory,” says Aristotle, “divided into five portions, two would belong to the women.” The regulation by which the man who could not pay his quota to the syssitia was excluded from the public tables, proves that it was not an uncommon occurrence to be so excluded; and indeed that exclusion grew at last so common, that the public tables became an aristocratic instead of a democratic institution. Aristotle, in later times, makes it an objection to the ephoral government that poor men were chosen ephors, and that their venality arose from their indigence—a moral proof that poverty in Sparta must have been more common than has generally been supposed 142;—men of property would not have chosen their judges and dictators in paupers. Land was held and cultivated by the Helots, who paid a certain fixed proportion of the produce to their masters. It is said that Lycurgus forbade the use of gold and silver, and ordained an iron coinage; but gold and silver were at that time unknown as coins in Sparta, and iron was a common medium of exchange throughout Greece. The interdiction of the precious metals was therefore of later origin. It seems to have only related to private Spartans. For those who, not being Spartans of the city—that is to say, for the Laconians or Perioeci— engaged in commerce, the interdiction could not have existed. A more pernicious regulation it is impossible to conceive. While it effectually served to cramp the effects of emulation—to stint the arts—to limit industry and enterprise—it produced the direct object it was intended to prevent;—it infected the whole state with the desire of gold—it forbade wealth to be spent, in order that wealth might be hoarded; every man seems to have desired gold precisely because he could make very little use of it! From the king to the Helot 143, the spirit of covetousness spread like a disease. No state in Greece was so open to bribery—no magistracy so corrupt as the ephors. Sparta became a nation of misers precisely because it could not become a nation of spendthrifts. Such are the results which man produces when his legislation deposes nature!
IX. The most unclear issue about the Spartan system is the one related to property. Clearly, Lycurgus or the earlier lawmakers aimed to make the distribution of land and wealth as equal as possible. However, no law can change what society refuses to accept. The equality of one generation can't be passed on to the next. It may be easy to stop significant wealth accumulation, but how can we prevent poverty? Although buying land was illegal, there were no restrictions on acquiring it through gifts or wills; by Aristotle's time, land had become concentrated in the hands of a few. Like other states, Sparta inevitably had its inequalities—some people were relatively rich and others were outright poor—from early in its recorded history. As land was passed down to women, marriages alone created significant differences in property ownership. “If the whole territory,” Aristotle says, “were divided into five parts, two would belong to the women.” The rule that a man who couldn't pay his share to the syssitia was excluded from the public tables shows that such exclusions were quite common; in fact, this exclusion became so frequent that the public tables turned into an aristocratic institution rather than a democratic one. Later, Aristotle criticized the ephoral government for choosing poor men as ephors, arguing that their lack of wealth led to corruption—a moral indication that poverty in Sparta must have been more widespread than usually thought 142;—wealthy individuals would not have elected paupers as their judges and leaders. Land was farmed by the Helots, who gave a fixed portion of their produce to their masters. It’s said that Lycurgus banned the use of gold and silver and established an iron currency; however, gold and silver were not known as currency in Sparta at the time, and iron was a common means of exchange throughout Greece. Thus, the ban on precious metals likely came later. It seems to have only applied to private Spartans. For those who were not city Spartans—that is, the Laconians or Perioeci—who engaged in trade, such a ban couldn't have existed. It’s hard to imagine a more harmful regulation. While it effectively stifled competition, stunted the arts, and limited industry and innovation, it achieved the very outcome it aimed to prevent; it infected the entire state with a craving for gold—it discouraged spending wealth in order to hoard it; everyone seemed to want gold precisely because they could hardly use it! From the king to the Helot 143, the spirit of greed spread like a disease. No state in Greece was more vulnerable to bribery—no office was as corrupt as the ephors. Sparta turned into a nation of misers simply because it couldn't become a nation of spendthrifts. These are the consequences of when human laws defy nature!
X. In their domestic life the Spartans, like the rest of the Greeks, had but little pleasure in the society of their wives. At first the young husband only visited his bride by stealth—to be seen in company with her was a disgrace. But the women enjoyed a much greater freedom and received a higher respect in Sparta than elsewhere; the soft Asiatic distinctions in dignity between the respective sexes did not reach the hardy mountaineers of Lacedaemon; the wife was the mother of men! Brought up in robust habits, accustomed to athletic exercises, her person exposed in public processions and dances, which, but for the custom that made decorous even indecency itself, would have been indeed licentious, the Spartan maiden, strong, hardy, and half a partaker in the ceremonies of public life, shared the habits, aided the emulation, imbibed the patriotism, of her future consort. And, by her sympathy with his habits and pursuits, she obtained an influence and ascendency over him which was unknown in the rest of Greece. Dignified on public occasions, the Spartan matron was deemed, however, a virago in private life; and she who had no sorrow for a slaughtered son, had very little deference for a living husband. Her obedience to her spouse appears to have been the most cheerfully rendered upon those delicate emergencies when the service of the state required her submission to the embraces of another! 144
X. In their home life, the Spartans, like the other Greeks, found little enjoyment in the company of their wives. Initially, the young husband could only visit his bride secretly—being seen with her was seen as shameful. However, women had much more freedom and were held in higher regard in Sparta than in other places; the delicate distinctions between genders that existed in softer Asian cultures didn’t affect the tough mountain dwellers of Lacedaemon; the wife was the mother of strong men! Raised with a focus on physical fitness and used to athletic activities, her body was exposed in public parades and dances, which, due to local customs, were made acceptable even when they bordered on indecency. The Spartan girl was strong and resilient, participating in public life and sharing in the values, ambitions, and patriotism of her future husband. Because she was in tune with his habits and goals, she wielded an influence over him that was uncommon in the rest of Greece. In public, the Spartan matron was viewed with dignity, yet in private life, she was regarded as a fierce woman; one who showed little sorrow for a slain son displayed scant respect for a living husband. Her obedience to her husband seemed most willingly offered in those sensitive situations when serving the state required her to submit to the advances of another! 144
XI. We now come to the most melancholy and gloomy part of the Spartan system—the condition of the Helots.
XI. We now reach the most sad and dark aspect of the Spartan system—the situation of the Helots.
The whole fabric of the Spartan character rested upon slavery. If it were beneath a Spartan to labour—to maintain himself—to cultivate land—to build a house—to exercise an art;—to do aught else than to fight an enemy—to choose an ephor—to pass from the chase or the palaestra to the public tables—to live a hero in war—an aristocrat in peace,—it was clearly a supreme necessity to his very existence as a citizen, and even as a human being, that there should be a subordinate class of persons employed in the occupations rejected by himself, and engaged in providing for the wants of this privileged citizen. Without Helots the Spartan was the most helpless of human beings. Slavery taken from the Spartan state, the state would fall at once! It is no wonder, therefore, that this institution should have been guarded with an extraordinary jealousy—nor that extraordinary jealousy should have produced extraordinary harshness. It is exactly in proportion to the fear of losing power that men are generally tyrannical in the exercise of it. Nor is it from cruelty of disposition, but from the anxious curse of living among men whom social circumstances make his enemies because his slaves, that a despot usually grows ferocious, and that the urgings of suspicion create the reign of terror. Besides the political necessity of a strict and unrelaxed slavery, a Spartan would also be callous to the sufferings, from his contempt for the degradation, of the slave; as he despised the employments abandoned to the Helot, even so would he despise the wretch that exercised them. Thus the motives that render power most intolerant combined in the Spartan in his relations to the Helot—viz., 1st, necessity for his services, lost perhaps if the curb were ever relaxed—2dly, consummate contempt for the individual he debased. The habit of tyranny makes tyranny necessary. When the slave has been long maddened by your yoke, if you lighten it for a moment he rebels. He has become your deadliest foe, and self-preservation renders it necessary that him whom you provoke to vengeance you should crush to impotence. The longer, therefore, the Spartan government endured, the more cruel became the condition of the Helots. Not in Sparta were those fine distinctions of rank which exist where slavery is unknown, binding class with class by ties of mutual sympathy and dependance—so that Poverty itself may be a benefactor to Destitution. Even among the poor the Helot had no brotherhood! he was as necessary to the meanest as to the highest Spartan—his wrongs gave its very existence to the commonwealth. We cannot, then, wonder at the extreme barbarity with which the Spartans treated this miserable race; and we can even find something of excuse for a cruelty which became at last the instinct of self-preservation. Revolt and massacre were perpetually before a Spartan’s eyes; and what man will be gentle and unsuspecting to those who wait only the moment to murder him?
The entire structure of the Spartan way of life depended on slavery. If a Spartan felt it was beneath him to work—to provide for himself—to farm the land—to build a house—or to practice a trade; if he thought it was beneath him to do anything but fight an enemy, select an ephor, go from hunting or training to communal meals, and live as a warrior in battle—an aristocrat in peace—it was absolutely essential for his existence as a citizen, and even as a person, that there be a lower class of people engaged in the tasks he refused to do, ensuring the needs of this privileged citizen were met. Without Helots, a Spartan was utterly powerless. Remove slavery from the Spartan state, and it would collapse instantly! So, it’s no surprise that this institution was fiercely protected—and that this fierce protection led to extreme harshness. Typically, the greater the fear of losing power, the more tyrannical people become in wielding it. A despot often becomes brutal not out of a natural cruelty, but because he lives among individuals who, due to social circumstances, are made his enemies simply because they’re his slaves; this fosters an atmosphere of suspicion that leads to terror. Beyond the political necessity for strict, unwavering slavery, Spartans were also indifferent to the suffering of slaves, looking down on them for their perceived inferiority; just as they dismissed the tasks left to the Helots, they scorned the people who performed them. Thus, the reasons that drive people to be intolerant of power converged in the Spartan’s view of the Helots: 1) a need for their services, which would be lost if control was ever loosened; and 2) a deep-seated contempt for the individuals they demeaned. The habit of tyranny makes tyranny essential. Once a slave has been driven mad by oppression, if you ease their burden even momentarily, they may revolt. They become your fiercest enemy, and self-preservation necessitates that you crush those you’ve provoked to vengeance. Therefore, the longer the Spartan government existed, the more brutal the conditions of the Helots became. In Sparta, there were no refined distinctions of class that often exist in societies without slavery, where class ties people together through mutual sympathy and dependence—making even poverty a source of benefit for those in destitution. Among the poor, the Helots had no sense of camaraderie! They were just as essential to the lowliest Spartan as to the most elite one—their suffering was fundamental to the very survival of the state. Hence, we cannot be surprised by the extreme brutality with which the Spartans treated this miserable group; we can even find some justification for the cruelty that ultimately became instinctive for self-preservation. Rebellion and slaughter were constantly looming in a Spartan’s thoughts; what man can be gentle and trusting with those who are just waiting for the chance to kill him?
XII. The origin of the Helot race is not clearly ascertained: the popular notion that they were the descendants of the inhabitants of Helos, a maritime town subdued by the Spartans, and that they were degraded to servitude after a revolt, is by no means a conclusive account. Whether, as Mueller suggests, they were the original slave population of the Achaeans, or whether, as the ancient authorities held, they were such of the Achaeans themselves as had most obstinately resisted the Spartan sword, and had at last surrendered without conditions, is a matter it is now impossible to determine. For my own part, I incline to the former supposition, partly because of the wide distinction between the enslaved Helots and the (merely) inferior Perioeci, who were certainly Achaeans; a distinction which I do not think the different manner in which the two classes were originally subdued would suffice to account for; partly because I doubt whether the handful of Dorians who first fixed their dangerous settlement in Laconia could have effectually subjugated the Helots, if the latter had not previously been inured to slavery. The objection to this hypothesis—that the Helots could scarcely have so hated the Spartans if they had merely changed masters, does not appear to me very cogent. Under the mild and paternal chiefs of the Homeric age 145, they might have been subjected to a much gentler servitude. Accustomed to the manners and habits of their Achaean lords, they might have half forgotten their condition; and though governed by Spartans in the same external relations, it was in a very different spirit. The sovereign contempt with which the Spartans regarded the Helots, they would scarcely have felt for a tribe distinguished from the more honoured Perioeci only by a sterner valour and a greater regard for freedom; while that contempt is easily accounted for, if its objects were the previously subdued population of a country the Spartans themselves subdued.
XII. The origin of the Helot race isn't clearly established: the common belief that they were descendants of the residents of Helos, a coastal town conquered by the Spartans, and that they were reduced to servitude after a revolt, isn't a definitive explanation. Whether, as Mueller suggests, they were the original slave population of the Achaeans, or whether, as ancient sources claimed, they were Achaeans who had fiercely resisted the Spartan sword and ultimately surrendered unconditionally, is impossible to determine now. Personally, I lean toward the former idea, partly because of the significant difference between the enslaved Helots and the (merely) lower-status Perioeci, who were definitely Achaeans; a difference that I don't think can solely be explained by how the two groups were initially conquered. I also doubt that the small group of Dorians who first settled dangerously in Laconia could have effectively subdued the Helots if the latter hadn't already been accustomed to slavery. The argument against this theory—that the Helots wouldn't have hated the Spartans so much if they had simply changed masters—doesn't seem very convincing to me. Under the gentle and caring leaders of the Homeric age 145, they might have experienced a much milder form of servitude. Used to the ways and customs of their Achaean lords, they might have nearly forgotten their situation; and even though they were governed by Spartans in the same external relationships, the spirit of that governance was quite different. The deep contempt the Spartans held for the Helots wouldn’t have been felt for a group marked only by greater bravery and a stronger sense of freedom than the more respected Perioeci; while that contempt makes more sense if its targets were the already subdued people of a land that the Spartans themselves conquered.
The Helots were considered the property of the state—but they were intrusted and leased, as it were, to individuals; they were bound to the soil; even the state did not arrogate the power of selling them out of the country; they paid to their masters a rent in corn—the surplus profits were their own. It was easier for a Helot than for a Spartan to acquire riches—but riches were yet more useless to him. Some of the Helots attended their masters at the public tables, and others were employed in all public works: they served in the field as light-armed troops: they were occasionally emancipated, but there were several intermediate grades between the Helot and the freeman; their nominal duties were gentle indeed when compared with the spirit in which they were regarded and the treatment they received. That much exaggeration respecting the barbarity of their masters existed is probable enough; but the exaggeration itself, among writers accustomed to the institution of slavery elsewhere, and by no means addicted to an overstrained humanity, is a proof of the manner in which the treatment of the Helots was viewed by the more gentle slave-masters of the rest of Greece. They were branded with ineffaceable dishonour: no Helot might sing a Spartan song; if he but touched what belonged to a Spartan it was profaned—he was the Pariah of Greece. The ephors—the popular magistrates—the guardians of freedom—are reported by Aristotle to have entered office in making a formal declaration of war against the Helots—probably but an idle ceremony of disdain and insult. We cannot believe with Plutarch, that the infamous cryptia was instituted for the purpose he assigns—viz., that it was an ambuscade of the Spartan youths, who dispersed themselves through the country, and by night murdered whomsoever of the Helots they could meet. But it is certain that a select portion of the younger Spartans ranged the country yearly, armed with daggers, and that with the object of attaining familiarity with military hardships was associated that of strict, stern, and secret surveillance over the Helot population. No Helot, perhaps, was murdered from mere wantonness; but who does not see how many would necessarily have been butchered at the slightest suspicion of disaffection, or for the faintest utility of example? These miserable men were the objects of compassion to all Greece. “It was the common opinion,” says Aelian, “that the earthquake in Sparta was a judgment from the gods upon the Spartan inhumanity to the Helots.” And perhaps in all history (not even excepting that awful calmness with which the Italian historians narrate the cruelties of a Paduan tyrant or a Venetian oligarchy) there is no record of crime more thrilling than that dark and terrible passage in Thucydides which relates how two thousand Helots, the best and bravest of their tribe, were selected as for reward and freedom, how they were led to the temples in thanksgiving to the gods—and how they disappeared, their fate notorious—the manner of it a mystery!
The Helots were seen as the state’s property—but they were essentially assigned and rented out to individuals; they were tied to the land; even the state didn’t claim the right to sell them out of the country. They paid their masters rent in grain—the extra profits were theirs to keep. It was easier for a Helot to accumulate wealth than for a Spartan, but that wealth was mostly useless to them. Some Helots served their masters at communal meals, and others worked on public projects: they fought as light infantry in battle. Occasionally, some Helots were freed, but there were various stages between being a Helot and a free person; their official duties were mild compared to the way they were viewed and treated. It’s likely that there was a lot of exaggeration about the cruelty of their masters; however, the very exaggeration, especially by writers familiar with slavery in other contexts and not particularly inclined toward overly sentimental views, shows how the treatment of Helots was perceived by the kinder slave-masters in the rest of Greece. They were marked with lasting disgrace: no Helot could sing a Spartan song; if they touched anything that belonged to a Spartan, it was considered defiled—they were the outcasts of Greece. The ephors—the elected officials—the protectors of freedom—are said by Aristotle to have assumed office by formally declaring war on the Helots—likely just a meaningless gesture of scorn and insult. We cannot accept Plutarch’s belief that the infamous cryptia was set up for the reason he states—that it was a trap by Spartan youths who spread out through the land and killed any Helots they encountered at night. But it is true that a select group of young Spartans roamed the countryside each year, armed with daggers, and that their purpose of becoming familiar with military challenges was combined with strict, harsh, and secret surveillance over the Helot population. No Helot was likely killed out of mere malice; but who can deny that many would have been slain at the slightest hint of disloyalty, or simply to set an example? These unfortunate men were the subjects of pity throughout Greece. “It was the common belief,” says Aelian, “that the earthquake in Sparta was a divine punishment for the Spartans’ cruelty toward the Helots.” And perhaps throughout all history (not even including the chilling detachment with which Italian historians recount the atrocities of a Paduan tyrant or a Venetian ruling class) there is no record of crime more shocking than that dark and terrible account in Thucydides, which tells how two thousand Helots, the strongest and bravest of their people, were chosen as if for reward and freedom, how they were brought to the temples in gratitude to the gods—and how they vanished, their fate well-known—the details of it a mystery!
XIII. Besides the Helots, the Spartans exercised an authority over the intermediate class called the Perioeci. These were indubitably the old Achaean race, who had been reduced, not to slavery, but to dependance. They retained possession of their own towns, estimated in number, after the entire conquest of Messenia, at one hundred. They had their own different grades and classes, as the Saxons retained theirs after the conquest of the Normans. Among these were the traders and manufacturers of Laconia; and thus whatever art attained of excellence in the dominions of Sparta was not Spartan but Achaean. They served in the army, sometimes as heavy-armed, sometimes as light-armed soldiery, according to their rank or callings; and one of the Perioeci obtained the command at sea. They appear, indeed, to have been universally acknowledged throughout Greece as free citizens, yet dependant subjects. But the Spartans jealously and sternly maintained the distinction between exemption from the servitude of a Helot, and participation in the rights of a Dorian: the Helot lost his personal liberty—the Perioecus his political.
XIII. In addition to the Helots, the Spartans had authority over the intermediate class known as the Perioeci. These were clearly part of the old Achaean race, who had been reduced to a state of dependence rather than slavery. They still owned their own towns, which numbered around one hundred after the full conquest of Messenia. They had various grades and classes, similar to how the Saxons kept theirs after the Normans took over. Among these were the traders and manufacturers of Laconia; therefore, any artistic achievements in Sparta were not Spartan but Achaean. They served in the military, sometimes as heavy infantry and sometimes as light troops, depending on their rank or profession; and one of the Perioeci even commanded at sea. They seemed to be recognized throughout Greece as free citizens, yet still dependent subjects. However, the Spartans fiercely and strictly upheld the difference between being free from Helot servitude and enjoying the rights of a Dorian: the Helot lost his personal freedom, while the Perioecus lost his political freedom.
XIV. The free or purely Spartan population (as not improbably with every Doric state) was divided into three generic tribes—the Hyllean, the Dymanatan, and the Pamphylian: of these the Hyllean (the reputed descendants of the son of Hercules) gave to Sparta both her kings. Besides these tribes of blood or race, there were also five local tribes, which formed the constituency of the ephors, and thirty subdivisions called obes—according to which the more aristocratic offices appear to have been elected. There were also recognised in the Spartan constitution two distinct classes—the Equals and the Inferiors. Though these were hereditary divisions, merit might promote a member of the last—demerit degrade a member of the first. The Inferiors, though not boasting the nobility of the Equals, often possessed men equally honoured and powerful: as among the commoners of England are sometimes found persons of higher birth and more important station than among the peers—(a term somewhat synonymous with that of Equal.) But the higher class enjoyed certain privileges which we can but obscurely trace 146. Forming an assembly among themselves, it may be that they alone elected to the senate; and perhaps they were also distinguished by some peculiarities of education—an assertion made by Mr. Mueller, but not to my mind sufficiently established. With respect to the origin of this distinction between the Inferiors and the Equals, my own belief is, that it took place at some period (possibly during the Messenian wars) when the necessities of a failing population induced the Spartans to increase their number by the admixture either of strangers, but (as that hypothesis is scarce agreeable to Spartan manners) more probably of the Perioeci; the new citizens would thus be the Inferiors. Among the Greek settlements in Italy, it was by no means uncommon for a colony, once sufficiently established, only to admit new settlers even from the parent state upon inferior terms; and in like manner in Venice arose the distinction between the gentlemen and the citizens; for when to that sea-girt state many flocked for security and refuge, it seemed but just to give to the prior inhabitants the distinction of hosts, and to consider the immigrators as guests;—to the first a share in the administration and a superior dignity—to the last only shelter and repose.
XIV. The free or purely Spartan population (as likely with every Doric state) was divided into three main tribes—the Hyllean, the Dymanatan, and the Pamphylian. Of these, the Hyllean (the supposed descendants of Hercules’ son) produced both kings of Sparta. In addition to these blood-related tribes, there were five local tribes that made up the council of the ephors, and thirty subdivisions called obes—based on which the more aristocratic positions seemed to have been elected. The Spartan constitution also recognized two distinct classes—the Equals and the Inferiors. While these were hereditary divisions, a member of the Inferiors could rise based on merit, while someone from the Equals could fall due to demerit. The Inferiors, though lacking the nobility of the Equals, often had individuals who were equally respected and powerful: just as among the common people in England, there can be found individuals of higher birth and more significant status than among the peers—(a term somewhat similar to Equal). However, the higher class enjoyed certain privileges that we can only vaguely identify 146. Forming an assembly among themselves, they may have been the only ones to elect members to the senate; they were perhaps also marked by specific educational practices—an idea put forth by Mr. Mueller, but I find it not well established. Regarding the origin of this distinction between the Inferiors and the Equals, I believe it likely arose at some point (possibly during the Messenian wars) when the needs of a dwindling population prompted the Spartans to boost their numbers by incorporating either outsiders, though (as that idea doesn’t quite fit Spartan customs) more probably from the Perioeci; thus, the new citizens would be considered as Inferiors. Among the Greek settlements in Italy, it was not uncommon for a colony, once well-established, to only accept new settlers from the parent state on lesser terms; similarly, in Venice, the distinction between gentlemen and citizens emerged; as many sought refuge and security in that island state, it seemed fair to give the original inhabitants the status of hosts and regard the newcomers as guests—granting the former a role in administration and higher dignity—while offering the latter merely shelter and rest.
XV. Such are the general outlines of the state and constitution of Sparta—the firmest aristocracy that perhaps ever existed, for it was an aristocracy on the widest base. If some Spartans were noble, every Spartan boasted himself gentle. His birth forbade him to work, and his only profession was the sword. The difference between the meanest Spartan and his king was not so great as that between a Spartan and a Perioecus. Not only the servitude of the Helots, but the subjection of the Perioeci, perpetually nourished the pride of the superior race; and to be born a Spartan was to be born to power. The sense of superiority and the habit of command impart a certain elevation to the manner and the bearing. There was probably more of dignity in the poorest Spartan citizen than in the wealthiest noble of Corinth—the most voluptuous courtier of Syracuse. And thus the reserve, the decorum, the stately simplicity of the Spartan mien could not but impose upon the imagination of the other Greeks, and obtain the credit for correspondent qualities which did not always exist beneath that lofty exterior. To lively nations, affected by externals, there was much in that sedate majesty of demeanour; to gallant nations, much in that heroic valour; to superstitious nations, much in that proverbial regard to religious rites, which characterized the Spartan race. Declaimers on luxury admired their simplicity—the sufferers from innovation, their adherence to ancient manners. Many a victim of the turbulence of party in Athens sighed for the repose of the Lacedaemonian city; and as we always exaggerate the particular evils we endure, and admire most blindly the circumstances most opposite to those by which we are affected, so it was often the fashion of more intellectual states to extol the institutions of which they saw only from afar and through a glass the apparent benefits, without examining the concomitant defects. An Athenian might laud the Spartan austerity, as Tacitus might laud the German barbarism; it was the panegyric of rhetoric and satire, of wounded patriotism or disappointed ambition. Although the ephors made the government really and latently democratic, yet the concentration of its action made it seemingly oligarchic; and in its secrecy, caution, vigilance, and energy, it exhibited the best of the oligarchic features. Whatever was democratic by law was counteracted in its results by all that was aristocratic in custom. It was a state of political freedom, but of social despotism. This rigidity of ancient usages was binding long after its utility was past. For what was admirable at one time became pernicious at another; what protected the infant state from dissension, stinted all luxuriance of intellect in the more matured community. It is in vain that modern writers have attempted to deny this fact—the proof is before us. By her valour Sparta was long the most eminent state of the most intellectual of all countries; and when we ask what she has bequeathed to mankind—what she has left us in rivalry to that Athens, whose poetry yet animates, whose philosophy yet guides, whose arts yet inspire the world—we find only the names of two or three minor poets, whose works have perished, and some half a dozen pages of pithy aphorisms and pointed repartees!
XV. These are the general outlines of Sparta's structure and government—the strongest aristocracy that maybe ever existed, built on the broadest foundation. While some Spartans were noble, every Spartan considered himself refined. His birth prevented him from laboring, and his only profession was warfare. The gap between the lowest Spartan and his king was not as vast as that between a Spartan and a Perioecus. The oppression of the Helots and the subjugation of the Perioeci continually fed the pride of the dominant class; being born a Spartan meant being born into power. The feeling of superiority and the habit of leadership gave a certain dignity to their demeanor and conduct. There was likely more dignity in the poorest Spartan citizen than in the richest noble from Corinth or the most indulgent courtier from Syracuse. Thus, the composure, decorum, and majestic simplicity of the Spartan appearance could not help but impress the imagination of other Greeks, earning a reputation for qualities that didn’t always exist beneath that lofty surface. To lively nations, swayed by appearances, the calm majesty was significant; to brave nations, so was the heroic courage; and to superstitious nations, much was found in their famous respect for religious practices, which defined the Spartan people. Critics of luxury admired their simplicity, while those suffering from change admired their commitment to ancient traditions. Many victims of the political unrest in Athens longed for the peace of the Lacedaemonian city; and as we often exaggerate the specific troubles we face and blindly admire conditions that are contrary to what we experience, it became common for more intellectual states to praise institutions they only viewed from afar, seeing only the apparent benefits without examining the accompanying drawbacks. An Athenian might praise Spartan austerity, just as Tacitus might praise German barbarism; it was the rhetoric of flattery and satire, of hurt patriotism or unmet ambitions. Although the ephors made the government essentially democratic, the focused nature of its operations made it appear oligarchic. In its secrecy, caution, vigilance, and vigor, it showcased the best aspects of oligarchy. Whatever was democratic by law was undermined in practice by all that was aristocratic in tradition. It was a state of political freedom but social tyranny. This inflexibility of ancient customs remained binding long after it was useful. What was admirable at one point became harmful at another; what initially safeguarded the young state from conflict stifled intellectual growth in the more developed society. Modern writers have unsuccessfully attempted to deny this fact—evidence is all around us. Through its bravery, Sparta was for a long time the most prominent state in the most intellectually advanced country; and when we inquire what she has contributed to humanity—what she offers in rivalry to Athens, whose poetry still inspires, whose philosophy still guides, whose arts still motivate the world—we find only the names of two or three lesser poets, whose works have vanished, and a handful of pages of insightful sayings and clever retorts!
XVI. My object in the above sketch has been to give a general outline of the Spartan character and the Spartan system during the earlier and more brilliant era of Athenian history, without entering into unnecessary conjectures as to the precise period of each law and each change. The social and political state of Sparta became fixed by her conquest of Messenia. It is not within the plan of my undertaking to retail at length the legendary and for the most part fabulous accounts of the first and second Messenian wars. The first was dignified by the fate of the Messenian hero Aristodemus, and the fall of the rocky fortress of Ithome; its result was the conquest of Messenia (probably begun 743 B. C., ended 723); the inhabitants were compelled to an oath of submission, and to surrender to Sparta half their agricultural produce. After the first Messenian war, Tarentum was founded by a Spartan colony, composed, it is said, of youths 147, the offspring of Spartan women and Laconian men, who were dissatisfied with their exclusion from citizenship, and by whom the state was menaced with a formidable conspiracy shared by the Helots. Meanwhile, the Messenians, if conquered, were not subdued. Years rolled away, and time had effaced the remembrance of the past sufferings, but not of the ancient 148 liberties.
XVI. My aim in the above summary has been to provide a general overview of the Spartan character and system during the earlier and more glorious era of Athenian history, without diving into unnecessary speculation about the exact timing of each law and change. Sparta's social and political structure solidified after her conquest of Messenia. It's not part of my purpose to recount in detail the legendary, mostly fictional tales of the first and second Messenian wars. The first was significant due to the fate of the Messenian hero Aristodemus and the downfall of the rocky fortress of Ithome; it resulted in the conquest of Messenia (likely starting in 743 B.C. and ending in 723); the inhabitants were forced to take an oath of submission and to hand over half of their agricultural produce to Sparta. After the first Messenian war, Tarentum was established by a Spartan colony, reportedly made up of youths 147, the children of Spartan women and Laconian men who were unhappy with their exclusion from citizenship, and who posed a serious threat to the state along with the Helots. Meanwhile, although the Messenians were defeated, they were not completely subdued. Years passed, and time faded the memory of past sufferings, but not of the ancient 148 liberties.
It was among the youth of Messenia that the hope of the national deliverance was the most intensely cherished. At length, in Andania, the revolt broke forth. A young man, pre-eminent above the rest for birth, for valour, and for genius, was the head and the soul of the enterprise (probably B. C. 679). His name was Aristomenes. Forming secret alliances with the Argives and Arcadians, he at length ventured to raise his standard, and encountered at Dera, on their own domains, the Spartan force. The issue of the battle was indecisive; still, however, it seems to have seriously aroused the fears of Sparta: no further hostilities took place till the following year; the oracle at Delphi was solemnly consulted, and the god ordained the Spartans to seek their adviser in an Athenian. They sent to Athens and obtained Tyrtaeus. A popular but fabulous account 149 describes him as a lame teacher of grammar, and of no previous repute. His songs and his exhortations are said to have produced almost miraculous effects. I omit the romantic adventures of the hero Aristomenes, though it may be doubted whether all Grecian history can furnish passages that surpass the poetry of his reputed life. I leave the reader to learn elsewhere how he hung at night a shield in the temple of Chalcioecus, in the very city of the foe, with the inscription, that Aristomenes dedicated to the goddess that shield from the spoils of the Spartans—how he penetrated the secret recesses of Trophonius—how he was deterred from entering Sparta by the spectres of Helen and the Dioscuri—how, taken prisoner in an attempt to seize the women of Aegila, he was released by the love of the priestess of Ceres—how, again made captive, and cast into a deep pit with fifty of his men, he escaped by seizing hold of a fox (attracted thither by the dead bodies), and suffering himself to be drawn by her through dark and scarce pervious places to a hole that led to the upper air. These adventures, and others equally romantic, I must leave to the genius of more credulous historians.
It was among the youth of Messenia that the hope for national freedom was the most passionately held. Finally, in Andania, the uprising began. A young man, distinguished above the others for his noble birth, bravery, and talent, became the leader and driving force of the movement (probably B.C. 679). His name was Aristomenes. Forming secret alliances with the Argives and Arcadians, he eventually dared to raise his banner and confronted the Spartan forces at Dera, right in their territory. The outcome of the battle was inconclusive; however, it seems to have seriously heightened Sparta's fears: no further conflicts occurred until the following year; the oracle at Delphi was formally consulted, and the god instructed the Spartans to seek advice from an Athenian. They sent for Tyrtaeus from Athens. A popular but fanciful story 149 describes him as a lame grammar teacher with no previous fame. His poems and motivational speeches are said to have had almost miraculous effects. I’ll skip over the romantic adventures of the hero Aristomenes, even though it could be argued that few tales in Greek history rival the poetry of his legendary life. I’ll let the reader discover elsewhere how he hung a shield in the temple of Chalcioecus at night, right in the heart of the enemy's city, with the inscription that Aristomenes dedicated that shield to the goddess from the spoils of the Spartans—how he ventured into the hidden depths of Trophonius—how he was stopped from entering Sparta by the ghosts of Helen and the Dioscuri—how, captured while trying to take the women of Aegila, he was freed by the love of the priestess of Ceres—how, once again captured and thrown into a deep pit with fifty of his men, he escaped by grabbing a fox (drawn there by the dead bodies) and allowing himself to be pulled through dark and barely passable passages to a hole leading to the outside. I must leave these tales, and others just as fantastical, to the imagination of more gullible historians.
All that seems to me worthy of belief is, that after stern but unavailing struggles, the Messenians abandoned Andania, and took their last desperate station at Ira, a mountain at whose feet flows the river Neda, separating Messenia from Triphylia. Here, fortified alike by art and nature, they sustained a siege of eleven years. But with the eleventh the term of their resistance was completed. The slave of a Spartan of rank had succeeded in engaging the affections of a Messenian woman who dwelt without the walls of the mountain fortress. One night the guilty pair were at the house of the adulteress—the husband abruptly returned—the slave was concealed, and overheard that, in consequence of a violent and sudden storm, the Messenian guard had deserted the citadel, not fearing attack from the foe on so tempestuous a night, and not anticipating the inspection of Aristomenes, who at that time was suffering from a wound. The slave overheard—escaped—reached the Spartan camp—apprized his master Emperamus (who, in the absence of the kings, headed the troops) of the desertion of the guard:—an assault was agreed on: despite the darkness of the night, despite the violence of the rain, the Spartans marched on:—scaled the fortifications:—were within the walls. The fulfilment of dark prophecies had already portended the fate of the besieged; and now the very howling of the dogs in a strange and unwonted manner was deemed a prodigy. Alarmed, aroused, the Messenians betook themselves to the nearest weapons within their reach. Aristomenes, his son Gorgus, Theoclus, the guardian prophet of his tribe (whose valour was equal to his science), were among the first to perceive the danger. Night passed in tumult and disorder. Day dawned, but rather to terrify than encourage—the storm increased —the thunder burst—the lightning glared. What dismayed the besieged encouraged the besiegers. Still, with all the fury of despair, the Messenians fought on: the very women took part in the contest; death was preferable, even in their eyes, to slavery and dishonour. But the Spartans were far superior in number, and, by continual reliefs, the fresh succeeded to the weary. In arms for three days and three nights without respite, worn out with watching, with the rage of the elements, with cold, with hunger, and with thirst, no hope remained for the Messenians: the bold prophet declared to Aristomenes that the gods had decreed the fall of Messene, that the warning oracles were fulfilled. “Preserve,” he cried, “what remain of your forces—save yourselves. Me the gods impel to fall with my country!” Thus saying, the soothsayer rushed on the enemy, and fell at last covered with wounds and satiated with the slaughter himself had made. Aristomenes called the Messenians round him; the women and the children were placed in the centre of the band, guarded by his own son and that of the prophet. Heading the troop himself, he rushed on the foe, and by his gestures and the shaking of his spear announced his intention to force a passage, and effect escape. Unwilling yet more to exasperate men urged to despair, the Spartans made way for the rest of the besieged. So fell Ira! (probably B. C. 662). 150 The brave Messenians escaped to Mount Lyceum in Arcadia, and afterward the greater part, invited by Anaxilaus, their own countryman, prince of the Dorian colony at Rhegium in Italy, conquered with him the Zanclaeans of Sicily, and named the conquered town Messene. It still preserves the name 151. But Aristomenes, retaining indomitable hatred to Sparta, refused to join the colony. Yet hoping a day of retribution, he went to Delphi. What counsel he there received is unrecorded. But the deity ordained to Damagetes, prince of Jalysus in Rhodes, to marry the daughter of the best man of Greece. Such a man the prince esteemed the hero of the Messenians, and wedded the third daughter of Aristomenes. Still bent on designs against the destroyers of his country, the patriot warrior repaired to Rhodes, where death delivered the Spartans from the terror of his revenge. A monument was raised to his memory, and that memory, distinguished by public honours, long made the boast of the Messenians, whether those in distant exile, or those subjected to the Spartan yoke. Thus ended the second Messenian war. Such of the Messenians as had not abandoned their country were reduced to Helotism. The Spartan territory extended, and the Spartan power secured, that haughty state rose slowly to pre-eminence over the rest of Greece; and preserved, amid the advancing civilization and refinement of her neighbours, the stern and awing likeness of the heroic age:—In the mountains of the Peloponnesus, the polished and luxurious Greeks beheld, retained from change as by a spell, the iron images of their Homeric ancestry!
All that seems worthy of belief to me is that after tough but unsuccessful struggles, the Messenians abandoned Andania and took their last desperate stand at Ira, a mountain where the river Neda flows at its base, separating Messenia from Triphylia. Here, reinforced by both manmade defenses and natural barriers, they endured an eleven-year siege. However, after eleven years, their resistance came to an end. A slave of a high-ranking Spartan had managed to win the affection of a Messenian woman living just outside the mountain fortress. One night, while the two were at the woman's house, her husband unexpectedly returned home. The slave hid and overheard that due to a sudden and violent storm, the Messenian guard had deserted the citadel, fearing no attack from the enemy on such a stormy night and not expecting an inspection from Aristomenes, who was then dealing with a wound. The slave escaped, reached the Spartan camp, and informed his master Emperamus (who was leading the troops in the absence of the kings) about the guard's desertion. An assault was planned, and despite the darkness and heavy rain, the Spartans advanced, scaled the fortifications, and got inside the walls. Ominous prophecies had already hinted at the fate of the besieged, and now the unusual howling of dogs was considered a bad omen. Alarmed, the Messenians quickly grabbed whatever weapons they could find. Aristomenes, his son Gorgus, and Theoclus, the guardian prophet of his tribe (whose bravery matched his knowledge), were among the first to recognize the danger. The night passed in chaos. Daylight came, but instead of bringing hope, it brought terror—the storm worsened, thunder roared, and lightning flashed. What terrified the besieged only encouraged the besiegers. Still, fueled by desperate fury, the Messenians fought on; even the women joined the fight, viewing death as better than the shame of slavery. But the Spartans had a significant numerical advantage, and the fresh troops kept replacing the weary ones. After three days and nights of relentless combat, worn out from lack of sleep, battling the storm, and suffering from cold, hunger, and thirst, the Messenians saw no hope left: the daring prophet told Aristomenes that the gods had decreed Messene's fall and that the warning oracles were fulfilled. “Preserve,” he cried, “what remains of your forces—save yourselves. The gods drive me to fall with my country!” With that, the soothsayer charged the enemy and eventually fell, covered in wounds and satisfied with the bloodshed he had caused. Aristomenes gathered the Messenians around him; the women and children were placed at the center of the group, protected by his son and the prophet's son. Leading the group himself, he charged at the enemy, signaling with his gestures and shaking his spear that he intended to break through and escape. Not wanting to push men already driven to despair any further, the Spartans gave way for the remaining besieged. And so, Ira fell! (probably B.C. 662). 150 The brave Messenians fled to Mount Lyceum in Arcadia, and later most of them, invited by Anaxilaus, their fellow countryman and prince of the Dorian colony at Rhegium in Italy, conquered the Zanclaeans of Sicily and named the captured town Messene. The name still endures 151. However, Aristomenes, harboring an unyielding hatred for Sparta, refused to join the colony. Still hoping for a day of reckoning, he went to Delphi. The counsel he received there is not recorded. But the deity ordered Damagetes, the prince of Jalysus in Rhodes, to marry the daughter of the best man in Greece. The prince considered the hero of the Messenians to be such a man and took the third daughter of Aristomenes as his wife. Still intent on plotting against those who had destroyed his homeland, the patriotic warrior traveled to Rhodes, where death freed the Spartans from the fear of his vengeance. A monument was erected in his honor, and that memory, distinguished by public accolades, made the Messenians proud, whether they were in distant exile or under the Spartan yoke. Thus ended the second Messenian war. Those Messenians who hadn’t fled their homeland were reduced to Helots. Spartan territory expanded, and Spartan power secured. That proud state gradually rose to dominance over the rest of Greece, while maintaining, amidst the advancing civilization and refinement of their neighbors, the harsh and awe-inspiring likeness of the heroic age: in the mountains of the Peloponnesus, the cultured and luxurious Greeks witnessed, unchanged as if by a spell, the iron images of their Homeric ancestors!
CHAPTER VII.
Governments in Greece.
I. The return of the Heraclidae occasioned consequences of which the most important were the least immediate. Whenever the Dorians forced a settlement, they dislodged such of the previous inhabitants as refused to succumb. Driven elsewhere to seek a home, the exiles found it often in yet fairer climes, and along more fertile soils. The example of these involuntary migrators became imitated wherever discontent prevailed or population was redundant: and hence, as I have already recorded, first arose those numerous colonies, which along the Asiatic shores, in the Grecian isles, on the plains of Italy, and even in Libya and in Egypt, were destined to give, as it were, a second youth to the parent states.
I. The return of the Heraclidae brought about consequences, the most significant of which were not immediately obvious. Whenever the Dorians established a settlement, they displaced the previous inhabitants who resisted. Those forced to leave often found new homes in even better locations with more fertile land. The actions of these unwilling migrants inspired others wherever there was discontent or an overpopulation issue; as I mentioned before, this led to the establishment of many colonies along the Asian coasts, in the Greek islands, on the plains of Italy, and even in Libya and Egypt, which effectively gave a second lease on life to the parent states.
II. The ancient Greek constitution was that of an aristocracy, with a prince at the head. Suppose a certain number of men, thus governed, to be expelled their native soil, united by a common danger and common suffering, to land on a foreign shore, to fix themselves with pain and labour in a new settlement—it is quite clear that a popular principle would insensibly have entered the forms of the constitution they transplanted. In the first place, the power of the prince would be more circumscribed—in the next place, the free spirit of the aristocracy would be more diffused: the first, because the authority of the chief would rarely be derived from royal ancestry, or hallowed by prescriptive privilege; in most cases he was but a noble, selected from the ranks, and crippled by the jealousies, of his order: the second, because all who shared in the enterprise would in one respect rise at once to an aristocracy—they would be distinguished from the population of the state they colonized. Misfortune, sympathy, and change would also contribute to sweep away many demarcations; and authority was transmuted from a birthright into a trust, the moment it was withdrawn from the shelter of ancient custom, and made the gift of the living rather than a heritage from the dead. It was probable, too, that many of such colonies were founded by men, among whom was but little disparity of rank: this would be especially the case with those which were the overflow of a redundant population; the great and the wealthy are never redundant!—the mass would thus ordinarily be composed of the discontented and the poor, and even where the aristocratic leaven was most strong, it was still the aristocracy of some defeated and humbled faction. So that in the average equality of the emigrators were the seeds of a new constitution; and if they transplanted the form of monarchy, it already contained the genius of republicanism. Hence, colonies in the ancient, as in the modern world, advanced by giant strides towards popular principles. Maintaining a constant intercourse with their father-land, their own constitutions became familiar and tempting to the population of the countries they had abandoned; and much of whatsoever advantages were derived from the soil they selected, and the commerce they found within their reach, was readily attributed only to their more popular constitutions; as, at this day, we find American prosperity held out to our example, not as the result of local circumstances, but as the creature of political institutions.
II. The ancient Greek government was an aristocracy, led by a prince. Imagine a group of men, governed in this way, being forced to leave their homeland. United by a common threat and shared hardships, they land on foreign soil and struggle to establish a new settlement. It’s clear that a popular principle would gradually make its way into the constitution they brought with them. First, the prince’s power would be more limited; second, the free spirit of the aristocracy would spread more widely. The first happens because the chief’s authority wouldn’t likely come from royal lineage or inherited privilege; usually, he was simply a noble chosen from among his peers, often hindered by the rivalries of his class. The second occurs since everyone involved in this venture would, in a way, elevate to an aristocracy—they’d stand apart from the local population of the state they were settling. Hardships, empathy, and change would also help dismantle many divisions; authority shifted from being a birthright to a responsibility the moment it was taken from the protection of ancient traditions and became a gift from the living rather than a legacy from the past. It’s also likely that many of these colonies were started by people of similar social standing; this would especially apply to groups formed as a result of overpopulation—after all, the wealthy and powerful never face overpopulation! So, the majority would typically consist of the discontented and the impoverished. Even where the aristocratic influence was strongest, it was still the aristocracy of a defeated and diminished faction. Thus, in the overall equality among the emigrants lay the seeds of a new constitution; and while they might adopt a monarchical structure, it already held the essence of republicanism. Consequently, colonies in both ancient and modern times quickly moved towards more popular principles. By maintaining constant communication with their homeland, their own constitutions became familiar and attractive to the people of the places they left behind; many of the benefits they gained from the land they chose, and the trade they encountered, were easily attributed to their more democratic constitutions. Just as today, American prosperity is often presented as an example—not as a result of local factors, but as a product of political institutions.
One principal cause of the republican forms of government that began (as, after the Dorian migration, the different tribes became settled in those seats by which they are historically known) to spread throughout Greece, was, therefore, the establishment of colonies retaining constant intercourse with the parent states. A second cause is to be found in the elements of the previous constitutions of the Grecian states themselves, and the political principles which existed universally, even in the heroic ages: so that, in fact, the change from monarchy to republicanism was much less violent than at the first glance it would seem to our modern notions. The ancient kings, as described by Homer, possessed but a limited authority, like that of the Spartan kings—extensive in war, narrow in peace. It was evidently considered that the source of their authority was in the people. No notion seems to have been more universal among the Greeks than that it was for the community that all power was to be exercised. In Homer’s time popular assemblies existed, and claimed the right of conferring privileges on rank. The nobles were ever jealous of the prerogative of the prince, and ever encroaching on his accidental weakness. In his sickness, his age, or his absence, the power of the state seems to have been wrested from his hands—the prey of the chiefs, or the dispute of contending factions. Nor was there in Greece that chivalric fealty to a person which characterizes the North. From the earliest times it was not the MONARCH, that called forth the virtue of devotion, and inspired the enthusiasm of loyalty. Thus, in the limited prerogative of royalty, in the jealousy of the chiefs, in the right of popular assemblies, and, above all, in the silent and unconscious spirit of political theory, we may recognise in the early monarchies of Greece the germes of their inevitable dissolution. Another cause was in that singular separation of tribes, speaking a common language, and belonging to a common race, which characterized the Greeks. Instead of overrunning a territory in one vast irruption, each section seized a small district, built a city, and formed an independent people. Thus, in fact, the Hellenic governments were not those of a country, but of a town; and the words “state” and “city” were synonymous 152. Municipal constitutions, in their very nature, are ever more or less republican; and, as in the Italian states, the corporation had only to shake off some power unconnected with, or hostile to it, to rise into a republic. To this it may be added, that the true republican spirit is more easily established among mountain tribes imperfectly civilized, and yet fresh from the wildness of the natural life, than among old states, where luxury leaves indeed the desire, but has enervated the power of liberty, “as the marble from the quarry may be more readily wrought into the statue, than that on which the hand of the workman has already been employed.” 153
One main reason for the spread of republican forms of government that began (after the Dorian migration, as the different tribes settled into the regions they are historically known for) throughout Greece was the establishment of colonies that maintained regular contact with the parent states. A second reason can be found in the elements of the earlier constitutions of the Greek states themselves and the political principles that existed universally, even in the heroic ages; therefore, the shift from monarchy to republicanism was much less violent than it might initially appear to us today. The ancient kings, as described by Homer, had only limited authority, similar to that of the Spartan kings—broad in war but narrow in peace. It was clearly understood that their authority derived from the people. No idea seemed more widespread among the Greeks than that all power ought to be exercised for the community. During Homer's time, popular assemblies existed and claimed the right to grant privileges based on rank. The nobles were always wary of the prince's prerogatives and would often take advantage of his moments of weakness. When he was sick, elderly, or absent, the state's power seemed to be wrested from him—the spoils of the chiefs or up for grabs among competing factions. Additionally, there was no chivalric loyalty to a person in Greece, unlike in the North. From early times, it wasn’t the MONARCH who inspired the virtue of devotion and the enthusiasm of loyalty. Thus, in the limited powers of monarchy, the jealousy of the chiefs, the authority of popular assemblies, and, above all, in the subtle and unconscious nature of political theory, we can recognize the seeds of inevitable decline in the early monarchies of Greece. Another factor was the unique separation of tribes, who spoke a common language and belonged to a shared race, which defined the Greeks. Rather than invading a territory all at once, each group seized a small area, built a city, and formed an independent community. Therefore, the Hellenic governments were not those of a country but of a town; the terms “state” and “city” were synonymous 152. Municipal constitutions, by their very nature, are always somewhat republican; and, similar to the Italian states, the corporation just had to shake off some unrelated or hostile power to rise into a republic. It can also be added that the true republican spirit is more easily established among mountain tribes that are only partially civilized and still close to the wildness of natural life than among older states, where luxury fosters desire but weakens the power of liberty, “just as marble from the quarry may be more easily shaped into a statue than marble that has already been worked on by a sculptor.” 153
III. If the change from monarchy to republicanism was not very violent in itself, it appears to have been yet more smoothed away by gradual preparations. Monarchy was not abolished, it declined. The direct line was broken, or some other excuse occurred for exchanging an hereditary for an elective monarchy; then the period of power became shortened, and from monarchy for life it was monarchy only for a certain number of years: in most cases the name too (and how much is there in names!) was changed, and the title of ruler or magistrate substituted for that of king.
III. While the shift from monarchy to republicanism wasn't particularly violent, it seems to have been made even smoother by gradual preparations. The monarchy didn't just end; it faded away. The direct line of succession was interrupted, or some other reason emerged to switch from a hereditary monarchy to an elective one. Then, the duration of power became shorter, changing from a lifetime monarchy to a monarchy for a set number of years. In many cases, even the name (and names carry a lot of weight!) changed, with titles like ruler or magistrate replacing king.
Thus, by no sudden leap of mind, by no vehement and short-lived revolutions, but gradually, insensibly, and permanently, monarchy ceased—a fashion, as it were, worn out and obsolete—and republicanism succeeded. But this republicanism at first was probably in no instance purely democratic. It was the chiefs who were the visible agents in the encroachments on the monarchic power—it was an aristocracy that succeeded monarchy. Sometimes this aristocracy was exceedingly limited in number, or the governing power was usurped by a particular faction or pre-eminent families; then it was called an OLIGARCHY. And this form of aristocracy appears generally to have been the most immediate successor to royalty. “The first polity,” says Aristotle 154, “that was established in Greece after the lapse of monarchies, was that of the members of the military class, and those wholly horsemen,” . . . . . “such republics, though called democracies, had a strong tendency to oligarchy, and even to royalty.” 155 But the spirit of change still progressed: whether they were few or many, the aristocratic governors could not fail to open the door to further innovations. For, if many, they were subjected to dissensions among themselves—if few, they created odium in all who were excluded from power. Thus fell the oligarchies of Marseilles, Ister, and Heraclea. In the one case they were weakened by their own jealousies, in the other by the jealousies of their rivals. The progress of civilization and the growing habits of commerce gradually introduced a medium between the populace and the chiefs. The MIDDLE CLASS slowly rose, and with it rose the desire of extended liberties and equal laws. 156
Thus, monarchy faded away not from sudden changes or intense, fleeting revolutions, but gradually, imperceptibly, and permanently—it became a style that was worn out and outdated—while republicanism took its place. However, this early republicanism was likely never purely democratic. The leaders were the visible forces behind the erosion of monarchical power—it was an aristocracy that replaced monarchy. Sometimes this aristocracy was very small, or the governing power was seized by a specific faction or prominent families; in such cases, it was called an OLIGARCHY. This type of aristocracy generally seems to have been the immediate successor to royalty. “The first polity,” says Aristotle 154, “that was established in Greece after the end of monarchies, was that of the members of the military class, and those who were primarily cavalry,” . . . . . “such republics, though labeled as democracies, had a strong tendency toward oligarchy, and even toward monarchy.” 155 But the spirit of change continued to grow: whether they were few or many, the aristocratic rulers could not help but pave the way for further changes. If there were many, they faced conflicts among themselves—if few, they generated resentment among all those excluded from power. Thus, the oligarchies of Marseilles, Ister, and Heraclea fell. In one case, they were weakened by their own rivalries, and in the other, by the rivalries of others. The advancement of civilization and the increasing habits of trade gradually created a link between the general population and the leaders. The MIDDLE CLASS emerged slowly, bringing with it a desire for greater freedoms and equal laws. 156
IV. Now then appeared the class of DEMAGOGUES. The people had been accustomed to change. They had been led against monarchy, and found they had only resigned the one master to obtain the many:—A demagogue arose, sometimes one of their own order, more often a dissatisfied, ambitious, or empoverished noble. For they who have wasted their patrimony, as the Stagirite shrewdly observes, are great promoters of innovation! Party ran high—the state became divided—passions were aroused—and the popular leader became the popular idol. His life was probably often in danger from the resentment of the nobles, and it was always easy to assert that it was so endangered.—He obtained a guard to protect him, conciliated the soldiers, seized the citadel, and rose at once from the head of the populace to the ruler of the state. Such was the common history of the tyrants of Greece, who never supplanted the kingly sway (unless in the earlier ages, when, born to a limited monarchy, they extended their privileges beyond the law, as Pheidon of Argos), but nearly always aristocracies or oligarchies 157. I need scarcely observe that the word “tyrant” was of very different signification in ancient times from that which it bears at present. It more nearly corresponded to our word “usurper,” and denoted one who, by illegitimate means, whether of art or force, had usurped the supreme authority. A tyrant might be mild or cruel, the father of the people, or their oppressor; he still preserved the name, and it was transmitted to his children. The merits of this race of rulers, and the unconscious benefits they produced, have not been justly appreciated, either by ancient or modern historians. Without her tyrants, Greece might never have established her democracies. As may be readily supposed, the man who, against powerful enemies, often from a low origin and with empoverished fortunes, had succeeded in ascending a throne, was usually possessed of no ordinary abilities. It was almost vitally necessary for him to devote those abilities to the cause and interests of the people. Their favour had alone raised him—numerous foes still surrounded him—it was on the people alone that he could depend.
IV. Now appeared the class of DEMAGOGUES. The people had become used to change. They had been led against monarchy and realized they had just exchanged one master for many:—A demagogue arose, sometimes one of their own kind, more often a dissatisfied, ambitious, or impoverished noble. Those who have squandered their inheritance, as Aristotle wisely notes, are great advocates for change! Tensions ran high—the state became divided—emotions were stirred—and the popular leader became the people's idol. His life was likely often at risk from the anger of the nobles, and it was easy to claim that it was in danger. He secured a guard for his protection, gained the soldiers' favor, took over the citadel, and quickly rose from being the head of the populace to the ruler of the state. This was the typical story of the tyrants of Greece, who rarely replaced kings (except in earlier times, when, born into restricted monarchy, they expanded their powers beyond the law, like Pheidon of Argos) but almost always aristocracies or oligarchies 157. I hardly need to point out that the term “tyrant” had a very different meaning in ancient times than it does today. It was closer to our word “usurper,” referring to someone who, by illegitimate means, whether through skill or force, had seized supreme power. A tyrant could be gentle or harsh, a father figure to the people, or their oppressor; he still kept the title, and it was passed down to his children. The merits of this class of rulers, and the unintentional benefits they created, have not been fairly recognized by either ancient or modern historians. Without their tyrants, Greece might never have established its democracies. As you might guess, the man who, against powerful adversaries, often from humble beginnings and with depleted resources, succeeded in reaching a throne usually had exceptional skills. It was almost essential for him to dedicate those skills to the cause and interests of the people. It was their support that had lifted him—numerous enemies still surrounded him—it was only the people he could rely on.
The wiser and more celebrated tyrants were characterized by an extreme modesty of deportment—they assumed no extraordinary pomp, no lofty titles—they left untouched, or rendered yet more popular, the outward forms and institutions of the government—they were not exacting in taxation—they affected to link themselves with the lowest orders, and their ascendency was usually productive of immediate benefit to the working classes, whom they employed in new fortifications or new public buildings; dazzling the citizens by a splendour that seemed less the ostentation of an individual than the prosperity of a state. But the aristocracy still remained their enemies, and it was against them, not against the people, that they directed their acute sagacities and unsparing energies. Every more politic tyrant was a Louis the Eleventh, weakening the nobles, creating a middle class. He effected his former object by violent and unscrupulous means. He swept away by death or banishment all who opposed his authority or excited his fears. He thus left nothing between the state and a democracy but himself; himself removed, democracy ensued naturally and of course. There are times in the history of all nations when liberty is best promoted—when civilization is most rapidly expedited—when the arts are most luxuriantly nourished by a strict concentration of power in the hands of an individual—and when the despot is but the representative of the popular will 158. At such times did the tyrannies in Greece mostly flourish, and they may almost be said to cease with the necessity which called them forth. The energy of these masters of a revolution opened the intercourse with other states; their interests extended commerce; their policy broke up the sullen barriers of oligarchical prejudice and custom; their fears found perpetual vent for the industry of a population whom they dreaded to leave in indolence; their genius appreciated the arts—their vanity fostered them. Thus they interrupted the course of liberty only to improve, to concentre, to advance its results. Their dynasty never lasted long; the oldest tyranny in Greece endured but a hundred years 159—so enduring only from its mildness. The son of the tyrant rarely inherited his father’s sagacity and talents: he sought to strengthen his power by severity; discontent ensued, and his fall was sudden and complete. Usually, then, such of the aristocracy as had been banished were recalled, but not invested with their former privileges. The constitution became more or less democratic. It is true that Sparta, who lent her powerful aid in destroying tyrannies, aimed at replacing them by oligarchies—but the effort seldom produced a permanent result: the more the aristocracy was narrowed, the more certain was its fall. If the middle class were powerful—if commerce thrived in the state—the former aristocracy of birth was soon succeeded by an aristocracy of property (called a timocracy), and this was in its nature certain of democratic advances. The moment you widen the suffrage, you may date the commencement of universal suffrage. He who enjoys certain advantages from the possession of ten acres, will excite a party against him in those who have nine; and the arguments that had been used for the franchise of the one are equally valid for the franchise of the other. Limitations of power by property are barriers against a tide which perpetually advances. Timocracy, therefore, almost invariably paved the way to democracy. But still the old aristocratic faction, constantly invaded, remained powerful, stubborn, and resisting, and there was scarcely a state in Greece that did not contain the two parties which we find to-day in England, and in all free states—the party of the movement to the future, and the party of recurrence to the past; I say the past, for in politics there is no present! Wherever party exists, if the one desire fresh innovations, so the other secretly wishes not to preserve what remains, but to restore what has been. This fact it is necessary always to bear in mind in examining the political contests of the Athenians. For in most of their domestic convulsions we find the cause in the efforts of the anti-popular party less to resist new encroachments than to revive departed institutions. But though in most of the Grecian states were two distinct orders, and the Eupatrids, or “Well-born,” were a class distinct from, and superior to, that of the commonalty, we should err in supposing that the separate orders made the great political divisions. As in England the more ancient of the nobles are often found in the popular ranks, so in the Grecian states many of the Eupatrids headed the democratic party. And this division among themselves, while it weakened the power of the well-born, contributed to prevent any deadly or ferocious revolutions: for it served greatly to soften the excesses of the predominant faction, and every collision found mediators between the contending parties in some who were at once friends of the people and members of the nobility. Nor should it be forgotten that the triumph of the popular party was always more moderate than that of the antagonist faction—as the history of Athens will hereafter prove.
The more insightful and renowned tyrants were marked by a notable modesty in their behavior—they didn’t display excessive pomp or grand titles—they kept the existing forms and institutions of government mostly intact, or made them even more popular—they weren’t harsh in taxation—they tried to connect with the lower classes, and their authority generally brought immediate benefits to the working class, who were employed in new fortifications or public buildings; impressing the citizens with a display that felt more like the prosperity of a state than the display of an individual. However, the aristocracy remained their enemies, and it was against them, not the people, that they directed their keen intelligence and relentless efforts. Every more strategic tyrant resembled Louis the Eleventh, weakening the nobles and creating a middle class. He achieved this previous goal through violent and ruthless means. He eliminated anyone who opposed his authority or raised his suspicions through death or exile. He thus removed any barrier between the state and a democracy; with him gone, democracy naturally followed. There are times in a nation’s history when liberty is best supported—when civilization advances quickly—when the arts are most richly nourished by a concentrated power in the hands of one individual—and when the tyrant is merely a representative of the popular will 158. During such times, tyrannies in Greece thrived, and they can almost be said to have ended with the necessity that brought them into existence. The energy of these revolution leaders opened relationships with other states; their interests expanded trade; their policies dismantled the stubborn walls of oligarchic bias and tradition; their fears consistently pushed the industry of a population they were afraid would remain idle; their ingenuity appreciated the arts—their pride nurtured them. Thus, they interrupted the course of liberty only to improve, concentrate, and enhance its outcomes. Their reigns didn’t last long; the oldest tyranny in Greece survived for only a hundred years 159—and lasted only due to its leniency. The son of the tyrant rarely inherited his father's wisdom and abilities: he attempted to solidify his control through harshness; discontent arose, leading to his rapid and total downfall. Usually, those aristocrats who had been exiled were called back, but without their previous privileges. The constitution became more or less democratic. It’s true that Sparta, which greatly aided in dismantling tyrannies, sought to replace them with oligarchies—but these attempts seldom led to lasting outcomes: the more the aristocracy shrank, the more certain its collapse became. If the middle class was strong—if trade flourished in the state—the previous aristocracy of blood was quickly replaced by an aristocracy of wealth (known as a timocracy), which was intrinsically inclined towards democratic advancements. The moment you broaden the eligibility to vote, you can mark the beginning of universal suffrage. Someone who benefits from owning ten acres will stir up opposition from those who have nine; and the arguments used to justify the voting rights of one are equally applicable to the other. Limitations on power based on property are barriers against a tide that constantly rises. Timocracy, therefore, almost always led to democracy. But the old aristocratic faction, continuously challenged, remained strong, stubborn, and resistant, and there was hardly a state in Greece that didn’t contain the two parties we see today in England and all free states—the party that advances towards the future and the party that wishes to return to the past; I mention the past because in politics there is no present! Wherever parties exist, if one desires new innovations, the other secretly wants not just to preserve what remains, but to restore what was lost. This fact should always be kept in mind when examining the political struggles of the Athenians. In most of their internal upheavals, we find that the cause lies in the efforts of the anti-popular party to revive old institutions rather than to resist new encroachments. But while in most Greek states there were two distinct classes, and the Eupatrids, or “Well-born,” were a class separate from, and superior to, the common people, we make a mistake if we think that these separate classes were the primary political divisions. Just as in England many of the older nobles are often found among the popular ranks, in the Greek states many of the Eupatrids led the democratic party. And this division among themselves, while weakening the power of the well-born, helped to prevent any deadly or brutal revolutions: it significantly softened the excesses of the dominant faction, and every clash found mediators between the opposing parties in those who were both allies of the people and members of the aristocracy. Nor should it be overlooked that the victory of the popular party was always more moderate than that of the opposing faction—as the history of Athens will later demonstrate.
V. The legal constitutions of Greece were four—Monarchy, Oligarchy, Aristocracy, and Democracy; the illegal, was Tyranny in a twofold shape, viz., whether it consisted in an usurped monarchy or an usurped oligarchy. Thus the oligarchy of the Thirty in Athens was no less a tyranny than the single government of Pisistratus. Even democracy had its illegal or corrupt form—in OCHLOCRACY or mob rule; for democracy did not signify the rule of the lower orders alone, but of all the people—the highest as the lowest. If the highest became by law excluded—if the populace confined the legislative and executive authorities to their own order—then democracy, or the government of a whole people, virtually ceased, and became the government of a part of the people—a form equally unjust and illegitimate—equally an abuse in itself, whether the dominant and exclusive portion were the nobles or the mechanics. Thus in modern yet analogous history, when the middle class of Florence expelled the nobles from any share of the government, they established a monopoly under the name of liberty; and the resistance of the nobles was the lawful struggle of patriots and of freemen for an inalienable privilege and a natural right.
V. Greece had four legal forms of government—Monarchy, Oligarchy, Aristocracy, and Democracy; the illegal form was Tyranny, which appeared in two ways, that is, as a usurped monarchy or a usurped oligarchy. Therefore, the oligarchy of the Thirty in Athens was just as much a tyranny as the singular rule of Pisistratus. Even democracy could be corrupted or take an illegal form—in OCHLOCRACY or mob rule; democracy didn't just mean the rule of the lower classes, but the rule of all the people—the high and the low. If the highest were legally excluded—if the common people restricted the legislative and executive powers to their own group—then democracy, or the governance of an entire populace, effectively ended and turned into the rule of a portion of the people—a form that is just as unjust and illegitimate—equally a misuse of power, whether that dominant group consisted of nobles or workers. Thus, in modern yet similar history, when the middle class of Florence expelled the nobles from any role in government, they created a monopoly under the guise of liberty; and the nobles' resistance was the rightful struggle of patriots and free people for an inalienable privilege and a natural right.
VI. We should remove some very important prejudices from our minds, if we could once subscribe to a fact plain in itself, but which the contests of modern party have utterly obscured—that in the mere forms of their government, the Greek republics cannot fairly be pressed into the service of those who in existing times would attest the evils, or proclaim the benefits, of constitutions purely democratic. In the first place, they were not democracies, even in their most democratic shape:—the vast majority of the working classes were the enslaved population. And, therefore, to increase the popular tendencies of the republic was, in fact, only to increase the liberties of the few. We may fairly doubt whether the worst evils of the ancient republics, in the separation of ranks, and the war between rich and poor, were not the necessary results of slavery. We may doubt, with equal probability, whether much of the lofty spirit, and the universal passion for public affairs, whence emanated the enterprise, the competition, the patriotism, and the glory of the ancient cities, could have existed without a subordinate race to carry on the drudgeries of daily life. It is clear, also, that much of the intellectual greatness of the several states arose from the exceeding smallness of their territories—the concentration of internal power, and the perpetual emulation with neighbouring and kindred states nearly equal in civilization; it is clear, too, that much of the vicious parts of their character, and yet much of their more brilliant, arose from the absence of the PRESS. Their intellectual state was that of men talked to, not written to. Their imagination was perpetually called forth—their deliberative reason rarely;—they were the fitting audience for an orator, whose art is effective in proportion to the impulse and the passion of those he addresses. Nor must it be forgotten that the representative system, which is the proper conductor of the democratic action, if not wholly unknown to the Greeks 160, and if unconsciously practised in the Spartan ephoralty, was at least never existent in the more democratic states. And assemblies of the whole people are compatible only with those small nations of which the city is the country. Thus, it would be impossible for us to propose the abstract constitution of any ancient state as a warning or an example to modern countries which possess territories large in extent—which subsist without a slave population —which substitute representative councils for popular assemblies—and which direct the intellectual tastes and political habits of a people, not by oratory and conversation, but through the more calm and dispassionate medium of the press. This principle settled, it may perhaps be generally conceded, that on comparing the democracies of Greece with all other contemporary forms of government, we find them the most favourable to mental cultivation—not more exposed than others to internal revolutions—usually, in fact, more durable,—more mild and civilized in their laws—and that the worst tyranny of the Demus, whether at home or abroad, never equalled that of an oligarchy or a single ruler. That in which the ancient republics are properly models to us, consists not in the form, but the spirit of their legislation. They teach us that patriotism is most promoted by bringing all classes into public and constant intercourse—that intellect is most luxuriant wherever the competition is widest and most unfettered—and that legislators can create no rewards and invent no penalties equal to those which are silently engendered by society itself—while it maintains, elaborated into a system, the desire of glory and the dread of shame.
VI. We need to shake off some significant biases from our minds if we can accept a fact that is straightforward but has been completely buried by modern political debates—that, when it comes to the basic structures of their governments, the Greek republics can’t fairly be used to justify those who today would highlight the flaws or declare the advantages of purely democratic constitutions. First of all, they weren’t democracies, even at their most democratic: the vast majority of the working class were enslaved. Therefore, boosting the popular aspects of the republic essentially just expanded the freedom of a few. We can reasonably question whether the major issues of the ancient republics, like the separation of social classes and the conflict between the rich and poor, weren’t necessary outcomes of slavery. We can also question whether the noble spirit and widespread passion for public affairs that fueled the ambition, competition, patriotism, and glory of the ancient cities could have thrived without a subordinate class to handle the menial tasks of everyday life. It’s also clear that much of the intellectual brilliance of the various states came from the extreme smallness of their territories—the concentration of internal power and the ongoing competition with nearby states that were nearly equal in civilization; it’s clear that much of their flaws, as well as much of their brilliance, arose from the lack of a free press. Their intellectual environment was one where people were spoken to rather than written to. Their imagination was constantly engaged, while their critical thinking was rarely called upon—they were the ideal audience for an orator, whose effectiveness hinges on the emotion and passion of those he addresses. We shouldn’t forget that the representative system, which is the proper way to facilitate democratic action, was not completely unknown to the Greeks 160, and while it was unconsciously practiced in the Spartan ephoralty, it never really existed in the more democratic states. Large assemblies of the entire populace are only possible in those small nations where the city is essentially the entire country. Therefore, we could not realistically suggest the basic constitution of any ancient state as a lesson or model for modern countries that have vast territories, do not rely on a slave population, use representative councils instead of popular assemblies, and shape the intellectual interests and political habits of their people not through speeches and discussions, but through the calmer and more rational medium of the press. Once this principle is established, it may be generally agreed that when we compare the democracies of Greece with all other contemporary forms of government, we find them to be the most conducive to intellectual development—not more prone to internal revolutions than others, often more stable—more humane and civilized in their laws—and that the worst tyranny of the people, whether locally or abroad, never reached the level of that of an oligarchy or a single ruler. Where the ancient republics serve as true models, is not in their structure, but in the spirit of their laws. They demonstrate that patriotism is best fostered by keeping all classes in regular and consistent interaction—that intellect flourishes most where competition is broad and unrestricted—and that lawmakers can create no incentives or penalties that compare to those that naturally arise from society itself—as society cultivates a desire for glory and a fear of shame.
CHAPTER VIII.
Brief Survey of Arts, Letters, and Philosophy in Greece, prior to the Legislation of Solon.
Brief Survey of Arts, Letters, and Philosophy in Greece, before the Legislation of Solon.
I. Before concluding this introductory portion of my work, it will be necessary to take a brief survey of the intellectual state of Greece prior to that wonderful era of Athenian greatness which commenced with the laws of Solon. At this period the continental states of Greece had produced little in that literature which is now the heirloom of the world. Whether under her monarchy, or the oligarchical constitution that succeeded it, the depressed and languid genius of Athens had given no earnest of the triumphs she was afterward destined to accomplish. Her literature began, though it cannot be said to have ceased, with her democracy. The solitary and doubtful claim of the birth—but not the song—of Tyrtaeus (fl. B. C. 683), is the highest literary honour to which the earlier age of Attica can pretend; and many of the Dorian states—even Sparta itself—appear to have been more prolific in poets than the city of Aeschylus and Sophocles. But throughout all Greece, from the earliest time, was a general passion for poetry, however fugitive the poets. The poems of Homer are the most ancient of profane writings—but the poems of Homer themselves attest that they had many, nor ignoble, precursors. Not only do they attest it in their very excellence—not only in their reference to other poets—but in the general manner of life attributed to chiefs and heroes. The lyre and the song afford the favourite entertainment at the banquet 161. And Achilles, in the interval of his indignant repose, exchanges the deadly sword for the “silver harp,”
I. Before wrapping up this introduction, it's important to take a quick look at the intellectual climate of Greece before the amazing era of Athenian greatness that began with Solon's laws. During this time, the mainland states of Greece had produced very little of the literature that we now cherish. Whether under monarchy or the oligarchic system that followed, Athens's once-depressed and sluggish creative spirit showed no sign of the future successes it was destined to achieve. Her literature began, but it can’t be said to have ended, with her democracy. The one doubtful claim of the birth—but not the song—of Tyrtaeus (fl. B.C. 683) is the highest literary honor that the earlier age of Attica can claim; and many Dorian states—even Sparta itself—seem to have been more productive of poets than the city of Aeschylus and Sophocles. Yet, throughout Greece, from the earliest times, there was a widespread passion for poetry, no matter how fleeting the poets were. The poems of Homer are among the oldest non-religious writings, but even they show that there were many, not insignificant, predecessors. They demonstrate this not only through their excellence but also by referencing other poets and reflecting the way of life attributed to chiefs and heroes. The lyre and song were popular forms of entertainment at banquets 161. And Achilles, during his moments of angry rest, swaps his deadly sword for the "silver harp."
“And sings
The immortal deeds of heroes and of kings.” 162
“And sings the timeless actions of heroes and kings.” 162
II. Ample tradition and the internal evidence of the Homeric poems prove the Iliad at least to have been the composition of an Asiatic Greek; and though the time in which he flourished is yet warmly debated, the most plausible chronology places him about the time of the Ionic migration, or somewhat less than two hundred years after the Trojan war. The following lines in the speech of Juno in the fourth book of the Iliad are supposed by some 163 to allude to the return of the Heraclidae and the Dorian conquests in the Peloponnesus:—
II. Ample tradition and the internal evidence of the Homeric poems show that the Iliad was at least written by an Asiatic Greek. While the exact time he lived is still hotly debated, the most convincing timeline places him around the time of the Ionic migration, or roughly two hundred years after the Trojan war. The following lines in Juno's speech in the fourth book of the Iliad are thought by some 163 to refer to the return of the Heraclidae and the Dorian conquests in the Peloponnesus:—
“Three towns are Juno’s on the Grecian plains,
More dear than all th’ extended earth contains—
Mycenae, Argos, and the Spartan Wall—
These mayst thou raze, nor I forbid their fall;
‘Tis not in me the vengeance to remove;
The crime’s sufficient that they share my love.” 164
“Three towns belong to Juno on the Greek plains, More precious than all the vast earth holds— Mycenae, Argos, and the Spartan Wall— You can destroy them; I won’t stop their fall; It’s not in me to seek revenge; The guilt is enough that they have my love.” 164
And it certainly does seem to me that in a reference so distinct to the three great Peloponnesian cities which the Dorians invaded and possessed, Homer makes as broad an allusion to the conquests of the Heraclidae, not only as would be consistent with the pride of an Ionic Greek in attesting the triumphs of the national Dorian foe, but as the nature of a theme cast in a distant period, and remarkably removed, in its general conduct, from the historical detail of subsequent events, would warrant to the poet 165. And here I may observe, that if the date thus assigned to Homer be correct, the very subject of the Iliad might have been suggested by the consequences of the Dorian irruption. Homer relates,
And it definitely seems to me that in such a clear reference to the three major cities in the Peloponnese that the Dorians invaded and took over, Homer makes a strong allusion to the victories of the Heraclidae. This seems fitting not just because of the pride an Ionic Greek would feel in acknowledging the successes of their Dorian rivals, but also because the theme is set in a far-off time, quite different in its overall approach from the historical details of later events, which gives the poet the freedom to express it 165. Additionally, I should point out that if the date assigned to Homer is accurate, the very topic of the Iliad might have been inspired by the aftermath of the Dorian invasion. Homer tells,
“Achilles’ wrath, to Greece the direful spring
Of woes unnumbered.”
“Achilles' anger, the terrible source of countless troubles for Greece.”
But Achilles is the native hero of that Thessalian district, which was the earliest settlement of the Dorian family. Agamemnon, whose injuries he resents, is the monarch of the great Achaean race, whose dynasty and dominion the Dorians are destined to overthrow. It is true that at the time of the Trojan war the Dorians had migrated from Phthiotis to Phocis—it is true that Achilles was not of Dorian extraction; still there would be an interest attached to the singular coincidence of place; as, though the English are no descendants from the Britons, we yet associate the British history with our own: hence it seems to me, though I believe the conjecture is new, that it is not the whole Trojan war, but that episode in the Trojan war (otherwise unimportant) illustrated by the wrath of Achilles, which awakens the inspiration of the poet. In fact, if under the exordium of the Iliad there lurk no typical signification, the exordium is scarce appropriate to the subject. For the wrath of Achilles did not bring upon the Greeks woes more mighty than the ordinary course of war would have destined them to endure. But if the Grecian audience (exiles, and the posterity of exiles), to whom, on Asiatic shores, Homer recited his poem, associated the hereditary feud of Achilles and Agamemnon with the strife between the ancient warriors of Phthiotis and Achaia; then, indeed, the opening lines assume a solemn and prophetic significance, and their effect must have been electrical upon a people ever disposed to trace in the mythi of their ancestry the legacies of a dark and ominous fatality, by which each present suffering was made the inevitable result of an immemorial cause. 166
But Achilles is the local hero of that Thessalian region, which was the earliest settlement of the Dorian family. Agamemnon, whose actions he resents, is the king of the powerful Achaean race, whose rule the Dorians are destined to overthrow. It's true that at the time of the Trojan war, the Dorians had moved from Phthiotis to Phocis—it’s also true that Achilles wasn’t of Dorian descent; still, there would be an interest tied to the unique coincidence of place; just as the English are not descendants of the Britons, we still connect British history with our own: thus, it seems to me that even though I think this idea is new, it’s not the whole Trojan war, but that particular episode in the Trojan war (otherwise unimportant) highlighted by Achilles’ anger, that inspires the poet. In fact, if the opening of the Iliad doesn’t carry any typical significance, then it hardly fits the subject. Because Achilles’ rage did not bring upon the Greeks greater woes than what the normal course of war would have destined them to face. But if the Greek audience (exiles and descendants of exiles), to whom Homer recited his poem on the shores of Asia, connected the ancient feud of Achilles and Agamemnon with the conflict between the ancient warriors of Phthiotis and Achaia; then, indeed, the opening lines take on a serious and prophetic significance, and their impact must have been electric for a people always inclined to see in their ancestors' myths the legacies of a dark and foreboding fate, where each current suffering was made the unavoidable outcome of an age-old cause. 166
III. The ancients unanimously believed the Iliad the production of a single poet; in recent times a contrary opinion has been started; and in Germany, at this moment, the most fashionable belief is, that that wonderful poem was but a collection of rhapsodies by various poets, arranged and organized by Pisistratus and the poets of his day; a theory a scholar may support, but which no poet could ever have invented! For this proposition the principal reasons alleged are these:—It is asserted as an “indisputable fact,” “that the art of writing, and the use of manageable writing materials, were entirely, or all but entirely, unknown in Greece and its islands at the supposed date of the composition of the Iliad and Odyssey; that, if so, these poems could not have been committed to writing during the time of such their composition; that, in a question of comparative probabilities like this, it is a much grosser improbability that even the single Iliad, amounting, after all curtailments and expungings, to upwards of 15,000 hexameter lines, should have been actually conceived and perfected in the brain of one man, with no other help but his own or others’ memory, than that it should in fact be the result of the labours of several distinct authors; that if the Odyssey be counted, the improbability is doubled; that if we add, upon the authority of Thucydides and Aristotle, the Hymns and Margites, not to say the Batrachomyomachia, that which was improbable becomes morally impossible! that all that has been so often said as to the fact of as many verses or more having been committed to memory, is beside the point in question, which is not whether 15,000 or 30,000 lines may not be learned by heart from print or manuscript, but whether one man can originally compose a poem of that length, which, rightly or not, shall be thought to be a perfect model of symmetry and consistency of parts, without the aid of writing materials;—that, admitting the superior probability of such an achievement in a primitive age, we know nothing actually similar or analogous to it; and that it so transcends the common limits of intellectual power, as at the least to merit, with as much justice as the opposite opinion, the character of improbability.” 167
III. People in ancient times all believed that the Iliad was created by a single poet; however, recently an opposing view has emerged. Nowadays, in Germany, the popular belief is that this remarkable poem is actually a collection of pieces from various poets, organized and compiled by Pisistratus and his contemporaries. This theory can be supported by a scholar, but no poet could have come up with it! The main arguments for this idea are as follows: It is claimed as an “undeniable fact” that the art of writing and the use of writing materials were largely unknown in Greece and its islands at the supposed time the Iliad and Odyssey were composed. If that’s true, then these poems couldn’t have been written down during their creation. In a situation involving comparative probabilities like this, it's much more unlikely that even the single Iliad, which after all cuts down to over 15,000 hexameter lines, could have been entirely conceived and perfected in one person’s mind, relying only on his own memory (or that of others), than that it was actually the product of several different authors. If we include the Odyssey, the improbability increases even more. Furthermore, if we consider, based on Thucydides and Aristotle, the Hymns and Margites, not to mention the Batrachomyomachia, what was merely improbable becomes virtually impossible! Claims that as many lines or more could have been memorized are irrelevant to the issue at hand, which isn’t whether 15,000 or 30,000 lines can be memorized from print or manuscripts, but whether one person can originally create a poem of that length, which, right or wrong, is viewed as a perfect example of balance and consistency, without having writing materials. Admitting that achieving such a feat in primitive times is somewhat more likely, we still have nothing similar or comparable to it; and it goes far beyond the ordinary limits of intellectual capacity to warrant, as much as the opposing view does, the label of improbability. 167
And upon such arguments the identity of Homer is to be destroyed! Let us pursue them seriatim.
And based on those arguments, the identity of Homer is going to be destroyed! Let's go through them one by one.
1st. “The art and the use of manageable writing materials were entirely, or all but entirely, unknown in Greece and its islands at the supposed date of the composition of the Iliad and Odyssey.”
1st. “The art and the use of manageable writing materials were completely, or almost completely, unknown in Greece and its islands at the time when the Iliad and Odyssey were supposedly composed.”
The whole argument against the unity of Homer rests upon this assertion; and yet this assertion it is impossible to prove! It is allowed, on the contrary, that alphabetical characters were introduced in Greece by Cadmus—nay, inscriptions believed by the best antiquaries to bear date before the Trojan war are found even among the Pelasgi of Italy. Dionysius informs us that the Pelasgi first introduced letters into Italy. But in answer to this, it is said that letters were used only for inscriptions on stone or wood, and not for the preservation of writings so voluminous. If this were the case, I scarcely see why the Greeks should have professed so grateful a reminiscence of the gift of Cadmus, the mere inscription of a few words on stone would not be so very popular or beneficial an invention! But the Phoenicians had constant intercourse with the Egyptians and Hebrews; among both those nations the art and materials of writing were known. The Phoenicians, far more enterprising than either, must have been fully acquainted with their means of written communication—and indeed we are assured that they were so. Now, if a Phoenician had imparted so much of the art to Greece as the knowledge of a written alphabet, is it probable that he would have suffered the communication to cease there! The Phoenicians were a commercial people—their colonies in Greece were for commercial purposes,—would they have wilfully and voluntarily neglected the most convenient mode of commercial correspondence?—importing just enough of the art to suffice for inscriptions of no use but to the natives, would they have stopped short precisely at that point when the art became useful to themselves? And in vindicating that most able people from so wilful a folly, have we no authority in history as well as common sense? We have the authority of Herodotus! When he informs us that the Phoenicians communicated letters to the Ionians, he adds, that by a very ancient custom the Ionians called their books diptherae, or skins, because, at a time when the plant of the bibles or papyrus was scarce 168, they used instead of it the skins of goats and sheep—a custom he himself witnessed among barbarous nations. Were such materials used only for inscriptions relative to a religious dedication, or a political compact? NO; for then, wood or stone—the temple or the pillar—would have been the material for the inscription,—they must, then, have been used for a more literary purpose; and verse was the first form of literature. I grant that prior, and indeed long subsequent to the time of Homer, the art of writing (as with us in the dark ages) would be very partially known— that in many parts of Greece, especially European Greece, it might scarcely ever be used but for brief inscriptions. But that is nothing to the purpose;—if known at all—to any Ionian trader—even to any neighbouring Asiatic—even to any Phoenician settler—there is every reason to suppose that Homer himself, or a contemporary disciple and reciter of his verses, would have learned both the art and the use of the materials which could best have ensured the fame of the poet, or assisted the memory of the reciter. And, though Plutarch in himself alone is no authority, he is not to be rejected as a corroborative testimony when he informs us that Lycurgus collected and transcribed the poems of Homer; and that writing was then known in Greece is evident by the very ordinance of Lycurgus that his laws should not be written. But Lycurgus is made by Apollodorus contemporary with Homer himself; and this belief appears, to receive the sanction of the most laborious and profound of modern chronologers 169. I might adduce various other arguments in support of those I have already advanced; but I have said enough already to show that it is not an “indisputable fact” that Homer could not have been acquainted with writing materials; and that the whole battery erected to demolish the fame of the greatest of human geniuses has been built upon a most uncertain and unsteady foundation. It may be impossible to prove that Homer’s poems were written, but it is equally impossible to prove that they were not—and if it were necessary for the identity of Homer that his poems should have been written, that necessity would have been one of the strongest proofs, not that Homer did not exist, but that writing did!
The entire argument against the unity of Homer is based on this claim, yet it's impossible to prove this claim! On the contrary, it's accepted that alphabetical characters were brought to Greece by Cadmus—indeed, inscriptions believed by reputable scholars to date back before the Trojan War have been found among the Pelasgians in Italy. Dionysius tells us that the Pelasgians first introduced writing to Italy. However, it's argued that letters were used only for inscriptions on stone or wood and not for preserving lengthy texts. If that were true, I hardly see why the Greeks would express such gratitude for Cadmus's gift; merely inscribing a few words on stone wouldn't be a particularly noteworthy or useful invention! The Phoenicians had continuous contact with the Egyptians and Hebrews; both cultures already knew the art and materials of writing. The Phoenicians, being far more adventurous, must have been well aware of their methods of written communication—and indeed, we know they were. Now, if a Phoenician had passed on just the knowledge of an alphabet to Greece, would it be likely that this communication would simply stop there? The Phoenicians were a trading people—their colonies in Greece were for trade purposes—would they intentionally and willingly ignore the best way to conduct business correspondence?—importing just enough of the art for inscriptions useful only to the locals, would they have halted right at the point when it became beneficial to them? And in defending such a capable culture from such foolishness, do we not also have historical authority and common sense on our side? We have the authority of Herodotus! When he tells us that the Phoenicians shared letters with the Ionians, he adds that by an ancient custom, the Ionians referred to their books as diptherae, or skins, because when the papyrus plant was scarce, they used goat and sheep skins—something he himself observed among primitive peoples. Were such materials used only for inscriptions related to religious dedications or political agreements? NO; because in that case, wood or stone—the temple or the pillar—would have been the materials for inscriptions—they must have been used for a more literary purpose; and verse was the first form of literature. I acknowledge that, both before and long after Homer's time, the art of writing (similar to our situation in the Dark Ages) would have been very limited— that in many areas of Greece, especially in European Greece, it might have been used very rarely except for brief inscriptions. But that isn't the point;—if known at all—to any Ionian trader—even to any nearby Asiatic—even to any Phoenician settler—there's every reason to believe that Homer himself, or a contemporary disciple and reciter of his verses, would have learned about both the art and the materials that could best ensure the poet's fame or aid the memory of the reciter. And although Plutarch alone may not be a definitive authority, he shouldn't be dismissed as supportive evidence when he tells us that Lycurgus collected and transcribed Homer's poems; the fact that writing was known in Greece is clear from Lycurgus's very decree that his laws should not be written. Furthermore, Apollodorus places Lycurgus as a contemporary of Homer himself; and this belief seems to be validated by the most thorough and insightful of modern chronologists. I could present numerous other arguments to support those I've already made; but I've said enough to demonstrate that it is not an "indisputable fact" that Homer could not have been familiar with writing materials; and that the entire argument constructed to undermine the reputation of one of humanity’s greatest geniuses has been built on a very shaky and uncertain foundation. It may be impossible to prove that Homer's poems were written, but it's equally impossible to prove that they were not—and if it were necessary for the identity of Homer that his poems be written, that necessity would provide one of the strongest pieces of evidence not that Homer didn't exist, but that writing did!
But let us now suppose it proved that writing materials for a literary purpose were unknown, and examine the assertions built upon that hypothesis.
But let’s now assume it’s proven that writing materials for literary purposes didn’t exist, and let’s look at the claims based on that idea.
2d. “That if these poems could not have been committed to writing during the time of their composition, it is a much grosser improbability that even the single Iliad, amounting, after all curtailments and expungings, to upwards of 15,000 hexameter lines, should have been actually conceived and perfected in the brain of one man, with no other help but his own or others’ memory, than that it should, in fact, be the result of the labours of several distinct authors.”
2d. “If these poems couldn't have been written down while they were being created, it's even more unlikely that the entire Iliad, which has around 15,000 hexameter lines after all the edits and cuts, could have been fully imagined and refined by just one person relying only on their own or others' memory, rather than being produced by the efforts of several different authors.”
I deny this altogether. “The improbability” might be “grosser” if the Iliad had been composed in a day! But if, as any man of common sense would acknowledge, it was composed in parts or “fyttes” of moderate length at a time, no extraordinary power of memory, or tension of thought, would have been required by the poet. Such parts, once recited and admired, became known and learned by a hundred professional bards, and were thus orally published, as it were, in detached sections, years perhaps before the work was completed. All that is said, therefore, about the difficulty of composing so long a poem without writing materials is but a jargon of words. Suppose no writing materials existed, yet, as soon as portions of a few hundred lines at a time were committed to the memory of other minstrels, the author would, in those minstrels, have living books whereby to refresh his memory, and could even, by their help, polish and amend what was already composed. It would not then have been necessary for the poet himself perfectly and verbally to remember the whole work. He had his tablets of reference in the hearts and lips of others, and even, if it were necessary that he himself should retain the entire composition, the constant habit of recital, the constant exercise of memory, would render such a task by no means impracticable or unprecedented. As for the unity of the poem, thus composed, it would have been, as it is, the unity, not of technical rules and pedantic criticism, but the unity of interest, character, imagery, and thought—a unity which required no written references to maintain it, but which was the essential quality of one master-mind, and ought to be, to all plain men, an irrefragable proof that one mind alone conceived and executed the work.
I completely disagree with this. The “improbability” might seem “greater” if the Iliad had been written in just one day! However, if, as any reasonable person would acknowledge, it was created in parts or “fyttes” of a manageable length over time, then the poet wouldn’t have needed extraordinary memory or intense concentration. Once these sections were recited and appreciated, they were memorized by a number of professional bards and were effectively published orally in separate segments, possibly years before the entire work was finished. Therefore, all this talk about the challenge of composing such a long poem without writing materials is just empty words. Even without writing materials, as soon as several hundred lines were memorized by other minstrels, the author would have living sources to help refresh his memory, and could even use their assistance to refine what he had already created. It wouldn’t have been necessary for the poet to remember every single line perfectly; he had his reference materials in the hearts and voices of others. Even if he needed to remember the entire piece himself, the ongoing practice of reciting it and the constant use of memory would make this task entirely feasible and not unheard of. Regarding the poem's unity, as it was created, it would have been, as it is now, a unity not based on technical rules or pedantic analysis but rather on shared interest, character, imagery, and thought—a unity that didn’t require written references to uphold it, but was the defining quality of one brilliant mind, and should serve as undeniable proof to all reasonable people that a single mind both conceived and executed the work.
IV. So much for the alleged improbability of one author for the Iliad. But with what face can these critics talk of “probability,” when, in order to get rid of one Homer, they ask us to believe in twenty! Can our wildest imagination form more monstrous hypotheses than these, viz.—that several poets, all possessed of the very highest order of genius (never before or since surpassed), lived in the same age—that that genius was so exactly similar in each, that we cannot detect in the thoughts, the imagery, the conception and treatment of character, human and divine, as manifest in each, the least variety in these wonderful minds—that out of the immense store of their national legends, they all agreed in selecting one subject, the war of Troy—that of that subject they all agreed in selecting only one portion of time, from the insult of Achilles to the redemption of the body of Hector—that their different mosaics so nicely fitted one into the other, that by the mere skill of an able editor they were joined into a whole, so symmetrical that the acutest ingenuity of ancient Greece could never discover the imposture 170— and that, of all these poets, so miraculous in their genius, no single name, save that of Homer, was recorded by the general people to whom they sung, or claimed by the peculiar tribe whose literature they ought to have immortalized? If everything else were wanting to prove the unity of Homer, this prodigious extravagance of assumption, into which a denial of that unity has driven men of no common learning and intellect, would be sufficient to establish it.
IV. That’s enough about the supposed unlikelihood of one author for the Iliad. But how can these critics even talk about “probability” when, to dismiss one Homer, they expect us to believe in twenty? Can our wildest imagination come up with more ridiculous ideas than these: that several poets, all incredibly talented (never surpassed before or since), lived during the same time—that these geniuses were so similar that we can’t find any differences in their thoughts, images, or portrayals of characters, both human and divine—that they all agreed to focus on just one story, the war of Troy—that they all chose to highlight just one segment of time, from Achilles’ insult to Hector’s body being reclaimed—that their diverse stories fit together so perfectly that a skilled editor could turn them into one cohesive whole, so harmonized that even the sharpest minds of ancient Greece couldn’t uncover the deception 170—and that out of all these wonderfully talented poets, only Homer’s name was remembered by the people who heard their songs, or claimed by the specific group whose literature they should have celebrated? If nothing else were sufficient to prove that Homer was one person, this incredible leap of assumption that a denial of that unity has led learned and intelligent people to make would be enough to confirm it.
3d. “That if the Odyssey be counted, the improbability is doubled; that if we add, upon the authority of Thucydides and Aristotle, the Hymns and Margites, not to say the Batrachomyomachia, that which was improbable becomes morally impossible.”
3d. “If we consider the Odyssey, the improbability is doubled; and if we include, based on the authority of Thucydides and Aristotle, the Hymns and Margites, not to mention the Batrachomyomachia, what seems improbable turns into something that's morally impossible.”
Were these last-mentioned poems Homer’s, there would yet be nothing improbable in the invention and composition of minor poems without writing materials; and the fact of his having composed one long poem, throws no difficulty in the way of his composing short ones. We have already seen that the author need not himself have remembered them all his life. But this argument is not honest, for the critics who have produced it agree in the same breath, when it suits their purpose, that the Hymns, etc., are not Homer’s—and in this I concur with their, and the almost universal, opinion.
If those last-mentioned poems were by Homer, it wouldn't be unusual for him to invent and create shorter poems without having writing materials on hand. Just because he wrote one long poem doesn't mean he couldn't write shorter ones too. We've already established that the author doesn’t need to remember everything throughout his life. However, this argument isn’t fair, because the critics who make it also claim, when it suits their agenda, that the Hymns and others aren’t by Homer—and I agree with that viewpoint, which is also widely accepted.
The remaining part of the analysis of the hostile argument has already been disposed of in connexion with the first proposition.
The rest of the analysis of the opposing argument has already been covered in connection with the first point.
It now remains to say a few words upon the authorship of the Odyssey.
It’s time to say a little about who wrote the Odyssey.
V. The question, whether or not the two epics of the Iliad and Odyssey were the works of the same poet, is a very different one from that which we have just discussed. Distinct and separate, indeed, are the inquiries whether Greece might produce, at certain intervals of time, two great epic poets, selecting opposite subjects—and whether Greece produced a score or two of great poets, from whose desultory remains the mighty whole of the Iliad was arranged. Even the ancients of the Alexandrine school did not attribute the Odyssey to the author of the Iliad. The theme selected—the manners described—the mythological spirit—are all widely different in the two works, and one is evidently of more recent composition than the other. But, for my own part, I do not think it has been yet clearly established that all these acknowledged differences are incompatible with the same authorship. If the Iliad were written in youth, the travels of the poet, the change of mind produced by years and experience, the facility with which an ancient Greek changed or remodelled his pliant mythology, the rapidity with which (in the quick development of civilization in Greece) important changes in society and manners were wrought, might all concur in producing, from the mature age of the poet, a poem very different to that which he composed in youth. And the various undetected interpolations and alterations supposed to be foisted into the Odyssey may have originated such detailed points of difference as present the graver obstacles to this conjecture. Regarding the Iliad and Odyssey as wholes, they are so analogous in all the highest and rarest attributes of genius, that it is almost as impossible to imagine two Homers as it is two Shakspeares. Nor is there such a contrast between the Iliad and the Odyssey as there is between any one play of Shakspeare’s and another 171. Still, I should warn the general reader, that the utmost opposition that can reasonably and effectually be made to those who assign to different authors these several epics, limits itself rather to doubt than to denial.
V. The question of whether the two epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey, were created by the same poet is quite different from what we've just discussed. The inquiries into whether Greece could produce, at different times, two great epic poets with contrasting subjects, and whether it had several great poets whose scattered works were combined to create the Iliad, are distinct. Even the ancient scholars of the Alexandrine school did not attribute the Odyssey to the same author as the Iliad. The chosen themes, the described customs, and the mythological tone are all significantly different between the two works, and one is clearly more recent than the other. However, I personally don't believe it's been definitively proven that all these recognized differences rule out the possibility of the same authorship. If the Iliad was written in the poet's youth, the poet's life experiences, changes in perspective over the years, the ease with which an ancient Greek could adapt or reshape their mythology, and the rapid societal changes during Greece's swift civilization development could all contribute to creating a poem quite different from what was written in their youth. Additionally, various unnoticed additions and modifications thought to be inserted into the Odyssey may have caused notable differences that present significant obstacles to this theory. When considering the Iliad and the Odyssey as entire works, they are so similar in the highest and rarest qualities of genius that it's nearly as hard to conceive of two Homers as it is of two Shakespeares. Moreover, the contrast between the Iliad and the Odyssey isn't as stark as between any one of Shakespeare's plays and another 171. Still, I should caution the general reader that the strongest opposition that can reasonably and effectively be posed against those who credit different authors with these epics is more about doubt than outright denial.
VI. It is needless to criticise these immortal masterpieces; not that criticism upon them is yet exhausted—not that a most useful, and even novel analysis of their merits and character may not yet be performed, nor that the most striking and brilliant proofs of the unity of each poem, separately considered, may not be established by one who shall, with fitting powers, undertake the delightful task of deducing the individuality of the poet from the individualizing character of his creations, and the peculiar attributes of his genius. With human works, as with the divine, the main proof of the unity of the author is in his fidelity to himself:—Not then as a superfluous, but as far too lengthened and episodical a labour, if worthily performed, do I forego at present a critical survey of the two poems popularly ascribed to Homer.
VI. There's no need to criticize these timeless masterpieces; not because all criticism has been exhausted—not because a useful and even fresh analysis of their merits and character can't still be done, nor that striking and clear evidence of the unity of each poem, when viewed separately, can't be established by someone who, with the right skills, takes on the enjoyable task of uncovering the poet's individuality from the distinctive traits of his creations and the unique qualities of his genius. Like with human works and divine ones, the main proof of the author's unity lies in his loyalty to himself. So, not as if it's unnecessary, but more as if it's an overly lengthy and episodic task, if done well, I will skip a critical review of the two poems that are commonly attributed to Homer for now.
The early genius of Greece devoted itself largely to subjects similar to those which employed the Homeric muse. At a later period—probably dating at the Alexandrian age—a vast collection of ancient poems was arranged into what is termed the “Epic Cycle;” these commenced at the Theogony, and concluded with the adventures of Telemachus. Though no longer extant, the Cyclic poems enjoyed considerable longevity. The greater part were composed between the years 775 B. C. and 566 B. C. They were extant in the time of Proclus, A. D. 450; the eldest, therefore, endured at least twelve, the most recent ten centuries;— save a few scattered lines, their titles alone remain, solitary tokens, yet floating above the dark oblivion which has swept over the epics of thirty bards! But, by the common assent, alike of the critics and the multitude, none of these approached the remote age, still less the transcendent merits, of the Homeric poems.
The early brilliance of Greece focused mainly on topics similar to those that inspired the Homeric muse. Later on—likely during the Alexandrian period—a huge collection of ancient poems was organized into what is called the “Epic Cycle;” these began with the Theogony and ended with the adventures of Telemachus. Though they are no longer available, the Cyclic poems were around for a long time. Most were written between 775 B.C. and 566 B.C. They were still known in the time of Proclus, A.D. 450; thus, the oldest lasted at least twelve centuries, while the most recent lasted ten centuries. Aside from a few scattered lines, only their titles remain, as lonely reminders, still hovering above the dark oblivion that has covered the epics of thirty poets! However, by common agreement among both critics and the public, none of these came close to the ancient age or the extraordinary quality of the Homeric poems.
VII. But, of earlier date than these disciples of Homer, is a poetry of a class fundamentally distinct from the Homeric, viz., the collection attributed to Hesiod. Of one of these only, a rustic and homely poem called “Works and Days,” was Hesiod considered the author by his immediate countrymen (the Boeotians of Helicon); but the more general belief assigned to the fertility of his genius a variety of other works, some of which, if we may judge by the titles, aimed at a loftier vein 172. And were he only the author of the “Works and Days”—a poem of very insignificant merit 173—it would be scarcely possible to account for the high estimation in which Hesiod was held by the Greeks, often compared, and sometimes preferred, to the mighty and majestic Homer. We must either, then, consider Hesiod as the author of many writings superior perhaps to what we now possess, or, as is more plausibly and popularly supposed by modern critics, the representative and type, as it were, of a great school of national poetry. And it has been acutely suggested that, viewing the pastoral and lowly occupation he declares himself to pursue 174, combined with the subjects of his muse, and the place of his birth, we may believe the name of Hesiod to have been the representative of the poetry, not of the victor lords, but of the conquered people, expressive of their pursuits, and illustrative of their religion. This will account for the marked and marvellous difference between the martial and aristocratic strain of Homer and the peaceful and rustic verse of Hesiod 175, as well as for the distinction no less visible between the stirring mythology of the one and the thoughtful theogony of the other. If this hypothesis be accepted, the Hesiodic era might very probably have commenced before the Homeric (although what is now ascribed to Hesiod is evidently of later date than the Iliad and the Odyssey). And Hesiod is to Homer what the Pelasgic genius was to the Hellenic. 176
VII. However, before the disciples of Homer, there is a type of poetry that is fundamentally different from the Homeric tradition, specifically the collection attributed to Hesiod. Of this collection, only one poem, a simple and down-to-earth piece called “Works and Days,” is considered by his fellow countrymen (the Boeotians of Helicon) to be authored by Hesiod. But there is a more widespread belief that his creative talent produced a variety of other works, some of which, judging by their titles, seem to aim for a more elevated style 172. Even if he were only the author of “Works and Days”—a poem of little noteworthy merit 173—it would still be hard to explain the high regard in which Hesiod was held by the Greeks, who often compared him to, and sometimes preferred him over, the great and grand Homer. Therefore, we must either consider Hesiod as the author of many writings that may be superior to what we currently have, or, as modern critics more commonly suggest, he represents and embodies a significant school of national poetry. It has been insightfully proposed that, considering his humble and pastoral occupation 174, along with the themes of his poetry and where he was born, we might see Hesiod's name as representing poetry not of the conquering lords, but of the defeated people, reflecting their activities and illustrating their beliefs. This explains the noticeable and remarkable differences between the martial and noble tone of Homer and the calm and rural verse of Hesiod 175, as well as the evident distinction between the dynamic mythology of the former and the thoughtful theogony of the latter. If we accept this theory, the Hesiodic era might have actually started before the Homeric one (though what we now credit to Hesiod is clearly later than the Iliad and the Odyssey). Hesiod represents Homer in the same way the Pelasgic spirit relates to the Hellenic. 176
VIII. It will be obvious to all who study what I may call the natural history of poetry, that short hymns or songs must long have preceded the gigantic compositions of Homer. Linus and Thamyris, and, more disputably, Orpheus, are recorded to have been the precursors of Homer, though the poems ascribed to them (some of which still remain) were of much later date. Almost coeval with the Grecian gods were doubtless religious hymns in their honour. And the germe of the great lyrical poetry that we now possess was, in the rude chants of the warlike Dorians, to that Apollo who was no less the Inspirer than the Protector. The religion of the Greeks preserved and dignified the poetry it created; and the bard, “beloved by gods as men,” became invested, as well with a sacred character as a popular fame. Beneath that cheerful and familiar mythology, even the comic genius sheltered its license, and found its subjects. Not only do the earliest of the comic dramatists seem to have sought in mythic fables their characters and plots, but, far before the DRAMA itself arose in any of the Grecian states, comic recital prepared the way for comic representation. In the eighth book of the Odyssey, the splendid Alcinous and the pious Ulysses listen with delight to the story, even broadly ludicrous, how Vulcan nets and exposes Venus and her war-god lover—
VIII. It will be clear to everyone who looks into what I call the natural history of poetry that short hymns or songs must have come long before the massive works of Homer. Linus and Thamyris, and possibly Orpheus, are said to have paved the way for Homer, even though the poems attributed to them (some of which still exist) were written much later. Religious hymns honoring the Greek gods were likely created almost at the same time as the gods themselves. The roots of the great lyrical poetry we enjoy today can be found in the simple songs of the warlike Dorians, dedicated to Apollo, who was both an Inspirer and a Protector. The religion of the Greeks preserved and elevated the poetry it produced; the bard, "beloved by gods as men," gained both a sacred status and widespread fame. Even under that joyful and familiar mythology, the comic genius found its freedom and its subjects. Not only did the earliest comic playwrights seem to look to mythic tales for their characters and plots, but even before DRAMA emerged in any of the Greek states, comic storytelling set the stage for comic performance. In the eighth book of the Odyssey, the magnificent Alcinous and the devoted Ulysses listen with enjoyment to the story, which is quite amusing, about how Vulcan traps and exposes Venus and her war-god lover—
“All heaven beholds imprisoned as they lie,
And unextinguished laughter shakes the sky.”
“All of heaven watches as they lie trapped, And unquenchable laughter shakes the sky.”
And this singular and well-known effusion shows, not only how grave and reverent an example Epicharmus had for his own audacious portraiture of the infirmities of the Olympian family, but how immemorially and how deeply fixed in the popular spirit was the disposition to draw from the same source the elements of humour and of awe.
And this unique and famous expression shows not only how serious and respectful an example Epicharmus had for his bold depiction of the weaknesses of the Olympian family, but also how deeply ingrained in the public's mindset was the tendency to draw from the same source for both humor and reverence.
But, however ancient the lyrical poetry of Greece, its masterpieces of art were composed long subsequent to the Homeric poems; and, no doubt, greatly influenced by acquaintance with those fountains of universal inspiration. I think it might be shown that lyrical poetry developed itself, in its more elaborate form, earliest in those places where the poems of Homer are most likely to have been familiarly known.
But, no matter how old the lyrical poetry of Greece is, its greatest works of art were created long after the Homeric poems and were surely influenced by familiarity with those sources of universal inspiration. I believe it can be demonstrated that lyrical poetry evolved in its more complex form first in those regions where Homer’s poems were most likely well-known.
The peculiar character of the Greek lyrical poetry can only be understood by remembering its inseparable connexion with music; and the general application of both, not only to religious but political purposes. The Dorian states regarded the lyre and the song as powerful instruments upon the education, the manners, and the national character of their citizens. With them these arts were watched and regulated by the law, and the poet acquired something of the social rank, and aimed at much of the moral design, of a statesman and a legislator: while, in the Ionian states, the wonderful stir and agitation, the changes and experiments in government, the rapid growth of luxury, commerce, and civilization, afforded to a poetry which was not, as with us, considered a detached, unsocial, and solitary art, but which was associated with every event of actual life—occasions of vast variety—themes of universal animation. The eloquence of poetry will always be more exciting in its appeals—the love for poetry always more diffused throughout a people, in proportion as it is less written than recited. How few, even at this day, will read a poem!— what crowds will listen to a song! Recitation transfers the stage of effect from the closet to the multitude—the public becomes an audience, the poet an orator. And when we remember that the poetry, thus created, imbodying the most vivid, popular, animated subjects of interest, was united with all the pomp of festival and show—all the grandest, the most elaborate, and artful effects of music—we may understand why the true genius of lyrical composition has passed for ever away from the modern world.
The unique nature of Greek lyrical poetry can only be appreciated when we remember its close connection to music and its general use for both religious and political purposes. The Dorian states viewed the lyre and song as powerful tools for shaping the education, behavior, and national identity of their citizens. In these states, the arts were regulated by law, and poets held a certain social status, aspiring to the moral goals of statesmen and lawmakers. In contrast, the Ionian states experienced a dynamic atmosphere with rapid changes in government, a booming luxury market, commerce, and civilization, which provided poetry—unlike our perspective of it as a solitary and detached art—with a link to the events of everyday life and a wide range of lively themes. The power of poetry’s appeal grows as it is spoken rather than just read. How few people today choose to read a poem!—yet how many will listen to a song! Recitation shifts the impact from private reading to public performance—the audience engages, and the poet becomes an orator. And when we consider that this type of poetry, encompassing the most vivid and exciting subjects of interest, was accompanied by grand festivals and impressive music, we can see why the true spirit of lyrical composition has vanished from the modern world.
As early as between 708 and 665 B. C., Archilochus brought to perfection a poetry worthy of loftier passions than those which mostly animated his headstrong and angry genius. In 625 (thirty-one years before the legislation of Solon) flourished Arion, the Lesbian, who, at Corinth, carried, to extraordinary perfection the heroic adaptation of song to choral music. In 611 flourished the Sicilian, Stersichorus —no unworthy rival of Arion; while simultaneously, in strains less national and Grecian, and more resembling the inspiration of modern minstrels, Alcaeus vented his burning and bitter spirit;—and Sappho (whose chaste and tender muse it was reserved for the chivalry of a northern student, five-and-twenty centuries after the hand was cold and the tongue was mute, to vindicate from the longest-continued calumny that genius ever endured) 177 gave to the most ardent of human passions the most delicate colouring of female sentiment. Perhaps, of all that Greece has bequeathed to us, nothing is so perfect in its concentration of real feeling as the fragments of Sappho. In one poem of a few lines—nor that, alas! transmitted to us complete—she has given a picture of the effect of love upon one who loves, to which volumes of the most eloquent description could scarcely add a single new touch of natural pathos—so subtle is it, yet so simple. I cannot pass over in silence the fragments of Mimnermus (fl. B. C. 630)—they seem of an order so little akin to the usual character of Grecian poetry; there is in them a thoughtful though gloomy sadness, that belongs rather to the deep northern imagination than the brilliant fancies of the west; their melancholy is mixed with something half intellectual—half voluptuous—indicative of the mournful but interesting wisdom of satiety. Mimnermus is a principal model of the Latin elegiac writers—and Propertius compares his love verses with those of Homer. Mimnermus did not invent the elegiac form (for it was first applied to warlike inspiration by another Ionian poet, Callinus); but he seems the founder of what we now call the elegiac spirit in its association of the sentiment of melancholy with the passion of love.
As early as between 708 and 665 B.C., Archilochus perfected a style of poetry that was worthy of deeper emotions than those typically driven by his headstrong and angry nature. In 625, thirty-one years before Solon's legislation, Arion, from Lesbos, emerged at Corinth, where he brought the heroic adaptation of song to choral music to extraordinary heights. In 611, the Sicilian Stesichorus emerged as a notable rival to Arion; meanwhile, in strains that were less national and Greek, resembling the inspiration of modern songwriters, Alcaeus expressed his fiery and bitter emotions;—and Sappho (whose pure and tender muse was defended against centuries of slander, long after her death, by a chivalrous northern scholar) 177 gave the most intense human passions a delicate touch of feminine sentiment. Perhaps of all that Greece has left us, nothing captures genuine feeling as perfectly as Sappho's fragments. In one of her short poems—unfortunately, not passed down to us in full—she offers a depiction of the effect of love on the lover that even volumes of eloquent prose could hardly enhance, so subtle yet simple is it. I can't overlook the fragments of Mimnermus (fl. B.C. 630)—they seem to differ significantly from typical Greek poetry; there's a thoughtful, albeit gloomy sadness in them that feels more aligned with the deep northern imagination than the bright fancies of the west; their melancholy is mixed with something half-intellectual—half-sensuous—reflecting the mournful yet intriguing wisdom that comes with exhaustion. Mimnermus is a key influence on Latin elegiac poets—and Propertius compares his love poems to those of Homer. Although Mimnermus didn't invent the elegiac form (which was first applied to warlike themes by another Ionian poet, Callinus), he seems to have established what we now call the elegiac spirit, linking feelings of melancholy with the passion of love.
IX. While such was the state of POETRY in Greece—torpid in the Ionian Athens, but already prodigal in her kindred states of Asia and the Isles; gravely honoured, rather than produced, in Sparta;— splendidly welcomed, rather than home-born, in Corinth;—the Asiatic colonies must also claim the honour of the advance of the sister arts. But in architecture the Dorian states of European Greece, Sicyon, Aegina, and the luxurious Corinth, were no unworthy competitors with Ionia.
IX. While poetry in Greece was like this—sluggish in Ionian Athens but already thriving in its sister regions of Asia and the Isles; respected more than cultivated in Sparta;—lavishly embraced, rather than organically developed, in Corinth;—the Asiatic colonies also deserve credit for the progress of the related arts. In architecture, however, the Dorian states of European Greece, Sicyon, Aegina, and the opulent Corinth were strong contenders against Ionia.
In the heroic times, the Homeric poems, especially the Odyssey, attest the refinement and skill to which many of the imitative arts of Grecian civilization had attained. In embroidery, the high-born occupation of Helen ad Penelope, were attempted the most complex and difficult designs; and it is hard to suppose that these subjects could have been wrought upon garments with sufficient fidelity to warrant the praise of a poet who evidently wrote from experience of what he had seen, if the art of DRAWING had not been also carried to some excellence—although to PAINTING itself the poet makes none but dubious and obscure allusions. Still, if, on the one hand 178, in embroidery, and upon arms (as the shield of Achilles), delineation in its more complex and minute form was attempted,—and if, on the other hand, the use of colours was known (which it was, as applied not only to garments but to ivory), it could not have been long before two such kindred elements of the same art were united. Although it is contended by many that rude stones or beams were the earliest objects of Grecian worship, and though it is certain that in several places such emblems of the Deity preceded the worship of images, yet to the superstitious art of the rude Pelasgi in their earliest age, uncouth and half-formed statues of Hermes are attributed, and the idol is commemorated by traditions almost as antique as those which attest the sanctity of the fetiche 179. In the Homeric age, SCULPTURE in metals, and on a large scale, was certainly known. By the door of Alcinous, the king of an island in the Ionian Sea, stand rows of dogs in gold and silver—in his hall, upon pedestals, are golden statues of boys holding torches; and that such sculpture was even then dedicated to the gods is apparent by a well-known passage in the earlier poem of the Iliad; which represents Theano, the Trojan priestess of Minerva, placing the offering of Hecuba upon the knees of the statue of the goddess. How far, however, such statues could be called works of art, or how far they were wrought by native Greeks, it is impossible to determine 180. Certain it is that the memorable and gigantic advance in the art of SCULPTURE was not made till about the 50th Olympiad (B. C. 580), when Dipaenus and Scyllis first obtained celebrity in works in marble (wood and metals were the earliest materials of sculpture). The great improvements in the art seem to have been coeval with the substitution of the naked for the draped figure. Beauty, and ease, and grace, and power, were the result of the anatomical study of the human form. ARCHITECTURE has bequeathed to us, in the Pelasgic and Cyclopean remains, sufficient to indicate the massive strength it early acquired in parts of Greece. In the Homeric times, the intercourse with Asia had already given something of lightness to the elder forms. Columns are constantly introduced into the palaces of the chiefs, profuse metallic ornaments decorate the walls; and the Homeric palaces, with their cornices gayly inwrought with blue—their pillars of silver on bases of brass, rising amid vines and fruit-trees,—even allowing for all the exaggerations of the poet,—dazzle the imagination with much of the gaudiness and glitter of an oriental city 181. At this period Athens receives from Homer the epithet of “broad-streeted:” and it is by no means improbable that the city of the Attic king might have presented to a traveller, in the time of Homer, a more pleasing general appearance than in its age of fame, when, after the Persian devastations, its stately temples rose above narrow and irregular streets, and the jealous effects of democracy forbade to the mansions of individual nobles that striking pre-eminence over the houses of the commonalty which would naturally mark the distinction of wealth and rank, in a monarchical, or even an oligarchical government.
In ancient times, the Homeric poems, especially the Odyssey, show the sophistication and skill that many of the arts of Greek civilization had reached. In embroidery, the noble pursuits of Helen and Penelope involved the most intricate and challenging designs; it’s hard to believe that these themes could have been accurately depicted on garments, earning the admiration of a poet who clearly wrote from firsthand experience, if the art of DRAWING hadn't also developed to a high level—though the poet only makes vague references to PAINTING itself. Still, on one hand, 178, in embroidery, and on armor (like Achilles' shield), detailed illustration was attempted,—and on the other hand, the use of colors was known (as evidenced by their application not just to garments but also to ivory), so it couldn't have been long before these two closely related aspects of art came together. While many argue that crude stones or beams were the earliest objects of Greek worship, and it is true that in several places these symbols of the Deity came before the worship of images, the primitive Pelasgian art of their earliest days is credited with clumsy, half-formed statues of Hermes, with traditions almost as old as those that affirm the sanctity of the fetiche 179. In the Homeric age, METAL SCULPTURE on a large scale was definitely known. At the entrance of Alcinous's palace, the king of an island in the Ionian Sea, there are rows of dogs made of gold and silver—in his hall, golden statues of boys holding torches stand on pedestals; and it’s clear from a well-known passage in the earlier poem, the Iliad, that such sculptures were already being offered to the gods, such as when Theano, the Trojan priestess of Minerva, places Hecuba’s offering on the goddess's statue. However, how far these statues could be regarded as works of art, or how much they were created by native Greeks, is impossible to determine 180. What is certain is that the significant breakthrough in the art of SCULPTURE didn’t occur until around the 50th Olympiad (B.C. 580), when Dipaenus and Scyllis first gained fame for their marble works (earliest sculptures were made from wood and metals). The major advancements in the art seem to have coincided with the transition from draped to nude figures. Beauty, ease, grace, and power emerged from the anatomical study of the human form. ARCHITECTURE has left us, in the Pelasgic and Cyclopean ruins, enough evidence to show how robust it became in parts of Greece. In Homeric times, contact with Asia had already introduced a lighter touch to earlier forms. Columns were frequently featured in the chiefs' palaces, and lavish metal decorations adorned the walls; the Homeric palaces, with their brightly inlaid cornices—silver pillars on brass bases, rising among vines and fruit trees—even accounting for the poet’s exaggerations—ignite the imagination with much of the flash and sparkle of an Eastern city 181. During this time, Homer refers to Athens as “broad-streeted:” and it’s very likely that the city of the Attic king might have offered a more appealing overall look to a traveler in Homer’s time than during its celebrated later period, when, after the Persian devastation, its grand temples towered above narrow and winding streets, and the restrictive effects of democracy prevented the grand homes of individual nobles from standing out over the common houses in a way that would naturally highlight wealth and status, as seen in a monarchy or even an oligarchy.
X. About the time on which we now enter, the extensive commerce and free institutions of the Ionian colonies had carried all the arts just referred to far beyond the Homeric time. And, in addition to the activity and development of the intellect in all its faculties which progressed with the extensive trade and colonization of Miletus (operating upon the sensitive, inquiring, and poetical temperament of the Ionian population), a singular event, which suddenly opened to Greece familiar intercourse with the arts and lore of Egypt, gave considerable impetus to the whole Grecian MIND.
X. Around the time we're discussing, the thriving trade and open institutions of the Ionian colonies had taken the arts mentioned earlier far beyond the Homeric era. Moreover, alongside the growth and development of intellect in all its forms spurred by the extensive trade and colonization of Miletus (which appealed to the curious, questioning, and poetic nature of the Ionian people), a remarkable event that suddenly connected Greece with the arts and knowledge of Egypt significantly boosted the entire Greek mindset.
In our previous brief survey of the state of the Oriental world, we have seen that Egypt, having been rent into twelve principalities, had been again united under a single monarch. The ambitious and fortunate Psammetichus was enabled, by the swords of some Ionian and Carian adventurers (who, bound on a voyage of plunder, had been driven upon the Egyptian shores), not only to regain his own dominion, from which he had been expelled by the jealousy of his comrades, but to acquire the sole sovereignty of Egypt (B. C. 670). In gratitude for their services, Psammetichus conferred upon his wild allies certain lands at the Pelusian mouth of the Nile, and obliged some Egyptian children to learn the Grecian language;—from these children descended a class of interpreters, that long afterward established the facilities of familiar intercourse between Greece and Egypt. Whatever, before that time, might have been the migrations of Egyptians into Greece, these were the first Greeks whom the Egyptians received among themselves. Thence poured into Greece, in one full and continuous stream, the Egyptian influences, hitherto partial and unfrequent. 182
In our earlier overview of the Oriental world, we noted that Egypt had been split into twelve principalities but was once again united under a single ruler. The ambitious and lucky Psammetichus managed to regain his throne, from which he had been ousted due to the jealousy of his peers, thanks to some Ionian and Carian adventurers who, while on a plundering voyage, found themselves on Egyptian shores. This happened around 670 B.C. Grateful for their help, Psammetichus granted his wild allies some land at the Pelusian mouth of the Nile and required some Egyptian children to learn Greek; from these children emerged a class of interpreters that later facilitated ongoing communication between Greece and Egypt. While there may have been earlier migrations of Egyptians to Greece, these were the first Greeks that the Egyptians embraced. Following this, Egyptian influences flowed into Greece in a steady and continuous stream, previously being sporadic and infrequent. 182
In the same reign, according to Strabo, the Asiatic Greeks obtained a settlement at Naucratis, the ancient emporium of Egypt; and the communication, once begun, rapidly increased, until in the subsequent time of Amasis (B. C. 569) we find the Ionians, the Dorians, the Aeolians of Asia, and even the people of Aegina and Samos 183, building temples and offering worship amid the jealous and mystic priestcrafts of the Nile. This familiar and advantageous intercourse with a people whom the Greeks themselves considered the wisest on the earth, exercised speedy and powerful effect upon their religion and their art. In the first it operated immediately upon their modes of divination and their mystic rites—in the last, the influence was less direct. It is true that they probably learned from the Egyptians many technical rules in painting and in sculpture; they learned how to cut the marble and to blend the colours, but their own genius taught them how to animate the block and vivify the image. We have seen already, that before this event, art had attained to a certain eminence among the Greeks—fortunately, therefore, what they now acquired was not the foundation of their lore. Grafted on a Grecian stock, every shoot bore Grecian fruit: and what was borrowed from mechanism was reproduced in beauty 184. As with the arts, so with the SCIENCES; we have reason to doubt whether the Egyptian sages, whose minds were swathed and bandaged in the cerements of hereditary rules, never to swell out of the slavery of castes, had any very sound and enlightened philosophy to communicate: their wisdom was probably exaggerated by the lively and credulous Greeks, awed by the mysticism of the priests, the grandeur of the cities, the very rigidity, so novel to them, of imposing and antique custom. What, then, was the real benefit of the intercourse? Not so much in satisfying as in arousing and stimulating the curiosity of knowledge. Egypt, to the Greeks, was as America to Europe—the Egyptians taught them little, but Egypt much. And that what the Egyptians did directly communicate was rather the material for improvement than the improvement itself, this one gift is an individual example and a general type;—the Egyptians imparted to the Greeks the use of the papyrus—the most easy and popular material for writing; we are thus indebted to Egypt for a contrivance that has done much to preserve to us—much, perhaps, to create for us—a Plato and an Aristotle; but for the thoughts of Aristotle and Plato we are indebted to Greece alone:—the material Egyptian—the manufacture Greek.
In the same period, according to Strabo, the Asian Greeks established a settlement at Naucratis, the ancient trading hub of Egypt. Once the communication started, it quickly grew, and by the later time of Amasis (B.C. 569), we find the Ionians, the Dorians, the Aeolians from Asia, and even the people of Aegina and Samos 183 building temples and worshipping among the envious and mysterious priesthoods of the Nile. This familiar and beneficial interaction with a people that the Greeks regarded as the wisest in the world had a swift and strong impact on their religion and art. In religion, it directly influenced their methods of divination and mystical rituals; in art, the impact was less straightforward. It's true that they likely learned many technical techniques in painting and sculpture from the Egyptians; they learned how to carve marble and mix colors, but their own creativity taught them how to bring the stone to life and animate the image. We've already seen that before this event, art had achieved a certain level of excellence among the Greeks—therefore, what they gained now was not the foundation of their knowledge. Built on a Greek foundation, every new growth produced Greek results: and what was borrowed from technique was transformed into beauty 184. Just as with the arts, the SCIENCES also saw doubts about whether the Egyptian wise men, whose minds were bound by traditional rules and never able to rise above their class structures, had any truly sound and progressive philosophy to share; their wisdom was likely inflated by the enthusiastic and gullible Greeks, impressed by the mysticism of the priests, the grandeur of the cities, and the rigid traditions that were so new to them. So, what was the actual benefit of this exchange? It wasn't so much about satisfying their thirst for knowledge as it was about igniting and stimulating their curiosity. To the Greeks, Egypt was like America to Europe—they learned little directly from the Egyptians, but Egypt offered them a lot. And what the Egyptians did directly share was more like material for improvement than the improvements themselves; this one example serves as both a specific illustration and a broader point: the Egyptians gave the Greeks the use of papyrus—the most accessible and popular writing material. Thus, we owe a lot to Egypt for a method that has helped preserve much for us—perhaps even helped create—Plato and Aristotle; but for the ideas of Aristotle and Plato, we are solely indebted to Greece: the material was Egyptian, but the craftsmanship was Greek.
XI. The use of the papyrus had undoubtedly much effect upon the formation of prose composition in Greece, but it was by no means an instantaneous one. At the period on which we now enter (about B. C. 600), the first recorded prose Grecian writer had not composed his works. The wide interval between prose in its commencement and poetry in its perfection is peculiarly Grecian; many causes conspired to produce it, but the principal one was, that works, if written, being not the less composed to be recited, not read—were composed to interest and delight, rather than formally to instruct. Poetry was, therefore, so obviously the best means to secure the end of the author, that we cannot wonder to find that channel of appeal universally chosen; the facility with which the language formed itself into verse, and the license that appears to have been granted to the gravest to assume a poetical diction without attempting the poetical spirit, allowed even legislators and moralists to promulgate precepts and sentences in the rhythm of a Homer and a Hesiod. And since laws were not written before the time of Draco, it was doubly necessary that they should he cast in that fashion by which words are most durably impressed on the memory of the multitude. Even on Solon’s first appearance in public life, when he inspires the Athenians to prosecute the war with Megara, he addresses the passions of the crowd, not by an oration, but a poem; and in a subsequent period, when prose composition had become familiar, it was still in verse that Hipparchus communicated his moral apothegms. The origin of prose in Greece is, therefore, doubly interesting as an epoch, not only in the intellectual, but also in the social state. It is clear that it would not commence until a reading public was created; and until, amid the poetical many, had sprung up the grave and studious few. Accordingly, philosophy, orally delivered, preceded prose composition—and Thales taught before Pherecydes wrote 185. To the superficial it may seem surprising that literature, as distinct from poetry, should commence with the most subtle and laborious direction of the human intellect: yet so it was, not only in Greece, but almost universally. In nearly all countries, speculative conjecture or inquiry is the first successor to poetry. In India, in China, in the East, some dim philosophy is the characteristic of the earliest works—sometimes inculcating maxims of morality—sometimes allegorically shadowing forth, sometimes even plainly expressing, the opinions of the author on the mysteries of life—of nature—of the creation. Even with the moderns, the dawn of letters broke on the torpor of the dark ages of the North in speculative disquisition; the Arabian and the Aristotelian subtleties engaged the attention of the earliest cultivators of modern prose (as separated from poetic fiction), and the first instinct of the awakened reason was to grope through the misty twilight after TRUTH. Philosophy precedes even history; men were desirous of solving the enigmas of the world, before they disentangled from tradition the chronicles of its former habitants.
XI. The use of papyrus definitely influenced the development of prose writing in Greece, but it wasn't an immediate change. By the time we’re discussing (around 600 B.C.), the first known Greek prose writer hadn’t written any works yet. The long gap between the beginning of prose and the peak of poetry is particularly Greek; many factors contributed to this, but the main one was that written works were primarily meant to be recited, not read—they were created more to entertain and engage rather than to formally educate. Poetry stood out as the best way to achieve the author’s goals, which is why we shouldn’t be surprised that this method of communication was so widely adopted. The ease with which language flowed into verse, and the apparent freedom for serious individuals to use poetic language without actually capturing the poetic spirit, allowed even lawmakers and moral philosophers to express their ideas in the rhythm of a Homer or a Hesiod. Since laws weren't written down before Draco's time, it was even more important for them to be presented in a way that would stick in the public's memory. When Solon first stepped into public life, urging the Athenians to fight the war with Megara, he appealed to the crowd’s emotions not with a speech, but with a poem; later, even as prose became more common, Hipparchus still shared his moral sayings in verse. So, the emergence of prose in Greece is particularly significant, not just intellectually, but also socially. It’s clear that prose wouldn’t develop until there was a reading audience and until the serious and thoughtful few emerged among the poetic many. Thus, philosophical ideas shared orally came before prose writing—and Thales taught before Pherecydes wrote 185. To some, it might seem odd that literature, separate from poetry, should start with the most complex and demanding uses of the human mind, but that’s how it happened, not just in Greece but almost everywhere. In many countries, philosophical speculation or inquiry is the first thing that follows poetry. In India, China, and the East, some early forms of philosophy are seen in the first works—sometimes sharing moral teachings, sometimes using allegory to hint at deeper meanings, and sometimes even plainly stating the author’s views on life’s mysteries, nature, and creation. Even in modern times, the beginning of literature broke through the stagnation of the dark ages in the North with philosophical discussions; Arabian and Aristotelian complexities captured the attention of the first modern prose writers (as distinct from poetic storytelling), and the first flicker of awakened reason sought to find TRUTH through the hazy twilight. Philosophy often comes before history; people were eager to solve the mysteries of the world before they untangled the stories of its past inhabitants.
If we examine the ways of an infant we shall cease to wonder at those of an infant civilization. Long before we can engage the curiosity of the child in the History of England—long before we can induce him to listen with pleasure to our stories even of Poictiers and Cressy—and (a fortiori) long before he can be taught an interest in Magna Charta and the Bill of Rights, he will of his own accord question us of the phenomena of nature—inquire how he himself came into the world— delight to learn something of the God we tell him to adore—and find in the rainbow and the thunder, in the meteor and the star, a thousand subjects of eager curiosity and reverent wonder. The why perpetually torments him;—every child is born a philosopher!—the child is the analogy of a people yet in childhood. 186
If we look at the behavior of a baby, we'll stop being surprised by the behavior of a young civilization. Long before we can spark a child's interest in the History of England—long before we can get them to enjoy our stories about Poictiers and Cressy—and certainly long before we can teach them to care about Magna Carta and the Bill of Rights, they will naturally ask us about the wonders of nature—wonder how they came into the world—eager to learn something about the God we tell them to worship—and find in the rainbow and the thunder, in the meteor and the star, countless topics of eager curiosity and deep amazement. The question "why" constantly bothers them; every child is born a philosopher!—the child represents a society that is still in its infancy. 186
XII. It may follow as a corollary from this problem, that the Greeks of themselves arrived at the stage of philosophical inquiry without any very important and direct assistance from the lore of Egypt and the East. That lore, indeed, awakened the desire, but it did not guide the spirit of speculative research. And the main cause why philosophy at once assumed with the Greeks a character distinct from that of the Oriental world, I have already intimated 187, in the absence of a segregated and privileged religious caste. Philosophy thus fell into the hands of sages, not of priests. And whatever the Ionian states (the cradle of Grecian wisdom) received from Egypt or the East, they received to reproduce in new and luxuriant prodigality. The Ionian sages took from an elder wisdom not dogmas never to be questioned, but suggestions carefully to be examined. It thus fortunately happened that the deeper and maturer philosophy of Greece proper had a kind of intermedium between the systems of other nations and its own. The Eastern knowledge was borne to Europe through the Greek channels of Asiatic colonies, and became Hellenized as it passed. Thus, what was a certainty in the East, became a proposition in Ionia, and ultimately a doubt, at Athens. In Greece, indeed, as everywhere, religion was connected with the first researches of philosophy. From the fear of the gods, to question of the nature of the gods, is an easy transition. The abundance and variety of popular superstitions served but to stimulate curiosity as to their origin; and since in Egypt the sole philosophers were the priests, a Greek could scarcely converse with an Egyptian on the articles of his religion without discussing also the principles of his philosophy. Whatever opinions the Greek might then form and promulge, being sheltered beneath no jealous and prescriptive priestcraft, all had unfettered right to canvass and dispute them, till by little and little discussion ripened into science.
XII. It may be a result of this issue that the Greeks developed their own philosophical inquiries without significant and direct help from the knowledge of Egypt and the East. That knowledge certainly sparked interest, but it didn't shape the spirit of speculative research. The main reason philosophy in Greece took on a character distinct from that of the Eastern world, as I’ve already mentioned 187, was the lack of a separate and privileged religious class. Philosophy thus fell into the hands of thinkers, not priests. Whatever the Ionian states (the birthplace of Greek wisdom) received from Egypt or the East, they transformed into something new and vibrant. The Ionian thinkers drew from older wisdom not as unchallengeable dogmas, but as suggestions to be closely examined. Fortunately, this meant that the deeper and more developed philosophy of Greece had a sort of intermediary role between the systems of other cultures and its own. Eastern knowledge came to Europe via Greek channels of Asiatic colonies and became Hellenized along the way. What was a certainty in the East turned into a proposition in Ionia and ultimately became a question in Athens. In Greece, as in other places, religion was linked to the initial inquiries of philosophy. The transition from fearing the gods to questioning their nature is a natural one. The abundance and variety of popular superstitions only fueled curiosity about their origins; and since in Egypt the only philosophers were priests, a Greek could hardly discuss an Egyptian's religious beliefs without also addressing the principles of his philosophy. Whatever views the Greek might then form and share, free from the constraints of jealous priestcraft, everyone had the unimpeded right to debate and discuss them, until gradually conversation evolved into science.
The distinction, in fine, between the Greeks and their contemporaries was this: if they were not the only people that philosophized, they were the only people that said whatever they pleased about philosophy. Their very plagiarism from the philosophy of other creeds was fortunate, inasmuch as it presented nothing hostile to the national superstition. Had they disputed about the nature of Jupiter, or the existence of Apollo, they might have been persecuted, but they could start at once into disquisitions upon the eternity of matter, or the providence of a pervading mind.
The main difference between the Greeks and their contemporaries was this: while they weren't the only people who thought deeply about philosophy, they were the only ones who freely discussed it without restrictions. Their borrowing from other beliefs was actually beneficial because it didn’t threaten their traditional beliefs. If they had challenged the nature of Jupiter or the existence of Apollo, they could have faced persecution, but instead, they easily engaged in discussions about the eternity of matter or the idea of a guiding intelligence.
XIII. This spirit of innovation and discussion, which made the characteristic of the Greeks, is noted by Diodorus. “Unlike the Chaldaeans,” he observes, “with whom philosophy is delivered from sire to son, and all other employment rejected by its cultivators, the Greeks come late to the science—take it up for a short time—desert it for a more active means of subsistence—and the few who surrender themselves wholly to it practise for gain, innovate the most important doctrines, pay no reverence to those that went before, create new sects, establish new theorems, and, by perpetual contradictions, entail perpetual doubts.” Those contradictions and those doubts made precisely the reason why the Greeks became the tutors of the world!
XIII. This spirit of innovation and discussion, which was a hallmark of the Greeks, is noted by Diodorus. “Unlike the Chaldeans,” he points out, “who pass down philosophy from father to son and reject all other pursuits, the Greeks come to science late—they engage with it for a short time, then abandon it for more active ways to make a living. The few who dedicate themselves fully to it do so for profit, innovate the most important ideas, show no respect for previous thinkers, create new sects, establish new theories, and through constant contradictions, foster endless doubts.” These contradictions and doubts are exactly why the Greeks became the teachers of the world!
There is another characteristic of the Greeks indicated by this remark of Diodorus. Their early philosophers, not being exempted from other employments, were not the mere dreamers of the closet and the cell. They were active, practical, stirring men of the world. They were politicians and moralists as well as philosophers. The practical pervaded the ideal, and was, in fact, the salt that preserved it from decay. Thus legislation and science sprung simultaneously into life, and the age of Solon is the age of Thales.
There’s another trait of the Greeks highlighted by Diodorus’ comment. Their early philosophers, who weren't isolated from other tasks, weren’t just daydreamers holed up in their rooms. They were engaged, practical, and dynamic people involved in the real world. They were politicians and moral thinkers as well as philosophers. Practicality infused the ideal, and it was, in fact, what kept it from falling apart. Thus, legislation and science emerged at the same time, and the era of Solon is also the era of Thales.
XIV. Of the seven wise men (if we accept that number) who flourished about the same period, six were rulers and statesmen. They were eminent, not as physical, but as moral, philosophers; and their wisdom was in their maxims and apothegms. They resembled in much the wary and sagacious tyrants of Italy in the middle ages—masters of men’s actions by becoming readers of their minds. Of these seven, Periander of Corinth (began to reign B. C. 625, died B. C. 585) and Cleobulus of Lindus (fl. B. C. 586), tyrants in their lives, and cruel in their actions, were, it is said, disowned by the remaining five 188. But goodness is not the necessary consequence of intellect, and, despite their vices, these princes deserved the epithet of wise. Of Cleobulus we know less than of Periander; but both governed with prosperity, and died in old age. If we except Pisistratus, Periander was the greatest artist of all that able and profound fraternity, who, under the name of tyrants, concentred the energies of their several states, and prepared the democracies by which they were succeeded. Periander’s reputed maxims are at variance with his practice; they breathe a spirit of freedom and a love of virtue which may render us suspicious of their authenticity—the more so as they are also attributed to others. Nevertheless, the inconsistency would be natural, for reason makes our opinions, and circumstance shapes our actions. “A democracy is better than a tyranny,” is an aphorism imputed to Periander: but when asked why he continued tyrant, he answered, “Because it is dangerous willingly to resist, or unwillingly to be deposed.” His principles were republican, his position made him a tyrant. He is said to have fallen into extreme dejection in his old age; perhaps because his tastes and his intellect were at war with his life. Chilo, the Lacedaemonian ephor, is placed also among the seven. His maxims are singularly Dorian—they breathe reverence of the dead and suspicion of the living. “Love,” he said (if we may take the authority of Aulus Gellius, fl. B. C. 586), “as if you might hereafter hate, and hate as if you might hereafter love.” Another favourite sentence of his was, “to a surety loss is at hand.” 189 A third, “we try gold by the touchstone. Gold is the touchstone of the mind.” Bias, of Priene in Ionia, is quoted, in Herodotus, as the author of an advice to the Ionians to quit their country, and found a common city in Sardinia (B. C. 586). He seems to have taken an active part in all civil affairs. His reputed maxims are plain and homely—the elementary principles of morals. Mitylene in Lesbos boasted the celebrated Pittacus (began to govern B. C. 589, resigned 579, died 569). He rose to the tyranny of the government by the free voice of the people; enjoyed it ten years, and voluntarily resigned it, as having only borne the dignity while the state required the direction of a single leader. It was a maxim with him, for which he is reproved by Plato, “That to be good is hard.” His favourite precept was, “Know occasion:” and this he amplified in another (if rightly attributed to him), “To foresee and prevent dangers is the province of the wise—to direct them when they come, of the brave.”
XIV. Of the seven wise men (if we accept that number) who lived around the same time, six were rulers and politicians. They were noted, not for their physical prowess, but for their moral philosophy; their wisdom showed in their sayings and proverbs. They bore a lot of resemblance to the cautious and astute tyrants of medieval Italy—masters of people's actions by learning to read their thoughts. Among these seven, Periander of Corinth (reigned B.C. 625, died B.C. 585) and Cleobulus of Lindus (fl. B.C. 586), who were tyrannical in their lives and cruel in their actions, were supposedly rejected by the other five 188. However, being good doesn't necessarily follow from being smart, and despite their flaws, these rulers can still be seen as wise. We know less about Cleobulus than we do about Periander, but both ruled successfully and lived to a ripe old age. If we exclude Pisistratus, Periander was the most talented of that capable and insightful group, who, under the title of tyrants, unified the powers of their respective states and laid the groundwork for the democracies that followed. Periander’s well-known sayings contradict his actions; they express a spirit of freedom and a love for virtue, which might make us doubt their authenticity—especially since they are also attributed to others. Still, the inconsistency is understandable because reason shapes our beliefs while circumstances dictate our actions. “A democracy is better than a tyranny,” is one saying attributed to Periander: but when asked why he remained a tyrant, he replied, “Because it is dangerous to resist willingly or to be removed against one's will.” His ideals were republican, but his situation forced him into tyranny. He was said to have fallen into deep despair in his old age, likely because his desires and intellect were at odds with his life. Chilo, the Spartan ephor, is also counted among the seven. His sayings are distinctly Dorian—they express respect for the dead and suspicion of the living. “Love,” he said (if we can trust Aulus Gellius, fl. B.C. 586), “as if you might later hate, and hate as if you might later love.” Another of his famous sayings was, “sure loss is at hand.” 189 A third was, “we test gold with the touchstone. Gold is also the touchstone of the mind.” Bias, from Priene in Ionia, is quoted in Herodotus as advising the Ionians to leave their homeland and create a common city in Sardinia (B.C. 586). He seemed to be actively involved in all civic matters. His notable sayings are straightforward and down-to-earth—the basic rules of morality. Mitylene in Lesbos proudly claimed the famous Pittacus (began governing B.C. 589, resigned 579, died 569). He attained the tyranny through the people’s consent, ruled for ten years, and stepped down voluntarily, claiming he had only held the position while the state needed the guidance of a single leader. One of his maxims, for which Plato criticized him, was, “That being good is difficult.” His preferred saying was, “Know the occasion,” which he elaborated on with another (if rightly attributed to him), “To foresee and prevent dangers is the duty of the wise—directing them when they come is the duty of the brave.”
XV. Of Solon, the greatest of the seven, I shall hereafter speak at length. I pass now to Thales (born B. C. 639);—the founder of philosophy, in its scientific sense—the speculative in contradistinction to the moral: Although an ardent republican, Thales alone, of the seven sages, appears to have led a private and studious life. He travelled, into Crete, Asia, and at a later period into Egypt. According to Laertius, Egypt taught him geometry. He is supposed to have derived his astrological notions from Phoenicia. But this he might easily have done without visiting the Phoenician states. Returning to Miletus, he obtained his title of Wise 190. Much learning has been exhausted upon his doctrines to very little purpose. They were of small value, save as they led to the most valuable of all philosophies—that of experiment. They were not new probably even in Greece 191, and of their utility the following brief sketch will enable the reader to judge for himself.
XV. I will talk at length about Solon, the greatest of the seven, later on. For now, let's move on to Thales (born 639 B.C.), the founder of philosophy in a scientific sense—focusing on speculation rather than morality. Despite being a passionate republican, Thales seems to have lived a private and studious life, unlike the other seven sages. He traveled to Crete, Asia, and later to Egypt. According to Laertius, he learned geometry in Egypt. It’s believed he got his astrological ideas from Phoenicia, but he could have easily acquired that knowledge without traveling to Phoenician territories. When he returned to Miletus, he earned the title of Wise 190. A lot of study has been wasted on his doctrines with little result. They were not particularly valuable, except for leading to the most important philosophy of all—experimentation. These ideas were likely not new even in Greece 191, and the following brief overview will allow the reader to assess their usefulness for themselves.
He maintained that water, or rather humidity, was the origin of all things, though he allowed mind or intellect (nous) to be the impelling principle. And one of his arguments in favour of humidity, as rendered to us by Plutarch and Stobaeus, is pretty nearly as follows: —“Because fire, even in the sun and the stars, is nourished by vapours proceeding from humidity,—and therefore the whole world consists of the same.” Of the world, he supposed the whole to be animated by, and full of, the Divinity—its Creator—that in it was no vacuum—that matter was fluid and variable. 192
He argued that water, or more accurately, humidity, was the source of everything, although he believed that the mind or intellect (nous) was the driving force behind it all. One of his points supporting the idea of humidity, as reported by Plutarch and Stobaeus, goes something like this: “Because fire, even in the sun and the stars, is fueled by vapors coming from humidity—and thus, the entire world is made up of the same.” He thought that the whole world was animated by, and filled with, the Divine—its Creator—that there was no empty space in it—that matter was fluid and changeable. 192
He maintained the stars and sun to be earthly, and the moon of the same nature as the sun, but illumined by it. Somewhat more valuable would appear to have been his geometrical science, could we with accuracy attribute to Thales many problems claimed also, and more probably, by Pythagoras and later reasoners. He is asserted to have measured the pyramids by their shadows. He cultivated astronomy and astrology; and Laertius declares him to have been the first Greek that foretold eclipses. The yet higher distinction has been claimed for Thales of having introduced among his countrymen the doctrine of the immortality of the soul. But this sublime truth, though connected with no theory of future rewards and punishments, was received in Greece long before his time. Perhaps, however, as the expressions of Cicero indicate, Thales might be the first who attempted to give reasons for what was believed. His reasons were, nevertheless, sufficiently crude and puerile; and having declared it the property of the soul to move itself, and other things, he was forced to give a soul to the loadstone, because it moved iron!
He believed that the stars and the sun were earthly, and that the moon was similar to the sun but illuminated by it. His knowledge of geometry might seem more impressive if we could accurately credit Thales for many problems that were also claimed, and likely more rightly so, by Pythagoras and later thinkers. It's said that he measured the pyramids using their shadows. He studied astronomy and astrology, and Laertius claims he was the first Greek to predict eclipses. An even greater honor has been attributed to Thales for introducing the idea of the immortality of the soul among his fellow countrymen. However, this profound belief, though not linked to any theory of afterlife rewards and punishments, was accepted in Greece long before his time. Perhaps, as Cicero's remarks suggest, Thales was the first to try to provide reasons for what was already believed. Nevertheless, his arguments were rather simplistic and childish; after stating that the soul has the ability to move itself and other things, he felt compelled to assign a soul to the magnet because it attracted iron!
These fantastic doctrines examined, and his geometrical or astronomical discoveries dubious, it may be asked, what did Thales effect for philosophy? Chiefly this: he gave reasons for opinions—he aroused the dormant spirit of inquiry—he did for truths what the legislators of his age did for the people—left them active and stirring to free and vigorous competition. He took Wisdom out of despotism, and placed her in a republic—he was in harmony with the great principle of his age, which was investigation, and not tradition; and thus he became the first example of that great truth— that to think freely is the first step to thinking well. It fortunately happened, too, that his moral theories, however inadequately argued upon, were noble and exalting. He contended for the providence of a God, as well as for the immortality of man. He asserted vice to be the most hateful, virtue the most profitable of all things 193. He waged war on that vulgar tenacity of life which is the enemy to all that is most spiritual and most enterprising in our natures, and maintained that between life and death there is no difference—the fitting deduction from a belief in the continuous existence of the soul 194. His especial maxim was the celebrated precept, “Know thyself.” His influence was vigorous and immediate. How far he created philosophy may be doubtful, but he created philosophers. From the prolific intelligence which his fame and researches called into being, sprang a new race of thoughts, which continued in unbroken succession until they begat descendants illustrious and immortal. Without the hardy errors of Thales, Socrates might have spent his life in spoiling marble, Plato might have been only a tenth-rate poet, and Aristotle an intriguing pedagogue.
These amazing ideas explored, and his geometric or astronomical discoveries uncertain, one might ask, what did Thales achieve for philosophy? Primarily this: he provided reasons for beliefs—he sparked the inactive spirit of inquiry—he did for truths what the lawmakers of his time did for the people—left them active and eager for free and vigorous competition. He liberated Wisdom from tyranny and placed her in a democracy—he aligned with the great principle of his time, which was investigation, not tradition; thus, he became the first example of the significant truth—that thinking freely is the first step to thinking well. It also turned out that his moral theories, although not very well argued, were noble and uplifting. He argued for the care of a God, as well as for the immortality of humanity. He claimed that vice is the most detestable and virtue the most beneficial of all things 193. He fought against the common insistence on life, which opposes all that is most spiritual and adventurous in our nature, and maintained that there is no difference between life and death—the logical conclusion of a belief in the continuous existence of the soul 194. His main maxim was the famous saying, “Know thyself.” His influence was strong and immediate. Whether he created philosophy might be debatable, but he certainly created philosophers. From the rich intellect that his reputation and inquiries inspired, a new wave of thoughts emerged, which continued in an unbroken line until they produced renowned and timeless descendants. Without the bold mistakes of Thales, Socrates might have wasted his life chiseling marble, Plato could have been just a mediocre poet, and Aristotle an insignificant teacher.
XVI. With this I close my introductory chapters, and proceed from dissertation into history;—pleased that our general survey of Greece should conclude with an acknowledgment of our obligations to the Ionian colonies. Soon, from the contemplation of those enchanting climes; of the extended commerce and the brilliant genius of the people—the birthplace of the epic and the lyric muse, the first home of history, of philosophy, of art;—soon, from our survey of the rise and splendour of the Asiatic Ionians, we turn to the agony of their struggles—the catastrophe of their fall. Those wonderful children of Greece had something kindred with the precocious intellect that is often the hectic symptom of premature decline. Originating, advancing nearly all which the imagination or the reason can produce, while yet in that social youth which promised a long and a yet more glorious existence—while even their great parent herself had scarcely emerged from the long pupilage of nations, they fell into the feebleness of age! Amid the vital struggles, followed by the palsied and prostrate exhaustion of her Ionian children, the majestic Athens suddenly arose from the obscurity of the past to an empire that can never perish, until heroism shall cease to warm, poetry to delight, and wisdom to instruct the future.
XVI. With this, I’ll wrap up my introductory chapters and move from discussion to history; I’m glad that our overall look at Greece ends with a nod to our debts to the Ionian colonies. Soon, as we gaze upon those captivating places, the thriving trade, and the brilliant creativity of the people—the birthplace of epic and lyrical poetry, the original home of history, philosophy, and art—we'll shift from examining the rise and glory of the Asiatic Ionians to the pain of their struggles and the tragedy of their downfall. These remarkable children of Greece shared something in common with the early blooming intellect often seen as a sign of premature decline. They created nearly everything that imagination or reason could conjure while still in their youthful society, which promised a long and even more glorious future—when even their great homeland had barely emerged from being a young nation, they succumbed to the frailty of age! Amid the vital struggles, followed by the weakened and exhausted state of her Ionian children, the magnificent Athens suddenly rose from the shadows of the past to an empire that will never fade, as long as heroism continues to inspire, poetry to enchant, and wisdom to teach the future.
BOOK II.
FROM THE LEGISLATION OF SOLON TO THE BATTLE OF MARATHON, B. C. 594-490.
FROM THE LEGISLATION OF SOLON TO THE BATTLE OF MARATHON, B. C. 594-490.
CHAPTER I.
The Conspiracy of Cylon.—Loss of Salamis.—First Appearance of Solon.—Success against the Megarians in the Struggle for Salamis.— Cirrhaean War.—Epimenides.—Political State of Athens.—Character of Solon.—His Legislation.—General View of the Athenian Constitution.
The Cylon Conspiracy.—Loss of Salamis.—First Appearance of Solon.—Victory over the Megarians in the Fight for Salamis.—Cirrhaean War.—Epimenides.—Political Situation in Athens.—Character of Solon.—His Laws.—Overview of the Athenian Constitution.
I. The first symptom in Athens of the political crisis (B. C. 621) which, as in other of the Grecian states, marked the transition of power from the oligarchic to the popular party, may be detected in the laws of Draco. Undue severity in the legislature is the ordinary proof of a general discontent: its success is rarely lasting enough to confirm a government—its failure, when confessed, invariably strengthens a people. Scarcely had these laws been enacted (B. C. 620) when a formidable conspiracy broke out against the reigning oligarchy 195. It was during the archonship of Megacles (a scion of the great Alcmaeonic family, which boasted its descent from Nestor) that the aristocracy was menaced by the ambition of an aristocrat.
I. The first sign of the political crisis in Athens (B.C. 621) that, like in other Greek city-states, marked the shift of power from the oligarchs to the popular faction, can be seen in Draco's laws. Harshness in the law usually indicates widespread dissatisfaction: when it succeeds, it rarely lasts long enough to secure a government's position—when it fails, it almost always empowers the people. Hardly had these laws been put in place (B.C. 620) when a strong conspiracy emerged against the ruling oligarchy 195. It was during the archonship of Megacles (a member of the prominent Alcmaeonic family, claiming descent from Nestor) that the aristocracy faced a threat from the ambitions of one of its own.
Born of an ancient and powerful house, and possessed of considerable wealth, Cylon, the Athenian, conceived the design of seizing the citadel, and rendering himself master of the state. He had wedded the daughter of Theagenes, tyrant of Megara, and had raised himself into popular reputation several years before, by a victory in the Olympic games (B. C. 640). The Delphic oracle was supposed to have inspired him with the design; but it is at least equally probable that the oracle was consulted after the design had been conceived. The divine voice declared that Cylon should occupy the citadel on the greatest festival of Jupiter. By the event it does not appear, however, that he selected the proper occasion. Taking advantage of an Olympic year, when many of the citizens were gone to the games, and assisted with troops by his father-in-law, he seized the citadel. Whatever might have been his hopes of popular support—and there is reason to believe that he in some measure calculated upon it—the time was evidently unripe for the convulsion, and the attempt was unskilfully planned. The Athenians, under Megacles and the other archons, took the alarm, and in a general body blockaded the citadel. But they grew weary of the length of the siege; many of them fell away, and the contest was abandoned to the archons, with full power to act according to their judgment. So supine in defence of the liberties of the state are a people who have not yet obtained liberty for themselves!
Born into an ancient and powerful family and holding significant wealth, Cylon, an Athenian, plotted to take the citadel and make himself master of the state. He had married the daughter of Theagenes, the tyrant of Megara, and had gained public fame several years earlier by winning at the Olympic Games (B.C. 640). The Delphic oracle was thought to have inspired his plan, though it’s just as likely that he consulted the oracle after coming up with the idea. The divine voice indicated that Cylon should seize the citadel during the biggest festival of Jupiter. However, it doesn’t seem that he picked the right occasion. Taking advantage of an Olympic year, when many citizens were attending the games, and supported by troops from his father-in-law, he captured the citadel. Whatever his hopes for popular support—there is reason to believe he was somewhat counting on it—the timing was clearly not right for such a major upheaval, and the attempt was poorly executed. The Athenians, led by Megacles and the other archons, became alarmed and collectively besieged the citadel. But they grew tired of the drawn-out siege; many left, and the struggle was left to the archons, who had full power to act as they saw fit. Such passiveness in defending the freedoms of the state shows a people who have not yet achieved liberty for themselves!
II. The conspirators were reduced by the failure of food and water. Cylon and his brother privately escaped. Of his adherents, some perished by famine, others betook themselves to the altars in the citadel, claiming, as suppliants, the right of sanctuary. The guards of the magistrates, seeing the suppliants about to expire from exhaustion, led them from the altar and put them to death. But some of the number were not so scrupulously slaughtered—massacred around the altars of the furies. The horror excited by a sacrilege so atrocious, may easily be conceived by those remembering the humane and reverent superstition of the Greeks:—the indifference of the people to the contest was changed at once into detestation of the victors. A conspiracy, hitherto impotent, rose at once into power by the circumstances of its defeat. Megacles—his whole house—all who had assisted in the impiety, were stigmatized with the epithet of “execrable.” The faction, or friends of Cylon, became popular from the odium of their enemies—the city was distracted by civil commotion—by superstitious apprehensions of the divine anger—and, as the excesses of one party are the aliment of the other, so the abhorrence of sacrilege effaced the remembrance of a treason.
II. The conspirators were weakened by a lack of food and water. Cylon and his brother managed to escape quietly. Among his followers, some died from starvation, while others sought refuge at the altars in the citadel, claiming sanctuary as suppliants. The guards of the magistrates, seeing the supplicants about to collapse from exhaustion, forcibly removed them from the altar and executed them. However, some of them were not killed so cleanly—massacred near the altars of the furies. The horror sparked by such a terrible sacrilege can easily be understood by those who remember the compassionate and respectful beliefs of the Greeks: the people's indifference to the conflict quickly turned into hatred for the victors. A conspiracy that had been powerless suddenly gained strength because of its defeat. Megacles, his entire household, and all who participated in this wrongdoing were branded as “execrable.” Cylon's faction or supporters became popular because of the disdain for their enemies—the city was thrown into civil unrest due to superstitious fears of divine retribution—and just as one party's excesses feed the other's power, the outrage over sacrilege erased the memory of a betrayal.
III. The petty state of Megara, which, since the earlier ages, had, from the dependant of Athens, grown up to the dignity of her rival, taking advantage of the internal dissensions in the latter city, succeeded in wresting from the Athenian government the Isle of Salamis. It was not, however, without bitter and repeated struggles that Athens at last submitted to the surrender of the isle. But, after signal losses and defeats, as nothing is ever more odious to the multitude than unsuccessful war, so the popular feeling was such as to induce the government to enact a decree, by which it was forbidden, upon pain of death, to propose reasserting the Athenian claims. But a law, evidently the offspring of a momentary passion of disgust or despair, and which could not but have been wrung with reluctance from a government, whose conduct it tacitly arraigned, and whose military pride it must have mortified, was not likely to bind, for any length of time, a gallant aristocracy and a susceptible people. Many of the younger portion of the community, pining at the dishonour of their country, and eager for enterprise, were secretly inclined to countenance any stratagem that might induce the reversal of the decree.
III. The small state of Megara, which had evolved from a dependency of Athens into its rival over the years, took advantage of internal conflicts in Athens to seize the Isle of Salamis. However, it wasn't without intense and repeated struggles that Athens eventually agreed to give up the island. After significant losses and defeats, and since nothing is more disdained by the masses than a failed war, public sentiment pushed the government to pass a decree making it punishable by death to propose reasserting Athenian claims. But this law, clearly born out of a temporary mix of disgust and despair, and reflecting poorly on a government that it criticized and humiliated, was unlikely to keep in check a brave aristocracy and an emotional populace for long. Many younger members of the community, upset by their country's dishonor and eager for action, secretly supported any scheme that might lead to overturning the decree.
At this time there went a report through the city, that a man of distinguished birth, indirectly descended from the last of the Athenian kings, had incurred the consecrating misfortune of insanity. Suddenly this person appeared in the market-place, wearing the peculiar badge that distinguished the sick 196. His friends were, doubtless, well prepared for his appearance—a crowd, some predisposed to favour, others attracted by curiosity, were collected round him— and, ascending to the stone from which the heralds made their proclamations, he began to recite aloud a poem upon the loss of Salamis, boldly reproving the cowardice of the people, and inciting them again to war. His supposed insanity protected him from the law— his rank, reputation, and the circumstance of his being himself a native of Salamis, conspired to give his exhortations a powerful effect, and the friends he had secured to back his attempt loudly proclaimed their applauding sympathy with the spirit of the address. The name of the pretended madman was Solon, son of Execestides, the descendant of Codrus.
At this time, news spread through the city that a man of noble birth, who was indirectly related to the last of the Athenian kings, had fallen into the unfortunate condition of madness. Suddenly, this person appeared in the marketplace, wearing the distinctive badge that identified the sick 196. His friends were probably expecting his arrival— a crowd, some supportive and others curious, gathered around him— and, climbing onto the stone from which the heralds made their announcements, he began to recite a poem about the loss of Salamis, boldly criticizing the cowardice of the people and urging them back into battle. His supposed madness shielded him from the law—his rank, reputation, and the fact that he was a native of Salamis all combined to give his calls to action a strong impact, and the friends he had enlisted to support his cause loudly expressed their approval of the message. The name of the supposed madman was Solon, son of Execestides, a descendant of Codrus.
Plutarch (followed by Mr. Milford, Mr. Thirlwall, and other modern historians) informs us that the celebrated Pisistratus then proceeded to exhort the assembly, and to advocate the renewal of the war—an account that is liable to this slight objection, that Pisistratus at that time was not born! 197
Plutarch (along with Mr. Milford, Mr. Thirlwall, and other contemporary historians) tells us that the famous Pisistratus then went on to encourage the assembly and promote the restart of the war—though this narrative faces a minor issue: Pisistratus wasn't born yet! 197
IV. The stratagem and the eloquence of Solon produced its natural effect upon his spirited and excitable audience, and the public enthusiasm permitted the oligarchical government to propose and effect the repeal of the law 198. An expedition was decreed and planned, and Solon was invested with its command. It was but a brief struggle to recover the little island of Salamis: with one galley of thirty oars and a number of fishing-craft, Solon made for Salamis, took a vessel sent to reconnoitre by the Megarians, manned it with his own soldiers, who were ordered to return to the city with such caution as might prevent the Megarians discovering the exchange, on board, of foes for friends; and then with the rest of his force he engaged the enemy by land, while those in the ship captured the city. In conformity with this version of the campaign (which I have selected in preference to another recorded by Plutarch), an Athenian ship once a year passed silently to Salamis—the inhabitants rushed clamouring down to meet it—an armed man leaped ashore, and ran shouting to the Promontory of Sciradium, near which was long existent a temple erected and dedicated to Mars by Solon.
IV. The strategy and persuasive skills of Solon had their intended impact on his energetic and passionate audience, allowing the oligarchical government to suggest and carry out the repeal of the law 198. An expedition was planned and approved, and Solon was put in charge of it. The effort to reclaim the small island of Salamis was quick: with a single ship of thirty oars and several fishing boats, Solon headed to Salamis, captured a vessel sent to scout by the Megarians, crewed it with his own soldiers, who were instructed to return to the city in a way that wouldn't let the Megarians notice that enemies had been swapped for allies; then, with the rest of his forces, he engaged the enemy on land while those on the ship took the city. According to this account of the campaign (which I chose over another described by Plutarch), an Athenian ship would once a year quietly sail to Salamis—the locals would rush down to greet it—an armed man would jump ashore and run shouting to the Promontory of Sciradium, where a temple dedicated to Mars by Solon had long been standing.
But the brave and resolute Megarians were not men to be disheartened by a single reverse; they persisted in the contest—losses were sustained on either side, and at length both states agreed to refer their several claims on the sovereignty of the island to the decision of Spartan arbiters. And this appeal from arms to arbitration is a proof how much throughout Greece had extended that spirit of civilization which is but an extension of the sense of justice. Both parties sought to ground their claims upon ancient and traditional rights. Solon is said to have assisted the demand of his countrymen by a quotation, asserted to have been spuriously interpolated from Homer’s catalogue of the ships, which appeared to imply the ancient connexion of Salamis and Athens (199); and whether or not this was actually done, the very tradition that it was done, nearly half a century before the first usurpation of Pisistratus, is a proof of the great authority of Homer in that age, and how largely the services rendered by Pisistratus, many years afterward, to the Homeric poems, have been exaggerated and misconstrued. The mode of burial in Salamis, agreeable to the custom of the Athenians and contrary to that of the Megarians, and reference to certain Delphic oracles, in which the island was called “Ionian,” were also adduced in support of the Athenian claims. The arbitration of the umpires in favour of Athens only suspended hostilities; and the Megarians did not cease to watch (and shortly afterward they found) a fitting occasion to regain a settlement so tempting to their ambition.
But the brave and determined Megarians weren’t the type to be discouraged by a single setback; they kept fighting the battle—both sides experienced losses, and eventually both states agreed to let Spartan judges decide their claims to sovereignty over the island. This shift from conflict to arbitration shows how widely the spirit of civilization, which is just an extension of the sense of justice, had spread throughout Greece. Both parties aimed to base their claims on historical and traditional rights. It's said that Solon supported his countrymen’s demand by quoting something that was supposedly added to Homer’s list of ships, which seemed to suggest an ancient connection between Salamis and Athens (199); and whether this actually happened or not, the mere tradition that it did, almost fifty years before Pisistratus's first takeover, proves the great influence of Homer at that time, and how greatly the contributions made by Pisistratus to the Homeric poems years later have been exaggerated and misinterpreted. The burial practices in Salamis, in line with Athenian customs and against those of the Megarians, along with references to certain Delphic oracles that referred to the island as “Ionian,” were also presented to support the Athenian claims. The judges' ruling in favor of Athens only paused the fighting; the Megarians continued to watch (and soon found) the right moment to regain a settlement that was so appealing to their ambitions.
V. The credit acquired by Solon in this expedition was shortly afterward greatly increased in the estimation of Greece. In the Bay of Corinth was situated a town called Cirrha, inhabited by a fierce and lawless race, who, after devastating the sacred territories of Delphi, sacrilegiously besieged the city itself, in the desire to possess themselves of the treasures which the piety of Greece had accumulated in the temple of Apollo. Solon appeared at the Amphictyonic council, represented the sacrilege of the Cirrhaeans, and persuaded the Greeks to arm in defence of the altars of their tutelary god. Clisthenes, the tyrant of Sicyon, was sent as commander-in-chief against the Cirrhaeans (B. C. 595); and (according to Plutarch) the records of Delphi inform us that Alcmaeon was the leader of the Athenians. The war was not very successful at the onset; the oracle of Apollo was consulted, and the answer makes one of the most amusing anecdotes of priestcraft. The besiegers were informed by the god that the place would not be reduced until the waves of the Cirrhaean Sea washed the territories of Delphi. The reply perplexed the army; but the superior sagacity of Solon was not slow in discovering that the holy intention of the oracle was to appropriate the land of the Cirrhaeans to the profit of the temple. He therefore advised the besiegers to attack and to conquer Cirrha, and to dedicate its whole territory to the service of the god. The advice was adopted—Cirrha was taken (B. C. 586); it became thenceforth the arsenal of Delphi, and the insulted deity had the satisfaction of seeing the sacred lands washed by the waves of the Cirrhaean Sea. An oracle of this nature was perhaps more effectual than the sword of Clisthenes in preventing future assaults on the divine city! The Pythian games commenced, or were revived, in celebration of this victory of the Pythian god.
V. The respect earned by Solon during this campaign significantly boosted his reputation in Greece shortly after. In the Bay of Corinth, there was a town called Cirrha, inhabited by a violent and lawless people who, after ravaging the sacred lands of Delphi, maliciously laid siege to the city itself, aiming to seize the treasures that the devotion of Greece had gathered in the temple of Apollo. Solon attended the Amphictyonic council, presented the sacrilege of the Cirrhaeans, and convinced the Greeks to arm themselves in defense of their god's altars. Clisthenes, the tyrant of Sicyon, was appointed as the commander-in-chief against the Cirrhaeans (B.C. 595); and according to Plutarch, Delphi's records reveal that Alcmaeon led the Athenians. The war did not start off well; the oracle of Apollo was consulted, and its response became one of the most amusing anecdotes of priestcraft. The besiegers were told by the god that the place would not be captured until the waves of the Cirrhaean Sea washed over Delphi's lands. The reply baffled the army, but Solon's keen insight quickly realized that the oracle's true intent was to assign the land of the Cirrhaeans for the benefit of the temple. He then recommended that the attackers assault and conquer Cirrha, dedicating its entire territory to the service of the god. His advice was taken—Cirrha was captured (B.C. 586); from that point on, it served as the arsenal for Delphi, and the wronged deity was pleased to see the sacred lands washed by the waves of the Cirrhaean Sea. An oracle like this may have been more effective than Clisthenes' sword in deterring future attacks on the sacred city! The Pythian games began, or were revived, to celebrate this victory of the Pythian god.
VI. Meanwhile at Athens—the tranquillity of the state was still disturbed by the mortal feud between the party of Cylon and the adherents of the Alcmaeonidae—time only served to exasperate the desire of vengeance in the one, and increase the indisposition to justice in the other. Fortunately, however, the affairs of the state were in that crisis which is ever favourable to the authority of an individual. There are periods in all constitutions when, amid the excesses of factions, every one submits willingly to an arbiter. With the genius that might have made him the destroyer of the liberties of his country, Solon had the virtue to constitute himself their saviour. He persuaded the families stigmatized with the crime of sacrilege, and the epithet of “execrable,” to submit to the forms of trial; they were impeached, judged, and condemned to exile; the bodies of those whom death had already summoned to a sterner tribunal were disinterred, and removed beyond the borders of Attica. Nevertheless, the superstitions of the people were unappeased. Strange appearances were beheld in the air, and the augurs declared that the entrails of the victims denoted that the gods yet demanded a fuller expiation of the national crime.
VI. Meanwhile in Athens, the peace of the state was still disrupted by the bitter feud between Cylon's supporters and the Alcmaeonidae faction. Time only fueled the desire for revenge in one group and deepened the unwillingness to pursue justice in the other. Fortunately, the state was at a moment that often favors the rise of a strong individual. Throughout history, there are times when, amidst the chaos of rival factions, everyone willingly turns to a mediator. With the potential to have become a tyrant, Solon chose instead to be the savior of his country. He convinced the families labeled as sacrilegious and branded as "execrable" to submit to legal proceedings; they were charged, tried, and exiled. The remains of those who had already died were unearthed and removed from Attica. However, the people's superstitions remained unsettled. Strange phenomena appeared in the sky, and the augurs claimed that the entrails of the victims indicated that the gods still required a more complete atonement for the national sin.
At this time there lived in Crete one of those remarkable men common to the early ages of the world, who sought to unite with the honours of the sage the mysterious reputation of the magician. Epimenides, numbered by some among the seven wise men, was revered throughout Greece as one whom a heavenlier genius animated and inspired. Devoted to poetry, this crafty impostor carried its prerogatives of fiction into actual life; and when he declared—in one of his verses, quoted by St. Paul in his Epistle to Titus—that “the Cretans were great liars,” we have no reason to exempt the venerable accuser from his own unpatriotic reproach. Among the various legends which attach to his memory is a tradition that has many a likeness both in northern and eastern fable:—he is said to have slept forty-seven 200 years in a cave, and on his waking from that moderate repose, to have been not unreasonably surprised to discover the features of the country perfectly changed. Returning to Cnossus, of which he was a citizen, strange faces everywhere present themselves. At his father’s door he is asked his business, and at length, with considerable difficulty. he succeeds in making himself known to his younger brother, whom he had left a boy, and now recognised in an old decrepit man. “This story,” says a philosophical biographer, very gravely, “made a considerable sensation”—an assertion not to be doubted; but those who were of a more skeptical disposition, imagined that Epimenides had spent the years of his reputed sleep in travelling over foreign countries, and thus acquiring from men those intellectual acquisitions which he more piously referred to the special inspiration of the gods. Epimenides did not scruple to preserve the mysterious reputation he obtained from this tale by fables equally audacious. He endeavoured to persuade the people that he was Aeacus, and that he frequently visited the earth: he was supposed to be fed by the nymphs—was never seen to eat in public—he assumed the attributes of prophecy—and dying in extreme old age: was honoured by the Cretans as a god.
At that time, there was a remarkable man in Crete, typical of the early ages of the world, who aimed to combine the respect of a wise person with the mysterious reputation of a magician. Epimenides, considered by some to be one of the seven wise men, was honored throughout Greece as someone inspired by a divine genius. Passionate about poetry, this clever trickster brought the privileges of fiction into real life; when he stated in one of his verses, which St. Paul quoted in his Epistle to Titus, that "the Cretans were great liars," we have no reason to exempt the esteemed accuser from his own unpatriotic accusation. Among the various legends surrounding him is a tradition that has parallels in both northern and eastern myths: he is said to have slept for forty-seven 200 years in a cave, and upon waking from that extended slumber, he was understandably surprised to find the landscape completely changed. When he returned to Cnossus, his hometown, he encountered unfamiliar faces everywhere. At his father's door, he was asked what he wanted, and eventually, after much effort, he managed to identify himself to his younger brother, whom he had left as a boy and now recognized as an old, frail man. "This story," says a serious philosophical biographer, "created quite a stir"—a claim that is hard to dispute; however, those who were more skeptical believed that Epimenides had spent the years of his supposed sleep traveling to foreign lands and gaining from others the knowledge he more piously attributed to divine inspiration. Epimenides had no qualms about maintaining the mysterious aura he gained from this story through equally bold fables. He tried to convince people that he was Aeacus and that he frequently visited the earth; he was thought to be nourished by nymphs—no one ever saw him eat in public—he assumed the roles of a prophet—and when he died at an advanced age, the Cretans honored him as a god.
In addition to his other spiritual prerogatives, this reviler of “liars” boasted the power of exorcism; was the first to introduce into Greece the custom of purifying public places and private abodes, and was deemed peculiarly successful in banishing those ominous phantoms which were so injurious to the tranquillity of the inhabitants of Athens. Such a man was exactly the person born to relieve the fears of the Athenians, and accomplish the things dictated by the panting entrails of the sacred victims. Accordingly (just prior to the Cirrhaean war, B. C. 596), a ship was fitted out, in which an Athenian named Nicias was sent to Crete, enjoined to bring back the purifying philosopher, with all that respectful state which his celebrity demanded. Epimenides complied with the prayer of the Athenians he arrived at Athens, and completed the necessary expiation in a manner somewhat simple for so notable an exorcist. He ordered several sheep, some black and some white, to be turned loose in the Areopagus, directed them to be followed, and wherever they lay down, a sacrifice was ordained in honour of some one of the gods. “Hence,” says the historian of the philosophers, “you may still see throughout Athens anonymous altars (i. e. altars uninscribed to a particular god), the memorials of that propitiation.”
In addition to his other spiritual powers, this critic of “liars” claimed he could perform exorcisms; he was the first to bring the practice of cleansing public spaces and private homes to Greece, and he was especially successful at driving away the troubling spirits that harmed the peace of the people in Athens. Such a man was exactly what the Athenians needed to ease their fears and carry out the directives revealed by the trembling innards of the sacred animals. So, just before the Cirrhaean war in 596 B.C., a ship was prepared, and an Athenian named Nicias was sent to Crete, tasked with bringing back the purifying philosopher with all the respect his fame warranted. Epimenides answered the Athenians' request, arrived in Athens, and carried out the required purification in a manner that was somewhat simple for such a notable exorcist. He ordered several sheep, some black and some white, to be released in the Areopagus, instructed them to be followed, and wherever they lay down, a sacrifice was arranged in honor of a particular god. “As a result,” says the historian of the philosophers, “you can still see throughout Athens anonymous altars (that is, altars not dedicated to a specific god), which are reminders of that purification.”
The order was obeyed—the sacrifice performed—and the phantoms were seen no more. Although an impostor, Epimenides was a man of sagacity and genius. He restrained the excess of funeral lamentation, which often led to unseasonable interruptions of business, and conduced to fallacious impressions of morality; and in return he accustomed the Athenians to those regular habits of prayer and divine worship, which ever tend to regulate and systematize the character of a people. He formed the closest intimacy with Solon, and many of the subsequent laws of the Athenian are said by Plutarch to have been suggested by the wisdom of the Cnossian sage. When the time arrived for the departure of Epimenides, the Athenians would have presented him with a talent in reward of his services, but the philosopher refused the offer; he besought the Athenians to a firm alliance with his countrymen; accepted of no other remuneration than a branch of the sacred olive which adorned the citadel, and was supposed the primeval gift of Minerva, and returned to his native city,—proving that a man in those days might be an impostor without seeking any other reward than the gratuitous honour of the profession.
The order was followed—the sacrifice done—and the ghosts were never seen again. Even though he was a fraud, Epimenides was smart and talented. He limited excessive mourning, which often disrupted business and created false notions of morality; in return, he got the Athenians into the routine of prayer and worship, which helps shape the character of a society. He became very close with Solon, and many of the later Athenian laws are said by Plutarch to have been inspired by the wisdom of the Cnossian sage. When it was time for Epimenides to leave, the Athenians wanted to give him a talent as a reward for his services, but the philosopher declined the offer; he urged the Athenians to form a strong alliance with his countrymen and accepted no other payment than a branch of the sacred olive that decorated the citadel, believed to be the original gift of Minerva, and returned to his hometown—showing that a person in those days could be a fraud while seeking no other reward than the free honor of the profession.
VII. With the departure of Epimenides, his spells appear to have ceased; new disputes and new factions arose; and, having no other crimes to expiate, the Athenians fell with one accord upon those of the government. Three parties—the Mountaineers, the Lowlanders, and the Coastmen—each advocating a different form of constitution, distracted the state by a common discontent with the constitution that existed, the three parties, which, if we glance to the experience of modern times, we might almost believe that no free state can ever be without—viz., the respective advocates of the oligarchic, the mixed, and the democratic government. The habits of life ever produce among classes the political principles by which they are severally regulated. The inhabitants of the mountainous district, free, rude, and hardy, were attached to a democracy; the possessors of the plains were the powerful families who inclined to an oligarchy, although, as in all aristocracies, many of them united, but with more moderate views, in the measures of the democratic party; and they who, living by the coast, were engaged in those commercial pursuits which at once produce an inclination to liberty, yet a fear of its excess, a jealousy of the insolence of the nobles, yet an apprehension of the licentiousness of the mob, arrayed themselves in favour of that mixed form of government—half oligarchic and half popular—which is usually the most acceptable to the middle classes of an enterprising people. But there was a still more fearful division than these, the three legitimate parties, now existing in Athens: a division, not of principle, but of feeling—that menacing division which, like the cracks in the soil, portending earthquake, as it gradually widens, is the symptom of convulsions that level and destroy,—the division, in one word, of the rich and the poor—the Havenots and the Haves. Under an oligarchy, that most griping and covetous of all forms of government, the inequality of fortunes had become intolerably grievous; so greatly were the poor in debt to the rich, that 201 they were obliged to pay the latter a sixth of the produce of the land, or else to engage their personal labour to their creditors, who might seize their persons in default of payment. Some were thus reduced to slavery, others sold to foreigners. Parents disposed of their children to clear their debts, and many, to avoid servitude, in stealth deserted the land. But a large body of the distressed, men more sturdy and united, resolved to resist the iron pressure of the law: they formed the design of abolishing debts—dividing the land— remodelling the commonwealth: they looked around for a leader, and fixed their hopes on Solon. In the impatience of the poor, in the terror of the rich, liberty had lost its charms, and it was no uncommon nor partial hope that a monarchy might be founded on the ruins of an oligarchy already menaced with dissolution.
VII. With Epimenides gone, his influence seemed to fade; new arguments and factions emerged, and with no other wrongs to address, the Athenians united against the government. Three groups—the Mountain People, the Plains People, and the Coastal People—each pushing for different types of government, fueled a growing discontent with the existing system. These three factions resemble what we see in modern times, where no free state is free from advocates of oligarchic, mixed, and democratic governance. Social conditions always shape the political beliefs of different classes. The mountain inhabitants, independent, rough, and tough, supported a democracy; those who thrived on the plains were powerful families leaning towards oligarchy, although, like in all aristocracies, many allied with the democratic camp, albeit with milder intentions. The coastal dwellers, involved in commerce, found themselves caught between a desire for freedom and a fear of its extremes, wary of the arrogance of the wealthy yet anxious about the reckless behavior of the poor, favoring a mixed government—part oligarchic and part populist—that generally appeals to the middle class of an ambitious society. However, an even more alarming split emerged beyond these three factions: a division not based on politics, but on feelings—a threatening divide similar to cracks in the ground foreshadowing an earthquake, as it spreads, signaling upheaval that can level everything—essentially the divide between the rich and the poor, the Haves and the Have-nots. Under an oligarchy, the most greedy and grasping of all governments, the wealth gap became unbearable; the poor owed so much to the rich that they were forced to pay a sixth of their land's produce to their creditors or work off their debts, risking their freedom if they could not pay. Some slid into slavery; others were sold to foreigners. Parents sold their children to settle debts, and many, to escape servitude, quietly fled the land. Yet a strong and united group of the desperate decided to stand against the harsh laws: they planned to cancel debts, redistribute land, and reshape society. They sought a leader and placed their hopes in Solon. Amidst the poor’s impatience and the rich’s fear, the idea of liberty had lost its appeal, and there was widespread hope that a monarchy could rise from the crumbling oligarchy threatened with collapse.
VIII. Solon acted during these disturbances with more than his usual sagacity, and therefore, perhaps, with less than his usual energy. He held himself backward and aloof, allowing either party to interpret, as it best pleased, ambiguous and oracular phrases, obnoxious to none, for he had the advantage of being rich without the odium of extortion, and popular without the degradation of poverty. “Phanias the Lesbian” (so states the biographer of Solon) “asserts, that to save the state he intrigued with both parties, promising to the poor a division of the lands, to the rich a confirmation of their claims;” an assertion highly agreeable to the finesse and subtlety of his character. Appearing loath to take upon himself the administration of affairs, it was pressed upon him the more eagerly; and at length he was elected to the triple office of archon, arbitrator, and lawgiver; the destinies of Athens were unhesitatingly placed within his hands; all men hoped from him all things; opposing parties concurred in urging him to assume the supreme authority of king; oracles were quoted in his favour, and his friends asserted, that to want the ambition of a monarch was to fail in the proper courage of a man. Thus supported, thus encouraged, Solon proceeded to his august and immortal task of legislation.
VIII. Solon handled these conflicts with more than his usual wisdom, and perhaps, with less than his usual energy. He kept himself reserved and distant, letting each side interpret, as they saw fit, vague and prophetic statements that were harmless to either party. He had the benefit of being wealthy without the stigma of being a swindler and popular without the shame of being poor. “Phanias the Lesbian” (as Solon’s biographer puts it) “claims that to save the state he collaborated with both sides, promising the poor a share of the land and assuring the rich that their claims would be upheld;” a claim that aligns perfectly with his cunning and subtle nature. Reluctant to take control of the situation, the role was pushed onto him more insistently; and eventually, he was elected to the combined positions of archon, mediator, and lawmaker; the fate of Athens was confidently placed in his hands; everyone hoped for everything from him; rival factions agreed in urging him to take on the supreme power of king; prophecies were cited in his favor, and his supporters argued that lacking the ambition of a monarch equated to lacking the bravery of a true man. With this backing and encouragement, Solon moved forward with his great and lasting mission of creating laws.
IX. Let us here pause to examine, by such light as is bequeathed us, the character of Solon. Agreeably to the theory of his favourite maxim, which made moderation the essence of wisdom, he seems to have generally favoured, in politics, the middle party, and, in his own actions, to have been singular for that energy which is the equilibrium of indifference and of rashness. Elevated into supreme and unquestioned power—urged on all sides to pass from the office of the legislator to the dignity of the prince—his ambition never passed the line which his virtue dictated to his genius. “Tyranny,” said Solon, “is a fair field, but it has no outlet.” A subtle, as well as a noble saying; it implies that he who has once made himself the master of the state has no option as to the means by which he must continue his power. Possessed of that fearful authority, his first object is to rule, and it becomes a secondary object to rule well. “Tyranny has, indeed, no outlet!” The few, whom in modern times we have seen endowed with a similar spirit of self-control, have attracted our admiration by their honesty rather than their intellect; and the skeptic in human virtue has ascribed the purity of Washington as much to the mediocrity of his genius as to the sincerity of his patriotism:—the coarseness of vulgar ambition can sympathize but little with those who refuse a throne. But in Solon there is no disparity between the mental and the moral, nor can we account for the moderation of his views by affecting doubt of the extent of his powers. His natural genius was versatile and luxuriant. As an orator, he was the first, according to Cicero, who originated the logical and brilliant rhetoric which afterward distinguished the Athenians. As a poet, we have the assurance of Plato that, could he have devoted himself solely to the art, even Homer would not have excelled him. And though these panegyrics of later writers are to be received with considerable qualification—though we may feel assured that Solon could never have been either a Demosthenes or a Homer, yet we have sufficient evidence in his history to prove him to have been eloquent—sufficient in the few remains of his verses to attest poetical talent of no ordinary standard. As a soldier, he seems to have been a dexterous master of the tactics of that primitive day in which military science consisted chiefly in the stratagems of a ready wit and a bold invention. As a negotiator, the success with which, out of elements so jarring and distracted, he created an harmonious system of society and law, is an unanswerable evidence not more of the soundness of his theories than of his practical knowledge of mankind. The sayings imputed to him which can be most reasonably considered authentic evince much delicacy of observation. Whatever his ideal of good government, he knew well that great secret of statesmanship, never to carry speculative doctrines too far beyond the reach of the age to which they are to be applied. Asked if he had given the Athenians the best of laws, his answer was, “The best laws they are capable of receiving.” His legislation, therefore, was no vague collection of inapplicable principles. While it has been the origin of all subsequent law,—while, adopted by the Romans, it makes at this day the universal spirit which animates the codes and constitutions of Europe—it was moulded to the habits, the manners, and the condition of the people whom it was intended to enlighten, to harmonize, and to guide. He was no gloomy ascetic, such as a false philosophy produces, affecting the barren sublimity of an indolent seclusion; open of access to all, free and frank of demeanour, he found wisdom as much in the market-place as the cell. He aped no coxcombical contempt of pleasure, no fanatical disdain of wealth; hospitable, and even sumptuous, in his habits of life, he seemed desirous of proving that truly to be wise is honestly to enjoy. The fragments of his verses which have come down to us are chiefly egotistical: they refer to his own private sentiments, or public views, and inform us with a noble pride, “that, if reproached with his lack of ambition, he finds a kingdom in the consciousness of his unsullied name.” With all these qualities, he apparently united much of that craft and spirit of artifice which, according to all history, sacred as well as profane, it was not deemed sinful in patriarch or philosopher to indulge. Where he could not win his object by reason, he could stoop to attain it by the affectation of madness. And this quality of craft was necessary perhaps, in that age, to accomplish the full utilities of his career. However he might feign or dissimulate, the end before him was invariably excellent and patriotic; and the purity of his private morals harmonized with that of his political ambition. What Socrates was to the philosophy of reflection, Solon was to the philosophy of action.
IX. Let’s pause here to take a look, with the insights we have, at the character of Solon. True to his favorite saying that moderation is the essence of wisdom, he generally supported the middle ground in politics and was known for displaying a unique energy that balanced indifference and rashness in his actions. Elevated to supreme and unquestioned power—pressured from all sides to shift from being a legislator to taking on the role of a prince—his ambition never crossed the boundaries set by his virtue. “Tyranny,” Solon said, “is a fair field, but it has no way out.” This profound and noble statement implies that once someone makes themselves the master of the state, they have no choice in the means to maintain their power. With such daunting authority, their first goal is to rule, and ruling well becomes a secondary concern. “Tyranny really has no way out!” In modern times, the few individuals we've seen with a similar spirit of self-control have earned our admiration more for their honesty than their intellect. Skeptics of human virtue attribute Washington’s purity as much to the modesty of his genius as to the sincerity of his patriotism: those with ordinary ambition can hardly relate to those who turn down a throne. But with Solon, there is no gap between his intellect and morals, nor can we explain his moderate views by doubting the extent of his abilities. His natural talent was versatile and abundant. As an orator, he was the first, according to Cicero, to establish the logical and brilliant rhetoric that later defined the Athenians. As a poet, Plato assures us that if he had dedicated himself solely to the craft, even Homer wouldn’t have outshone him. While later praises of him should be taken with a grain of salt—there’s no way Solon could have been either a Demosthenes or a Homer—we have enough evidence from his history to prove he was eloquent and from his remaining verses to show he had considerable poetic talent. As a soldier, he seems to have been an adept strategist for his time, when military skill mainly involved clever tactics and bold creativity. As a negotiator, his success in forming a harmonious society and legal system from such diverse and conflicting elements is irrefutable proof of both the soundness of his ideas and his practical understanding of people. The sayings attributed to him that we can reasonably accept as authentic show great observational depth. Whatever his ideal of good governance was, he understood the crucial principle of statesmanship: never take theoretical ideas too far beyond what the people are ready for. When asked if he provided the Athenians with the best laws, he replied, “The best laws they can handle.” His legislation, therefore, wasn’t just a vague gathering of inapplicable principles. It laid the groundwork for all subsequent law—while adopted by the Romans, it still embodies the universal spirit that influences Europe’s codes and constitutions today. It was tailored to the habits, manners, and conditions of the people it aimed to enlighten, harmonize, and guide. He wasn't a gloomy ascetic, as false philosophies often create, playing at the barren grandeur of lazy seclusion; he was approachable to all, open and friendly in demeanor, finding wisdom equally in the marketplace as in solitude. He showed no pretentious contempt for pleasure or fanatical disdain for wealth; hospitable and even extravagant in his lifestyle, he seemed eager to prove that true wisdom lies in enjoying life openly. The fragments of his verses that survive are mostly self-reflective: they express his personal feelings and public views, proudly stating that, if criticized for his lack of ambition, he discovers his kingdom in the honor of his untarnished reputation. Along with all these qualities, he also seemed to possess a fair amount of cunning and artifice, which history, both sacred and secular, shows was not seen as wrong for either patriarchs or philosophers to indulge in. When he couldn’t achieve his goals through reason, he could resort to feigning madness. This cunning may have been necessary in his time to fully realize the potential of his career. No matter how much he might have pretended or concealed, his ultimate aim was always noble and patriotic; his high personal morals aligned perfectly with his political aspirations. What Socrates was to the philosophy of reflection, Solon was to the philosophy of action.
X. The first law that Solon enacted in his new capacity was bold and decisive. No revolution can ever satisfy a people if it does not lessen their burdens. Poverty disposes men to innovation only because innovation promises relief. Solon therefore applied himself resolutely, and at once, to the great source of dissension between the rich and the poor—namely, the enormous accumulation of debt which had been incurred by the latter, with slavery, the penalty of default. He induced the creditors to accept the compromise of their debts: whether absolutely cancelling the amount, or merely reducing the interest and debasing the coin, is a matter of some dispute; the greater number of authorities incline to the former supposition, and Plutarch quotes the words of Solon himself in proof of the bolder hypothesis, although they by no means warrant such an interpretation. And to remove for ever the renewal of the greatest grievance in connexion with the past distresses, he enacted a law that no man hereafter could sell himself in slavery for the discharge of a debt. Even such as were already enslaved were emancipated, and those sold by their creditors into foreign countries were ransomed, and restored to their native land, But, though (from the necessity of the times) Solon went to this desperate extent of remedy, comparable in our age only to the formal sanction of a national bankruptcy, he rejected with firmness the wild desire of a division of lands. There may be abuses in the contraction of debts which require far sterner alternatives than the inequalities of property. He contented himself in respect to the latter with a law which set a limit to the purchase of land—a theory of legislation not sufficiently to be praised, if it were possible to enforce it 202. At first, these measures fell short of the popular expectation, excited by the example of Sparta into the hope of an equality of fortunes: but the reaction soon came. A public sacrifice was offered in honour of the discharge of debt, and the authority of the lawgiver was corroborated and enlarged. Solon was not one of those politicians who vibrate alternately between the popular and the aristocratic principles, imagining that the concession of to-day ought necessarily to father the denial of to-morrow. He knew mankind too deeply not to be aware that there is no statesman whom the populace suspect like the one who commences authority with a bold reform, only to continue it with hesitating expedients. His very next measure was more vigorous and more unexceptionable than the first. The evil of the laws of Draco was not that they were severe, but that they were inefficient. In legislation, characters of blood are always traced upon tablets of sand. With one stroke Solon annihilated the whole of these laws, with the exception of that (an ancient and acknowledged ordinance) which related to homicide; he affixed, in exchange, to various crimes—to theft, to rape, to slander, to adultery—punishments proportioned to the offence. It is remarkable that in the spirit of his laws he appealed greatly to the sense of honour and the fear of shame, and made it one of his severest penalties to be styled atimos or unhonoured—a theory that, while it suited the existent, went far to ennoble the future, character of the Athenians. In the same spirit the children of those who perished in war were educated at the public charge—arriving at maturity, they were presented with a suit of armour, settled in their respective callings, and honoured with principal seats in all public assemblies. That is a wise principle of a state which makes us grateful to its pensioners, and bids us regard in those supported at the public charge the reverent memorials of the public service 203. Solon had the magnanimity to preclude, by his own hand, a dangerous temptation to his own ambition, and assigned death to the man who aspired to the sole dominion of the commonwealth. He put a check to the jobbing interests and importunate canvass of individuals, by allowing no one to propose a law in favour of a single person, unless he had obtained the votes of six thousand citizens; and he secured the quiet of a city exposed to the license of powerful factions, by forbidding men to appear armed in the streets, unless in cases of imminent exigence.
X. The first law that Solon enacted in his new role was bold and decisive. No revolution can satisfy a people if it doesn't lessen their burdens. Poverty makes people open to change only because that change promises relief. So, Solon focused immediately on the root cause of conflict between the wealthy and the poor—the huge amounts of debt that the latter had incurred, which resulted in slavery as a penalty for not paying. He convinced the creditors to accept a compromise on their debts: whether he completely canceled the amounts or just reduced the interest and lowered the currency's value is debated; most sources lean toward the former, and Plutarch cites Solon’s own words to support this bolder claim, even though they don't clearly prove it. To permanently eliminate the greatest grievance related to past hardships, he made a law stating that no one could sell themselves into slavery to pay off a debt. Those who were already enslaved were freed, and those sold by their creditors to foreign lands were ransomed and brought back home. However, despite the desperate circumstances of the time, which might be likened to today’s declaration of national bankruptcy, Solon firmly rejected the reckless demand for land redistribution. There can be serious problems with debt that require much tougher solutions than property inequalities. He chose instead to limit land purchases, a legislative idea worthy of praise if it could be enforced 202. Initially, these measures didn’t meet the public’s expectations, fueled by Sparta’s example and the hope of financial equality: but a backlash quickly followed. A public sacrifice was held to celebrate the cancellation of debt, and the authority of the lawgiver was reinforced and broadened. Solon was not the type of politician who swayed back and forth between populism and aristocratic principles, thinking that one concession today must lead to a rejection tomorrow. He understood people too well to not realize that there’s no politician the public distrusts more than one who begins with bold reforms but continues with timid measures. His next move was even bolder and more commendable than the first. The problem with Draco's laws wasn’t that they were harsh, but that they were ineffective. In legislation, the marks of error are often easily erased. With one stroke, Solon abolished all of these laws except for the one regarding homicide, replacing them with punishments for various offenses—such as theft, rape, slander, and adultery—that fit the crime. It’s notable that his laws heavily appealed to a sense of honor and fear of shame, and one of the harshest penalties was being called atimos or dishonored—a principle that not only suited the present but also aimed to elevate the future character of the Athenians. In keeping with this spirit, the children of those who died in battle were educated at public expense—upon reaching adulthood, they were given armor, settled in their respective jobs, and awarded prominent seats in all public gatherings. A wise state principle fosters gratitude among its citizens and reminds them to honor those supported by public funds as respectful tributes to public service 203. Solon demonstrated great integrity by intentionally avoiding a dangerous temptation to his own ambition, imposing the death penalty on anyone who sought sole control over the government. He curtailed individual lobbying and the pressures of private interests by requiring anyone who wanted to propose a law benefiting an individual to first secure the support of six thousand citizens and maintained order in a city vulnerable to the chaos of powerful factions by prohibiting armed appearances in the streets unless in cases of immediate necessity.
XI. The most memorable of Solon’s sayings illustrates the theory of the social fabric he erected. When asked how injustice should be banished from a commonwealth, he answered, “by making all men interested in the injustice done to each;” an answer imbodying the whole soul of liberty. His innovations in the mere forms of the ancient constitution do not appear to have been considerable; he rather added than destroyed. Thus he maintained or revived the senate of the aristocracy; but to check its authority he created a people. The four ancient tribes 204, long subdivided into minor sections, were retained. Foreigners, who had transported for a permanence their property and families to Athens, and abandoned all connexion with their own countries, were admitted to swell the numbers of the free population. This made the constituent body. At the age of eighteen, each citizen was liable to military duties within the limits of Attica; at the age of twenty he attained his majority, and became entitled to a vote in the popular assembly, and to all the other rights of citizenship. Every free Athenian of the age of twenty was thus admitted to a vote in the legislature. But the possession of a very considerable estate was necessary to the attainment of the higher offices. Thus, while the people exercised universal suffrage in voting, the choice of candidates was still confined to an oligarchy. Four distinct ranks were acknowledged; not according, as hitherto, to hereditary descent, but the possession of property. They whose income yielded five hundred measures in any commodity, dry or liquid, were placed in the first rank, under the title of Pentacosiomedimnians. The second class, termed Hippeis, knights or horsemen, was composed of those whose estates yielded three hundred measures. Each man belonging to it was obliged to keep a horse for the public service, and to enlist himself, if called upon, in the cavalry of the military forces (the members of either of these higher classes were exempt, however, from serving on board ship, or in the infantry, unless intrusted with some command.) The third class was composed of those possessing two hundred 205 measures, and called Zeugitae; and the fourth and most numerous class comprehended, under the name of Thetes, the bulk of the non-enslaved working population, whose property fell short of the qualification required for the Zeugitae. Glancing over these divisions, we are struck by their similarity to the ranks among our own northern and feudal ancestry, corresponding to the nobles, the knights, the burgesses, and the labouring classes, which have so long made, and still constitute, the demarcations of society in modern Europe. The members of the first class were alone eligible to the highest offices as archons, those of the three first classes to the political assembly of the four hundred (which I shall presently describe), and to some minor magistracies; the members of the fourth class were excluded from all office, unless, as they voted in the popular assembly, they may be said to have had a share in the legislature, and to exercise, in extraordinary causes, judicial authority. At the same time no hereditary barrier excluded them from the hopes so dear to human aspirations. They had only to acquire the necessary fortune in order to enjoy the privileges of their superiors. And, accordingly, we find, by an inscription on the Acropolis, recorded in Pollux, that Anthemion, of the lowest class, was suddenly raised to the rank of knight. 206
XI. One of the most memorable sayings of Solon highlights the social structure he established. When asked how to eliminate injustice from a society, he responded, “by making everyone invested in the injustice done to others;” an answer capturing the essence of freedom. His changes to the old constitution didn’t seem to be significant; he mostly added to it rather than removed anything. He preserved or revived the senate of the aristocracy, but to balance its power, he created a citizenry. The four ancient tribes 204, which had long been divided into smaller groups, were kept. Foreigners who had permanently moved their property and families to Athens, severing ties with their home countries, were allowed to increase the free population. This formed the citizen body. At eighteen, every citizen was subject to military service within Attica; at twenty, they reached adulthood and gained the right to vote in the popular assembly and all other citizenship rights. Every free Athenian at twenty could vote in the legislature. However, owning a significant estate was necessary for holding higher offices. Thus, while the people had universal suffrage, the selection of candidates was still limited to an elite group. Four distinct classes were recognized; not based on hereditary lineage, but rather on property ownership. Those whose income was five hundred measures of any commodity, dry or liquid, were in the first rank, called Pentacosiomedimnians. The second class, known as Hippeis, or knights, comprised those whose estates provided three hundred measures. Each member was required to maintain a horse for public service and join the cavalry, if needed (however, members of these higher classes were exempt from serving on ships or in the infantry unless they held a command). The third class included those who owned two hundred 205 measures, called Zeugitae; while the fourth and largest class, known as Thetes, represented the majority of the free working population whose assets fell short of what was required for Zeugitae. Looking at these divisions, we notice their resemblance to the ranks in our own northern and feudal heritage, which correspond to the nobles, knights, townspeople, and laborers that have long shaped and still define class distinctions in modern Europe. Only members of the first class were eligible for the highest offices as archons; the first three classes could participate in the political assembly of the four hundred (which I will describe shortly) and some minor magistracies; while the fourth class was barred from all office, though they could participate in the popular assembly and, in exceptional cases, hold judicial authority. At the same time, no hereditary barrier prevented them from aspiring to better fortunes. They just needed to acquire the necessary wealth to enjoy the privileges of their betters. Indeed, we find an inscription on the Acropolis, recorded in Pollux, stating that Anthemion, from the lowest class, was unexpectedly elevated to the rank of knight. 206
XII. We perceive, from these divisions of rank, that the main principle of Solon’s constitution was founded, not upon birth, but wealth. He instituted what was called a timocracy, viz., an aristocracy of property; based upon democratic institutions of popular jurisdiction, election, and appeal. Conformably to the principle which pervades all states, that make property the qualification for office, to property the general taxation was apportioned. And this, upon a graduated scale, severe to the first class, and completely exonerating the lowest. The ranks of the citizens thus established, the constitution acknowledged three great councils or branches of legislature. The first was that of the venerable Areopagus. We have already seen that this institution had long existed among the Athenians; but of late it had fallen into some obscurity or neglect, and was not even referred to in the laws of Draco. Solon continued the name of the assembly, but remodelled its constitution. Anciently it had probably embraced all the Eupatrids. Solon defined the claims of the aspirants to that official dignity, and ordained that no one should be admitted to the areopagus who had not filled the situation of archon—an ordeal which implied not only the necessity of the highest rank, but, as I shall presently note, of sober character and unblemished integrity.
XII. From these divisions of rank, we see that the main principle of Solon’s constitution was based, not on birth, but on wealth. He established what was called a timocracy, meaning an aristocracy of property, grounded in democratic systems of popular authority, elections, and appeals. In line with the principle that all states making property the qualification for office follow, general taxation was allocated based on property. This was done on a graduated scale, heavy for the first class and completely exempting the lowest. With the ranks of citizens established, the constitution recognized three main councils or legislative branches. The first was the respected Areopagus. We’ve already noted that this institution had existed among the Athenians for a long time; however, it had recently fallen into obscurity and neglect and wasn’t even mentioned in Draco's laws. Solon kept the name of the assembly but revamped its structure. In ancient times, it likely included all Eupatrids. Solon clarified the requirements for those seeking that official position and decreed that no one could join the Areopagus unless they had previously held the position of archon—an experience that required not only the highest status but also, as I will soon mention, a sound character and unblemished integrity.
The remotest traditions clothed the very name of this assembly with majesty and awe. Holding their council on the sacred hill consecrated to Mars, fable asserted that the god of battle had himself been arraigned before its tribunal. Solon exerted his imagination to sustain the grandeur of its associations. Every distinction was lavished upon senators, who, in the spirit of his laws, could only pass from the temple of virtue to that of honour. Before their jurisdiction all species of crime might be arraigned—they had equal power to reward and to punish. From the guilt of murder to the negative offence of idleness 207, their control extended—the consecration of altars to new deities, the penalties affixed to impiety, were at their decision, and in their charge. Theirs was the illimitable authority to scrutinize the lives of men—they attended public meetings and solemn sacrifices, to preserve order by the majesty of their presence. The custody of the laws and the management of the public funds, the superintendence of the education of youth, were committed to their care. Despite their power, they interfered but little in the management of political affairs, save in cases of imminent danger. Their duties, grave, tranquil, and solemn, held them aloof from the stir of temporary agitation. They were the last great refuge of the state, to which, on common occasions, it was almost profanity to appeal. Their very demeanour was modelled to harmonize with the reputation of their virtues and the dignity of their office. It was forbidden to laugh in their assembly—no archon who had been seen in a public tavern could be admitted to their order 208, and for an areopagite to compose a comedy was a matter of special prohibition 209. They sat in the open air, in common with all courts having cognizance of murder. If the business before them was great and various, they were wont to divide themselves into committees, to each of which the several causes were assigned by lot, so that no man knowing the cause he was to adjudge could be assailed with the imputation of dishonest or partial prepossession. After duly hearing both parties, they gave their judgment with proverbial gravity and silence. The institution of the ballot (a subsequent custom) afforded secrecy to their award—a proceeding necessary amid the jealousy and power of factions, to preserve their judgment unbiased by personal fear, and the abolition of which, we shall see hereafter, was among the causes that crushed for a while the liberties of Athens. A brazen urn received the suffrages of condemnation—one of wood those of acquittal. Such was the character and constitution of the AREOPAGUS. 210
The oldest traditions filled the name of this assembly with respect and awe. They held their council on the sacred hill dedicated to Mars, and legends claimed that the god of war had once been judged there himself. Solon used his creativity to uphold its grand legacy. Senators were given every honor, and according to his laws, they could only move from the temple of virtue to the temple of honor. Before them, all kinds of crimes could be judged—they had equal power to reward and punish. From the crime of murder to the lesser offense of laziness 207, their authority covered it all—the establishment of altars to new gods and the punishments for impiety were in their hands. They had the unlimited power to examine people’s lives—they attended public meetings and important rituals to maintain order with their dignified presence. They were responsible for upholding the laws, managing public funds, and overseeing the education of the youth. Despite their authority, they rarely involved themselves in political matters unless there was a serious threat. Their roles were serious, calm, and solemn, keeping them distant from the chaos of everyday politics. They were the last major refuge of the state, to which it was almost considered disrespectful to appeal during ordinary times. Their very behavior was fashioned to fit the reputation of their virtues and the prestige of their position. Laughter was banned in their meetings—no archon who had been seen at a public tavern could join them 208, and it was strictly prohibited for an areopagite to write a comedy 209. They met outdoors, like all courts that handled murder cases. When dealing with major and varied issues, they would often split into committees, with each committee assigned different cases by lot, ensuring that no one knew which case they would judge and could therefore not be accused of bias or favoritism. After carefully hearing from both sides, they delivered their verdicts with well-known seriousness and silence. The introduction of the ballot (a later practice) provided secrecy to their decisions—a necessary step given the rivalries and influence of factions to keep their judgments free from personal fear, and the removal of which, as we will see later, contributed to a temporary loss of Athens' freedoms. A bronze urn collected votes for guilt—one made of wood was used for innocence. This was the nature and structure of the AREOPAGUS. 210
XIII. The second legislative council ordained or revived by Solon, consisted of a senate, composed, first of four hundred, and many years afterward of five hundred members. To this council all, save the lowest and most numerous class, were eligible, provided they had passed or attained the age of thirty. It was rather a chance assembly than a representative one. The manner of its election appears not more elaborate than clumsy. To every ward there was a president, called phylarchus. This magistrate, on a certain day in the year, gave in the names of all the persons within his district entitled to the honour of serving in the council, and desirous of enjoying it. These names were inscribed on brazen tablets, and cast into a certain vessel. In another vessel was placed an equal number of beans; supposing the number of candidates to be returned by each tribe to be (as it at first was) a hundred, there were one hundred white beans put into the vessel—the rest were black. Then the names of the candidates and the beans were drawn out one by one; and each candidate who had the good fortune to have his name drawn out together with a white bean, became a member of the senate. Thus the constitution of each succeeding senate might differ from the last—might, so far from representing the people, contradict their wishes—was utterly a matter of hazard and chance; and when Mr. Mitford informs us that the assembly of the people was the great foundation of evil in the Athenian constitution, it appears that to the capricious and unsatisfactory election of this council we may safely impute many of the inconsistencies and changes which that historian attributes entirely to the more popular assembly 211. To this council were intrusted powers less extensive in theory than those of the Areopagus, but far more actively exerted. Its members inspected the fleet (when a fleet was afterward established)—they appointed jailers of prisons —they examined the accounts of magistrates at the termination of their office; these were minor duties; to them was allotted also an authority in other departments of a much higher and more complicated nature. To them was given the dark and fearful extent of power which enabled them to examine and to punish persons accused of offences unspecified by any peculiar law 212—an ordinance than which, had less attention been paid to popular control, the wildest ambition of despotism would have required no broader base for its designs. A power to punish crimes unspecified by law is a power above law, and ignorance or corruption may easily distort innocence itself into crime. But the main duty of the Four Hundred was to prepare the laws to be submitted to the assembly of the people—the great popular tribunal which we are about presently to consider. Nor could any law, according to Solon, be introduced into that assembly until it had undergone the deliberation, and received the sanction, of this preliminary council. With them, therefore, was THE ORIGIN OF ALL LEGISLATION. In proportion to these discretionary powers was the examination the members of the council underwent. Previous to the admission of any candidate, his life, his character, and his actions were submitted to a vigorous scrutiny 213. The senators then took a solemn oath that they would endeavour to promote the public good, and the highest punishment they were allowed to inflict was a penalty of five hundred drachma. If that punishment were deemed by them insufficient, the criminal was referred to the regular courts of law. At the expiration of their trust, which expired with each year, the senators gave an account of their conduct, and the senate itself punished any offence of its members; so severe were its inflictions, that a man expelled from the senate was eligible as a judge—a proof that expulsion was a punishment awarded to no heinous offence. 214
XIII. The second legislative council set up or revived by Solon consisted of a senate, initially made up of four hundred members, and later expanded to five hundred. Almost everyone, except for the lowest and largest class, could be part of this council, as long as they had reached the age of thirty. It was more of a random assembly than a truly representative one. The way members were chosen seems more awkward than systematic. Each ward had a leader called a phylarchus. On a specific day each year, this leader submitted the names of all eligible individuals in their area who wanted to serve on the council. These names were written on bronze tablets and dropped into a container. An equal number of beans were placed in another container; if there were a hundred candidates from each tribe (as it initially was), one hundred white beans were added—while the rest were black. Then, names and beans were drawn one by one; each candidate whose name was drawn along with a white bean became a member of the senate. Consequently, the makeup of each new senate could be different from the last—potentially reflecting the opposite of the people's wishes—making it entirely a matter of luck; and when Mr. Mitford tells us that the assembly of the people was the primary source of problems in the Athenian constitution, it appears that the random and often unsatisfactory election of this council can be linked to many of the inconsistencies and changes he attributes solely to the more popular assembly 211. This council had powers that were less extensive in theory than those of the Areopagus but were exercised much more actively. Its members oversaw the fleet (once it was established), appointed jailers for prisons, and reviewed the accounts of magistrates at the end of their term; these were minor responsibilities. They were also given authority over other areas that were much more significant and complex. They held unsettling powers that allowed them to investigate and punish people accused of crimes not defined by specific laws 212—such an ordinance, if less attention had been paid to popular oversight, would have provided the most ambitious despotism with a solid foundation for its goals. The ability to punish crimes that weren’t spelled out by law is a power above the law, and ignorance or corruption could easily twist innocence into guilt. However, the main role of the Four Hundred was to draft laws to be presented to the people's assembly—the primary popular tribunal we will discuss shortly. According to Solon, no law could be introduced to that assembly until it had been considered and approved by this preliminary council. Thus, they held THE ORIGIN OF ALL LEGISLATION. The level of discretion in their powers was matched by the thorough vetting candidates had to undergo. Before any candidate could be admitted, their life, character, and actions were subject to intense scrutiny 213. The senators then took a solemn oath to work for the public good, and the most severe punishment they could impose was a fine of five hundred drachmas. If they deemed that punishment insufficient, the offender was sent to the regular courts of law. At the end of their term, which lasted a year, the senators had to account for their actions, and the senate itself punished any wrongdoing by its members; the punishments were so stringent that a person expelled from the senate could still serve as a judge—indicating that expulsion was not a penalty for a serious offense. 214
The members of each tribe presided in turn over the rest 215 under the name of prytanes. It was the duty of the prytanes to assemble the senate, which was usually every day, and to keep order in the great assembly of the people. These were again subdivided into the proedri, who presided weekly over the rest, while one of this number, appointed by lot, was the chief president (or Epistates) of the whole council; to him were intrusted the keys of the citadel and the treasury, and a wholesome jealousy of this twofold trust limited its exercise to a single day. Each member gave notice in writing of any motion he intended to make—the prytanes had the prior right to propound the question, and afterward it became matter of open discussion—they decided by ballot whether to reject or adopt it; if accepted, it was then submitted to the assembly of the people, who ratified or refused the law which they might not originate.
The members of each tribe took turns leading the others 215 under the title of prytanes. It was the prytanes' job to convene the senate, which typically met every day, and to maintain order in the large assembly of the people. These members were further divided into the proedri, who chaired the meetings weekly, while one of them, chosen by lot, served as the chief president (or Epistates) of the entire council; this person was entrusted with the keys to the citadel and the treasury, and a healthy concern over this dual responsibility limited their power to just one day. Each member had to submit in writing any proposal they wanted to make—the prytanes had the first opportunity to bring up the question, and after that, it was open for discussion—they voted by ballot on whether to accept or reject it; if approved, it was then presented to the assembly of the people, who could ratify or deny the law, which they could not propose themselves.
Such was the constitution of the Athenian council, one resembling in many points to the common features of all modern legislative assemblies.
Such was the structure of the Athenian council, which resembled in many ways the common features of all modern legislative assemblies.
XIV. At the great assembly of the people, to which we now arrive, all freemen of the age of discretion, save only those branded by law with the opprobrium of atimos (unhonoured) 216, were admissible. At the time of Solon, this assembly was by no means of the importance to which it afterward arose. Its meetings were comparatively rare, and no doubt it seldom rejected the propositions of the Four Hundred. But whenever different legislative assemblies exist, and popular control is once constitutionally acknowledged, it is in the nature of things that the more democratic assembly should absorb the main business of the more aristocratic. A people are often enslaved by the accident of a despot, but almost ever gain upon the checks which the constitution is intended habitually to oppose. In the later time, the assembly met four times in five weeks (at least, during the period in which the tribes were ten in number), that is, during the presidence of each prytanea. The first time of their meeting they heard matters of general import, approved or rejected magistrates, listened to accusations of grave political offences 217, as well as the particulars of any confiscation of goods. The second time was appropriated to affairs relative as well to individuals as the community; and it was lawful for every man either to present a petition or share in a debate. The third time of meeting was devoted to the state audience of ambassadors. The fourth, to matters of religious worship or priestly ceremonial. These four periodical meetings, under the name of Curia, made the common assembly, requiring no special summons, and betokening no extraordinary emergency. But besides these regular meetings, upon occasions of unusual danger, or in cases requiring immediate discussion, the assembly of the people might also be convened by formal proclamation; and in this case it was termed “Sugkletos,” which we may render by the word convocation. The prytanes, previous to the meeting of the assembly, always placarded in some public place a programme of the matters on which the people were to consult. The persons presiding over the meeting were proedri, chosen by lot from the nine tribes, excluded at the time being from the office of prytanes; out of their number a chief president (or epistates) was elected also by lot. Every effort was made to compel a numerous attendance, and each man attending received a small coin for his trouble 218, a practice fruitful in jests to the comedians. The prytanes might forbid a man of notoriously bad character to speak. The chief president gave the signal for their decision. In ordinary cases they held up their hands, voting openly; but at a later period, in cases where intimidation was possible, such as in the offences of men of power and authority, they voted in secret. They met usually in the vast arena of their market-place. 219
XIV. At the large gathering of the people that we’re discussing now, all free men of suitable age, except for those legally marked as atimos (unhonored) 216, were allowed to attend. During Solon’s time, this assembly wasn’t as important as it later became. Its meetings were relatively rare, and it often went along with the proposals of the Four Hundred without much resistance. However, when various legislative assemblies exist and popular control is recognized in the constitution, it’s natural for the more democratic assembly to take on the main responsibilities of the more aristocratic one. People can be oppressed by a tyrant, but they usually gain from the limitations that the constitution is there to maintain. In later times, the assembly met four times within five weeks (at least during the time when there were ten tribes), specifically, during the presidency of each prytanea. The first meeting covered important public issues, approved or rejected magistrates, heard accusations of serious political crimes 217, and dealt with details concerning confiscation of property. The second meeting focused on matters related to both individuals and the community, allowing anyone to present a petition or engage in discussions. The third meeting was dedicated to hosting ambassadors. The fourth was for religious worship or priestly ceremonies. These four regular meetings, known as Curia, constituted the general assembly, requiring no special summons and indicating no extraordinary emergencies. Additionally, in cases of significant danger or situations needing immediate attention, the assembly could be called together through a formal proclamation, referred to as “Sugkletos,” which can be translated as convocation. Before the assembly met, the prytanes always posted a notice in a public space outlining the topics for discussion. The people overseeing the meeting were proedri, selected by lot from the nine tribes, excluding those currently serving as prytanes; from this group, a chief president (or epistates) was also chosen by lot. They made every effort to ensure a large attendance, and each participant received a small coin for their trouble 218, which provided plenty of humor for comedians. The prytanes could prevent someone with a notoriously bad reputation from speaking. The chief president signaled when it was time to make decisions. Generally, they voted openly by raising their hands; however, later on, in situations where intimidation could occur, such as with influential individuals being accused, they voted in secret. They usually gathered in the large space of their marketplace. 219
XV. Recapitulating the heads of that complex constitution I have thus detailed, the reader will perceive that the legislative power rested in three assemblies—the Areopagus, the Council, and the Assembly of the People—that the first, notwithstanding its solemn dignity and vast authority, seldom interfered in the active, popular, and daily politics of the state—that the second originated laws, which the third was the great Court of Appeal to sanction or reject. The great improvement of modern times has been to consolidate the two latter courts in one, and to unite in a representative senate the sagacity of a deliberative council with the interests of a popular assembly;—the more closely we blend these objects, the more perfectly, perhaps, we attain, by the means of wisdom, the ends of liberty.
XV. Summarizing the key points of the complex constitution I've outlined, you'll see that legislative power was held by three bodies—the Areopagus, the Council, and the Assembly of the People. The Areopagus, despite its formal prestige and significant authority, rarely got involved in the everyday politics of the state. The Council created laws, while the Assembly of the People served as the main court to approve or reject those laws. A major advancement in modern times has been to merge the latter two bodies into one and to combine the insight of a deliberative council with the interests of a representative senate. The closer we bring these roles together, the more effectively we might achieve liberty through wisdom.
XVI. But although in a senate composed by the determinations of chance, and an assembly which from its numbers must ever have been exposed to the agitation of eloquence and the caprices of passion, there was inevitably a crude and imperfect principle,—although two courts containing in themselves the soul and element of contradiction necessarily wanted that concentrated oneness of purpose propitious to the regular and majestic calmness of legislation, we cannot but allow the main theory of the system to have been precisely that most favourable to the prodigal exuberance of energy, of intellect, and of genius. Summoned to consultation upon all matters, from the greatest to the least, the most venerable to the most trite—to-day deciding on the number of their war-ships, to-morrow on that of a tragic chorus; now examining with jealous forethought the new harriers to oligarchical ambition;—now appointing, with nice distinction, to various service the various combinations of music 220;—now welcoming in their forum-senate the sober ambassadors of Lacedaemon or the jewelled heralds of Persia, now voting their sanction to new temples or the reverent reforms of worship; compelled to a lively and unceasing interest in all that arouses the mind, or elevates the passions, or refines the taste;—supreme arbiters of the art of the sculptor, as the science of the lawgiver,—judges and rewarders of the limner and the poet, as of the successful negotiator or the prosperous soldier; we see at once the all-accomplished, all-versatile genius of the nation, and we behold in the same glance the effect and the cause:—every thing being referred to the people, the people learned of every thing to judge. Their genius was artificially forced, and in each of its capacities. They had no need of formal education. Their whole life was one school. The very faults of their assembly, in its proneness to be seduced by extraordinary eloquence, aroused the emulation of the orator, and kept constantly awake the imagination of the audience. An Athenian was, by the necessity of birth, what Milton dreamed that man could only become by the labours of completest education: in peace a legislator, in war a soldier,—in all times, on all occasions, acute to judge and resolute to act. All that can inspire the thought or delight the leisure were for the people. Theirs were the portico and the school—theirs the theatre, the gardens, and the baths; they were not, as in Sparta, the tools of the state—they were the state! Lycurgus made machines and Solon men. In Sparta the machine was to be wound up by the tyranny of a fixed principle; it could not dine as it pleased—it could not walk as it pleased—it was not permitted to seek its she machine save by stealth and in the dark; its children were not its own—even itself had no property in self. Sparta incorporated, under the name of freedom, the worst complexities, the most grievous and the most frivolous vexations, of slavery. And therefore was it that Lacedaemon flourished and decayed, bequeathing to fame men only noted for hardy valour, fanatical patriotism, and profound but dishonourable craft— attracting, indeed, the wonder of the world, but advancing no claim to its gratitude, and contributing no single addition to its intellectual stores. But in Athens the true blessing of freedom was rightly placed—in the opinions and the soul. Thought was the common heritage which every man might cultivate at his will. This unshackled liberty had its convulsions and its excesses, but producing unceasing emulation and unbounded competition, an incentive to every effort, a tribunal to every claim, it broke into philosophy with the one—into poetry with the other—into the energy and splendour of unexampled intelligence with all. Looking round us at this hour, more than four-and-twenty centuries after the establishment of the constitution we have just surveyed,—in the labours of the student—in the dreams of the poet—in the aspirations of the artist—in the philosophy of the legislator—we yet behold the imperishable blessings we derive from the liberties of Athens and the institutions of Solon. The life of Athens became extinct, but her soul transfused itself, immortal and immortalizing, through the world.
XVI. Even though a senate formed by chance and an assembly constantly impacted by persuasive speech and emotional whims had an inherently rough and imperfect foundation—despite the fact that two courts filled with contradiction lacked the focused purpose essential for orderly and dignified legislation—we must acknowledge that the overall concept of the system favored an abundance of energy, intellect, and creativity. Called upon to discuss everything from the most critical to the most trivial, from the most respected to the most mundane—deciding today on the number of warships and tomorrow on the size of a tragic chorus; scrutinizing with careful foresight the new obstacles to oligarchical ambition; appointing, with precise distinction, different musical ensembles to various tasks 220; welcoming sober ambassadors from Lacedaemon or the jeweled messengers from Persia in their forum-senate, voting to approve new temples or reverent religious reforms—they were engaged in a lively and continuous interest in everything that stimulated the mind, elevated emotions, or refined taste; serving as the ultimate judges of the sculptor's art and the lawgiver's science, they also assessed and rewarded painters and poets, just as they did successful negotiators or victorious soldiers. Here, we see both the complete, versatile genius of the nation and the cause and effect at play: with everything referred to the people, they became knowledgeable judges of everything. Their genius was developed through experience, needing no formal education. Their entire lives were an education. The very flaws of their assembly, prone to be swayed by extraordinary oratory, inspired the orators and continually sparked the audience's imagination. Every Athenian was, by necessity of birth, what Milton envisioned man could achieve only through the most complete education: in peace, a legislator; in war, a soldier—constantly sharp in judgment and determined in action. All that could spark thought or entertain were for the people. They owned the portico and the school— the theater, the gardens, and the baths; unlike in Sparta, they weren’t merely tools of the state—they were the state! Lycurgus created machines, and Solon created people. In Sparta, the machine operated under the tyranny of a rigid principle; it could not dine freely, it could not move freely, nor could it seek social connections without stealth and darkness; its children weren’t truly its own—even it had no claim to itself. Sparta, under the guise of freedom, incorporated the most burdensome and trivial frustrations of slavery. That’s why Lacedaemon both thrived and declined, leaving behind men known only for their hardy bravery, extreme patriotism, and deep yet dishonorable cunning—captivating the world's attention but earning no gratitude and contributing nothing to its intellectual wealth. In contrast, Athens established the real blessing of freedom—rooted in opinions and the soul. Thought was a common treasure everyone could cultivate as they wished. This unrestrained liberty experienced its turmoil and extremes, yet fostered relentless competition and boundless ambition, challenging every effort and asserting every claim, giving rise to philosophy from one and poetry from another, along with unparalleled intelligence in all. Looking around today, more than twenty-four centuries after the constitution we just examined—in the work of scholars, in poets' dreams, in artists' ambitions, and in legislators’ philosophies—we still witness the enduring benefits we gain from the freedoms of Athens and the institutions of Solon. While Athens itself might have perished, its essence spread throughout the world, becoming immortal and inspiring.
XVII. The penal code of Solon was founded on principles wholly opposite to those of Draco. The scale of punishment was moderate, though sufficiently severe. One distinction will suffice to give us an adequate notion of its gradations. Theft by day was not a capital offence, but if perpetrated by night the felon might lawfully be slain by the owner. The tendency to lean to the side of mercy in all cases may be perceived from this—that if the suffrages of the judges were evenly divided, it was the custom in all the courts of Athens to acquit the accused. The punishment of death was rare; that of atimia supplied its place. Of the different degrees of atimia it is not my purpose to speak at present. By one degree, however, the offender was merely suspended from some privilege of freedom enjoyed by the citizens generally, or condemned to a pecuniary fine; the second degree allowed the confiscation of goods; the third for ever deprived the criminal and his posterity of the rights of a citizen: this last was the award only of aggravated offences. Perpetual exile was a sentence never passed but upon state criminals. The infliction of fines, which became productive of great abuse in later times, was moderately apportioned to offences in the time of Solon, partly from the high price of money, but partly, also, from the wise moderation of the lawgiver. The last grave penalty of death was of various kinds, as the cross, the gibbet, the precipice, the bowl—afflictions seldom in reserve for the freemen.
XVII. The penal code of Solon was based on principles completely different from those of Draco. The punishments were moderate, though still quite serious. One key distinction gives us a good sense of its severity. Theft during the day was not a capital offense, but if it happened at night, the owner could legally kill the thief. This shows a tendency towards mercy; if the judges’ votes were equally split, it was the practice in all the courts of Athens to acquit the accused. The death penalty was rare; instead, they used atimia as a punishment. I won’t go into the various degrees of atimia right now. In one degree, the offender would just lose some freedom privileges that regular citizens had, or be hit with a fine; the second degree allowed for the confiscation of goods; the third degree permanently stripped the criminal and their descendants of citizenship rights, reserved for the most serious offenses. Perpetual exile was only given to state criminals. Fines, which later became widely abused, were set fairly according to the offenses during Solon’s time, partly because of the high cost of money, but also due to the wise restraint of the lawmaker. The ultimate penalty of death came in several forms, such as crucifixion, hanging, throwing off a cliff, or poison—punishments rarely reserved for free men.
As the principle of shame was a main instrument of the penal code of the Athenians, so they endeavoured to attain the same object by the sublimer motive of honour. Upon the even balance of rewards that stimulate, and penalties that deter, Solon and his earlier successors conceived the virtue of the commonwealth to rest. A crown presented by the senate or the people—a public banquet in the hall of state— the erection of a statue in the thoroughfares (long a most rare distinction)—the privilege of precedence in the theatre or assembly— were honours constantly before the eyes of the young and the hopes of the ambitious. The sentiment of honour thus became a guiding principle of the legislation, and a large component of the character of the Athenians.
As the principle of shame was a key part of the Athenian legal system, they also aimed to achieve the same goal through the greater motivation of honor. Solon and his early successors believed that the virtue of the community depended on a careful balance of rewards that encouraged action and penalties that discouraged wrongdoing. A crown awarded by the senate or the people, a public feast in the state hall, the erection of a statue in public spaces (which was a rare distinction), and the privilege of sitting at the front in the theater or assembly were honors that constantly inspired the youth and fueled the ambitions of many. This sense of honor became a guiding principle in their laws and a significant aspect of Athenian character.
XVIII. Judicial proceedings, whether as instituted by Solon or as corrupted by his successors, were exposed to some grave and vital evils hereafter to be noticed. At present I content myself with observing, that Solon carried into the judicial the principles, of his legislative courts. It was his theory, that all the citizens should be trained to take an interest in state. Every year a body of six thousand citizens was chosen by lot; no qualification save that of being thirty years of age was demanded in this election. The body thus chosen, called Heliaea, was subdivided into smaller courts, before which all offences, but especially political ones, might be tried. Ordinary cases were probably left by Solon to the ordinary magistrates; but it was not long before the popular jurors drew to themselves the final trial and judgment of all causes. This judicial power was even greater than the legislative; for if an act had passed through all the legislative forms, and was, within a year of the date, found inconsistent with the constitution or public interests, the popular courts could repeal the act and punish its author. In Athens there were no professional lawyers; the law being supposed the common interest of citizens, every encouragement was given to the prosecutor —every facility to the obtaining of justice.
XVIII. Judicial proceedings, whether established by Solon or corrupted by his successors, faced some serious and significant problems that will be discussed later. For now, I simply want to point out that Solon integrated the principles of his legislative courts into the judicial system. He believed that all citizens should be encouraged to engage in state affairs. Each year, a group of six thousand citizens was selected by random draw; the only requirement was that they be at least thirty years old. This group, known as Heliaea, was divided into smaller courts to hear all types of offenses, especially political ones. Ordinary cases were likely left to regular magistrates, but it didn't take long for the popular jurors to take on the responsibility of final judgment for all cases. This judicial power was even greater than the legislative power because if a law went through all the legislative procedures and was found, within a year, to conflict with the constitution or public interest, the popular courts could revoke the law and penalize its creator. In Athens, there were no professional lawyers; the law was seen as the shared concern of the citizens, so every effort was made to support the prosecution and facilitate the pursuit of justice.
Solon appears to have recognised the sound principle, that the strength of law is in the public disposition to cherish and revere it,—and that nothing is more calculated to make permanent the general spirit of a constitution than to render its details flexile and open to reform. Accordingly, he subjected his laws to the vigilance of regular and constant revision. Once a year, proposals for altering any existent law might be made by any citizen—were debated—and, if approved, referred to a legislative committee, drawn by lot from the jurors. The committee then sat in judgment on the law; five advocates were appointed to plead for the old law; if unsuccessful, the new law came at once into operation. In addition to this precaution, six of the nine archons (called Thesmothetae), whose office rendered them experienced in the defects of the law, were authorized to review the whole code, and to refer to the legislative committee the consideration of any errors or inconsistencies that might require amendment. 221
Solon seemed to understand the important idea that the strength of the law depends on the public’s willingness to respect and honor it. He believed that nothing helps maintain the overall spirit of a constitution better than making its details flexible and open to change. Therefore, he made sure his laws were regularly and constantly reviewed. Once a year, any citizen could propose changes to existing laws. These proposals would be discussed, and if they got the green light, they would be sent to a legislative committee randomly chosen from the jurors. The committee would then evaluate the law; five advocates were appointed to argue in favor of the old law. If they were unsuccessful, the new law would take effect immediately. Additionally, six out of the nine archons (known as Thesmothetae), who had the experience necessary to identify the shortcomings in the law, were given the authority to review the entire legal code and refer any errors or inconsistencies needing correction to the legislative committee. 221
XIX. With respect to the education of youth, the wise Athenian did not proceed upon the principles which in Sparta attempted to transfer to the state the dearest privileges of a parent. From the age of sixteen to eighteen (and earlier in the case of orphans) the law, indeed, seems to have considered that the state had a right to prepare its citizens for its service; and the youth was obliged to attend public gymnastic schools, in which, to much physical, some intellectual, discipline was added, under masters publicly nominated. But from the very circumstance of compulsory education at that age, and the absence of it in childhood, we may suppose that there had already grown up in Athens a moral obligation and a general custom, to prepare the youth of the state for the national schools.
XIX. When it comes to educating young people, the wise Athenian didn't follow the approach seen in Sparta, where the state tried to take over the most cherished rights of parents. From ages sixteen to eighteen (and earlier for orphans), the law clearly recognized that the state had the right to prepare its citizens for service; young people were required to attend public gymnastic schools, where their physical training was complemented by some intellectual education, led by publicly appointed teachers. However, the fact that education was compulsory at that age, while it wasn't enforced in childhood, suggests that a moral obligation and common practice had already developed in Athens to get young people ready for the national schools.
Besides the free citizens, there were two subordinate classes—the aliens and the slaves. By the first are meant those composed of settlers, who had not relinquished connexion with their native countries. These, as universally in Greece, were widely distinguished from the citizens; they paid a small annual sum for the protection of the state, and each became a kind of client to some individual citizen, who appeared for him in the courts of justice. They were also forbidden to purchase land; but for the rest, Solon, himself a merchant, appears to have given to such aliens encouragements in trade and manufacture not usual in that age; and most of their disabilities were probably rather moral or imaginary than real and daily causes of grievance. The great and paramount distinction was between the freeman and the slave. No slave could be admitted as a witness, except by torture; as for him there was no voice in the state, so for him there was no tenderness in the law. But though the slave might not avenge himself on the master, the system of slavery avenged itself on the state. The advantages to the intellect of the free citizens resulting from the existence of a class maintained to relieve them from the drudgeries of life, were dearly purchased by the constant insecurity of their political repose. The capital of the rich could never be directed to the most productive of all channels—the labour of free competition. The noble did not employ citizens—he purchased slaves. Thus the commonwealth derived the least possible advantage from his wealth; it did not flow through the heart of the republic, employing the idle and feeding the poor. As a necessary consequence, the inequalities of fortune were sternly visible and deeply felt. The rich man had no connexion with the poor man—the poor man hated him for a wealth of which he did not (as in states where slavery does not exist) share the blessings—purchasing by labour the advantages of fortune. Hence the distinction of classes defied the harmonizing effects of popular legislation. The rich were exposed to unjust and constant exactions; and society was ever liable to be disorganized by attacks upon property. There was an eternal struggle between the jealousies of the populace and the fears of the wealthy; and many of the disorders which modern historians inconsiderately ascribe to the institutions of freedom were in reality the growth of the existence of slavery.
Besides the free citizens, there were two subordinate classes—the aliens and the slaves. By "aliens," we mean those settlers who maintained ties with their home countries. These individuals, as was common in Greece, were clearly distinguished from the citizens; they paid a small annual fee for the protection of the state and became clients of individual citizens, who represented them in court. They were also not allowed to buy land. However, Solon, who was a merchant himself, seems to have offered these aliens some encouragement in trade and manufacturing that was unusual for that time. Most of their restrictions were likely more moral or imagined than actual daily grievances. The main distinction was between the free person and the slave. No slave could serve as a witness unless under torture; since they had no voice in the state, there was no compassion for them in the law. But even though a slave couldn’t take revenge on their master, the system of slavery had its consequences for the state. The benefits to the intellect of free citizens from having a class to handle their menial tasks came at a high cost—the constant insecurity of their political stability. The capital of the wealthy couldn’t be directed toward the most productive avenue—the labor of free competition. The elite didn’t hire citizens; they bought slaves. Thus, the commonwealth gained the least benefit from their wealth; it didn’t circulate through the heart of the republic, providing jobs for the idle and sustenance for the poor. Consequently, the disparities in wealth were stark and felt deeply. The rich had no connection with the poor—the poor despised them for a wealth they didn’t share (as in places without slavery) by earning the benefits of fortune through labor. Therefore, class distinctions resisted the unifying effects of public legislation. The wealthy faced unjust and persistent demands, and society was always at risk of being disrupted by attacks on property. There was a never-ending struggle between the resentment of the populace and the fears of the rich; and many issues that modern historians mistakenly attribute to the institutions of freedom were actually rooted in the existence of slavery.
CHAPTER II.
The Departure of Solon from Athens.—The Rise of Pisistratus.—Return of Solon.—His Conduct and Death.—The Second and Third Tyranny of Pisistratus.—Capture of Sigeum.—Colony in the Chersonesus founded by the first Miltiades.—Death of Pisistratus.
The Departure of Solon from Athens.—The Rise of Pisistratus.—Return of Solon.—His Actions and Death.—The Second and Third Tyrannies of Pisistratus.—Capture of Sigeum.—Colony in the Chersonesus established by the first Miltiades.—Death of Pisistratus.
I. Although the great constitutional reforms of Solon were no doubt carried into effect during his archonship, yet several of his legislative and judicial enactments were probably the work of years. When we consider the many interests to conciliate, the many prejudices to overcome, which in all popular states cripple and delay the progress of change in its several details, we find little difficulty in supposing, with one of the most luminous of modern scholars 222, that Solon had ample occupation for twenty years after the date of his archonship. During this period little occurred in the foreign affairs of Athens save the prosperous termination of the Cirrhaean war, as before recorded. At home the new constitution gradually took root, although often menaced and sometimes shaken by the storms of party and the general desire for further innovation.
I. Although the significant constitutional reforms of Solon were undoubtedly implemented during his time as archon, many of his laws and judicial changes likely took years to develop. When we think about the many interests he had to balance and the various biases he had to challenge—which can slow down the progress of change in any democracy—we can easily agree with one of the brightest modern scholars 222 that Solon had plenty to keep him busy for twenty years after his term began. During this time, not much happened in Athens’ foreign affairs except for the successful end of the Cirrhaean war, as mentioned earlier. At home, the new constitution slowly began to take hold, even though it was often threatened and occasionally disrupted by political conflicts and the widespread push for more reforms.
The eternal consequence of popular change is, that while it irritates the party that loses power, it cannot content the party that gains. It is obvious that each concession to the people but renders them better able to demand concessions more important. The theories of some—the demands of others—harassed the lawgiver, and threatened the safety of the laws. Solon, at length, was induced to believe that his ordinances required the sanction and repose of time, and that absence —that moral death—would not only free himself from importunity, but his infant institutions from the frivolous disposition of change. In his earlier years he had repaired, by commercial pursuits, estates that had been empoverished by the munificence of his father; and, still cultivating the same resources, he made pretence of his vocation to solicit permission for an absence of ten years. He is said to have obtained a solemn promise from the people to alter none of his institutions during that period 223; and thus he departed from the city (probably B. C. 575), of whose future glories he had laid the solid foundation. Attracted by his philosophical habits to that solemn land, beneath whose mysteries the credulous Greeks revered the secrets of existent wisdom, the still adventurous Athenian repaired to the cities of the Nile, and fed the passion of speculative inquiry from the learning of the Egyptian priests. Departing thence to Cyprus, he assisted, as his own verses assure us, in the planning of a new city, founded by one of the kings of that beautiful island, and afterward invited to the court of Croesus (associated with his father Alyattes, then living), he imparted to the Lydian, amid the splendours of state and the adulation of slaves, that well-known lesson on the uncertainty of human grandeur, which, according to Herodotus, Croesus so seasonably remembered at the funeral pile. 224
The lasting impact of popular change is that while it frustrates the group that loses power, it doesn’t satisfy the group that gains it. Each concession made to the people only makes them more capable of demanding even bigger concessions. The theories of some and the demands of others troubled the lawmaker, putting the safety of the laws at risk. Eventually, Solon came to believe that his laws needed the support and stability that only time could provide, and that being absent—essentially a moral death—would free him from constant pressure and allow his new institutions to avoid the whims of change. In his younger years, he restored the estates that had been depleted by his father's generosity through trade, and while continuing to develop these resources, he pretended that his work required him to ask for permission to be away for ten years. It is said that he got a solemn promise from the people not to change any of his laws during that time 223; and so he left the city (likely around 575 B.C.), of which he had laid a solid foundation for future greatness. Drawn by his philosophical interests to that revered land, where the credulous Greeks believed the secrets of true knowledge lay hidden, the still-curious Athenian traveled to the cities along the Nile, fueling his thirst for knowledge with the teachings of the Egyptian priests. After that, he went to Cyprus, where, as he claimed in his own poems, he helped plan a new city founded by one of the island’s kings. Later, he was invited to the court of Croesus (who was with his father Alyattes, still alive at the time), where he shared a well-known lesson on the uncertainty of human grandeur with the Lydian, a lesson that, according to Herodotus, Croesus remembered all too well when he faced his funeral pyre. 224
II. However prudent had appeared to Solon his absence from Athens, it is to be lamented that he did not rather brave the hazards from which his genius might have saved the state, than incur those which the very removal of a master-spirit was certain to occasion. We may bind men not to change laws, but we cannot bind the spirit and the opinion, from which laws alone derive cogency or value. We may guard against the innovations of a multitude, which a wise statesman sees afar off, and may direct to great ends; but we cannot guard against that dangerous accident—not to be foreseen, not to be directed—the ambition of a man of genius! During the absence of Solon there rose into eminence one of those remarkable persons who give to vicious designs all the attraction of individual virtues. Bold, generous, affable, eloquent, endowed with every gift of nature and fortune— kinsman to Solon, but of greater wealth and more dazzling qualities— the young Pisistratus, son of Hippocrates, early connected himself with the democratic or highland party. The Megarians, who had never relinquished their designs on Salamis, had taken an opportunity, apparently before the travels, and, according to Plutarch, even before the legislation of Solon, to repossess themselves of the island. When the Athenians were enabled to extend their energies beyond their own great domestic revolution, Pisistratus obtained the command of an expedition against these dangerous neighbours, which was attended with the most signal success. A stratagem referred to Solon by Plutarch, who has with so contagious an inaccuracy blended into one the two several and distinct expeditions of Pisistratus and Solon, ought rather to be placed to the doubtful glory of the son of Hippocrates 225. A number of young men sailed with Pisistratus to Colias, and taking the dress of women, whom they there seized while sacrificing to Ceres, a spy was despatched to Salamis, to inform the Megarian guard that many of the principal Athenian matrons were at Colias, and might be easily captured. The Megarians were decoyed, despatched a body of men to the opposite shore, and beholding a group in women’s attire dancing by the strand, landed confusedly to seize the prize. The pretended females drew forth their concealed weapons, and the Megarians, surprised and dismayed, were cut off to a man. The victors lost no time in setting sail for Salamis, and easily regained the isle. Pisistratus carried the war into Megara itself, and captured the port of Nisaea. These exploits were the foundation of his after greatness; and yet young, at the return of Solon, he was already at the head of the democratic party. But neither his rank, his genius, nor his popular influence sufficed to give to his faction a decided eminence over those of his rivals. The wealthy nobles of the lowlands were led by Lycurgus—the moderate party of the coastmen by Megacles, the head of the Alcmaeonidae. And it was in the midst, of the strife and agitation produced by these great sections of the people that Solon returned to Athens.
II. Despite how wise Solon seemed in staying away from Athens, it’s unfortunate he didn’t face the dangers that his intelligence might have resolved for the state, rather than the challenges that his absence—being a master of his craft—would definitely cause. We can restrict people from changing laws, but we can’t control the spirit and opinions from which laws gain their strength or value. We can guard against the changes a crowd may bring, which a smart politician can see coming and direct toward greater goals; however, we can’t protect against that unpredictable and uncontrollable threat—the ambition of a gifted individual. While Solon was away, one of those exceptional figures emerged, drawing attention to wicked plans by showcasing the appealing qualities of personal virtues. Bold, generous, friendly, articulate, blessed with every natural and fortunate gift—he was related to Solon but had greater wealth and more impressive attributes—young Pisistratus, the son of Hippocrates, quickly associated himself with the democratic or highland faction. The Megarians, who had never given up their ambitions regarding Salamis, had taken the chance, possibly before his travels and, according to Plutarch, even before Solon's legislation, to reclaim the island. When the Athenians managed to focus their efforts beyond their significant internal revolution, Pisistratus led an expedition against these dangerous neighbors, achieving notable success. A tactic attributed to Solon by Plutarch, who inaccurately merged the two separate and distinct expeditions of Pisistratus and Solon, should more rightly be credited to the uncertain glory of Hippocrates' son 225. A group of young men sailed with Pisistratus to Colias, and disguised themselves as women, capturing those who were there sacrificing to Ceres. A spy was sent to Salamis to tell the Megarian guards that many of the leading Athenian matrons were at Colias and could easily be taken. The Megarians were led into a trap, sent a group to the opposite shore, and upon seeing a gathering of supposed women dancing by the beach, rushed to seize their prize. The impostors then revealed their hidden weapons, and the Megarians, caught off guard and alarmed, were all cut down. The victors wasted no time sailing back to Salamis and easily took back the island. Pisistratus took the fight into Megara itself and captured the port of Nisaea. These victories laid the groundwork for his future prominence; and young, upon Solon’s return, he was already leading the democratic party. However, neither his status, talent, nor popular support was enough to elevate his faction above that of his competitors. The wealthy nobles of the lowlands were led by Lycurgus—the moderate faction of the coastmen by Megacles, the leader of the Alcmaeonidae. It was amid the conflict and turmoil caused by these major factions of the populace that Solon came back to Athens.
III. The venerable legislator was received with all the grateful respect he deserved; but age had dimmed the brilliancy of his powers. His voice could no longer penetrate the mighty crowds of the market-place. New idols had sprung up—new passions were loosed—new interests formed, and amid the roar and stir of the eternal movement, it was in vain for the high-hearted old man to recall those rushing on the future to the boundaries of the past. If unsuccessful in public, he was not discouraged from applying in private to the leaders of the several parties. Of all those rival nobles, none deferred to his advice with so marked a respect as the smooth and plausible Pisistratus. Perhaps, indeed, that remarkable man contemplated the same objects as Solon himself,—although the one desired to effect by the authority of the chief, the order and the energy which the other would have trusted to the development of the people. But, masking his more interested designs, Pisistratus outbid all competition in his seeming zeal for the public welfare. The softness of his manners—his profuse liberality—his generosity even to his foes—the splendid qualities which induced Cicero to compare him to Julius Cesar 226, charmed the imagination of the multitude, and concealed the selfishness of his views. He was not a hypocrite, indeed, as to his virtues—a dissembler only in his ambition. Even Solon, in endeavouring to inspire him with a true patriotism, acknowledged his talents and his excellences. “But for ambition,” said he, “Athens possesses no citizen worthier than Pisistratus.” The time became ripe for the aspiring projects of the chief of the democracy.
III. The respected legislator was welcomed with all the gratitude he deserved, but his age had diminished the brilliance of his abilities. His voice could no longer reach the large crowds in the marketplace. New idols had emerged—new passions had been unleashed—new interests had formed, and amid the noise and excitement of constant change, it was pointless for the noble old man to try to remind those rushing towards the future of the lessons from the past. Even though he faced setbacks in public, he didn’t lose heart in reaching out privately to the leaders of the various parties. Among all the rival nobles, none showed him as much respect for his advice as the smooth-talking Pisistratus. Perhaps that remarkable man had similar goals as Solon, although one sought to achieve them through authoritative leadership, while the other believed in the potential of the people. However, hiding his self-serving intentions, Pisistratus outshined all competitors with his apparent dedication to the public good. His gentle demeanor—his generous nature—his kindness even towards his enemies—the impressive traits that led Cicero to compare him to Julius Caesar 226 captivated the public’s imagination and masked the selfishness of his agenda. He wasn’t hypocritical about his virtues; he was only secretive about his ambition. Even Solon, while trying to instill true patriotism in him, recognized his talents and strengths. “If it weren’t for ambition,” he said, “Athens has no citizen more worthy than Pisistratus.” The moment had come for the ambitious plans of the leader of the democracy.
IV. The customary crowd was swarming in the market-place, when suddenly in the midst of the assembly appeared the chariot of Pisistratus. The mules were bleeding—Pisistratus himself was wounded. In this condition the demagogue harangued the people. He declared that he had just escaped from the enemies of himself and the popular party, who (under the auspices of the Alcmaeonidae) had attacked him in a country excursion. He reminded the crowd of his services in war—his valour against the Megarians—his conquest of Nisaea. He implored their protection. Indignant and inflamed, the favouring audience shouted their sympathy with his wrongs. “Son of Hippocrates,” said Solon, advancing to the spot, and with bitter wit, “you are but a bad imitator of Ulysses. He wounded himself to delude his enemies—you to deceive your countrymen.” 227 The sagacity of the reproach was unheeded by the crowd. A special assembly of the people was convened, and a partisan of the demagogue moved that a body-guard of fifty men, armed but with clubs, should be assigned to his protection. Despite the infirmities of his age, and the decrease of his popular authority, Solon had the energy to oppose the motion, and predict its results. The credulous love of the people swept away all precaution—the guard was granted. Its number did not long continue stationary; Pisistratus artfully increased the amount, till it swelled to the force required by his designs. He then seized the citadel—the antagonist faction of Megacles fled—and Pisistratus was master of Athens. Amid the confusion and tumult of the city, Solon retained his native courage. He appeared in public—harangued the citizens—upbraided their blindness—invoked their courage. In his speeches he bade them remember that if it be the more easy task to prevent tyranny, it is the more glorious achievement to destroy it. In his verses 228 he poured forth the indignant sentiment which a thousand later bards have borrowed and enlarged; “Blame not Heaven for your tyrants, blame yourselves.” The fears of some, the indifference of others, rendered his exhortations fruitless! The brave old man sorrowfully retreated to his house, hung up his weapons without his door, and consoled himself with the melancholy boast that “he had done all to save his country, and its laws.” This was his last public effort against the usurper. He disdained flight; and, asked by his friends to what he trusted for safety from the wrath of the victor, replied, “To old age,”—a sad reflection, that so great a man should find in infirmity that shelter which he claimed from glory.
IV. The usual crowd was bustling in the marketplace when, all of a sudden, Pisistratus’s chariot appeared in the middle of the group. The mules were bleeding—Pisistratus himself was injured. In this state, the demagogue addressed the people. He claimed that he had just escaped from his enemies and those of the popular party, who (aided by the Alcmaeonidae) had attacked him during a trip in the countryside. He reminded the crowd of his wartime service—his bravery against the Megarians—his conquest of Nisaea. He pleaded for their protection. Angered and stirred up, the supportive audience shouted their sympathy for his troubles. “Son of Hippocrates,” said Solon, stepping forward and with sharp wit, “you're just a poor imitation of Ulysses. He wounded himself to trick his enemies—you do it to fool your fellow countrymen.” 227 The wisdom of the criticism went unnoticed by the crowd. A special assembly of the people was called, and a supporter of the demagogue proposed that a bodyguard of fifty men, armed only with clubs, should be assigned to protect him. Despite his age and reduced popularity, Solon mustered the energy to oppose the motion and predicted its consequences. The gullible affection of the people caused them to ignore all caution—the guard was approved. The number did not stay static for long; Pisistratus cleverly increased it until it grew to the size needed for his plans. He then took control of the citadel—the opposing faction of Megacles fled—and Pisistratus became the master of Athens. Amid the chaos and uproar in the city, Solon maintained his natural courage. He went out in public—addressed the citizens—rebuked their blindness—called on their courage. In his speeches, he urged them to remember that while preventing tyranny might be easier, destroying it is the more glorious achievement. In his verses 228 he expressed the angry sentiment that a thousand later poets have borrowed and expanded upon: “Don’t blame Heaven for your tyrants, blame yourselves.” The fears of some and the indifference of others rendered his pleas ineffective! The brave old man sorrowfully retreated to his home, hung up his weapons outside his door, and consoled himself with the sad claim that “he had done everything to save his country and its laws.” This was his last public effort against the usurper. He rejected the idea of fleeing; when his friends asked him what he relied on for protection from the victor’s wrath, he replied, “Old age”—a tragic reminder that such a great man found refuge in weakness rather than in glory.
V. The remaining days and the latter conduct of Solon are involved in obscurity. According to Plutarch, he continued at Athens, Pisistratus showing him the utmost respect, and listening to the counsel which Solon condescended to bestow upon him: according to Diogenes Laertius, he departed again from his native city 229, indignant at its submission, and hopeless of its freedom, refusing all overtures from Pisistratus, and alleging that, having established a free government, he would not appear to sanction the success of a tyrant. Either account is sufficiently probable. The wisdom of Solon might consent to mitigate what he could not cure, or his patriotism might urge him to avoid witnessing the changes he had no power to prevent. The dispute is of little importance. At his advanced age he could not have long survived the usurpation of Pisistratus, nor can we find any authority for the date of his death so entitled to credit as that of Phanias, who assigns it to the year following the usurpation of Pisistratus. The bright race was already run. According to the grave authority of Aristotle, the ashes of Solon were scattered over the Isle of Salamis, which had been the scene of his earlier triumphs; and Athens, retaining his immortal, boasted not his perishable remains.
V. The remaining days and later actions of Solon are a bit unclear. According to Plutarch, he stayed in Athens, where Pisistratus treated him with great respect and listened to his advice. However, Diogenes Laertius says he left his hometown 229, upset by its submission and hopeless about its freedom, turning down all offers from Pisistratus and claiming that, after establishing a free government, he wouldn't appear to support a tyrant's success. Both accounts are quite plausible. Solon's wisdom might have led him to ease what he couldn't change, or his love for his country might have pushed him to avoid seeing the changes he could do nothing about. The argument over this is not very significant. At his old age, he couldn't have lived long after Pisistratus took over, and we can't find any credible source for the date of his death as trustworthy as Phanias, who states it occurred the year after Pisistratus's takeover. His bright life was already coming to an end. According to the respected authority of Aristotle, Solon's ashes were scattered over the Isle of Salamis, the site of his earlier victories, and although Athens kept his legacy, it did not preserve his physical remains.
VI. Pisistratus directed with admirable moderation the courses of the revolution he had produced. Many causes of success were combined in his favour. His enemies had been the supposed enemies of the people, and the multitude doubtless beheld the flight of the Alcmaeonidae (still odious in their eyes by the massacre of Cylon) as the defeat of a foe, while the triumph of the popular chief was recognised as the victory of the people. In all revolutions the man who has sided with the people is permitted by the people the greatest extent of license. It is easy to perceive, by the general desire which the Athenians had expressed for the elevation of Solon to the supreme authority that the notion of regal authority was not yet hateful to them, and that they were scarcely prepared for the liberties with which they were intrusted. But although they submitted thus patiently to the ascendency of Pisistratus, it is evident that a less benevolent or less artful tyrant would not have been equally successful. Raised above the law, that subtle genius governed only by the law; nay, he affected to consider its authority greater than his own. He assumed no title—no attribute of sovereignty. He was accused of murder, and he humbly appeared before the tribunal of the Areopagus—a proof not more of the moderation of the usurper than of the influence of public opinion. He enforced the laws of Solon, and compelled the unruly tempers of his faction to subscribe to their wholesome rigour. The one revolution did not, therefore, supplant, it confirmed, the other. “By these means,” says Herodotus, “Pisistratus mastered Athens, and yet his situation was far from secure.” 230
VI. Pisistratus skillfully managed the changes he had instigated. Several factors contributed to his success. His foes were seen as the enemies of the people, and the public surely viewed the departure of the Alcmaeonidae (who were still despised for the massacre of Cylon) as a victory over an adversary, while the win of the popular leader was seen as a win for the people. In any revolution, the person who aligns with the populace is often granted the most freedom by them. It's clear from the general support the Athenians showed for Solon's rise to power that the idea of royal authority was not yet detestable to them, and they were not entirely ready for the liberties they were given. However, although they tolerated Pisistratus's dominance, it’s clear that a less kind or less clever tyrant would not have achieved the same level of success. Elevated above the law, that crafty leader ruled by law itself; in fact, he pretended to view its authority as greater than his own. He did not take on any titles or aspects of sovereignty. When accused of murder, he humbly appeared before the Areopagus, which demonstrated not only the moderation of the usurper but also the power of public opinion. He enforced Sol's laws and made sure the unruly members of his faction adhered to their strictness. Thus, one revolution did not replace the other; it reinforced it. “By these means,” states Herodotus, “Pisistratus took control of Athens, yet his position was far from secure.” 230
VII. Although the heads of the more moderate party, under Megacles, had been expelled from Athens, yet the faction, equally powerful and equally hostile, headed by Lycurgus, and embraced by the bulk of the nobles, still remained. For a time, extending perhaps to five or six years, Pisistratus retained his power; but at length, Lycurgus, uniting with the exiled Alcmaeonidae, succeeded in expelling him from the city. But the union that had led to his expulsion ceased with that event. The contests between the lowlanders and the coastmen were only more inflamed by the defeat of the third party, which had operated as a balance of power, and the broils of their several leaders were fed by personal ambition as by hereditary animosities. Megacles, therefore, unable to maintain equal ground with Lycurgus, turned his thoughts towards the enemy he had subdued, and sent proposals to Pisistratus, offering to unite their forces, and to support him in his pretensions to the tyranny, upon condition that the exiled chief should marry his daughter Coesyra. Pisistratus readily acceded to the terms, and it was resolved by a theatrical pageant to reconcile his return to the people. In one of the boroughs of the city there was a woman named Phya, of singular beauty and lofty stature. Clad in complete armour, and drawn in a chariot, this woman was conducted with splendour and triumph towards the city. By her side rode Pisistratus—heralds preceded their march, and proclaimed her approach, crying aloud to the Athenians “to admit Pisistratus, the favourite of Minerva, for that the goddess herself had come to earth on his behalf.”
VII. Even though the leaders of the more moderate faction, led by Megacles, had been kicked out of Athens, a rival group, just as powerful and hostile, led by Lycurgus and supported by most of the nobility, still remained. For a while, maybe five or six years, Pisistratus held onto his power; but eventually, Lycurgus, teaming up with the exiled Alcmaeonidae, managed to drive him out of the city. However, the alliance that led to his expulsion fell apart after that. The conflicts between the lowlanders and the coastal people only intensified after the defeat of the third party, which had acted as a balance of power, and the rivalries among their leaders were fueled by personal ambition as much as by old family grudges. Megacles, finding it impossible to compete with Lycurgus, shifted his focus to the foe he had once conquered and sent proposals to Pisistratus, suggesting they combine forces and support him in claiming tyranny, on the condition that Pisistratus would marry his daughter Coesyra. Pisistratus quickly accepted the terms, and they planned a grand spectacle to welcome his return to the people. In one of the city’s neighborhoods, there was a woman named Phya, known for her remarkable beauty and tall stature. Dressed in full armor and riding in a chariot, she was paraded through the city with great fanfare and glory. Beside her rode Pisistratus—heralds went ahead, announcing her arrival and urging the Athenians “to welcome Pisistratus, the favorite of Minerva, because the goddess herself had come down to earth on his behalf.”
The sagacity of the Athenians was already so acute, and the artifice appeared to Herodotus so gross, that the simple Halicarnassean could scarcely credit the authenticity of this tale. But it is possible that the people viewed the procession as an ingenious allegory, to the adaptation of which they were already disposed; and that, like the populace of a later and yet more civilized people, they hailed the goddess while they recognised the prostitute 231. Be that as it may, the son of Hippocrates recovered his authority, and fulfilled his treaty with Megacles by a marriage with his daughter. Between the commencement of his first tyranny and the date of his second return, there was probably an interval of twelve years. His sons were already adults. Partly from a desire not to increase his family, partly from some superstitious disinclination to the blood of the Alcmaeonidae, which the massacre of Cylon still stigmatized with contamination, Pisistratus conducted himself towards the fair Coesyra with a chastity either unwelcome to her affection, or afflicting to her pride. The unwedded wife communicated the mortifying secret to her mother, from whose lips it soon travelled to the father. He did not view the purity of Pisistratus with charitable eyes. He thought it an affront to his own person that that of his daughter should be so tranquilly regarded. He entered into a league with his former opponents against the usurper, and so great was the danger, that Pisistratus (despite his habitual courage) betook himself hastily to flight:—a strange instance of the caprice of human events, that a man could with a greater impunity subdue the freedom of his country, than affront the vanity of his wife! 232
The wisdom of the Athenians was already quite sharp, and the deception seemed so obvious to Herodotus that the straightforward Halicarnassean could hardly believe this story was true. However, it's possible that the people saw the procession as a clever allegory, which they were already inclined to accept; and that, like the citizens of a later, more sophisticated society, they praised the goddess while recognizing the prostitute 231. Regardless, the son of Hippocrates regained his power and fulfilled his agreement with Megacles by marrying his daughter. There was likely a twelve-year gap between the start of his first tyranny and his second return. His sons were already grown. Partly out of a desire not to add to his family, and partly due to some superstitious aversion to the blood of the Alcmaeonidae, which was still tainted by the massacre of Cylon, Pisistratus treated the beautiful Coesyra with a chastity that was either unwanted by her love or hurtful to her pride. The unmarried wife shared this embarrassing secret with her mother, who soon passed it on to her father. He did not see Pisistratus's purity in a favorable light. He considered it an insult to himself that his daughter's honor was treated so calmly. He formed an alliance with his former enemies against the usurper, and the danger was so great that Pisistratus (despite his usual bravery) quickly fled:—a strange twist of fate that a man could more easily conquer the freedom of his country than offend his wife's pride! 232
VIII. Pisistratus, his sons and partisans, retired to Eretria in Euboea: there they deliberated as to their future proceedings—should they submit to their exile, or attempt to retrieve, their power? The councils of his son Hippias prevailed with Pisistratus; it was resolved once more to attempt the sovereignty of Athens. The neighbouring tribes assisted the exiles with forage and shelter. Many cities accorded the celebrated noble large sums of money, and the Thebans outdid the rest in pernicious liberality. A troop of Argive adventurers came from the Peloponnesus to tender to the baffled usurper the assistance of their swords, and Lygdamis, an individual of Naxos, himself ambitious of the government of his native state, increased his resources both by money and military force. At length, though after a long and tedious period of no less than eleven years, Pisistratus resolved to hazard the issue of open war. At the head of a foreign force he advanced to Marathon, and pitched his tents upon its immortal plain. Troops of the factious or discontented thronged from Athens to his camp, while the bulk of the citizens, unaffected ay such desertions, viewed his preparations with indifference. At length, when they heard that Pisistratus had broken up his encampment, and was on his march to the city, the Athenians awoke from their apathy, and collected their forces to oppose him. He continued to advance his troops, halted at the temple of Minerva, whose earthly representative had once so benignly assisted him, and pitched his tents opposite the fane. He took advantage of that time in which the Athenians, during the heats of the day, were at their entertainments, or indulging the noontide repose, still so grateful to the inhabitants of a warmer climate, to commence his attack. He soon scattered the foe, and ordered his sons to overtake them in their flight, to bid them return peacefully to their employments, and fear nothing from his vengeance. His clemency assisted the effect of his valour, and once more the son of Hippocrates became the master of the Athenian commonwealth.
VIII. Pisistratus, his sons, and supporters took refuge in Eretria on Euboea. There, they discussed their next steps—should they accept their exile or try to regain their power? His son Hippias convinced Pisistratus to make another attempt at ruling Athens. The neighboring tribes provided the exiles with food and shelter. Many cities gave the famous noble significant amounts of money, with the Thebans being the most generous. A group of Argive adventurers came from the Peloponnesus to offer their swords to the frustrated usurper, while Lygdamis from Naxos, who was also ambitious about governing his home state, contributed both money and military strength. Finally, after a long and challenging eleven years, Pisistratus decided to risk open war. Leading a foreign force, he marched to Marathon and set up camp on its historic plain. Groups of discontented Athenians flocked to his camp, while most citizens remained indifferent to his preparations. But when they learned that Pisistratus had broken camp and was headed to the city, the Athenians shook off their apathy and gathered their forces to oppose him. He continued to advance his troops, stopping at the temple of Minerva, the goddess who had once kindly aided him, and camped opposite the shrine. He took advantage of the time when the Athenians were enjoying their midday meals or resting through the heat of the day—a beloved custom in warmer climates—to launch his attack. He quickly routed the enemy and instructed his sons to catch up with them as they fled, encouraging them to return peacefully to their work and not to fear his wrath. His mercy complemented his bravery, and once again, the son of Hippocrates became the ruler of the Athenian state.
IX. Pisistratus lost no time in strengthening himself by formidable alliances. He retained many auxiliary troops, and provided large pecuniary resources 233. He spared the persons of his opponents, but sent their children as hostages to Naxos, which he first reduced and consigned to the tyranny of his auxiliary, Lygdamis. Many of his inveterate enemies had perished on the field—many fled from the fear of his revenge. He was undisturbed in the renewal of his sway, and having no motive for violence, pursued the natural bent of a mild and generous disposition, ruling as one who wishes men to forget the means by which his power has been attained. Pisistratus had that passion for letters which distinguished most of the more brilliant Athenians. Although the poems of Homer were widely known and deeply venerated long before his time, yet he appears, by a more accurate collection and arrangement of them, and probably by bringing them into a more general and active circulation in Athens, to have largely added to the wonderful impetus to poetical emulation, which those immortal writings were calculated to give.
IX. Pisistratus quickly strengthened his position through powerful alliances. He maintained a large number of auxiliary troops and provided substantial financial resources 233. He did not harm his opponents but sent their children as hostages to Naxos, which he conquered and handed over to the rule of his ally, Lygdamis. Many of his longtime enemies had been killed in battle, and many fled in fear of his revenge. He was secure in reestablishing his power and, lacking any motive for violence, embraced his naturally mild and generous nature, ruling as someone who wanted people to forget how he gained his authority. Pisistratus had a passion for literature that characterized many of the more distinguished Athenians. Although Homer's poems were well-known and greatly respected long before his time, he seems to have significantly contributed to the promotion of these immortal works by compiling them more accurately and arranging them better, likely making them more widely available and actively circulated in Athens, which greatly inspired poetic competition.
When we consider how much, even in our own times, and with all the advantages of the press, the diffused fame and intellectual influence of Shakspeare and Milton have owed to the praise and criticism of individuals, we may readily understand the kind of service rendered by Pisistratus to Homer. The very example of so eminent a man would have drawn upon the poet a less vague and more inquiring species of admiration; the increased circulation of copies—the more frequent public recitals—were advantages timed at that happy season when the people who enjoyed them had grown up from wondering childhood to imitative and studious youth. And certain it is, that from this period we must date the marked and pervading influence of Homer upon Athenian poetry; for the renown of a poet often precedes by many generations the visible influence of his peculiar genius. It is chiefly within the last seventy years that we may date the wonderful effect that Shakspeare was destined to produce upon the universal intellect of Europe. The literary obligations of Athens to Pisistratus were not limited to his exertions on behalf of Homer: he is said to have been the first in Greece who founded a public library, rendering its treasures accessible to all. And these two benefits united, justly entitle the fortunate usurper to the praise of first calling into active existence that intellectual and literary spirit which became diffused among the Athenian people, and originated the models and masterpieces of the world. It was in harmony with this part of his character that Pisistratus refitted the taste and socialized the habits of the citizens, by the erection of buildings dedicated to the public worship, or the public uses, and laid out the stately gardens of the Lyceum—(in after-times the favourite haunt of philosophy), by the banks of the river dedicated to song. Pisistratus did thus more than continue the laws of Solon—he inculcated the intellectual habits which the laws were designed to create. And as in the circle of human events the faults of one man often confirm what was begun by the virtues of another, so perhaps the usurpation of Pisistratus was necessary to establish the institutions of Solon. It is clear that the great lawgiver was not appreciated at the close of his life; as his personal authority had ceased to have influence, so possibly might have soon ceased the authority of his code. The citizens required repose to examine, to feel, to estimate the blessings of his laws—that repose they possessed under Pisistratus. Amid the tumult of fierce and equipoised factions it might be fortunate that a single individual was raised above the rest, who, having the wisdom to appreciate the institutions of Solon, had the authority to enforce them. Silently they grew up under his usurped but benignant sway, pervading, penetrating, exalting the people, and fitting them by degrees to the liberty those institutions were intended to confer. If the disorders of the republic led to the ascendency of Pisistratus, so the ascendency of Pisistratus paved the way for the renewal of the republic. As Cromwell was the representative of the very sentiments he appeared to subvert—as Napoleon in his own person incorporated the principles of the revolution of France, so the tyranny of Pisistratus concentrated and imbodied the elements of that democracy he rather wielded than overthrew.
When we think about how much, even today, and with all the advantages of the press, the broad recognition and intellectual impact of Shakespeare and Milton owe to the praise and criticism of individuals, it's easy to see the kind of service Pisistratus provided to Homer. Just his example would have drawn a more specific and thoughtful admiration for the poet; the increased circulation of copies and more frequent public performances came at a time when the audience had grown from curious children to eager, studious young adults. It's certain that we can trace the notable and widespread influence of Homer on Athenian poetry back to this period, as the fame of a poet often precedes the tangible impact of his unique genius by many generations. It’s really in the last seventy years that we can pinpoint the incredible effect that Shakespeare was destined to have on the collective intellect of Europe. Athens’ literary debts to Pisistratus weren’t just limited to his efforts on behalf of Homer; he is credited with being the first in Greece to establish a public library, making its treasures available to everyone. These two contributions together rightfully earn the fortunate usurper recognition for being the first to actively foster the intellectual and literary spirit that spread among the Athenian people and gave rise to the world's enduring models and masterpieces. In line with this aspect of his character, Pisistratus refined the taste and social habits of citizens by constructing buildings for public worship and use, and he developed the beautiful gardens of the Lyceum—later a favorite spot for philosophers—along the river dedicated to song. In doing this, Pisistratus didn’t just continue Solon’s laws—he instilled the intellectual habits that those laws aimed to cultivate. Just as in human events, the mistakes of one person can reinforce what another's virtues started, perhaps Pisistratus’s rule was necessary to solidify Solon’s institutions. It’s clear that the great lawmaker wasn’t fully appreciated at the end of his life; as his personal authority waned, so could have the authority of his laws. People needed a break to reflect, to appreciate, and to evaluate the benefits of his legislation—and they found that under Pisistratus. Amid the chaos of strong and balanced factions, it was fortunate that a single individual rose above the rest, who had the wisdom to recognize Solon’s institutions and the power to enforce them. Quietly, they developed under his usurped but kind rule, spreading, penetrating, elevating the people, and gradually preparing them for the freedom those institutions were meant to provide. If the chaos of the republic led to Pisistratus's dominance, then his dominance paved the way for the revival of the republic. Just as Cromwell represented the very ideas he seemed to undermine—just as Napoleon embodied the principles of the French Revolution—so too did Pisistratus's tyranny concentrate and embody the elements of the democracy he managed rather than destroyed.
X. At home, time and tranquillity cemented the new laws; poetry set before the emulation of the Athenians its noblest monument in the epics of Homer; and tragedy put forth its first unmellowed fruits in the rude recitations of Thespis (B. C. 535). 234 Pisistratus sought also to counterbalance the growing passion for commerce by peculiar attention to agriculture, in which it is not unlikely that he was considerably influenced by early prepossessions, for his party had been the mountaineers attached to rural pursuits, and his adversaries the coastmen engaged in traffic. As a politician of great sagacity, he might also have been aware, that a people accustomed to agricultural employments are ever less inclined to democratic institutions than one addicted to commerce and manufactures; and if he were the author of a law, which at all events he more rigidly enforced, requiring every citizen to give an account of his mode of livelihood, and affixing punishments to idleness, he could not have taken wiser precautions against such seditions as are begot by poverty upon indolence, or under a juster plea have established the superintendence of a concealed police. We learn from Aristotle that his policy consisted much in subjecting and humbling the pediaei, or wealthy nobles of the lowlands. But his very affection to agriculture must have tended to strengthen an aristocracy, and his humility to the Areopagus was a proof of his desire to conciliate the least democratic of the Athenian courts. He probably, therefore, acted only against such individual chiefs as had incurred his resentment, or as menaced his power; nor can we perceive in his measures the systematic and deliberate policy, common with other Greek tyrants, to break up an aristocracy and create a middle class.
X. At home, time and peace solidified the new laws; poetry presented the Athenians with its greatest achievement in the epics of Homer; and tragedy showcased its first raw performances in the crude recitations of Thespis (B.C. 535). 234 Pisistratus also aimed to offset the increasing passion for trade by focusing on agriculture, which was probably influenced by his early experiences, as his supporters were mountain dwellers focused on farming, while his opponents were coastal traders. As a shrewd politician, he might have realized that a population accustomed to farming is less likely to embrace democratic systems than one engaged in trade and industry. If he indeed created a law—which he strictly enforced—requiring every citizen to report their means of livelihood and punishing idleness, he couldn't have taken better steps to prevent issues stemming from poverty and laziness, or established a more justified oversight with a hidden police force. According to Aristotle, his policy primarily involved subduing and diminishing the power of the wealthy nobles from the lowlands. However, his dedication to agriculture would likely have reinforced an aristocracy, and his deference to the Areopagus indicated his willingness to gain favor with the least democratic of Athenian courts. Therefore, he probably only acted against specific leaders who had provoked his anger or posed a threat to his control; we cannot discern in his actions a consistent, deliberate strategy typical of other Greek tyrants aimed at dismantling an aristocracy and forming a middle class.
XI. Abroad, the ambition of Pisistratus, though not extensive, was successful. There was a town on the Hellespont called Sigeum, which had long been a subject of contest between the Athenians and the Mitylenaeans. Some years before the legislation of Solon, the Athenian general, Phryno, had been slain in single combat by Pittacus, one of the seven wise men, who had come into the field armed like the Roman retiarius, with a net, a trident, and a dagger. This feud was terminated by the arbitration of Periander, tyrant of Corinth, who awarded Sigeum to the Athenians, which was then in their possession, by a wise and plausible decree, that each party should keep what it had got. This war was chiefly remarkable for an incident that introduces us somewhat unfavourably to the most animated of the lyric poets. Alcaeus, an eminent citizen of Mitylene, and, according to ancient scandal, the unsuccessful lover of Sappho, conceived a passion for military fame: in his first engagement he seems to have discovered that his proper vocation was rather to sing of battles than to share them. He fled from the field, leaving his arms behind him, which the Athenians obtained, and suspended at Sigeum in the temple of Minerva. Although this single action, which Alcaeus himself recorded, cannot be fairly held a sufficient proof of the poet’s cowardice, yet his character and patriotism are more equivocal than his genius. Of the last we have ample testimony, though few remains save in the frigid grace of the imitations of Horace. The subsequent weakness and civil dissensions of Athens were not favourable to the maintenance of this distant conquest—the Mitylenaeans regained Sigeum. Against this town Pisistratus now directed his arms—wrested it from the Mitylenaeans— and, instead of annexing it to the republic of Athens, assigned its government to the tyranny of his natural son, Hegesistratus,—a stormy dominion, which the valour of the bastard defended against repeated assaults. 235
XI. Abroad, Pisistratus's ambitions, while not extensive, were successful. There was a town on the Hellespont called Sigeum, which had long been contested by the Athenians and the Mitylenaeans. Years before Solon's legislation, the Athenian general Phryno was killed in single combat by Pittacus, one of the seven wise men, who fought like a Roman retiarius, armed with a net, a trident, and a dagger. This feud ended when Periander, the tyrant of Corinth, arbitrated, granting Sigeum to the Athenians, who already held it, with a clever decree that each side should keep what it had. This conflict is mainly notable for an incident that paints a less-than-flattering picture of one of the most passionate lyric poets. Alcaeus, a notable citizen of Mitylene and, according to ancient gossip, Sappho's rejected suitor, developed a desire for military glory: in his first battle, he seemingly realized that his true calling was to sing about battles rather than fight in them. He fled the battlefield, leaving his weapons behind, which the Athenians took and hung in the temple of Minerva at Sigeum. Although this single act, which Alcaeus himself recorded, isn’t enough to conclusively prove the poet's cowardice, his character and patriotism are more ambiguous than his talent. We have plenty of evidence of his talent, although few remnants survive except for the cold elegance of Horace’s imitations. The subsequent weakness and internal strife in Athens were not supportive of maintaining this distant conquest—the Mitylenaeans regained Sigeum. Pisistratus then focused his efforts on this town, took it from the Mitylenaeans, and instead of adding it to the Athenian republic, handed its control to his illegitimate son, Hegesistratus—an unruly rule that the son managed to defend against numerous attacks. 235
XII. But one incident, the full importance of which the reader must wait a while to perceive, I shall in this place relate. Among the most powerful of the Athenians was a noble named Miltiades, son of Cypselus. By original descent he was from the neighbouring island of Aegina, and of the heroic race of Aeacus; but he dated the establishment of his house in Athens from no less distant a founder than the son of Ajax. Miltiades had added new lustre to his name by a victory at the Olympic games. It was probably during the first tyranny of Pisistratus 236 that an adventure, attended with vast results to Greece, befell this noble. His family were among the enemies of Pisistratus, and were regarded by that sagacious usurper with a jealous apprehension which almost appears prophetic. Miltiades was, therefore, uneasy under the government of Pisistratus, and discontented with his position in Athens. One day, as he sat before his door (such is the expression of the enchanting Herodotus, unconscious of the patriarchal picture he suggests 237), Miltiades observed certain strangers pass by, whose garments and spears denoted them to be foreigners. The sight touched the chief, and he offered the strangers the use of his house, and the rites of hospitality. They accepted his invitation, were charmed by his courtesy, and revealed to him the secret of their travel. In that narrow territory which, skirting the Hellespont, was called the Chersonesus, or Peninsula, dwelt the Doloncians, a Thracian tribe. Engaged in an obstinate war with the neighbouring Absinthians, the Doloncians had sent to the oracle of Delphi to learn the result of the contest. The Pythian recommended the messengers to persuade the first man who, on their quitting the temple, should offer them the rites of hospitality, to found a colony in their native land. Passing homeward through Phocis and Boeotia, and receiving no such invitation by the way, the messengers turned aside to Athens; Miltiades was the first who offered them the hospitality they sought; they entreated him now to comply with the oracle, and assist their countrymen; the discontented noble was allured by the splendour of the prospect—he repaired in person to Delphi—consulted the Pythian—received a propitious answer—and collecting all such of the Athenians as his authority could enlist, or their own ambition could decoy, he repaired to the Chersonesus (probably B. C. 559). There he fortified a great part of the isthmus, as a barrier to the attacks of the Absinthians: but shortly afterward, in a feud with the people of Lampsacus, he was taken prisoner by the enemy. Miltiades, however, had already secured the esteem and protection of Croesus; and the Lydian monarch remonstrated with the Lampsacenes in so formidable a tone of menace, that the Athenian obtained his release, and regained his new principality. In the meanwhile, his brother Cimon (who was chiefly remarkable for his success at the Olympic games), sharing the political sentiments of his house, had been driven into exile by Pisistratus. By a transfer to the brilliant tyrant of a victory in the Olympic chariot-race, he, however, propitiated Pisistratus, and returned to Athens.
XII. There's one incident, the full significance of which the reader will need to wait a bit to understand, that I want to share here. Among the most influential Athenians was a noble named Miltiades, son of Cypselus. Originally, he was from the nearby island of Aegina, and he belonged to the heroic lineage of Aeacus; however, he traced his family’s establishment in Athens back to the son of Ajax. Miltiades had further enhanced his reputation by winning a victory at the Olympic games. It was likely during the initial tyranny of Pisistratus that a significant event, with far-reaching consequences for Greece, happened to this nobleman. His family was among the opponents of Pisistratus, and this clever usurper viewed them with a jealous suspicion that almost seems prophetic. Consequently, Miltiades felt uneasy under Pisistratus's rule and was discontented with his position in Athens. One day, as he sat outside his door (as the captivating Herodotus noted, unaware of the patriarchal image he evokes), Miltiades saw some strangers pass by, their clothing and spears marking them as foreigners. The sight moved him, and he offered the strangers the use of his house and the rights of hospitality. They accepted his invitation, were charmed by his kindness, and revealed to him the reason for their travels. In the small territory that bordered the Hellespont, known as the Chersonesus or Peninsula, lived the Doloncians, a Thracian tribe. They were engaged in a fierce war with the neighboring Absinthians and had sent messengers to the oracle of Delphi to learn the outcome of the battle. The Pythian advised the messengers to convince the first man they encountered after leaving the temple who offered them hospitality to establish a colony in their homeland. After traveling back through Phocis and Boeotia without receiving such an invitation, the messengers turned to Athens; Miltiades was the first to offer them the hospitality they sought. They urged him to follow the oracle's advice and help their fellow countrymen; the discontented noble was tempted by the grand opportunity—he went to Delphi himself, consulted the Pythian, received a favorable answer, and gathered all the Athenians he could persuade or entice with ambition to go to the Chersonesus (probably B.C. 559). There, he fortified much of the isthmus to protect against attacks from the Absinthians; however, shortly afterward, during a conflict with the people of Lampsacus, he was captured by the enemy. Nevertheless, Miltiades had already gained the favor and protection of Croesus, the Lydian king, who confronted the Lampsacenes with such a menacing tone that Miltiades was released and regained his new principality. Meanwhile, his brother Cimon (notable for his success at the Olympic games) shared his family’s political views and had been exiled by Pisistratus. However, by achieving a victory in the Olympic chariot race and transferring it to the impressive tyrant, he appeased Pisistratus and returned to Athens.
VIII. Full of years, and in the serene enjoyment of power, Pisistratus died (B. C. 527). His character may already be gathered from his actions: crafty in the pursuit of power, but magnanimous in its possession, we have only, with some qualification, to repeat the eulogium on him ascribed to his greater kinsman, Solon—“That he was the best of tyrants, and without a vice save that of ambition.”
VIII. After a long and fulfilling life, and enjoying his power peacefully, Pisistratus died (B.C. 527). You can gather his character from his actions: he was cunning in his quest for power, but generous in exercising it. With some qualification, we can echo the praise attributed to his more famous relative, Solon—“He was the best of tyrants, with no flaws except for his ambition.”
CHAPTER III.
The Administration of Hippias.—The Conspiracy of Harmodius and Aristogiton.—The Death of Hipparchus.—Cruelties of Hippias.—The young Miltiades sent to the Chersonesus.—The Spartans Combine with the Alcmaeonidae against Hippias.—The fall of the Tyranny.—The Innovations of Clisthenes.—His Expulsion and Restoration.—Embassy to the Satrap of Sardis.—Retrospective View of the Lydian, Medean, and Persian Monarchies.—Result of the Athenian Embassy to Sardis.— Conduct of Cleomenes.—Victory of the Athenians against the Boeotians and Chalcidians.—Hippias arrives at Sparta.—The Speech of Sosicles the Corinthian.—Hippias retires to Sardis.
The Administration of Hippias.—The Conspiracy of Harmodius and Aristogiton.—The Death of Hipparchus.—Cruelties of Hippias.—The young Miltiades sent to Chersonesus.—The Spartans team up with the Alcmaeonidae against Hippias.—The fall of the Tyranny.—The Innovations of Clisthenes.—His Expulsion and Restoration.—Embassy to the Satrap of Sardis.—Retrospective Look at the Lydian, Medean, and Persian Monarchies.—Outcome of the Athenian Embassy to Sardis.—Actions of Cleomenes.—Victory of the Athenians over the Boeotians and Chalcidians.—Hippias arrives in Sparta.—The Speech of Sosicles the Corinthian.—Hippias retreats to Sardis.
I. Upon the death of Pisistratus, his three sons, Hipparchus, Hippias, and Thessalus, succeeded to the government. Nor, though Hippias was the eldest, does he seem to have exercised a more prominent authority than the rest—since, in the time of Thucydides, and long afterward, it was the popular error to consider Hipparchus the first-born. Hippias was already of mature age; and, as we have seen, it was he who had counselled his father not to despair, after his expulsion from Athens. He was a man of courage and ability worthy of his race. He governed with the same careful respect for the laws which had distinguished and strengthened the authority of his predecessor. He even rendered himself yet more popular than Pisistratus by reducing one half the impost of a tithe on the produce of the land, which that usurper had imposed. Notwithstanding this relief, he was enabled, by a prudent economy, to flatter the national vanity by new embellishments to the city. In the labours of his government he was principally aided by his second brother, Hipparchus, a man of a yet more accomplished and intellectual order of mind. But although Hippias did not alter the laws, he chose his own creatures to administer them. Besides, whatever share in the government was intrusted to his brothers, Hipparchus and Thessalus, his son and several of his family were enrolled among the archons of the city. And they who by office were intended for the guardians of liberty were the necessary servants of the tyrant.
I. After Pisistratus passed away, his three sons—Hipparchus, Hippias, and Thessalus—took control of the government. Even though Hippias was the oldest, he didn't seem to have more authority than his brothers. In fact, during Thucydides’ time and long after, it was a common misconception that Hipparchus was the firstborn. Hippias was already an adult, and as we’ve seen, he was the one who advised his father not to lose hope after being exiled from Athens. He was a brave and capable leader worthy of his lineage. He governed with a respectful adherence to the laws that had strengthened his father's power. He even became more popular than Pisistratus by cutting the land tax in half, which had been imposed by that usurper. Despite this relief, he managed to use wise financial practices to enhance the city with new improvements, which appealed to national pride. In his administration, he was primarily supported by his younger brother, Hipparchus, who was even more refined and intellectual. However, even though Hippias didn’t change the laws, he appointed his own loyal supporters to enforce them. Additionally, whatever roles in the government were given to his brothers, Hipparchus and Thessalus, his son and several other family members were included among the city's archons. Those who were supposed to protect liberty ended up being the necessary aides to the tyrant.
II. If we might place unhesitating faith in the authenticity of the dialogue attributed to Plato under the title of “Hipparchus,” we should have, indeed, high authority in favour of the virtues and the wisdom of that prince. And by whomsoever the dialogue was written, it refers to facts, in the passage relative to the son of Pisistratus, in a manner sufficiently positive to induce us to regard that portion of it with some deference. According to the author, we learn that Hipparchus, passionately attached to letters, brought Anacreon to Athens, and lived familiarly with Simonides. He seems to have been inspired with the ambition of a moralist, and distributed Hermae, or stone busts of Mercury, about the city and the public roads, which, while answering a similar purpose to our mile-stones, arrested the eye of the passenger with pithy and laconic apothegms in verse; such as, “Do not deceive your friend,” and “Persevere in affection to justice;”—proofs rather of the simplicity than the wisdom of the prince. It is not by writing the decalogue upon mile-stones that the robber would be terrified, or the adulterer converted.
II. If we could fully trust the authenticity of the dialogue attributed to Plato titled “Hipparchus,” we would indeed have credible support for the virtues and wisdom of that prince. No matter who wrote the dialogue, it references events concerning the son of Pisistratus in a way that encourages us to treat that part with respect. According to the author, we learn that Hipparchus, deeply passionate about literature, brought Anacreon to Athens and maintained a close relationship with Simonides. He appears to have been driven by the ambition of a moralist, distributing Hermae, or stone busts of Mercury, throughout the city and on public roads. These served a purpose similar to our mile markers but caught the attention of passersby with concise and impactful sayings in verse, like “Don’t deceive your friend,” and “Stay committed to justice”—indications more of the prince’s simplicity than his wisdom. Simply writing moral lessons on mile markers won’t scare a thief or change an adulterer.
It seems that the apothegmatical Hipparchus did not associate with Anacreon more from sympathy with his genius than inclination to the subjects to which it was devoted. He was addicted to pleasure; nor did he confine its pursuits to the more legitimate objects of sensual affection. Harmodius, a young citizen of no exalted rank, but much personal beauty, incurred the affront of his addresses 238. Harmodius, in resentment, confided the overtures of the moralist to his friend and preceptor, Aristogiton. While the two were brooding over the outrage, Hipparchus, in revenge for the disdain of Harmodius, put a public insult upon the sister of that citizen, a young maiden. She received a summons to attend some public procession, as bearer of one of the sacred vessels: on presenting herself she was abruptly rejected, with the rude assertion that she never could have been honoured with an invitation of which she was unworthy. This affront rankled deeply in the heart of Harmodius, but still more in that of the friendly Aristogiton, and they now finally resolved upon revenge. At the solemn festival of Panathenaea, (in honour of Minerva), it was the custom for many of the citizens to carry arms in the procession: for this occasion they reserved the blow. They intrusted their designs to few, believing that if once the attempt was begun the people would catch the contagion, and rush spontaneously to the assertion of their freedom. The festival arrived. Bent against the elder tyrant, perhaps from nobler motives than those which urged them against Hipparchus 239, each armed with a dagger concealed in the sacred myrtle bough which was borne by those who joined the procession, the conspirators advanced to the spot in the suburbs where Hippias was directing the order of the ceremonial. To their dismay, they perceived him conversing familiarly with one of their own partisans, and immediately suspected that to be the treason of their friend which in reality was the frankness of the affable prince. Struck with fear, they renounced their attempt upon Hippias, suddenly retreated to the city, and, meeting with Hipparchus, rushed upon him, wounded, and slew him. Aristogiton turned to fly—he escaped the guards, but was afterward seized, and “not mildly treated” 240 by the tyrant. Such is the phrase of Thucydides, which, if we may take the interpretation of Justin and the later writers, means that, contrary to the law, he was put to the torture 241. Harmodius was slain upon the spot. The news of his brother’s death was brought to Hippias. With an admirable sagacity and presence of mind, he repaired, not to the place of the assassination, but towards the procession itself, rightly judging that the conspiracy had only broken out in part. As yet the news of the death of Hipparchus had not reached the more distant conspirators in the procession, and Hippias betrayed not in the calmness of his countenance any signs of his sorrow or his fears. He approached the procession, and with a composed voice commanded them to deposite their arms, and file off towards a place which he indicated. They obeyed the order, imagining he had something to communicate to them. Then turning to his guards, Hippias bade them seize the weapons thus deposited, and he himself selected from the procession all whom he had reason to suspect, or on whose persons a dagger was found, for it was only with the open weapons of spear and shield that the procession was lawfully to be made. Thus rose and thus terminated that conspiracy which gave to the noblest verse and the most enduring veneration the names of Harmodius and Aristogiton. 242
It seems that the witty Hipparchus didn’t connect with Anacreon out of admiration for his talent, but rather due to a desire for the pleasures he pursued. He was into pleasure and didn’t limit himself to more acceptable forms of romantic affection. Harmodius, a young man of modest status but great looks, rejected his advances 238. In anger, Harmodius shared the moralist’s propositions with his friend and mentor, Aristogiton. As the two stewed over the insult, Hipparchus, seeking revenge for Harmodius’s disdain, publicly humiliated the young man's sister. She was called to take part in a public event carrying one of the sacred vessels, but when she arrived, she was abruptly dismissed with the harsh claim that she was unworthy of the invitation. This insult hurt Harmodius deeply, but even more so Aristogiton, leading them to ultimately plan their revenge. During the Panathenaea festival, which honored Minerva, it was typical for many citizens to carry weapons in the procession; they saved their strike for this occasion. They only shared their plan with a few, believing that once the attack began, the people would rally together to fight for their freedom. When the festival arrived, motivated not just by their grudge against Hipparchus but also perhaps by nobler ideals against the elder tyrant 239, each armed with a dagger hidden in the sacred myrtle branch they carried, the conspirators moved to the suburbs where Hippias was overseeing the ceremony. To their surprise, they saw him chatting casually with one of their supporters, and they suspected betrayal where there was only friendly interaction. Overcome by fear, they abandoned their attempt against Hippias, quickly retreated to the city, and instead confronted Hipparchus, wounding and killing him. Aristogiton tried to flee—he got away from the guards but was later captured and “not treated gently” 240 by the tyrant. This is Thucydides’ phrase, which, according to Justin and later writers, implies that he was tortured in violation of the law 241. Harmodius was killed on the spot. The news of his brother’s death reached Hippias. With remarkable insight and presence of mind, he didn’t go directly to the scene of the assassination but instead made his way towards the procession, correctly assuming that the conspiracy was only partially revealed. At that moment, the news of Hipparchus’s death hadn’t yet reached the further conspirators in the procession, and Hippias showed no signs of grief or fear on his calm face. He approached the procession and, in a steady voice, ordered them to put down their weapons and move towards a designated area. They complied, thinking he had something important to tell them. Then, turning to his guards, Hippias instructed them to seize the deposited weapons, and he personally identified those he suspected, or those found with daggers, as only spear and shield could be lawfully carried in the procession. Thus emerged and concluded the conspiracy that immortalized the names of Harmodius and Aristogiton in the noblest poetry and enduring admiration. 242
III. The acutest sharpener of tyranny is an unsuccessful attempt to destroy it—to arouse the suspicion of power is almost to compel it to cruelty. Hitherto we have seen that Hippias had graced his authority with beneficent moderation; the death of his brother filled him with secret alarm; and the favour of the populace at the attempted escape of Aristogiton—the ease with which, from a personal affront to an obscure individual, a formidable conspiracy had sprung up into life, convinced him that the arts of personal popularity are only to be relied on when the constitution of the government itself is popular.
III. The biggest trigger for tyranny is an unsuccessful attempt to get rid of it—making those in power suspicious almost forces them to be cruel. So far, we’ve seen that Hippias had ruled with a somewhat fair approach; however, his brother’s death left him feeling secretly anxious. The public's support for Aristogiton’s failed escape—how quickly a serious conspiracy could emerge from a personal slight against an unknown person—made him realize that personal popularity only works when the government itself is popular.
It is also said that, when submitted to the torture, Aristogiton, with all the craft of revenge, asserted the firmest friends of Hippias to have been his accomplices. Thus harassed by distrust, Hippias resolved to guard by terror a power which clemency had failed to render secure. He put several of the citizens to death. According to the popular traditions of romance, one of the most obnoxious acts of his severity was exercised upon a woman worthy to be the mistress of Aristogiton. Leaena, a girl of humble birth, beloved by that adventurous citizen, was sentenced to the torture, and, that the pain might not wring from her any confession of the secrets of the conspiracy, she bit out her tongue. The Athenians, on afterward recovering their liberties, dedicated to the heroine a brazen lioness, not inappropriately placed in the vicinity of a celebrated statue of Venus 243. No longer depending on the love of the citizens, Hippias now looked abroad for the support of his power; he formed an alliance with Hippoclus, the prince of Lampsacus, by marrying his daughter with the son of that tyrant, who possessed considerable influence at the Persian court, to which he already directed his eyes—whether as a support in the authority of the present, or an asylum against the reverses of the future. 244
It is said that, when faced with torture, Aristogiton, driven by a desire for revenge, claimed that some of Hippias's closest friends were actually his accomplices. Disturbed by this betrayal, Hippias decided to maintain his power through fear, since kindness had not secured it. He executed several citizens. According to popular stories, one of the most notorious acts of his cruelty was directed at a woman deserving of being Aristogiton's partner. Leaena, a girl from a humble background and loved by the brave citizen, was sentenced to torture, and to prevent the pain from forcing her to reveal any secrets of the conspiracy, she bit off her own tongue. When the Athenians regained their freedom, they dedicated a bronze lioness to her, placed appropriately near a famous statue of Venus 243. No longer relying on the goodwill of the citizens, Hippias sought support elsewhere; he formed an alliance with Hippoclus, the prince of Lampsacus, by marrying his daughter to the son of the tyrant, who had significant influence at the Persian court, which he was already considering—whether as a means of bolstering his current power or as a refuge against future troubles. 244
It was apparently about a year before the death of Hipparchus, that Stesagoras, the nephew and successor of that Miltiades who departed from Athens to found a colony in the Thracian Chersonesus, perished by an assassin’s blow. Hippias, evidently deeming he had the right, as sovereign of the parent country, to appoint the governor of the colony, sent to the Chersonesus in that capacity the brother of the deceased, a namesake of the first founder, whose father, Cimon, from jealousy of his power or repute, had been murdered by the sons of Pisistratus 245. The new Miltiades was a man of consummate talents, but one who scrupled little as to the means by which to accomplish his objects. Arriving at his government, he affected a deep sorrow for the loss of his brother; the principal nobles of the various cities of the Chersonesus came in one public procession to condole with him; the crafty chief seized and loaded them with irons, and, having thus insnared the possible rivals of his power, or enemies of his designs, he secured the undisputed possession of the whole Chersonesus, and maintained his civil authority by a constant military force. A marriage with Hegesipyle, a daughter of one of the Thracian princes, at once enhanced the dignity and confirmed the sway of the young and aspiring chief. Some years afterward, we shall see in this Miltiades the most eminent warrior of his age—at present we leave him to an unquiet and perilous power, and return to Hippias.
It was about a year before Hipparchus died that Stesagoras, the nephew and successor of Miltiades—who left Athens to establish a colony in the Thracian Chersonesus—was killed by an assassin. Hippias, believing he had the right, as ruler of the parent city, to choose the governor of the colony, sent the deceased's brother, who shared the same name as the original founder, to take on that role. Their father, Cimon, had been murdered by the sons of Pisistratus, likely out of jealousy of his power or reputation 245. The new Miltiades was exceptionally talented but didn’t hesitate to use questionable methods to achieve his goals. Once he took over his position, he pretended to be deeply saddened by his brother's death; the leading nobles from various cities in the Chersonesus came together in a public march to express their condolences. The cunning leader captured them and locked them up, eliminating any potential rivals or threats to his power, and thus secured complete control over the Chersonesus, maintaining his authority with a constant military presence. His marriage to Hegesipyle, a daughter of one of the Thracian princes, further increased his status and solidified his rule. In a few years, we’ll see this Miltiades become the most notable warrior of his time, but for now, we will leave him with his troubled and dangerous power and return to Hippias.
IV. A storm gathered rapidly on against the security and ambition of the tyrant. The highborn and haughty family of the Alcmaeonids had been expelled from Athens at the victorious return of Pisistratus— their estates in Attica confiscated—their houses razed—their very sepulchres destroyed. After fruitless attempts against the oppressors, they had retired to Lipsydrium, a fortress on the heights of Parnes, where they continued to cherish the hope of return and the desire of revenge. Despite the confiscation of their Attic estates, their wealth and resources, elsewhere secured, were enormous. The temple of Delphi having been destroyed by fire, they agreed with the Amphictyons to rebuild it, and performed the holy task with a magnificent splendour far exceeding the conditions of the contract. But in that religious land, wealth, thus lavished, was no unprofitable investment. The priests of Delphi were not insensible of the liberality of the exiles, and Clisthenes, the most eminent and able of the Alcmaeonidae, was more than suspected of suborning the Pythian. Sparta, the supporter of oligarchies, was the foe of tyrants, and every Spartan who sought the oracle was solemnly involved to aid the glorious enterprise of delivering the Eupatrids of Athens from the yoke of the Pisistratidae.
IV. A storm quickly gathered against the tyrant's security and ambition. The proud Alcmaeonid family had been expelled from Athens during Pisistratus's victorious return—losing their estates in Attica, having their homes demolished, and their burial sites destroyed. After unsuccessful attempts to fight back against their oppressors, they retreated to Lipsydrium, a fortress on the heights of Parnes, where they held onto the hope of returning and seeking revenge. Despite losing their lands in Attica, their wealth and resources secured elsewhere were massive. When the temple of Delphi burned down, they made an agreement with the Amphictyons to rebuild it, and they carried out the project with an extravagant grandeur that far surpassed the terms of the contract. However, in that sacred land, such lavish spending was not a wasted investment. The priests of Delphi were very aware of the exiles' generosity, and Clisthenes, the most prominent and capable of the Alcmaeonidae, was widely suspected of influencing the Pythian. Sparta, known for supporting oligarchies, was an enemy of tyrants, and every Spartan who consulted the oracle was solemnly committed to helping the noble cause of freeing the Eupatrids of Athens from the control of the Pisistratidae.
The Spartans were at length moved by instances so repeatedly urged. Policy could not but soften that jealous state to such appeals to her superstition. Under the genius of the Pisistratidae, Athens had rapidly advanced in power, and the restoration of the Alcmaeonidae might have seemed to the Spartan sagacity but another term for the establishment of that former oligarchy which had repressed the intellect and exhausted the resources of an active and aspiring people. Sparta aroused herself, then, at length, and “though in violation.” says Herodotus, “of some ancient ties of hospitality,” despatched a force by sea against the Prince of Athens. That alert and able ruler lost no time in seeking assistance from his allies, the Thessalians; and one of their powerful princes led a thousand horsemen against the Spartans, who had debarked at Phalerum. Joined by these allies, Hippias engaged and routed the enemy, and the Spartan leader himself fell upon the field of battle. His tomb was long visible in Cynosarges, near the gates of Athens—a place rendered afterward more illustrious by giving name to the Cynic philosophers. 246
The Spartans were finally swayed by the repeated appeals. It was impossible for their jealous attitude not to soften towards such appeals to their superstition. Under the leadership of the Pisistratidae, Athens had quickly gained power, and the return of the Alcmaeonidae might have seemed to Spartan wisdom like just another way to reestablish the old oligarchy that had stifled intellect and drained the resources of a vibrant and ambitious people. So, Sparta finally took action, and “though in violation,” as Herodotus says, “of some ancient ties of hospitality,” sent a naval force against the Prince of Athens. That quick and capable leader wasted no time in seeking help from his allies, the Thessalians; and one of their powerful princes brought a thousand cavalry against the Spartans, who had landed at Phalerum. With these allies, Hippias confronted and defeated the enemy, and the Spartan leader himself fell on the battlefield. His tomb remained visible for a long time in Cynosarges, near the gates of Athens—a place that later became more famous as the name of the Cynic philosophers. 246
Undismayed by their defeat, the Spartans now despatched a more considerable force against the tyrant, under command of their king Cleomenes. This army proceeded by land—entered Attica—encountered, defeated, the Thessalian horse 247,—and marched towards the gates of Athens, joined, as they proceeded, by all those Athenians who hoped, in the downfall of Hippias, the resurrection of their liberties. The Spartan troops hastened to besiege the Athenian prince in the citadel, to which he retired with his forces. But Hippias had provided his refuge with all the necessaries which might maintain him in a stubborn and prolonged resistance. The Spartans were unprepared for the siege—the blockade of a few days sufficed to dishearten them, and they already meditated a retreat. A sudden incident opening to us in the midst of violence one of those beautiful glimpses of human affection which so often adorn and sanctify the darker pages of history, unexpectedly secured the Spartan triumph. Hippias and his friends, fearing the safety of their children in the citadel, resolved to dismiss them privately to some place of greater security. Unhappily, their care was frustrated, and the children fell into the hands of the enemy. All the means of success within their reach (the foe wearied—the garrison faithful), the parents yet resigned themselves at once to the voluntary sacrifice of conquest and ambition.
Undeterred by their defeat, the Spartans sent a larger force against the tyrant, led by their king Cleomenes. This army traveled by land, entered Attica, encountered and defeated the Thessalian cavalry 247, and marched toward the gates of Athens, joined along the way by Athenians who hoped that Hippias's downfall would bring back their freedom. The Spartan troops quickly moved to besiege the Athenian prince in the citadel, where he had retreated with his forces. However, Hippias had stocked his refuge with everything needed for a stubborn and prolonged resistance. The Spartans were unprepared for a siege—just a few days of blockade was enough to discourage them, and they were already considering a retreat. A sudden event revealed a glimpse of human affection amid the turmoil, unexpectedly sealing the Spartan triumph. Hippias and his allies, worried about the safety of their children in the citadel, decided to secretly send them to a safer location. Unfortunately, their efforts were thwarted, and the children fell into the hands of the enemy. Despite having everything needed for success (the enemy weary and the garrison loyal), the parents chose to willingly sacrifice their ambition and desire for victory.
Upon the sole condition of recovering their children, Hippias and his partisans consented to surrender the citadel, and quit the territories of Attica within five days. Thus, in the fourth year from the death of Hipparchus (B. C. 510), and about fifty years after the first establishment of the tyranny under its brilliant founder, the dominion of Athens passed away from the house of Pisistratus.
Upon the single condition of getting their children back, Hippias and his supporters agreed to hand over the citadel and leave the territories of Attica within five days. So, in the fourth year after Hipparchus's death (B.C. 510), and about fifty years after the tyranny was first established by its notable founder, Athens lost control from the house of Pisistratus.
V. The party of Hippias, defeated, not by the swords of the enemy, but by the soft impulses of nature, took their way across the stream of the immemorial Scamander, and sought refuge at Sigeum, still under the government of Hegesistratus, the natural brother of the exiled prince.
V. The party of Hippias, defeated not by enemy swords but by the gentle forces of nature, made their way across the ancient Scamander river and sought refuge at Sigeum, which was still under the rule of Hegesistratus, the natural brother of the exiled prince.
The instant the pressure of one supreme power was removed, the two parties imbodying the aristocratic and popular principles rose into active life. The state was to be a republic, but of what denomination? The nobles naturally aspired to the predominance—at their head was the Eupatrid Isagoras; the strife of party always tends to produce popular results, even from elements apparently the most hostile. Clisthenes, the head of the Alcmaeonidae, was by birth even yet more illustrious than Isagoras; for, among the nobles, the Alcmaeonid family stood pre-eminent. But, unable to attain the sole power of the government, Clisthenes and his party were unwilling to yield to the more numerous faction of an equal. The exile and sufferings of the Alcmaeonids had, no doubt, secured to them much of the popular compassion; their gallant struggles against, their ultimate victory over the usurper, obtained the popular enthusiasm; thus it is probable, that an almost insensible sympathy had sprung up between this high-born faction and the people at large; and when, unable to cope with the party of the nobles, Clisthenes attached himself to the movement of the commons, the enemy of the tyrant appeared in his natural position—at the head of the democracy. Clisthenes was, however, rather the statesman of a party than the legislator for a people—it was his object permanently to break up the power of the great proprietors, not as enemies of the commonwealth, but as rivals to his faction. The surest way to diminish the influence of property in elections is so to alter the constituencies as to remove the electors from the immediate control of individual proprietors. Under the old Ionic and hereditary divisions of four tribes, many ancient associations and ties between the poorer and the nobler classes were necessarily formed. By one bold innovation, the whole importance of which was not immediately apparent, Clisthenes abolished these venerable divisions, and, by a new geographical survey, created ten tribes instead of the former four. These were again subdivided into districts, or demes; the number seems to have varied, but at the earliest period they were not less than one hundred—at a later period they exceeded one hundred and seventy. To these demes were transferred all the political rights and privileges of the divisions they supplanted. Each had a local magistrate and local assemblies. Like corporations, these petty courts of legislature ripened the moral spirit of democracy while fitting men for the exercise of the larger rights they demanded. A consequence of the alteration of the number of the tribes was an increase in the number that composed the senate, which now rose from four to five hundred members.
The moment the control of one main power was lifted, the two groups representing the aristocratic and popular ideals sprang into action. The state was meant to be a republic, but what kind? The nobles naturally aimed for dominance—leading them was the Eupatrid Isagoras; the conflict between parties often leads to unexpected popular results, even from seemingly opposing sides. Clisthenes, the leader of the Alcmaeonidae, was even more distinguished by birth than Isagoras; among the nobles, the Alcmaeonid family was particularly renowned. However, unable to seize complete control of the government, Clisthenes and his faction were reluctant to give in to the larger group of equals. The exile and hardships faced by the Alcmaeonids undoubtedly earned them a lot of public sympathy; their brave struggles against and ultimate victory over the usurper sparked popular enthusiasm. It’s likely that a subtle sympathy developed between this elite faction and the general populace; and when Clisthenes, unable to compete with the nobles, aligned himself with the common people's movement, the enemy of the tyrant naturally took his place at the forefront of democracy. However, Clisthenes was more a party politician than a legislator for all—it was his goal to permanently dismantle the power of the wealthy not as foes of the state, but as rivals to his group. The best way to lessen the influence of wealth in elections is to change the voter base so that they are no longer directly controlled by individual property owners. With the old Ionic and hereditary divisions of four tribes, many ancient connections and bonds between the poorer and noble classes were inevitably formed. In a significant change, the full impact of which wasn’t immediately clear, Clisthenes abolished these ancient divisions and, through a new geographical survey, established ten tribes instead of four. These were further divided into smaller districts, or demes; the number varied, but initially there were at least one hundred—later on it exceeded one hundred and seventy. All the political rights and privileges of the previous divisions were transferred to these demes. Each had its own local magistrate and assemblies. Like corporations, these small legislative bodies nurtured the democratic spirit while preparing people for the broader rights they sought. One result of changing the number of tribes was an increase in the size of the senate, which expanded from four to five hundred members.
Clisthenes did not limit himself to this change in the constituent bodies—he increased the total number of the constituents; new citizens were made—aliens were admitted—and it is supposed by some, though upon rather vague authorities, that several slaves were enfranchised. It was not enough, however, to augment the number of the people, it was equally necessary to prevent the ascension of a single man. Encouraged by the example in other states of Greece, forewarned by the tyranny of Pisistratus, Clisthenes introduced the institution of the Ostracism 248. Probably about the same period, the mode of election to public office generally was altered from the public vote to the secret lot 249. It is evident that these changes, whether salutary or pernicious, were not wanton or uncalled for. The previous constitution had not sufficed to protect the republic from a tyranny: something deficient in the machinery of Solon’s legislation had for half a century frustrated its practical intentions. A change was, therefore, necessary to the existence of the free state; and the care with which that change was directed towards the diminution of the aristocratic influence, is in itself a proof that such influence had been the shelter of the defeated tyranny. The Athenians themselves always considered the innovations of Clisthenes but as the natural development of the popular institutions of Solon; and that decisive and energetic noble seems indeed to have been one of those rude but serviceable instruments by which a more practical and perfect action is often wrought out from the incompleted theories of greater statesmen.
Clisthenes didn't just stop at changing the composition of the governing bodies—he actually increased the total number of constituents; new citizens were created—foreigners were accepted—and some believe, though based on somewhat unclear sources, that several slaves were granted citizenship. However, it wasn't enough to just raise the population; it was also crucial to prevent any single individual from gaining too much power. Inspired by examples from other city-states in Greece and wary of the tyranny of Pisistratus, Clisthenes introduced the practice of Ostracism 248. Around the same time, the method of electing public officials was changed from a public vote to a secret lottery 249. It's clear that these changes, whether beneficial or harmful, were not arbitrary or unnecessary. The previous system had failed to protect the republic from tyranny: there was something lacking in Solon's legislation that had undermined its intended outcomes for half a century. Therefore, a change was essential for the survival of the free state, and the careful way in which this change aimed to reduce aristocratic influence indicates that such power had previously served as a refuge for the overthrown tyranny. The Athenians themselves viewed Clisthenes's reforms as a natural progression of Solon’s popular institutions; and that decisive and proactive noble appears to have been one of those rough but effective tools that can often bring about a more functional and complete outcome from the unfinished theories of greater political figures.
VI. Meanwhile, Isagoras, thus defeated by his rival, had the mean ambition to appeal to the Spartan sword. Ancient scandal attributes to Cleomenes, king of Sparta, an improper connexion with the wife of Isagoras, and every one knows that the fondest friend of the cuckold is invariably the adulterer;—the national policy of founding aristocracies was doubtless, however, a graver motive with the Spartan king than his desire to assist Isagoras. Cleomenes by a public herald proclaimed the expulsion of Clisthenes, upon a frivolous pretence that the Alcmaeonidae were still polluted by the hereditary sacrilege of Cylon. Clisthenes privately retired from the city, and the Spartan king, at the head of an inconsiderable troop, re-entered Athens— expelled, at the instance of Isagoras, seven hundred Athenian families, as inculpated in the pretended pollution of Clisthenes— dissolved the senate—and committed all the offices of the state to an oligarchy of three hundred (a number and a council founded upon the Dorian habits), each of whom was the creature of Isagoras. But the noble assembly he had thus violently dissolved refused obedience to his commands; they appealed to the people, whom the valour of liberty simultaneously aroused, and the citadel, of which Isagoras and the Spartans instantly possessed themselves, was besieged by the whole power of Athens. The conspirators held out only two days; on the third, they accepted the conditions of the besiegers, and departed peaceably from the city. Some of the Athenians, who had shared the treason without participating in the flight, were justly executed. Clisthenes, with the families expelled by Cleomenes, was recalled, and the republic of Athens was thus happily re-established.
VI. Meanwhile, Isagoras, defeated by his rival, had the petty ambition to turn to the Spartan sword for help. Ancient rumors suggest that Cleomenes, the king of Sparta, had an improper relationship with Isagoras's wife, and everyone knows that the closest ally of a cuckold is usually the adulterer. However, the Spartan king's main motivation likely lay in his national policy of establishing aristocracies rather than in wanting to help Isagoras. Cleomenes publicly announced the banishment of Clisthenes, using the flimsy excuse that the Alcmaeonidae were still tainted by Cylon's ancient sacrilege. Clisthenes quietly left the city, and the Spartan king, leading a small troop, re-entered Athens. At Isagoras's request, he expelled seven hundred Athenian families, claiming they were involved in the so-called pollution of Clisthenes, dissolved the senate, and handed all state positions over to an oligarchy of three hundred—each member beholden to Isagoras. However, the noble assembly he violently dissolved refused to follow his orders; they called upon the people, whose love of freedom was ignited, and the citadel, seized by Isagoras and the Spartans, was besieged by all of Athens's forces. The conspirators held out for only two days; on the third, they agreed to the besiegers' terms and left the city peacefully. Some Athenians who had conspired with them but did not flee were justly executed. Clisthenes and the families expelled by Cleomenes were brought back, restoring the republic of Athens happily.
VII. But the iron vengeance of that nation of soldiers, thus far successfully braved, was not to be foreboded without alarm by the Athenians. They felt that Cleomenes had only abandoned his designs to return to them more prepared for contest; and Athens was not yet in a condition to brave the determined and never-sparing energies of Sparta. The Athenians looked around the states of Greece—many in alliance with Lacedaemon—some governed by tyrants—others distracted with their own civil dissensions; there were none from whom the new commonwealth could hope for a sufficient assistance against the revenge of Cleomenes. In this dilemma, they resorted to the only aid which suggested itself, and sought, across the boundaries of Greece, the alliance of the barbarians. They adventured a formal embassy to Artaphernes, satrap of Sardis, to engage the succour of Darius, king of Persia.
VII. But the fierce revenge of that nation of soldiers, which had been bravely faced so far, was not expected without concern by the Athenians. They sensed that Cleomenes had only set aside his plans to come back more ready for a fight; and Athens was not yet in a position to face the determined and relentless strength of Sparta. The Athenians looked around at the states of Greece—many in alliance with Lacedaemon—some ruled by tyrants—others caught up in their own civil struggles; there was no one from whom the new commonwealth could hope for enough help against Cleomenes’ revenge. In this situation, they turned to the only option that came to mind and sought, beyond the borders of Greece, the alliance of the barbarians. They sent a formal embassy to Artaphernes, the satrap of Sardis, to secure the support of Darius, the king of Persia.
Accompanying the Athenians in this mission, full of interest, for it was the first public transaction between that republic and the throne of Persia, I pause to take a rapid survey of the origin of that mighty empire, whose destinies became thenceforth involved in the history of Grecian misfortunes and Grecian fame. That survey commences with the foundation of the Lydian monarchy.
Accompanying the Athenians on this mission, which was quite significant, as it was the first official interaction between that republic and the Persian throne, I take a moment to quickly review the origins of that powerful empire, whose fate became intertwined with the history of Greek hardships and achievements. This review begins with the establishment of the Lydian monarchy.
VIII. Amid the Grecian colonies of Asia whose rise we have commemorated, around and above a hill commanding spacious and fertile plains watered by the streams of the Cayster and Maeander; an ancient Pelasgic tribe called the Maeonians had established their abode. According to Herodotus, these settlers early obtained the name of Lydians, from Lydus, the son of Atys. The Dorian revolution did not spare these delightful seats, and an Heraclid dynasty is said to have reigned five hundred years over the Maeonians; these in their turn were supplanted by a race known to us as the Mermnadae, the founder of whom, Gyges, murdered and dethroned the last of the Heraclidae; and with a new dynasty seems to have commenced a new and less Asiatic policy. Gyges, supported by the oracle of Delphi, was the first barbarian, except one of the many Phrygian kings claiming the name of Midas, who made votive offerings to that Grecian shrine. From his time this motley tribe, the link between Hellas and the East, came into frequent collision with the Grecian colonies. Gyges himself made war with Miletus and Smyrna, and even captured Colophon. With Miletus, indeed, the hostility of the Lydians became hereditary, and was renewed with various success by the descendants of Gyges, until, in the time of his great-grandson Alyattes, a war of twelve years with that splendid colony was terminated by a solemn peace and a strict alliance. Meanwhile, the petty but warlike monarchy founded by Gyges had preserved the Asiatic Greeks from dangers yet more formidable than its own ambition. From a remote period, savage and ferocious tribes, among which are pre-eminent the Treres and Cimmerians, had often ravaged the inland plains—now for plunder, now for settlement. Magnesia had been entirely destroyed by the Treres—even Sardis, the capital of the Mermnadae, had been taken, save the citadel, by the Cimmerians. It was reserved for Alyattes to terminate these formidable irruptions, and Asia was finally delivered by his arms from a people in whom modern erudition has too fondly traced the ancestors of the Cymry, or ancient Britons 250. To this enterprising and able king succeeded a yet more illustrious monarch, who ought to have found in his genius the fame he has derived from his misfortunes. At the age of thirty-five Croesus ascended the Lydian throne. Before associated in the government with his father, he had rendered himself distinguished in military service; and, wise, accomplished, but grasping and ambitious, this remarkable monarch now completed the designs of his predecessors. Commencing with Ephesus, he succeeded in rendering tributary every Grecian colony on the western coast of Asia; and, leaving to each state its previous institutions, he kept by moderation what he obtained by force.
VIII. In the Greek colonies of Asia that we've talked about, around a hill overlooking the wide, fertile plains watered by the Cayster and Maeander rivers, an ancient Pelasgic tribe known as the Maeonians had settled. According to Herodotus, these settlers were called Lydians after Lydus, the son of Atys. The Dorian upheaval didn't spare these beautiful areas, and a Heraclid dynasty is said to have ruled over the Maeonians for five hundred years; they were eventually replaced by a group known as the Mermnadae, whose founder, Gyges, killed and overthrew the last of the Heraclidae. With this new dynasty came a different, less Asiatic approach. Gyges, backed by the oracle at Delphi, was the first barbarian, except for one of the many Phrygian kings who claimed the name Midas, to make offerings at that Greek shrine. From his time, this mixed tribe, serving as a link between Greece and the East, frequently clashed with the Greek colonies. Gyges himself waged war against Miletus and Smyrna, even capturing Colophon. In fact, the rivalry with Miletus became hereditary for the Lydians, who renewed it with varying success through Gyges' descendants, until it culminated in the twelve-year war during the reign of his great-grandson Alyattes, which ended in a formal peace and a strong alliance. Meanwhile, the small but fierce monarchy started by Gyges had protected the Asiatic Greeks from threats far greater than its own ambitions. For a long time, savage and fierce tribes, especially the Treres and Cimmerians, had often invaded the inland plains—sometimes for plunder, sometimes for settlement. Magnesia was completely destroyed by the Treres, and even Sardis, the capital of the Mermnadae, was captured by the Cimmerians, leaving only the citadel intact. It was left for Alyattes to put an end to these dangerous invasions, liberating Asia from a people that modern scholars have too eagerly connected to the ancestors of the Cymry, or ancient Britons 250. After this enterprising and capable king, a more famous ruler took over, who should have been celebrated for his talents rather than his misfortunes. Croesus ascended the Lydian throne at the age of thirty-five. Before sharing power with his father, he had distinguished himself in military service; and, being wise, accomplished, but greedy and ambitious, this notable monarch completed the plans of his predecessors. Starting with Ephesus, he managed to make every Greek colony on the western coast of Asia pay tribute to him, and by allowing each state to keep its own institutions, he maintained what he gained through moderation rather than force.
Croesus was about to construct a fleet for the purpose of adding to his dominions the isles of the Aegaean, but is said to have been dissuaded from his purpose by a profound witticism of one of the seven wise men of Greece. “The islanders,” said the sage, “are about to storm you in your capital of Sardis, with ten thousand cavalry.”— “Nothing could gratify me more,” said the king, “than to see the islanders invading the Lydian continent with horsemen.”—“Right,” replied the wise man, “and it will give the islanders equal satisfaction to find the Lydians attacking them by a fleet. To revenge their disasters on the land, the Greeks desire nothing better than to meet you on the ocean.” The answer enlightened the king, and, instead of fitting out his fleet, he entered into amicable alliance with the Ionians of the isles 251. But his ambition was only thwarted in one direction to strike its roots in another; and he turned his invading arms against his neighbours on the continent, until he had progressively subdued nearly all the nations, save the Lycians and Cilicians, westward to the Halys. And thus rapidly and majestically rose from the scanty tribe and limited territory of the old Maeonians the monarchy of Asia Minor.
Croesus was about to build a fleet to expand his territories to the Aegean islands, but he was reportedly talked out of it by a clever remark from one of the seven wise men of Greece. “The islanders,” the sage said, “are coming to attack your capital, Sardis, with ten thousand cavalry.” — “Nothing would please me more,” the king responded, “than to see the islanders invading the Lydian land with horsemen.” — “True,” the wise man replied, “and the islanders will feel just as happy to see the Lydians attacking them by sea. To avenge their defeats on land, the Greeks would prefer nothing more than to confront you on the ocean.” This answer opened the king’s eyes, and rather than equipping his fleet, he formed a friendly alliance with the Ionian islanders 251. However, his ambition was only redirected; he turned his military efforts against his continental neighbors, progressively conquering nearly all the nations westward to the Halys, except for the Lycians and Cilicians. Thus, the monarchy of Asia Minor rose quickly and impressively from the small tribe and limited territory of the old Maeonians.
IX. The renown of Croesus established, his capital of Sardis became the resort of the wise and the adventurous, whether of Asia or of Greece. In many respects the Lydians so closely resembled the Greeks as to suggest the affinity which historical evidence scarcely suffices to permit us absolutely to affirm. The manners and the customs of either people did not greatly differ, save that with the Lydians, as still throughout the East, but little consideration was attached to women;—they were alike in their cultivation of the arts, and their respect for the oracles of religion—and Delphi, in especial, was inordinately enriched by the prodigal superstition of the Lydian kings.
IX. With Croesus's fame established, his capital, Sardis, became a hotspot for the wise and adventurous, whether from Asia or Greece. In many ways, the Lydians were so similar to the Greeks that it hints at a connection which historical evidence doesn't fully allow us to confirm. The customs and ways of life of both peoples weren't very different, except that, with the Lydians, as was common throughout the East, women were given little respect. They were similar in their appreciation for the arts and reverence for religious oracles, with Delphi, in particular, becoming excessively wealthy due to the extravagant superstitions of the Lydian kings.
The tradition which ascribes to the Lydians the invention of coined money is a proof of their commercial habits. The neighbouring Tmolus teemed with gold, which the waters of the Pactolus bore into the very streets of the city. Their industry was exercised in the manufacture of articles of luxury rather than those of necessity. Their purple garments.-their skill in the workmanship of metals—their marts for slaves and eunuchs—their export trade of unwrought gold—are sufficient evidence both of the extent and the character of their civilization. Yet the nature of the oriental government did not fail to operate injuriously on the more homely and useful directions of their energy. They appear never to have worked the gold-mines, whose particles were borne to them by the careless bounty of the Pactolus. Their early traditional colonies were wafted on Grecian vessels. The gorgeous presents with which they enriched the Hellenic temples seem to have been fabricated by Grecian art, and even the advantages of commerce they seem rather to have suffered than to have sought. But what a people so suddenly risen into splendour, governed by a wise prince, and stimulated perhaps to eventual liberty by the example of the European Greeks, ought to have become, it is impossible to conjecture; perhaps the Hellenes of the East.
The tradition that credits the Lydians with inventing coined money shows their commercial habits. The nearby Tmolus was rich in gold, which the Pactolus River carried right into the city streets. They focused more on producing luxury items than on necessities. Their purple garments, their skill in metalwork, their markets for slaves and eunuchs, and their export of raw gold all clearly indicate the extent and nature of their civilization. However, the style of eastern governance negatively impacted their more practical and essential efforts. It seems they never actually mined the gold from the mines, as the river simply brought it to them. Their early colonies were established with the help of Greek ships. The lavish gifts they presented to Hellenic temples appear to have been made by Greek artisans, and they seemed to have been more passive recipients of commerce rather than active seekers. But it's hard to imagine what a people that rose to such prominence, led by a wise ruler and possibly inspired by the example of the European Greeks, might have become; perhaps the eastern Hellenes.
At this period, however, of such power—and such promise, the fall of the Lydian empire was decreed. Far from the fertile fields and gorgeous capital of Lydia, amid steril mountains, inhabited by a simple and hardy race, rose the portentous star of the Persian Cyrus.
At this time, though, of such strength—and such potential, the downfall of the Lydian empire was decided. Far from the rich fields and beautiful capital of Lydia, among barren mountains, lived a simple and resilient people, the ominous star of the Persian Cyrus began to rise.
X. A victim to that luxury which confirms a free but destroys a despotic state, the vast foundations of the Assyrian empire were crumbling into decay, when a new monarchy, destined to become its successor, sprung up among one of its subject nations. Divided into various tribes, each dependant upon the Assyrian sceptre, was a warlike, wandering, and primitive race, known to us under the name of Medes. Deioces, a chief of one of the tribes, succeeded in uniting these scattered sections into a single people, built a city, and founded an independent throne. His son, Phraortes, reduced the Persians to his yoke—overran Asia—advanced to Nineveh—and ultimately perished in battle with a considerable portion of his army. Succeeded by his son Cyaxares, that monarch consummated the ambitious designs of his predecessors. He organized the miscellaneous hordes that compose an oriental army into efficient and formidable discipline, vanquished the Assyrians, and besieged Nineveh, when a mighty irruption of the Scythian hordes called his attention homeward. A defeat, which at one blow robbed this great king of the dominion of Asia, was ultimately recovered by a treacherous massacre of the Scythian leaders (B. C. 606). The Medes regained their power and prosecuted their conquests—Nineveh fell—and through the whole Assyrian realm, Babylon alone remained unsubjugated by the Mede. To this new-built and wide-spread empire succeeded Astyages, son of the fortunate Cyaxares. But it is the usual character of a conquering tribe to adopt the habits and be corrupted by the vices of the subdued nations among which the invaders settle; and the peaceful reign of Astyages sufficed to enervate that vigilant and warlike spirit in the victor race, by which alone the vast empires of the East can be preserved from their natural tendency to decay. The Persians, subdued by the grandsire of Astyages, seized the occasion to revolt. Among them rose up a native hero, the Gengis-khan of the ancient world. Through the fables which obscure his history we may be allowed to conjecture, that Cyrus, or Khosroo, was perhaps connected by blood with Astyages, and, more probably, that he was intrusted with command among the Persians by that weak and slothful monarch. Be that as it may, he succeeded in uniting under his banners a martial and uncorrupted population, overthrew the Median monarchy, and transferred to a dynasty, already worn out with premature old age, the vigorous and aspiring youth of a mountain race. Such was the formidable foe that now menaced the rising glories of the Lydian king.
X. A victim of that luxury that supports a free state but undermines a despotic one, the vast foundations of the Assyrian empire were falling into decay when a new monarchy, destined to succeed it, arose among one of its subject nations. Divided into various tribes, each dependent on the Assyrian throne, was a warlike, nomadic, and primitive race known as the Medes. Deioces, a leader of one of the tribes, managed to unite these scattered groups into a single people, built a city, and established an independent throne. His son, Phraortes, brought the Persians under his control, expanded into Asia, advanced to Nineveh, and ultimately died in battle along with a large part of his army. His son Cyaxares succeeded him and fulfilled the ambitious plans of his predecessors. He organized the diverse hordes that made up an eastern army into an efficient and formidable force, defeated the Assyrians, and besieged Nineveh, when a massive invasion of Scythian hordes drew his attention back home. A defeat that suddenly stripped this great king of control over Asia was eventually reversed by a treacherous massacre of the Scythian leaders (B.C. 606). The Medes regained their power and continued their conquests—Nineveh fell—and throughout the entire Assyrian territory, Babylon remained the only city not conquered by the Medes. The new and expansive empire was succeeded by Astyages, son of the fortunate Cyaxares. However, it is common for a conquering tribe to adopt the habits and be corrupted by the vices of the subdued nations among which the invaders settle; the peaceful reign of Astyages weakened the vigilant and warlike spirit of the conquering race, which is the only way the vast empires of the East can be kept from their natural decline. The Persians, subdued by Astyages' grandfather, took the opportunity to revolt. Among them emerged a native hero, the Gengis-khan of the ancient world. Through the legends that obscure his history, we can speculate that Cyrus, or Khosroo, was possibly related by blood to Astyages, and more likely that he was given command over the Persians by that weak and lazy king. Regardless, he managed to unite a martial and uncorrupted population under his banners, toppled the Median monarchy, and handed over to a dynasty already weakened by premature decline the vigorous and ambitious youth of a mountain race. Such was the formidable enemy now threatening the rising glories of the Lydian king.
XI. Croesus was allied by blood with the dethroned Astyages, and individual resentment at the overthrow of his relation co-operated with his anxious fears of the ambition of the victor. A less sagacious prince might easily have foreseen that the Persians would scarcely be secure in their new possessions, ere the wealth and domains of Lydia would tempt the restless cupidity of their chief. After much deliberation as to the course to be pursued, Croesus resorted for advice to the most celebrated oracles of Greece, and even to that of the Libyan Ammon. The answer he received from Delphi flattered, more fatally than the rest, the inclinations of the king. He was informed “that if he prosecuted a war with Persia a mighty empire would be overthrown, and he was advised to seek the alliance of the most powerful states of Greece.” Overjoyed with a response to which his hopes gave but one interpretation, the king prodigalized fresh presents on the Delphians, and received from them in return, for his people and himself, the honour of priority above all other nations in consulting the oracle, a distinguished seat in the temple, and the right of the citizenship of Delphi. Once more the fated monarch sought the oracle, and demanded if his power should ever fail. Thus replied the Pythian: “When a mule shall sit enthroned over the Medes, fly, soft Lydian, across the pebbly waters of the Hermus.” The ingenuity of Croesus could discover in this reply no reason for alarm, confident that a mule could never be the sovereign of the Medes. Thus animated, and led on, the son of Alyattes prepared to oppose, while it was yet time, the progress of the Persian arms. He collected all the force he could summon from his provinces—crossed the Halys—entered Cappadocia—devastated the surrounding country—destroyed several towns—and finally met on the plains of Pteria the Persian army. The victory was undecided; but Croesus, not satisfied with the force he led, which was inferior to that of Cyrus, returned to Sardis, despatched envoys for succour into Egypt and to Babylon, and disbanded, for the present, the disciplined mercenaries whom he had conducted into Cappadocia. But Cyrus was aware of the movements of the enemy, and by forced and rapid marches arrived at Sardis, and encamped before its walls. His army dismissed—his allies scarcely reached by his embassadors—Croesus yet showed himself equal to the peril of his fortune. His Lydians were among the most valiant of the Asiatic nations—dexterous in their national weapon, the spear, and renowned for the skill and prowess of their cavalry.
XI. Croesus was related by blood to the dethroned Astyages, and his personal anger over his relative's downfall combined with his deep worries about the victor's ambitions. A less clever ruler might have easily foreseen that the Persians wouldn't feel secure in their new lands for long, as the wealth and territory of Lydia would tempt their leader’s insatiable greed. After much thought about what to do, Croesus went to the most famous oracles in Greece for advice, even consulting the Libyan Ammon. The response he got from Delphi flattered him more than the others and played into his desires. He was told “that if he waged war against Persia, a mighty empire would be overthrown, and he should seek the alliance of the most powerful states of Greece.” Ecstatic with a response that only fueled his hopes, the king showered the Delphians with gifts and received in return the honor of being the first among all nations to consult the oracle, a special place in the temple, and the right of citizenship in Delphi. Once again, the destined monarch went back to the oracle and asked if his power would ever fail. The Pythian replied: “When a mule sits on the throne of the Medes, run, soft Lydian, across the pebbly waters of the Hermus.” Croesus’s cleverness found no reason for alarm in this answer, convinced that a mule could never rule the Medes. With this boost of confidence, the son of Alyattes prepared to confront the Persian forces before it was too late. He gathered all the troops he could from his provinces — crossed the Halys — entered Cappadocia — ravaged the surrounding area — destroyed several cities — and finally met the Persian army on the plains of Pteria. The battle was inconclusive; but Croesus, unhappy with the smaller force he commanded compared to Cyrus's, returned to Sardis, sent envoys for help to Egypt and Babylon, and temporarily disbanded the trained mercenaries he had brought to Cappadocia. However, Cyrus was aware of the enemy's movements, and with swift and forced marches, he arrived at Sardis and camped outside its walls. With his army dismissed and his allies barely reached by his envoys, Croesus still proved himself capable in the face of his fortune’s danger. His Lydians were among the bravest of the Asiatic nations — skilled with their national weapon, the spear, and renowned for the ability and valor of their cavalry.
XII. In a wide plain, in the very neighbourhood of the royal Sardis, and watered “by the pebbly stream of the Hermus,” the cavalry of Lydia met, and were routed by the force of Cyrus. The city was besieged and taken, and the wisest and wealthiest of the Eastern kings sunk thenceforth into a petty vassal, consigned as guest or prisoner to a Median city near Ecbatana 252. The prophecy was fulfilled, and a mighty empire overthrown. 253
XII. In a vast plain, close to the royal Sardis, and fed by the pebbly stream of the Hermus, the Lydian cavalry gathered but were defeated by Cyrus’s forces. The city was besieged and captured, and the smartest and richest of the Eastern kings became a minor vassal, treated as a guest or prisoner in a Median city near Ecbatana 252. The prophecy came true, and a powerful empire was brought down. 253
The Grecian colonies of Asia, during the Lydian war, had resisted the overtures of Cyrus, and continued faithful to Croesus; they had now cause to dread the vengeance of the conqueror. The Ionians and Aeolians sent to demand the assistance of Lacedaemon, pledged equally with themselves to the Lydian cause. But the Spartans, yet more cautious than courageous, saw but little profit in so unequal an alliance. They peremptorily refused the offer of the colonists, but, after their departure, warily sent a vessel of fifty oars to watch the proceedings of Cyrus, and finally deputed Latrines, a Spartan of distinction, to inform the monarch of the Persian, Median, and Lydian empires, that any injury to the Grecian cities would be resented by the Spartans. Cyrus asked with polite astonishment of the Greeks about him, “Who these Spartans were?” and having ascertained as much as he could comprehend concerning their military force and their social habits, replied, “That men who had a large space in the middle of their city for the purpose of cheating one another, could not be to him an object of terror:” so little respect had the hardy warrior for the decent frauds of oratory and of trade. Meanwhile, he obligingly added, “that if he continued in health, their concern for the Ionian troubles might possibly be merged in the greatness of their own.” Soon afterward Cyrus swept onwards in the prosecution of his vast designs, overrunning Assyria, and rushing through the channels of Euphrates into the palaces of Babylon, and the halls of the scriptural Belshazzar. His son, Cambyses, added the mystic Egypt to the vast conquests of Cyrus—and a stranger to the blood of the great victor, by means of superstitious accident or political intrigue, ascended the throne of Asia, known to European history under the name of Darius. The generals of Cyrus had reduced to the Persian yoke the Ionian colonies; the Isle of Samos (the first of the isles subjected) was afterward conquered by a satrap of Sardis, and Darius, who, impelled by the ambition of his predecessors, had led with no similar success a vast armament against the wandering Scythians, added, on his return, Lesbos, Chios, and other isles in the Aegaean, to the new monarchy of the world. As, in the often analogous history of Italian republics, we find in every incursion of the German emperor that some crafty noble of a free state joined the banner of a Frederick or a Henry in the hope of receiving from the imperial favour the tyranny of his own city—so there had not been wanting in the Grecian colonies men of boldness and ambition, who flocked to the Persian standard, and, in gratitude for their services against the Scythian, were rewarded with the supreme government of their native cities. Thus was raised Coes, a private citizen, to the tyranny of Mitylene—and thus Histiaeus, already possessing, was confirmed by Darius in, that of Miletus. Meanwhile Megabazus, a general of the Persian monarch, at the head of an army of eighty thousand men, subdued Thrace, and made Macedonia tributary to the Persian throne. Having now established, as he deemed securely, the affairs of the empire in Asia Minor, Darius placed his brother Artaphernes in the powerful satrapy of Sardis, and returned to his capital of Susa.
The Greek colonies in Asia, during the Lydian war, had resisted Cyrus's offers and stayed loyal to Croesus; now they had reason to fear the wrath of the conqueror. The Ionians and Aeolians reached out for help from Lacedaemon, which was equally committed to the Lydian cause. However, the Spartans, being more cautious than brave, saw little gain in such an unequal alliance. They flatly turned down the colonists' request, but after they left, they cautiously sent a ship with fifty oars to observe Cyrus's actions, and finally appointed Latrines, a prominent Spartan, to inform the Persian, Median, and Lydian monarch that any harm to the Greek cities would be avenged by the Spartans. Cyrus, politely surprised, asked the Greeks around him, “Who are these Spartans?” After learning what he could about their military strength and social customs, he replied, “Men who have a large space in the middle of their city to cheat each other can’t be a source of fear for me,” showing how little regard he had for the respectable deceptions of rhetoric and trade. Meanwhile, he kindly added that if he remained healthy, their concern for troubles in Ionia might eventually fade in light of their own greatness. Soon after, Cyrus continued on his ambitious path, sweeping through Assyria and rushing down the Euphrates into the palaces of Babylon and the halls of the biblical Belshazzar. His son, Cambyses, added mystical Egypt to Cyrus's vast conquests—and a newcomer, not related to the great victor, ascended the Asian throne, later known in European history as Darius, whether by superstitious luck or political scheming. Cyrus's generals had subdued the Ionian colonies under Persian rule; the Isle of Samos (the first of the isles to be conquered) was later taken by a satrap from Sardis, and Darius, spurred on by the ambitions of his predecessors, led a large army against the roaming Scythians with no similar success. On his return, he added Lesbos, Chios, and other Aegean islands to his new global empire. Just as in the history of Italian republics, where some cunning noble in a free state would join a Frederick or a Henry in hopes of gaining imperial favor to tyrannize his own city—there were also Greeks in the colonies who were bold and ambitious, flocking to the Persian standard. For their help against the Scythians, they were rewarded with control over their own cities. Coes, a private citizen, was raised to tyranny in Mitylene, and Darius confirmed Histiaeus, who already held power, in his role as ruler of Miletus. Meanwhile, Megabazus, a general of the Persian king, led an army of eighty thousand men, conquering Thrace and making Macedonia a tribute to the Persian throne. Now that Darius felt he had securely established the empire’s affairs in Asia Minor, he appointed his brother Artaphernes to the powerful satrapy of Sardis and returned to his capital in Susa.
XIII. To this satrap, brother of that mighty monarch, came the ambassadors of Athens. Let us cast our eyes along the map of the ancient world—and survey the vast circumference of the Persian realm, stretching almost over the civilized globe. To the east no boundary was visible before the Indus. To the north the empire extended to the Caspian and the Euxine seas, with that steep Caucasian range, never passed even by the most daring of the early Asiatic conquerors. Eastward of the Caspian, the rivers of Oxus and Iaxartes divided the subjects of the great king from the ravages of the Tartar; the Arabian peninsula interposed its burning sands, a barrier to the south—while the western territories of the empire, including Syria, Phoenicia, the fertile satrapies of Asia Minor, were washed by the Mediterranean seas. Suddenly turning from this immense empire, let us next endeavour to discover those dominions from which the Athenian ambassadors were deputed: far down in a remote corner of the earth we perceive at last the scarce visible nook of Attica, with its capital of Athens—a domain that in its extremest length measured sixty geographical miles! We may now judge of the condescending wonder with which the brother of Darius listened to the ambassadors of a people, by whose glory alone his name is transmitted to posterity. Yet was there nothing unnatural or unduly arrogant in his reply. “Send Darius,” said the satrap, affably, “earth and water (the accustomed symbols of homage), and he will accept your alliance.” The ambassadors deliberated, and, impressed by the might of Persia, and the sense of their own unfriended condition, they accepted the proposals.
XIII. To this satrap, brother of that powerful king, came the ambassadors from Athens. Let’s take a look at the map of the ancient world and see the vast expanse of the Persian empire, which almost covered the entire civilized globe. To the east, there was no visible boundary before the Indus River. To the north, the empire stretched to the Caspian and Black Seas, bordered by the steep Caucasus Mountains, which even the boldest early Asian conquerors never crossed. East of the Caspian, the rivers Oxus and Iaxartes separated the subjects of the great king from the incursions of the Tartars; the Arabian Peninsula interposed its scorching sands as a barrier to the south—while the western part of the empire, including Syria, Phoenicia, and the fertile regions of Asia Minor, was lapped by the Mediterranean Sea. Suddenly shifting focus from this vast empire, let’s find out about the lands from which the Athenian ambassadors came: far down in a distant corner of the earth, we finally spot the barely visible area of Attica, with its capital Athens—a region that measured just sixty geographical miles at its greatest length! We can now appreciate the condescending wonder with which the brother of Darius listened to the ambassadors of a people whose glory alone keeps his name alive for future generations. Yet his response was neither unnatural nor excessively arrogant. “Send Darius,” the satrap said kindly, “earth and water (the traditional symbols of tribute), and he will accept your alliance.” The ambassadors considered this, and, moved by the power of Persia and aware of their own unprotected situation, they agreed to the terms.
If, fresh from our survey of the immeasurable disparity of power between the two states, we cannot but allow the answer of the satrap was such as might be expected, it is not without a thrill of sympathy and admiration we learn, that no sooner had the ambassadors returned to Athens, than they received from the handful of its citizens a severe reprimand for their submission. Indignant at the proposal of the satrap, that brave people recurred no more to the thought of the alliance. In haughty patience, unassisted and alone, they awaited the burst of the tempest which they foresaw.
If, after our look at the huge power gap between the two states, we can’t help but agree that the satrap’s response was what we expected, it’s still moving to learn that as soon as the ambassadors got back to Athens, they were strongly reprimanded by the small group of citizens for their submission. Angry at the satrap’s proposal, that courageous populace stopped considering the idea of an alliance. With proud patience, unsupported and alone, they prepared for the storm they knew was coming.
XIV. Meanwhile, Cleomenes, chafed at the failure of his attempt on the Athenian liberties, and conceiving, in the true spirit of injustice, that he had been rather the aggrieved than the aggressor, levied forces in different parts of the Peloponnesus, but without divulging the object he had in view 254. That object was twofold— vengeance upon Athens, and the restoration of Isagoras. At length he threw off the mask, and at the head of a considerable force seized upon the holy city of Eleusis. Simultaneously, and in concert with the Spartan, the Boeotians forcibly took possession of Oenoe and Hysix—two towns on the extremity of Attica while from Chalcis (the principal city of the Isle of Euboea which fronted the Attic coast) a formidable band ravaged the Athenian territories. Threatened by this threefold invasion, the measures of the Athenians were prompt and vigorous. They left for the present unavenged the incursions of the Boeotians and Chalcidians, and marched with all the force they could collect against Cleomenes at Eleusis. The two armies were prepared for battle, when a sudden revolution in the Spartan camp delivered the Athenians from the most powerful of their foes. The Corinthians, insnared by Cleomenes into measures, of the object of which they had first been ignorant, abruptly retired from the field. Immediately afterward a dissension broke out between Cleomenes and Demaratus, the other king of Sparta, who had hitherto supported his colleague in all his designs, and Demaratus hastily quitted Eleusis, and returned to Lacedaemon. At this disunion between the kings of Sparta, accompanied, as it was, by the secession of the Corinthians, the other confederates broke up the camp, returned home, and left Cleomenes with so scanty a force that he was compelled to forego his resentment and his vengeance, and retreat from the sacred city. The Athenians now turned their arms against the Chalcidians, who had retired to Euboea; but, encountering the Boeotians, who were on their march to assist their island ally, they engaged and defeated them with a considerable slaughter. Flushed by their victory, the Athenians rested not upon their arms—on the same day they crossed that narrow strait which divided them from Euboea, and obtained a second and equally signal victory over the Chalcidians. There they confirmed their conquest by the establishment of four thousand colonists 255 in the fertile meadows of Euboea, which had been dedicated by the islanders to the pasturage of their horses. The Athenians returned in triumph to their city. At the price of two minae each, their numerous prisoners were ransomed, and the captive chains suspended from the walls of the citadel. A tenth part of the general ransom was consecrated, and applied to the purchase of a brazen chariot, placed in the entrance of the citadel, with an inscription which dedicated it to the tutelary goddess of Athens.
XIV. Meanwhile, Cleomenes, frustrated by his failed attempt to control Athenian freedoms, and wrongly seeing himself as the victim rather than the aggressor, gathered forces from various parts of the Peloponnesus without revealing his true intentions 254. His goals were twofold—revenge on Athens and the reinstatement of Isagoras. Eventually, he revealed his plans and, leading a significant force, took over the sacred city of Eleusis. At the same time, the Boeotians, working with the Spartans, forcibly captured Oenoe and Hysix—two towns at the edge of Attica, while a strong group from Chalcis (the main city of Euboea facing the Athenian coast) raided Athenian territory. Faced with this triple threat, the Athenians acted quickly and decisively. They chose to leave the Boeotian and Chalcidian raids unpunished for the moment and marched with all the forces they could gather against Cleomenes at Eleusis. The two armies were ready for battle when a sudden turn of events in the Spartan camp relieved the Athenians from their strongest enemy. The Corinthians, tricked by Cleomenes into actions they initially knew nothing about, suddenly withdrew from the battlefield. Shortly after, a disagreement arose between Cleomenes and Demaratus, the other Spartan king, who had previously supported Cleomenes in all his plans. Demaratus quickly left Eleusis and returned to Lacedaemon. With this split between the Spartan kings, along with the retreat of the Corinthians, the other allies dismantled their camp, went home, and left Cleomenes with such a small force that he had to abandon his anger and his desire for revenge, retreating from the sacred city. The Athenians then directed their efforts against the Chalcidians, who had fled back to Euboea; however, they encountered the Boeotians, who were on their way to support their island allies. They engaged and defeated the Boeotians, causing heavy casualties. Energized by their victory, the Athenians did not rest—they crossed the narrow strait separating them from Euboea on the same day and achieved another significant victory over the Chalcidians. They solidified their conquest by establishing four thousand colonists 255 in the fertile meadows of Euboea, which the islanders had originally set aside for grazing their horses. The Athenians returned triumphantly to their city. Their numerous prisoners were ransomed for two minae each, and the chains of the captives were hung from the walls of the citadel. A tenth of the total ransom was dedicated to the purchase of a bronze chariot, displayed at the entrance of the citadel, with an inscription honoring the protective goddess of Athens.
“Not from the example of the Athenians only,” proceeds the father of history, “but from universal experience, do we learn that an equal form of government is the best. While in subjection to tyrants the Athenians excelled in war none of their neighbours—delivered from the oppressor, they excelled them all; an evident proof that, controlled by one man they exerted themselves feebly, because exertion was for a master; regaining liberty, each man was made zealous, because his zeal was for himself, and his individual interest was the common weal.” 256 Venerable praise and accurate distinction! 257
“Not only from the example of the Athenians,” says the father of history, “but from universal experience, we learn that an equal form of government is the best. When under the control of tyrants, the Athenians were better in war than any of their neighbors—but once freed from oppression, they surpassed them all; this clearly shows that when controlled by one man, they put forth little effort because their effort was for a master; but once they regained their freedom, each man became motivated because his motivation was for himself, and his personal interest aligned with the common good.” 256 Venerable praise and accurate distinction! 257
XV. The Boeotians, resentful of their defeat, sent to the Pythian oracle to demand the best means of obtaining revenge. The Pythian recommended an alliance with their nearest neighbours. The Boeotians, who, although the inspiring Helicon hallowed their domain, were esteemed but a dull and obtuse race, interpreted this response in favour of the people of the rocky island of Aegina—certainly not their nearest neighbours, if the question were to be settled by geographers. The wealthy inhabitants of that illustrious isle, which, rising above that part of the Aegean called Sinus Saronicus, we may yet behold in a clear sky from the heights of Phyle,—had long entertained a hatred against the Athenians. They willingly embraced the proffered alliance of the Boeotians, and the two states ravaged in concert the coast of Attica. While the Athenians were preparing to avenge the aggression, they received a warning from the Delphic oracle, enjoining them to refrain from all hostilities with the people of Aegina for thirty years, at the termination of which period they were to erect a fane to Aeacus (the son of Jupiter, from whom, according to tradition, the island had received its name), and then they might commence war with success. The Athenians, on hearing the response, forestalled the time specified by the oracle by erecting at once a temple to Aeacus in their forum. After-circumstances did not allow them to delay to the end of thirty years the prosecution of the war. Meanwhile the unsleeping wrath of their old enemy, Cleomenes, demanded their full attention. In the character of that fierce and restless Spartan, we recognise from the commencement of his career the taint of that insanity to which he subsequently fell a victim 258. In his earlier life, in a war with the Argives, he had burnt five thousand fugitives by setting fire to the grove whither they had fled —an act of flagrant impiety, no less than of ferocious cruelty, according to the tender superstition of the Greeks. During his occupation of Eleusis, he wantonly violated the mysterious sanctuary of Orgas—the place above all others most consecrated to the Eleusinian gods. His actions and enterprises were invariably inconsistent and vague. He enters Athens to restore her liberties— joins with Isagoras to destroy them; engages in an attempt to revolutionize that energetic state without any adequate preparation— seizes the citadel to-day to quit it disgracefully to-morrow; invades Eleusis with an army he cannot keep together, and, in the ludicrous cunning common to the insane, disguises from his allies the very enemy against whom they are to fight, in order, as common sense might have expected, to be deserted by them in the instant of battle. And now, prosecuting still further the contradictory tenour of his conduct, he who had driven Hippias from Athens persuades the Spartan assembly to restore the very tyrant the Spartan arms had expelled. In order to stimulate the fears of his countrymen, Cleomenes 259 asserted, that he had discovered in the Athenian citadel certain oracular predictions, till then unknown, foreboding to the Spartans many dark and strange calamities from the hands of the Athenians 260. The astute people whom the king addressed were more moved by political interests than religious warnings. They observed, that when oppressed by tyranny, the Athenians had been weak and servile, but, if admitted to the advantages of liberty, would soon grow to a power equal to their own 261: and in the restoration of a tyrant, their sagacity foreboded the depression of a rival.
XV. The Boeotians, angry about their defeat, sent a message to the Pythian oracle asking for the best way to get revenge. The oracle suggested they form an alliance with their closest neighbors. The Boeotians, who, despite the inspiring Helicon gracing their land, were considered a dull and slow-witted people, interpreted this advice in favor of the folks from the rocky island of Aegina—certainly not their closest neighbors according to geography. The wealthy residents of that famous island, which rises above that part of the Aegean known as Sinus Saronicus, could still be seen from the heights of Phyle on a clear day, had long harbored hatred toward the Athenians. They eagerly accepted the Boeotians' offer of alliance, and the two states together ravaged the coast of Attica. While the Athenians were preparing to retaliate, they received a warning from the Delphic oracle instructing them to avoid all hostilities with the people of Aegina for thirty years, at the end of which they were to build a temple to Aeacus (the son of Jupiter, from whom, according to tradition, the island got its name), and then they could start a war with success. Upon hearing the oracle's response, the Athenians hurried the timeline by building a temple to Aeacus right away in their forum. Circumstances later prevented them from waiting the full thirty years to continue the war. In the meantime, they had to deal with the relentless anger of their old enemy, Cleomenes. From the start of his career, the fierce and restless Spartan showed signs of the madness that would eventually take him. In an earlier conflict with the Argives, he had burned five thousand fleeing soldiers by setting fire to the grove where they sought refuge—an act of blatant impiety and brutal cruelty, according to the sensitive superstitions of the Greeks. While occupying Eleusis, he recklessly desecrated the sacred sanctuary of Orgas—the place most revered by the Eleusinian gods. His actions were always inconsistent and vague. He entered Athens to restore freedom but then teamed up with Isagoras to destroy it; he tried to revolutionize that energetic state without proper preparation—taking over the citadel one day only to abandon it disgracefully the next; he invaded Eleusis with an army he couldn't keep together and, in the absurd cunning typical of the insane, hid from his allies the very enemy they were supposed to fight, leading to their desertion right at the moment of battle. Continuing on with his contradictory behavior, he who had pushed Hippias out of Athens now convinced the Spartan assembly to bring back the very tyrant they had expelled. To stoke the fears of his fellow Spartans, Cleomenes claimed he had found certain oracles in the Athenian citadel that foretold dire and mysterious calamities for the Spartans at the hands of the Athenians. The clever crowd he addressed was more influenced by political concerns than by religious warnings. They noted that when burdened by tyranny, the Athenians had been weak and submissive, but if given the chance for freedom, they would soon grow powerful enough to match the Spartans: and in restoring a tyrant, they predicted the weakening of a rival.
XVI. Hippias, who had hitherto resided with his half-brother at Sigeum, was invited to Lacedaemon. He arrived—the Spartans assembled the ambassadors of their various tribes—and in full council thus spoke the policy of Sparta.
XVI. Hippias, who had been living with his half-brother at Sigeum, was invited to Lacedaemon. He arrived—the Spartans gathered the ambassadors from their different tribes—and in full council, they outlined the policy of Sparta.
“Friends and allies, we acknowledge that we have erred; misled by deceiving oracles, we have banished from Athens men united to us by ancient hospitality. We restored a republican government to an ungrateful people, who, forgetful that to us they owed their liberty, expelled from among them our subjects and our king. Every day they exhibit a fiercer spirit—proofs of which have been already experienced by the Boeotians, the Chalcidians, and may speedily extend to others, unless they take in time wise and salutary precautions. We have erred—we are prepared to atone for our fault, and to aid you in the chastisement of the Athenians. With this intention we have summoned Hippias and yourselves, that by common counsel and united arms we may restore to the son of Pisistratus the dominion and the dignity of which we have deprived him.”
“Friends and allies, we recognize that we've made mistakes; led astray by misleading prophecies, we have driven out of Athens those who have been connected to us through longstanding hospitality. We reinstated a republican government for an ungrateful people, who, having forgotten that they owe their freedom to us, expelled our subjects and our king. Every day they show a more aggressive attitude—evidence of which has already been seen with the Boeotians and the Chalcidians, and could soon spread to others unless they take wise and beneficial precautions in time. We have made mistakes—we are ready to make amends for our error and to assist you in punishing the Athenians. To this end, we have called for Hippias and you, so that through joint advice and united forces we may restore to the son of Pisistratus the power and respect that we have taken from him.”
The sentiments of the Spartans received but little favour in the assembly. After a dead and chilling silence, up rose Sosicles, the ambassador for Corinth, whose noble reply reveals to us the true cause of the secession of the Corinthians at Eleusis.
The feelings of the Spartans got very little support in the assembly. After a long, cold silence, Sosicles, the Corinthian ambassador, stood up, and his noble response shows us the real reason behind the Corinthians' withdrawal at Eleusis.
“We may expect,” said he, with indignant eloquence, “to see the earth take the place of heaven, since you, oh Spartans, meditate the subversion of equal laws and the restoration of tyrannical governments—a design than which nothing can be more unjust, nothing more wicked. If you think it well that states should be governed by tyrants, Spartans, before you establish tyranny for others, establish it among yourselves! You act unworthily with your allies. You, who so carefully guard against the intrusion of tyranny in Sparta—had you known it as we have done, you would be better sensible of the calamities it entails: listen to some of its effects.” (Here the ambassador related at length the cruelties of Periander, the tyrant of Corinth.) “Such,” said he, in conclusion, “such is a tyrannical government—such its effects. Great was our marvel when we learned that it was you, oh Spartans, who had sent for Hippias,—at your sentiments we marvel more. Oh! by the gods, the celestial guardians of Greece, we adjure you not to build up tyrannies in our cities. If you persevere in your purpose—if, against all justice, you attempt the restoration of Hippias, know, at least, that the Corinthians will never sanction your designs.”
“We can expect,” he said passionately, “to see the earth replace heaven, since you, oh Spartans, are considering overthrowing equal laws and bringing back tyrannical governments—a plan that is nothing short of unjust and wicked. If you believe it's right for states to be ruled by tyrants, Spartans, before imposing tyranny on others, impose it on yourselves first! You are acting shamefully with your allies. You, who are so careful to keep tyranny out of Sparta—had you experienced it like we have, you would understand the disasters it brings: listen to some of its impacts.” (Here the ambassador described in detail the brutalities of Periander, the tyrant of Corinth.) “This,” he concluded, “is what a tyrannical government looks like—these are its effects. We were shocked to learn that it was you, oh Spartans, who had called for Hippias—your viewpoint astonishes us even more. Oh! By the gods, the divine protectors of Greece, we urge you not to establish tyrannies in our cities. If you continue with your plans—if, against all justice, you try to reinstate Hippias, know at least that the Corinthians will never support your efforts.”
It was in vain that Hippias, despite his own ability, despite the approval of the Spartans, endeavoured to counteract the impression of this stern harangue,—in vain he relied on the declarations of the oracles,—in vain appealed to the jealousy of the Corinthians, and assured them of the ambition of Athens. The confederates with one accord sympathized with the sentiments of Sosicles, and adjured the Spartans to sanction no innovations prejudicial to the liberties of a single city of Greece.
It was pointless for Hippias, despite his own skills and the support of the Spartans, to try to counter the impact of this harsh speech—he relied on the oracles' statements in vain—he tried to stir up the Corinthians' jealousy and assured them of Athens' ambitions. The allies unanimously agreed with Sosicles' sentiments and urged the Spartans not to approve any changes that could harm the freedom of any city in Greece.
XVII. The failure of propositions so openly made is a fresh proof of the rash and unthinking character of Cleomenes—eager as usual for all designs, and prepared for none. The Spartans abandoned their design, and Hippias, discomfited but not dispirited, quitted the Lacedaemonian capital. Some of the chiefs of Thessaly, as well as the prince of Macedon, offered him an honourable retreat in their dominions. But it was not an asylum, it was an ally, that the unyielding ambition of Hippias desired to secure. He regained Sigeum, and thence, departing to Sardis, sought the assistance of the satrap, Artaphernes. He who in prosperity was the tyrant, became, in adversity, the traitor of his country; and the son of Pisistratus exerted every effort of his hereditary talent of persuasion to induce the satrap not so much to restore the usurper as to reduce the Athenian republic to the Persian yoke 262. The arrival and the intrigues of this formidable guest at the court of Sardis soon reached the ears of the vigilant Athenians; they sent to Artaphernes, exhorting him not to place confidence in those whose offences had banished them from Athens. “If you wish for peace,” returned the satrap, “recall Hippias.” Rather than accede to this condition, that brave people, in their petty share of the extremity of Greece, chose to be deemed the enemies of the vast monarchy of Persia. 263
XVII. The failure of proposals made so openly is a clear indication of Cleomenes' reckless and thoughtless nature—always eager for new plans but never actually ready to follow through. The Spartans abandoned their scheme, and Hippias, defeated but not discouraged, left the Lacedaemonian capital. Some of the leaders from Thessaly, as well as the prince of Macedon, offered him a dignified escape in their territories. However, what the determined Hippias truly wanted was not just a safe haven but an ally. He returned to Sigeum and then went to Sardis, seeking support from the satrap, Artaphernes. The man who was a tyrant in good times became a traitor to his country in bad times; the son of Pisistratus used all his inherited persuasive skills to convince the satrap not only to restore him as a usurper but also to bring the Athenian republic under Persian control 262. News of this powerful visitor and his schemes at the Sardis court quickly reached the alert Athenians; they sent a message to Artaphernes, urging him not to trust those who had been banished from Athens. “If you want peace,” replied the satrap, “bring back Hippias.” Rather than accept this demand, the brave people in their small part of Greece chose to be seen as enemies of the great Persian empire. 263
CHAPTER IV.
Histiaeus, Tyrant of Miletus, removed to Persia.—The Government of that City deputed to Aristagoras, who invades Naxos with the aid of the Persians.—Ill Success of that Expedition.—Aristagoras resolves upon Revolting from the Persians.—Repairs to Sparta and to Athens.— The Athenians and Eretrians induced to assist the Ionians.—Burning of Sardis.—The Ionian War.—The Fate of Aristagoras.—Naval Battle of Lade.—Fall of Miletus.—Reduction of Ionia.—Miltiades.—His Character.—Mardonius replaces Artaphernes in the Lydian Satrapy.— Hostilities between Aegina and Athens.—Conduct of Cleomenes.— Demaratus deposed.—Death of Cleomenes.—New Persian Expedition.
Histiaeus, the leader of Miletus, relocated to Persia. The government of that city appointed Aristagoras, who invaded Naxos with the help of the Persians. The expedition was unsuccessful. Aristagoras then decided to rebel against the Persians. He traveled to Sparta and Athens. The Athenians and Eretrians were persuaded to support the Ionians. Sardis was set on fire. This led to the Ionian War. Aristagoras's fate was sealed. There was a naval battle at Lade, resulting in the fall of Miletus and the reduction of Ionia. Miltiades had a notable character. Mardonius replaced Artaphernes in the Lydian satrapy. There were hostilities between Aegina and Athens, with Cleomenes's involvement. Demaratus was deposed, and Cleomenes died. A new Persian expedition was launched.
I. We have seen that Darius rewarded with a tributary command the services of Grecian nobles during his Scythian expedition. The most remarkable of these deputy tyrants was Histiaeus, the tyrant of Miletus. Possessed of that dignity prior to his connexion with Darius, he had received from the generosity of the monarch a tract of land near the river Strymon, in Thrace, sufficing for the erection of a city called Myrcinus. To his cousin, Aristagoras, he committed the government of Miletus—repaired to his new possession, and employed himself actively in the foundations of a colony which promised to be one of the most powerful that Miletus had yet established. The site of the infant city was selected with admirable judgment upon a navigable river, in the vicinity of mines, and holding the key of commercial communication between the long chain of Thracian tribes on the one side, and the trading enterprise of Grecian cities on the other. Histiaeus was describing the walls with which the ancient cities were surrounded, when Megabazus, commander of the forces intended to consummate the conquest of Thrace, had the sagacity to warn the Persian king, then at Sardis, of the probable effects of the regal donation. “Have you, sire, done wisely,” said he, “in permitting this able and active Greek to erect a new city in Thrace? Know you not that that favoured land, abounding in mines of silver, possesses, also, every advantage for the construction and equipment of ships; wild Greeks and roving barbarians are mingled there, ripe for enterprise—ready to execute the commands of any resolute and aspiring leader! Fear the possibility of a civil war—prevent the chances of the ambition of Histiaeus,—have recourse to artifice rather than to force, get him in your power, and prevent his return to Greece.”
I. We've seen that Darius rewarded the services of Greek nobles during his Scythian expedition by giving them a tributary command. The most notable of these deputy tyrants was Histiaeus, the tyrant of Miletus. He held that title before his connection with Darius and received a generous gift from the king: a piece of land near the Strymon River in Thrace, enough to build a city called Myrcinus. He entrusted the governance of Miletus to his cousin, Aristagoras, while he moved to his new territory and actively worked on establishing a colony that promised to be one of the most powerful that Miletus had ever founded. The location of this budding city was chosen with excellent judgment, positioned on a navigable river, near mines, and controlling commercial trade between the long chain of Thracian tribes on one side and the trade routes of Greek cities on the other. As Histiaeus was outlining the walls surrounding the ancient cities, Megabazus, the commander of the forces tasked with completing the conquest of Thrace, wisely warned the Persian king, who was then in Sardis, about the potential consequences of the royal gift. “Have you, my lord, made a wise choice,” he said, “by allowing this skillful and energetic Greek to build a new city in Thrace? Don’t you realize that this favored land, rich in silver mines, also offers every advantage for building and equipping ships; wild Greeks and wandering barbarians are mixed in there, eager for opportunity—ready to follow the orders of any determined and ambitious leader! Be wary of the possibility of a civil war—prevent the chances of Histiaeus’s ambition; use cleverness instead of brute force, get him under your control, and stop him from returning to Greece.”
Darius followed the advice of his general, sent for Histiaeus, loaded him with compliments, and, pretending that he could not live without his counsels, carried him off from his Thracian settlement to the Persian capital of Susa. His kinsman, Aristagoras, continued to preside over the government of Miletus, then the most haughty and flourishing of the Ionian states; but Naxos, beneath it in power, surpassed it in wealth; the fertile soil of that fair isle—its numerous population—its convenient site—its abundant resources, attracted the cupidity of Aristagoras; he took advantage of a civil commotion, in which many of the nobles were banished by the people— received the exiles—and, under the pretence of restoring them, meditated the design of annexing the largest of the Cyclades to the tyranny of Miletus.
Darius took his general's advice, summoned Histiaeus, showered him with compliments, and, pretending he couldn't live without his guidance, brought him from his Thracian settlement to the Persian capital of Susa. His relative, Aristagoras, continued to oversee the government of Miletus, which was the most arrogant and prosperous of the Ionian states at that time; however, Naxos, although less powerful, was wealthier. The fertile land of that beautiful island—its large population—its strategic location—its abundant resources sparked Aristagoras's greed; he exploited a civil unrest that led to many nobles being exiled by the people—welcomed the exiles—and, under the guise of restoring them, plotted to annex the largest of the Cyclades to the tyranny of Miletus.
He persuaded the traitorous nobles to suffer him to treat with Artaphernes—successfully represented to that satrap the advantages of annexing the gem of the Cyclades to the Persian diadem—and Darius, listening to the advice of his delegate, sent two hundred vessels to the invasion of Naxos (B. C. 501), under the command of his kinsman, Megabates. A quarrel ensued, however, between the Persian general and the governor of Miletus. Megabates, not powerful enough to crush the tyrant, secretly informed the Naxians of the meditated attack; and, thus prepared for the assault, they so well maintained themselves in their city, that, after a siege of four months, the pecuniary resources, not only of Megabates, but of Aristagoras, were exhausted, and the invaders were compelled to retreat from the island. Aristagoras now saw that he had fallen into the pit he had digged for others: his treasury was drained—he had incurred heavy debts with the Persian government, which condemned him to reimburse the whole expense of the enterprise—he feared the resentment of Megabates and the disappointment of Artaphernes—and he foresaw that his ill success might be a reasonable plea for removing him from the government of Miletus. While he himself was meditating the desperate expedient of a revolt, a secret messenger from Histiaeus suddenly arrived at Miletus. That wily Greek, disgusted with his magnificent captivity, had had recourse to a singular expedient: selecting the most faithful of his slaves, he shaved his scull, wrote certain characters on the surface, and, when the hair was again grown, dismissed this living letter to Aristagoras 264. The characters commanded the deputy to commence a revolt; for Histiaeus imagined that the quiet of Miletus was the sentence of his exile.
He convinced the traitorous nobles to let him negotiate with Artaphernes—successfully pointed out to that satrap the benefits of adding the jewel of the Cyclades to the Persian empire—and Darius, taking his delegate's advice, sent two hundred ships to invade Naxos (B.C. 501), led by his relative, Megabates. However, a conflict broke out between the Persian general and the governor of Miletus. Megabates, not strong enough to overpower the tyrant, secretly tipped off the Naxians about the planned attack; and, prepared for the assault, they managed to defend their city so well that, after a four-month siege, both Megabates's and Aristagoras's financial resources were depleted, forcing the invaders to retreat from the island. Aristagoras realized he had fallen into the trap he had set for others: his treasury was empty—he had racked up significant debts with the Persian government, which ordered him to repay all the costs of the mission—he feared Megabates's anger and Artaphernes's disappointment—and he knew that his failure could be a valid reason for removing him from the governorship of Miletus. While he was contemplating the desperate option of a revolt, a secret messenger from Histiaeus suddenly arrived in Miletus. That cunning Greek, fed up with his lavish captivity, had come up with a unique plan: he chose the most loyal of his slaves, shaved his head, wrote certain characters on the surface, and, when the hair grew back, sent this living letter to Aristagoras 264. The characters instructed the deputy to start a revolt; Histiaeus believed that Miletus's tranquility was a sentence of his exile.
II. This seasonable advice, so accordant with his own views, charmed Aristagoras: he summoned the Milesians, and, to engage their zealous assistance, he divested himself of the tyranny, and established a republic. It was a mighty epoch that, for the stir of thought!— everywhere had awakened a desire for free government and equal laws; and Aristagoras, desirous of conciliating the rest of Ionia, assisted her various states in the establishment of republican institutions. Coes, the tyrant of Mitylene, perished by the hands of the people; in the rest of Ionia, the tyrants were punished but by exile. Thus a spark kindled the universal train already prepared in thought, and the selfish ambition of Aristagoras forwarded the march of a revolution in favour of liberty that embraced all the cities of Ionia. But Aristagoras, evidently a man of a profound, though tortuous policy, was desirous of engaging not only the colonies of Greece, but the mother country also, in the great and perilous attempt to resist the Persian. High above all the states of the elder Greece soared the military fame of Sparta; and that people the scheming Milesian resolved first to persuade to his daring project.
II. This timely advice, aligning perfectly with his own beliefs, captivated Aristagoras: he called the Milesians together and, to gain their enthusiastic support, he renounced his tyranny and set up a republic. It was a significant time, with a surge of new ideas everywhere!—people had awakened a desire for self-governance and fair laws; and Aristagoras, wanting to win over the rest of Ionia, helped the various states establish republican systems. Coes, the tyrant of Mitylene, was killed by the people; in the other parts of Ionia, tyrants were only exiled. Thus, a spark ignited a widespread movement that had already been brewing in thought, and Aristagoras’s self-serving ambition helped drive a revolution for liberty that spread across all the cities of Ionia. But Aristagoras, clearly a man with a complex but clever strategy, aimed to involve not just the Greek colonies but the motherland as well in the bold and risky effort to resist the Persians. Towering above all the states of ancient Greece was the military reputation of Sparta; and the cunning Milesian first planned to persuade them to join his bold initiative.
Trusting to no ambassador, but to his own powers of eloquence, he arrived in person at Sparta. With a brazen chart of the world, as then known, in his hand, he sought to inspire the ambition of Cleomenes by pointing out the wide domains—the exhaustless treasures of the Persian realm. He depreciated the valour of its people, ridiculed their weapons, and urged him to the vast design of establishing, by Spartan valour, the magnificent conquest of Asia. The Spartans, always cold to the liberty of other states, were no less indifferent to the glory of barren victories; and when Aristagoras too honestly replied, in answer to a question of the king, that from the Ionian sea to Susa, the Persian capital, was a journey of three months, Cleomenes abruptly exclaimed, “Milesian, depart from Sparta before sunset;—a march of three months from the sea!—the Spartans will never listen to so frantic a proposal!” Aristagoras, not defeated, sought a subsequent interview, in which he attempted to bribe the king, who, more accustomed to bribe others than be bribed, broke up the conference, and never afterward would renew it.
Trusting no ambassador but his own speaking skills, he arrived in person at Sparta. With a detailed map of the world as it was known at that time in his hand, he aimed to spark Cleomenes' ambition by highlighting the vast territories and endless riches of the Persian empire. He downplayed the courage of its people, mocked their weapons, and urged him to pursue the grand idea of establishing, through Spartan bravery, the amazing conquest of Asia. The Spartans, who were always indifferent to the freedom of other states, were equally uninterested in the glory of empty victories. When Aristagoras, too honestly responding to a question from the king, said that the journey from the Ionian Sea to Susa, the Persian capital, took three months, Cleomenes abruptly exclaimed, “Milesian, leave Sparta before sunset;—a three-month march from the sea!—the Spartans will never consider such a mad proposal!” Aristagoras, not giving up, sought another meeting where he tried to bribe the king, who, more used to bribing others than being bribed, ended the conversation and never agreed to meet again.
III. The patient and plotting Milesian departed thence to Athens (B. C. 500): he arrived there just at the moment when the Athenian ambassadors had returned from Sardis, charged with the haughty reply of Artaphernes to the mission concerning Hippias. The citizens were aroused, excited, inflamed; equally indignant at the insolence, and fearful of the power, of the satrap. It was a favourable occasion for Aristagoras!
III. The patient and scheming Milesian left for Athens (B.C. 500): he arrived just as the Athenian ambassadors returned from Sardis with the arrogant reply from Artaphernes regarding the mission about Hippias. The citizens were stirred up, excited, and angry; equally outraged by the disrespect and scared of the satrap's power. It was a great opportunity for Aristagoras!
To the imagination of the reader this passage in history presents a striking picture. We may behold the great assembly of that lively, high-souled, sensitive, and inflammable people. There is the Agora; there the half-built temple to Aeacus;—above, the citadel, where yet hang the chains of the captive enemy;—still linger in the ears of the populace, already vain of their prowess, and haughty in their freedom, the menace of the Persian—the words that threatened them with the restoration of the exiled tyrant; and at this moment, and in this concourse, we see the subtle Milesian, wise in the experience of mankind, popular with all free states, from having restored freedom to the colonies of Ionia—every advantage of foreign circumstance and intrinsic ability in his favour,—about to address the breathless and excited multitude. He rose: he painted, as he had done to Cleomenes, in lively colours, the wealth of Asia, the effeminate habits of its people—he described its armies fighting without spear or shield—he invoked the valour of a nation already successful in war against hardy and heroic foes—he appealed to old hereditary ties; the people of Miletus had been an Athenian colony—should not the parent protect the child in the greatest of all blessings—the right to liberty? Now he entreats—now he promises,—the sympathy of the free, the enthusiasm of the brave, are alike aroused. He succeeds: the people accede to his views. “It is easier,” says the homely Herodotus, “to gain (or delude) a multitude than an individual; and the eloquence which had failed with Cleomenes enlisted thirty thousand Athenians.” 265
To the imagination of the reader, this moment in history presents a vivid scene. We can envision the large gathering of that passionate, energetic, sensitive, and easily ignited people. There's the Agora; there’s the half-finished temple to Aeacus;—above, the citadel, where the chains of the captured enemy still hang;—the threat of the Persian lingers in the ears of the people, who are already proud of their achievements and arrogant in their freedom—the words that warned them about the return of the exiled tyrant; and at this moment, in this crowd, we see the clever Milesian, wise from life experience, popular among all free states because he restored freedom to the Ionian colonies—every advantage of outside circumstances and inherent talent in his favor,—about to address the breathless and excited crowd. He stood up: he painted, as he had done for Cleomenes, in bright colors, the wealth of Asia, the effeminate behaviors of its people—he described its armies fighting without spear or shield—he invoked the courage of a nation already victorious in battles against tough and heroic enemies—he appealed to old family ties; the people of Miletus had been an Athenian colony—shouldn’t the parent support the child in the greatest blessing of all—the right to freedom? Now he pleads—now he promises,—the sympathy of the free, the enthusiasm of the brave, are equally stirred. He succeeds: the people agree with him. “It's easier,” says the straightforward Herodotus, “to win over (or mislead) a crowd than an individual; and the eloquence that had failed with Cleomenes rallied thirty thousand Athenians.” 265
IV. The Athenians agreed to send to the succour of their own colonists, the Ionians, twenty vessels of war. Melanthius, a man of amiable character and popular influence, was appointed the chief. This was the true commencement of the great Persian war.
IV. The Athenians agreed to send twenty warships to help their own colonists, the Ionians. Melanthius, a decent guy with a lot of popularity, was appointed as the leader. This marked the real start of the great Persian war.
V. Thus successful, Aristagoras departed from Athens. Arriving at Miletus, he endeavoured yet more to assist his design, by attempting to arouse a certain colony in Phrygia, formed of Thracian captives 266 taken by Megabazus, the Persian general. A great proportion of these colonists seized the occasion to return to their native land— baffled the pursuit of the Persian horse—reached the shore—and were transported in Ionian vessels to their ancient home on the banks of the Strymon. Meanwhile, the Athenian vessels arrived at Miletus, joined by five ships, manned by Eretrians of Euboea, mindful of former assistance from the Milesians in a war with their fellow-islanders, the Chalcidians, nor conscious, perhaps, of the might of the enemy they provoked.
V. Being successful, Aristagoras left Athens. When he got to Miletus, he tried even harder to move his plan forward by trying to rally a certain colony in Phrygia made up of Thracian captives 266 taken by Megabazus, the Persian general. A large number of these colonists took the chance to return to their homeland—evaded the Persian cavalry—reached the coast—and were transported in Ionian ships back to their ancient home by the Strymon River. Meanwhile, the Athenian ships arrived at Miletus, joined by five vessels crewed by Eretrians from Euboea, remembering the support they had received from the Milesians in a war with their fellow islanders, the Chalcidians, likely unaware of the power of the enemy they had angered.
Aristagoras remained at Miletus, and delegated to his brother the command of the Milesian forces. The Greeks then sailed to Ephesus, debarked at Coressus. in its vicinity, and, under the conduct of Ephesian guides, marched along the winding valley of the Cayster— whose rapid course, under a barbarous name, the traveller yet traces, though the swans of the Grecian poets haunt its waves no more—passed over the auriferous Mount of Tmolus, verdant with the vine, and fragrant with the saffron—and arrived at the gates of the voluptuous Sardis. They found Artaphernes unprepared for this sudden invasion— they seized the city (B. C. 499).—the satrap and his troops retreated to the citadel.
Aristagoras stayed in Miletus and assigned his brother the command of the Milesian forces. The Greeks then sailed to Ephesus, disembarked at Coressus nearby, and, guided by Ephesians, marched along the winding valley of the Cayster—whose fast flow, still recognized despite its strange name, no longer carries the swans of Greek poets—crossed the golden Mount of Tmolus, lush with vines and fragrant with saffron—and reached the gates of the indulgent Sardis. They found Artaphernes unprepared for this sudden attack—they took the city (B.C. 499)—and the satrap and his soldiers retreated to the citadel.
The houses of Sardis were chiefly built of reeds, and the same slight and inflammable material thatched the roofs even of the few mansions built of brick. A house was set on fire by a soldier—the flames spread throughout the city. In the midst of the conflagration despair gave valour to the besieged—the wrath of man was less fearful than that of the element; the Lydians, and the Persians who were in the garrison, rushed into the market-place, through which flowed the river of Pactolus. There they resolved to encounter the enemy. The invaders were seized with a sudden panic, possibly as much occasioned by the rage of the conflagration as the desperation of the foe; and, retiring to Mount Tmolus, took advantage of the night to retrace their march along the valley of the Cayster.
The houses in Sardis were mainly made of reeds, and the same light and flammable material was used to thatch the roofs of the few mansions made of brick. A soldier accidentally set a house on fire—the flames quickly spread throughout the city. In the midst of the fire, despair gave courage to those under siege—the anger of people was less frightening than the fire itself; the Lydians, along with the Persian soldiers in the garrison, rushed into the marketplace, through which the Pactolus River flowed. There, they decided to confront the enemy. The invaders suddenly panicked, possibly due to both the intensity of the fire and the desperation of their opponents; retreating to Mount Tmolus, they took advantage of the night to make their way back down the valley of the Cayster.
VI. But the Ionians were not fated to return in safety: from the borders of the river Halys a troop of Persians followed their retreat, and overtaking them when the Ephesian territory was already gained, defeated the Ionians with a great slaughter, amid which fell the leader of the Eretrians.
VI. But the Ionians were not destined to return safely: from the edges of the river Halys, a group of Persians pursued their retreat and caught up with them when they had already reached the territory of Ephesus. They defeated the Ionians in a massive slaughter, during which the leader of the Eretrians was killed.
The Athenians were naturally disappointed with the result of this expedition. Returning home, they refused all the overtures of Aristagoras to renew their incursions into Asia. The gallant Ionians continued, however, the hostilities they had commenced against Darius. They sailed to the Hellespont, and reduced Byzantium, with the neighbouring cities. Their forces were joined by the Cyprians, aroused against the Persian yoke by Onesilus, a bold usurper, who had dethroned his brother, the prince of Salamis, in Cyprus; and the conflagration of Sardis dazzling the Carians, hitherto lukewarm, united to the Ionian cause the bulk of that hardy population. The revolt now assumed a menacing and formidable aspect. Informed of these events, Darius summoned Histiaeus: “The man,” said he, “whom you appointed to the government of Miletus has rebelled against me. Assisted by the Ionians, whom I shall unquestionably chastise, he has burnt Sardis. Had he your approbation? Without it would he have dared such treason? Beware how you offend a second time against my authority.” Histiaeus artfully vindicated himself from the suspicions of the king. He attributed the revolt of the Ionians to his own absence, declared that if sent into Ionia he would soon restore its inhabitants to their wonted submission, and even promised to render the Island of Sardinia tributary to Persia.
The Athenians were understandably disappointed with the outcome of this mission. When they returned home, they rejected all of Aristagoras’s proposals to continue their attacks in Asia. Meanwhile, the brave Ionians maintained the hostilities they had started against Darius. They sailed to the Hellespont and captured Byzantium along with nearby cities. Their forces were joined by the Cyprians, who were stirred up against Persian rule by Onesilus, a bold usurper who had overthrown his brother, the prince of Salamis in Cyprus. The burning of Sardis excited the Carians, who had previously been indifferent, to rally to the Ionian cause, making the rebellion look increasingly serious and formidable. When Darius heard about these events, he called for Histiaeus: “The man,” he said, “you chose to govern Miletus has revolted against me. With the help of the Ionians, whom I will definitely punish, he has burned Sardis. Did you approve of this? Would he have dared such treachery without your support? Watch how you disrespect my authority again.” Histiaeus cleverly defended himself against the king’s suspicions. He claimed that the Ionians’ revolt was due to his absence, insisted that if he were sent to Ionia, he would quickly bring the people back under control, and even promised to make the Island of Sardinia pay tribute to Persia.
VII. Deluded by these professions, Darius dismissed the tyrant of Miletus, requiring only his return on the fulfilment of his promises. Meanwhile, the generals of Darius pressed vigorously on the insurgents. Against Onesilus, then engaged in reducing Amathus (the single city in Cyprus opposed to him), Artybius, a Persian officer, conducted a formidable fleet. The Ionians hastened to the succour of their Cyprian ally—a battle ensued both by land and sea: in the latter the Ionians defeated, after a severe contest, the Phoenician auxiliaries of Persia—in the former, a treacherous desertion of some of the Cyprian troops gave a victory to the Persian. The brave Onesilus, who had set his fate upon the issue of the field, was among the slain. The Persians proceeded to blockade, and ultimately to regain, the Cyprian cities: of these, Soli, which withstood a siege of five months, proffered the most obdurate resistance; with the surrender of that gallant city, Cyprus once more, after a year of liberty, was subjected to the dominion of the great king.
VII. Misled by these claims, Darius dismissed the tyrant of Miletus, only asking for his return once he fulfilled his promises. In the meantime, Darius's generals were aggressively pushing against the rebels. Artybius, a Persian officer, led a powerful fleet against Onesilus, who was busy trying to conquer Amathus, the only city in Cyprus still resisting him. The Ionians rushed to help their Cypriot ally, resulting in battles both on land and at sea: in the sea battle, the Ionians defeated the Persian’s Phoenician allies after a tough fight; however, on land, a betrayal by some Cyprian troops handed victory to the Persians. The brave Onesilus, who had staked everything on the outcome of the battle, was among those killed. The Persians then blockaded and eventually recaptured the Cypriot cities: Soli, which held out against a five-month siege, put up the fiercest resistance; with its surrender, Cyprus was once again, after a year of freedom, placed under the control of the great king.
This success was increased by the reduction of several towns on the Hellespont, and two signal defeats over the Carians (B. C. 498), in the last of which, the Milesians, who had joined their ally, suffered a prodigious loss. The Carians, however, were not subdued, and in a subsequent engagement they effected a great slaughter among the Persians, the glory of which was enhanced by the death of Daurises, general of the barbarians, and son-in-law to Darius. But this action was not sufficiently decisive to arrest the progress of the Persian arms. Artaphernes, satrap of Sardis, and Otanes, the third general in command, led their forces into Ionia and Aeolia:—the Ionian Clazomenae, the Aeolian Cuma, were speedily reduced.
This success was boosted by the defeat of several towns on the Hellespont and two major victories over the Carians (B.C. 498), the last of which caused the Milesians, who had allied with them, to suffer tremendous losses. However, the Carians were not defeated, and in a later battle, they inflicted significant casualties on the Persians, a victory made even more notable by the death of Daurises, the general of the barbarians and Darius's son-in-law. Yet, this battle wasn’t enough to stop the advancement of the Persian forces. Artaphernes, the satrap of Sardis, and Otanes, the third general in charge, brought their troops into Ionia and Aeolia: the Ionian Clazomenae and the Aeolian Cuma were quickly brought under control.
VIII. The capture of these places, with the general fortunes of the war, disheartened even the patient and adventurous Aristagoras. He could not but believe that all attempts against the crushing power of Darius were in vain. He assembled the adherents yet faithful to his arms, and painted to them the necessity of providing a new settlement. Miletus was no longer secure, and the vengeance of Darius was gathering rapidly around them. After some consultation they agreed to repair to that town and territory in Thrace which had been given by Darius to Histiaeus 267. Miletus was intrusted to the charge of a popular citizen named Pythagoras, and these hardy and restless adventurers embarked for Thrace. Aristagoras was fortunate enough to reach in safety the settlement which had seemed so formidable a possession to the Persian general; but his usual scheming and bold ambition, not contented with that domain, led him to the attack of a town in its vicinity. The inhabitants agreed to resign it into his hands, and, probably lulled into security by this concession, he was suddenly, with his whole force, cut off by an incursion of the Thracian foe. So perished (B. C. 497) the author of many subsequent and mighty events, and who, the more we regard his craft, his courage, his perseverance, and activity, the vastness of his ends, and the perseverance with which he pursued them, must be regarded by the historian as one of the most stirring and remarkable spirits of that enterprising age.
VIII. The capture of these places and the overall state of the war discouraged even the patient and adventurous Aristagoras. He couldn't help but believe that all efforts against the overwhelming power of Darius were futile. He gathered the loyal supporters still standing by him and emphasized the need for a new settlement. Miletus was no longer safe, and Darius's wrath was quickly closing in on them. After some discussion, they decided to move to that town and territory in Thrace that Darius had given to Histiaeus 267. Miletus was entrusted to a well-liked citizen named Pythagoras, and these determined and restless adventurers set sail for Thrace. Aristagoras was fortunate enough to reach the settlement that had seemed so daunting to the Persian general; however, his usual plotting and bold ambition, dissatisfied with that territory, prompted him to attack a nearby town. The residents agreed to surrender it to him, and likely lulled into a false sense of security by this agreement, he was suddenly cut off, along with his entire force, by a raid from the Thracian enemy. Thus perished (B. C. 497) the architect of many significant events to come, who, the more we consider his cunning, courage, perseverance, and activity, along with the magnitude of his goals and the determination with which he pursued them, must be seen by historians as one of the most remarkable and dynamic figures of that adventurous era.
IX. The people of Miletus had not, upon light grounds or with feeble minds, embarked in the perilous attempt to recover their liberties. Deep was the sentiment that inspired—solemn and stern the energy which supported them. The Persian generals now collected in one body their native and auxiliary force. The Cyprians, lately subdued (B. C. 496), were compelled to serve. Egypt and Cilicia swelled the armament, and the skill of the Phoenicians rendered yet more formidable a fleet of six hundred vessels. With this power the barbarians advanced upon Miletus. Most, if not all, of the Ionian states prepared themselves for the struggle—delegates met at the Panionium—it was agreed to shun the Persians upon land—to leave to the Milesians the defence of their city—to equip the utmost naval force they could command—and, assembling in one fleet off the small isle of Lade, opposite to Miletus, to hazard the battle upon the seas. Three hundred and fifty triremes were provided, and met at the appointed place. The discipline of the navy was not equal to the valour of the enterprise; Dionysius, commander of the Phocaeans, attempted, perhaps too rigorously, to enforce it;—jealousy and disgust broke out among the troops—and the Samian leaders, whether displeased with their allies, or tempted by the Persians, who, through the medium of the exiled tyrants of Greece, serving with them, maintained correspondence with the Ionians, secretly agreed to desert in the midst of the ensuing battle. This compact made, the Phoenicians commenced the attack, and the Ionians, unsuspicious of treachery, met them with a contracted line. In the beginning of the engagement, the Samians, excepting only eleven ships (whose captains were afterward rewarded by a public column in their native market-place), fulfilled their pledge, and sailed away to Samos. The Lesbians, stationed next them, followed their example, and confusion and flight became contagious. The Chians alone redeemed the character of the allies, aided, indeed, by Dionysius the Phocaean, who, after taking three of the enemy’s ships, refused to retreat till the day was gone, and then, sailing to Phoenicia, sunk several trading vessels, enriched himself with their spoil, and eventually reaching Sicily, became renowned as a pirate, formidable to the Carthaginian and Tyrsenian families of the old Phoenician foe, but holding his Grecian countrymen sacred from his depredations.
IX. The people of Miletus didn't jump into the risky fight for their freedom lightly or without serious thought. They were driven by deep feelings, and there was a serious energy backing them. The Persian generals gathered their local and support forces into one group. The Cyprians, who had recently been defeated (B.C. 496), were forced to fight. Egypt and Cilicia added to their numbers, and the Phoenicians' skills made their fleet of six hundred ships even more intimidating. With this power, the invaders moved towards Miletus. Most, if not all, of the Ionian states prepared for battle—delegates met at the Panionium—and they agreed to avoid the Persians on land, leaving the Milesians to defend their city, equipping as many ships as they could, and coming together in one fleet off the small island of Lade, across from Miletus, to risk a naval battle. They supplied three hundred and fifty triremes, which gathered at the designated spot. However, the navy's discipline didn’t match the bravery of the mission; Dionysius, the commander of the Phocaeans, tried to enforce it strictly, which may have been too harsh—causing jealousy and frustration among the troops. The Samian leaders, possibly annoyed with their allies or tempted by the Persians, who were communicating with the Ionians through the exiled tyrants of Greece serving with them, secretly agreed to abandon the fight in the middle of the battle. Once this deal was made, the Phoenicians launched their attack, and the Ionians, unaware of the betrayal, formed a tight line to meet them. At the start of the fight, the Samians, except for eleven ships (whose captains were later honored with a public column in their hometown), kept their promise and sailed back to Samos. The Lesbians, positioned next to them, followed suit, leading to chaos and retreat spreading rapidly. Only the Chians upheld the allies' honor, thanks in part to Dionysius the Phocaean, who, after capturing three enemy ships, refused to pull back until the day was over. Then, sailing to Phoenicia, he sank several trading vessels, took their loot, and finally reaching Sicily, became famous as a pirate, intimidating the Carthaginian and Etruscan families of the old Phoenician enemy while sparing his Greek compatriots from his raids.
The Persian armament now bent all its vengeance on Miletus; they besieged it both by land and by sea—every species of military machine then known was directed against its walls, and, in the sixth year after the revolt of Aristagoras, Miletus fell (B. C. 494)—Miletus, the capital of Ionia—the mother of a hundred colonies! Pittacus, Thales, Arctinus, were among the great names she gave to science and to song. Worthy of her renown, she fell amid the ruins of that freedom which she showed how nobly she could have continued to adorn by proving how sternly she could defend. The greater part of the citizens were slain—those who remained, with the women and the children, were borne into slavery by the victors. Their valour and renown touched the heart of Darius, and he established the captives in a city by that part of the Erythraean Sea which receives the waters of the Barbarian Tigris. Their ancient territories were portioned out between the Persians and the Carians of Pedasa.
The Persian military now focused all its wrath on Miletus; they besieged it both on land and at sea—every type of military machine known at the time was aimed at its walls. In the sixth year after Aristagoras's revolt, Miletus fell (B.C. 494)—Miletus, the capital of Ionia—the mother of a hundred colonies! Pittacus, Thales, Arctinus were among the great figures she contributed to science and poetry. True to her legacy, she fell amid the ruins of the freedom she could have continued to enhance by demonstrating her strong defense. Most of the citizens were killed—those who survived, along with the women and children, were taken into slavery by the victors. Their bravery and reputation touched Darius's heart, and he settled the captives in a city by the stretch of the Erythraean Sea that receives the waters of the Barbarian Tigris. Their former lands were divided between the Persians and the Carians of Pedasa.
X. The Athenians received the news of this fatal siege with the deepest sorrow, and Herodotus records an anecdote illustrative of the character of that impassioned people, and interesting to the history of their early letters. Phrynichus, a disciple of Thespis, represented on the stage the capture of Miletus, and the whole audience burst into tears. The art of the poet was considered criminal in thus forcibly reminding the Athenians of a calamity which was deemed their own: he was fined a thousand drachmae, and the repetition of the piece forbidden—a punishment that was but a glorious homage to the genius of the poet and the sensibility of the people.
X. The Athenians learned of this tragic siege with deep sadness, and Herodotus shares a story that illustrates the character of these passionate people and is interesting for the history of their early literature. Phrynichus, a student of Thespis, staged the capture of Miletus, and the entire audience broke down in tears. The poet's art was seen as unacceptable for forcibly reminding the Athenians of a disaster they considered their own: he was fined a thousand drachmae, and performing the piece again was banned—a punishment that served as a powerful tribute to the poet's talent and the sensitivity of the people.
After innumerable adventures, in which he exhibited considerable but perverted abilities, Histiaeus fell into the hands of Artaphernes, and died upon the cross. Darius rebuked the zeal of the satrap, and lamented the death of a man, whose situation, perhaps, excused his artifices.
After countless adventures, where he showed impressive yet twisted skills, Histiaeus was captured by Artaphernes and died on the cross. Darius criticized the satrap's enthusiasm and mourned the loss of a man whose circumstances might have justified his cunning.
And now the cloud swept onward—one after one the Ionian cities were reduced—the islands of Chios, Lesbos, Tenedos, depopulated; and all Ionia subjugated and enslaved. The Persian fleet proceeded to subdue all the towns and territories to the left of the Hellespont. At this time their success in the Chersonesus drove from that troubled isthmus a chief, whose acute and dauntless faculties made him subsequently the scourge of Persia and the deliverer of Greece.
And now the cloud moved forward—one after another, the Ionian cities fell—the islands of Chios, Lesbos, and Tenedos were emptied of people; and all of Ionia was conquered and enslaved. The Persian fleet continued to conquer all the towns and lands to the west of the Hellespont. During this time, their victory in the Chersonesus forced out a leader from that troubled area, whose sharp and fearless abilities later made him a major threat to Persia and a savior for Greece.
XI. We have seen Miltiades, nephew to the first of that name, arrive at the Chersonesus—by a stroke of dexterous perfidy, seize the persons of the neighbouring chieftains—attain the sovereignty of that peninsula, and marry the daughter of a Thracian prince. In his character was united, with much of the intellect, all the duplicity of the Greek. During the war between Darius and the Scythians, while affecting to follow the Persian army, he had held traitorous intercourse with the foe. And proposed to the Grecian chiefs to destroy the bridge of boats across the Danube confided to their charge; so that, what with the force of the Scythians and the pressure of famine, the army of Darius would have perished among the Scythian wastes, and a mighty enemy have been lost to Greece—a scheme that, but for wickedness, would have been wise. With all his wiles, and all his dishonesty, Miltiades had the art, not only of rendering authority firm, but popular. Driven from his state by the Scythian Nomades, he was voluntarily recalled by the very subjects over whom he had established an armed sovereignty—a rare occurrence in that era of republics. Surrounded by fierce and restless foes, and exercised in constant, if petty warfare, Miltiades had acquired as much the experience of camps as the subtleties of Grecian diplomacy; yet, like many of the wise of small states, he seems to have been more crafty than rash—the first for flight wherever flight was the better policy —but the first for battle if battle were the more prudent. He had in him none of the inconsiderate enthusiasm of the hero—none of the blind but noble subservience to honour. Valour seems to have been for his profound intellect but the summation of chances, and when we afterward find him the most daring soldier, it is only because he was the acutest calculator.
XI. We have seen Miltiades, the nephew of the first of that name, arrive at the Chersonesus—through a clever betrayal, he captured the neighboring leaders—gained control of that peninsula, and married the daughter of a Thracian prince. He combined a lot of intelligence with the cunning typical of the Greeks. During the war between Darius and the Scythians, while pretending to follow the Persian army, he secretly communicated with the enemy. He even suggested to the Greek leaders that they should destroy the bridge of boats across the Danube that was under their protection; this way, due to the Scythians and famine, Darius's army would have been wiped out in the Scythian wilderness, and a major threat to Greece would have been eliminated—a plan that, without its treachery, would have been wise. With all his schemes and dishonesty, Miltiades managed not only to secure strong authority but make it popular. After being driven from his state by the Scythian Nomads, he was voluntarily brought back by the very subjects he had previously dominated with military force—a rare event in that time of republics. Surrounded by fierce and restless enemies, engaged in constant, albeit minor, warfare, Miltiades gained as much experience in the field as he did in the complexities of Greek diplomacy; yet, like many clever leaders of small states, he seemed to be more crafty than reckless—the first to retreat when retreat was the better option—but also the first to fight when fighting was the wiser choice. He lacked the reckless passion of a hero—none of the blind but noble devotion to honor. For him, bravery seemed to be just a calculation of probabilities, and when we later see him as the boldest soldier, it’s only because he was the most astute strategist.
On seeing the Phoenician fleet, raider Persia, arrive off the Isle of Tenedos, which is opposite the Chersonesus, Miltiades resolved not to wait the issue of a battle: as before he had fled the Scythian, so now, without a struggle, he succumbed to the Phoenician sword. He loaded five vessels with his property—with four he eluded the hostile fleet—the fifth, commanded by his eldest son, was pursued and taken 268. In triumphant safety the chief of the Chersonesus arrived at Athens. He arrived at that free state to lose the dignity of a Thracian prince, and suddenly to be reminded that he was an Athenian citizen. He was immediately prosecuted for the crime of tyranny. His influence or his art, admiration of his genius, or compassion of his reverses, however, procured him an acquittal. We may well suppose that, high-born and wealthy, he lost no occasion of cementing his popularity in his native state.
Upon seeing the Phoenician fleet from Persia arrive near the Isle of Tenedos, which is across from the Chersonesus, Miltiades decided not to wait for a battle. Just as he had previously fled from the Scythians, now he surrendered to the Phoenician sword without a fight. He loaded five ships with his belongings—four of which he managed to escape with, while the fifth, led by his oldest son, was chased down and captured 268. The leader of the Chersonesus returned to Athens in safety and triumph. However, upon arriving in that free state, he lost the status of a Thracian prince and was quickly reminded that he was an Athenian citizen. He was immediately charged with the crime of tyranny. Nevertheless, his influence, charm, the admiration of his talent, or sympathy for his misfortunes won him an acquittal. It is reasonable to assume that, being of noble birth and wealthy, he took every opportunity to strengthen his popularity in his home city.
XII. Meanwhile, the Persians suspended for that year all further hostilities against the Ionians. Artaphernes endeavoured to conciliate the subdued colonies by useful laws, impartial taxes, and benign recommendations to order and to peace. The next year, however, that satrap was recalled (B. C. 492), and Mardonius, a very young noble, the son-in-law of Darius, was appointed, at the head of a considerable naval and military force, to the administration of the affairs in that part of the Persian empire. Entering Ionia, he executed a novel, a daring, but no unstatesman-like stroke of policy. He removed all the Ionian tyrants, and everywhere restored republican forms of government; deeming, unquestionably, that he is the securest master of distant provinces who establishes among them the institutions which they best love. Then proceeding to the Hellespont, Mardonius collected his mighty fleets and powerful army, and passed through Europe towards the avowed objects of the Persian vengeance— the cities of Eretria and Athens.
XII. In the meantime, the Persians stopped all further attacks on the Ionians for that year. Artaphernes tried to win over the conquered colonies with helpful laws, fair taxes, and kind encouragement towards order and peace. However, the next year, this satrap was recalled (B.C. 492), and Mardonius, a young nobleman and Darius’s son-in-law, was appointed to oversee the affairs in that region of the Persian Empire, bringing with him a significant naval and military force. When he arrived in Ionia, he implemented a bold and innovative policy. He removed all the tyrants of Ionia and reinstated republican forms of government everywhere, believing, without a doubt, that the best way to control distant provinces is to put in place the systems they favor most. He then moved on to the Hellespont, where Mardonius gathered his massive fleets and powerful army and marched through Europe towards their primary targets for Persian retribution—the cities of Eretria and Athens.
From the time that the Athenians had assisted the forces of Miletus and long in the destruction of Sardis, their offence had rankled in the bosom of Darius. Like most monarchs, he viewed as more heinous offenders the foreign abetters of rebellion, than the rebels themselves. Religion, no doubt, conspired to augment his indignation. In the conflagration of Sardis the temple of the great Persian deity had perished, and the inexpiated sacrilege made a duty of revenge. So keenly, indeed, did Darius resent the share that the remote Athenians had taken in the destruction of his Lydian capital, that, on receiving the intelligence, he is said to have called for his bow, and, shooting an arrow in the air, to have prayed for vengeance against the offenders; and three times every day, as he sat at table, his attendants were commanded to repeat to him, “Sir, remember the Athenians.”
From the time the Athenians had helped the forces of Miletus and played a role in the destruction of Sardis, their actions had deeply angered Darius. Like many rulers, he saw the foreign supporters of rebellion as worse offenders than the rebels themselves. Religion also fueled his outrage. In the fire that destroyed Sardis, the temple of the great Persian god was lost, and the unatoned sacrilege made revenge a duty. Darius was so infuriated by the involvement of the distant Athenians in the downfall of his Lydian capital that, upon hearing the news, he allegedly called for his bow, shot an arrow into the sky, and prayed for vengeance against the wrongdoers; and three times each day, while he dined, he commanded his attendants to remind him, “Sir, remember the Athenians.”
XIII. But the design of Mardonius was not only directed against the Athenians and the state of Eretria, it extended also to the rest of Greece: preparations so vast were not meant to be wasted upon foes apparently insignificant, but rather to consolidate the Persian conquests on the Asiatic coasts, and to impress on the neighbouring continent of Europe adequate conceptions of the power of the great king. By sea, Mardonius subdued the islanders of Thasus, wealthy in its gold-mines; by land he added to the Persian dependances in Thrace and Macedonia. But losses, both by storm and battle, drove him back to Asia, and delayed for a season the deliberate and organized invasion of Greece.
XIII. But Mardonius’s plan wasn’t just aimed at the Athenians and the people of Eretria; it also included the rest of Greece. Such extensive preparations weren’t meant to be wasted on seemingly minor enemies but were intended to strengthen Persian control along the Asian coasts and to impress the neighboring European continent with the power of the great king. At sea, Mardonius conquered the islanders of Thasus, which was rich in gold mines; on land, he expanded Persian territories in Thrace and Macedonia. However, losses from storms and battles forced him back to Asia and postponed the carefully organized invasion of Greece for a while.
In the following year (B. C. 491), while the tributary cities Mardonius had subdued were employed in constructing vessels of war and transports for cavalry, ambassadors were despatched by Darius to the various states of Greece, demanding the homage of earth and water—a preliminary calculated to ascertain who would resist, who submit to, his power—and certain to afford a pretext, in the one case for empire, in the other for invasion. Many of the cities of the continent, and all the islands visited by the ambassadors, had the timidity to comply with the terms proposed. Sparta and Athens, hitherto at variance, united at once in a haughty and indignant refusal. To so great a height was the popular rage in either state aroused by the very demand, that the Spartans threw the ambassadors into their wells, and the Athenians, into their pit of punishment, bidding them thence get their earth and water; a singular coincidence of excess in the two states—to be justified by no pretence—to be extenuated only by the reflection, that liberty ever becomes a species of noble madness when menaced by foreign danger. 269
In the following year (B.C. 491), while the cities Mardonius had conquered were busy building warships and transport for cavalry, Darius sent ambassadors to various states in Greece, demanding the tribute of earth and water—a preliminary move meant to see who would resist and who would submit to his power—and sure to provide a reason, in one case for empire, in the other for invasion. Many of the cities on the continent, and all the islands visited by the ambassadors, cowardly complied with the proposed terms. Sparta and Athens, previously in conflict, immediately united in a proud and angry refusal. The demand stirred up such strong outrage in both states that the Spartans threw the ambassadors into their wells, and the Athenians into their punishment pit, telling them to get their earth and water from there; an unusual coincidence of extreme reactions in both states—justifiable by no excuse—only explainable by the thought that liberty often becomes a form of noble madness when threatened by foreign danger. 269
XIV. With the rest of the islanders, the people of Aegina, less resolute than their near neighbours and ancient foes, the Athenians, acceded to the proposal of tribute. This, more than the pusillanimity of the other states, alarmed and inflamed the Athenians; they suspected that the aeginetans had formed some hostile alliance against them with the Persians, and hastened to accuse them to Sparta of betraying the liberties of Greece. Nor was there slight ground for the suspicions of the Athenians against Aegina. The people of that island had hereditary and bitter feuds with the Athenians, dating almost from their independence of their parent state of Epidaurus; mercantile jealousies were added to ancestral enmity, and the wares of Athens were forbidden all application to sacred uses in Aegina. We have seen the recent occasion on which Attica was invaded by these hostile neighbours, then allied with Thebes: and at that period the naval force of gins was such as to exceed the unconscious and untried resources of the Athenians. The latter had thus cause at once to hate and to dread a rival placed by nature in so immediate a vicinity to themselves, that the submission of Aegina to the Persian seemed in itself sufficient for the destruction of Athens.
XIV. Along with the other islanders, the people of Aegina, who were less determined than their nearby neighbors and longtime rivals, the Athenians, agreed to the tribute proposal. This, more than the weakness of the other states, worried and angered the Athenians; they suspected that the Aeginetans had formed some hostile alliance with the Persians and rushed to accuse them to Sparta of betraying Greece's freedoms. The Athenians had good reason to be suspicious of Aegina. The people of that island had longstanding and intense grudges against the Athenians, dating back to their independence from the parent state of Epidaurus; business rivalries added to their ancestral hostility, and the products of Athens were banned from being used for sacred purposes in Aegina. We have seen the recent instance when Attica was invaded by these hostile neighbors, who were then allied with Thebes: at that time, their naval strength was such that it surpassed the untested capabilities of the Athenians. Thus, the Athenians had ample reasons to both hate and fear a rival so close to them, making Aegina's submission to the Persians seem like an imminent threat to Athens itself.
XV. The Athenian ambassadors met with the most favourable reception at Sparta. The sense of their common danger, and sympathy in their mutual courage, united at once these rival states; even the rash and hitherto unrelenting Cleomenes eagerly sought a reconciliation with his former foe. That prince went in person to Aegina, determined to ascertain the authors of the suspected treachery;—with that characteristic violence which he never provided the means to support, and which so invariably stamps this unable and headstrong Spartan, as one who would have been a fool, if he had not been a madman—Cleomenes endeavoured to seize the persons of the accused. He was stoutly resisted, and disgracefully baffled, in this impotent rashness; and his fellow-king, Demaratus, whom we remember to have suddenly deserted Cleomenes at Eleusis, secretly connived with the Aeginetans in their opposition to his colleague, and furnished them with an excuse, by insinuating that Cleomenes had been corrupted by the Athenians. But Demaratus was little aware of the dark and deadly passions which Cleomenes combined with his constitutional insanity. Revenge made a great component of his character, and the Grecian history records few instances of a nature more vehemently vindictive.
XV. The Athenian ambassadors were welcomed warmly in Sparta. The shared awareness of their common threat and their mutual bravery quickly brought together these rival states; even the reckless and previously unyielding Cleomenes actively sought to make peace with his former enemy. That prince went personally to Aegina, determined to find out who was behind the suspected betrayal—displaying that characteristic aggression he never had the means to back up, which consistently marks this ineffective and headstrong Spartan as someone who would have been foolish if he hadn't also been mad. Cleomenes tried to arrest those he suspected, but he was met with strong resistance and was embarrassingly thwarted in this futile impulsiveness. His fellow-king, Demaratus, who we recall deserted Cleomenes at Eleusis, secretly supported the Aeginetans in their resistance against his colleague and provided them with a justification by suggesting that Cleomenes had been bribed by the Athenians. However, Demaratus was unaware of the dark and intense emotions that Cleomenes harbored alongside his inherent madness. Revenge was a significant part of Cleomenes' character, and Greek history notes few instances of a nature more intensely vindictive.
There had been various rumours at Sparta respecting the legitimacy of Demaratus. Cleomenes entered into a secret intrigue with a kinsman of his colleague, named Leotychides, who cherished an equal hatred against Demaratus 270; the conditions between them were, that Cleomenes should assist in raising Leotychides to the throne of Demaratus, and Leotychides should assist Cleomenes in his vengeance against Aegina. No sooner was this conspiracy agreed upon than Leotychides propagated everywhere the report that the birth of Demaratus was spurious. The Spartans attached the greatest value to legitimacy,—they sent to consult the Pythian—and Cleomenes, through the aid of Colon, a powerful citizen of Delphi, bribed the oracle to assert the illegitimacy of his foe. Demaratus was deposed. Sinking at once into the rank of a private citizen, he was elected to some inferior office. His enemy, Leotychides, now upon his throne, sent him, by way of insult, a message to demand which he preferred—his past or his present dignity. Demaratus was stung, and answered, that the question might fix the date of much weal or much wo to Sparta; saying this, he veiled his head—sought his home—sacrificed to Jupiter—and solemnly adjured his mother to enlighten him as to his legitimacy. The parental answer was far from unequivocal, and the matron appeared desirous of imputing the distinction of his birth to the shade of an ancient Spartan hero, Astrobachus, rather than to the earthly embrace of her husband. Demaratus heard, and formed his decision: he escaped from Sparta, baffled his pursuers, and fled into Asia, where he was honourably received and largely endowed by the beneficent Darius.
There had been various rumors in Sparta about the legitimacy of Demaratus. Cleomenes got involved in a secret plot with a relative of his colleague named Leotychides, who felt just as much animosity toward Demaratus 270; their agreement was that Cleomenes would help Leotychides take the throne from Demaratus, and in return, Leotychides would help Cleomenes get revenge on Aegina. As soon as this conspiracy was settled, Leotychides spread the word everywhere that Demaratus was illegitimate. The Spartans placed great importance on legitimacy—they sent a delegation to consult the Pythian oracle—and Cleomenes, with the help of Colon, a powerful citizen of Delphi, bribed the oracle to claim that Demaratus was not legitimate. Demaratus was deposed. Immediately dropped to the status of a private citizen, he was elected to a lesser office. His rival, Leotychides, now on the throne, insulted him by sending a message asking which he preferred—his former status or his current one. Demaratus was hurt by this and replied that the question could determine much good or bad for Sparta; after saying this, he covered his head, went home, sacrificed to Jupiter, and solemnly begged his mother to clarify his legitimacy. The response from his mother was far from clear, and she seemed eager to credit the quality of his birth to the spirit of a former Spartan hero, Astrobachus, rather than to the earthly union with her husband. Demaratus listened and made his choice: he escaped from Sparta, evaded his pursuers, and fled to Asia, where he was welcomed and generously rewarded by the benevolent Darius.
XVI. Leotychides, elected to the regal dignity, accompanied Cleomenes to Aegina: the people of that isle yielded to the authority they could not effectually resist; and ten of their most affluent citizens were surrendered as hostages to Athens. But, in the meanwhile, the collusion of Cleomenes with the oracle was discovered—the priestess was solemnly deposed—and Cleomenes dreaded the just indignation of his countrymen. He fled to Thessaly, and thence passing among the Arcadians, he endeavoured to bind that people by the darkest oaths to take arms against his native city—so far could hatred stimulate a man consistent only in his ruling passion of revenge. But the mighty power of Persia now lowering over Lacedaemon, the Spartan citizens resolved to sacrifice even justice to discretion: it was not a time to distract their forces by new foes, and they invited Cleomenes back to Sparta, with the offer of his former station. He returned, but his violent career, happily for all, was now closed; his constitutional madness, no longer confined to doubtful extravagance, burst forth into incontrollable excess. He was put under confinement, and obtaining a sword from a Helot, who feared to disobey his commands, he deliberately destroyed himself—not by one wound, but slowly gashing the flesh from his limbs until he gradually ascended to the nobler and more mortal parts. This ferocious suicide excited universal horror, and it was generally deemed the divine penalty of his numerous and sacrilegious crimes: the only dispute among the Greeks was, to which of his black offences the wrath of Heaven was the most justly due. 271
XVI. Leotychides, who was elected to the royal position, went with Cleomenes to Aegina. The people of the island submitted to the authority they couldn't effectively resist, and ten of their wealthiest citizens were handed over as hostages to Athens. However, meanwhile, the secret alliance between Cleomenes and the oracle was uncovered—the priestess was officially removed from her position—and Cleomenes feared the rightful anger of his fellow citizens. He fled to Thessaly and, while moving among the Arcadians, tried to persuade them with the darkest oaths to take up arms against his home city—such was the extent to which hatred motivated a man driven solely by a desire for revenge. But with the powerful threat of Persia looming over Lacedaemon, the Spartan citizens decided to prioritize pragmatism over justice: it wasn't the right time to spread their forces thin by taking on new enemies, so they invited Cleomenes back to Sparta, offering him his old position. He returned, but thankfully for everyone, his reckless path was now over; his mental illness, which had become more than just questionable behavior, erupted into uncontrollable madness. He was confined, and after getting a sword from a Helot who feared to disobey him, he intentionally took his own life—not with a single blow, but slowly cutting into his limbs until he ultimately reached his vital organs. This brutal suicide horrified everyone, and it was widely seen as a divine punishment for his many wicked and sacrilegious acts: the only debate among the Greeks was which of his numerous wrongdoings truly warranted the wrath of the gods. 271
XVII. No sooner did the news of his suicide reach the Aeginetans than those proud and wealthy islanders sought, by an embassy to Sparta, to regain their hostages yet detained at Athens. With the death of Cleomenes, the anger of Sparta against Aegina suddenly ceased—or, rather, we must suppose that a new party, in fellowship with the Aeginetan oligarchy, came into power. The Spartans blamed Leotychides for his co-operation with Cleomenes; they even offered to give him up to the Aeginetans—and it was finally agreed that he should accompany the ambassadors of Aegina to Athens, and insist on the surrender of the hostages. But the Athenians had now arrived at that spirit of independence, when nor the deadly blows of Persia, nor the iron sword of Sparta, nor the treacherous hostilities of their nearest neighbour, could quell their courage or subdue their pride. They disregarded the presence and the orations of Leotychides, and peremptorily refused to surrender their hostages. Hostilities between Aegina and Athens were immediately renewed. The Aeginetans captured (B. C. 494) the sacred vessel then stationed at Sunium, in which several of the most eminent Athenians were embarked for the festival of Apollo; nor could the sanctity of the voyage preserve the captives from the ignominy of irons. The Athenians resolved upon revenge, and a civil dissension in Aegina placed it in their power. An Aeginetan traitor, named Nicodromus, offered them his assistance, and, aided by the popular party opposed to the oligarchical government, he seized the citadel. With twenty ships from Corinth, and fifty of their own, the Athenians invaded Aegina; but, having been delayed in making the adequate preparations, they arrived a day later than had been stipulated. Nicodromus fled; the oligarchy restored, took signal and barbarous vengeance upon such of their insurgent countrymen as fell into their hands. Meanwhile, the Athenian fleet obtained a victory at sea, and the war still continued.
XVII. As soon as the news of his suicide reached the people of Aegina, those proud and wealthy islanders sent an embassy to Sparta to try to get back their hostages who were still held in Athens. With Cleomenes's death, Sparta's anger toward Aegina suddenly faded—or rather, we can assume that a new faction, allied with the Aeginetan oligarchy, took power. The Spartans blamed Leotychides for teaming up with Cleomenes; they even offered to hand him over to the Aeginetans—and it was finally agreed that he would go with the Aegina ambassadors to Athens to demand the return of the hostages. But the Athenians had developed a strong sense of independence; neither the deadly strikes from Persia nor the harsh sword of Sparta, nor the treacherous actions of their closest neighbors could dampen their courage or diminish their pride. They ignored Leotychides's presence and speeches and firmly refused to return their hostages. Hostilities between Aegina and Athens immediately resumed. The Aeginetans captured (B.C. 494) the sacred ship anchored at Sunium, which was carrying several prominent Athenians to the festival of Apollo; the sacred nature of the voyage couldn’t save the captives from the disgrace of chains. The Athenians decided to take revenge, and a civil conflict in Aegina made it possible. An Aeginetan traitor named Nicodromus offered them his help, and with the support of the popular party against the oligarchical government, he took control of the citadel. With twenty ships from Corinth and fifty of their own, the Athenians invaded Aegina; however, due to delays in their preparations, they arrived a day later than planned. Nicodromus fled; the oligarchy was restored and took brutal vengeance on any of their rebellious countrymen they could capture. In the meantime, the Athenian fleet achieved a victory at sea, and the war continued.
XVIII. While, seemingly unconscious of greater dangers, Athens thus practised her rising energies against the little island of Aegina, thrice every day the servants of the Persian king continued to exclaim, “Sir, remember the Athenians!” 272 The traitor, Hippias, constantly about the person of the courteous monarch, never failed to stimulate still further his vengeance by appealing to his ambition. At length, Darius resolved no longer to delay the accomplishment of his designs. He recalled Mardonius, whose energy, indeed, had not been proportioned to his powers, and appointed two other generals— Datis, a native of the warlike Media, and Artaphernes, his own nephew, son to the former satrap of that name. These were expressly ordered to march at once against Eretria and Athens. And Hippias, now broken in frame, advanced in age 273, and after an exile of twenty years, accompanied the Persian army—sanguine of success, and grasping, at the verge of life the shadow of his former sceptre.
XVIII. While seemingly unaware of greater dangers, Athens was busy flexing its growing strength against the small island of Aegina, and three times a day, the servants of the Persian king kept saying, “Sir, don’t forget the Athenians!” 272 The traitor, Hippias, always near the courteous monarch, never missed a chance to further fuel his anger by appealing to his ambition. Eventually, Darius decided he could no longer postpone his plans. He recalled Mardonius, whose energy hadn't matched his potential, and appointed two new generals—Datis, a local from the warlike Media, and Artaphernes, his own nephew, the son of the previous satrap of that name. They were specifically ordered to march immediately against Eretria and Athens. Hippias, now physically weakened and older 273, after twenty years in exile, joined the Persian army—hopeful for success and clinging to the remnants of his former power.
CHAPTER V.
The Persian Generals enter Europe.—Invasion of Naxos, Carystus, Eretria.—The Athenians Demand the Aid of Sparta.—The Result of their Mission and the Adventure of their Messenger.—The Persians advance to Marathon.—The Plain Described.—Division of Opinion in the Athenian Camp.—The Advice of Miltiades prevails.—The Dream of Hippias.—The Battle of Marathon.
The Persian generals arrive in Europe. Invasion of Naxos, Carystus, and Eretria. The Athenians ask Sparta for help. The outcome of their mission and the experience of their messenger. The Persians move towards Marathon. Description of the plain. Division of opinion in the Athenian camp. Miltiades’ advice wins out. Hippias’ dream. The Battle of Marathon.
I. On the Cilician coast the Persian armament encamped—thence, in a fleet of six hundred triremes, it sailed to Samos (B. C. 490)—passed through the midst of the clustering Cyclades, and along that part of the Aegaean Sea called “the Icarian,” from the legendary fate of the son of Daedalus—invaded Naxos—burnt her town and temples, and sparing the sacred Delos, in which the Median Datis reverenced the traditionary birthplace of two deities analogous to those most honoured in the Persian creed 274—awed into subjection the various isles, until it arrived at Euboea, divided but by a strait from Attica, and containing the city of the Eretrians. The fleet first assailed Carystus, whose generous citizens refused both to aid against their neighbours, and to give hostages for their conduct. Closely besieged, and their lands wasted, they were compelled, however, to surrender to the Persians. Thence the victorious armament passed to Eretria. The Athenians had sent to the relief of that city the four thousand colonists whom they had established in the island—but fear, jealousy, division, were within the walls. Ruin seemed certain, and a chief of the Eretrians urged the colonists to quit a city which they were unable to save. They complied with the advice, and reached Attica in safety. Eretria, however, withstood a siege of six days; on the seventh the city was betrayed to the barbarians by two of that fatal oligarchical party, who in every Grecian city seem to have considered no enemy so detestable as the majority of their own citizens; the place was pillaged—the temples burnt—the inhabitants enslaved. Here the Persians rested for a few days ere they embarked for Attica.
I. On the Cilician coast, the Persian army set up camp—then, in a fleet of six hundred triremes, it sailed to Samos (B.C. 490)—passing through the clustered Cyclades and along the part of the Aegean Sea called "the Icarian," named after the legendary fate of Daedalus's son. They invaded Naxos, burned its town and temples while sparing the sacred Delos, where Datis from Media respected the believed birthplace of two deities similar to those honored in the Persian religion 274—and subdued the various islands until they reached Euboea, which was divided from Attica by a strait and included the city of the Eretrians. The fleet first attacked Carystus, whose generous citizens refused to help against their neighbors or provide hostages. Despite being closely besieged and having their lands devastated, they were forced to surrender to the Persians. From there, the victorious fleet moved on to Eretria. The Athenians had sent four thousand colonists they had settled on the island to help that city—but fear, jealousy, and division were rampant within the walls. Destruction seemed inevitable, and a leader among the Eretrians urged the colonists to leave a city they couldn't save. They took his advice and made it to Attica safely. However, Eretria held out for six days under siege; on the seventh, the city was betrayed to the invaders by two members of the treacherous oligarchical faction, who in every Greek city seemed to view no enemy as repugnant as the majority of their fellow citizens. The city was looted, the temples were burned, and the inhabitants were enslaved. Here, the Persians rested for a few days before boarding their ships for Attica.
II. Unsupported and alone, the Athenians were not dismayed. A swift-footed messenger was despatched to Sparta, to implore its prompt assistance. On the day after his departure from Athens, he reached his destination, went straight to the assembled magistrates, and thus addressed them:
II. Unsupported and alone, the Athenians were not discouraged. A quick-footed messenger was sent to Sparta to urgently ask for help. The day after he left Athens, he arrived at his destination, went straight to the gathered officials, and said to them:
“Men of Lacedaemon, the Athenians supplicate your aid; suffer not the most ancient of the Grecian cities to be enslaved by the barbarian. Already Eretria is subjected to their yoke, and all Greece is diminished by the loss of that illustrious city.”
“Men of Sparta, the Athenians are asking for your help; don’t let the oldest of the Greek cities fall into the hands of the barbarians. Eretria is already under their control, and all of Greece is weakened by the loss of that great city.”
The resource the Athenians had so much right to expect failed them. The Spartans, indeed, resolved to assist Athens, but not until assistance would have come too late. They declared that their religion forbade them to commence a march till the moon was at her full, and this was only the ninth day of the month 275. With this unsatisfying reply, the messenger returned to Athens. But, employed in this arduous enterprise—his imagination inflamed by the greatness of the danger—and its workings yet more kindled by the loneliness of his adventure and the mountain stillness of the places through which he passed, the Athenian messenger related, on his return, a vision less probably the creation of his invention than of his excited fancy. Passing over the Mount Parthenius, amid whose wild recesses gloomed the antique grove dedicated to Telephus, the son of Hercules 276, the Athenian heard a voice call to him aloud, and started to behold that mystic god to whom, above the rest of earth, were dedicated the hills and woods of Arcady—the Pelasgic Pan. The god bade him “ask at Athens why the Athenians forgot his worship—he who loved them well— and might yet assist them at their need.”
The support the Athenians had every right to expect let them down. The Spartans, indeed, decided to help Athens, but not until it would be too late. They claimed their religion prevented them from starting a march until the moon was full, and it was only the ninth day of the month 275. With this unsatisfactory response, the messenger returned to Athens. But, engaged in this challenging task—his mind fired up by the seriousness of the threat—and further ignited by the solitude of his journey and the quiet mountains he traversed, the Athenian messenger shared, upon his return, a story that seemed less likely to be purely his imagination than an expression of his heightened emotions. As he crossed Mount Parthenius, through its wild hidden areas where the ancient grove dedicated to Telephus, the son of Hercules 276, loomed, the Athenian heard a voice calling out to him and was startled to see that mystical god to whom the hills and woods of Arcady were especially dedicated—the Pelasgic Pan. The god instructed him to “ask at Athens why the Athenians have forgotten his worship—he who loved them well—and might yet help them in their time of need.”
Such was the tale of the messenger. The lively credulities of the people believed its truth, and in calmer times dedicated a temple to the deity, venerated him with annual sacrifices, and the race of torches.
Such was the story of the messenger. The enthusiastic beliefs of the people accepted its truth, and in more peaceful times, they built a temple for the deity, honored him with yearly sacrifices, and carried out the tradition of torches.
III. While the Athenians listened to the dreams of this poetical superstition, the mighty thousands of the Mede and Persian landed on the Attic coast, and, conducted by Hippias among their leaders, marched to the plain of Marathon, which the traveller still beholds stretching wide and level, amid hills and marshes, at the distance of only ten miles from the gates of Athens. Along the shore the plain extends to the length of six miles—inland it exceeds two. He who surveys it now looks over a dreary waste, whose meager and arid herbage is relieved but by the scanty foliage of unfrequent shrubs or pear-trees, and a few dwarf pines drooping towards the sea. Here and there may be seen the grazing buffalo, or the peasant bending at his plough:—a distant roof, a ruined chapel, are not sufficient evidences of the living to interpose between the imagination of the spectator and the dead. Such is the present Marathon—we are summoned back to the past.
III. While the Athenians were caught up in the dreams of this poetic superstition, the massive forces of the Mede and Persian landed on the Attic coast, and, guided by Hippias among their leaders, marched to the plain of Marathon. Today, you can still see this wide and flat plain stretching out, surrounded by hills and swamps, just ten miles from the gates of Athens. The plain runs along the shore for six miles and extends over two miles inland. Nowadays, anyone looking at it sees a bleak wasteland, where the poor, dry grass is only occasionally brightened by sparse shrubs or pear trees, along with a few stunted pines leaning toward the sea. You might spot a grazing buffalo here and there, or a farmer bent over his plow. A distant house or a ruined chapel doesn't provide enough signs of life to bridge the gap between the observer's imagination and the silence of the past. This is the present-day Marathon—we are called back to what it once was.
IV. It will be remembered that the Athenians were divided into ten tribes at the instigation of Clisthenes. Each of these tribes nominated a general; there were therefore ten leaders to the Athenian army. Among them was Miltiades, who had succeeded in ingratiating himself with the Athenian people, and obtained from their suffrages a command. 277
IV. It should be noted that the Athenians were divided into ten tribes at the urging of Clisthenes. Each of these tribes appointed a general, resulting in ten leaders for the Athenian army. One of them was Miltiades, who managed to win over the Athenian people and secured a command through their votes. 277
Aided by a thousand men from Plataea, then on terms of intimate friendship with the Athenians, the little army marched from the city, and advanced to the entrance of the plain of Marathon. Here they arrayed themselves in martial order, near the temple of Hercules, to the east of the hills that guard the upper part of the valley. Thus encamped, and in sight of the gigantic power of the enemy, darkening the long expanse that skirts the sea, divisions broke out among the leaders;—some contended that a battle was by no means to be risked with such inferior forces—others, on the contrary, were for giving immediate battle. Of this latter advice was Miltiades—he was supported by a man already of high repute, though now first presented to our notice, and afterward destined to act a great and splendid part in the drama of his times. Aristides was one of the generals of the army 278, and strenuously co-operated with Miltiades in the policy of immediate battle.
Aided by a thousand men from Plataea, who were close allies of the Athenians, the small army marched out of the city and made their way to the entrance of the plain of Marathon. There, they formed up in battle order near the temple of Hercules, to the east of the hills that overlook the upper part of the valley. Camped there, and facing the enormous threat of the enemy, who darkened the long stretch along the sea, divisions arose among the leaders; some argued that they shouldn’t risk a battle with such a smaller force, while others insisted on fighting immediately. Among the latter was Miltiades, supported by a man who was already well-regarded, even though this was our first introduction to him, and who would go on to play a major and impressive role in the events of his time. Aristides was one of the generals of the army 278, and he worked closely with Miltiades in advocating for an immediate battle.
Despite, however, the military renown of the one, and the civil eminence of the other, the opposite and more tame opinion seemed likely to prevail, when Miltiades suddenly thus addressed the Polemarch Callimachus. That magistrate, the third of the nine archons, was held by virtue of his office equal in dignity to the military leaders, and to him was confided the privilege of a casting vote.
Despite the military fame of one and the civic respect of the other, a more cautious opinion seemed likely to win out when Miltiades suddenly spoke to the Polemarch Callimachus. That magistrate, being the third of the nine archons, was considered equal in status to the military leaders, and he held the important role of casting the deciding vote.
“On you, Callimachus,” said the chief of the Chersonese, “on you it rests, whether Athens shall be enslaved, or whether from age to age your country, freed by your voice, shall retain in yours a name dearer to her even than those of Aristogiton and Harmodius 279. Never since the foundation of Athens was she placed in so imminent a peril. If she succumb to the Mede, she is rendered again to the tyranny of Hippias—but if she conquer, she may rise to the first eminence among the states of Greece. How this may be accomplished, and how upon your decision rests the event, I will at once explain. The sentiments of our leaders are divided—these are for instant engagement, those for procrastination. Depend upon it, if we delay, some sedition, some tumult will break out among the Athenians, and may draw a part of them to favour the Medes; but if we engage at once, and before a single dissension takes from us a single man, we may, if the gods give us equal fortune, obtain the victory. Consider the alternative—our decision depends on you.”
“It's up to you, Callimachus,” said the leader of the Chersonese, “whether Athens will be enslaved or whether, with your support, your country will keep a name even more cherished than those of Aristogiton and Harmodius 279. Never since Athens was founded has she faced such a serious threat. If she falls to the Mede, she will once again endure the tyranny of Hippias—but if she wins, she could become the leading state in Greece. Let me explain how this can happen and how much relies on your choice. Our leaders are split—some want to engage immediately, while others suggest we wait. I assure you, if we hesitate, unrest and chaos will erupt among the Athenians, possibly swaying some to support the Medes; but if we strike now, before any disagreement costs us a single soldier, we may, if the gods favor us, achieve victory. Think about the options—our decision hinges on you.”
V. The arguments of Miltiades convinced Callimachus, who knew well the many divisions of the city, the strength which Hippias and the Pisistratidae still probably possessed within its walls, and who could not but allow that a superior force becomes ever more fearful the more deliberately it is regarded. He interposed his authority. It was decided to give battle. Each general commanded in turn his single day. When it came to the turn of Aristides, he gave up his right to Miltiades, showing his colleagues that it was no disgrace to submit to the profound experience of another. The example once set was universally followed, and Miltiades was thus left in absolute and undivided command. But that able and keen-sighted chief, fearing perhaps that if he took from another his day of command, jealousy might damp the ardour of the general thus deprived, and, as it were, degraded, waited till his own appointed day before he commenced the attack.
V. The arguments of Miltiades convinced Callimachus, who was well aware of the many divisions within the city and the strength that Hippias and the Pisistratidae likely still had within its walls. He couldn't help but acknowledge that a stronger force becomes even more intimidating the more it is considered. He used his authority to intervene. It was decided to go into battle. Each general took command for a single day in turn. When it was Aristides' turn, he gave up his day to Miltiades, demonstrating to his colleagues that there was no shame in yielding to the considerable experience of another. Once this example was set, everyone followed suit, and Miltiades was left with complete and undisputed command. However, that capable and perceptive leader, perhaps fearing that taking another's day of command might incite jealousy and dampen the enthusiasm of the general who would be sidelined, waited until his own designated day before initiating the attack.
VI. On the night before Hippias conducted the barbarians to the plains of Marathon, he is said to have dreamed a dream. He thought he was with his mother! In the fondness of human hopes he interpreted the vision favourably, and flattered himself that he should regain his authority, and die in his own house of old age. The morning now arrived (B. C. 490) that was to attest the veracity of his interpretation.
VI. The night before Hippias led the barbarians to the plains of Marathon, he reportedly had a dream. He believed he was with his mother! In a hopeful moment, he took the vision as a good sign and convinced himself that he would regain his power and die peacefully in his own home from old age. The morning arrived (B.C. 490) that would prove whether his interpretation was correct.
VII. To the left of the Athenians was a low chain of hills, clothed with trees (and which furnished them timber to break the charge of the Persian horse)—to their right a torrent;—their front was long, for, to render it more imposing in extent, and to prevent being outflanked by the Persian numbers, the centre ranks were left weak and shallow, but on either wing the troops were drawn up more solidly and strong. Callimachus, the polemarch, commanded the right wing—the Plataeans formed the left. They had few, if any, horsemen or archers. The details which we possess of their arms and military array, if not in this, in other engagements of the same period, will complete the picture. We may behold them clad in bright armour, well proof and tempered, which covered breast and back—the greaves, so often mentioned by Homer, were still retained—their helmets were wrought and crested, the cones mostly painted in glowing colours, and the plumage of feathers or horse-hair rich and waving, in proportion to the rank of the wearer. Broad, sturdy, and richly ornamented were their bucklers—the pride and darling of their arms, the loss of which was the loss of honour; their spears were ponderous, thick, and long— a chief mark of contradistinction from the slight shaft of Persia— and, with their short broadsword, constituted their main weapons of offence. No Greek army marched to battle without vows, and sacrifice, and prayer—and now, in the stillness of the pause, the soothsayers examined the entrails of the victims—they were propitious, and Callimachus solemnly vowed to Diana a victim for the slaughter of every foe. Loud broke the trumpets 280—the standards wrought with the sacred bird of Athens were raised on high 281;—it was the signal of battle—and the Athenians rushed with an impetuous vehemence upon the Persian power. “The first Greeks of whom I have heard,” says the simple Halicarnassean, “who ever ran to attack a foe—the first, too, who ever beheld without dismay the garb and armour of the Medes; for hitherto in Greece the very name of Mede had excited terror.”
VII. To the left of the Athenians was a low range of hills covered in trees, which provided timber to counter the charge of the Persian cavalry. To their right was a rushing stream. Their front line was long; to make it seem more impressive and to avoid being outflanked by the larger Persian forces, they kept the center ranks weak and shallow, but they assembled stronger and more solid troops on either wing. Callimachus, the polemarch, led the right wing, and the Plataeans made up the left. They had few, if any, cavalry or archers. The details we have about their weapons and military formation, whether in this battle or other engagements of the same period, complete the picture. We can see them wearing bright armor, well-made and durable, covering their front and back. The greaves frequently mentioned by Homer were still in use—their helmets were elaborately designed and crested, the cones mostly painted in vivid colors, and the plumes of feathers or horsehair varied in richness and motion according to the wearer's rank. Their shields were broad, sturdy, and ornately decorated—the pride and love of their weapons, the loss of which was seen as a loss of honor; their spears were heavy, thick, and long—a key feature that set them apart from the slender shafts of the Persians—and, along with their short broadswords, made up their main weapons of offense. No Greek army went to battle without making vows, sacrifices, and prayers—and now, in the silence of this pause, the soothsayers examined the entrails of the sacrifices—they were favorable, and Callimachus solemnly vowed to Diana a victim for each enemy they would defeat. Suddenly, the trumpets sounded 280—the standards bearing the sacred bird of Athens were raised high 281;—it was the signal for battle—and the Athenians charged forward with fierce intensity against the Persian forces. "The first Greeks I've heard of," says the simple Halicarnassean, "who ever ran to attack an enemy—the first, too, who ever looked upon the clothing and armor of the Medes without fear; for until now, in Greece, even the name of Mede had inspired terror."
VIII. When the Persian army, with its numerous horse, animal as well as man protected by plates of mail 283—its expert bowmen—its lines and deep files of turbaned soldiers, gorgeous with many a blazing standard,—headed by leaders well hardened, despite their gay garbs and adorned breastplates, in many a more even field;—when, I say, this force beheld the Athenians rushing towards them, they considered them, thus few, and destitute alike of cavalry and archers 284, as madmen hurrying to destruction. But it was evidently not without deliberate calculation that Miltiades had so commenced the attack. The warlike experience of his guerilla life had taught him to know the foe against whom he fought. To volunteer the assault was to forestall and cripple the charge of the Persian horse—besides, the long lances, the heavy arms, the hand-to-hand valour of the Greeks, must have been no light encounter to the more weakly mailed and less formidably-armed infantry of the East. Accustomed themselves to give the charge, it was a novelty and a disadvantage to receive it. Long, fierce, and stubborn was the battle. The centre wing of the barbarians, composed of the Sacians and the pure Persian race, at length pressed hard upon the shallow centre of the Greeks, drove them back into the country, and, eager with pursuit, left their own wings to the charge of Callimachus on the one side and the Plataean forces on the other. The brave polemarch, after the most signal feats of valour, fell fighting in the field; but his troops, undismayed, smote on with spear and sword. The barbarians retreated backward to the sea, where swamps and marshes encumbered their movements, and here (though the Athenians did not pursue them far) the greater portion were slain, hemmed in by the morasses, and probably ridden down by their own disordered cavalry. Meanwhile, the two tribes that had formed the centre, one of which was commanded by Aristides 285, retrieved themselves with a mighty effort, and the two wings, having routed their antagonists, now inclining towards each other, intercepted the barbarian centre, which, thus attacked, front and rear (large trees felled and scattered over the plain obstructing the movements of their cavalry), was defeated with prodigious slaughter. Evening came on 286:—confused and disorderly, the Persians now only thought of flight: the whole army retired to their ships, hard chased by the Grecian victors, who, amid the carnage, fired the fleet. Cynaegirus, brother to Aeschylus, the tragic poet (himself highly distinguished for his feats that day), seized one of the vessels by the poop: his hand was severed by an axe; he died gloriously of his wounds. But to none did the fortunes of that field open a more illustrious career than to a youth of the tribe Leontis, in whom, though probably then but a simple soldier in the ranks, was first made manifest the nature and the genius destined to command. The name of that youth was Themistocles 287. Seven vessels were captured—six thousand four hundred of the barbarians fell in the field—the Athenians and their brave ally lost only one hundred and ninety-two; but among them perished many of their bravest nobles. It was a superstition not uncharacteristic of that imaginative people, and evincing how greatly their ardour was aroused, that many of them (according to Plutarch) fancied they beheld the gigantic shade of their ancestral Theseus, completely armed, and bearing down before them upon the foe.
VIII. When the Persian army, with its many horses, and soldiers protected by armor 283—its skilled archers—its ranks of turbaned fighters, bright with numerous fierce standards,—led by experienced commanders, despite their colorful outfits and decorated breastplates, from many previous battles;—when they saw the Athenians rushing towards them, they viewed them, so few in number and lacking both cavalry and archers 284, as crazed individuals rushing towards their end. But it was clear that Miltiades had planned this attack deliberately. His military experience from guerrilla warfare taught him about the enemy he was up against. Launching the assault first would disrupt and hinder the Persian cavalry’s charge—plus, the long spears, heavy armor, and close combat bravery of the Greeks were no light challenge for the less well-armored infantry from the East. Used to being the aggressors, it was a new situation and a disadvantage for them to be on the defensive. The battle was long, fierce, and stubborn. The central wing of the Persians, made up of the Sacians and pure Persians, eventually pressed hard on the weak center of the Greeks, pushing them back into their land, and in their eagerness to chase, left their flanks open to the attack from Callimachus on one side and the Plataean forces on the other. The brave polemarch fought valiantly before falling, but his troops, undeterred, continued to strike with spear and sword. The Persians retreated to the sea, where swamps and marshes hindered their movements, and here (although the Athenians did not pursue them far) most were killed, trapped by the marshes and likely trampled by their own chaotic cavalry. Meanwhile, the two tribes that had formed the center, one of which was led by Aristides 285, regrouped with tremendous effort, and the two wings, having scattered their opponents, turned inward to intercept the Persian center, which, caught in front and back (with large trees toppled and scattered across the plain blocking their cavalry movements), was defeated with massive losses. As evening approached 286:—confused and disorganized, the Persians only thought of retreat: the entire army withdrew to their ships, closely pursued by the victorious Greeks, who set fire to the fleet amidst the carnage. Cynaegirus, brother of Aeschylus, the famous tragic poet (who himself distinguished himself in battle that day), grabbed onto the stern of one ship: his hand was chopped off by an axe; he died heroically from his injuries. However, none were as significantly recognized from that battle as a young man from the tribe of Leontis, who, though likely just a regular soldier at the time, first showed the nature and talent destined for leadership. The name of that young man was Themistocles 287. Seven ships were captured—six thousand four hundred Persians were killed in the battle—the Athenians and their brave ally lost only one hundred and ninety-two; but among the dead were many of their noblest warriors. It was a superstition typical of that imaginative people, showing how fired up they were, that many of them (according to Plutarch) believed they saw the gigantic spirit of their ancestor Theseus, fully armed, charging at the enemy.
So perished the hopes of the unfortunate Hippias; obscure and inglorious in his last hour, the exiled prince fell confounded amid the general slaughter. 288
So ended the hopes of the unfortunate Hippias; unknown and forgotten in his final moments, the exiled prince fell overwhelmed in the midst of the widespread chaos. 288
IX. Despite the capture of some vessels, and the conflagration of others, the Persians still retained a considerable fleet, and, succeeding in boarding their Eretrian plunder (which they had left on the Euboean Isle), they passed thence the promontory of Sunium, with the intention of circumventing the Athenians, and arriving at Athens before them—a design which it was supposed they were induced to form by the treachery of some one suspected, without sufficient proof, to belong to the house of the Alcmaeonids, who held up a shield as a signal to the Persians while they were under sail 289. But the Athenians were under a prompt and vigilant commander, and while the barbarian fleet doubled the Cape of Sunium, they reached their city, and effectually prevented the designs of the foe. Aristides, with the tribe under his command, was left on the field to guard the prisoners and the booty, and his scrupulous honesty was evinced by his jealous care over the scattered and uncounted treasure 290. The painter of the nobler schools might find perhaps few subjects worthier of his art than Aristides watching at night amid the torches of his men over the plains of Marathon, in sight of the blue Aegean, no longer crowded with the barbarian masts;—and the white columns of the temple of Hercules, beside which the Athenians had pitched their camp.
IX. Even though they captured some ships and burned others, the Persians still had a significant fleet. They successfully boarded their Eretrian loot, which they had left on Euboean Isle, and then sailed past Cape Sunium, planning to outsmart the Athenians and reach Athens before them. It was believed that they were encouraged to make this plan by the betrayal of someone suspected, without solid proof, to be associated with the Alcmaeonids, who signaled the Persians by holding up a shield while they sailed 289. However, the Athenians had a quick and alert commander, and as the Persian fleet rounded Cape Sunium, they arrived in their city and effectively thwarted the enemy’s plans. Aristides, leading his tribe, stayed on the battlefield to guard the prisoners and the spoils, demonstrating his integrity through his careful supervision of the scattered and uncounted treasure 290. The painter of prestigious schools might find few subjects as worthy of his art as Aristides standing watch at night among his men’s torches over the plains of Marathon, overlooking the calm blue Aegean, no longer filled with enemy ships, and the white columns of the temple of Hercules, next to which the Athenians had set up their camp.
The Persian fleet anchored off Phalerum, the Athenian harbour, and remaining there, menacing but inactive, a short time, sailed back to Asia.
The Persian fleet dropped anchor at Phalerum, the Athenian harbor, and after staying there for a brief time, threatening but not making any moves, they sailed back to Asia.
X. The moon had passed her full, when two thousand Spartans arrived at Athens: the battle was over and the victory won; but so great was their desire to see the bodies of the formidable Medes, that they proceeded to Marathon, and, returning to Athens, swelled the triumph of her citizens by their applause and congratulations.
X. The moon had passed full when two thousand Spartans arrived in Athens: the battle was over and the victory secured; but their desire to see the bodies of the formidable Medes was so strong that they went to Marathon, and upon returning to Athens, they added to the triumph of the citizens with their applause and congratulations.
XI. The marble which the Persians had brought with them, in order to erect as a trophy of the victory they anticipated, was, at a subsequent period, wrought by Phidias into a statue of Nemesis. A picture of the battle, representing Miltiades in the foremost place, and solemnly preserved in public, was deemed no inadequate reward to that great captain; and yet, conspicuous above the level plain of Marathon, rises a long barrow, fifteen feet in height, the supposed sepulchre of the Athenian heroes. Still does a romantic legend, not unfamiliar with our traditions of the north, give a supernatural terror to the spot. Nightly along the plain are yet heard by superstition the neighings of chargers and the rushing shadows of spectral war 291. And still, throughout the civilized world (civilized how much by the arts and lore of Athens!) men of every clime, of every political persuasion, feel as Greeks at the name of Marathon. Later fields have presented the spectacle of an equal valour, and almost the same disparities of slaughter; but never, in the annals of earth, were united so closely in our applause, admiration for the heroism of the victors, and sympathy for the holiness of their cause. It was the first great victory of OPINION! and its fruits were reaped, not by Athens only, but by all Greece then, as by all time thereafter, in a mighty and imperishable harvest,—the invisible not less than the actual force of despotism was broken. Nor was it only that the dread which had hung upon the Median name was dispelled—nor that free states were taught their pre-eminence over the unwieldy empires which the Persian conquerors had destroyed,—a greater lesson was taught to Greece, when she discovered that the monarch of Asia could not force upon a petty state the fashion of its government, or the selection of its rulers. The defeat of Hippias was of no less value than that of Darius; and the same blow which struck down the foreign invader smote also the hopes of domestic tyrants.
XI. The marble that the Persians brought with them to set up as a trophy for the victory they expected was later crafted by Phidias into a statue of Nemesis. A depiction of the battle, showing Miltiades in the forefront, and held in public as a solemn tribute, was considered a fitting reward for that great leader. Yet, standing prominently above the flat plain of Marathon, there’s a long mound, fifteen feet tall, believed to be the burial site of the Athenian heroes. To this day, a romantic legend, reminiscent of our northern traditions, gives an eerie vibe to the area. At night, the superstitions still claim to hear the neighing of horses and the rushing shadows of ghostly warriors along the plain 291. And even now, throughout the civilized world (civilized greatly by the arts and knowledge of Athens!), people from every background and political view feel like Greeks when they hear the name Marathon. Later battles have shown the same bravery and nearly the same losses, but never in the history of the world have we united so closely in our praise, admiration for the courage of the victors, and sympathy for the righteousness of their cause. It was the first significant victory of OPINION! and its benefits were enjoyed not just by Athens but by all of Greece then, and by all generations afterward, resulting in a powerful and everlasting impact—the invisible, as well as the actual, force of tyranny was defeated. It wasn’t just the fear surrounding the Medes that was lifted—nor was it simply that free states recognized their superiority over the massive empires destroyed by the Persian conquerors; a more profound lesson was learned by Greece when it realized that the Asian monarch couldn't impose a style of government or the choice of its leaders on a smaller state. The defeat of Hippias was just as important as that of Darius; the same strike that took down the foreign invader also challenged the hopes of local tyrants.
One successful battle for liberty quickens and exalts that proud and emulous spirit from which are called forth the civilization and the arts that liberty should produce, more rapidly than centuries of repose. To Athens the victory of Marathon was a second Solon.
One successful fight for freedom energizes and uplifts that proud and competitive spirit that leads to civilization and the arts that freedom should foster, much faster than centuries of rest. For Athens, the victory at Marathon was like a second Solon.
END OF THE ORIGINAL PRINT VOLUME I.
END OF THE ORIGINAL PRINT VOLUME I.
BOOK III.
FROM THE BATTLE OF MARATHON TO THE BATTLES OF PLATAEA AND MYCALE, B. C. 490—B. C. 479.
FROM THE BATTLE OF MARATHON TO THE BATTLES OF PLATAEA AND MYCALE, B.C. 490—B.C. 479.
CHAPTER I.
The Character and Popularity of Miltiades.—Naval Expedition.—Siege of Paros.—Conduct of Miltiades.—He is Accused and Sentenced.—His Death.
The Character and Popularity of Miltiades.—Naval Expedition.—Siege of Paros.—Conduct of Miltiades.—He is Accused and Sentenced.—His Death.
I. History is rarely more than the biography of great men. Through a succession of individuals we trace the character and destiny of nations. THE PEOPLE glide away from us, a sublime but intangible abstraction, and the voice of the mighty Agora reaches us only through the medium of its representatives to posterity. The more democratic the state, the more prevalent this delegation of its history to the few; since it is the prerogative of democracies to give the widest competition and the keenest excitement to individual genius: and the true spirit of democracy is dormant or defunct, when we find no one elevated to an intellectual throne above the rest. In regarding the characters of men thus concentrating upon themselves our survey of a nation, it is our duty sedulously to discriminate between their qualities and their deeds: for it seldom happens that their renown in life was unattended with reverses equally signal—that the popularity of to-day was not followed by the persecution of to-morrow: and in these vicissitudes, our justice is no less appealed to than our pity, and we are called upon to decide, as judges, a grave and solemn cause between the silence of a departed people, and the eloquence of imperishable names.
I. History is often just the story of great individuals. Through a series of people, we can see the character and fate of nations. THE PEOPLE slip away from us, a grand but abstract concept, and the voice of the powerful Agora reaches us only through its representatives in history. The more democratic a society is, the more its history is recorded by a select few; democracies tend to foster the widest competition and the most intense excitement for individual talent. The true spirit of democracy is dormant or missing when there is no one elevated to an intellectual throne above the others. When we focus on the traits of individuals in our examination of a nation, we must carefully distinguish between their qualities and their actions: it’s rare that their fame in life was free from significant setbacks—that today's popularity wasn’t followed by tomorrow’s persecution. In these ups and downs, we are called to exercise both justice and compassion, tasked with making a serious decision as if we were judges in a significant case between the silence of a vanished people and the enduring voices of celebrated individuals.
We have already observed in the character of Miltiades that astute and calculating temperament common to most men whose lot it has been to struggle for precarious power in the midst of formidable foes. We have seen that his profound and scheming intellect was not accompanied by any very rigid or high-wrought principle; and placed, as the chief of the Chersonese had been from his youth upward, in situations of great peril and embarrassment, aiming always at supreme power, and, in his harassed and stormy domain, removed far from the public opinion of the free states of Greece, it was natural that his political code should have become tempered by a sinister ambition, and that the citizen of Athens should be actuated by motives scarcely more disinterested than those which animated the tyrant of the Chersonese. The ruler of one district may be the hero, but can scarcely be the patriot, of another. The long influence of years and custom—the unconscious deference to the opinion of those whom our youth has been taught to venerate, can alone suffice to tame down an enterprising and grasping mind to objects of public advantage, in preference to designs for individual aggrandizement: influence of such a nature had never operated upon the views and faculties of the hero of Marathon. Habituated to the enjoyment of absolute command, he seemed incapable of the duties of civil subordination; and the custom of a life urged him onto the desire of power 1. These features of his character fairly considered, we shall see little to astonish us in the later reverses of Miltiades, and find additional causes for the popular suspicions he incurred.
We’ve already seen in Miltiades the clever and strategic mindset typical of most people who fight for unstable power against strong enemies. We noticed that his deep and cunning intellect didn’t come with any strict or elevated principles; and since the leader of the Chersonese had been in situations of great danger and difficulty from a young age, always aiming for ultimate power and, in his chaotic and turbulent domain, far from the opinions of the free states of Greece, it was only natural that his political approach would be influenced by a dark ambition, and that an Athenian citizen would be motivated by reasons not much more noble than those driving the tyrant of the Chersonese. The ruler of one area may be seen as a hero, but he can hardly be considered a patriot of another. The long-lasting impact of years and habits—the unthinking respect for the opinions of those we were taught to admire in our youth—can only tame an ambitious and grasping mind to focus on public good instead of personal gain: such influence had never affected the perspective and capabilities of the hero of Marathon. Accustomed to absolute authority, he appeared unable to perform the duties of civil obedience, and the pattern of his life pushed him toward a desire for power 1. With these aspects of his character in mind, we shouldn't be surprised by Miltiades' later downfalls and we can find more reasons for the public mistrust he faced.
II. But after the victory of Marathon, the power of Miltiades was at its height. He had always possessed the affection of the Athenians, which his manners as well as his talents contributed to obtain for him. Affable and courteous—none were so mean as to be excluded from his presence; and the triumph he had just achieved so largely swelled his popularity, that the most unhesitating confidence was placed in all his suggestions.
II. But after the victory at Marathon, Miltiades was at the peak of his power. He had always won the affection of the Athenians, thanks to both his personality and his skills. Friendly and polite—no one was too lowly to be welcomed in his presence; and the recent triumph he achieved greatly boosted his popularity, leading to complete trust in all his ideas.
In addition to the victory of Marathon, Miltiades, during his tyranny in the Chersonese, had gratified the resentment and increased the dominion of the Athenians. A rude tribe, according to all authority, of the vast and varied Pelasgic family, but essentially foreign to, and never amalgamated with, the indigenous Pelasgians of the Athenian soil, had in very remote times obtained a settlement in Attica. They had assisted the Athenians in the wall of their citadel, which confirmed, by its characteristic masonry, the general tradition of their Pelasgic race. Settled afterward near Hymettus, they refused to blend with the general population—quarrels between neighbours so near naturally ensued—the settlers were expelled, and fixed themselves in the Islands of Lemnos and Imbros—a piratical and savage horde. They kept alive their ancient grudge with the Athenians, and, in one of their excursions, landed in Attica, and carried off some of the women while celebrating a festival of Diana. These captives they subjected to their embraces, and ultimately massacred, together with the offspring of the intercourse. “The Lemnian Horrors” became a proverbial phrase—the wrath of the gods manifested itself in the curse of general sterility, and the criminal Pelasgi were commanded by the oracle to repair the heinous injury they had inflicted on the Athenians. The latter were satisfied with no atonement less than that of the surrender of the islands occupied by the offenders. Tradition thus reported the answer of the Pelasgi to so stern a demand— “Whenever one of your vessels, in a single day and with a northern wind, makes its passage to us, we will comply.”
In addition to the victory at Marathon, Miltiades, during his rule in the Chersonese, satisfied the anger and expanded the territory of the Athenians. A rough tribe, as all accounts suggest, from the large and diverse Pelasgic family, but fundamentally foreign to and never mixed with the native Pelasgians of Athenian land, had settled in Attica a long time ago. They had helped the Athenians build the wall of their citadel, which reflected the typical masonry style of their Pelasgic heritage. Later, when they settled near Hymettus, they refused to blend with the local population, leading to disputes with their nearby neighbors, which resulted in their expulsion. They then settled in the Islands of Lemnos and Imbros—a raiding and savage group. They held onto their old grudge against the Athenians and, during one of their raids, landed in Attica and abducted some women during a festival of Diana. They forced these captives into relationships and ultimately killed them, along with any children born from those unions. "The Lemnian Horrors" became a common phrase—the gods' anger showed up as a widespread curse of infertility, and the guilty Pelasgians were instructed by the oracle to fix the terrible wrong they had done to the Athenians. The latter demanded no less atonement than the surrender of the islands held by the offenders. Tradition tells of the Pelasgians' response to such a severe demand: "Whenever one of your ships makes the journey to us in a single day with a northern wind, we will comply."
Time passed on, the injury was unatoned, the remembrance remained— when Miltiades (then in the Chersonese) passed from Elnos in a single day and with a north wind to the Pelasgian Islands, avenged the cause of his countrymen, and annexed Lemnos and Imbros to the Athenian sway. The remembrance of this exploit had from the first endeared Miltiades to the Athenians, and, since the field of Marathon, he united in himself the two strongest claims to popular confidence—he was the deliverer from recent perils, and the avenger of hereditary wrongs.
Time went by, the injury went unpunished, and the memory lingered—when Miltiades (then in Chersonese) traveled from Elnos in one day with a north wind to the Pelasgian Islands, avenged the cause of his fellow countrymen, and brought Lemnos and Imbros under Athenian control. The memory of this achievement had, from the very beginning, made Miltiades beloved by the Athenians, and since the battle of Marathon, he combined the two strongest reasons for gaining public trust—he was the hero who saved them from recent dangers and the avenger of long-standing injustices.
The chief of the Chersonese was not slow to avail himself of the advantage of his position. He promised the Athenians a yet more lucrative, if less glorious enterprise than that against the Persians, and demanded a fleet of seventy ships, with a supply of men and money, for an expedition from which he assured them he was certain to return laden with spoil and treasure. He did not specify the places against which the expedition was to be directed; but so great was the belief in his honesty and fortune, that the Athenians were contented to grant his demand. The requisite preparations made, Miltiades set sail. Assuming the general right to punish those islands which had sided with the Persian, he proceeded to Paros, which had contributed a trireme to the armament of Datis. But beneath the pretext of national revenge, Miltiades is said to have sought the occasion to prosecute a selfish resentment. During his tyranny in the Chersonese, a Parian, named Lysagoras, had sought to injure him with the Persian government, and the chief now wreaked upon the island the retaliation due to an individual.
The chief of the Chersonese quickly took advantage of his position. He promised the Athenians an even more profitable, though less prestigious, venture than the one against the Persians, and asked for a fleet of seventy ships, along with soldiers and money, for an expedition that he assured them would return with lots of loot and treasure. He didn’t specify where the expedition would go, but the Athenians, trusting his honesty and luck, agreed to his request. Once the necessary preparations were made, Miltiades set sail. Claiming the right to punish the islands that had sided with the Persians, he headed to Paros, which had contributed a trireme to Datis's forces. However, under the guise of seeking national revenge, Miltiades is said to have been motivated by personal grievances. During his time as a tyrant in the Chersonese, a Parian named Lysagoras had tried to harm him with the Persian authorities, and now the chief took out his revenge on the island, seeking to settle a personal score.
Such is the account of Herodotus—an account not indeed inconsistent with the vindictive passions still common to the inhabitants of the western clime, but certainly scarce in keeping with the calculating and politic character of Miltiades: for men go backward in the career of ambition when revenging a past offence upon a foe that is no longer formidable.
Such is the story of Herodotus—one that isn’t really at odds with the vengeful feelings still common among the people of the west, but definitely doesn’t match the strategic and pragmatic nature of Miltiades: because people tend to regress in their pursuit of ambition when retaliating against an enemy who is no longer threatening.
Miltiades landed on the island, laid vigorous siege to the principal city, and demanded from the inhabitants the penalty of a hundred talents. The besieged refused the terms, and worked day and night at the task of strengthening the city for defence. Nevertheless, Miltiades succeeded in cutting off all supplies, and the city was on the point of yielding; when suddenly the chief set fire to the fortifications he had erected, drew off his fleet, and returned to Athens, not only without the treasure he had promised, but with an ignominious diminution of the glory he had already acquired. The most probable reason for a conduct 2 so extraordinary was, that by some accident a grove on the continent was set on fire—the flame, visible equally to the besiegers and the besieged, was interpreted alike by both: each party imagined it a signal from the Persian fleet—the one was dissuaded from yielding, and the other intimidated from continuing the siege. An additional reason for the retreat was a severe wound in the leg which Miltiades had received, either in the course of the attack, or by an accident he met with when attempting with sacrilegious superstition to consult the infernal deities on ground dedicated to Ceres.
Miltiades arrived on the island, launched a strong attack on the main city, and demanded that the residents pay a hefty fine of a hundred talents. The defenders rejected the offer and worked tirelessly to fortify the city. However, Miltiades managed to cut off all supplies, and the city was close to surrendering; when suddenly, the leader set fire to the fortifications he had built, pulled back his fleet, and returned to Athens, not only without the promised treasure but with a shameful loss of the glory he had already achieved. The most likely reason for such unexpected behavior 2 was that by some chance a grove on the mainland caught fire—the flames, visible to both the attackers and the defenders, were interpreted in the same way by both sides: each thought it was a signal from the Persian fleet—one side was discouraged from surrendering, and the other was frightened into retreating from the siege. Another reason for the retreat was a serious injury to Miltiades' leg, which he sustained either during the attack or by an accident while trying to use a forbidden ritual to consult the underworld deities on land dedicated to Ceres.
III. We may readily conceive the amazement and indignation with which, after so many promises on the one side, and such unbounded confidence on the other, the Athenians witnessed the return of this fruitless expedition. No doubt the wily and equivocal parts of the character of Miltiades, long cast in shade by his brilliant qualities, came now more obviously in view. He was impeached capitally by Xanthippus, an Athenian noble, the head of that great aristocratic faction of the Alcmaeonids, which, inimical alike to the tyrant and the demagogue, brooked neither a master of the state nor a hero with the people. Miltiades was charged with having accepted a bribe from the Persians 3, which had induced him to quit the siege of Paros at the moment when success was assured.
III. We can easily imagine the shock and anger the Athenians felt when they saw the return of this unsuccessful expedition, especially after so many promises made on one side and such blind trust on the other. Clearly, the cunning and ambiguous parts of Miltiades's character, which had previously been overshadowed by his impressive qualities, became much more apparent now. He was charged with a serious crime by Xanthippus, an Athenian noble and leader of the influential aristocratic faction of the Alcmaeonids, who opposed both the tyrant and the demagogue, tolerating neither a master of the state nor a hero adored by the people. Miltiades was accused of accepting a bribe from the Persians 3, which led him to abandon the siege of Paros just when victory was within reach.
The unfortunate chief was prevented by his wound from pleading his own cause—he was borne into the court stretched upon his couch, while his brother, Tisagoras, conducted his defence. Through the medium of his advocate, Miltiades seems neither vigorously to have refuted the accusation of treason to the state, nor satisfactorily to have explained his motives for raising the siege. His glory was his defence; and the chief answer to Xanthippus was “Marathon and Lemnos.” The crime alleged against him was of a capital nature; but, despite the rank of the accuser, and the excitement of his audience, the people refused to pronounce sentence of death upon so illustrious a man. They found him guilty, it is true—but they commuted the capital infliction to a fine of fifty talents. Before the fine was paid, Miltiades expired of the mortification of his wound. The fine was afterward paid by his son, Cimon. Thus ended a life full of adventure and vicissitude.
The unfortunate chief couldn't plead his own case because of his injury—he was brought into the court lying on his couch, while his brother, Tisagoras, handled his defense. Through his advocate, Miltiades neither vigorously refuted the charge of treason nor provided a satisfactory explanation for lifting the siege. His glory was his defense; and his main response to Xanthippus was “Marathon and Lemnos.” The crime he was accused of was serious; yet, despite the stature of the accuser and the tension in the audience, the people refused to sentence such a distinguished man to death. They found him guilty, it’s true—but they reduced the punishment from death to a fine of fifty talents. Before the fine could be paid, Miltiades died from the anguish of his wound. The fine was later paid by his son, Cimon. Thus, ended a life filled with adventure and change.
The trial of Miltiades has often been quoted in proof of the ingratitude and fickleness of the Athenian people. No charge was ever more inconsiderately made. He was accused of a capital crime, not by the people, but by a powerful noble. The noble demanded his death— appears to have proved the charge—to have had the law which imposed death wholly on his side—and “the favour of the people it was,” says Herodotus, expressly, “which saved his life.” 4 When we consider all the circumstances of the case—the wound to the popular vanity— the disappointment of excited expectation—the unaccountable conduct of Miltiades himself—and then see his punishment, after a conviction which entailed death, only in the ordinary assessment of a pecuniary fine 5, we cannot but allow that the Athenian people (even while vindicating the majesty of law, which in all civilized communities must judge offences without respect to persons) were not in this instance forgetful of the services nor harsh to the offences of their great men.
The trial of Miltiades has often been cited as evidence of the ingratitude and unpredictability of the Athenian people. No accusation was ever more thoughtlessly made. He was charged with a serious crime, not by the people, but by a powerful noble. The noble demanded his death—seems to have proven the charge—had the law that mandated death completely on his side—and “it was the favor of the people,” says Herodotus, specifically, “that saved his life.” 4 When we look at all the details of the case—the blow to the public pride—the letdown of high expectations—the puzzling behavior of Miltiades himself—and then observe that his punishment, after a conviction that involved death, was only a typical monetary fine 5, we can't help but recognize that the Athenian people (even while upholding the authority of the law, which in all civilized societies must judge offenses without favoring anyone) were not in this case forgetful of the contributions or overly harsh to the mistakes of their prominent citizens.
CHAPTER II.
The Athenian Tragedy.—Its Origin.—Thespis.—Phrynichus.—Aeschylus. —Analysis of the Tragedies of Aeschylus.
The Athenian Tragedy.—Its Origin.—Thespis.—Phrynichus.—Aeschylus. —Analysis of the Tragedies of Aeschylus.
I. From the melancholy fate of Miltiades, we are now invited to a subject no less connected with this important period in the history of Athens. The interval of repose which followed the battle of Marathon allows us to pause, and notice the intellectual state to which the Athenians had progressed since the tyranny of Pisistratus and his sons.
I. From the sad fate of Miltiades, we are now led to a topic just as linked to this crucial time in the history of Athens. The brief period of calm that came after the battle of Marathon gives us a chance to stop and observe the intellectual development the Athenians had achieved since the tyranny of Pisistratus and his sons.
We have remarked the more familiar acquaintance with the poems of Homer which resulted from the labours and example of Pisistratus. This event (for event it was), combined with other causes,—the foundation of a public library, the erection of public buildings, and the institution of public gardens—to create with apparent suddenness, among a susceptible and lively population, a general cultivation of taste. The citizens were brought together in their hours of relaxation 6, by the urbane and social manner of life, under porticoes and in gardens, which it was the policy of a graceful and benignant tyrant to inculcate; and the native genius, hitherto dormant, of the quick Ionian race, once awakened to literary and intellectual objects, created an audience even before it found expression in a poet. The elegant effeminacy of Hipparchus contributed to foster the taste of the people—for the example of the great is nowhere more potent over the multitude than in the cultivation of the arts. Patronage may not produce poets, but it multiplies critics. Anacreon and Simonides, introduced among the Athenians by Hipparchus, and enjoying his friendship, no doubt added largely to the influence which poetry began to assume. The peculiar sweetness of those poets imbued with harmonious contagion the genius of the first of the Athenian dramatists, whose works, alas! are lost to us, though evidence of their character is preserved. About the same time the Athenians must necessarily have been made more intimately acquainted with the various wealth of the lyric poets of Ionia and the isles. Thus it happened that their models in poetry were of two kinds, the epic and the lyric; and, in the natural connexion of art, it was but the next step to accomplish a species of poetry which should attempt to unite the two. Happily, at this time, Athens possessed a man of true genius, whose attention early circumstances had directed to a rude and primitive order of histrionic recitation:—Phrynichus, the poet, was a disciple of Thespis, the mime: to him belongs this honour, that out of the elements of the broadest farce he conceived the first grand combinations of the tragic drama.
We've noticed a greater familiarity with Homer's poems thanks to the efforts and influence of Pisistratus. This event, along with other factors like the establishment of a public library, the construction of public buildings, and the creation of public gardens, suddenly fostered a widespread appreciation for culture among a receptive and lively population. Citizens gathered during their free time in a refined and sociable lifestyle, under colonnades and in gardens, which a kind and gracious ruler promoted. The native talent of the quick-witted Ionian people, previously dormant, awakened to literary and intellectual pursuits, creating an audience even before a poet emerged. The refined tastes of Hipparchus encouraged the public’s appreciation for the arts—there’s no greater influence on the masses in cultivating the arts than the example set by the great. While patronage may not create poets, it certainly produces critics. Anacreon and Simonides, brought to Athens by Hipparchus and enjoying his friendship, undoubtedly contributed significantly to the influence that poetry began to hold. The distinctive charm of these poets infused the first great Athenian dramatists with a harmonious inspiration, though sadly, their works are now lost to us; we still have some record of their qualities. At the same time, the Athenians must have become more familiar with the rich variety of Ionia's lyric poets and those from the islands. Consequently, their poetic influences came from two sources: epic and lyric. Naturally, the next step in the evolution of the art form was to create a type of poetry that attempted to blend the two. Fortunately, during this time, Athens had a genuinely talented individual whose early experiences steered him toward a primitive style of dramatic performance: Phrynichus, the poet, was a student of Thespis, the mime. He is credited with the significant achievement of developing the first grand combinations of tragic drama from the foundations of broad farce.
II. From time immemorial—as far back, perhaps, as the grove possessed an altar, and the waters supplied a reed for the pastoral pipe—Poetry and Music had been dedicated to the worship of the gods of Greece. At the appointed season of festival to each several deity, his praises were sung, his traditionary achievements were recited. One of the divinities last introduced into Greece—the mystic and enigmatical Dionysos, or Bacchus, received the popular and enthusiastic adoration naturally due to the God of the Vineyard, and the “Unbinder of galling cares.” His festival, celebrated at the most joyous of agricultural seasons 7, was associated also with the most exhilarating associations. Dithyrambs, or wild and exulting songs, at first extemporaneous, celebrated the triumphs of the god. By degrees, the rude hymn swelled into prepared and artful measures, performed by a chorus that danced circling round the altar; and the dithyramb assumed a lofty and solemn strain, adapted to the sanctity of sacrifice and the emblematic majesty of the god. At the same time, another band (connected with the Phallic procession, which, however outwardly obscene, betokened only, at its origin, the symbol of fertility, and betrays the philosophy of some alien and eastern creed 8) implored in more lively and homely strains the blessing of the prodigal and jovial deity. These ceremonial songs received a wanton and wild addition, as, in order, perhaps, more closely to represent and personify the motley march of the Liber Pater, the chorus-singers borrowed from the vine-browsing goat which they sacrificed the hides and horns, which furnished forth the merry mimicry of the satyr and the faun. Under license of this disguise, the songs became more obscene and grotesque, and the mummers vied with each other in obtaining the applause of the rural audience by wild buffoonery and unrestricted jest. Whether as the prize of the winner or as the object of sacrifice, the goat (tragos in the Greek) was a sufficiently important personage to bestow upon the exhibition the homely name of TRAGEDY, or GOATSONG, destined afterward to be exalted by association with the proudest efforts of human genius. And while the DITHYRAMB, yet amid the Dorian tribes, retained the fire and dignity of its hereditary character—while in Sicyon it rose in stately and mournful measures to the memory of Adrastus, the Argive hero—while in Corinth, under the polished rule of Periander, Arion imparted to the antique hymn a new character and a more scientific music 9,—gradually, in Attica, it gave way before the familiar and fantastic humours of the satyrs, sometimes abridged to afford greater scope to their exhibitions—sometimes contracting the contagion of their burlesque. Still, however, the reader will observe, that the tragedy, or goatsong, consisted of two parts—first, the exhibition of the mummers, and, secondly, the dithyrambic chorus, moving in a circle round the altar of Bacchus. It appears on the whole most probable, though it is a question of fierce dispute and great uncertainty, that not only this festive ceremonial, but also its ancient name of tragedy, or goatsong, had long been familiar in Attica 10, when, about B. C. 535, during the third tyranny of Pisistratus, a skilful and ingenious native of Icaria, an Attic village in which the Eleutheria, or Bacchic rites, were celebrated with peculiar care, surpassed all competitors in the exhibition of these rustic entertainments. He relieved the monotonous pleasantries of the satyric chorus by introducing, usually in his own person, a histrionic tale-teller, who, from an elevated platform, and with the lively gesticulations common still to the popular narrators of romance on the Mole of Naples, or in the bazars of the East, entertain the audience with some mythological legend. It was so clear that during this recital the chorus remained unnecessarily idle and superfluous, that the next improvement was as natural in itself, as it was important in its consequences. This was to make the chorus assist the narrator by occasional question or remark.
II. Since ancient times—as far back as there was an altar in the grove and the waters could provide reeds for shepherds—Poetry and Music have been dedicated to the worship of the gods of Greece. At the designated festivals for each god, their praises were sung, and their traditional achievements recited. One of the last gods introduced to Greece—the mysterious and enigmatic Dionysus, or Bacchus—received the popular and enthusiastic adoration rightly given to the God of the Vineyard, and the "Unbinder of heavy cares." His festival, celebrated during the happiest agricultural season 7, was also linked with the most uplifting experiences. Dithyrambs, or wild and exuberant songs, initially improvised, celebrated the triumphs of the god. Over time, the basic hymns evolved into crafted and artistic compositions, performed by a chorus dancing around the altar; the dithyramb took on a grand and serious tone, fitting the sanctity of sacrifice and the majestic symbolism of the god. Meanwhile, another group (linked to the Phallic procession, which, despite appearing crude, originally symbolized fertility, reflecting some foreign and eastern belief 8) called upon the blessings of the generous and joyful deity using more vivacious and down-to-earth melodies. These ceremonial songs gained a reckless and wild edge, as the chorus performers, wanting to better embody the lively progress of the Liber Pater, took the hides and horns from the goats they sacrificed, creating the playful mimicry of the satyr and the faun. With this disguise, the songs turned more vulgar and bizarre, and the performers competed to win the applause of the rural audience with their outrageous antics and unrestrained humor. Whether as the victor's reward or as a sacrifice, the goat (tragos in Greek) was essential enough to give the performance the earthy name of TRAGEDY, or GOATSONG, which later became associated with the greatest expressions of human creativity. While the DITHYRAMB still retained its traditional fire and dignity among the Dorian tribes—while in Sicyon it was performed in grand and mournful ways to honor Adrastus, the Argive hero—while in Corinth, under the refined leadership of Periander, Arion infused the ancient hymn with a new essence and more sophisticated music 9, gradually in Attica, it yielded to the familiar and whimsical antics of the satyrs, sometimes shortened to provide more space for their performances—sometimes adopting the humor of their burlesque. Still, it's clear that the tragedy, or goatsong, was made up of two parts—first, the performance of the mummers, and second, the dithyrambic chorus moving in a circle around the altar of Bacchus. It seems most likely, though it's a subject of intense debate and considerable uncertainty, that not only this festive ritual but also its ancient name of tragedy, or goatsong, had long been well-known in Attica 10, when around 535 B.C., during the third tyranny of Pisistratus, a skilled and clever local from Icaria, a village in which the Eleutheria, or Bacchic rites, were celebrated with special dedication, outshone all others in these rustic performances. He broke the monotony of the satyric chorus by introducing a narrative storyteller, often in his own role, who would entertain the audience from a raised platform, with lively gestures reminiscent of popular romance narrators on the Mole of Naples or in eastern marketplaces, sharing some mythological tale. It became evident that during this storytelling, the chorus was unnecessarily idle and redundant, making the next development as natural as it was significant. This involved having the chorus engage with the narrator through occasional questions or remarks.
The choruses themselves were improved in their professional art by Thespis. He invented dances, which for centuries, retained their popularity on the stage, and is said to have given histrionic disguise to his reciter—at first, by the application of pigments to the face; and afterward, by the construction of a rude linen mask.
The choruses themselves were enhanced in their artistic skill by Thespis. He created dances that remained popular on stage for centuries and is credited with introducing acting disguise for his performers—initially, by using makeup on their faces; and later, by making a simple linen mask.
III. These improvements, chiefly mechanical, form the boundary to the achievements of Thespis. He did much to create a stage—little to create tragedy, in the proper acceptation of the word. His performances were still of a ludicrous and homely character, and much more akin to the comic than the tragic. Of that which makes the essence of the solemn drama of Athens—its stately plot, its gigantic images, its prodigal and sumptuous poetry, Thespis was not in any way the inventor. But PHRYNICHUS, the disciple of Thespis, was a poet; he saw, though perhaps dimly and imperfectly, the new career opened to the art, and he may be said to have breathed the immortal spirit into the mere mechanical forms, when he introduced poetry into the bursts of the chorus and the monologue of the actor. Whatever else Phrynichus effected is uncertain. The developed plot—the introduction of regular dialogue through the medium of a second actor —the pomp and circumstance—the symmetry and climax of the drama—do not appear to have appertained to his earlier efforts; and the great artistical improvements which raised the simple incident to an elaborate structure of depicted narrative and awful catastrophe, are ascribed, not to Phrynichus, but Aeschylus. If the later works of Phrynichus betrayed these excellences, it is because Aeschylus had then become his rival, and he caught the heavenly light from the new star which was destined to eclipse him. But every thing essential was done for the Athenian tragedy when Phrynichus took it from the satyr and placed it under the protection of the muse—when, forsaking the humours of the rustic farce, he selected a solemn subject from the serious legends of the most vivid of all mythologies—when he breathed into the familiar measures of the chorus the grandeur and sweetness of the lyric ode—when, in a word, taking nothing from Thespis but the stage and the performers, he borrowed his tale from Homer and his melody from Anacreon. We must not, then, suppose, misled by the vulgar accounts of the Athenian drama, that the contest for the goat, and the buffooneries of Thespis, were its real origin; born of the epic and the lyric song, Homer gave it character, and the lyrists language. Thespis and his predecessors only suggested the form to which the new-born poetry should be applied.
III. These improvements, mainly mechanical, define the boundaries of Thespis's accomplishments. He did a lot to create a stage but not much to create tragedy in the true sense of the term. His performances were more comical and relatable, leaning more towards the funny than the serious. He wasn’t the inventor of what makes Athenian drama special—its grand plots, larger-than-life characters, and rich, lavish poetry. However, PHRYNICHUS, Thespis's student, was a poet; he saw, even if not very clearly or completely, the new path that art could take. He can be credited with infusing the lifeblood into the simple mechanical forms by incorporating poetry into the chorus and the actor’s monologues. What else Phrynichus accomplished remains uncertain. The developed plot, the use of regular dialogue with a second actor, the grandeur and the structure of the drama—these don't seem to belong to his earlier works. The significant artistic advancements that transformed simple incidents into complex narratives and dramatic climaxes are attributed, not to Phrynichus, but to Aeschylus. If Phrynichus's later works displayed these qualities, it was because Aeschylus had now become his competitor, and he was inspired by the new star that was set to overshadow him. But all the essential groundwork was laid for Athenian tragedy when Phrynichus took it from the satyr plays and placed it under the auspices of the muse—when he moved away from the antics of rustic farce to choose serious topics from the most vivid legends of mythology—when he breathed grandeur and sweetness into the familiar rhythms of the chorus, similar to a lyric ode—when, in essence, he took only the stage and performers from Thespis but drew his stories from Homer and his melodies from Anacreon. We shouldn’t, therefore, be misled by the common stories of Athenian drama into thinking that the contest for the goat and Thespis's silly antics were its true beginnings; it emerged from epic and lyric songs, with Homer providing its character and the lyricists supplying the language. Thespis and his forerunners merely suggested the form to which this newly awoken poetry would be applied.
IV. Thus, under Phrynichus, the Thespian drama rose into poetry, worthy to exercise its influence upon poetical emulation, when a young man of noble family and sublime genius, rendered perhaps more thoughtful and profound by the cultivation of a mystical philosophy 11, which had lately emerged from the primitive schools of Ionian wisdom, brought to the rising art the united dignity of rank, philosophy, and genius. Aeschylus, son of Euphorion, born at Eleusis B. C. 525, early saturated a spirit naturally fiery and exalted with the vivid poetry of Homer. While yet a boy, and probably about the time when Phrynichus first elevated the Thespian drama, he is said to have been inspired by a dream with the ambition to excel in the dramatic art. But in Homer he found no visionary revelation to assure him of those ends, august and undeveloped, which the actor and the chorus might be made the instruments to effect. For when the idea of scenic representation was once familiar, the epics of Homer suggested the true nature of the drama. The great characteristic of that poet is individuality. Gods or men alike have their separate, unmistakeable attributes and distinctions—they converse in dialogue— they act towards an appointed end. Bring Homer on the stage, and introduce two actors instead of a narrator, and a drama is at once effected. If Phrynichus from the first borrowed his story from Homer, Aeschylus, with more creative genius and more meditative intellect, saw that there was even a richer mine in the vitality of the Homeric spirit—the unity of the Homeric designs. Nor was Homer, perhaps, his sole though his guiding inspiration. The noble birth of Aeschylus no doubt gave him those advantages of general acquaintance with the poetry of the rest of Greece, which an education formed under the lettered dynasty of the Pisistratidae would naturally confer on the well-born. We have seen that the dithyramb, debased in Attica to the Thespian chorus, was in the Dorian states already devoted to sublime themes, and enriched by elaborate art; and Simonides, whose elegies, peculiar for their sweetness, might have inspired the “ambrosial” Phrynichus, perhaps gave to the stern soul of Aeschylus, as to his own pupil Pindar, the model of a loftier music, in his dithyrambic odes.
IV. Under Phrynichus, the Thespian drama evolved into poetry that was capable of influencing poetic competition. A young man from a noble family with exceptional talent, possibly made more introspective and profound by a new mystical philosophy 11 that had recently emerged from the early Ionian schools of thought, contributed the combined dignity of status, philosophy, and genius to this emerging art form. Aeschylus, son of Euphorion, born in Eleusis in 525 B.C., was deeply influenced by the vibrant poetry of Homer from an early age. As a boy, likely around the time Phrynichus first elevated Thespian drama, he is said to have been inspired by a dream that ignited his ambition to excel in the dramatic arts. However, he found no visionary insight in Homer that would guide him toward the noble and unexplored goals attainable through the actor and the chorus. Once the concept of stage representation became familiar, the epics of Homer revealed the true essence of drama. A key feature of Homer’s work is individuality. Gods and men alike possess distinct and recognizable traits—they engage in dialogue—they act toward specific goals. If you bring Homer onto the stage and replace the narrator with two actors, a drama is instantly created. While Phrynichus may have initially borrowed his stories from Homer, Aeschylus, with greater creative genius and introspective intellect, recognized that the dynamic spirit of Homer offered even deeper treasures—the unity of Homer’s themes. Homer may not have been his only source of inspiration, though he likely served as a guiding influence. Aeschylus’s noble background certainly provided him with a broader exposure to the poetry of the rest of Greece, which an education shaped under the literate rule of the Pisistratidae would naturally afford someone of his status. We have observed that the dithyramb, reduced in Attica to the Thespian chorus, was already devoted to noble themes and enriched by sophisticated artistry in the Dorian states. Simonides, known for his sweet elegies, might have inspired the “ambrosial” Phrynichus while perhaps also offering the stern spirit of Aeschylus, as well as his own student Pindar, a model for a higher form of music in his dithyrambic odes.
V. At the age of twenty-five, the son of Euphorion produced his first tragedy. This appears to have been exhibited in the year after the appearance of Aristagoras at Athens,—in that very year so eventful and important, when the Athenians lighted the flames of the Persian war amid the blazing capital of Sardis. He had two competitors in Pratinas and Choerilus. The last, indeed, preceded Phrynichus, but merely in the burlesques of the rude Thespian stage; the example of Phrynichus had now directed his attention to the new species of drama, but without any remarkable talent for its cultivation. Pratinas, the contemporary of Aeschylus, did not long attempt to vie with his mighty rival in his own line 12. Recurring to the old satyr-chorus, he reduced its unmeasured buffooneries into a regular and systematic form; he preserved the mythological tale, and converted it into an artistical burlesque. This invention, delighting the multitude, as it adapted an ancient entertainment to the new and more critical taste, became so popular that it was usually associated with the graver tragedy; when the last becoming a solemn and gorgeous spectacle, the poet exhibited a trilogy (or three tragedies) to his mighty audience, while the satyric invention of Pratinas closed the whole, and answered the purpose of our modern farce 13. Of this class of the Grecian drama but one specimen remains, in the Cyclops of Euripides. It is probable that the birth, no less than the genius of Aeschylus, enabled him with greater facility to make the imposing and costly additions to the exhibition, which the nature of the poetry demanded—since, while these improvements were rapidly proceeding, the poetical fame of Aeschylus was still uncrowned. Nor was it till the fifteenth year after his first exhibition that the sublimest of the Greek poets obtained the ivy chaplet, which had succeeded to the goat and the ox, as the prize of the tragic contests. In the course of a few years, a regular stage, appropriate scenery and costume, mechanical inventions and complicated stage machinery, gave fitting illusion to the representation of gods and men. To the monologue of Phrynichus, Aeschylus added a second actor 14; he curtailed the choruses, connected them with the main story, and, more important than all else, reduced to simple but systematic rules the progress and development of a poem, which no longer had for its utmost object to please the ear or divert the fancy, but swept on its mighty and irresistible march, to besiege passion after passion, and spread its empire over the whole soul.
V. At twenty-five, Euphorion's son created his first tragedy. This seems to have been presented the year after Aristagoras appeared in Athens—during that pivotal year when the Athenians ignited the flames of the Persian war amid the burning city of Sardis. He had two rivals, Pratinas and Choerilus. The latter had actually performed before Phrynichus, but only in the comedic performances of the rough Thespian stage; Phrynichus’ example had inspired him to focus on the new style of drama, even though he lacked significant talent for it. Pratinas, a contemporary of Aeschylus, didn’t persist in challenging his powerful opponent in that genre 12. Returning to the old satyr-chorus, he transformed its chaotic buffoonery into a more structured format; he maintained the mythological narrative and turned it into an artistic parody. This creation, which entertained the crowds by adapting an ancient form to the new, more discerning tastes, became so popular that it was often paired with more serious tragedy; as the latter turned into a solemn and magnificent spectacle, the poet presented a trilogy (or three tragedies) to his grand audience, while the satyric piece by Pratinas wrapped everything up, serving the purpose of our modern farce 13. Only one example of this type of Greek drama remains, found in the Cyclops by Euripides. It’s likely that both the birth and the genius of Aeschylus allowed him to make the impressive and costly additions to the performance that the nature of the poetry required—since as these advancements were quickly developing, Aeschylus’ poetic reputation was still unrecognized. It wasn’t until fifteen years after his first performance that the greatest of the Greek poets received the ivy wreath, which had replaced the goat and ox as the prize for tragic competitions. Over the next few years, a permanent stage, suitable scenery and costumes, mechanical innovations, and complex stage machinery provided a realistic portrayal of gods and humans. In addition to the monologue of Phrynichus, Aeschylus introduced a second actor 14; he shortened the choruses, linked them to the main narrative, and, most importantly, established clear yet systematic rules for the evolution and development of a poem, which no longer aimed solely to please the ear or entertain the imagination, but charged forward with incredible power, overwhelming emotion after emotion and capturing the entire soul.
An itinerant platform was succeeded by a regular theatre of wood—the theatre of wood by a splendid edifice, which is said to have held no less an audience than thirty thousand persons 15. Theatrical contests became a matter of national and universal interest. These contests occurred thrice a year, at three several festivals of Bacchus 16. But it was at the great Dionysia, held at the end of March and commencement of April, that the principal tragic contests took place. At that period, as the Athenian drama increased in celebrity, and Athens herself in renown, the city was filled with visiters, not only from all parts of Greece, but almost from every land in which the Greek civilization was known. The state took the theatre under its protection, as a solemn and sacred institution. So anxious were the people to consecrate wholly to the Athenian name the glory of the spectacle, that at the great Dionysia no foreigner, nor even any metoecus (or alien settler), was permitted to dance in the choruses. The chief archon presided, over the performances; to him was awarded the selection of the candidates for the prize. Those chosen were allowed three actors 17 by lot and a chorus, the expense of which was undertaken by the state, and imposed upon one of the principal persons of each tribe, called choragus. Thus, on one occasion, Themistocles was the choragus to a tragedy by Phrynichus. The immense theatre, crowded by thousands, tier above tier, bench upon bench, was open to the heavens, and commanded, from the sloping hill on which it was situated, both land and sea. The actor apostrophized no mimic pasteboard, but the wide expanse of Nature herself—the living sun, the mountain air, the wide and visible Aegaean. All was proportioned to the gigantic scale of the theatre, and the mighty range of the audience. The form was artificially enlarged and heightened; masks of exquisite art and beauty brought before the audience the ideal images of their sculptured gods and heroes, while (most probably) mechanical inventions carried the tones of the voice throughout the various tiers of the theatre. The exhibitions took place in the open day, and the limited length of the plays permitted the performance of probably no less than ten or twelve before the setting of the sun. The sanctity of their origin, and the mythological nature of their stories, added something of religious solemnity to these spectacles, which were opened by ceremonial sacrifice. Dramatic exhibitions, at least for a considerable period, were not, as with us, made hackneyed by constant repetition. They were as rare in their recurrence as they were imposing in their effect; nor was a drama, whether tragic or comic, that had gained the prize, permitted a second time to be exhibited. A special exemption was made in favour of Aeschylus, afterward extended to Sophocles and Euripides. The general rule was necessarily stimulant of renewed and unceasing exertion, and was, perhaps, the principal cause of the almost miraculous fertility of the Athenian dramatists.
An itinerant stage was replaced by a regular wooden theater—the wooden theater was then replaced by a magnificent structure, said to hold no less than thirty thousand spectators 15. Theatrical competitions became a matter of national and global significance. These competitions occurred three times a year during three different Bacchus festivals 16. However, it was at the great Dionysia, held at the end of March and the beginning of April, that the main tragic competitions happened. During this time, as Athenian drama gained fame and Athens herself gained prominence, the city was filled with visitors, not only from all over Greece but almost from every place where Greek civilization existed. The state took the theater under its protection as a serious and sacred institution. The citizens were so eager to completely link the glory of the spectacle to the name of Athens that at the great Dionysia, no foreigner or even any metoecus (or resident alien) was allowed to dance in the choruses. The chief archon oversaw the performances, and he was responsible for selecting the candidates for the prize. Those chosen were given three actors 17 chosen by lot and a chorus, the cost of which was covered by the state and placed on one of the main members of each tribe, called the choragus. For instance, Themistocles once served as choragus for a tragedy by Phrynichus. The enormous theater, packed with thousands, tier upon tier, bench upon bench, was open to the sky and offered views of both land and sea from the sloping hill it was built on. The actor didn’t just address a fake backdrop but the vastness of Nature itself—the living sun, the mountain air, the expansive and visible Aegean Sea. Everything was designed to match the massive scale of the theater and the wide audience. The forms were artificially enlarged and elevated; exquisitely crafted masks presented to the audience the ideal representations of their sculpted gods and heroes, while (most likely) mechanical devices amplified the voices throughout the various tiers of the theater. Performances took place during the day, and the limited runtime of the plays allowed for probably no less than ten or twelve performances before sunset. The sacred nature of their origin and the mythological themes of their stories added a sense of religious solemnity to these events, which began with ceremonial sacrifice. Dramatic performances, at least for a considerable time, were not, like today, made dull by constant repetition. They were as rare in their occurrence as they were grand in their impact; no drama, whether tragic or comedic, that had won a prize was allowed to be shown again. A special exemption was made for Aeschylus, which was later extended to Sophocles and Euripides. This general rule likely spurred continuous and renewed effort, and was perhaps the main reason for the almost miraculous productivity of Athenian playwrights.
VI. On the lower benches of the semicircle sat the archons and magistrates, the senators and priests; while apart, but in seats equally honoured, the gaze of the audience was attracted, from time to time, to the illustrious strangers whom the fame of their poets and their city had brought to the Dionysia of the Athenians. The youths and women 18 had their separate divisions; the rest of the audience were ranged according to their tribes, while the upper galleries were filled by the miscellaneous and impatient populace.
VI. On the lower benches of the semicircle sat the leaders and officials, the senators and priests; while off to the side, in equally respected seats, the audience's attention was occasionally drawn to the distinguished visitors who had come to the Dionysia of the Athenians, attracted by the reputation of their poets and their city. The young men and women 18 had their own sections; the rest of the audience was organized by their tribes, while the upper galleries were packed with the diverse and restless crowd.
In the orchestra (a space left by the semicircular benches, with wings stretching to the right and left before the scene), a small square platform served as the altar, to which moved the choral dances, still retaining the attributes of their ancient sanctity. The coryphaeus, or leader of the chorus, took part in the dialogue as the representative of the rest, and, occasionally, even several of the number were excited into exclamations by the passion of the piece. But the principal duty of the chorus was to diversify the dialogue by hymns and dirges, to the music of flutes, while, in dances far more artful than those now existent, they represented by their movements the emotions that they sung 19,—thus bringing, as it were, into harmony of action the poetry of language. Architectural embellishments of stone, representing a palace, with three entrances, the centre one appropriated to royalty, the others to subordinate rank, usually served for the scene. But at times, when the plot demanded a different locality, scenes painted with the utmost art and cost were easily substituted; nor were wanting the modern contrivances of artificial lightning and thunder—the clouds for the gods—a variety of inventions for the sudden apparition of demon agents, whether from above or below—and all the adventitious and effective aid which mechanism lends to genius.
In the orchestra (a space left by the semicircular benches, with wings stretching to the right and left in front of the stage), a small square platform served as the altar, where the choral dances moved, still keeping the essence of their ancient sacredness. The coryphaeus, or leader of the chorus, participated in the dialogue as the representative of the rest, and occasionally, a few members would get swept up in the emotions of the piece and call out passionately. However, the main role of the chorus was to enrich the dialogue with hymns and dirges, accompanied by the music of flutes, while, in dances that were much more artistic than those we have today, they represented through their movements the feelings they sang about 19,—thus creating a harmony of action with the poetry of language. Stone architectural decorations, depicting a palace with three entrances—the central one reserved for royalty and the others for lower ranks—usually served as the backdrop. But at times, when the story required a different setting, beautifully painted scenes could easily be swapped in; modern effects like artificial lightning and thunder, clouds for the gods, and various inventions for the sudden appearance of demonic characters, whether from above or below, were also available—along with all the clever and effective support that technology offers to creativity.
VII. Thus summoning before us the external character of the Athenian drama, the vast audience, the unroofed and enormous theatre, the actors themselves enlarged by art above the ordinary proportions of men, the solemn and sacred subjects from which its form and spirit were derived, we turn to Aeschylus, and behold at once the fitting creator of its grand and ideal personifications. I have said that Homer was his original; but a more intellectual age than that of the Grecian epic had arrived, and with Aeschylus, philosophy passed into poetry. The dark doctrine of fatality imparted its stern and awful interest to the narration of events—men were delineated, not as mere self-acting and self-willed mortals, but as the agents of a destiny inevitable and unseen—the gods themselves are no longer the gods of Homer, entering into the sphere of human action for petty motives and for individual purposes—drawing their grandeur, not from the part they perform, but from the descriptions of the poet;—they appear now as the oracles or the agents of fate—they are visiters from another world, terrible and ominous from the warnings which they convey. Homer is the creator of the material poetry, Aeschylus of the intellectual. The corporeal and animal sufferings of the Titan in the epic hell become exalted by tragedy into the portrait of moral fortitude defying physical anguish. The Prometheus of Aeschylus is the spirit of a god disdainfully subjected to the misfortunes of a man. In reading this wonderful performance, which in pure and sustained sublimity is perhaps unrivalled in the literature of the world, we lose sight entirely of the cheerful Hellenic worship; and yet it is in vain that the learned attempt to trace its vague and mysterious metaphysics to any old symbolical religion of the East. More probably, whatever theological system it shadows forth, was rather the gigantic conception of the poet himself, than the imperfect revival of any forgotten creed, or the poetical disguise of any existent philosophy. However this be, it would certainly seem, that, in this majestic picture of the dauntless enemy of Jupiter, punished only for his benefits to man, and attracting all our sympathies by his courage and his benevolence, is conveyed something of disbelief or defiance of the creed of the populace—a suspicion from which Aeschylus was not free in the judgment of his contemporaries, and which is by no means inconsonant with the doctrines of Pythagoras.
VII. By calling attention to the external features of Athenian drama—the large audience, the open and massive theater, the actors who are artfully larger than life, and the serious and sacred themes that shaped its essence—we now turn to Aeschylus and see a fitting creator of its grand and ideal representations. I mentioned that Homer was his inspiration; however, a more intellectual era than the one of the Grecian epic had come and with Aeschylus, philosophy entered poetry. The dark concept of fate added a heavy, compelling interest to the story of events—people were portrayed not as simple, self-willed individuals but as agents of an inevitable and unseen destiny—the gods have changed from the ones in Homer, who intervened in human affairs for trivial reasons or personal goals—their greatness now comes not from their actions, but from the poet's descriptions. They appear as the messengers or agents of fate—visitors from another realm, frightening and foreboding with their warnings. Homer created material poetry; Aeschylus created intellectual poetry. The physical and emotional suffering of the Titan in the epic hell is elevated by tragedy into a portrayal of moral strength that withstands physical pain. Aeschylus's Prometheus embodies a god's spirit scornfully subjected to human misfortunes. In experiencing this remarkable work, which is perhaps unparalleled in the world's literature for its pure and consistent sublimity, we completely lose sight of the joyful worship of Hellenic culture; however, it is futile for scholars to try to tie its vague and mysterious metaphysics to any ancient symbolic religion of the East. More likely, whatever theological ideas it represents are more the grand vision of the poet himself than an imperfect revival of any forgotten belief or a poetic disguise of any existing philosophy. Regardless, it certainly seems that this majestic image of the fearless adversary of Jupiter, punished only for his benefits to humanity and winning our sympathy through his bravery and kindness, conveys a sense of disbelief or defiance regarding popular beliefs— a suspicion that Aeschylus was not free from in the eyes of his contemporaries, and which is not out of step with the teachings of Pythagoras.
VIII. The conduct of the fable is as follows: two vast demons, Strength and Force, accompanied by Vulcan, appear in a remote plain of earth—an unpeopled desert. There, on a steril and lofty rock, hard by the sea, Prometheus is chained by Vulcan—“a reward for his disposition to be tender to mankind.” The date of this doom is cast far back in the earliest dawn of time, and Jupiter has but just commenced his reign. While Vulcan binds him, Prometheus utters no sound—it is Vulcan, the agent of his punishment, that alone complains. Nor is it till the dread task is done, and the ministers of Jupiter have retired, that “the god, unawed by the wrath of gods,” bursts forth with his grand apostrophe—
VIII. The story of the fable goes like this: two powerful demons, Strength and Force, with Vulcan by their side, show up in a distant, empty desert. There, on a barren and high rock near the sea, Prometheus is chained by Vulcan—“a punishment for his kindness toward humanity.” This punishment was set long ago at the very beginning of time, and Jupiter has only just begun to rule. While Vulcan ties him up, Prometheus doesn't make a sound—it's Vulcan, the one carrying out his punishment, who complains. It isn't until the terrible task is completed and Jupiter's minions have left that “the god, unafraid of the anger of gods,” passionately speaks out—
“Oh Air divine! Oh ye swift-winged Winds—
Ye sources of the Rivers, and ye Waves,
That dimple o’er old Ocean like his smiles—
Mother of all—oh Earth! and thou the orb,
All-seeing, of the Sun, behold and witness
What I, a god, from the stern gods endure.
* * * * * *
When shall my doom be o’er?—Be o’er!—to me
The Future hides no riddle—nor can wo
Come unprepared! It fits me then to brave
That which must be: for what can turn aside
The dark course of the grim Necessity?”
“Oh divine Air! Oh you swift-winged Winds—
You sources of the Rivers and the Waves,
That ripple over old Ocean like his smiles—
Mother of all—oh Earth! and you, the orb,
All-seeing, of the Sun, look and witness
What I, a god, suffer from the stern gods.
* * * * * *
When will my fate be over?—Be over!—for me
The Future holds no mystery—nor can pain
Come unprepared! It’s fitting that I face
What must happen: for what can divert
The dark path of grim Necessity?”While thus soliloquizing, the air becomes fragrant with odours, and faintly stirs with the rustling of approaching wings. The Daughters of Ocean, aroused from their grots below, are come to console the Titan. They utter many complaints against the dynasty of Jove. Prometheus comforts himself by the prediction that the Olympian shall hereafter require his services, and that, until himself released from his bondage, he will never reveal to his tyrant the danger that menaces his realm; for the vanquished is here described as of a mightier race than the victor, and to him are bared the mysteries of the future, which to Jupiter are denied. The triumph of Jupiter is the conquest of brute force over knowledge.
While he’s lost in thought, the air becomes sweet with scents and is gently stirred by the sound of approaching wings. The Daughters of Ocean, awakened from their caves below, have come to comfort the Titan. They voice numerous complaints against the rule of Jove. Prometheus reassures himself with the thought that the Olympian will eventually need his help, and that, until he is freed from his chains, he will never reveal to his tyrant the threat looming over his kingdom; for the defeated one is portrayed as belonging to a stronger lineage than the victor, and he sees the mysteries of the future that are hidden from Jupiter. The victory of Jupiter represents the triumph of brute strength over knowledge.
Prometheus then narrates how, by means of his counsels, Jupiter had gained his sceptre, and the ancient Saturn and his partisans been whelmed beneath the abyss of Tartarus—how he alone had interfered with Jupiter to prevent the extermination of the human race (whom alone the celestial king disregarded and condemned)—how he had imparted to them fire, the seed of all the arts, and exchanged in their breasts the terrible knowledge of the future for the beguiling flatteries of hope and hence his punishment.
Prometheus then tells how, through his advice, Jupiter came to hold his scepter, and how the old Saturn and his followers were thrown into the depths of Tartarus—how he was the only one to step in and stop Jupiter from wiping out humanity (who the celestial king dismissed and condemned)—how he gave them fire, the source of all arts, and traded their terrifying knowledge of the future for the appealing comforts of hope, and that’s why he faced punishment.
At this time Ocean himself appears: he endeavours unavailingly to persuade the Titan to submission to Jupiter. The great spirit of Prometheus, and his consideration for others, are beautifully individualized in his answers to his consoler, whom he warns not to incur the wrath of the tyrant by sympathy with the afflicted. Alone again with the Oceanides, the latter burst forth in fresh strains of pity.
At this moment, Ocean shows up: he tries unsuccessfully to convince the Titan to submit to Jupiter. Prometheus's strong spirit and his care for others are clearly reflected in his responses to his comforter, whom he cautions not to anger the tyrant by sympathizing with the suffering. Alone again with the Oceanids, they break out into new expressions of pity.
“The wide earth echoes wailingly,
Stately and antique were thy fallen race,
The wide earth waileth thee!
Lo! from the holy Asian dwelling-place,
Fall for a godhead’s wrongs, the mortals’ murmuring tears,
They mourn within the Colchian land,
The virgin and the warrior daughters,
And far remote, the Scythian band,
Around the broad Maeotian waters,
And they who hold in Caucasus their tower,
Arabia’s martial flower
Hoarse-clamouring ‘midst sharp rows of barbed spears.
One have I seen with equal tortures riven—
An equal god; in adamantine chains
Ever and evermore
The Titan Atlas, crush’d, sustains
The mighty mass of mighty Heaven,
And the whirling cataracts roar,
With a chime to the Titan’s groans,
And the depth that receives them moans;
And from vaults that the earth are under,
Black Hades is heard in thunder;
While from the founts of white-waved rivers flow
Melodious sorrows, wailing with his wo.”
“The vast earth echoes with cries of sorrow,
Your fallen race was noble and ancient,
The vast earth mourns for you!
Look! From the sacred place in Asia,
For the wrongs of a god, the tears of mortals fall,
They grieve in the land of Colchis,
The virgin daughters and the warrior women,
And far away, the Scythian tribe,
Around the wide Maeotian waters,
And those who guard their tower in the Caucasus,
Arabia’s warrior flower
Shouts hoarsely among sharp rows of barbed spears.
I have seen one who endures similar torments—
An equal god, in unbreakable chains
Forever and always
The Titan Atlas, crushed, supports
The heavy weight of mighty Heaven,
And the roaring waterfalls echo,
With a sound that matches the Titan’s groans,
And the depth that receives them sighs;
And from the underworld vaults of the earth,
Dark Hades is heard in thunder;
While from the sources of white-capped rivers flow
Melodious sorrows, lamenting his pain.”Prometheus, in his answer, still farther details the benefits he had conferred on men—he arrogates to himself their elevation to intellect and reason 20. He proceeds darkly to dwell on the power of Necessity, guided by “the triform fates and the unforgetful Furies,” whom he asserts to be sovereign over Jupiter himself. He declares that Jupiter cannot escape his doom: “His doom,” ask the daughters of Ocean, “is it not evermore to reign?”—“That thou mayst not learn,” replies the prophet; “and in the preservation of this secret depends my future freedom.”
Prometheus, in his response, goes on to explain the benefits he has given to humanity—he takes credit for their rise to intellect and reason 20. He continues, in a vague manner, to focus on the power of Necessity, led by “the threefold fates and the relentless Furies,” whom he claims hold power over Jupiter himself. He states that Jupiter can't escape his fate: “His fate,” ask the daughters of Ocean, “is it not always to rule?”—“That you may not find out,” replies the prophet; “and the preservation of this secret is key to my future freedom.”
The rejoinder of the chorus is singularly beautiful, and it is with a pathos not common to Aeschylus that they contrast their present mournful strain with that which they poured
The reply of the chorus is uniquely beautiful, and they contrast their current sad song with the one they used to sing with a sense of sorrow that is not often seen in Aeschylus.
“What time the silence, erst was broken,
Around the baths, and o’er the bed
To which, won well by many a soft love-token,
And hymn’d by all the music of delight,
Our Ocean-sister, bright
Hesione, was led!”
“What a time the silence, once broken,
Around the baths, and over the bed
To which, won well by many sweet gifts of love,
And celebrated by all the joyful music,
Our Ocean-sister, bright
Hesione, was brought!”At the end of this choral song appears Io, performing her mystic pilgrimage 21. The utter wo and despair of Io are finely contrasted with the stern spirit of Prometheus. Her introduction gives rise to those ancestral and traditionary allusions to which the Greeks were so attached. In prophesying her fate, Prometheus enters into much beautiful descriptive poetry, and commemorates the lineage of the Argive kings. After Io’s departure, Prometheus renews his defiance to Jupiter, and his stern prophecies, that the son of Saturn shall be “hurled from his realm, a forgotten king.” In the midst of these weird denunciations, Mercury arrives, charged by Jupiter to learn the nature of that danger which Prometheus predicts to him. The Titan bitterly and haughtily defies the threats and warnings of the herald, and exults, that whatever be his tortures, he is at least immortal,— to be afflicted, but not to die. Mercury at length departs—the menace of Jupiter is fulfilled—the punishment is consummated—and, amid storm and earthquake, both rock and prisoner are struck by the lightnings of the god into the deep abyss.
At the end of this choral song, Io appears, carrying out her mystical journey 21. The utter sorrow and despair of Io are sharply contrasted with the stern spirit of Prometheus. Her appearance brings up the ancestral and traditional references that the Greeks valued so much. While predicting her fate, Prometheus uses beautiful descriptive poetry and honors the lineage of the Argive kings. After Io leaves, Prometheus reaffirms his defiance against Jupiter and delivers his harsh predictions that the son of Saturn will be “cast from his realm, a forgotten king.” In the midst of these eerie pronouncements, Mercury arrives, sent by Jupiter to understand the nature of the danger that Prometheus has foretold. The Titan bitterly and arrogantly defies the herald's threats and warnings and takes pride in the fact that, no matter what tortures he faces, he is immortal—he can suffer but cannot die. Eventually, Mercury departs—the threat from Jupiter is realized—the punishment is executed—and, amid storms and earthquakes, both the rock and the prisoner are struck by the god's lightning into the deep abyss.
“The earth is made to reel, and rumbling by,
Bellowing it rolls, the thunder’s gathering wrath!
And the fierce fires glare livid; and along
The rocks the eddies of the sands whirl high,
Borne by the hurricane, and all the blasts
Of all the winds leap forth, each hurtling each
Met in the wildness of a ghastly war,
The dark floods blended with the swooping heaven.
It comes—it comes! on me it speeds—the storm,
The rushing onslaught of the thunder-god;
Oh, majesty of earth, my solemn mother!
And thou that through the universal void,
Circlest sweet light, all blessing; EARTH AND ETHER,
YE I invoke, to know the wrongs I suffer.”
“The earth shakes and trembles, rumbling as it goes,
It rolls loudly, the thunder's anger building up!
Fierce fires blaze ominously; and all around
The sands swirl high among the rocks,
Carried by the hurricane, with every gust
Of every wind exploding, all colliding
In the chaos of a terrible battle,
The dark waters mixing with the stormy sky.
It's coming—it’s coming! It rushes towards me—the storm,
The fierce charge of the thunder god;
Oh, majesty of the earth, my solemn mother!
And you who move through the vast emptiness,
Surrounding us with sweet light, all that is good; EARTH AND SKY,
I call upon you, to understand the wrongs I endure.”IX. Such is the conclusion of this unequalled drama, epitomized somewhat at undue length, in order to show the reader how much the philosophy that had awakened in the age of Solon now actuated the creations of poetry. Not that Aeschylus, like Euripides, deals in didactic sentences and oracular aphorisms. He rightly held such pedantries of the closet foreign to the tragic genius 22. His philosophy is in the spirit, and not in the diction of his works—in vast conceptions, not laconic maxims. He does not preach, but he inspires. The “Prometheus” is perhaps the greatest moral poem in the world—sternly and loftily intellectual—and, amid its darker and less palpable allegories, presenting to us the superiority of an immortal being to all mortal sufferings. Regarded merely as poetry, the conception of the Titan of Aeschylus has no parallel except in the Fiend of Milton. But perhaps the representation of a benevolent spirit, afflicted, but not accursed—conquered, but not subdued by a power, than which it is elder, and wiser, and loftier, is yet more sublime than that of an evil demon writhing under the penance deservedly incurred from an irresistible God. The one is intensely moral—at once the more moral and the more tragic, because the sufferings are not deserved, and therefore the defiance commands our sympathy as well as our awe; but the other is but the picture of a righteous doom, borne by a despairing though stubborn will; it affords no excitement to our courage, and forbids at once our admiration and our pity.
IX. This is the conclusion of this unmatched drama, summarized somewhat excessively to show the reader how much the philosophy that emerged in the time of Solon now influences poetic creations. Not that Aeschylus, like Euripides, resorts to didactic phrases and prophetic sayings. He rightly believed that such academic pretensions were foreign to the tragic genius 22. His philosophy is expressed in the spirit, not the wording of his works—in grand ideas, not brief maxims. He doesn’t preach, but he inspires. The “Prometheus” is perhaps the greatest moral poem in the world—stern and profoundly intellectual—and, amid its darker and less clear allegories, it showcases the superiority of an immortal being over all mortal suffering. Viewed purely as poetry, Aeschylus's Titan has no equal except Milton's Fiend. However, the depiction of a benevolent spirit, suffering but not cursed—conquered but not defeated by a power that is older, wiser, and greater—might be even more sublime than that of an evil demon enduring the punishment deservedly imposed by an all-powerful God. One is intensely moral—both more moral and more tragic, because the suffering is undeserved, and thus the defiance earns our sympathy as well as our awe; the other is merely a depiction of a righteous fate, experienced by a despairing yet obstinate will; it offers no thrill to our courage and simultaneously denies us both admiration and pity.
X. I do not propose to conduct the reader at length through the other tragedies of Aeschylus; seven are left to us, to afford the most striking examples which modern or ancient literature can produce of what perhaps is the true theory of the SUBLIME, viz., the elevating the imagination by means of the passions, for a moral end.
X. I don’t intend to take the reader through the other tragedies of Aeschylus in detail; we have seven left that provide some of the most striking examples from both modern and ancient literature of what might be the true theory of the SUBLIME, which is to elevate the imagination through the passions for a moral purpose.
Nothing can be more grand and impressive than the opening of the “Agamemnon,” with the solitary watchman on the tower, who, for ten long years, has watched nightly for the beacon-fires that are to announce the fall of Ilion, and who now beholds them blaze at last. The description which Clytemnestra gives of the progress of these beacon-fires from Troy to Argos is, for its picturesque animation, one of the most celebrated in Aeschylus. The following lines will convey to the general reader a very inadequate reflection, though not an unfaithful paraphrase, of this splendid passage 23. Clytemnestra has announced to the chorus the capture of Troy. The chorus, half incredulous, demand what messenger conveyed the intelligence. Clytemnestra replies:—
Nothing is more grand and impressive than the opening of the “Agamemnon,” with the lone watchman on the tower, who for ten long years has kept a nightly vigil for the beacon fires that will signal the fall of Ilion, and who now finally sees them blaze to life. Clytemnestra's description of how these beacon fires traveled from Troy to Argos is, for its vivid imagery, one of the most famous passages in Aeschylus. The following lines will give the general reader a somewhat insufficient reflection, though not an unfaithful paraphrase, of this magnificent passage 23. Clytemnestra has informed the chorus of Troy's capture. The chorus, half skeptical, asks what messenger delivered the news. Clytemnestra responds:—
“A gleam—a gleam—from Ida’s height,
By the fire—god sent, it came;
From watch to watch it leap’d that light,
As a rider rode the flame!
It shot through the startled sky;
And the torch of that blazing glory
Old Lemnos caught on high,
On its holy promontory,
And sent it on, the jocund sign,
To Athos, mount of Jove divine.
Wildly the while it rose from the isle,
So that the might of the journeying light
Skimm’d over the back of the gleaming brine!
Farther and faster speeds it on,
Till the watch that keep Macistus steep—
See it burst like a blazing sun!
Doth Macistus sleep
On his tower—clad steep?
No! rapid and red doth the wild-fire sweep
It flashes afar, on the wayward stream
Of the wild Euripus, the rushing beam!
It rouses the light on Messapion’s height,
And they feed its breath with the withered heath.
But it may not stay!
And away—away
It bounds in its freshening might.
Silent and soon,
Like a broadened moon,
It passes in sheen, Asopus green, 24
And bursts on Cithaeron gray.
The warder wakes to the signal rays,
And it swoops from the hill with a broader blaze,
On—on the fiery glory rode—
Thy lonely lake, Gorgopis, glowed—
To Megara’s Mount it came;
They feed it again,
And it streams amain
A giant beard of flame!
The headland cliffs that darkly down
O’er the Saronic waters frown,
Are pass’d with the swift one’s lurid stride,
And the huge rock glares on the glaring tide,
With mightier march and fiercer power
It gain’d Arachne’s neighbouring tower—
Thence on our Argive roof its rest it won,
Of Ida’s fire the long-descended son
Bright harbinger of glory and of joy!
So first and last with equal honour crown’d,
In solemn feasts the race-torch circles round.
And these my heralds! this my SIGN OF PEACE!
Lo! while we breathe, the victor lords of Greece,
Stalk, in stern tumult, through the halls of Troy!” 25
“A gleam—a gleam—from Ida’s height,
By the fire-god sent, it came;
From watch to watch it leapt that light,
As a rider rode the flame!
It shot through the startled sky;
And the torch of that blazing glory
Old Lemnos caught on high,
On its holy promontory,
And sent it on, the cheerful sign,
To Athos, mountain of divine Jove.
Wildly meanwhile it rose from the isle,
So that the might of the traveling light
Skimmed over the back of the gleaming sea!
Farther and faster it sped on,
Till the watch that keeps Macistus steep—
See it burst like a blazing sun!
Does Macistus sleep
On his tower-clad steep?
No! rapid and red does the wildfire sweep
It flashes afar, on the wayward stream
Of the wild Euripus, the rushing beam!
It rouses the light on Messapion’s height,
And they feed its breath with the withered heath.
But it cannot stay!
And away—away
It bounds in its freshening might.
Silent and soon,
Like a wide moon,
It passes in sheen, Asopus green, 24
And bursts on Cithaeron gray.
The guard wakes to the signal rays,
And it swoops from the hill with a broader blaze,
On—on the fiery glory rode—
Your lonely lake, Gorgopis, glowed—
To Megara’s Mount it came;
They feed it again,
And it streams fiercely
A giant beard of flame!
The headland cliffs that darkly look down
Over the Saronic waters frown,
Are passed with the swift one’s lurid stride,
And the huge rock glares on the glaring tide,
With mightier march and fiercer power
It gained Arachne’s neighboring tower—
From there on our Argive roof its rest it won,
Of Ida’s fire the long-descended son
Bright harbinger of glory and of joy!
So first and last with equal honor crowned,
In solemn feasts the race-torch circles round.
And these my heralds! this my SIGN OF PEACE!
Lo! while we breathe, the victorious lords of Greece,
Stalk, in stern tumult, through the halls of Troy!” 25In one of the earlier choruses, in which is introduced an episodical allusion to the abduction of Helen, occurs one of those soft passages so rare in Aeschylus, nor less exquisite than rare. The chorus suppose the minstrels of Menelaus thus to lament the loss of Helen:—
In one of the earlier choruses, where there's a brief reference to the abduction of Helen, there’s one of those gentle sections that are so uncommon in Aeschylus, and just as exquisite as they are rare. The chorus imagines the minstrels of Menelaus mourning the loss of Helen:—
“And wo the halls, and wo the chiefs,
And wo the bridal bed!
And we her steps—for once she loved
The lord whose love she fled!
Lo! where, dishonour yet unknown,
He sits—nor deems his Helen flown,
Tearless and voiceless on the spot;
All desert, but he feels it not!
Ah! soon alive, to miss and mourn
The form beyond the ocean borne
Shall start the lonely king!
And thought shall fill the lost one’s room,
And darkly through the palace gloom
Shall stalk a ghostly thing. 26
Her statues meet, as round they rise,
The leaden stare of lifeless eyes.
Where is their ancient beauty gone?—
Why loathe his looks the breathing stone?
Alas! the foulness of disgrace
Hath swept the Venus from her face!
And visions in the mournful night
Shall dupe the heart to false delight,
A false and melancholy;
For naught with sadder joy is fraught,
Than things at night by dreaming brought,
The wish’d for and the holy.
Swift from the solitary side,
The vision and the blessing glide,
Scarce welcomed ere they sweep,
Pale, bloodless, dreams, aloft
On wings unseen and soft,
Lost wanderers gliding through the paths of sleep.”
“Alas for the halls, and alas for the leaders, And alas for the wedding bed! And we followed her steps—for once she loved The lord she ran away from! Look! where, still unaware of the dishonor, He sits—believing his Helen hasn't escaped, Tearless and silent in that place; All desolate, yet he doesn't feel it! Ah! soon he'll wake to miss and mourn The figure carried beyond the sea That will startle the lonely king! And thoughts will fill the space left behind, And, through the palace darkness, A ghostly figure will stalk. Her statues gather, as they rise, The lifeless eyes staring blankly. Where has their ancient beauty gone?— Why do the stones despise his gaze? Alas! the shame has wiped The Venus away from her face! And visions in the sorrowful night Will trick the heart into false joy, A joy that’s fake and sad; For nothing carries a sadder joy Than the dreams inspired by night, The longed-for and the sacred. Swift from the lonely side, The vision and the blessing slip away, Barely welcomed before they vanish, Pale, bloodless, dreams, floating On unseen and gentle wings, Lost wanderers gliding through the paths of sleep.”
But the master-terror of this tragedy is in the introduction of Cassandra, who accompanies Agamemnon, and who, in the very hour of his return, amid the pomp and joy that welcome the “king of men,” is seized with the prophetic inspiration, and shrieks out those ominous warnings, fated ever to be heard in vain. It is she who recalls to the chorus, to the shuddering audience, that it is the house of the long-fated Atridae, to which their descendant has returned—“that human shamble-house—that bloody floor—that dwelling, abhorred by Heaven, privy to so many horrors against the most sacred ties;” the doom yet hangs over the inexpiable threshold; the curse passes from generation to generation; Agamemnon is the victim of his sires.
But the main source of dread in this tragedy is the arrival of Cassandra, who is with Agamemnon. At the very moment of his return, surrounded by the celebration and joy greeting the "king of men," she is suddenly struck with prophetic insight and screams out her ominous warnings, which are destined to go unheeded. It is she who reminds the chorus and the terrified audience that Agamemnon has come back to the cursed house of the long-doomed Atridae—“that human shamble-house—that bloody floor—that dwelling, rejected by Heaven, filled with so many horrors against the most sacred bonds;” the doom still hangs over the unforgivable doorway; the curse is passed down through generations; Agamemnon is a victim of his ancestors.
Recalling the inhuman banquet served by Atreus to Thyestes of his own murdered children, she starts from the mangled spectres on the threshold:
Recalling the horrific feast Atreus served to Thyestes, which consisted of his own murdered children, she flinches at the dismembered ghosts at the threshold:
“See ye those infants crouching by the floor,
Like phantom dreams, pale nurslings, that have perish’d
By kindred hands.”
“Do you see those infants huddled on the floor, Like ghostly dreams, pale little ones, that have died By the hands of their own family.”
Gradually her ravings become clear and clearer, until at last she scents the “blood-dripping slaughter within;” a vapour rises to her nostrils as from a charnel house—her own fate, which she foresees at hand, begins to overpower her—her mood softens, and she enters the palace, about to become her tomb, with thoughts in which frantic terror has yielded to solemn and pathetic resignation:
Gradually, her rants become clearer and clearer, until finally she senses the “blood-dripping slaughter within;” a smell rises to her nose like that from a morgue—her own fate, which she can see is near, starts to overwhelm her—her mood softens, and she enters the palace, about to become her tomb, with thoughts where frantic terror has given way to serious and sad acceptance:
“Alas for mortals!—what their power and pride?
A little shadow sweeps it from the earth!
And if they suffer—why, the fatal hour
Comes o’er the record like a moistened sponge,
And blots it out; methinks this latter lot
Affects me deepest—Well! ‘tis pitiful!” 27
“Oh, how sorry for humans!—what's their strength and arrogance?
A small shadow wipes it away from the earth!
And if they endure suffering—well, the fatal moment
Comes over the record like a wet sponge,
And erases it; I think this last fate
Affects me the most—Well! it’s so sad! 27Scarcely has the prophetess withdrawn than we hear behind the scene the groans of the murdered king, the palace behind is opened, and Clytemnestra is standing, stern and lofty, by the dead body of her lord. The critics have dwelt too much on the character of Clytemnestra—it is that of Cassandra which is the masterpiece of the tragedy.
Scarcely has the prophetess left when we hear the groans of the murdered king from behind the scene, the palace opens up, and Clytemnestra stands there, stern and imposing, next to the body of her husband. Critics have focused too much on Clytemnestra's character—it’s Cassandra’s character that truly makes this tragedy.
XI. The story, which is spread throughout three plays (forming a complete trilogy), continues in the opening of the Choephori, with Orestes mourning over his father’s tomb. If Clytemnestra has furnished would-be critics with a comparison with Lady Macbeth, for no other reason than that one murdered her husband, and the other persuaded her husband to murder somebody else, so Orestes may with more justice be called the Hamlet of the Greeks; but though the character itself of Orestes is not so complex and profound as that of Hamlet, nor the play so full of philosophical beauties as the modern tragedy, yet it has passages equally pathetic, and more sternly and terribly sublime. The vague horror which in the commencement of the play prepares us for the catastrophe by the dream of Clytemnestra—how a serpent lay in swaddling-clothes like an infant, and she placed it in her breast, and it drew blood; the brief and solemn answer of Orestes—
XI. The story, which unfolds across three plays (creating a complete trilogy), picks up in the opening of the Choephori, with Orestes grieving at his father's grave. If Clytemnestra has given would-be critics a chance to compare her to Lady Macbeth, simply because one killed her husband and the other convinced her husband to kill someone else, Orestes could more justly be called the Hamlet of the Greeks. However, while Orestes isn’t as complicated and deep a character as Hamlet, and the play isn’t packed with philosophical insights like modern tragedies, it features equally moving moments, along with a more intense and terrifying sublimity. The vague horror that opens the play sets the stage for the impending disaster with Clytemnestra's dream—where a serpent lies wrapped in baby clothes, and she cradles it, only to have it draw blood; the brief and solemn response from Orestes—
“Man’s visions never come to him in vain;”
“Man’s visions never come to him for no reason;”
the manner in which the avenging parricide interrupts the dream, so that (as in Macbeth) the prediction inspires the deed that it foretells; the dauntless resolution of Clytemnestra, when she hears, in the dark sayings of her servant, that “the dead are slaying the living” (i. e., that through the sword of Orestes Agamemnon is avenged on Aegisthus), calls for a weapon, royal to the last, wishing only to
the way the vengeful son interrupts the dream, so that (like in Macbeth) the prediction sparks the action it predicts; the fearless determination of Clytemnestra when she hears, in her servant's cryptic words, that “the dead are killing the living” (meaning that through Orestes' sword Agamemnon is avenging himself on Aegisthus), demands a weapon, noble to the end, wanting only to
“Know which shall be the victor or the vanquished—
Since that the crisis of the present horror;”
“Know who will be the winner or the loser— Since this is the moment of the current nightmare;”
the sudden change from fierce to tender as Orestes bursts in, and, thinking only of her guilty lover, she shrieks forth,
the sudden shift from intense to gentle as Orestes bursts in, and, thinking only of her guilty lover, she cries out,
“Ah! thou art then no more, beloved Aegisthus;”
“Ah! you are no more, beloved Aegisthus;”
the advance of the threatening son, the soft apostrophe of the mother as she bares her bosom—
the approach of the threatening son, the gentle call of the mother as she exposes her chest—
“Hold! and revere this breast on which so oft
Thy young cheek nestled—cradle of thy sleep,
And fountain of thy being;”
“Stop! and honor this chest where so many times
Your young cheek rested—cradle of your dreams,
And source of your life;”the recoil of Orestes—the remonstrance of Pylades—the renewed passion of the avenger—the sudden recollection of her dream, which the murderess scarcely utters than it seems to confirm Orestes to its fulfilment, and he pursues and slays her by the side of the adulterer; all these passages are full of so noble a poetry, that I do not think the parallel situations in Hamlet equal their sustained and solemn grandeur. But the sublimest effort of the imagination is in the conclusion. While Orestes is yet justifying the deed that avenged a father, strange and confused thoughts gradually creep over him. No eyes see them but his own—there they are, “the Gorgons, in vestments of sable, their eyes dropping loathly blood!” Slowly they multiply, they approach, still invisible but to their prey—“the angry hell-hounds of his mother.” He flies, the fresh blood yet dripping from his hands. This catastrophe—the sudden apparition of the Furies ideally imaged forth to the parricide alone—seems to me greater in conception than the supernatural agency in Hamlet. The visible ghost is less awful than the unseen Furies.
the recoil of Orestes—the protest of Pylades—the renewed passion of the avenger—the sudden memory of her dream, which the murderer barely speaks of but seems to confirm Orestes in completing, and he chases down and kills her beside the adulterer; all these moments are filled with such noble poetry, that I don’t think the similar situations in Hamlet match their sustained and solemn greatness. But the most profound effort of the imagination is in the conclusion. While Orestes is justifying the act that avenged his father, strange and confusing thoughts slowly creep over him. No eyes but his own see them—there they are, “the Gorgons, in black garments, their eyes dripping foul blood!” They slowly multiply, drawing closer, still invisible to anyone but their target—“the angry hell-hounds of his mother.” He runs, fresh blood still dripping from his hands. This disaster—the sudden appearance of the Furies, ideally imagined only for the parricide—strikes me as greater in concept than the supernatural elements in Hamlet. The visible ghost is less terrifying than the unseen Furies.
The plot is continued through the third piece of the trilogy (the Eumenides), and out of Aeschylus himself, no existing tragedy presents so striking an opening—one so terrible and so picturesque. It is the temple of Apollo at Delphi. The priestess, after a short invocation, enters the sacred edifice, but suddenly returns. “A man,” she says, “is at the marble seat, a suppliant to the god—his bloody hands hold a drawn sword and a long branch of olive. But around the man sleep a wondrous and ghastly troop, not of women, but of things woman-like, yet fiendish; harpies they seem, but are not; black-robed and wingless, and their breath is loud and baleful, and their eyes drop venom—and their garb is neither meet for the shrines of God nor the habitations of men. Never have I seen (saith the Pythian) a nation which nurtured such a race.” Cheered by Apollo, Orestes flies while the dread sisters yet sleep; and now within the temple we behold the Furies scattered around, and a pale and lofty shape, the ghost of Clytemnestra, gliding on the stage, awakens the agents of her vengeance. They break forth as they rouse themselves, “Seize—seize— seize.” They lament—they bemoan the departure of their victim, they expostulate with Apollo, who expels them from his temple. The scene changes; Orestes is at Athens,—he pleads his cause before the temple of Minerva. The contest is now shared by gods; Apollo and the Furies are the pleaders—Pallas is the umpire, the Areopagites are the judges. Pallas casts in her vote in favour of Orestes—the lots are equal—he is absolved; the Furies, at first enraged, are soothed by Minerva, and, invited to dwell in Athens, pour blessings on the land. A sacred but joyous procession crowns the whole. Thus the consummation of the trilogy is cheerful, though each of the two former pieces is tragic; and the poet artfully conduces the poem to the honour of his native Athens and the venerable Areopagus. Regarding the three as one harmonious and united performance, altogether not so long as one play of Shakspeare’s, they are certainly not surpassed in greatness of thought, in loftiness of conception, and in sustained vigour of execution, by any poem in the compass of literature; nor, observing their simple but compact symmetry as a whole, shall we do right to subscribe to those who deny to Aeschylus the skill of the artist, while they grant him the faculty of the poet.
The plot continues in the third part of the trilogy (the Eumenides), and out of all of Aeschylus's tragedies, none has such a striking and vivid opening. It takes place at the temple of Apollo in Delphi. The priestess, after a brief invocation, enters the sacred building but quickly returns. “A man,” she says, “is at the marble seat, a supplicant to the god—his bloody hands hold a drawn sword and a long olive branch. But around him sleeps an amazing and horrifying group, not women, but something woman-like yet monstrous; they seem like harpies, but they aren’t; cloaked in black and wingless, their breath is loud and menacing, their eyes drip with venom, and their clothing is neither suitable for the shrines of God nor for human homes. I’ve never seen (says the Pythian) a nation that raised such a race.” Encouraged by Apollo, Orestes escapes while the terrifying sisters still sleep; and now in the temple, we see the Furies scattered around, and a pale, tall figure, the ghost of Clytemnestra, gliding onto the stage, awakens her agents of vengeance. They spring into action as they wake, crying out, “Seize—seize—seize.” They mourn the loss of their victim, arguing with Apollo, who expels them from his temple. The scene shifts; Orestes is now in Athens, arguing his case before the temple of Minerva. The contest is now taken up by the gods; Apollo and the Furies are the advocates—Pallas is the judge, and the Areopagites serve as the judges. Pallas casts her vote in favor of Orestes—the votes are equal—he is acquitted; the Furies, initially furious, are calmed by Minerva and, invited to stay in Athens, bless the land. A sacred yet joyous procession concludes the story. Thus, the resolution of the trilogy is joyful, even though both preceding parts are tragic; the poet skillfully directs the poem to honor his native Athens and the esteemed Areopagus. Considered as one cohesive and unified performance, which is not as long as one of Shakespeare’s plays, they certainly surpass greatness of thought, lofty conception, and sustained vigor of execution found in any poem in literature; nor, when observing their simple yet compact symmetry as a whole, should we agree with those who deny Aeschylus the artistry of the craftsman while conceding him the talent of the poet.
The ingenious Schlegel attributes to these tragedies symbolical interpretations, but to my judgment with signal ill-success. These four tragedies—the Prometheus, the Agamemnon, the Choephori, and the Eumenides—are in grandeur immeasurably superior to the remaining three.
The clever Schlegel assigns symbolic meanings to these tragedies, but in my opinion, he does so with notable failure. These four tragedies—the Prometheus, the Agamemnon, the Choephori, and the Eumenides—are far greater in grandeur than the other three.
XII. Of these last, the Seven against Thebes is the best. The subject was one peculiarly interesting to Greece; the War of the Seven was the earliest record of a league among the Grecian princes, and of an enterprise carried on with a regular and systematic design. The catastrophe of two brothers falling by each other’s hand is terrible and tragic, and among the most national of the Grecian legends. The fierce and martial spirit of the warrior poet runs throughout the play; his descriptions are animated as with the zeal and passion of battle; the chorus of Theban virgins paint in the most glowing colours the rush of the adverse hosts—the prancing of the chargers—the sound of their hoofs, “rumbling as a torrent lashing the side of cliffs;” we hear the creak of the heavy cars—the shrill whiz of the javelins, “maddening the very air”—the showers of stones crashing over the battlements—the battering at the mighty gates—the uproar of the city—the yells of rapine—the shrieks of infants “strangled by the bubbling blood.” Homer himself never accumulated more striking images of horror. The description of Tydeus is peculiarly Homeric—
XII. Among these, the best is The Seven Against Thebes. The story is particularly significant to Greece; the War of the Seven is the earliest account of a coalition among Greek princes, and it showcases an enterprise conducted with a clear and organized purpose. The tragedy of two brothers killing each other is both horrifying and poignant, making it one of the most iconic Greek legends. The fierce and warrior-like spirit of the poet shines throughout the play; his descriptions are filled with the energy and passion of battle. The chorus of Theban maidens vividly illustrates the clash of opposing armies—the galloping horses—the sound of their hooves, “rumbling like a torrent crashing against cliffs;” we hear the creak of heavy chariots—the sharp whistling of javelins, “driving the very air wild”—the rain of stones crashing onto the battlements—the pounding at the massive gates—the chaos of the city—the cries of looting—the screams of babies “choking on the gushing blood.” Even Homer never created more striking images of horror. The portrayal of Tydeus is particularly Homeric—
“Three shadowy crests, the honours of his helm,
Wave wild, and shrilly from his buckler broad
The brazen bell rings terror. On the shield
He bears his haughty ensign—typed by stars
Gleaming athwart the sky, and in the midst
Glitters the royal Moon—the Eye of Night.
Fierce in the glory of his arms, his voice
Roars by the river banks; and drunk with war
He pants, as some wild charger, when the trump
Clangs ringing, as he rushes on the foe.”
“Three shadowy peaks, the honors of his helmet, wave wildly, and the loud bell from his broad shield rings out terror. On the shield, he displays his proud emblem—marked by stars shining across the sky, and in the center sparkles the royal Moon—the Eye of Night. Fierce in the glory of his armor, his voice roars by the riverbanks; and filled with the excitement of battle, he breathes heavily like a wild horse when the trumpet sounds, charging forward against his enemies.”
The proud, dauntless, and warlike spirit of Eteocles which is designed and drawn with inconceivable power, is beautifully characterized in his reply to the above description:
The proud, fearless, and combative spirit of Eteocles, depicted with incredible strength, is beautifully captured in his response to the above description:
“Man hath no armour, war hath no array,
At which this heart can tremble; no device
Nor blazonry of battle can inflict
The wounds they menace; crests and clashing bells
Without the spear are toothless, and the night,
Wrought on yon buckler with the stars of heaven,
Prophet, perchance, his doom; and if dark Death
Close round his eyes, are but the ominous signs
Of the black night that waits him.”
“A man has no armor, war has no setup,
That can make this heart tremble; no tricks
Or battle symbols can inflict
The wounds they threaten; crests and clashing bells
Without the spear are harmless, and the night,
Displayed on that shield with the stars above,
Could be a sign of his fate; and if dark Death
Closes in around his eyes, they’re just the ominous signs
Of the black night that’s waiting for him.”The description of each warrior stationed at each gate is all in the genius of Homer, closing as it does with that of Polynices, the brother of the besieged hero, whom, when he hears his name, Eteocles himself resolves to confront. At first, indeed, the latter breaks out into exclamations which denote the awe and struggle of the abhorrent nature; forebodings of his own doom flit before him, he feels the curses of his sire are ripening to their fruit, and that the last storm is yet to break upon the house of Oedipus. Suddenly he checks the impulse, sensible of the presence of the chorus. He passes on to reason with himself, through a process of thought which Shakspeare could not have surpassed. He conjures up the image of that brother, hateful and unjust from infancy to boyhood, from boyhood up to youth— he assures himself that justice would be forsworn if this foe should triumph—and rushes on to his dread resolve.
The portrayal of each warrior stationed at the gates is pure brilliance, particularly the depiction of Polynices, the brother of the hero under siege, whom Eteocles himself decides to face upon hearing his name. At first, Eteocles reacts with exclamations that reveal his fear and internal conflict; he senses his impending doom and feels the weight of his father’s curses coming to fruition, with disaster imminent for the house of Oedipus. Suddenly, he restrains himself, aware of the chorus's presence. He starts to reason with himself, going through a line of thinking that even Shakespeare couldn't have surpassed. He imagines that brother, whom he has despised and viewed as unjust since childhood, and tells himself that justice would be betrayed if this enemy were to win—and he resolves to act on his terrifying decision.
“‘Tis I will face this warrior; who can boast
A right to equal mine? Chief against chief—
Foe against foe!—and brother against brother.
What, ho! my greaves, my spear, my armour proof
Against this storm of stones! My stand is chosen.”
“It’s me who will face this warrior; who can claim
A right equal to mine? Chief against chief—
Foe against foe!—and brother against brother.
What, hey! my greaves, my spear, my armor strong
Against this storm of stones! I’ve made my stand.”Eteocles and his brother both perish in the unnatural strife, and the tragedy ends with the decree of the senators to bury Eteocles with due honours, and the bold resolution of Antigone (the sister of the dead) to defy the ordinance which forbids a burial to Polynices—
Eteocles and his brother both die in the unnatural conflict, and the tragedy concludes with the senators' decision to give Eteocles a proper burial, along with Antigone's (the sister of the deceased) brave choice to defy the order that prohibits the burial of Polynices—
“For mighty is the memory of the womb
From which alike we sprung—a wretched mother!”
“For powerful is the memory of the womb
From which we all come—a miserable mother!”The same spirit which glows through the “Seven against Thebes” is also visible in the “Persians,” which, rather picturesque than dramatic, is tragedy brought back to the dithyrambic ode. It portrays the defeat of Xerxes, and contains one of the most valuable of historical descriptions, in the lines devoted to the battle of Salamis. The speech of Atossa (the mother of Xerxes), in which she enumerates the offerings to the shade of Darius, is exquisitely beautiful.
The same spirit that shines through the “Seven against Thebes” is also seen in the “Persians,” which is more picturesque than dramatic, serving as a tragedy returned to the dithyrambic ode. It depicts the defeat of Xerxes and features one of the most significant historical descriptions in the lines about the battle of Salamis. Atossa's speech (Xerxes' mother), where she lists the offerings to the memory of Darius, is incredibly beautiful.
“The charms that sooth the dead:
White milk, and lucid honey, pure-distill’d
By the wild bee—that craftsman of the flowers;
The limpid droppings of the virgin fount,
And this bright liquid from its mountain mother
Born fresh—the joy of the time—hallowed vine;
The pale-green olive’s odorous fruit, whose leaves
Live everlastingly—and these wreathed flowers,
The smiling infants o’ the prodigal earth.”
“The charms that soothe the dead:
White milk, and clear honey, pure and fresh
From the wild bee—that artist of the flowers;
The clear drops from the virgin spring,
And this bright liquid from its mountain source
Born fresh—the joy of the season—holy wine;
The fragrant fruit of the pale-green olive, whose leaves
Last forever—and these woven flowers,
The cheerful children of the generous earth.”Nor is there less poetry in the invocation of the chorus to the shade of Darius, which slowly rises as they conclude. But the purpose for which the monarch returns to earth is scarcely sufficient to justify his appearance, and does not seem to be in accordance with the power over our awe and terror which the poet usually commands. Darius hears the tale of his son’s defeat—warns the Persians against interfering with the Athenians—tells the mother to comfort and console her son— bids the chorus (who disregard his advice) give themselves to mirth, even though in affliction, “for to the dead riches are no advantage”— and so returns to his repose, which seems very unnecessarily disturbed.
Nor is there any less poetry in the chorus calling on the spirit of Darius, which slowly appears as they finish. However, the reason for the king's return to Earth hardly seems enough to justify his presence, and it doesn't match the sense of awe and fear that the poet usually inspires. Darius learns about his son's defeat—warns the Persians not to meddle with the Athenians—tells his mother to comfort her son—urges the chorus (who ignore his advice) to find joy even in sadness, “for to the dead, riches are of no use”—and then returns to his rest, which seems unnecessarily interrupted.
“The Suppliants,” which Schlegel plausibly conjectures to have been the intermediate piece of a trilogy, is chiefly remarkable as a proof of the versatility of the poet. All horror has vanished from the scene; the language is soft when compared with the usual diction of Aeschylus; the action is peaceful, and the plot extremely simple, being merely the protection which the daughters of Danaus obtain at the court of Pelasgus from the pursuit of the sons of Aegyptus. The heroines of the play, the Danaides, make the chorus, and this serves to render the whole, yet more than the Persians, a lyric rather than a tragedy. The moral of the play is homely and primitive, and seems confined to the inculcation of hospitality to strangers, and the inviolable sanctity of the shrine. I do not know any passages in “The Suppliants” that equal in poetry the more striking verses of “The Persians,” or “The Seven against Thebes.”
“The Suppliants,” which Schlegel reasonably suggests may have been the middle piece of a trilogy, is mainly notable as evidence of the poet's versatility. All horror has faded from the scene; the language is softer compared to Aeschylus's usual style; the action is calm, and the plot is extremely straightforward, revolving only around the protection that the daughters of Danaus receive at Pelasgus’s court from the pursuit of the sons of Aegyptus. The heroines of the play, the Danaides, form the chorus, which makes the overall work, even more so than “The Persians,” feel more like a lyrical piece than a tragedy. The moral of the play is simple and basic, seeming to focus on promoting hospitality towards strangers and the inviolable sanctity of the shrine. I don’t know of any passages in “The Suppliants” that match the poetic power of the more striking lines from “The Persians” or “The Seven against Thebes.”
XIII. Attempts have been made to convey to modern readers a more familiar notion of Aeschylus by comparisons with modern poets. One critic likens him to Dante, another to Milton—but he resembles neither. No modern language can convey a notion of the wonderful strength of his diction—no modern poet, of the stern sublimity of his conceptions. The French tragedians may give some weak reflection of Euripides or even of Sophocles, but none have ventured upon the sacred territory of the father of the tragic drama. He defies all imitation. His genius is so near the verge of bombast, that to approach his sublime is to rush into the ridiculous. 28
XIII. Efforts have been made to give modern readers a better understanding of Aeschylus by comparing him to contemporary poets. One critic compares him to Dante, another to Milton—but he is really like neither. No modern language can capture the incredible power of his language—no modern poet can match the serious grandeur of his ideas. The French tragedians might offer some faint reflection of Euripides or even Sophocles, but none have dared to tread on the sacred ground of the father of tragedy. He is beyond imitation. His brilliance is so close to being over-the-top that to try to reach his greatness is to stumble into the absurd. 28
Aeschylus never once, in the plays that have come down to us, delineates love, except by an expression or two as regards the passion of Clytemnestra for Aegisthus 29. It was emblematic of a new state of society when Euripides created the Phaedra and the Medea. His plots are worked out by the simplest and the fewest positions. But he had evidently his own theory of art, and studied with care such stage effects as appeared to him most striking and impressive. Thus, in the burlesque contest between Aeschylus and Euripides, in the comedy of “The Frogs,” the former is censured, not for too rude a neglect, but for too elaborate a cultivation, of theatrical craft—such as introducing his principal characters, his Niobe and Achilles 30, with their faces hid, and preserving long and obstinate silence, in order by that suspense to sharpen the expectation of the audience. Aeschylus, in fact, contrary to the general criticism, was as earnest and thoughtful an artist as Sophocles himself. There was this difference, it is true; one invented the art and the other perfected.
Aeschylus never depicts love in the plays that have survived, except for a mention or two regarding Clytemnestra's passion for Aegisthus 29. It marked a shift in society when Euripides wrote Phaedra and Medea. His plots are developed through simple and few elements. However, he clearly had his own artistic vision and meticulously studied the stage effects he found most striking and impactful. Thus, in the comedic competition between Aeschylus and Euripides in “The Frogs,” the former is criticized, not for being too neglectful, but for being overly detailed in his theatrical techniques—like introducing key characters, such as Niobe and Achilles 30, with their faces hidden and maintaining a long, tense silence to heighten the audience's anticipation. In reality, contrary to the common critique, Aeschylus was as dedicated and thoughtful an artist as Sophocles. There was one difference, though: one created the art while the other refined it.
But the first requires as intense a study as the last; and they who talk of the savage and untutored genius of Aeschylus, are no wiser than the critics who applied the phrase of “native wood-notes wild” to the consummate philosophy of “Hamlet,” the anatomical correctness of “Othello,” the delicate symmetry of “The Tempest.” With respect to the language of Aeschylus, ancient critics unite with the modern in condemning the straining of his metaphors, and the exaggeration of his images; yet they appear to me a necessary part of his genius, and of the effect it produces. But nothing can be more unsatisfactory and inconclusive than the theory of Schlegel, that such metaphors and images, such rugged boldness and irregular fire, are the characteristics of a literature in its infancy. On the contrary, as we have already seen, Phrynichus, the predecessor of Aeschylus, was as much characterized by sweetness and harmony, as Aeschylus by grandeur and headlong animation. In our own time, we have seen the cold classic school succeeded by one full of the faults which the German, eloquent but superficial, would ascribe to the infancy of literature. The diction of Aeschylus was the distinction of himself, and not of his age; if it require an apology, let us not seek it in false pretences; if he had written after Euripides, his diction would have been equally startling, and his metaphors equally lofty. His genius was one of those which, in any age, can form an era, and not that which an era necessarily forms. He might have enriched his music from the strains of the Dorian lyres, but he required only one poet to have lived before him. The rest of the Greek dramatists required Aeschylus—Aeschylus required only Homer.
But the first requires as intense a study as the last; and those who talk about the wild and untamed genius of Aeschylus are no wiser than the critics who described the “native wood-notes wild” of the refined philosophy of “Hamlet,” the anatomical accuracy of “Othello,” and the delicate symmetry of “The Tempest.” Regarding Aeschylus's language, both ancient and modern critics agree in condemning the strain in his metaphors and the exaggeration in his imagery; yet, to me, these aspects are a necessary part of his genius and the effect he creates. However, nothing is more unsatisfying and inconclusive than Schlegel's theory that such metaphors and images, such rugged boldness and irregular fire, are characteristics of a literature in its infancy. On the contrary, as we have already seen, Phrynichus, Aeschylus's predecessor, was just as marked by sweetness and harmony, while Aeschylus is known for grandeur and intense energy. In our time, we have witnessed the cold classic school being replaced by one filled with the faults that the eloquent yet superficial German would attribute to the infancy of literature. Aeschylus's diction was a signature of himself, not of his era; if it needs an apology, let’s not seek it in false pretenses; had he written after Euripides, his diction would still have been just as striking, and his metaphors likewise elevated. His genius was of a kind that could define an era in any age, rather than that which an era inevitably shapes. He might have enriched his music from the tones of the Dorian lyres, but he needed only one poet to precede him. The rest of the Greek dramatists needed Aeschylus—Aeschylus needed only Homer.
The POET is, indeed, the creator, not of images solely, but of men— not of one race of ideas and characters, but of a vast and interminable posterity scattered over the earth. The origin of what wonderful works, in what distant regions, in what various time, may be traced, step by step, from influence to influence, till we arrive at Homer! Such is the vitality of genius. The true spiritual transmigrator—it passes through all shapes—losing identity, but not life—and kindred to the GREAT INTELLIGENCE, which is the soul of matter—departing from one form only to animate another.
The POET is, in fact, the creator, not just of images, but of people— not of just one type of ideas and characters, but of a vast and endless legacy spread across the world. The origin of such amazing works, in such far-off places, at such different times, can be traced, step by step, from influence to influence, until we reach Homer! This is the power of genius. The true spiritual traveler—it goes through all forms—losing its identity, but not its essence—and is connected to the GREAT INTELLIGENCE, which is the soul of matter—leaving one form only to bring another to life.
CHAPTER III.
Aristides.—His Character and Position.—The Rise of Themistocles.— Aristides is Ostracised.—The Ostracism examined.—The Influence of Themistocles increases.—The Silver-mines of Laurion.—Their Product applied by Themistocles to the Increase of the Navy.—New Direction given to the National Character.
Aristides.—His Character and Position.—The Rise of Themistocles.—Aristides is Exiled.—The Exile examined.—The Influence of Themistocles grows.—The Silver mines of Laurion.—Their Output used by Themistocles to Boost the Navy.—New Direction given to the National Character.
I. While the progress of the drama and the genius of Aeschylus contributed to the rising renown of Athens, there appeared on the surface of her external affairs two rival and principal actors, of talents and designs so opposite, that it soon became evident that the triumph of one could be only in the defeat of the other. Before the battle of Marathon, Aristides had attained a very considerable influence in Athens. His birth was noble—his connexions wealthy—his own fortune moderate. He had been an early follower and admirer of Clisthenes, the establisher of popular institutions in Athens after the expulsion of the Pisistratidae, but he shared the predilection of many popular chieftains, and while opposing the encroachments of a tyranny, supported the power of an aristocracy. The system of Lycurgus was agreeable to his stern and inflexible temper. His integrity was republican—his loftiness of spirit was patrician. He had all the purity, the disinterestedness, and the fervour of a patriot—he had none of the suppleness or the passion of a demagogue; on the contrary, he seems to have felt much of that high-spirited disdain of managing a people which is common to great minds conscious that they are serving a people. His manners were austere, and he rather advised than persuaded men to his purposes. He pursued no tortuous policy, but marched direct to his object, fronting, and not undermining, the obstacles in his path. His reputation for truth and uprightness was proverbial, and when some lines in Aeschylus were recited on the stage, implying that “to be, and not to seem, his wisdom was,” the eyes of the spectators were fixed at once upon Aristides. His sternness was only for principles—he had no harshness for men. Priding himself on impartiality between friends and foes, he pleaded for the very person whom the laws obliged him to prosecute; and when once, in his capacity of arbiter between two private persons, one of the parties said that his opponent had committed many injuries against Aristides, he rebuked him nobly: “Tell me not,” he said, “of injuries against myself, but against thee. It is thy cause I am adjudging, and not my own.” It may be presumed, that with these singular and exalted virtues, he did not seek to prevent the wounds they inflicted upon the self-love of others, and that the qualities of a superior mind were displayed with the bearing of a haughty spirit. He became the champion of the aristocratic party, and before the battle of Marathon he held the office of public treasurer. In this capacity Plutarch asserts that he was subjected to an accusation by Themistocles, and even intimates that Themistocles himself had been his predecessor in that honourable office 31. But the youth of Themistocles contradicts this statement; and though his restless and ambitious temper had led him already into active life, and he might have combined with others more influential against Aristides, it can scarcely be supposed that, possessing no advantages of birth, he rose into much power or distinction, till he won sudden and popular applause by his gallantry at Marathon.
I. As the drama evolved and Aeschylus’s genius boosted Athens's fame, two key figures emerged in her external affairs, each with opposing talents and agendas, making it clear that the victory of one would only come through the other's defeat. Before the Battle of Marathon, Aristides had gained significant influence in Athens. He was of noble birth, had wealthy connections, and his own fortune was modest. He had initially followed and admired Clisthenes, who established popular institutions in Athens after the Pisistratidae were expelled. However, he shared the bias of many popular leaders; while he opposed tyranny, he supported the power of the aristocracy. The system of Lycurgus suited his stern and inflexible nature. His integrity was republican, while his elevated spirit was patrician. He embodied all the purity, selflessness, and passion of a patriot, lacking the cunning or emotional manipulation of a demagogue; instead, he seemed to possess a lofty disdain for pandering to the masses, which is typical of great minds aware of their service to the people. He had a serious demeanor and preferred advising rather than persuading people to his goals. He didn’t engage in deceitful politics but headed straight for his objectives, confronting rather than undermining the challenges in his way. His reputation for honesty and integrity was well-known, and when some lines from Aeschylus were performed on stage that suggested “to be, and not to seem, was his wisdom,” the audience immediately thought of Aristides. His sternness applied only to principles—he was not harsh toward individuals. Proud of his impartiality between friends and enemies, he defended a person whom the laws required him to accuse. Once, while acting as a judge between two individuals, when one complained that his opponent had done him wrong, Aristides nobly replied: “Don’t speak of grievances against me; this is your case I am judging, not mine.” It can be assumed that, with these unique and elevated qualities, he did not try to soften the blows they dealt to others' self-esteem, and that the traits of a superior mind were often accompanied by an arrogant demeanor. He became the advocate of the aristocratic faction, and prior to the Battle of Marathon, he held the position of public treasurer. In this role, Plutarch claims he faced an accusation from Themistocles, even suggesting that Themistocles had previously held that noble office 31. However, Themistocles’s youth contradicts this assertion; despite his restless ambition pushing him into politics early on, and possibly aligning himself with others influential against Aristides, it is unlikely that he gained much power or recognition without the advantages of birth until he earned sudden popularity through his bravery at Marathon.
II. Themistocles was of illegitimate birth, according to the Athenian prejudice, since his mother was a foreigner. His father, though connected with the priestly and high-born house of the Lycomedae, was not himself a Eupatrid. The young Themistocles had many of the qualities which the equivocal condition of illegitimacy often educes from active and stirring minds—insolence, ostentation, the desire to shine, and the invincible ambition to rise. He appears, by a popular tale, to have early associated with his superiors, and to have evinced betimes the art and address which afterward distinguished him. At a meeting of all the illegitimate youths assembled at the wrestling-ring at Cynosarges, dedicated to Hercules, he persuaded some of the young nobles to accompany him, so as to confound as it were the distinction between the legitimate and the baseborn. His early disposition was bold, restless, and impetuous. He paid little attention to the subtleties of schoolmen, or the refinements of the arts; but even in boyhood devoted himself to the study of politics and the arts of government. He would avoid the sports and occupations of his schoolfellows, and compose declamations, of which the subject was the impeachment or defence of some of his young friends. His dispositions prophesied of his future career, and his master was wont to say, “that he was born to be a blessing or a curse to the commonwealth.” His strange and precocious boyhood was followed by a wild and licentious youth. He lived in extremes, and alternated between the loosest pleasures 32 and the most daring ambition. Entering prematurely into public life, either his restless disposition or his political principles embroiled him with men of the highest rank. Fearless and sanguine, he cared not whom he attacked, or what he adventured; and, whatever his conduct before the battle of Marathon, the popular opinions he embraced could not but bring him, after that event, in constant opposition to Aristides, the champion of the Areopagus.
II. Themistocles was born out of wedlock, which was looked down upon in Athens because his mother was a foreigner. His father, although connected to the priestly and noble family of the Lycomedae, was not an Eupatrid himself. Young Themistocles displayed many traits that people often associate with being illegitimate—such as arrogance, showiness, a desire to stand out, and an unyielding ambition to succeed. According to a popular story, he early on mingled with those of higher status and showed skills and charm that would later define him. At a gathering of other illegitimate youths at the wrestling ring in Cynosarges, dedicated to Hercules, he convinced some young nobles to join him, effectively blurring the lines between the legitimate and the illegitimate. His early personality was bold, restless, and impulsive. He paid little attention to the nuances of academics or the finer points of the arts; instead, even as a boy, he focused on studying politics and governance. He avoided the games and activities of his classmates and wrote speeches defending or prosecuting some of his friends. His tendencies hinted at his future path, and his teacher often remarked that he was destined to either benefit or harm the state. His unusual and precocious childhood was followed by a wild and indulgent youth. He lived on the extremes, swinging between hedonistic pleasures and ambitious risks. Entering public life at an early age, either due to his restless nature or his political beliefs, he found himself in conflict with high-ranking individuals. Fearless and optimistic, he was unafraid to challenge anyone or take risks; and regardless of his actions before the Battle of Marathon, the popular views he adopted inevitably set him against Aristides, the defender of the Areopagus.
That splendid victory which gave an opening to his career sharpened his ambition. The loud fame of Miltiades, yet unconscious of reverse, inspired him with a lofty envy. He seems from that period to have forsaken his more youthful excesses. He abstained from his wonted pursuits and pleasures—he indulged much in solitary and abstracted thought—he watched whole nights. His friends wondered at the change, and inquired the cause. “The trophies of Miltiades,” said he, “will not suffer me to sleep.” From these meditations, which are common to most men in the interval between an irregular youth and an aspiring manhood, he soon seems to have awakened with fixed objects and expanded views. Once emerged from the obscurity of his birth, his success was rapid, for he possessed all the qualities which the people demanded in a leader—not only the talents and the courage, but the affability and the address. He was an agreeable and boon companion— he committed to memory the names of the humblest citizens—his versatility enabled him to be all things to all men. Without the lofty spirit and beautiful mind of Pericles, without the prodigal but effeminate graces of Alcibiades—without, indeed, any of their Athenian poetry in his intellectual composition, he yet possessed much of their powers of persuasion, their ready talent for business, and their genius of intrigue. But his mind, if coarser than that of either of his successors, was yet perhaps more masculine and determined; nothing diverted him from his purpose—nothing arrested his ambition. His ends were great, and he associated the rise of his country with his more selfish objects, but he was unscrupulous as to his means. Avid of glory, he was not keenly susceptible to honour. He seems rather not to have comprehended, than comprehending, to have disdained the limits which principle sets to action. Remarkably far-sighted, he possessed, more than any of his contemporaries, the prophetic science of affairs: patient, vigilant, and profound, he was always energetic, because always prepared.
That amazing victory that kickstarted his career fueled his ambition. The loud fame of Miltiades, who had yet to face any setbacks, filled him with a strong envy. From that moment, he seemed to have given up his youthful excesses. He stayed away from his usual pastimes and pleasures—spending a lot of time in solitary, deep thought—he would watch through whole nights. His friends were surprised by the change and asked him why. “The trophies of Miltiades,” he said, “keep me from sleeping.” From these reflections, which are typical for many as they transition from a wild youth to an ambitious adulthood, he quickly seemed to awaken with clear goals and broader perspectives. Once he stepped out of the shadows of his background, his success came quickly, as he had all the qualities that the people wanted in a leader—not just talent and courage, but also friendliness and charm. He was an enjoyable and generous friend—memorizing the names of even the simplest citizens—his adaptability allowed him to connect with everyone. Without the noble spirit and brilliant mind of Pericles, or the extravagant yet soft traits of Alcibiades—without, indeed, any of their Athenian artistry in his thinking, he still had a lot of their persuasive skills, a natural talent for business, and a knack for intrigue. But while his mind might have been rougher than either of his successors, it was perhaps more masculine and resolute; nothing distracted him from his goals—nothing held back his ambition. His ambitions were substantial, and he linked the rise of his country to his own self-serving aims, but he was unscrupulous about how he achieved them. Eager for glory, he wasn't particularly sensitive to honor. It seems he didn’t so much disdain the limits that principles impose on actions as he simply didn’t understand them. Exceptionally forward-thinking, he had, more than any of his peers, a keen insight into political matters: patient, alert, and insightful, he was always energetic because he was always ready.
Such was the rival of Aristides, and such the rising leader of the popular party at Athens.
Such was the rival of Aristides, and such was the emerging leader of the popular party in Athens.
III. History is silent as to the part taken by Aristides in the impeachment of Miltiades, but there is no reason to believe that he opposed the measure of the Alcmaeonid party with which he acted, and which seems to have obtained the ascendency after the death of Miltiades. In the year following the battle of Marathon, we find Aristides in the eminent dignity of archon. In this office he became generally known by the title of the Just. His influence, his official rank, the power of the party that supported him, soon rendered him the principal authority of Athens. The courts of the judges were deserted, every litigant repaired to his arbitration—his administration of power obtained him almost the monopoly of it. Still, however, he was vigorously opposed by Themistocles and the popular faction led by that aspiring rival.
III. History is unclear about Aristides' role in the impeachment of Miltiades, but there's no reason to think he opposed the measures of the Alcmaeonid party he was part of, which seems to have gained power after Miltiades' death. In the year after the battle of Marathon, Aristides held the prestigious position of archon. In this role, he became widely known as the Just. His influence, official position, and the power of the party backing him quickly made him the leading authority in Athens. The courts were deserted, and every litigant turned to his arbitration—his administration of power almost gave him a monopoly on it. Still, he faced strong opposition from Themistocles and the popular faction led by that ambitious rival.
By degrees; various reasons, the chief of which was his own high position, concurred to diminish the authority of Aristides; even among his own partisans he lost ground, partly by the jealousy of the magistrates, whose authority he had superseded—and partly, doubtless, from a maxim more dangerous to a leader than any he can adopt, viz., impartiality between friends and foes in the appointment to offices. Aristides regarded, not the political opinions, but the abstract character or talents, of the candidates. With Themistocles, on the contrary, it was a favourite saying, “The gods forbid that I should be in power, and my friends no partakers of my success.” The tendency of the first policy is to discontent friends, while it rarely, if ever, conciliates foes; neither is it so elevated as it may appear to the superficial; for if we contend for the superiority of one set of principles over another, we weaken the public virtue when we give equal rewards to the principles we condemn as to the principles we approve. We make it appear as if the contest had been but a war of names, and we disregard the harmony which ought imperishably to exist between the opinions which the state should approve and the honours which the state can confer. He who is impartial as to persons must submit to seem lukewarm as to principles. Thus the more towering and eminent the seeming power of Aristides, the more really hollow and insecure were its foundations. To his own party it was unproductive— to the multitude it appeared unconstitutional. The extraordinary honours he had acquired—his monopoly of the magistrature—his anti-popular opinions, could not but be regarded with fear by a people so jealous of their liberties. He seemed to their apprehensions to be approaching gradually to the sovereignty of the state—not, indeed, by guards and military force, but the more dangerous encroachments of civil authority. The moment for the attack arrived. Themistocles could count at last upon the chances of a critical experiment, and Aristides was subjected to the ordeal of the ostracism.
By degrees, various reasons, the main one being his own high status, led to a decline in Aristides's power; even among his supporters, he lost support, partly due to the jealousy of the magistrates he had replaced—and partly, undoubtedly, because of a dangerous principle for any leader: treating friends and enemies the same when appointing people to positions. Aristides focused on the candidates' character or skills rather than their political views. In contrast, Themistocles often said, "The gods forbid I should hold power while my friends share none of my success." This first approach tends to alienate friends and rarely won over enemies; it's not as noble as it might seem at first glance, because if we argue that one set of principles is better than another, we undermine public virtue by rewarding both the principles we disapprove of and those we support equally. It can make it look like the struggle was merely about names, ignoring the essential connection that should exist between the values the state endorses and the honors it grants. Those who are neutral about people can seem indifferent to the principles involved. Thus, the more grand and impressive Aristides's apparent power became, the more fragile and uncertain its foundations were. To his own party, he was ineffective—while to the general public, he seemed unconstitutional. The extraordinary honors he had gained—his control over the magistrature—his unpopular opinions, were bound to be viewed with suspicion by a people so protective of their freedoms. They felt as if he was gradually drifting towards dominating the state—not through military force, but through the more insidious encroachments of civil authority. The moment for a counterattack came. Themistocles could finally rely on the opportunity of a critical test, and Aristides was put to the test of ostracism.
IV. The method of the ostracism was this:—each citizen wrote upon a shell, or a piece of broken earthenware, the name of the person he desired to banish. The magistrates counted the shells, and if they amounted to six thousand (a very considerable proportion of the free population, and less than which rendered the ostracism invalid), they were sorted, and the man whose name was found on the greater number of shells was exiled for ten years, with full permission to enjoy his estates. The sentence was one that honoured while it afflicted, nor did it involve any other accusation than that of being too powerful or too ambitious for the citizen of a free state. It is a well-known story, that, during the process of voting, an ignorant burgher came to Aristides, whose person he did not know, and requested him to write down the name of Aristides.
IV. The way ostracism worked was this: each citizen wrote the name of the person they wanted to banish on a shell or a piece of broken pottery. The officials counted the shells, and if they added up to six thousand (a significant portion of the free population, any fewer would make the ostracism invalid), they were sorted. The person whose name appeared on the most shells was exiled for ten years, while still allowed to keep their property. The punishment was a mix of honor and hardship, and the only implication was that the individual was considered too powerful or too ambitious for someone in a free society. It's a well-known story that during the voting process, an uninformed citizen approached Aristides, whom he didn’t recognize, and asked him to write down Aristides' name.
“Has he ever injured you?” asked the great man.
“Has he ever hurt you?” asked the important man.
“No,” answered the clown, “nor do I know him even by sight; but it vexes me to hear him everywhere called the ‘Just.’”
“No,” replied the clown, “and I don’t even know what he looks like; but it annoys me to hear everyone refer to him as the ‘Just.’”
Aristides replied not—he wrote his own name on the shell, and returned it to the enlightened voter. Such is a tale to which more importance than is its due has been attached. Yet perhaps we can give a new reading to the honest burgher’s reply, and believe that it was not so expressive of envy at the virtue, as of fear at the reputation. Aristides received the sentence of exile (B. C. 483) with his accustomed dignity. His last words on leaving his native city were characteristic of his generous and lofty nature. “May the Athenian people,” he said, “never know the day which shall force them to remember Aristides!”—A wish, fortunately alike for the exile and the people, not realized. That day, so patriotically deprecated, soon came, glorious equally to Athens and Aristides, and the reparation of wrong and the triumph of liberty found a common date.
Aristides didn't respond—he wrote his own name on the shell and handed it back to the informed voter. This story has been given more significance than it deserves. Yet perhaps we can interpret the honest citizen’s response differently, believing it reflected not envy towards virtue but fear of reputation. Aristides accepted his exile (B.C. 483) with his usual dignity. His final words as he left his hometown showed his generous and noble character. “May the Athenian people,” he said, “never experience the day that makes them remember Aristides!”—a wish that turned out to be fortunate for both the exile and the people, as it wasn’t fulfilled. That day, which he patriotically dreaded, soon arrived, bringing glory to both Athens and Aristides, with the restoration of justice and the triumph of liberty happening on the same day.
The singular institution of the ostracism is often cited in proof of the ingratitude of a republic, and the fickleness of a people; but it owed its origin not to republican disorders, but to despotic encroachment—not to a people, but to a tyrant. If we look throughout all the Grecian states, we find that a tyranny was usually established by some able and artful citizen, who, attaching himself either to the aristocratic, or more frequently to the popular party, was suddenly elevated into supreme power, with the rise of the faction he had espoused. Establishing his fame by popular virtues, he was enabled often to support his throne by a moral authority—more dangerous than the odious defence of military hirelings: hence necessarily arose among the free states a jealousy of individuals, whose eminence became such as to justify an undue ambition; and hence, for a long period, while liberty was yet tender and insecure, the (almost) necessity of the ostracism.
The practice of ostracism is often used as evidence of a republic's ingratitude and the unpredictability of its people. However, its origin wasn’t due to the chaos of republicanism, but rather to tyranny—it's a result of a tyrant, not the people. If we examine all the Greek states, we see that tyranny was typically established by a skilled and clever citizen. This individual, aligning himself either with the aristocratic or, more often, the popular side, would suddenly rise to supreme power with the emergence of the faction he supported. By showcasing popular virtues, he often gained a moral authority to support his rule—more dangerous than relying on despised military mercenaries. As a result, free states developed a suspicion towards individuals whose status seemed to justify excessive ambition; thus, for a long time, while liberty was still fragile and insecure, ostracism became almost a necessity.
Aristotle, who laments and condemns the practice, yet allows that in certain states it was absolutely requisite; he thinks the evil it is intended to prevent “might have been provided for in the earlier epochs of a commonwealth, by guarding against the rise of one man to a dangerous degree of power; but where the habits and laws of a nation are so formed as to render it impossible to prevent the rise, you must then guard against its consequences:” and in another part of his Politics he observes, “that even in republics, where men are regarded, not according to their wealth, but worth—where the citizens love liberty and have arms and valour to defend it; yet, should the pre-eminent virtues of one man, or of one family, totally eclipse the merit of the community at large, you have but two choices—the ostracism or the throne.”
Aristotle, who disapproves of the practice but acknowledges that in certain states it was absolutely necessary, believes that the harm it aims to prevent “could have been addressed earlier in the development of a society by preventing one person from gaining too much power; but when the customs and laws of a nation are structured in such a way that it's impossible to stop this rise, you must then protect against its consequences.” In another section of his Politics, he notes, “that even in republics, where people are valued based on their character rather than their wealth—where citizens cherish freedom and have the weapons and courage to defend it; however, if the exceptional qualities of one individual or family completely overshadow the abilities of the community as a whole, you have only two options—the banishment or the monarchy.”
If we lament the precaution, we ought then to acknowledge the cause. The ostracism was the creature of the excesses of the tyrannical, and not of the popular principle. The bland and specious hypocrisy of Pisistratus continued to work injury long after his death—and the ostracism of Aristides was the necessary consequence of the seizure of the citadel. Such evil hath arbitrary power, that it produces injustice in the contrary principles as a counterpart to the injustice of its own; thus the oppression of our Catholic countrymen for centuries resulted from the cruelties and persecutions of a papal ascendency. We remembered the danger, and we resorted to the rigid precaution. To guard against a second tyranny of opinion, we condemned, nor perhaps without adequate cause, not one individual, but a whole sect, to a moral ostracism. Ancient times are not then so opposite to the present—and the safety of the state may excuse, in a republic as in a monarchy, a thousand acts of abstract injustice. But the banishment of Aristides has peculiar excuses in the critical circumstances of the time. The remembrance of Pisistratus was still fresh—his son had but just perished in an attempt on his country—the family still lived, and still menaced: the republic was yet in its infancy—a hostile aristocracy within its walls—a powerful enemy still formidable without. It is a remarkable fact, that as the republic strengthened, and as the popular power increased, the custom of ostracism was superseded. The democratic party was never so strong as at the time in which it was finally abolished. It is the insecurity of power, whether in a people or a king, that generates suspicion. Habituated to liberty, a people become less rigid and more enlightened as to its precautions.
If we regret the precaution, we should also recognize the reason behind it. The banishment was a result of the excesses of tyranny, not the will of the people. The smooth and deceptive hypocrisy of Pisistratus continued to cause harm long after he was gone—and the ostracism of Aristides was a direct result of the takeover of the citadel. Arbitrary power brings about injustice in opposing principles as a reaction to its own injustice; thus, the oppression of our Catholic compatriots for centuries stemmed from the harshness and persecution of papal dominance. We remembered the danger and took strict precautions. To protect against a second outbreak of tyranny in public opinion, we condemned, perhaps without sufficient reason, not just one person, but an entire sect, to a moral banishment. Ancient times aren’t too different from the present—and the security of the state can justify, in both a republic and a monarchy, many acts of fundamental injustice. However, the exile of Aristides has particular justification given the critical situation of the time. The memory of Pisistratus was still fresh—his son had just died trying to regain power—his family was still around and still posed a threat: the republic was still young—a hostile aristocracy lingered within its walls—a powerful enemy remained outside. It’s noteworthy that as the republic grew stronger and as the power of the people increased, the practice of ostracism faded away. The democratic faction was never as strong as when it was finally abolished. It is the insecurity of power, whether in the hands of the people or a monarch, that breeds suspicion. Once people are used to freedom, they become less stringent and more enlightened about their precautions.
V. It had been a saying of Aristides, “that if the Athenians desired their affairs to prosper, they ought to fling Themistocles and himself into the barathrum.” But fortune was satisfied at this time with a single victim, and reserved the other for a later sacrifice. Relieved from the presence of a rival who had constantly crossed and obstructed his career, Themistocles found ample scope for his genius. He was not one of those who are unequal to the situation it costs them so much to obtain. On his entrance into public life he is said by Theophrastus to have possessed only three talents; but the account is inconsistent with the extravagance of his earlier career, and still more with the expenses to which a man who attempts to lead a party is, in all popular states, unavoidably subjected. More probably, therefore, it is said of him by others, that he inherited a competent patrimony, and he did not scruple to seize upon every occasion to increase it, whether through the open emolument or the indirect perquisites of public office. But, desiring wealth as a means, not an end, he grasped with one hand to lavish with the other. His generosity dazzled and his manners seduced the people, yet he exercised the power he acquired with a considerate and patriotic foresight. From the first retreat of the Persian armament he saw that the danger was suspended, and not removed. But the Athenians, who shared a common Grecian fault, and ever thought too much of immediate, too little of distant peril, imagined that Marathon had terminated the great contest between Asia and Europe. They forgot the fleets of Persia, but they still dreaded the galleys of Aegina. The oligarchy of that rival state was the political enemy of the Athenian demos; the ally of the Persian was feared by the conqueror, and every interest, military and commercial, contributed to feed the passionate and jealous hate that existed against a neighbour, too near to forget, too warlike to despise. The thoughtful and profound policy of Themistocles resolved to work this popular sentiment to ulterior objects; and urging upon a willing audience the necessity of making suitable preparations against Aegina, then the mistress of the seas, he proposed to construct a navy, fitted equally to resist the Persian and to open a new dominion to the Athenians.
V. Aristides once said that if the Athenians wanted their affairs to succeed, they should throw both Themistocles and himself into the abyss. However, fate only required one victim this time, saving the other for a later sacrifice. With the rival who had consistently hindered his progress gone, Themistocles found plenty of room to showcase his talents. He was not someone who struggled to handle the situations that took him so long to achieve. When he first entered public life, Theophrastus claims he had only three talents, but this doesn’t match the lavishness of his early career, especially considering the costs that come with trying to lead a party in any popular state. It’s more likely, as others have suggested, that he inherited a decent fortune and was willing to seize every opportunity to grow it, whether through official salaries or unofficial benefits from public office. However, viewing wealth as a means rather than an end, he held on with one hand while generously giving with the other. His generosity amazed people, and his charm captivated them, but he used his power with thoughtful and patriotic foresight. From the moment the Persian forces retreated, he recognized that the danger had only paused, not vanished. The Athenians, sharing a common Greek flaw, often focused too much on immediate dangers while neglecting long-term threats, believed that the battle of Marathon had settled the great conflict between Asia and Europe. They overlooked the Persian fleets but still feared the ships of Aegina. The oligarchy of that rival state was a political enemy of the Athenian populace; the ally of Persia was feared by the conquerors, and every military and commercial interest added to the passionate and jealous animosity toward this neighbor—too close to ignore and too aggressive to underestimate. The thoughtful and strategic mind of Themistocles saw a way to leverage this popular sentiment for greater aims. He urged a receptive audience on the necessity of preparing against Aegina, then the dominant naval power, proposing the creation of a navy capable of defending against Persia while also opening new territories for the Athenians.
To effect this purpose he called into aid one of the most valuable sources of her power which nature had bestowed upon Athens.
To achieve this goal, he tapped into one of the most valuable sources of her power that nature had given to Athens.
VI. Around the country by the ancient Thoricus, on the road from the modern Kerratia to the Cape of Sunium, heaps of scoriae indicate to the traveller that he is in the neighbourhood of the once celebrated silver-mines of Laurion; he passes through pines and woodlands—he notices the indented tracks of wheels which two thousand years have not effaced from the soil—he discovers the ancient shafts of the mines, and pauses before the foundations of a large circular tower and the extensive remains of the castles which fortified the neighbouring town 33. A little farther, and still passing among mine-banks and hillocks of scoriae, he beholds upon Cape Colonna the fourteen existent columns of the temple of Minerva Sunias. In this country, to which the old name is still attached 34, is to be found a principal cause of the renown and the reverses of Athens—of the victory of Salamis—of the expedition to Sicily.
VI. Traveling through the historic Thoricus, on the route from the modern Kerratia to Cape Sunium, piles of slag show the traveler that he is near the once-famous silver mines of Laurion; he moves through pine trees and forests—he notices the wheel tracks that have remained in the ground for two thousand years—he finds the old mine shafts, and stops in front of the foundations of a large circular tower and the extensive ruins of the castles that protected the nearby town 33. A bit further along, still navigating through the heaps of slag and hills, he sees the fourteen remaining columns of the temple of Minerva Sunias on Cape Colonna. In this place, which still retains its ancient name 34, lies a key reason for the fame and misfortunes of Athens—of the victory at Salamis—of the expedition to Sicily.
It appears that the silver-mines of Laurion had been worked from a very remote period—beyond even any traditional date. But as it is well and unanswerably remarked, “the scarcity of silver in the time of Solon proves that no systematic or artificial process of mining could at that time have been established.” 35 It was, probably, during the energetic and politic rule of the dynasty of Pisistratus that efficient means were adopted to derive adequate advantage from so fertile a source of national wealth. And when, subsequently, Athens, profiting from the lessons of her tyrants, allowed the genius of her free people to administer the state, fresh necessity was created for wealth against the hostility of Sparta—fresh impetus given to general industry and public enterprise. Accordingly, we find that shortly after the battle of Marathon, the yearly profits of the mines were immense. We learn from the researches of one of those eminent Germans 36 who have applied so laborious a learning with so subtle an acuteness to the elucidation of ancient history, that these mines were always considered the property of the state; shares in them were sold to individuals as tenants in fee farms, and these proprietors paid, besides, an annual sum into the public treasury, amounting to the twenty-fourth part of the produce. The state, therefore, received a regular revenue from the mines, derived from the purchase—moneys and the reserved rents. This revenue had been hitherto divided among all the free citizens, and the sum allotted to each was by no means inconsiderable, when Themistocles, at an early period of his career (before even the ostracism of Aristides), had the courage to propose that a fund thus lucrative to every individual should be appropriated to the national purpose of enlarging the navy. The feud still carried on with the Aeginetans was his pretext and excuse. But we cannot refuse our admiration to the fervent and generous order of public spirit existent at that time, when we find that it was a popular leader who proposed to, and carried through, a popular assembly the motion, that went to empoverish the men who supported his party and adjudged his proposition. Privileged and sectarian bodies never willingly consent to a surrender of pecuniary benefits for a mere public end. But among the vices of a popular assembly, it possesses the redeeming virtue to be generous. Upon a grand and unconscious principle of selfishness, a democracy rarely grudges a sacrifice endured for the service of the state.
It seems that the silver mines in Laurion have been exploited for a very long time—well before any traditional date we know. However, as has been pointed out clearly, “the lack of silver during Solon’s time shows that no organized or systematic mining operations could have been in place back then.” 35 It was likely during the active and strategic leadership of the Pisistratus dynasty that effective methods were put in place to take full advantage of such a rich source of national wealth. Later, when Athens learned from its tyrants and allowed its free people to govern, there was a new need for wealth due to the threat from Sparta—this led to a boost in general industry and public ventures. Thus, we see that shortly after the battle of Marathon, the annual profits from the mines were huge. Research from one of those distinguished German scholars 36 who have meticulously studied ancient history indicates that these mines were always regarded as state property; shares were sold to individuals as tenants of fee farms, and these owners also paid an annual fee to the public treasury, which was one twenty-fourth of their production. Therefore, the state received a steady income from the mines through both purchase revenues and reserved rents. Up until then, this income had been distributed among all the free citizens, and each person received a substantial amount, especially when Themistocles, early in his career (even before Aristides was ostracized), bravely proposed that this lucrative fund should be used to expand the navy. He used the ongoing conflict with the Aeginetans as his justification. Yet, we cannot help but admire the passionate and generous spirit of public interest that existed at that time, as it was a popular leader who brought forth and successfully passed a motion in a public assembly that stripped his supporters of some of their benefits for the greater good. Privileged groups rarely agree to give up financial advantages for a public purpose. However, despite its flaws, a popular assembly has the redeeming quality of being generous. Based on a profound and unintentional principle of self-interest, a democracy seldom resents making sacrifices for the benefit of the state.
The money thus obtained was devoted to the augmentation of the maritime force to two hundred triremes—an achievement that probably exhausted the mine revenue for some years; and the custom once broken, the produce of Laurion does not seem again to have been wasted upon individuals. To maintain and increase the new navy, a decree was passed, either at that time 37, or somewhat later, which ordained twenty triremes to be built yearly.
The money obtained was used to increase the naval fleet to two hundred triremes—an accomplishment that likely drained the mine revenue for several years; and once that custom was established, the resources from Laurion don't appear to have been squandered on individuals again. To support and enhance the new navy, a decree was issued, either at that time 37, or somewhat later, which mandated the construction of twenty triremes each year.
VII. The construction of these vessels, the very sacrifice of the citizens, the general interest that must have attached to an undertaking that was at once novel in itself, and yet congenial not more to the passions of a people, who daily saw from their own heights the hostile rock of Aegina, “the eyesore of the Piraeus,” than to the habits of men placed in a steril land that on three sides tempted to the sea—all combined to assist Themistocles in his master policy—a policy which had for its design gradually to convert the Athenians from an agricultural into a maritime people. What was imputed to him as a reproach became his proudest distinction, viz., that “he first took his countrymen from the spear and shield, and sent them to the bench and oar.”
VII. The building of these ships, the significant sacrifices made by the citizens, and the shared interest in a project that was both new and aligned with the feelings of a people who could see the threat of Aegina—the “eyesore of the Piraeus”—from their own heights, as well as to the habits of those living in a barren land surrounded by the sea on three sides, all helped Themistocles with his master plan. This plan aimed to gradually transform the Athenians from an agricultural society into a maritime one. What was criticized as a fault became his greatest achievement, namely, that “he was the first to take his fellow citizens away from the spear and shield and direct them to the bench and oar.”
CHAPTER IV.
The Preparations of Darius.—Revolt of Egypt.—Dispute for the Succession to the Persian Throne.—Death of Darius.—Brief Review of the leading Events and Characteristics of his Reign.
The Preparations of Darius.—Revolt of Egypt.—Dispute for the Succession to the Persian Throne.—Death of Darius.—Brief Review of the leading Events and Characteristics of his Reign.
I. While, under the presiding genius of Themistocles, Athens was silently laying the foundation of her naval greatness, and gradually increasing in influence and renown, the Persian monarch was not forgetful of the burning of Sardis and the defeat of Marathon. The armies of a despotic power are often slow to collect, and unwieldy to unite, and Darius wasted three years in despatching emissaries to various cities, and providing transports, horses, and forage for a new invasion.
I. While, under the leadership of Themistocles, Athens was quietly building its naval strength and steadily gaining influence and fame, the Persian king didn’t forget the burning of Sardis and the defeat at Marathon. Armies of a tyrannical regime are often slow to gather and difficult to unify, and Darius spent three years sending messengers to different cities and organizing ships, horses, and supplies for a new invasion.
The vastness of his preparations, though congenial to oriental warfare, was probably proportioned to objects more great than those which appear in the Greek historians. There is no reason, indeed, to suppose that he cherished the gigantic project afterward entertained by his son—a project no less than that of adding Europe as a province to the empire of the East. But symptoms of that revolt in Egypt which shortly occurred, may have rendered it advisable to collect an imposing force upon other pretences; and without being carried away by any frantic revenge against the remote and petty territory of Athens, Darius could not but be sensible that the security of his Ionian, Macedonian, and Thracian conquests, with the homage already rendered to his sceptre by the isles of Greece, made it necessary to redeem the disgrace of the Persian arms, and that the more insignificant the foe, the more fatal, if unpunished, the example of resistance. The Ionian coasts—the entrance into Europe—were worth no inconsiderable effort, and the more distant the provinces to be awed, the more stupendous, according to all rules of Asiatic despotism, should appear the resources of the sovereign. He required an immense armament, not so much for the sake of crushing the Athenian foe, as of exhibiting in all its might the angry majesty of the Persian empire.
The extent of his preparations, while suited to Eastern warfare, was likely aimed at greater objectives than those described by Greek historians. In fact, there's no reason to think he had ambitions as grand as those later pursued by his son—a plan to annex Europe as part of the Eastern empire. However, the signs of the imminent revolt in Egypt might have made it wise to muster a strong force under different pretenses. Without being driven by a wild desire for revenge against the distant and minor territory of Athens, Darius understood that securing his Ionian, Macedonian, and Thracian acquisitions, along with the loyalty already shown to him by the Greek islands, made it essential to redeem the Persian military's honor. The more insignificant the enemy, the more dangerous an unpunished act of defiance would be. The Ionian coast—the gateway to Europe—was worth considerable effort, and the more remote the provinces needing intimidation, the more impressive the sovereign's resources should appear, following the principles of Asian despotism. He needed a massive military force, not just to defeat the Athenians, but to showcase the full power of the Persian empire.
II. But while Asia was yet astir with the martial preparations of the great king, Egypt revolted from his sway, and, at the same time, the peace of Darius was imbittered, and his mind engaged, by a contest among his sons for the succession to the crown (B. C. 486). Artabazanes, the eldest of his family, born to him by his first wife, previous to his own elevation to the throne, founded his claim upon the acknowledged rights of primogeniture; but Xerxes, the eldest of a second family by Atossa, daughter of the great Cyrus, advanced, on the other hand, a direct descent from the blood of the founder of the Persian empire. Atossa, who appears to have inherited something of her father’s genius, and who, at all events, exercised unbounded influence over Darius, gave to the claim of her son a stronger support than that which he could derive from argument or custom. The intrigue probably extended from the palace throughout the pure Persian race, who could not but have looked with veneration upon a descendant of Cyrus, nor could there have seemed a more popular method of strengthening whatever was defective in the title of Darius to the crown, than the transmission of his sceptre to a son, in whose person were united the rights of the new dynasty and the sanctity of the old. These reasonings prevailed with Darius, whose duty it was to nominate his own successor, and Xerxes was declared his heir. While the contest was yet undecided, there arrived at the Persian court Demaratus, the deposed and self-exiled king of Sparta. He attached himself to the cause and person of Xerxes, and is even said to have furnished the young prince with new arguments, founded on the usages of Sparta—an assertion not to be wholly disregarded, since Demaratus appeared before the court in the character of a monarch, if in the destitution of an exile, and his suggestions fell upon the ear of an arbiter willing to seize every excuse to justify the resolution to which he had already arrived.
II. While Asia was still buzzing with the great king's military preparations, Egypt revolted against him. At the same time, Darius's peace was disturbed, and his attention was taken by a struggle among his sons for the throne (B.C. 486). Artabazanes, his eldest son from his first wife, claimed his right to the crown based on the well-known tradition of primogeniture. On the other hand, Xerxes, the eldest son from a second marriage to Atossa, the daughter of the great Cyrus, argued that he had a direct lineage from the founder of the Persian Empire. Atossa, who seemed to have inherited some of her father's brilliance and, in any case, had significant influence over Darius, provided stronger backing to her son's claim than mere arguments or customs could offer. The intrigue likely spread from the palace throughout the pure Persian population, who would have looked up to a descendant of Cyrus. It would have seemed like a more popular way to reinforce Darius's claim to the throne by passing it on to a son who combined the rights of the new dynasty with the respectability of the old. These arguments convinced Darius, whose responsibility it was to choose his successor, and Xerxes was named as his heir. While the competition was still unresolved, Demaratus, the deposed and self-exiled king of Sparta, arrived at the Persian court. He supported Xerxes's cause and was said to have provided the young prince with new arguments based on Spartan customs—an assertion that shouldn't be completely ignored since Demaratus appeared before the court as a king, despite being an exile, and his suggestions were received by an eager listener looking for any excuse to justify the decision he had already made.
This dispute terminated, Darius in person prepared to march against the Egyptian rebels, when his death (B. C. 485) consigned to the inexperienced hands of his heir the command of his armies and the execution of his designs.
This conflict ended, and Darius personally got ready to march against the Egyptian rebels when his death (B.C. 485) left the leadership of his armies and the execution of his plans in the untested hands of his successor.
The long reign of Darius, extending over thirty-six years, was memorable for vast improvements in the administrations of the empire, nor will it, in this place, be an irrelevant digression to glance briefly and rapidly back over some of the events and the innovations by which it was distinguished.
The long reign of Darius, lasting thirty-six years, was notable for significant improvements in the administration of the empire. It won't be off-topic here to quickly look back at some of the events and innovations that set it apart.
III. The conquest of Cyrus had transplanted, as the ruling people, to the Median empire, a race of brave and hardy, but simple and uncivilized warriors. Cambyses, of whose character no unequivocal evidence remains, since the ferocious and frantic crimes ascribed to him 38 are conveyed to us through the channel of the Egyptian priests, whom he persecuted, most probably, rather as a political nobility than a religious caste, could but slightly have improved the condition of the people, or the administration of the empire, since his reign lasted but seven years and five months, during which he was occupied with the invasion of Africa and the subjugation of Egypt. At the conclusion of his reign he was menaced by a singular conspiracy. The Median magi conspired in his absence from the seat of empire to elevate a Mede to the throne. Cambyses, under the impulse of jealous and superstitious fears, had lately put to death Smerdis, his brother. The secret was kept from the multitude, and known only to a few—among others, to the magian whom Cambyses had intrusted with the charge of his palace at Susa, an office as important as confidential. This man conceived a scheme of amazing but not unparalleled boldness. His brother, a namesake of the murdered prince, resembled the latter also in age and person. This brother, the chief of the household, with the general connivance of his sacerdotal caste, who were naturally anxious to restore the Median dynasty, suddenly declared to be the true Smerdis, and the impostor, admitted to possession of the palace, asserted his claim to the sovereign power. The consent of the magi— the indifference of the people—the absence, not only of the king, but of the flower of the Persian race—and, above all, the tranquil possession of the imperial palace, conspired to favour the deceit. 39 Placed on the Persian throne, but concealing his person from the eyes of the multitude in the impenetrable pomp of an Oriental seraglio, the pseudo Smerdis had the audacity to despatch, among the heralds that proclaimed his accession, a messenger to the Egyptian army, demanding their allegiance. The envoy found Cambyses at Ecbatana in Syria. Neither cowardice nor sloth was the fault of that monarch; he sprang upon his horse, determined to march at once to Susa, when the sheath fell from his sword, and he received a mortal wound from the naked blade. Cambyses left no offspring, and the impostor, believed by the people to be the true son of Cyrus, issued, from the protecting and august obscurity of his palace, popular proclamations and beneficent edicts. Whatever his present fraud, whatever his previous career, this daring Mede was enabled to make his reign beloved and respected. After his death he was regretted by all but the Persians, who would not have received the virtues of a god as an excuse for the usurpation of a Mede. Known to the vast empire only by his munificence of spirit—by his repeal of tribute and service, the impostor permitted none to his presence who could have detected the secret. He never quitted his palace—the nobles were not invited to his banquets—the women in his seraglio were separated each from each—and it was only in profound darkness that the partners of his pleasures were admitted to his bed. The imposture is said by Herodotus to have been first discovered in the following manner:—the magian, according to the royal custom, had appropriated to himself the wives of Cambyses; one of these was the daughter of Otanes, a Persian noble whom the secluded habits of the pretended king filled with suspicion. For some offence, the magian had been formerly deprived of his ears by the order of Cyrus. Otanes communicated this fact, with his suspicions, to his daughter, and the next time she was a partaker of the royal couch, she took the occasion of his sleep to convince herself that the sovereign of the East was a branded and criminal impostor. The suspicions of Otanes verified, he entered, with six other nobles, into a conspiracy, which mainly owed its success to the resolution and energy of one among them, named Darius, who appears to have held a station of but moderate importance among the royal guard, though son of Hystaspes, governor of the province of Persis, and of the purest and loftiest blood of Persia. The conspirators penetrated the palace unsuspected—put the eunuchs who encountered them to death —and reached the chamber in which the usurper himself was seated with his brother. The impostors, though but imperfectly armed, defended themselves with valour; two of the conspirators were wounded, but the swords of the rest sufficed to consummate the work, and Darius himself gave the death-blow to one of the brothers.
III. The conquest of Cyrus had brought a group of brave and tough, yet simple and uncivilized warriors into the Median empire as the ruling people. Cambyses, of whom there's no clear evidence about his character, is primarily portrayed through the writings of the Egyptian priests he persecuted, likely viewing them more as a political elite than a religious group. Consequently, he likely made only slight improvements to the people's conditions or the empire's administration, as his reign lasted only seven years and five months, during which he focused on invading Africa and conquering Egypt. At the end of his reign, he faced a unique conspiracy. While he was away from the seat of power, the Median magi plotted to elevate a Mede to the throne. Cambyses, driven by jealous and superstitious fears, had recently killed his brother Smerdis. This secret was kept from the public, known only to a few—including a magian responsible for guarding his palace in Susa, an important and confidential role. This man came up with a remarkably bold scheme. His brother, who shared the name of the murdered prince, also resembled him in age and appearance. This brother, the chief of the household, with the support of his priestly group, eager to restore the Median dynasty, suddenly claimed to be the true Smerdis, and the impostor, having taken control of the palace, asserted his claim to sovereignty. The agreement of the magi, the indifference of the people, the absence of not just the king but also the elite of the Persian race, and, most importantly, the calm control of the imperial palace all contributed to the success of the deception. Placed on the Persian throne but hidden from the public behind the impenetrable luxury of an Eastern harem, the pretender Smerdis had the audacity to send among the heralds announcing his rise a messenger to the Egyptian army, demanding their loyalty. The envoy found Cambyses at Ecbatana in Syria. Neither cowardice nor laziness defined that king; he jumped on his horse, determined to ride to Susa immediately, when the sheath fell from his sword, and he suffered a fatal wound from the exposed blade. Cambyses left no heirs, and the impostor, who was believed by the people to be Cyrus's true son, made popular announcements and benevolent laws from the safety and dignified isolation of his palace. Despite his current deceit and prior actions, this bold Mede managed to make his reign beloved and respected. After his death, he was mourned by everyone except the Persians, who would not accept even the virtues of a god as a justification for a Mede's usurpation. Known across the vast empire for his generosity—by his cancellation of taxes and services, the impostor ensured that no one who could have unveiled the truth entered his presence. He never left his palace—the nobles were not invited to his feasts—the women in his harem were kept apart—and it was only in complete darkness that his partners in pleasure were allowed into his bed. Herodotus reports that the deception was first uncovered in the following way: the magian had taken the wives of Cambyses, including the daughter of Otanes, a Persian noble who had grown suspicious from the seclusion of the so-called king. For some infraction, the magian had previously had his ears cut off by Cyrus's orders. Otanes informed his daughter of this and shared his doubts; the next time she shared the royal bed, she used his sleep to confirm that the ruler of the East was indeed a marked and guilty impostor. With Otanes’s suspicions proven true, he, along with six other nobles, formed a conspiracy that largely succeeded thanks to the determination and energy of one of them, named Darius, who held a relatively modest position among the royal guard, even though he was the son of Hystaspes, the governor of Persis, and of the purest noble blood of Persia. The conspirators entered the palace unnoticed, killed the eunuchs they encountered, and reached the room where the impostor was sitting with his brother. The impostors, though not well-armed, fought courageously; two of the conspirators were wounded, but the others’ swords were enough to complete their mission, and Darius himself delivered the fatal blow to one of the brothers.
This revolution was accompanied and stained by an indiscriminate massacre of the magi. Nor did the Persians, who bore to that Median tribe the usual hatred which conquerors feel to the wisest and noblest part of the conquered race, content themselves with a short-lived and single revenge. The memory of the imposture and the massacre was long perpetuated by a solemn festival, called “the slaughter of the Magi,” or Magophonia, during which no magian was permitted to be seen abroad.
This revolution was marked by a brutal massacre of the magi. The Persians, who held the typical disdain conquerors have for the most insightful and honorable members of the defeated people, didn’t settle for a one-time act of revenge. The memory of the deception and the massacre was kept alive through a solemn festival known as “the slaughter of the Magi” or Magophonia, during which no magian was allowed to be seen in public.
The result of this conspiracy threw into the hands of the seven nobles the succession to the Persian throne: the election fell upon Darius, the soul of the enterprise, and who was of that ancient and princely house of the Achaemenids, in which the Persians recognised the family of their ancestral kings. But the other conspirators had not struggled solely to exchange one despot for another. With a new monarchy arose a new oligarchy. Otanes was even exempted from allegiance to the monarch, and his posterity were distinguished by such exclusive honours and immunities, that Herodotus calls them the only Persian family which retained its liberty. The other conspirators probably made a kind of privileged council, since they claimed the right of access at all hours, unannounced, to the presence of the king—a privilege of the utmost value in Eastern forms of government—and their power was rendered permanent and solid by certain restrictions on marriage 40, which went to maintain a constant alliance between the royal family and their own. While the six conspirators rose to an oligarchy, the tribe of the Pasargadae— the noblest of those sections into which the pure Persian family was divided—became an aristocracy to officer the army and adorn the court. But though the great body of the conquered Medes were kept in subject inferiority, yet the more sternly enforced from the Persian resentment at the late Median usurpation, Darius prudently conciliated the most powerful of that great class of his subjects by offices of dignity and command, and of all the tributary nations, the Medes ranked next to the Persians.
The outcome of this conspiracy put the succession of the Persian throne in the hands of seven nobles: the election went to Darius, the mastermind behind the plan, who was from the ancient and noble Achaemenid family, recognized by the Persians as their royal lineage. However, the other conspirators were not just looking to swap one tyrant for another. With the new monarchy emerged a new oligarchy. Otanes was even freed from having to pledge loyalty to the king, and his descendants were given such special honors and privileges that Herodotus referred to them as the only Persian family that remained free. The other conspirators likely formed a kind of exclusive council since they claimed the right to see the king at any time without prior notice—a highly valuable privilege in Eastern governance. Their power was further solidified by certain marriage restrictions 40, which ensured a continuous alliance between the royal family and themselves. While the six conspirators formed an oligarchy, the Pasargadae tribe—the most distinguished of the pure Persian divisions—became an aristocracy to lead the army and enhance the court. Although the majority of the conquered Medes remained in a state of subservience, which was enforced even more strictly due to Persian resentment over recent Median usurpation, Darius wisely won over the most influential members of that significant group of subjects by granting them positions of honor and authority. Among all the tributary nations, the Medes were ranked just below the Persians.
IV. With Darius, the Persian monarchy progressed to that great crisis in the civilization of those states founded by conquering Nomades, when, after rich possessions are seized, cities built, and settlements established, the unwieldy and enormous empire is divided into provinces, and satrap government reflects in every district the mingled despotism and subservience, pomp and insecurity, of the imperial court. Darius undoubtedly took the most efficient means in his power to cement his sway and organize his resources. For the better collection of tribute, twenty provinces were created, governed by twenty satraps. Hitherto no specific and regular tax had been levied, but the Persian kings had been contented with reluctant presents, or arbitrary extortions. Darius now imposed a limited and annual impost, amounting, according to the computation of Herodotus, to fourteen thousand five hundred and sixty talents, collected partially from Africa, principally from Asia 41. The Persians, as the conquering and privileged race, were excluded from the general imposition, but paid their moderate contribution under the softer title of gratuity. The Colchians fixed their own burdens—the Ethiopians that bordered Egypt, with the inhabitants of the sacred town of Nyssa, rendered also tributary gratuities—while Arabia offered the homage of her frankincense, and India 42 of her gold. The empire of Darius was the more secure, in that it was contrary to its constitutional spirit to innovate on the interior organization of the distant provinces—they enjoyed their own national laws and institutions—they even retained their monarchs—they resigned nothing but their independence and their tribute. The duty of the satraps was as yet but civil and financial: they were responsible for the imposts, they executed the royal decrees. Their institution was outwardly designed but for the better collection of the revenue; but when from the ranks of the nobles Darius rose to the throne, he felt the advantage of creating subject principalities, calculated at once to remove and to content the more powerful and ambitious of his former equals. Save Darius himself, no monarch in the known world possessed the dominion or enjoyed the splendour accorded to these imperial viceroys. Babylon and Assyria fell to one—Media was not sufficient for another—nation was added to nation, and race to race, to form a province worthy the nomination of a representative of the great king. His pomp and state were such as befitted the viceroy over monarchs. A measure of silver, exceeding the Attic medimnus, was presented every day to the satrap of Babylon 43. Eight hundred stallions and sixteen thousand mares were apportioned to his stables, and the tax of four Assyrian towns was to provide for the maintenance of his Indian dogs.
IV. Under Darius, the Persian monarchy reached a significant turning point in the civilization of these territories established by conquering nomads. After acquiring wealth, constructing cities, and establishing settlements, this vast empire was divided into provinces. Each district's satrap government reflected a mix of despotism and subservience, along with the extravagance and uncertainty of the imperial court. Darius certainly took the most effective steps he could to strengthen his power and organize his resources. To improve tax collection, he created twenty provinces, each governed by a satrap. Until then, no specific and regular tax system existed, as Persian kings relied on reluctant gifts or arbitrary extortion. Darius introduced a fixed annual tax that, according to Herodotus, totaled fourteen thousand five hundred sixty talents, partially sourced from Africa but mainly from Asia 41. The Persians, as the conquering elite, were exempt from this general tax but contributed a smaller amount under the more gentle term of gratuity. The Colchians determined their own tax burdens—the Ethiopians near Egypt and the residents of the sacred town of Nyssa also paid tribute—while Arabia supplied frankincense, and India 42 provided gold. Darius's empire was more stable because it went against its constitutional spirit to alter the internal organization of distant provinces; they retained their own national laws and institutions, and even their rulers, giving up only their independence and their tribute. The satraps held mainly civil and financial responsibilities: they were accountable for taxes and executed royal orders. Their role was primarily designed for better revenue collection; however, after rising from the ranks of the nobles to the throne, Darius saw the benefit of creating subordinate principalities that could both appease and control the more powerful and ambitious figures among his former peers. Aside from Darius himself, no monarch in the known world had the authority or enjoyed the splendor granted to these imperial governors. Babylon and Assyria were assigned to one—Media was insufficient for another—additional nations and races formed a province worthy of representing the great king. Their pomp and status were fitting for a viceroy over monarchs. A measure of silver, more than an Attic medimnus, was provided daily to the satrap of Babylon 43. Eight hundred stallions and sixteen thousand mares were allocated to his stables, and the tax from four Assyrian towns was used to support his Indian dogs.
But under Darius, at least, these mighty officers were curbed and kept in awe by the periodical visits of the king himself, or his commissioners; while a broad road, from the western coast to the Persian capital—inns, that received the messengers, and couriers, that transmitted the commands of the king, brought the more distant provinces within the reach of ready intelligence and vigilant control. These latter improvements were well calculated to quicken the stagnant languor habitual to the overgrowth of eastern empire. Nor was the reign of Darius undistinguished by the cultivation of the more elegant arts—since to that period may be referred, if not the foundation, at least the embellishment and increase of Persepolis. The remains of the palace of Chil-Menar, ascribed by modern superstition to the architecture of genii, its graceful columns, its mighty masonry, its terrace-flights, its marble basins, its sculptured designs stamped with the unmistakeable emblems of the magian faith, sufficiently evince that the shepherd-soldiery of Cyrus had already learned to appreciate and employ the most elaborate arts of the subjugated Medes.
But during Darius's time, at least, these powerful officials were kept in check and intimidated by the king's regular visits or those of his commissioners. A wide road stretched from the western coast to the Persian capital, along with inns for messengers and couriers who relayed the king’s commands, making it easier to stay informed and maintain control over distant provinces. These improvements helped to shake off the stagnation that often plagued the sprawling eastern empire. Darius’s reign was also marked by a flourishing of the more refined arts; during this time, not only was the city of Persepolis built, but it was also enhanced and expanded. The remains of the Chil-Menar palace, which modern superstition attributes to genius architecture, along with its elegant columns, impressive masonry, terrace staircases, marble basins, and sculpted designs featuring clear symbols of the Magian faith, clearly show that Cyrus's shepherd-soldiers had already learned to value and use the intricate arts of the conquered Medes.
During this epoch, too, was founded a more regular military system, by the institution of conscriptions—while the subjection of the skilful sailors of Phoenicia, and of the great maritime cities of Asiatic Greece, brought to the Persian warfare the new arm of a numerous and experienced navy.
During this time, a more organized military system was established through conscription—meanwhile, subjugating the skilled sailors of Phoenicia and the major coastal cities of Asia Minor provided the Persian army with a large and experienced navy.
V. The reign of Darius is also remarkable for the influence which Grecian strangers began to assume in the Persian court—and the fatal and promiscuous admission of Grecian mercenaries into the Persian service. The manners of the Persians were naturally hospitable, and Darius possessed not only an affable temper, but an inquisitive mind. A Greek physician of Crotona, who succeeded in relieving the king from the effects of a painful accident which had baffled the Egyptian practitioners, esteemed the most skilful the court possessed, naturally rose into an important personage. His reputation was increased by a more difficult cure upon the person of Atossa, the daughter of Cyrus, who, from the arms of her brother Cambyses, and those of the magian impostor, passed to the royal marriage-bed. And the physician, though desirous only of returning through some pretext to his own country, perhaps first inflamed the Persian king with the ill-starred wish of annexing Greece to his dominions. He despatched a commission with the physician himself, to report on the affairs of Greece. Many Hellenic adventurers were at that time scattered over the empire, some who had served with Cambyses, others who had sided with the Egyptians. Their valour recommended them to a valiant people, and their singular genius for intrigue took root in every soil. Syloson, a Greek of Samos, brother to Polycrates, the tyrant of that state, who, after a career of unexampled felicity and renown, fell a victim to the hostile treachery of Oretes, the satrap of Sardis, induced Darius to send over Otanes at the head of a Persian force to restore him to the principality of his murdered brother; and when, subsequently, in his Scythian expedition, Darius was an eyewitness of the brilliant civilization of Ionia, not only did Greece become to him more an object of ambition, but the Greeks of his respect. He sought, by a munificent and wise clemency, to attach them to his throne, and to colonize his territories with subjects valuable alike for their constitutional courage and national intelligence. Nor can we wonder at the esteem which a Hippias or a Demaratus found in the Persian councils, when, in addition to the general reputation of Greeks, they were invested with the dignity of princely rank—for, above all nations 44, the Persians most venerated the name and the attributes of a king; nor could their Oriental notions have accurately distinguished between a legitimate monarch and a Greek tyrant.
V. The reign of Darius is also notable for the growing influence of Greek foreigners in the Persian court—and the dangerous and widespread hiring of Greek mercenaries in the Persian service. The Persians were naturally hospitable, and Darius not only had a friendly demeanor but also an inquisitive mind. A Greek doctor from Crotona, who managed to relieve the king from the effects of a painful injury that had stumped the most skilled Egyptian doctors, quickly became an important figure in the court. His reputation grew further after he successfully treated Atossa, the daughter of Cyrus, who had moved from the arms of her brother Cambyses to those of a fraudulent magian before marrying the king. Although the physician merely wanted to return to his homeland under some pretext, he might have first sparked in the Persian king the ill-fated desire to add Greece to his empire. He sent a mission with the physician himself to report on the situation in Greece. At that time, many Greek adventurers were scattered throughout the empire, some who had served with Cambyses, and others who had allied with the Egyptians. Their bravery appealed to a courageous people, and their unique talent for intrigue took root everywhere. Syloson, a Greek from Samos and brother of Polycrates, the tyrant of that state, who, after a remarkable and celebrated career, fell victim to the hostile treachery of Oretes, the satrap of Sardis, persuaded Darius to send Otanes with a Persian force to restore him to the principality of his murdered brother. Later, during his expedition against the Scythians, Darius witnessed the impressive civilization of Ionia, which made Greece an even more tempting target for him, and he began to respect the Greeks. He sought to win them over to his throne with generous and wise kindness, intending to populate his territories with subjects valued for both their courage and intelligence. It’s no surprise that figures like Hippias or Demaratus found respect in the Persian councils, especially as they held the dignity of princely rank—because, above all nations 44, the Persians greatly revered the title and qualities of a king; nor could their Eastern views clearly differentiate between a legitimate monarch and a Greek tyrant.
VI. In this reign, too, as the empire was concentrated, and a splendid court arose from the warrior camp of Cyrus and Cambyses, the noble elements of the pure Persian character grew confounded with the Median and Assyrian. As the Persians retreated from the manners of a nomad, they lost the distinction of a conquering people. Warriors became courtiers—the palace shrunk into the seraglio—eunuchs and favourites, queens 45, and above all queen-mothers, rose into pernicious and invisible influence. And while the Greeks, in their small states, and under their free governments, progressed to a civilization, in which luxury only sharpened new energies and created new arts, the gorgeous enervation of a despotism destructive to competition, and an empire too vast for patriotism, rapidly debased and ruined the old hardy race of Cyrus 46, perhaps equal originally to the Greeks in mental, and in many important points far superior to them in moral qualities. With a religion less animated and picturesque, but more simple and exalted, rejecting the belief that the gods partook of a mortal nature, worshipping their GREAT ONE not in statues or in temples, but upon the sublime altar of lofty mountain-tops—or through those elementary agents which are the unidolatrous representatives of his beneficence and power 47; accustomed, in their primitive and uncorrupted state, to mild laws and limited authority; inured from childhood to physical discipline and moral honesty, “to draw the bow and to speak the truth,” this gallant and splendid tribe were fated to make one of the most signal proofs in history, that neither the talents of a despot nor the original virtues of a people can long resist the inevitable effect of vicious political constitutions. It was not at Marathon, nor at Salamis, nor at Plataea, that the Persian glory fell. It fell when the Persians imitated the manners of the slaves they conquered. “Most imitative of all men,” says Herodotus, “they are ever ready to adopt the manners of the foreigners. They take from the Medes their robe, from the Egyptians their breastplate.” Happy, if to the robe and the breastplate they had confined their appropriations from the nations they despised! Happy, if they had not imparted to their august religion the gross adulterations of the Median magi; if they had not exchanged their mild laws and restricted government, for the most callous contempt of the value of life 48 and the dignity of freedom. The whole of the pure Persian race, but especially the nobler tribe of the Pasargadae, became raised by conquest over so vast a population, to the natural aristocracy of the land. But the valuable principle of aristocratic pride, which is the safest curb to monarchic encroachment, crumbled away in the atmosphere of a despotism, which received its capricious checks or awful chastisement only in the dark recesses of a harem. Retaining to the last their disdain of all without the Persian pale; deeming themselves still “the most excellent of mankind;” 49 this people, the nobility of the East, with the arrogance of the Spartan, contracting the vices of the Helot, rapidly decayed from all their national and ancient virtues beneath that seraglio-rule of janizaries and harlots, in which, from first to last, have merged the melancholy destinies of Oriental despotism.
VI. During this reign, as the empire consolidated and a magnificent court emerged from the military camp of Cyrus and Cambyses, the noble aspects of the pure Persian character became mixed with Median and Assyrian traits. As the Persians moved away from nomadic lifestyles, they lost the identity of a conquering people. Warriors transformed into courtiers—the palace shrank into the seraglio—with eunuchs and favorites, queens 45, and especially queen-mothers, gaining insidious and unseen power. Meanwhile, the Greeks, in their small states and under their free governments, advanced toward a civilization where luxury only spurred new energies and created new arts, while the extravagant exhaustion of a destructive despotism, along with an empire too vast for patriotism, quickly degraded and ruined the once-robust race of Cyrus 46, which may have originally been equal to the Greeks in intellect and, in many key areas, far superior to them in moral values. With a religion that was less colorful and dramatic but more straightforward and elevated, rejecting the idea that gods shared a mortal nature, worshiping their GREAT ONE not in statues or temples but on the magnificent altars of high mountains—or through those fundamental elements that are the non-idolatrous symbols of His kindness and power 47; accustomed, in their original and uncorrupted state, to gentle laws and limited authority; trained from childhood to physical discipline and moral integrity, “to draw the bow and speak the truth,” this brave and magnificent tribe was destined to provide one of history's most notable examples that neither the abilities of a tyrant nor the innate virtues of a people can endure the unavoidable effects of flawed political systems for long. It was not at Marathon, nor at Salamis, nor at Plataea that Persian glory fell. It fell when the Persians started imitating the behavior of the slaves they had conquered. “The most imitative of all men,” says Herodotus, “they are always ready to adopt the ways of foreigners. They take their robe from the Medes, their breastplate from the Egyptians.” It would have been fortunate if they had limited their appropriations from the nations they looked down upon to just the robe and breastplate! It would have been fortunate if they had not sullied their grand religion with the sordid mixtures of Median magi; if they had not replaced their gentle laws and limited government with a brutal disregard for the value of life 48 and the dignity of freedom. The entirety of the pure Persian race, especially the nobler Pasargadae tribe, rose by conquest over such a vast population, establishing themselves as the natural aristocracy of the land. However, the important principle of aristocratic pride, which serves as the safest guard against monarchical encroachment, crumbled in the atmosphere of a despotism that received its erratic punishments or terrifying consequences only in the obscure corners of a harem. Retaining until the end their contempt for all outside the Persian realm; considering themselves still “the most excellent of mankind;” 49 this people, the nobility of the East, with the arrogance of the Spartans but adopting the vices of the Helots, quickly deteriorated from all their national and ancient virtues under the seraglio-rule of janizaries and courtesans, where, from beginning to end, the sorrowful fates of Oriental despotism have converged.
VII. Although Darius seems rather to have possessed the ardour for conquest than the genius for war, his reign was memorable for many military triumphs, some cementing, others extending, the foundations of the empire. A formidable insurrection of Babylon, which resisted a siege of twenty-one months, was effectually extinguished, and the new satrap government, aided by the yearly visits of the king, appears to have kept from all subsequent reanimation the vast remains of that ancient empire of the Chaldaean kings. Subsequently an expedition along the banks of the Indus, first navigated for discovery by one of the Greeks whom Darius took into his employ, subjected the highlands north of the Indus, and gave that distant river as a new boundary to the Persian realm. More important, had the fortunes of his son been equal to his designs, was the alarming settlement which the monarch of Asia effected on the European continent, by establishing his sovereignty in Thrace and Macedonia—by exacting homage from the isles and many of the cities of Greece—by breaking up, with the crowning fall of Miletus, the independence and rising power of those Ionian colonies, which ought to have established on the Asiatic coasts the permanent barrier to the irruptions of eastern conquest. Against these successes the loss of six thousand four hundred men at the battle of Marathon, a less number than Darius deliberately sacrificed in a stratagem at the siege of Babylon, would have seemed but a petty counterbalance in the despatches of his generals, set off, as it was, by the spoils and the captives of Euboea. Nor were the settlements in Thrace and Macedon, with the awe that his vast armament excited throughout that portion of his dominions, an insufficient recompense for the disasters of the expedition, conducted by Darius in person, against the wandering, fierce, and barbarous Mongolian race, that, known to us by the name of Scythians, worshipped their war-god under the symbol of a cimeter, with libations of human blood—hideous inhabitants of the inhospitable and barren tracts that interpose between the Danube and the Don.
VII. Although Darius seemed to have more passion for conquest than actual military skill, his reign was marked by many military wins, some strengthening and others expanding the empire's foundations. A major revolt in Babylon, which held out for twenty-one months, was effectively crushed, and the new satrap government, supported by the king's yearly visits, seems to have prevented any revival of the ancient Chaldaean empire. Later, an expedition along the banks of the Indus—first explored by one of the Greeks Darius employed—conquered the highlands north of the Indus and established that far-off river as a new boundary for the Persian realm. More importantly, had his son's fortunes matched his ambitions, the alarming foothold Darius secured on the European continent would be noted, as he established his rule in Thrace and Macedonia—demanding tribute from the islands and many Greek cities—and disrupting the independence and growing power of the Ionian colonies, especially with the decisive fall of Miletus, which should have provided a lasting barrier against eastern invasions. In contrast to these successes, the loss of six thousand four hundred men at the battle of Marathon would have seemed a minor setback in his generals' reports, especially when weighed against the spoils and captives taken from Euboea. The positions gained in Thrace and Macedonia, along with the fear his massive army instilled throughout that region, proved to be an adequate compensation for the failures of the campaign Darius personally led against the fierce and barbaric Mongolian tribes known as the Scythians, who worshipped their war-god with a cimeter and human blood—terrifying inhabitants of the inhospitable and desolate lands between the Danube and the Don.
VIII. Thus the heritage that passed from Darius to Xerxes was the fruit of a long and, upon the whole, a wise and glorious reign. The new sovereign of the East did not, like his father, find a disjointed and uncemented empire of countries rather conquered than subdued, destitute alike of regular revenues and local governments; a wandering camp, shifted to and fro in a wilderness of unconnected nations— Xerxes ascended the throne amid a splendid court, with Babylon, Ecbatana, Persepolis, and Susa for his palaces. Submissive satraps united the most distant provinces with the seat of empire. The wealth of Asia was borne in regular currents to his treasury. Save the revolt of the enfeebled Egyptians, and the despised victory of a handful of men upon a petty foreland of the remote Aegaean, no cloud rested upon the dawn of his reign. As yet unfelt and unforeseen were the dangers that might ultimately result from the very wisdom of Darius in the institution of satraps, who, if not sufficiently supported by military force, would be unable to control the motley nations over which they presided, and, if so supported, might themselves become, in any hour, the most formidable rebels. To whatever prestige he inherited from the fame of his father, the young king added, also, a more venerable and sacred dignity in the eyes of the Persian aristocracy, and, perhaps, throughout the whole empire, derived, on his mother’s side, from the blood of Cyrus. Never, to all external appearance, and, to ordinary foresight, under fairer auspices, did a prince of the East pass from the luxury of a seraglio to the majesty of a throne.
VIII. The legacy that passed from Darius to Xerxes was the result of a long and, overall, wise and glorious reign. The new ruler of the East did not, like his father, inherit a fragmented and unstable empire of regions more conquered than subdued, with neither consistent revenue nor local governance; rather, he inherited a flourishing court, with Babylon, Ecbatana, Persepolis, and Susa as his palaces. Obedient governors connected the most far-flung provinces to the center of power. The wealth of Asia flowed steadily into his treasury. Except for the rebellion of the weakened Egyptians and the overlooked victory of a small force on a minor coast of the distant Aegean, no troubles overshadowed the beginning of his reign. The threats that might eventually arise from Darius's very wisdom in establishing governors, who, without sufficient military support, would struggle to manage the diverse nations they oversaw, and, if supported, could themselves quickly become the most serious rebels were still unknown and unanticipated. Along with the prestige he inherited from his father’s reputation, the young king also gained a more esteemed dignity in the eyes of the Persian aristocracy, and perhaps throughout the entire empire, stemming from his mother’s lineage connected to Cyrus. Never before, to all appearances, and in ordinary expectations, did an Eastern prince transition from the luxury of a harem to the grandeur of a throne under such auspicious circumstances.
CHAPTER V.
Xerxes Conducts an Expedition into Egypt.—He finally resolves on the Invasion of Greece.—Vast Preparations for the Conquest of Europe.— Xerxes Arrives at Sardis.—Despatches Envoys to the Greek States, demanding Tribute.—The Bridge of the Hellespont.—Review of the Persian Armament at Abydos.—Xerxes Encamps at Therme.
Xerxes Launches an Expedition into Egypt.—He ultimately decides to invade Greece.—Massive Preparations for the Conquest of Europe.—Xerxes Arrives at Sardis.—Sends Envoys to the Greek States, demanding Tribute.—The Bridge of the Hellespont.—Evaluation of the Persian Forces at Abydos.—Xerxes Sets Up Camp at Therme.
I. On succeeding to the throne of the East (B. C. 485), Xerxes found the mighty army collected by his father prepared to execute his designs of conquest or revenge. In the greatness of that army, in the youth of that prince, various parties beheld the instrument of interest or ambition. Mardonius, warlike and enterprising, desired the subjugation of Greece, and the command of the Persian forces. And to the nobles of the Pasargadae an expedition into Europe could not but present a dazzling prospect of spoil and power—of satrapies as yet unexhausted of treasure—of garrisons and troops remote from the eye of the monarch, and the domination of the capital.
I. After taking the throne of the East (B.C. 485), Xerxes found the massive army gathered by his father ready to carry out his plans for conquest or revenge. The size of that army and the youth of that prince led various factions to see opportunities for their own interests or ambitions. Mardonius, who was eager and warlike, aimed to conquer Greece and command the Persian forces. For the nobles of the Pasargadae, an expedition into Europe promised a bright prospect of plunder and power—of provinces still full of treasure—of garrisons and troops far from the king’s watchful eye, and the control of the capital.
The persons who had most influence over Xerxes were his uncle Artabanus, his cousin Mardonius, and a eunuch named Natacas 50. The intrigues of the party favourable to the invasion of Europe were backed by the representations of the Grecian exiles. The family and partisans of the Pisistratidae had fixed themselves in Susa, and the Greek subtlety and spirit of enterprise maintained and confirmed, for that unprincipled and able faction, the credit they had already established at the Persian court. Onomacritus, an Athenian priest, formerly banished by Hipparchus for forging oracular predictions, was now reconciled to the Pisistratidae, and resident at Susa. Presented to the king as a soothsayer and prophet, he inflamed the ambition of Xerxes by garbled oracles of conquest and fortune, which, this time, it was not the interest of the Pisistratidae to expose.
The people who had the biggest influence on Xerxes were his uncle Artabanus, his cousin Mardonius, and a eunuch named Natacas 50. The plots of those in favor of invading Europe were supported by the accounts of Greek exiles. The family and supporters of the Pisistratidae had settled in Susa, and their Greek cunning and spirit of adventure upheld and boosted the reputation they had already built at the Persian court. Onomacritus, an Athenian priest who had previously been banished by Hipparchus for falsifying prophetic predictions, was now back in the good graces of the Pisistratidae and living in Susa. Introduced to the king as a soothsayer and prophet, he stirred up Xerxes' ambition with twisted oracles of conquest and success, which, this time, the Pisistratidae had no interest in revealing.
About the same period the Aleuadae, those princes of Thessaly whose policy seems ever to have been that of deadly hostility to the Grecian republics, despatched ambassadors to Xerxes, inviting him to Greece, and promising assistance to his arms, and allegiance to his sceptre.
About the same time, the Aleuadae, the princes of Thessaly who always seemed to be fiercely hostile to the Greek city-states, sent ambassadors to Xerxes, inviting him to Greece and offering to support his military efforts as well as pledge their loyalty to his rule.
II. From these intrigues Xerxes aroused himself in the second year of his reign, and, as the necessary commencement of more extended designs, conducted in person an expedition against the rebellious Egyptians. That people had neither military skill nor constitutional hardihood, but they were inspired with the most devoted affection for their faith and their institutions. This affection was to them what the love of liberty is in others—it might be easy to conquer them, it was almost impossible to subdue. By a kind of fatality their history, for centuries, was interwoven with that of Greece: their perils and their enemies the same. The ancient connexion which apocryphal tradition recorded between races so opposite, seemed a typical prophecy of that which actually existed in the historical times. And if formerly Greece had derived something of civilization from Egypt, she now paid back the gift by the swords of her adventurers; and the bravest and most loyal part of the Egyptian army was composed of Grecian mercenaries. At the same time Egypt shared the fate of all nations that intrust too great a power to auxiliaries. Greeks defended her, but Greeks conspired against her. The adventurers from whom she derived a fatal strength were of a vain, wily, and irritable temperament. A Greek removed from the influence of Greece usually lost all that was honest, all that was noble in the national character; and with the most refining intellect, he united a policy like that of the Italian in the middle ages, fierce, faithless, and depraved. Thus, while the Greek auxiliaries under Amasis, or rather Psammenitus, resisted to the last the arms of Cambyses, it was by a Greek (Phanes) that Egypt had been betrayed. Perhaps, could we thoroughly learn all the secret springs of the revolt of Egypt, and the expedition of Xerxes, we might find a coincidence not of dates alone between Grecian and Egyptian affairs. Whether in Memphis or in Susa, it is wonderful to see the amazing influence and ascendency which the Hellenic intellect obtained. It was in reality the desperate refuse of Europe that swayed the councils, moved the armies, and decided the fate of the mighty dynasties of the East.
II. From these intrigues, Xerxes got himself involved in the second year of his reign and, as a necessary start to his larger plans, led an expedition against the rebellious Egyptians. That people lacked military skill and resilience, but they were deeply devoted to their faith and traditions. This devotion was for them what the love of freedom is for others—it might be easy to conquer them, but nearly impossible to truly break their spirit. By a kind of fate, their history had been intertwined with that of Greece for centuries: they faced the same dangers and enemies. The ancient connection, recorded in apocryphal tradition between such different races, seemed a prophetic foreshadowing of what actually existed in historical times. And while Greece had once gained some civilization from Egypt, she was now returning the favor with the swords of her adventurers; the bravest and most loyal part of the Egyptian army was made up of Greek mercenaries. At the same time, Egypt suffered the same fate as all nations that give too much power to outsiders. Greeks defended her, but Greeks also plotted against her. The adventurers, who gave her a dangerous strength, were vain, crafty, and easily provoked. A Greek removed from the influence of Greece usually lost all that was honest and noble in the national character, and with a sharp intellect, he combined a treacherous, ruthless, and corrupt policy like that of the Italians in the Middle Ages. Thus, while the Greek auxiliaries under Amasis, or rather Psammenitus, fought valiantly against Cambyses, it was a Greek (Phanes) who betrayed Egypt. Perhaps if we could thoroughly understand all the hidden reasons behind the revolt in Egypt and Xerxes' expedition, we might find more than just a coincidence of dates between Greek and Egyptian events. Whether in Memphis or in Susa, it's astonishing to see the incredible influence and dominance that Hellenic intellect achieved. It was essentially the desperate outcasts of Europe who swayed the councils, maneuvered the armies, and determined the fates of the powerful dynasties of the East.
III. The arms of Xerxes were triumphant in Egypt (B. C. 484), and he more rigorously enforced upon that ill-fated land the iron despotism commenced by Cambyses. Intrusting the Egyptian government to his brother Achaemenes, the Persian king returned to Susa, and flushed with his victory, and more and more influenced by the ambitious counsels of Mardonius, he now fairly opened, in the full divan of his counsellors, the vast project he had conceived. The vanity of the Greeks led them too credulously to suppose that the invasion of Greece was the principal object of the great king; on the contrary, it was the least. He regarded Greece but as the threshold of a new quarter of the globe. Ignorant of the nature of the lands he designed to subject, and credulous of all the fables which impart proverbial magnificence to the unknown, Xerxes saw in Europe “regions not inferior to Asia in extent, and far surpassing it in fertility.” After the conquest of Greece on either continent, the young monarch unfolded to his counsellors his intention of overrunning the whole of Europe, “until heaven itself should be the only limit to the Persian realm, and the sun should shine on no country contiguous to his own.” 51
III. Xerxes' forces were victorious in Egypt (B.C. 484), and he enforced the harsh rule started by Cambyses even more strictly in that unfortunate land. He handed over the Egyptian governance to his brother Achaemenes, and the Persian king returned to Susa, riding high on his victory and increasingly swayed by the ambitious advice of Mardonius. In the full council of his advisors, he revealed the grand plan he had envisioned. The Greeks, blinded by their arrogance, too readily believed that the invasion of Greece was the king's main goal; in reality, it was just a small part of his ambitions. He viewed Greece merely as a stepping stone to a new part of the world. Unfamiliar with the lands he intended to conquer and gullible enough to believe all the grand tales that glorified the unknown, Xerxes envisioned Europe as “regions not inferior to Asia in size, and far exceeding it in richness.” After conquering Greece on both continents, the young king shared with his advisors his plan to sweep across all of Europe, “until heaven itself would be the only limit to the Persian empire, and the sun would shine on no land neighboring his own.” 51
IV. These schemes, supported by Mardonius, were opposed only by Artabanus; and the arguments of the latter, dictated by prudence and experience, made considerable impression upon the king. From that time, however, new engines of superstitious craft and imposture were brought to bear upon the weak mind, on whose decision now rested the fatal war between Asia and Europe. Visions and warnings, threats and exhortations, haunted his pillow and disturbed his sleep, all tending to one object, the invasion of Greece. As we learn from Ctesias that the eunuch Natacas was one of the parasites most influential with Xerxes, it is probable that so important a personage in the intrigues of a palace was, with the evident connivance of the magi, the instrument of Mardonius. And, indeed, from this period the politics of Persia became more and more concentrated in the dark plots of the seraglio. Thus superstition, flattery, ambition, all operating upon him, the irresolution of Xerxes vanished. Artabanus himself affected to be convinced of the expediency of the war; and the only object now remaining to the king and his counsellors was to adapt the preparations to the magnitude of the enterprise. Four additional years were not deemed an idle delay in collecting an army and fleet destined to complete the conquest of the world.
IV. These plans, backed by Mardonius, were only challenged by Artabanus; his cautious and experienced arguments had a strong impact on the king. However, from that moment on, new forms of superstitious trickery and deceit were directed at the weak-minded king, whose decision would determine the deadly war between Asia and Europe. Nightmares and warnings, threats and calls to action filled his dreams, all aimed at one goal: invading Greece. As we learn from Ctesias, the eunuch Natacas was one of the most influential sycophants to Xerxes, so it's likely that this key figure in palace intrigues was, with the clear support of the magi, a tool of Mardonius. Indeed, from this time on, Persian politics became increasingly entangled in the secretive schemes of the court. With superstition, flattery, and ambition all at play, Xerxes' indecision faded away. Even Artabanus pretended to be convinced that going to war was a good idea; the only thing left for the king and his advisors was to plan the preparations according to the scale of the mission. Four additional years were not considered a waste of time when it came to assembling an army and fleet meant to achieve world domination.
“And never,” says Herodotus, “was there a military expedition comparable to this. Hard would it be to specify one nation of Asia which did not accompany the Persian king, or any waters, save the great rivers, which were not exhausted by his armament.” Preparations for an expedition of three years were made, to guard against the calamities formerly sustained by the Persian fleet. Had the success of the expedition been commensurate with the grandeur of its commencement, perhaps it would have ranked among the sublimest conceptions of military genius. All its schemes were of a vast and gigantic nature. Across the isthmus, which joins the promontory of Athos to the Thracian continent, a canal was formed—a work of so enormous a labour, that it seems almost to have justified the skepticism of later writers 52, but for the concurrent testimony of Thucydides and Lysias, Plato, Herodotus, and Strabo.
“And never,” says Herodotus, “was there a military expedition like this. It would be hard to name one nation in Asia that didn't join the Persian king, or any waters, except for the major rivers, that weren't depleted by his army.” Preparations for a three-year campaign were made to prevent the disasters that the Persian fleet had faced before. If the expedition's success had matched its grand start, it might have been considered one of the greatest military strategies ever conceived. All its plans were vast and ambitious. A canal was dug across the isthmus connecting the promontory of Athos to the Thracian mainland—a project so massive that it almost seemed to validate the doubts of later writers 52, but for the supporting accounts of Thucydides and Lysias, Plato, Herodotus, and Strabo.
Bridges were also thrown over the river Strymon; the care of provisions was intrusted to the Egyptians and Phoenicians, and stores were deposited in every station that seemed the best adapted for supplies.
Bridges were also built over the Strymon River; the responsibility for provisions was given to the Egyptians and Phoenicians, and supplies were stored at every location that seemed best suited for them.
V. While these preparations were carried on, the great king, at the head of his land-forces, marched to Sardis. Passing the river Halys, and the frontiers of Lydia, he halted at Celaenae. Here he was magnificently entertained by Pythius, a Lydian, esteemed, next to the king himself, the richest of mankind. This wealthy subject proffered to the young prince, in prosecution of the war, the whole of his treasure, amounting to two thousand talents of silver, and four millions, wanting only seven thousand, of golden staters of Darius 53. “My farms and my slaves,” he added, “will be sufficient to maintain me.”
V. While these preparations were happening, the great king, leading his army, marched to Sardis. After crossing the Halys River and entering Lydia, he stopped at Celaenae. There, he was lavishly hosted by Pythius, a Lydian who was considered, next to the king himself, the richest person in the world. This wealthy subject offered the young prince all his treasure to support the war, totaling two thousand talents of silver and nearly four million golden staters of Darius 53. “My farms and my slaves,” he added, “will be enough to support me.”
“My friend,” said the royal guest, who possessed all the irregular generosity of princes, “you are the first person, since I left Persia (B. C. 480), who has treated my army with hospitality and voluntarily offered me assistance in the war. Accept my friendship; I receive you as my host; retain your possessions, and permit me to supply the seven thousand staters which are wanting to complete the four millions you already possess.” A man who gives from the property of the public is seldom outdone in munificence.
“My friend,” said the royal guest, who had all the unpredictable generosity of princes, “you are the first person since I left Persia (B.C. 480) who has welcomed my army and willingly offered me support in the war. Accept my friendship; I see you as my host; keep your belongings, and let me provide the seven thousand staters needed to complete the four million you already have.” A person who gives from public funds is rarely surpassed in generosity.
At length Xerxes arrived at Sardis, and thence he despatched heralds into Greece (close of B. C. 481), demanding the tribute of earth and water. Athens and Sparta were the only cities not visited by his envoys.
At last, Xerxes reached Sardis, and from there he sent messengers into Greece (end of B.C. 481), asking for the tribute of earth and water. Athens and Sparta were the only cities not approached by his envoys.
VI. While Xerxes rested at the Lydian city, an enterprise, scarcely less magnificent in conception than that of the canal at Athos, was completed at the sacred passage of the Hellespont. Here was constructed from the coast of Asia to that of Europe a bridge of boats, for the convoy of the army. Scarce was this completed when a sudden tempest scattered the vessels, and rendered the labour vain. The unruly passion of the high-spirited despot was popularly said to have evinced itself at this intelligence, by commanding the Hellespont to receive three hundred lashes and a pair of fetters—a story recorded as a certainty by Herodotus, and more properly contemned as a fable by modern skepticism.
VI. While Xerxes was resting in the Lydian city, a project nearly as grand as the canal at Athos was completed at the sacred crossing of the Hellespont. A bridge made of boats was built from the coast of Asia to Europe to transport the army. Just after it was finished, a sudden storm scattered the vessels, making all the hard work pointless. The wild anger of the spirited ruler was said to have shown when he ordered the Hellespont to be whipped three hundred times and shackled—a tale recorded as truth by Herodotus, but often dismissed as a myth by modern skepticism.
A new bridge was now constructed under new artificers, whose industry was sharpened by the fate of their unfortunate predecessors, whom Xerxes condemned to death. These architects completed at last two bridges of vessels, of various kinds and sizes, secured by anchors of great length, and thus protected from the influence of the winds that set in from the Euxine on the one hand, and the south and southeast winds on the other. The elaborate description of this work given by Herodotus proves it to have been no clumsy or unartist-like performance. The ships do not appear so much to have formed the bridge, as to have served for piers to support its weight. Rafters of wood, rough timber, and layers of earth were placed across extended cables, and the whole was completed by a fence on either side, that the horses and beasts of burden might not be frightened by the sight of the open sea.
A new bridge was built by a new set of builders, whose determination was fueled by the fate of their unfortunate predecessors, whom Xerxes had executed. These architects finally completed two bridges made of vessels of different types and sizes, anchored securely with long ropes, protecting them from the winds coming from the Euxine on one side and the south and southeast on the other. The detailed description of this work by Herodotus shows it was neither clumsy nor poorly crafted. The ships didn’t just form the bridge; they acted as piers to support its weight. Wooden rafters, rough timber, and layers of earth were placed across stretched cables, and the whole structure was finished off with a fence on either side, so that horses and pack animals wouldn’t be startled by the sight of the open sea.
VII. And now the work was finished (B. C. 480), the winter was past, and at the dawn of returning spring, Xerxes led his armament from Sardis to Abydos. As the multitude commenced their march, it is said that the sun was suddenly overcast, and an abrupt and utter darkness crept over the face of heaven. The magi were solemnly consulted at the omen; and they foretold, that by the retirement of the sun, the tutelary divinity of the Greeks, was denoted the withdrawal of the protection of Heaven from that fated nation. The answer pleased the king.
VII. And now the work was done (B.C. 480), winter had passed, and at the break of returning spring, Xerxes led his army from Sardis to Abydos. As the crowd began their march, it’s said that the sun suddenly went dark, and an unexpected and complete darkness covered the sky. The magi were seriously consulted about this omen; they predicted that the sun’s retreat signified the withdrawal of divine protection from the doomed Greek nation. The king was satisfied with this interpretation.
On they swept—the conveyance of the baggage, and a vast promiscuous crowd of all nations, preceding; behind, at a considerable interval, came the flower of the Persian army—a thousand horse—a thousand spearmen—the ten sacred steeds, called Nisaean—the car of the great Persian god, drawn by eight snow-white horses, and in which no mortal ever dared to seat himself. Around the person of Xerxes were spearmen and cavalry, whose arms glittered with gold—the ten thousand infantry called “The Immortals,” of whom nine thousand bore pomegranates of silver at the extremity of their lances, and one thousand pomegranates of gold. Ten thousand horsemen followed these: and far in the rear, the gorgeous procession closed with the mighty multitude of the general army.
On they swept—the transport for the baggage, along with a large mixed crowd from all nations ahead; behind them, at a noticeable distance, came the elite of the Persian army—a thousand cavalry, a thousand spearmen, the ten sacred horses known as Nisaean, and the chariot of the great Persian god, pulled by eight pure white horses, which no mortal ever dared to ride in. Surrounding Xerxes were spearmen and cavalry whose weapons shone with gold—the ten thousand infantry called “The Immortals,” of which nine thousand carried silver pomegranates at the tips of their lances, and one thousand carried gold pomegranates. Ten thousand horsemen followed these, and far in the back, the magnificent procession concluded with the vast crowd of the general army.
The troops marched along the banks of the Caicus—over the plains of Thebes;—and passing Mount Ida to the left, above whose hoary crest broke a storm of thunder and lightning, they arrived at the golden Scamander, whose waters failed the invading thousands. Here it is poetically told of Xerxes, that he ascended the citadel of Priam, and anxiously and carefully surveyed the place, while the magi of the barbarian monarch directed libations to the manes of the Homeric heroes.
The troops marched along the banks of the Caicus—across the plains of Thebes;—and passing Mount Ida to the left, where a storm of thunder and lightning erupted over its icy peak, they reached the golden Scamander, whose waters ran dry for the invading thousands. It's poetically said that Xerxes climbed the citadel of Priam and anxiously surveyed the area, while the magi of the barbarian king offered libations to honor the spirits of the Homeric heroes.
VIII. Arrived at Abydos, the king reviewed his army. High upon an eminence, and on a seat of white marble, he surveyed the plains covered with countless thousands, and the Hellespont crowded with sails and masts. At first, as he gazed, the lord of Persia felt all the pride and exultation which the command over so many destinies was calculated to inspire. But a sad and sudden thought came over him in the midst of his triumphs, and he burst into tears. “I reflect,” said he to Artabanus, “on the transitory limit of human life. I compassionate this vast multitude—a hundred years hence, which of them will still be a living man?” Artabanus replied like a philosopher, “that the shortness of life was not its greatest evil; that misfortune and disease imbittered the possession, and that death was often the happiest refuge of the living.” 54
VIII. When he arrived at Abydos, the king reviewed his army. Elevated on a white marble seat, he looked over the plains filled with countless thousands and the Hellespont bustling with sails and masts. At first, as he gazed, the lord of Persia felt all the pride and joy that comes with commanding so many lives. But a sudden, sad thought struck him in the midst of his triumphs, and he broke down in tears. “I realize,” he said to Artabanus, “the fleeting nature of human life. I pity this vast crowd—a hundred years from now, how many of them will still be alive?” Artabanus replied like a philosopher, “The brevity of life isn’t its worst flaw; misfortune and illness make it bitter, and death is often the happiest escape for the living.” 54
At early daybreak, while the army yet waited the rising of the sun, they burnt perfumes on the bridge, and strewed it with branches of the triumphal myrtle. As the sun lifted himself above the east, Xerxes poured a libation into the sea, and addressing the rising orb, implored prosperity to the Persian arms, until they should have vanquished the whole of Europe, even to the remotest ends. Then casting the cup, with a Persian cimeter, into the sea, the signal was given for the army to commence the march. Seven days and seven nights were consumed in the passage of that prodigious armament.
At dawn, while the army waited for the sun to rise, they burned incense on the bridge and scattered branches of triumphal myrtle. As the sun rose in the east, Xerxes poured a drink offering into the sea and, addressing the sun, asked for success for the Persian forces until they had conquered all of Europe, even to its farthest reaches. Then, throwing the cup and a Persian sword into the sea, he signaled for the army to begin the march. It took seven days and seven nights to move that enormous army.
IX. Thus entering Europe, Xerxes proceeded to Doriscus (a wide plain of Thrace, commanded by a Persian garrison), where he drew up, and regularly numbered his troops; the fleets ranged in order along the neighbouring coast. The whole amount of the land-force, according to Herodotus, was 1,700,000. Later writers have been skeptical as to this vast number, but without sufficient grounds for their disbelief. There were to be found the soldiery of many nations:—the Persians in tunics and scale breastplates, the tiara helmet of the Medes, the arrows, and the large bow which was their natural boast and weapon; there were the Medes similarly equipped; and the Assyrians, with barbarous helmets, linen cuirasses, and huge clubs tipped with iron; the Bactrians with bows of reeds, and the Scythian Sacae, with their hatchets and painted crests. There, too, were the light-clothed Indians, the Parthians, Chorasmians, Sogdians, Gandarians, and the Dadicae. There were the Caspians, clad in tough hides, with bows and cimeters; the gorgeous tunics of the Sarangae, and the loose flowing vests (or zirae) of the Arabians. There were seen the negroes of Aethiopian Nubia with palm bows four cubits long, arrows pointed with flint, and vestures won from the leopard and the lion; a barbarous horde, who, after the wont of savages, died their bodies with gypsum and vermilion when they went to war; while the straight-haired Asiatic Aethiopians wore the same armour as the Indians whom they bordered. save that their helmets were formed of the skin of the horse’s head 55, on which the mane was left in the place of plumage. The Libyans were among the horde, and the buskined Paphlagonians, with helms of network; and the Cappadocian Syrians; and the Phrygians; and the Armenians; the Lydians, equipped similarly to the Greeks; the Strymonian Thracians, clad in tunics, below which were flowing robes like the Arabian zirae or tartan, but of various colours, and buskins of the skins of fawns—armed with the javelin and the dagger; the Thracians, too, of Asia, with helmets of brass wrought with the ears and horns of an ox; the people from the islands of the Red Sea, armed and people like Medes; the Mares, and the Colchians, and the Moschi, and other tribes, tedious to enumerate, swelled and diversified the force of Xerxes.
IX. As Xerxes entered Europe, he made his way to Doriscus (a large plain in Thrace, held by a Persian garrison), where he organized and counted his troops; the fleets were lined up along the nearby coast. According to Herodotus, the total size of the land army was 1,700,000. Later writers have questioned this enormous number, but they lacked solid reasons for their skepticism. There were soldiers from many nations: the Persians in tunics and scale armor, wearing the tiara helmet of the Medes, armed with arrows and their signature large bow; the Medes were similarly equipped; the Assyrians wore strange helmets, linen armor, and carried huge iron-tipped clubs; the Bactrians had reed bows, and the Scythian Sacae possessed hatchets and painted headdresses. Also present were the lightly outfitted Indians, Parthians, Chorasmians, Sogdians, Gandarians, and the Dadicae. The Caspians wore tough hides and carried bows and curved swords; the Sarangae had elaborate tunics, while the Arabians wore loose, flowing vests (or zirae). The Aethiopian Nubians were there, armed with palm bows four cubits long, flint-tipped arrows, and garments made from leopard and lion skins; a fierce group that, like savages, painted their bodies with gypsum and vermilion before going to battle; while the straight-haired Asiatic Aethiopians wore the same armor as their neighboring Indians, except their helmets were made from horsehide with the mane left intact as a form of plumage. Among the crowd were the Libyans, the buskined Paphlagonians with netted helmets, the Cappadocian Syrians, the Phrygians, the Armenians, and the Lydians, who were similarly equipped to the Greeks; the Strymonian Thracians were dressed in tunics with flowing robes below, similar to Arabian zirae or tartan, but in various colors, wearing buskins made from fawn skins and armed with javelins and daggers; as well as the Asian Thracians, who wore brass helmets decorated with ears and horns of oxen; people from the islands of the Red Sea, also armed and resembling Medes; the Mares, the Colchians, the Moschi, and other tribes, too many to name, contributed to the diverse force of Xerxes.
Such were the infantry of the Persian army, forgetting not the ten thousand chosen Persians, called the Immortal Band 56, whose armour shone with profuse gold, and who were distinguished even in war by luxury—carriages for their women, troops of attendants, and camels and beasts of burden.
Such were the foot soldiers of the Persian army, not to forget the ten thousand elite Persians known as the Immortal Band 56, whose armor glittered with lavish gold, and who stood out even in battle for their opulence—carriages for their wives, groups of attendants, and camels and pack animals.
Besides these were the Persian cavalry; the nomad Sagartii, who carried with them nooses, in which they sought to entangle their foe; the Medes and the Indian horse, which last had also chariots of war drawn by steeds or wild asses; the Bactrians and Caspians, equipped alike; the Africans, who fought from chariots; the Paricanians; and the Arabians with their swift dromedaries, completed the forces of the cavalry, which amounted to eighty thousand, exclusive even of chariots and the camels.
Besides these were the Persian cavalry; the nomadic Sagartii, who carried with them nooses to try to ensnare their enemies; the Medes and the Indian horsemen, who also had war chariots pulled by strong horses or wild donkeys; the Bactrians and Caspians, who were similarly equipped; the Africans, who fought from chariots; the Paricanians; and the Arabians with their swift dromedaries. In total, the cavalry numbered eighty thousand, not including chariots and camels.
Nor was the naval unworthy of the land armada. The number of the triremes was one thousand two hundred and seven. Of these the Phoenicians and the Syrians of Palestine furnished three hundred, the serving-men with breastplates of linen, javelins, bucklers without bosses, and helmets fashioned nearly similarly to those of the Greeks; two hundred vessels were supplied by the Egyptians, armed with huge battle-axes, and casques of network; one hundred and fifty vessels came from Cyprus, and one hundred from Cilicia; those who manned the first differing in arms from the Greeks only in the adoption of the tunic, and the Median mitres worn by the chiefs—those who manned the last, with two spears, and tunics of wool. The Pamphylians, clad as the Greeks, contributed thirty vessels, and fifty also were manned by Lycians with mantles of goat-skin and unfeathered arrows of reed. In thirty vessels came the Dorians of Asia; in seventy the Carians, and in a hundred, the subjugated Ionians. The Grecian Isles between the Cyaneae, and the promontories of Triopium and Sunium 57, furnished seventeen vessels, and the Aeolians sixty. The inhabitants of the Hellespont (those of Abydos alone excepted, who remained to defend the bridges) combined with the people of Pontus to supply a hundred more. In each vessel were detachments of Medes, Persians, and Saci; the best mariners were the Phoenicians, especially those of Sidon. The commanders-in-chief of the sea-forces were Ariabignes (son of Darius), Prexaspes, Megabazus (son of Megabates), and Achaemenes (brother of Xerxes, and satrap of Egypt).
Nor was the navy any less impressive than the land forces. There were a total of one thousand two hundred and seven triremes. Of these, the Phoenicians and the Syrians from Palestine provided three hundred ships, manned by soldiers equipped with linen breastplates, javelins, shieldless bucklers, and helmets that closely resembled those of the Greeks. The Egyptians contributed two hundred vessels, armed with large battle-axes and mesh helmets. Cyprus supplied one hundred and fifty ships, while Cilicia provided one hundred more; the crew of the first group differed from the Greeks only by wearing tunics and the Median hats worn by the leaders—those from Cilicia carried two spears and wore wool tunics. The Pamphylians, dressed like the Greeks, added thirty vessels, and fifty were crewed by Lycians who wore goat-skin cloaks and carried unfeathered reed arrows. The Dorians from Asia sent thirty ships; the Carians provided seventy, and the subdued Ionians supplied one hundred. The Greek islands between the Cyaneae and the headlands of Triopium and Sunium 57 delivered seventeen vessels, while the Aeolians added sixty. The residents of the Hellespont (except for those from Abydos, who stayed to guard the bridges) teamed up with the people of Pontus to provide another hundred ships. Each vessel carried teams of Medes, Persians, and Saci; the finest sailors were the Phoenicians, particularly those from Sidon. The commanders of the naval forces were Ariabignes (son of Darius), Prexaspes, Megabazus (son of Megabates), and Achaemenes (brother of Xerxes and satrap of Egypt).
Of the infantry, the generals were Mardonius, Tritantaechmes, son of Artabanus, and Smerdones (cousin to Xerxes), Maistes (his brother), Gergis, and Megabazus, son of that celebrated Zopyrus, through whom Darius possessed himself of Babylon. 58
Of the infantry, the generals were Mardonius, Tritantaechmes, son of Artabanus, Smerdones (cousin to Xerxes), Maistes (his brother), Gergis, and Megabazus, son of the famous Zopyrus, who helped Darius take control of Babylon. 58
Harmamithres and Tithaeus, who were Medes, commanded the cavalry; a third leader, Pharnouches, died in consequence of a fall from his horse. But the name of a heroine, more masculine than her colleagues, must not be omitted: Artemisia, widow to one of the Carian kings, furnished five ships (the best in the fleet next to those of Sidon), which she commanded in person, celebrated alike for a dauntless courage and a singular wisdom.
Harmamithres and Tithaeus, both Medes, led the cavalry. A third leader, Pharnouches, died after falling from his horse. However, we shouldn't forget the name of a heroine, more formidable than her peers: Artemisia, the widow of one of the Carian kings, provided five ships (the best in the fleet after those from Sidon), which she personally commanded, known for her fearless courage and exceptional wisdom.
X. Such were the forces which the great king reviewed, passing through the land-forces in his chariot, and through the fleet in a Sidonian vessel, beneath a golden canopy. After his survey, the king summoned Demaratus to his presence.
X. These were the forces that the great king inspected, riding through the land forces in his chariot and through the fleet in a Sidonian ship, under a golden canopy. After his review, the king called Demaratus to come before him.
“Think you,” said he, “that the Greeks will presume to resist me?”
“Do you really think,” he said, “that the Greeks will dare to stand up to me?”
“Sire,” answered the Spartan, “your proposition of servitude will be rejected by the Greeks; and even if the rest of them sided with you, Lacedaemon still would give you battle; question not in what numbers; had Sparta but a thousand men she would oppose you.”
“Sire,” replied the Spartan, “your suggestion of servitude will be rejected by the Greeks; and even if the others sided with you, Lacedaemon would still fight you; don’t question the numbers; if Sparta had only a thousand men, they would stand against you.”
Marching onward, and forcibly enlisting, by the way, various tribes through which he passed, exhausting many streams, and empoverishing the population condemned to entertain his army, Xerxes arrived at Acanthus: there he dismissed the commanders of his fleet, ordering them to wait his orders at Therme, a small town which gave its name to the Thermean Gulf (to which they proceeded, pressing ships and seamen by the way), and afterward, gaining Therme himself, encamped his army on the coast, spreading far and wide its multitudinous array from Therme and Mygdonia to the rivers Lydias and Haliacmon.
Marching onward and forcibly recruiting various tribes along the way, depleting many resources and exhausting the local population forced to support his army, Xerxes arrived at Acanthus. There, he dismissed the commanders of his fleet, instructing them to wait for his orders at Therme, a small town that gave its name to the Thermean Gulf (which they headed to, gathering ships and sailors along the way). After reaching Therme himself, he set up his camp on the coast, spreading the vast numbers of his army from Therme and Mygdonia to the rivers Lydias and Haliacmon.
CHAPTER VI.
The Conduct of the Greeks.—The Oracle relating to Salamis.—Art of Themistocles.—The Isthmian Congress.—Embassies to Argos, Crete, Corcyra, and Syracuse.—Their ill Success.—The Thessalians send Envoys to the Isthmus.—The Greeks advance to Tempe, but retreat.—The Fleet despatched to Artemisium, and the Pass of Thermopylae occupied. —Numbers of the Grecian Fleet.—Battle of Thermopylae.
The Behavior of the Greeks.—The Oracle about Salamis.—The Strategy of Themistocles.—The Isthmian Congress.—Missions to Argos, Crete, Corcyra, and Syracuse.—Their Poor Outcome.—The Thessalians send Representatives to the Isthmus.—The Greeks move toward Tempe but then pull back.—The Fleet sent to Artemisium, and the Pass of Thermopylae secured.—Strength of the Greek Fleet.—Battle of Thermopylae.
I. The first preparations of the Persians did not produce the effect which might have been anticipated in the Grecian states. Far from uniting against the common foe, they still cherished a frivolous and unreasonable jealousy of each other. Several readily sent the symbols of their allegiance to the Persian, including the whole of Boeotia, except only the Thespians and Plataeans. The more timorous states imagined themselves safe from the vengeance of the barbarian; the more resolute were overwhelmed with dismay. The renown of the Median arms was universally acknowledged for in spite of Marathon, Greece had not yet learned to despise the foreigner; and the enormous force of the impending armament was accurately known from the spies and deserters of the Grecian states, who abounded in the barbarian camp. Even united, the whole navy of Greece seemed insufficient to contend against such a foe; and, divided among themselves, several of the states were disposed rather to succumb than to resist 59. “And here,” says the father of history, “I feel compelled to assert an opinion, however invidious it may be to many. If the Athenians, terrified by the danger, had forsaken their country, or submitted to the Persian, Xerxes would have met with no resistance by sea. The Lacedaemonians, deserted by their allies, would have died with honour or yielded from necessity, and all Greece have been reduced to the Persian yoke. The Athenians were thus the deliverers of Greece. They animated the ardour of those states yet faithful to themselves; and, next to the gods, they were the true repellers of the invader. Even the Delphic oracles, dark and ominous as they were, did not shake their purpose, nor induce them to abandon Greece.” When even the deities themselves seemed doubtful, Athens was unshaken. The messengers despatched by the Athenians to the Delphic oracle received indeed an answer well calculated to appal them.
I. The initial efforts of the Persians didn’t have the impact that might have been expected in the Greek states. Instead of coming together against a common enemy, they continued to hold a petty and unreasonable jealousy toward one another. Several states quickly sent signs of their loyalty to the Persians, including most of Boeotia, except for the Thespians and Plataeans. The more fearful states thought they were safe from the barbarian’s wrath, while the braver ones were filled with dread. The reputation of the Median forces was widely recognized; despite the Battle of Marathon, Greece had not yet learned to underestimate outsiders, and the massive size of the impending invasion was clearly known from spies and defectors of the Greek states who were plentiful in the barbarian camp. Even if united, the entire Greek navy seemed inadequate to face such an enemy; divided among themselves, many states were more inclined to surrender than to fight 59. “And here,” says the father of history, “I must express an opinion, even if it may be unpopular with many. If the Athenians, frightened by the danger, had abandoned their homeland or surrendered to the Persians, Xerxes would have encountered no resistance at sea. The Spartans, abandoned by their allies, would have died honorably or yielded out of necessity, and all of Greece would have fallen under Persian control. The Athenians were thus the saviors of Greece. They inspired the resolve of those states still loyal to them; and, next to the gods, they were the true defenders against the invader. Even the Delphic oracles, dark and foreboding as they were, did not weaken their resolve or lead them to forsake Greece.” Even when the gods themselves seemed uncertain, Athens stood firm. The messengers sent by the Athenians to the Delphic oracle received indeed a response that was likely to terrify them.
“Unhappy men,” cried the priestess, “leave your houses and the ramparts of the city, and fly to the uttermost parts of the earth. Fire and keen Mars, compelling the Syrian chariot, shall destroy, towers shall be overthrown, and temples destroyed by fire. Lo! now, even now, they stand dropping sweat, and their house-tops black with blood, and shaking with prophetic awe. Depart and prepare for ill!”
“Unhappy men,” shouted the priestess, “leave your homes and the city walls, and flee to the farthest corners of the earth. Fire and fierce Mars, driving the Syrian chariot, will bring destruction; towers will fall, and temples will burn down. Look! Right now, they stand, dripping with sweat, their rooftops stained with blood, and trembling with foreboding. Go now and get ready for disaster!”
II. Cast into the deepest affliction by this response, the Athenians yet, with the garb and symbols of suppliants, renewed their application. “Answer us,” they said, “oh supreme God, answer us more propitiously, or we will not depart from your sanctuary, but remain here even until death.”
II. Overwhelmed by this response, the Athenians once again, dressed as supplicants, pleaded their case. “Please respond to us,” they said, “oh highest God, respond to us more favorably, or we won't leave your sanctuary; we will stay here even until we die.”
The second answer seemed less severe than the first: “Minerva is unable to appease the Olympian Jupiter. Again, therefore, I speak, and my words are as adamant. All else within the bounds of Cecropia and the bosom of the divine Cithaeron shall fall and fail you. The wooden wall alone Jupiter grants to Pallas, a refuge to your children and yourselves. Wait not for horse and foot—tarry not the march of the mighty army—retreat, even though they close upon you. Oh Salamis the divine, thou shalt lose the sons of women, whether Ceres scatter or hoard her harvest!”
The second response felt less harsh than the first: “Minerva can’t satisfy the Olympian Jupiter. So, once again, I speak, and my words are unyielding. Everything within the borders of Cecropia and the sacred Cithaeron will fail you. Only the wooden wall that Jupiter grants to Pallas will offer protection for your children and yourselves. Don’t wait for cavalry or infantry—don’t delay the advance of the powerful army—retreat, even if they close in on you. Oh divine Salamis, you’ll suffer losses regardless of whether Ceres disperses or keeps her harvest!”
III. Writing down this reply, the messengers returned to Athens. Many and contradictory were the attempts made to interpret the response; some believed that by a wooden wall was meant the citadel, formerly surrounded by a palisade of wood. Others affirmed that the enigmatical expression signified the fleet. But then the concluding words perplexed them. For the apostrophe to Salamis appeared to denote destruction and defeat. At this juncture Themistocles approved himself worthy of the position he had attained. It is probable that he had purchased the oracle to which he found a ready and bold solution. He upheld the resort to the ships, but denied that in the apostrophe to Salamis any evil to Athens was denounced. “Had,” said he, “the prediction of loss and slaughter referred to the Athenians, would Salamis have been called ‘divine?’ would it not have been rather called the ‘wretched’ if the Greeks were doomed to perish near that isle? The oracle threatens not the Athenians, but the enemy. Let us prepare then to engage the barbarian by sea. Our ships are our wooden walls.”
III. After writing down this reply, the messengers went back to Athens. There were many conflicting attempts to interpret the response; some thought that the "wooden wall" referred to the citadel, which used to be surrounded by a wooden fence. Others insisted that the mysterious phrase meant the fleet. However, the final words puzzled them. The mention of Salamis seemed to indicate destruction and defeat. At this moment, Themistocles proved himself worthy of his position. It's likely that he had bought the oracle, which provided him with a quick and bold solution. He supported the idea of using the ships, but argued that the mention of Salamis didn't imply any harm to Athens. “If,” he said, “the prediction of loss and slaughter were about the Athenians, would Salamis have been called ‘divine?’ Wouldn’t it more likely be labeled ‘wretched’ if the Greeks were meant to die near that island? The oracle threatens not the Athenians, but the enemy. So let’s get ready to confront the barbarian by sea. Our ships are our wooden walls.”
This interpretation, as it was the more encouraging, so it was the more approved. The vessels already built from the revenues of the mines of Laurion were now destined to the safety of Greece.
This interpretation, while more encouraging, was also more widely accepted. The ships that had already been constructed from the profits of the Laurion mines were now intended to ensure Greece's safety.
IV. It was, however, before the arrival of the Persian envoys 60, and when the Greeks first woke to the certainty, that the vast preparations of Xerxes menaced Greece as the earliest victim, that a congress, perhaps at the onset confined to the Peloponnesian states, met at Corinth. At the head of this confederate council necessarily ranked Sparta, which was the master state of the Peloponnesus. But in policy and debate, if not in arms, she appears always to have met with a powerful rival in Corinth, the diplomacy of whose wealthy and liberal commonwealth often counteracted the propositions of the Spartan delegates. To this congress subsequently came the envoys of all the states that refused tribute and homage to the Persian king. The institution of this Hellenic council, which was one cause of the salvation of Greece, is a proof of the political impotence of the old Amphictyonic league. The Synedrion of Corinth (or rather of that Corinthian village that had grown up round the temple of Neptune, and is styled the ISTHMUS by the Greek writers) was the true historical Amphictyony of Hellas.
IV. However, before the Persian envoys arrived 60, and when the Greeks first realized that Xerxes’ massive preparations posed a serious threat to Greece, which was likely to be the first victim, a gathering was held at Corinth, likely only involving the Peloponnesian states at first. Sparta, being the leading state of the Peloponnesus, headed this allied council. Yet, in terms of policy and debate—if not in military power—Corinth consistently emerged as a strong rival, as its wealthy and progressive city often undermined the proposals put forth by the Spartan representatives. Eventually, envoys from all the states that refused to pay tribute and bow down to the Persian king joined this congress. The establishment of this Hellenic council, which contributed to Greece's survival, highlights the political weakness of the old Amphictyonic league. The Synedrion of Corinth (or more accurately, that Corinthian village that developed around the temple of Neptune, referred to as the ISTHMUS by Greek writers) was the true historical representation of Amphictyony in Hellas.
In the Isthmian congress the genius of Themistocles found an ampler sphere than it had hitherto done among the noisy cabals of Athens. Of all the Greek delegates, that sagacious statesman was most successful in accomplishing the primary object of the confederacy, viz., in removing the jealousies and the dissensions that hitherto existed among the states which composed it. In this, perhaps the most difficult, as the most essential, task, Themistocles was aided by a Tegean, named Chileus, who, though he rarely appears upon the external stage of action, seems to have been eminently skilled in the intricate and entangled politics of the time. Themistocles, into whose hands the Athenian republic, at this period, confided the trust not more of its interests than its resentments, set the example of concord; and Athens, for a while, consented to reconciliation and amity with the hated Aegina. All the proceedings of this illustrious congress were characterized by vigilant prudence and decisive energy. As soon as Xerxes arrived in Sardis, emissaries were despatched to watch the movements of the Persian army, and at the same period, or rather some time before 61, ambassadors were sent to Corcyra, Crete, Argos, and to Syracuse, then under the dominion of Gelo. This man, from the station of a high-born and powerful citizen of Gela, in Sicily, had raised himself, partly by military talents, principally by a profound and dissimulating policy, to the tyranny of Gela and of Syracuse. His abilities were remarkable, his power great; nor on the Grecian continent was there one state that could command the force and the resources that were at the disposal of the Syracusan prince.
In the Isthmian congress, Themistocles found a larger arena for his talents than he had before in the noisy politics of Athens. Among all the Greek delegates, that sharp-minded statesman was the most successful in achieving the main goal of the alliance, which was to eliminate the rivalries and conflicts that had existed among the member states. In this perhaps most challenging yet crucial task, Themistocles was supported by a Tegean named Chileus, who, although he rarely made public appearances, seemed to be very knowledgeable about the complex and tangled politics of the era. Themistocles, to whom the Athenian republic entrusted the management not only of its interests but also of its grievances at that time, set the example of unity; and Athens temporarily agreed to reconcile and cooperate with the despised Aegina. All the actions of this notable congress demonstrated careful caution and decisive determination. As soon as Xerxes arrived in Sardis, messengers were sent to monitor the movements of the Persian army, and around the same time, or even a bit earlier, ambassadors were dispatched to Corcyra, Crete, Argos, and to Syracuse, which was then under Gelo’s control. Gelo, a prominent and powerful citizen of Gela in Sicily, had elevated himself to the tyranny of Gela and Syracuse, partly through military skills and mainly through shrewd and deceptive political strategies. His capabilities were extraordinary, and his influence significant; no state on the Greek mainland could match the force and resources available to the Syracusan prince.
The spies despatched to Sardis were discovered, seized, and would have been put to death, but for the interference of Xerxes, who dismissed them, after directing them to be led round his army, in the hope that their return from the terror of such a spectacle would, more than their death, intimidate and appal their countrymen.
The spies sent to Sardis were caught, captured, and would have been executed, but Xerxes intervened. He ordered them to be shown around his army, hoping that their return after witnessing such a frightening sight would scare and demoralize their fellow countrymen more than their death would.
The mission to Argos, which, as a Peloponnesian city, was one of the earliest applied to, was unsuccessful. That state still suffered the exhaustion which followed the horrible massacre perpetrated by Cleomenes, the Spartan king, who had burnt six thousand Argives in the precincts of the sanctuary to which they had fled. New changes of government had followed this fatal loss, and the servile population had been enabled to seize the privileges of the free. Thus, hatred to Sparta, a weakened soldiery, an unsettled internal government, all conspired to render Argos lukewarm to the general cause. Yet that state did not openly refuse the aid which it secretly resolved to withhold. It consented to join the common league upon two conditions; an equal share with the Spartans in the command, and a truce of thirty years with those crafty and merciless neighbours. The Spartans proposed to compromise the former condition, by allowing to the Argive king not indeed half the command, but a voice equal to that of each of their own kings. To the latter condition they offered no objection. Glad of an excuse to retaliate on the Spartans their own haughty insolence, the Argives at once rejected the proposition, and ordered the Spartan ambassador to quit their territories before sunset. But Argos, though the chief city of Argolis, had not her customary influence over the other towns of that district, in which the attachment to Greece was stronger than the jealous apprehensions of Sparta.
The mission to Argos, which was one of the earliest attempts made to the Peloponnesian city, didn’t succeed. The state was still reeling from the terrible massacre carried out by Cleomenes, the Spartan king, who had burned six thousand Argives in the sanctuary where they had sought refuge. Following this tragic loss, there were new changes in government, and the enslaved population managed to gain the rights of the free. Thus, resentment towards Sparta, a weakened military force, and an unstable internal government all contributed to Argos being indifferent to the overall cause. However, the state didn’t outright refuse the help it had secretly decided to withhold. It agreed to join the coalition under two conditions: an equal share in command with the Spartans and a thirty-year truce with those cunning and ruthless neighbors. The Spartans suggested a compromise on the first condition by offering the Argive king not half the command but a voice equal to each of their own kings. They raised no objections to the second condition. Eager to retaliate against the Spartans for their own arrogance, the Argives immediately rejected the proposal and ordered the Spartan ambassador to leave their territory before sunset. But Argos, despite being the main city of Argolis, didn’t have its usual influence over the other towns in the region, where loyalty to Greece was stronger than the mistrust of Sparta.
The embassy to Sicily was not more successful than that to Argos. Gelo agreed indeed to furnish the allies with a considerable force, but only on the condition of obtaining for Sicily the supreme command, either of the land-force claimed by Sparta, or of the naval force to which Athens already ventured to pretend; an offer to which it was impossible that the Greeks should accede, unless they were disposed to surrender to the craft of an auxiliary the liberties they asserted against the violence of a foe. The Spartan and the Athenian ambassadors alike, and with equal indignation, rejected the proposals of Gelo, who, in fact, had obtained the tyranny of his native city by first securing the command of the Gelan cavalry. The prince of Syracuse was little affected by the vehement scorn of the ambassadors. “I see you are in more want of troops than commanders,” said he, wittily. “Return, then; tell the Greeks this year will be without its spring.” For, as the spring to the year did Gelo consider his assistance to Greece. From Sicily the ambassadors repaired to Corcyra. Here they were amused with flattering promises, but the governors of that intriguing and factious state fitted out a fleet of sixty vessels, stationed near Pylos, off the coast of Sparta, to wait the issue of events assuring Xerxes, on the one hand, of their indisposition to oppose him, and pretending afterward to the Greeks, on the other, that the adverse winds alone prevented their taking share in the engagement at Salamis. The Cretans were not more disposed to the cause than the Corcyraeans; they found an excuse in an oracle of Delphi, and indeed that venerable shrine appears to have been equally dissuasive of resistance to all the states that consulted it; although the daring of the Athenians had construed the ambiguous menace into a favourable omen. The threats of superstition become but incitements to courage when interpreted by the brave.
The embassy to Sicily was no more successful than the one to Argos. Gelo did agree to provide the allies with a significant force, but only if he could take command of either the land troops claimed by Sparta or the naval force that Athens was already claiming to control. The Greeks could not accept this offer without surrendering their freedom to the manipulations of an ally, which was against the very principle they were fighting for against a foe. Both the Spartan and Athenian ambassadors, equally outraged, rejected Gelo's proposals. He had gained control over his hometown by first securing command of the Gelan cavalry. The prince of Syracuse was not bothered by the ambassadors' outrage. “It seems you need troops more than leaders,” he quipped. “Go back and tell the Greeks that this year will have no spring.” Gelo viewed his assistance to Greece as essential, like spring to the year. From Sicily, the ambassadors went to Corcyra. There, they were flattered with promises, but the leaders of that scheming and contentious state assembled a fleet of sixty ships, positioned near Pylos, off the Spartan coast, to see how events unfolded. They assured Xerxes they were unwilling to resist him, while later pretending to the Greeks that only the unfavorable winds were stopping them from participating in the battle at Salamis. The Cretans were no more supportive of the cause than the Corcyraeans; they found an excuse in a Delphi oracle, and indeed, that ancient shrine seemed to discourage resistance from all the states that sought its counsel, although the brave Athenians interpreted its ambiguous warning as a positive sign. Superstition's threats often become incentives for courage when viewed through the lens of the courageous.
V. And now the hostile army had crossed the Hellespont, and the Thessalians, perceiving that they were the next objects of attack, despatched ambassadors to the congress at the Isthmus.
V. And now the enemy army had crossed the Hellespont, and the Thessalians, realizing they were the next targets for an attack, sent ambassadors to the meeting at the Isthmus.
Those Thessalian chiefs called the Aleuadae had, it is true, invited Xerxes to the invasion of Greece. But precisely because acceptable to the chiefs, the arrival of the great king was dreaded by the people. By the aid of the Persians, the Aleuadae trusted to extend their power over their own country—an ambition with which it is not to be supposed that the people they assisted to subject would sympathize. Accordingly, while Xerxes was to the chiefs an ally, to the people he remained a foe.
The Thessalian leaders known as the Aleuadae did invite Xerxes to invade Greece. However, the common people feared the arrival of the great king, even though the leaders welcomed it. The Aleuadae hoped to use the Persians to strengthen their own power in their land—something the people they aimed to control would not likely support. So, while Xerxes was seen as an ally by the leaders, he was still viewed as an enemy by the people.
These Thessalian envoys proclaimed their willingness to assist the confederates in the defence of their fatherland, but represented the imminence of the danger to Thessaly, and demanded an immediate supply of forces. “Without this,” they said, “we cannot exert ourselves for you, and our inability to assist you will be our excuse, if we provide for our own safety.”
These Thessalian representatives stated they were ready to help the allied forces defend their homeland, but highlighted the urgent threat to Thessaly and requested an immediate deployment of troops. “Without this,” they said, “we can’t do our part for you, and our inability to help will be our justification if we prioritize our own safety.”
Aroused by these exhortations, the confederates commenced their military movements. A body of infantry passed the Euripus, entered Thessaly, and encamped amid the delights of the vale of Tempe. Here their numbers, in all ten thousand heavy-armed troops, were joined by the Thessalian horse. The Spartans were led by Euaenetus. Themistocles commanded the Athenians. The army did not long, however, remain in the encampment. Alexander, the king of Macedon, sent confidentially advising their retreat, and explaining accurately the force of the enemy. This advice concurred with the discovery that there was another passage into Thessaly through the higher regions of Macedonia, which exposed them to be taken in the rear. And, in truth, it was through this passage that the Persian army ultimately marched. The Greeks, therefore, broke up the camp and returned to the Isthmus. The Thessalians, thus abandoned, instantly treated with the invader, and became among the stanchest allies of Xerxes.
Awakened by these calls to action, the confederates began their military movements. A group of infantry crossed the Euripus, entered Thessaly, and set up camp in the beautiful vale of Tempe. Here, their ranks, totaling ten thousand heavily armed troops, were joined by the Thessalian cavalry. The Spartans were led by Euaenetus, while Themistocles was in charge of the Athenians. However, the army didn’t stay in camp for long. Alexander, the king of Macedon, secretly advised them to retreat, clearly explaining the strength of the enemy. This advice coincided with the discovery that there was another route into Thessaly through the higher areas of Macedonia, which could potentially trap them from behind. In fact, it was this route that the Persian army eventually took. Therefore, the Greeks dismantled the camp and returned to the Isthmus. The Thessalians, now left behind, quickly negotiated with the invader and became some of Xerxes' strongest allies.
It was now finally agreed in the Isthmian congress, that the most advisable plan would be to defend the pass of Thermopylae, as being both nearer and narrower than that of Thessaly. The fleet they resolved to send to Artemisium, on the coast of Histiaeotis, a place sufficiently neighbouring Thermopylae to allow of easy communication. Never, perhaps, have the Greeks shown more military skill than in the choice of these stations. But one pass in those mountainous districts permitted the descent of the Persian army from Thessaly, bounded to the west by steep and inaccessible cliffs, extending as far as Mount Oeta; to the east by shoals and the neighbouring sea. This defile received its name Thermopylae, or Hot Gates, from the hot-springs which rose near the base of the mountain. In remote times the pastoral Phocians had fortified the place against the incursions of the Thessalians, and the decayed remains of the wall and gates of their ancient garrison were still existent in the middle of the pass; while, by marsh and morass, to render the place yet more impassable, they had suffered the hot-springs to empty themselves along the plain, on the Thessalian side, and the quagmire was still sodden and unsteady. The country on either side the Thermopylae was so contracted, that before, near the river Phoenix, and behind, near the village of Alpeni, was at that time space only for a single chariot. In such a pass the numbers and the cavalry of the Mede were rendered unavailable; while at the distance of about fifteen miles from Thermopylae the ships of the Grecian navy rode in the narrow sea, off the projecting shores of Euboea, equally fortunate in a station which weakened the force of numbers and allowed the facility of retreat.
It was finally agreed at the Isthmian congress that the best strategy would be to defend the pass at Thermopylae, as it was closer and narrower than the one in Thessaly. They decided to send the fleet to Artemisium, on the coast of Histiaeotis, which was close enough to Thermopylae for easy communication. The Greeks may have never demonstrated more military skill than in choosing these positions. However, only one pass in those mountainous areas allowed the Persian army to enter from Thessaly, which was bordered to the west by steep, inaccessible cliffs that extended all the way to Mount Oeta, and to the east by shallow waters and the sea. This narrow passage was known as Thermopylae, or Hot Gates, due to the hot springs located near the base of the mountain. In ancient times, the pastoral Phocians had fortified the area against invasions from the Thessalians, and remnants of their walls and gates were still visible in the middle of the pass. To make the area even harder to cross, they allowed the hot springs to drain onto the plain on the Thessalian side, creating a marsh that remained soggy and unstable. The land on either side of Thermopylae was so tight that there was only enough space for a single chariot at the river Phoenix in front and near the village of Alpeni behind. In such a narrow pass, the numbers and cavalry of the Medes were rendered ineffective; meanwhile, about fifteen miles from Thermopylae, the ships of the Greek navy were anchored in the narrow sea off the shores of Euboea, a position that not only reduced their numerical disadvantage but also provided a way to retreat.
The sea-station was possessed by the allied ships. Corinth sent forty; Megara twenty; Aegina eighteen; Sicyon twelve; Sparta ten; the Epidaurians contributed eight; the Eretrians seven; the Troezenians five; the Ityraeans and the people of Ceos each two, and the Opuntian Locrians seven vessels of fifty oars. The total of these ships (without reckoning those of fifty oars, supplied by the Locrians, and two barks of the same description, which added to the quota sent by the people of Ceos) amount to one hundred and twenty-four. The Athenian force alone numbered more vessels than all the other confederates, and contributed one hundred and twenty-seven triremes, partly manned by Plataeans, besides twenty vessels lent to the Chalcidians, who equipped and manned them. The Athenian fleet was commanded by Themistocles. The land-force at Thermopylae consisted chiefly of Peloponnesians; its numbers were as follows:—three hundred heavy-armed Spartans; five hundred Tegeans; five hundred Mantinaeans; one hundred and twenty Orchomenians; one thousand from the other states of Arcady; two hundred from Phlius; eighty from Mycenae. Boeotia contributed seven hundred Thespians, and four hundred Thebans; the last had been specially selected by Leonidas, the Spartan chief, because of the general suspicion that the Thebans were attached to the Medes, and he desired, therefore, to approve them as friends, or know them as foes. Although the sentiments of the Thebans were hostile, says Herodotus, they sent the assistance required. In addition to these, were one thousand Phocians, and a band of the Opuntian Locrians, unnumbered by Herodotus, but variously estimated, by Diodorus at one thousand, and, more probably, by Pausanias at no less than seven thousand.
The naval base was occupied by the allied ships. Corinth sent forty; Megara sent twenty; Aegina sent eighteen; Sicyon sent twelve; Sparta sent ten; the Epidaurians contributed eight; the Eretrians sent seven; the Troezenians sent five; the Ityraeans and the people of Ceos each sent two, and the Opuntian Locrians sent seven fifty-oar vessels. The total number of these ships (not counting the fifty-oar ones supplied by the Locrians and two boats of the same type that were added to the quota sent by the people of Ceos) adds up to one hundred and twenty-four. The Athenian force alone had more ships than all the other allies combined, contributing one hundred and twenty-seven triremes, partly crewed by Plataeans, in addition to twenty vessels lent to the Chalcidians, who equipped and manned them. The Athenian fleet was commanded by Themistocles. The land force at Thermopylae was mainly made up of Peloponnesians; its numbers were as follows: three hundred heavily armed Spartans; five hundred Tegeans; five hundred Mantinaeans; one hundred and twenty Orchomenians; one thousand from other states of Arcadia; two hundred from Phlius; eighty from Mycenae. Boeotia contributed seven hundred Thespians and four hundred Thebans; the latter had been specifically chosen by Leonidas, the Spartan leader, due to the general suspicion that the Thebans were loyal to the Medes, and he wanted to either confirm their allegiance as friends or identify them as enemies. Although the Thebans were not supportive, says Herodotus, they provided the needed assistance. In addition to these, there were one thousand Phocians and a group of the Opuntian Locrians, whose numbers were not specified by Herodotus but were estimated by Diodorus at one thousand and, more likely, by Pausanias at no less than seven thousand.
The chief command was intrusted, according to the claims of Sparta, to Leonidas, the younger brother of the frantic Cleomenes 62, by a different mother, and his successor to the Spartan throne.
The main command was given, according to Sparta's claims, to Leonidas, the younger brother of the crazy Cleomenes 62, from a different mother, and his successor to the Spartan throne.
There are men whose whole life is in a single action. Of these, Leonidas is the most eminent. We know little of him, until the last few days of his career. He seems, as it were, born but to show how much glory belongs to a brave death. Of his character or genius, his general virtues and vices, his sorrows and his joys, biography can scarcely gather even the materials for conjecture. He passed from an obscure existence into an everlasting name. And history dedicates her proudest pages to one of whom she has nothing but the epitaph to relate.
There are men whose entire lives can be summed up in a single action. Among them, Leonidas stands out the most. We know very little about him until the last few days of his life. It seems he was born solely to highlight the glory of a brave death. Biographies can hardly gather any details about his character, talents, overall virtues and flaws, his sorrows and joys. He went from a life of obscurity to an everlasting legacy. History reserves its most esteemed pages for someone of whom it has nothing but an epitaph to share.
As if to contrast the little band under the command of Leonidas, Herodotus again enumerates the Persian force, swelled as it now was by many contributions, forced and voluntary, since its departure from Doriscus. He estimates the total by sea and land, thus augmented, at two millions six hundred and forty-one thousand six hundred and ten fighting men, and computes the number of the menial attendants, the motley multitude that followed the armament, at an equal number; so that the son of Darius conducted, hitherto without disaster, to Sepias and Thermopylae, a body of five millions two hundred and eighty-three thousand two hundred and twenty human beings 63. And out of this wondrous concourse, none in majesty and grace of person, says Herodotus, surpassed the royal leader. But such advantages as belong to superior stature, the kings of Persia obtained by artificial means; and we learn from Xenophon that they wore a peculiar kind of shoe so constructed as to increase their height.
As if to highlight the small group led by Leonidas, Herodotus again lists the Persian forces, which had grown significantly through both forced and voluntary contributions since leaving Doriscus. He estimates the total number of soldiers, both at sea and on land, at two million six hundred forty-one thousand six hundred ten. He also calculates the number of support personnel, the diverse crowd that accompanied the army, to be the same, bringing the total under the command of Darius’s son, who had navigated to Sepias and Thermopylae without facing any setbacks, to five million two hundred eighty-three thousand two hundred twenty people 63. Out of this incredible assembly, Herodotus notes that none matched the royal leader in grace and presence. However, the Persian kings gained the height advantage through artificial means; Xenophon tells us they wore a special type of shoe designed to make them taller.
VI. The fleet of Xerxes, moving from Therme, obtained some partial success at sea: ten of their vessels despatched to Sciathos, captured a guard-ship of Troezene, and sacrificed upon the prow a Greek named Leon; the beauty of his person obtained him that disagreeable preference. A vessel of Aegina fell also into their hands, the crew of which they treated as slaves, save only one hero, Pytheas, endeared even to the enemy by his valour; a third vessel, belonging to the Athenians, was taken at the mouth of the Peneus; the seamen, however, had previously debarked, and consequently escaped. Beacons apprized the Greek station at Artemisium of these disasters, and the fleet retreated for a while to Chalcis, with a view of guarding the Euripus. But a violent storm off the coast of Magnesia suddenly destroying no less than four hundred of the barbarian vessels, with a considerable number of men and great treasure, the Grecian navy returned to Artemisium.
VI. Xerxes’ fleet, moving from Therme, had some limited success at sea: ten of their ships sent to Sciathos captured a guard ship from Troezene and sacrificed a Greek named Leon on the prow; his looks earned him that unpleasant fate. A ship from Aegina also fell into their hands, and they treated the crew like slaves, except for one brave man, Pytheas, who was admired even by the enemy for his courage; a third ship belonging to the Athenians was captured at the mouth of the Peneus, but the crew had already gotten off and escaped. Signals alerted the Greek station at Artemisium about these losses, and the fleet retreated temporarily to Chalcis to guard the Euripus. However, a severe storm off the coast of Magnesia suddenly sank over four hundred of the enemy's ships, along with a significant number of men and valuable treasure, prompting the Greek navy to return to Artemisium.
Here they soon made a capture of fifteen of the Persian vessels, which, taking them for friends, sailed right into the midst of them. With this exception, the rest of the barbarian fleet arrived safely at Aphetae.
Here, they quickly captured fifteen of the Persian ships, which, thinking they were allies, sailed right into the middle of them. Aside from that, the rest of the enemy fleet arrived safely at Aphetae.
VII. Meanwhile the mighty land-force of the great king, passing through Thessaly and Achaia, arrived at last at the wide Trachinian plains, which, stretching along the shores of Thessaly, forty miles in circumference, and adjacent to the straits of Thermopylae, allowed space for the encampment of his army.
VII. In the meantime, the powerful army of the great king, moving through Thessaly and Achaia, finally reached the vast Trachinian plains, which stretched along the shores of Thessaly, covering about forty miles around, and next to the straits of Thermopylae, providing enough space for his army to set up camp.
The Greeks at Thermopylae beheld the approach of Xerxes with dismay; they had anticipated considerable re-enforcements from the confederate states, especially Sparta, which last had determined to commit all her strength to the campaign, leaving merely a small detachment for the defence of the capital. But the Carneian festival in honour of the great Dorian Apollo, at Sparta, detained the Lacedaemonians, and the Olympic games diverted the rest of the allies, not yet expecting an immediate battle.
The Greeks at Thermopylae saw Xerxes approaching with concern; they had expected significant reinforcements from the allied states, especially Sparta, which had just decided to commit all its forces to the campaign, leaving only a small group to defend the capital. However, the Carneian festival in honor of the great Dorian Apollo at Sparta held the Lacedaemonians back, and the Olympic games distracted the rest of the allies, who weren't anticipating an immediate battle.
The vicinity of Xerxes, the absence of the re-enforcements they expected, produced an alarmed and anxious council; Leonidas dissuaded the confederates from retreat, and despatched messengers to the various states, urging the necessity of supplies, and stating the hopelessness of opposing the Mede effectually with the present forces.
The area around Xerxes, along with the lack of the reinforcements they had anticipated, created a worried and tense council. Leonidas discouraged the allies from retreating and sent messengers to the different states, emphasizing the need for supplies and pointing out the futility of effectively opposing the Mede with their current forces.
Xerxes, in the meanwhile, who had heard that an insignificant band were assembled under a Spartan descendant of Hercules, to resist his progress, despatched a spy to reconnoitre their number and their movements. The emissary was able only to inspect those without the intrenchment, who, at that time, happened to be the Spartans; he found that singular race engaged in gymnastic exercises, and dressing their long hair for the festival of battle. Although they perceived the spy, they suffered him to gaze at his leisure, and he returned in safety to the king.
Xerxes, meanwhile, had heard that a small group was gathered under a Spartan descendant of Hercules to oppose him, so he sent a spy to check out their numbers and movements. The spy could only observe those outside the fortifications, who happened to be the Spartans at that moment. He found this unique group engaged in physical training and styling their long hair for the upcoming battle festival. Even though they noticed the spy, they let him watch at his own pace, and he returned safely to the king.
Much astonished at the account he received, Xerxes sent for Demaratus, and detailing to him what the messenger had seen, inquired what it might portend, and whether this handful of men amusing themselves in the defile could seriously mean to resist his arms.
Much surprised by the report he received, Xerxes called for Demaratus and, explaining what the messenger had seen, asked what it could mean and whether this small group of men having fun in the pass could really intend to stand against his army.
“Sire,” answered the Spartan, “it is their intention to dispute the pass, and what your messenger has seen proves that they are preparing accordingly. It is the custom of the Spartans to adorn their hair on the eve of any enterprise of danger. You are advancing to attack the flower of the Grecian valour.” Xerxes, still incredulous that opposition could be seriously intended, had the courtesy to wait four days to give the enemy leisure to retreat; in the interim he despatched a messenger to Leonidas, demanding his arms. “Come and take them!” replied the Spartan.
"Sire," replied the Spartan, "they plan to contest the pass, and what your messenger has seen shows that they are getting ready for it. It's a tradition for Spartans to style their hair the night before any dangerous undertaking. You're about to confront the best of Greek bravery." Xerxes, still doubtful that any real opposition could be intended, was polite enough to wait four days to give the enemy a chance to pull back; in the meantime, he sent a messenger to Leonidas, demanding his weapons. "Come and take them!" answered the Spartan.
VIII. On the fifth day the patience of Xerxes was exhausted, and he sent a detachment of Medes and Cissians 64 into the pass, with orders to bring its rash and obstinate defenders alive into his presence. The Medes and Cissians were repulsed with considerable loss. “The Immortal Band” were now ordered to advance, under the command of Hydarnes. But even the skill and courage of that warlike troop were equally unsuccessful; their numbers were crippled by the narrowness of the pass, and their short weapons coped to great disadvantage with the long spears of the Greeks. The engagement was renewed a second day with the like fortune; the loss of the Persians was great, although the scanty numbers of the Spartans were also somewhat diminished.
VIII. On the fifth day, Xerxes ran out of patience and sent a group of Medes and Cissians 64 into the pass, with orders to bring its reckless and stubborn defenders to him alive. The Medes and Cissians were pushed back with significant losses. “The Immortal Band” was then ordered to advance, led by Hydarnes. But even the skill and bravery of that fierce group were unsuccessful; their numbers were limited by the narrowness of the pass, and their short weapons struggled against the long spears of the Greeks. The battle continued for a second day with the same outcome; the Persians suffered heavy losses, although the already small numbers of the Spartans were also somewhat reduced.
In the midst of the perplexity which pervaded the king’s councils after this defeat, there arrived at the Persian camp one Ephialtes, a Malian. Influenced by the hope of a great reward, this traitor demanded and obtained an audience, in which he offered to conduct the Medes through a secret path across the mountains, into the pass. The offer was joyfully accepted, and Hydarnes, with the forces under his command, was despatched under the guidance of the Malian. At the dusk of evening the detachment left the camp, and marching all night, from the river Asopus, between the mountains of Oeta on the right hand, and the Trachinian ridges on the left, they found themselves at the early dawn at the summit of the hill, on which a thousand Phocians had been stationed to defend the pass, for it was not unknown to the Spartans. In the silence of dawn they wound through the thick groves of oak that clad the ascent, and concealed the glitter of their arms; but the exceeding stillness of the air occasioned the noise they made in trampling on the leaves 65 to reach the ears of the Phocians. That band sprang up from the earth on which they had slept, to the consternation and surprise of the invaders, and precipitately betook themselves to arms. The Persians, though unprepared for an enemy at this spot, drew up in battle array, and the heavy onslaught of their arrows drove the Phocians to seek a better shelter up the mountains, not imagining that the passage into the defile, but their own destruction, was the object of the enterprise. The Persians prudently forbore pursuit, but availing themselves of the path now open to their progress, rapidly descended the opposite side of the mountain.
In the confusion that surrounded the king's councils after this defeat, a man named Ephialtes from Malis showed up at the Persian camp. Driven by the promise of a big reward, this traitor asked for and got a meeting where he offered to lead the Medes through a hidden path across the mountains into the pass. His offer was happily accepted, and Hydarnes, along with the troops he commanded, was sent out guided by the Malian. At dusk, the group left the camp and marched all night, starting from the river Asopus, flanked by the mountains of Oeta on one side and the Trachinian ridges on the other. They reached the top of the hill at dawn, where a thousand Phocians had been stationed to defend the pass, which the Spartans were aware of. In the quiet of dawn, they moved through the dense oak groves covering the slope, which hid the shine of their weapons; however, the still air made the sound of their footsteps on the leaves loud enough for the Phocians to hear. The Phocians quickly sprung from the ground where they had been sleeping, shocking and surprising the invaders, and hurriedly armed themselves. The Persians, although caught off guard at this location, formed their battle lines, and the heavy barrage of their arrows forced the Phocians to retreat up the mountains, not realizing that the goal of the mission was their own destruction, not just the passage into the pass. The Persians wisely chose not to pursue but took advantage of the now accessible route and quickly descended the other side of the mountain.
IX. Meanwhile, dark and superstitious terrors were at work in the Grecian camp. The preceding eve the soothsayer (Megistias) had inspected the entrails, and foretold that death awaited the defenders of Thermopylae in the morning; and on that fatal night a Cumaean deserted from the Persian camp had joined Leonidas, and informed him of the treachery of Ephialtes. At early day their fears were confirmed by the sentinels posted on the mountains, who fled into the defile at the approach of the barbarians.
IX. Meanwhile, dark and superstitious fears were spreading in the Greek camp. The night before, the soothsayer (Megistias) had examined the entrails and predicted that death awaited the defenders of Thermopylae in the morning. On that fateful night, a Cumaean who had deserted from the Persian camp joined Leonidas and informed him about Ephialtes's betrayal. Early in the morning, their fears were confirmed by the sentinels posted in the mountains, who ran into the narrow pass as the barbarians drew near.
A hasty council was assembled; some were for remaining, some for flight. The council ended with the resolution of a general retreat, probably with the assent, possibly by the instances, of Leonidas, who was contented to possess the monopoly of glory and of death. The laws of the Spartans forbade them to fly from any enemy, however numerous, and Leonidas did not venture to disobey them. Perhaps his resolution was strengthened by an oracle of that Delphi so peculiarly venerated by the Dorian race, and which foretold either the fall of Sparta, or the sacrifice of a Spartan king of the blood of Hercules. To men whose whole happiness was renown, life had no temptation equal to such a death!
A quick council was called; some wanted to stay, others wanted to run. The meeting concluded with a decision for a total retreat, likely with Leonidas's approval, who was happy to hold the sole claim to glory and death. The laws of Sparta prohibited them from fleeing any enemy, no matter how many, and Leonidas didn’t dare break them. Maybe his resolve was bolstered by an oracle from Delphi, which was especially revered by the Dorian people, predicting either the downfall of Sparta or the sacrifice of a Spartan king descended from Hercules. For men whose deepest joy came from fame, there was no greater temptation in life than such a death!
X. Leonidas and his countrymen determined to keep the field. The Thespians alone voluntarily remained to partake his fate; but he detained also the suspected Thebans, rather as a hostage than an auxiliary. The rest of the confederates precipitately departed across the mountains to their native cities. Leonidas would have dismissed the prophetic soothsayer, but Megistias insisted on his right to remain; he contented himself with sending away his only son, who had accompanied the expedition. Even the stern spirit of Leonidas is said to have yielded to the voice of nature; and he ordered two of his relations to return to Sparta to report the state of affairs. “You prescribe to us the duties of messengers, not of soldiers,” was the reply, as the warriors buckled on their shields, and took their posts with the rest.
X. Leonidas and his fellow soldiers decided to hold the ground. The Thespians were the only ones who chose to stay and share his fate; however, he also kept the suspected Thebans, more as hostages than allies. The other confederates quickly headed back over the mountains to their home cities. Leonidas wanted to send the prophetic soothsayer away, but Megistias insisted he had the right to stay; Leonidas settled for sending away his only son, who had joined the expedition. Even the tough spirit of Leonidas reportedly gave in to the call of nature, and he instructed two of his relatives to return to Sparta to report the situation. “You’re asking us to be messengers, not soldiers,” was their response as the warriors donned their shields and took their positions with the others.
If history could penetrate from events into the hearts of the agents, it would be interesting even to conjecture the feelings of this devoted band, awaiting the approach of a certain death, in that solitary defile. Their enthusiasm, and that rigid and Spartan spirit which had made all ties subservient to obedience to the law—all excitement tame to that of battle—all pleasure dull to the anticipation of glory—probably rendered the hours preceding death the most enviable of their lives. They might have exulted in the same elevating fanaticism which distinguished afterward the followers of Mahomet; and seen that opening paradise in immortality below, which the Moslemin beheld in anticipation above.
If history could dive deep into the hearts of those involved, it would be fascinating to imagine the feelings of this dedicated group, waiting for certain death in that isolated pass. Their enthusiasm and that unyielding, Spartan spirit that made every bond secondary to following the law—making all excitement pale compared to the thrill of battle and all pleasure seem dull next to the promise of glory—probably made the hours leading up to their deaths the most coveted of their lives. They might have reveled in the same uplifting fervor that later characterized the followers of Muhammad, envisioning that paradise of immortality below, just as the Muslims anticipated it above.
XI. Early on that awful morning, Xerxes offered a solemn libation to his gods, and at the middle of the noon, when Hydarnes might be supposed to be close upon the rear of the enemy, the barbarian troops commenced their march. Leonidas and his band advanced beyond their intrenchment, into the broader part of the defile. Before the fury of their despair, the Persians fell in great numbers; many of them were hurled into the sea, others trodden down and crushed by the press of their own numbers.
XI. Early that terrible morning, Xerxes made a serious offering to his gods, and by noon, when Hydarnes was likely right behind the enemy, the barbarian troops began their march. Leonidas and his group moved out from their fortifications into the wider part of the pass. In the face of their desperate fury, the Persians fell in large numbers; many were thrown into the sea, while others were trampled and crushed by the weight of their own people.
When the spears of the Greeks were shivered in pieces they had recourse to their swords, and the battle was fought hand to hand: thus fighting, fell Leonidas, surrounded in death by many of his band, of various distinction and renown. Two half-brothers of Xerxes, mingling in the foremost of the fray, contended for the body of the Spartan king, and perished by the Grecian sword.
When the Greek spears were broken into pieces, they turned to their swords, and the battle became hand to hand. In this close fighting, Leonidas fell, surrounded by many of his men, each distinguished in their own way. Two of Xerxes' half-brothers, fighting in the thick of the battle, fought for the body of the Spartan king and were killed by Greek swords.
For a short time the Spartans repelled the Persian crowd, who, where valour failed to urge them on, were scourged to the charge by the lash of their leaders, and drew the body of Leonidas from the press; and now, winding down the pass, Hydarnes and his detachment descended to the battle. The scene then became changed, the Spartans retired, still undaunted, or rather made yet more desperate as death drew near, into the narrowest of the pass, and, ranged upon an eminence of the strait, they died—fighting, even after their weapons were broken, with their hands and teeth—rather crushed beneath the number than slain by the swords of the foe—“non victi sed vincendo fatigati.” 67
For a brief moment, the Spartans held back the Persian crowd, who, when their courage failed them, were pushed forward by their leaders with whips. They dragged Leonidas' body from the chaos, and now, making their way down the pass, Hydarnes and his forces joined the battle. The scene shifted; the Spartans withdrew, still fearless, or perhaps even more desperate as death approached, into the narrowest part of the pass. Positioned on a ridge in the strait, they fought to the end—battling even after their weapons were broken, using their hands and teeth—overwhelmed by numbers rather than killed by their enemies' swords—“non victi sed vincendo fatigati.” 67
XII. Two Spartans of the three hundred, Eurytus and Aristodemus, had, in consequence of a severe disorder in the eyes, been permitted to sojourn at Alpeni; but Eurytus, hearing of the contest, was led by his helot into the field, and died with his countrymen. Aristodemus alone remained, branded with disgrace on his return to Sparta; but subsequently redeeming his name at the battle of Plataea. 68
XII. Two Spartans from the three hundred, Eurytus and Aristodemus, had been allowed to stay at Alpeni due to a serious eye condition. However, Eurytus, upon hearing about the battle, was taken to the field by his helot and died alongside his fellow countrymen. Aristodemus was the only one left, returning to Sparta with shame, but he later restored his reputation at the battle of Plataea. 68
The Thebans, beholding the victory of the Persians, yielded their arms; and, excepting a few, slain as they approached, not as foes, but as suppliants, were pardoned by Xerxes.
The Thebans, seeing the Persians win, gave up their weapons; and, except for a few who were killed as they came forward, not as enemies but as beggars for mercy, Xerxes forgave them.
The king himself came to view the dead, and especially the corpse of Leonidas. He ordered the head of that hero to be cut off, and his body suspended on a cross 69, an instance of sudden passion, rather than customary barbarity. For of all nations the Persians most honoured valour, even in their foes.
The king himself came to see the dead, especially Leonidas’s body. He ordered that the hero’s head be cut off and his body hung on a cross 69, a moment of impulsive anger rather than typical cruelty. Of all nations, the Persians valued bravery the most, even in their enemies.
XIII. The moral sense of mankind, which places the example of self-sacrifice among the noblest lessons by which our nature can be corrected, has justly immortalized the memory of Leonidas. It is impossible to question the virtue of the man, but we may fairly dispute the wisdom of the system he adorned. We may doubt whether, in fact, his death served his country so much as his life would have done. It was the distinction of Thermopylae, that its heroes died in obedience to the laws; it was the distinction of Marathon, that its heroes lived to defeat the invader and preserve their country. And in proof of this distinction, we find afterward, at Plataea, that of all the allied Greeks the Spartans the most feared the conquerors of Thermopylae; the Athenians the least feared the fugitives of Marathon.
XIII. The moral sense of humanity, which regards the example of self-sacrifice as one of the greatest lessons for improving our nature, has rightly kept alive the memory of Leonidas. There's no doubt about the man's virtue, but we can question the wisdom of the system he represented. We may wonder whether his death truly benefited his country more than his life could have. The significance of Thermopylae lies in the fact that its heroes died following the laws; the significance of Marathon comes from its heroes living to defeat the invaders and protect their homeland. To illustrate this point, we see later at Plataea that among all the allied Greeks, the Spartans were the most afraid of the conquerors of Thermopylae, while the Athenians were the least afraid of the survivors of Marathon.
XIV. Subsequently, on the hill to which the Spartans and Thespians had finally retired, a lion of stone was erected by the Amphictyons, in honour of Leonidas; and many years afterward the bones of that hero were removed to Sparta, and yearly games, at which Spartans only were allowed to contend, were celebrated round his tomb. Separate monuments to the Greeks generally, and to the three hundred who had refused to retreat, were built also, by the Amphictyons, at Thermopylae. Long extant, posterity admired the inscriptions which they bore; that of the Spartans became proverbial for its sublime conciseness.
XIV. Later, on the hill where the Spartans and Thespians had finally settled, the Amphictyons erected a stone lion in honor of Leonidas. Many years later, the hero's bones were moved to Sparta, and annual games, where only Spartans were allowed to compete, were held around his tomb. The Amphictyons also built separate monuments for the Greeks in general and for the three hundred who refused to retreat at Thermopylae. For a long time, future generations admired the inscriptions they carried; the inscription from the Spartans became famous for its striking brevity.
“Go, stranger,” it said, “and tell the Spartans that we obeyed the law—and lie here!”
“Go, stranger,” it said, “and tell the Spartans that we followed the law—and lie here!”
The private friendship of Simonides the poet erected also a monument to Megistias, the soothsayer, in which it was said truly to his honour,
The private friendship of Simonides the poet also created a monument for Megistias, the seer, which was genuinely said to honor him.
“That the fate he foresaw he remained to brave;”
“That he faced the fate he saw coming;”
Such is the history of the battle of Thermopylae (B. C. 480). 70
Such is the history of the battle of Thermopylae (B.C. 480). 70
CHAPTER VII.
The Advice of Demaratus to Xerxes.—Themistocles.—Actions off Artemisium.—The Greeks retreat.—The Persians invade Delphi, and are repulsed with great Loss.—The Athenians, unaided by their Allies, abandon Athens, and embark for Salamis.—The irresolute and selfish Policy of the Peloponnesians.—Dexterity and Firmness of Themistocles.—Battle of Salamis.—Andros and Carystus besieged by the Greeks.—Anecdotes of Themistocles.—Honours awarded to him in Sparta.—Xerxes returns to Asia.—Olynthus and Potidaea besieged by Artabazus.—The Athenians return Home.—The Ostracism of Aristides is repealed.
The Advice of Demaratus to Xerxes.—Themistocles.—Actions off Artemisium.—The Greeks pull back.—The Persians attack Delphi, but are pushed back with heavy losses.—The Athenians, without help from their allies, leave Athens and head to Salamis.—The uncertain and selfish policies of the Peloponnesians.—The skill and determination of Themistocles.—Battle of Salamis.—Andros and Carystus are besieged by the Greeks.—Stories about Themistocles.—Honors given to him in Sparta.—Xerxes goes back to Asia.—Olynthus and Potidaea are besieged by Artabazus.—The Athenians go home.—The ostracism of Aristides is overturned.
I. After the victory of Thermopylae, Demaratus advised the Persian monarch to despatch a detachment of three hundred vessels to the Laconian coast, and seize the Island of Cythera, of which a Spartan once (foreseeing how easily hereafter that post might be made to command and overawe the Laconian capital) had said, “It were better for Sparta if it were sunk into the sea.” The profound experience of Demaratus in the selfish and exclusive policy of his countrymen made him argue that, if this were done, the fears of Sparta for herself would prevent her joining the forces of the rest of Greece, and leave the latter a more easy prey to the invader.
I. After the victory at Thermopylae, Demaratus suggested to the Persian king that he send a squadron of three hundred ships to the Laconian coast and capture the Island of Cythera. A Spartan had once said, “It would be better for Sparta if it sank into the sea,” predicting how strategically important that location could be in controlling and intimidating the Laconian capital. Demaratus, with his deep understanding of his countrymen's selfish and isolating policies, argued that if this were done, Sparta would be so focused on its own fears that it wouldn’t join forces with the rest of Greece, making them easier targets for the invaders.
The advice, fortunately for the Greeks, was overruled by Achaemenes.
The advice, thankfully for the Greeks, was dismissed by Achaemenes.
Meanwhile the Grecian navy, assembled off Artemisium, was agitated by divers councils. Beholding the vast number of barbarian ships now collected at Aphetae, and the whole shores around swarming with hostile troops, the Greeks debated the necessity of retreat.
Meanwhile, the Greek navy, gathered off Artemisium, was unsettled by various discussions. Seeing the large number of enemy ships now gathered at Aphetae, and with the entire coastline filled with hostile forces, the Greeks considered the need to retreat.
The fleet was under the command of Eurybiades, the Spartan. For although Athens furnished a force equal to all the rest of the allies together, and might justly, therefore, have pretended to the command, yet the jealousy of the confederates, long accustomed to yield to the claims of Sparta, and unwilling to acknowledge a new superiority in another state, had induced the Athenians readily to forego their claim. And this especially at the instance of Themistocles. “To him,” says Plutarch, “Greece not only owes her preservation, but the Athenians in particular the glory of surpassing their enemies in valour and their allies in moderation.” But if fortune gave Eurybiades the nominal command, genius forced Themistocles into the actual pre-eminence. That extraordinary man was, above all, adapted to his time; and, suited to its necessities, he commanded its fates. His very fault in the callousness of the moral sentiment, and his unscrupulous regard to expediency, peculiarly aided him in his management of men. He could appeal to the noblest passions—he could wind himself into the most base. Where he could not exalt he corrupted, where he could not persuade he intimidated, where he could not intimidate he bribed. 71
The fleet was led by Eurybiades, the Spartan. Even though Athens provided a force equal to all the other allies combined, and could justifiably have claimed leadership, the jealousy of the confederates, who were used to submitting to Sparta's authority and unwilling to recognize a new dominance from another state, led the Athenians to willingly give up their claim. This was especially true at the urging of Themistocles. “To him,” says Plutarch, “Greece not only owes her survival, but the Athenians in particular the honor of surpassing their enemies in bravery and their allies in restraint.” While fortune granted Eurybiades the formal command, Themistocles' genius pushed him into real superiority. That remarkable man was, above all, perfect for his time; fitting its needs, he directed its outcomes. His very flaw in the lack of moral sentiment and his unprincipled focus on practicality uniquely helped him manage people. He could appeal to the highest ideals—he could manipulate the lowest instincts. When he couldn't inspire, he corrupted; when he couldn't persuade, he intimidated; when he couldn't intimidate, he bribed. 71
When the intention to retreat became generally circulated, the inhabitants of the northern coast of Euboea (off which the Athenian navy rode) entreated Eurybiades at least to give them time to remove their slaves and children from the vengeance of the barbarian. Unsuccessful with him, they next sought Themistocles. For the consideration of thirty talents, the Athenian promised to remain at Artemisium, and risk the event of battle. Possessed of this sum, he won over the sturdy Spartan by the gift of five talents, and to Adimantus the Corinthian, the most obstinate in retreat, he privately sent three 72. The remainder he kept for his own uses;— distinguished from his compeers in this—that he obtained a much larger share of the gift than they; that they were bribed to be brave, and that he was rewarded for bribing them. The pure-minded statesman of the closet cannot but feel some disdain and some regret to find, blended together, the noblest actions and the paltriest motives. But whether in ancient times or in modern, the web of human affairs is woven from a mingled yarn, and the individuals who save nations are not always those most acceptable to the moralist. The share of Themistocles in this business is not, however, so much to his discredit as to that of the Spartan Eurybiades. We cannot but observe that no system contrary to human nature is strong against actual temptation. The Spartan law interdicted the desire of riches, and the Spartans themselves yielded far more easily to the lust of avarice than the luxurious Athenians. Thus a native of Zelea, a city in Asia Minor, had sought to corrupt the Peloponnesian cities by Persian gold: it was not the Spartans, it was the Athenians, who declared this man infamous, and placed his life out of the pale of the Grecian law. With a noble pride Demosthenes speaks of this decree. “The gold,” he, says, “was brought into Peloponnesus, not to Athens. But our ancestors extended their care beyond their own city to the whole of Greece.” 73 An Aristides is formed by the respect paid to integrity, which society tries in vain—a Demaratus, an Eurybiades, and, as we shall see, a Pausanias, by the laws which, affecting to exclude the influence of the passions, render their temptations novel, and their effects irresistible.
When the decision to retreat became widely known, the people living along the northern coast of Euboea (where the Athenian navy was stationed) pleaded with Eurybiades to at least give them time to evacuate their slaves and children from the wrath of the barbarian forces. After failing with him, they turned to Themistocles. For a payment of thirty talents, the Athenian agreed to stay at Artemisium and face the battle. With this money, he won over the steadfast Spartan by giving him five talents, and sent three 72 to Adimantus the Corinthian, who was the most resistant to the idea of retreat. He kept the rest for himself—setting himself apart from his peers in that he managed to secure a much larger portion of the bribe than they did; they were paid to act courageously, while he profited from bribing them. Those who value honesty may feel some disdain and regret at how the greatest actions can be mixed with the least admirable motives. But whether in ancient times or today, the complexities of human affairs are woven from a mix of good and bad, and those who save nations aren’t always the ones morally accepted. Themistocles’s role in this matter reflects more on the Spartan Eurybiades than on himself. We cannot help but notice that no system that goes against human nature withstands real temptation. Spartan law forbade the desire for wealth, yet Spartans yielded to greed far more easily than the indulgent Athenians. So, when a native of Zelea, a city in Asia Minor, tried to corrupt the Peloponnesian cities with Persian gold, it was the Athenians, not the Spartans, who branded this man infamous and declared his life outside the protections of Greek law. With noble pride, Demosthenes speaks of this decree. “The gold,” he says, “was brought to Peloponnesus, not to Athens. But our ancestors cared not just for their own city but for all of Greece.” 73 An Aristides is made by the respect granted to integrity, which society strives for in vain—a Demaratus, an Eurybiades, and, as we shall see, a Pausanias, by the laws that, while trying to eliminate the influence of passions, make their temptations new and their effects hard to resist.
II. The Greeks continued at Euboea; and the Persians, eager to engage so inconsiderable an enemy, despatched two hundred chosen vessels, with orders to make a circuitous route beyond Sciathos, and thus, unperceived, to attack the Grecian rear, while on a concerted signal the rest would advance upon the front.
II. The Greeks stayed at Euboea, and the Persians, eager to fight such a small enemy, sent out two hundred selected ships, with orders to take a longer route past Sciathos and, unnoticed, attack the Greek's rear while the rest would move forward at a coordinated signal.
A deserter of Scios escaped, however, from Aphetae, and informed the Greeks of the Persian plan. Upon this it was resolved at midnight to advance against that part of the fleet which had been sent around Euboea. But as twilight approached, they appeared to have changed or delayed this design, and proceeded at once towards the main body of the fleet, less perhaps with the intention of giving regular battle, than of attempting such detached skirmishes as would make experiment of their hardihood and skill. The Persians, amazed at the infatuation of their opponents, drew out their fleet in order, and succeeded in surrounding the Greek ships.
A deserter from Scios escaped from Aphetae and told the Greeks about the Persian plan. Because of this, they decided at midnight to attack the part of the fleet that had been sent around Euboea. But as twilight approached, it seemed they had changed or postponed this plan and instead moved directly toward the main part of the fleet, not so much with the aim of engaging in a full battle, but rather to try out smaller skirmishes that would test their courage and skills. The Persians, astonished by their opponents' recklessness, lined up their fleet and successfully surrounded the Greek ships.
The night, however, separated the hostile forces, but not until the Greeks had captured thirty of the barbarian vessels; the first ship was taken by an Athenian. The victory, however, despite this advantage, was undecided, when the Greeks returned to Artemisium, the Persians to Aphetae.
The night, however, separated the opposing forces, but not before the Greeks had captured thirty of the enemy ships; the first vessel was taken by an Athenian. The victory, however, despite this advantage, was still uncertain when the Greeks returned to Artemisium and the Persians to Aphetae.
III. But during the night one of those sudden and vehement storms not unfrequent to the summers of Greece broke over the seas. The Persians at Aphetae heard, with a panic dismay, the continued thunder that burst above the summit of Mount Pelion; and the bodies of the dead and the wrecks of ships, floating round the prows, entangled their oars amid a tempestuous and heavy sea. But the destruction which the Persians at Aphetae anticipated to themselves, actually came upon that part of the barbarian fleet which had made the circuit round Euboea. Remote from land, exposed to all the fury of the tempest, ignorant of their course, and amid the darkness of night, they were dashed to pieces against those fearful rocks termed “The Hollows,” and not a single galley escaped the general destruction.
III. But during the night, one of those sudden and fierce storms that often hit the summers of Greece swept over the seas. The Persians at Aphetae listened in panic as the thunder roared above Mount Pelion; the bodies of the dead and the wreckage of ships floated around them, entangling their oars in a tumultuous and heavy sea. But the disaster that the Persians at Aphetae feared for themselves actually struck that part of the barbarian fleet that had gone around Euboea. Far from shore, exposed to the storm's full force, lost in their direction, and surrounded by the darkness of night, they were smashed against the terrifying rocks known as “The Hollows,” and not a single galley survived the devastation.
Thus the fleet of the barbarians was rendered more equal to that of the Greeks. Re-enforced by fifty-three ships from Athens the next day, the Greeks proceeded at evening against that part of the hostile navy possessed by the Cilicians. These they utterly defeated, and returned joyfully to Artemisium.
Thus, the barbarian fleet became more comparable to that of the Greeks. Reinforced by fifty-three ships from Athens the next day, the Greeks set out in the evening against the part of the enemy navy held by the Cilicians. They completely defeated them and joyfully returned to Artemisium.
Hitherto these skirmishes, made on the summer evenings, in order probably to take advantage of the darkening night to break off before any irremediable loss was sustained, seem rather to have been for the sake of practice in the war—chivalric sorties as it were—than actual and deliberate engagements. But the third day, the Persians, impatient of conquest, advanced to Artemisium. These sea encounters were made precisely on the same days as the conflicts at Thermopylae; the object on each was the same—the gaining in one of the sea defile, in the other of the land entrance into Greece. The Euripus was the Thermopylae of the ocean.
Up until now, these skirmishes, which took place on summer evenings, were probably meant to use the cover of darkness to retreat before facing any serious losses. They seem more like practice sessions in warfare—essentially chivalric raids—rather than actual and intentional battles. However, on the third day, the Persians, eager for conquest, moved towards Artemisium. These naval encounters occurred on the same days as the battles at Thermopylae; the goal in both cases was the same—the control of one by the sea passage and the other by the land entrance into Greece. The Euripus served as the ocean's version of Thermopylae.
IV. The Greeks remained in their station, and there met the shock; the battle was severe and equal; the Persians fought with great valour and firmness, and although the loss upon their side was far the greatest, many of the Greek vessels also perished. They separated as by mutual consent, neither force the victor. Of the Persian fleet the Egyptians were the most distinguished—of the Grecian the Athenians; and of the last none equalled in valour Clinias; his ship was manned at his own expense. He was the father of that Alcibiades, afterward so famous.
IV. The Greeks held their position and faced the challenge; the battle was intense and balanced; the Persians fought with great bravery and determination, and although they suffered the largest losses, many Greek ships also sank. They parted ways by mutual agreement, neither side claiming victory. Among the Persian fleet, the Egyptians stood out the most—while among the Greeks, it was the Athenians; and of the Athenians, none matched Clinias in courage; he funded the crew of his ship himself. He was the father of the later-famous Alcibiades.
While the Greeks rested at Artemisium, counting the number of their slain, and amid the wrecks of their vessels, they learned the fate of Leonidas. 74 This determined their previous consultations on the policy of retreat, and they abandoned the Euripus in steady and marshalled order, the Corinthians first, the Athenians closing the rear. Thus the Persians were left masters of the sea and land entrance into Greece.
While the Greeks relaxed at Artemisium, tallying their dead and surrounded by the wreckage of their ships, they found out what happened to Leonidas. 74 This influenced their earlier discussions about whether to retreat, and they left the Euripus in an organized and steady manner, with the Corinthians leading and the Athenians bringing up the rear. This way, the Persians gained control over the sea and land access into Greece.
But even in retreat, the active spirit of Themistocles was intent upon expedients. It was more than suspected that a considerable portion of the Ionians now in the service of Xerxes were secretly friendly to the Greeks. In the swiftest of the Athenian vessels Themistocles therefore repaired to a watering-place on the coast, and engraved upon the rocks these words, which were read by the Ionians the next day.
But even while retreating, Themistocles's active mind was focused on solutions. There were strong suspicions that many of the Ionians serving Xerxes were secretly supportive of the Greeks. So, in one of the fastest Athenian ships, Themistocles went to a watering spot on the coast and carved these words into the rocks, which the Ionians saw the next day.
“Men of Ionia, in fighting against your ancestors, and assisting to enslave Greece, you act unworthily. Come over to us; or if that may not be, at least retire from the contest, and prevail on the Carians to do the same. If yet neither secession nor revolt be practicable, at least when we come to action exert not yourselves against us. Remember that we are descended from one common race, and that it was on your behalf that we first incurred the enmity of the Persian.”
“Men of Ionia, by fighting against your ancestors and helping to enslave Greece, you are acting dishonorably. Join us; or if that’s not possible, at least withdraw from the fight, and persuade the Carians to do the same. If neither backing down nor rebelling is feasible, then at least don’t fight against us when we engage in battle. Remember that we all come from the same heritage, and it was for your sake that we first turned the Persians against us.”
A subtler intention than that which was the more obvious, was couched beneath this exhortation. For if it failed to seduce the Ionians, it might yet induce Xerxes to mistrust their alliance.
A more discreet intention than the obvious one was hidden beneath this encouragement. Because if it didn’t manage to sway the Ionians, it could still make Xerxes doubt their alliance.
When the Persians learned that the Greeks had abandoned their station, their whole fleet took possession of the pass, possessed themselves of the neighbouring town of Histiaea, and overrunning a part of the Isle of Euboea, received the submission of the inhabitants.
When the Persians found out that the Greeks had left their position, their entire fleet took control of the passage, seized the nearby town of Histiaea, and invaded part of the Isle of Euboea, accepting the surrender of the locals.
Xerxes now had recourse to a somewhat clumsy, though a very commonly practised artifice. Twenty thousand of his men had fallen at Thermopylae: of these he buried nineteen thousand, and leaving the remainder uninterred, he invited all who desired it, by public proclamation, to examine the scene of contest. As a considerable number of helots had joined their Spartan lords and perished with them, the bodies of the slain amounted to four thousand 75, while those of the Persians were only one thousand. This was a practical despotic bulletin.
Xerxes now resorted to a rather awkward but commonly used tactic. Twenty thousand of his soldiers had died at Thermopylae: he buried nineteen thousand of them and left the rest unburied. He publicly announced that anyone who wanted could come and see the battlefield. Since many helots had joined their Spartan leaders and died with them, the total number of slain amounted to four thousand 75, while the Persians only lost one thousand. This was a blatant show of power.
V. Of all the neighbouring district, the Phocians had alone remained faithful to the Grecian cause: their territory was now overrun by the Persians, at the instance of their hereditary enemies, the Thessalians, destroying city and temple, and committing all the horrors of violence and rapine by the way. Arrived at Panopeae, the bulk of the barbarian army marched through Boeotia towards Athens, the great object of revenge, while a separate detachment was sent to Delphi, with a view of plundering the prodigious riches accumulated in that celebrated temple, and of which, not perhaps uncharacteristically, Xerxes was said to be better informed than of the treasures he had left behind in his own palace.
V. Of all the neighboring districts, only the Phocians remained loyal to the Greek cause. Their land was now overrun by the Persians, thanks to their longtime enemies, the Thessalians, who were destroying cities and temples and committing violent acts and theft along the way. When they reached Panopeae, most of the barbarian army marched through Boeotia towards Athens, the main target for revenge, while a separate group was sent to Delphi to loot the immense wealth stored in that famous temple, of which, notably, Xerxes was said to know more about than the treasures he had left behind in his own palace.
But the wise and crafty priesthood of Delphi had been too long accustomed successfully to deceive mankind to lose hope or self-possession at the approach even of so formidable a foe. When the dismayed citizens of Delphi ran to the oracle, demanding advice and wishing to know what should be done with the sacred treasures, the priestess gravely replied that “the god could take care of his own possessions, and that the only business of the citizens was to provide for themselves;” a priestly answer, importing that the god considered his possessions, and not the flock, were the treasure. The one was sure to be defended by a divinity, the other might shift for themselves.
But the wise and clever priests of Delphi had been used to successfully deceiving people for so long that they didn't lose hope or composure even when faced with such a formidable enemy. When the frightened citizens of Delphi rushed to the oracle for advice and asked what to do with the sacred treasures, the priestess replied seriously that “the god can take care of his own possessions, and the citizens’ only responsibility is to look after themselves;" a priestly response implying that the god cared more about his belongings than the people. The treasures were guaranteed protection by a divine power, while the citizens could fend for themselves.
The citizens were not slow in adopting the advice; they immediately removed their wives and children into Achaia—while the males and adults fled—some to Amphissa, some amid the craggy recesses of Parnassus, or into that vast and spacious cavern at the base of Mount Corycus, dedicated to the Muses, and imparting to those lovely deities the poetical epithet of Corycides. Sixty men, with the chief priest, were alone left to protect the sacred city.
The citizens quickly took the advice; they immediately relocated their wives and children to Achaia—while the men and adults fled—some to Amphissa, some into the rocky hideouts of Parnassus, or into the large cavern at the foot of Mount Corycus, dedicated to the Muses, and giving those lovely deities the poetic name of Corycides. Only sixty men, along with the chief priest, remained to defend the sacred city.
VI. But superstition can dispense with numbers in its agency. Just as the barbarians were in sight of the temple, the sacred arms, hitherto preserved inviolable in the sanctuary, were seen by the soothsayer to advance to the front of the temple. And this prodigy but heralded others more active. As the enemy now advanced in the stillness of the deserted city, and impressed doubtless by their own awe (for not to a Persian army could there have seemed no veneration due to the Temple of the Sun!) just by the shrine of Minerva Pronaea, built out in front of the great temple, a loud peal of thunder burst suddenly over their heads, and two enormous fragments of rock (separated from the heights of that Parnassus amid whose recesses mortals as well as gods lay hid) rolled down the mountain-side with a mighty crash, and destroyed many of the Persian multitude. At the same time, from the temple of the warlike goddess broke forth a loud and martial shout, as if to arms. Confused—appalled—panic-stricken by these supernatural prodigies—the barbarians turned to fly; while the Delphians, already prepared and armed, rushed from cave and mountain, and, charging in the midst of the invaders, scattered them with great slaughter. Those who escaped fled to the army in Boeotia. Thus the treasures of Delphi were miraculously preserved, not only from the plunder of the Persian, but also from the clutch of the Delphian citizens themselves, who had been especially anxious, in the first instance, to be permitted to deposite the treasures in a place of safety. Nobody knew better than the priests that treasures always diminish when transferred from one hand to another.
VI. But superstition can do without numbers in its actions. Just as the barbarians were approaching the temple, the sacred weapons, which had been kept safe in the sanctuary, were seen by the soothsayer moving to the front of the temple. This miraculous event was a sign of more dramatic occurrences to come. As the enemy advanced in the silence of the abandoned city, clearly struck by their own fear (for no Persian army could think that the Temple of the Sun didn't deserve respect!), right by the shrine of Minerva Pronaea, which was built in front of the great temple, a loud clap of thunder suddenly boomed overhead, and two huge boulders (dislodged from the heights of Parnassus, where both mortals and gods were hidden) crashed down the mountainside, destroying many of the Persian troops. At the same time, from the temple of the war goddess came a loud battle cry, as if calling the warriors to arms. Confused, terrified, and panicking from these supernatural events, the barbarians turned to run; while the Delphians, already prepared and armed, charged from their caves and mountains, scattering the invaders with heavy casualties. Those who managed to escape fled to the army in Boeotia. In this way, the treasures of Delphi were miraculously saved, not only from being looted by the Persians but also from being seized by the Delphian citizens themselves, who had initially been eager to find a safe place for the treasures. No one understood this better than the priests, who knew that treasures often diminish when transferred from one hand to another.
VII. The Grecian fleet anchored at Salamis by the request of the Athenians, who were the more anxious immediately to deliberate on the state of affairs, as the Persian army was now approaching their borders, and they learned that the selfish warriors of the Peloponnesus, according to their customary policy, instead of assisting the Athenians and Greece generally, by marching towards Boeotia, were engaged only in fortifying the isthmus or providing for their own safety.
VII. The Greek fleet anchored at Salamis at the request of the Athenians, who were eager to discuss the situation, as the Persian army was now nearing their borders. They found out that the self-serving warriors of the Peloponnesus, true to their usual strategy, were focused only on protecting themselves by fortifying the isthmus instead of supporting the Athenians and Greece as a whole by heading towards Boeotia.
Unable to engage the confederates to assist them in protecting Attica, the Athenians entreated, at least, the rest of the maritime allies to remain at Salamis, while they themselves hastened back to Athens.
Unable to get the confederates to help them defend Attica, the Athenians begged the other maritime allies to stay at Salamis while they rushed back to Athens.
Returned home, their situation was one which their generous valour had but little merited. Although they had sent to Artemisium the principal defence of the common cause, now, when the storm rolled towards themselves, none appeared on their behalf. They were at once incensed and discouraged by the universal desertion. 76 How was it possible that, alone and unaided, they could withstand the Persian multitude? Could they reasonably expect the fortunes of Marathon to be perpetually renewed? To remain at Athens was destruction—to leave it seemed to them a species of impiety. Nor could they anticipate victory with a sanguine hope, in abandoning the monuments of their ancestors and the temples of their gods. 77
Returned home, their situation was one that their brave actions hardly deserved. Even though they had sent the main defense for the common cause to Artemisium, now that the storm was heading their way, no one showed up to support them. They felt both angry and discouraged by the complete abandonment. 76 How could they possibly stand against the massive Persian army on their own? Could they really expect to keep reliving the success of Marathon? Staying in Athens meant certain destruction, while leaving felt like a form of disrespect. They couldn’t imagine victory with hopeful hearts if they abandoned the monuments built by their ancestors and the temples dedicated to their gods. 77
Themistocles alone was enabled to determine the conduct of his countrymen in this dilemma. Inexhaustible were the resources of a genius which ranged from the most lofty daring to the most intricate craft. Perceiving that the only chance of safety was in the desertion of the city, and that the strongest obstacle to this alternative was in the superstitious attachment to HOME ever so keenly felt by the ancients, he had recourse, in the failure of reason, to a counter-superstition. In the temple of the citadel was a serpent, dedicated to Minerva, and considered the tutelary defender of the place. The food appropriated to the serpent was suddenly found unconsumed—the serpent itself vanished; and, at the suggestion of Themistocles, the priests proclaimed that the goddess had deserted the city and offered herself to conduct them to the seas. Then, amid the general excitement, Themistocles reiterated his version of the Delphic oracle. Then were the ships reinterpreted to be the wooden walls, and Salamis once more proclaimed “the Divine.” The fervour of the people was awakened—the persuasions of Themistocles prevailed—even the women loudly declared their willingness to abandon Athens for the sake of the Athenians; and it was formally decreed that the city should be left to the guardianship of Minerva, and the citizens should save themselves, their women, children, and slaves, as their own discretion might suggest. Most of them took refuge in Troezene, where they were generously supported at the public expense—some at Aegina—others repaired to Salamis.
Themistocles was the only one able to guide his people through this crisis. His genius was a limitless resource, ranging from bold bravery to clever strategy. Realizing that their only chance of survival was to leave the city and that the biggest barrier to this was the deep-rooted attachment to HOME felt by the ancients, he turned to a sort of counter-belief when reason failed. In the temple of the citadel was a serpent dedicated to Minerva, seen as the city's protector. Suddenly, the serpent's food was found untouched—the serpent itself had disappeared. At Themistocles' suggestion, the priests announced that the goddess had abandoned the city and offered to lead them to the seas. Then, with the crowd stirred up, Themistocles reinterpreted the Delphic oracle. The ships were redefined as the wooden walls, and Salamis was once again called “the Divine.” The people's excitement grew—the persuasive words of Themistocles won them over—even the women loudly expressed their willingness to leave Athens for the sake of the Athenians. It was officially decided that the city would be left under Minerva's protection, and the citizens would save themselves, their women, children, and slaves, as they saw fit. Most sought refuge in Troezene, where they were generously supported at public expense—some went to Aegina—others went to Salamis.
A moving and pathetic spectacle was that of the embarcation of the Athenians for the Isle of Salamis. Separated from their children, their wives (who were sent to remoter places of safety)—abandoning their homes and altars—the citadel of Minerva—the monuments of Marathon—they set out for a scene of contest (B. C. 480), perilous and precarious, and no longer on the site of their beloved and father-land. Their grief was heightened by the necessity of leaving many behind, whose extreme age rendered them yet more venerable, while it incapacitated their removal. Even the dumb animals excited all the fond domestic associations, running to the strand, and expressing by their cries their regret for the hands that fed them: one of them, a dog, that belonged to Xanthippus, father of Pericles, is said to have followed the ships, and swam to Salamis, to die, spent with toil, upon the sands.
A touching and sorrowful scene was the departure of the Athenians for the Isle of Salamis. They were separated from their children and their wives (who were sent to safer places), leaving behind their homes and altars—the citadel of Minerva and the monuments of Marathon. They set off for a perilous and uncertain battle (B.C. 480), no longer in their beloved homeland. Their sadness was intensified by having to leave many behind, whose old age made them even more revered, but also unable to be moved. Even the animals stirred up memories of home, rushing to the shore and expressing their distress with cries for the hands that cared for them. One dog, belonging to Xanthippus, the father of Pericles, is said to have followed the ships and swum to Salamis, only to die, exhausted from the effort, on the sands.
VIII. The fleet now assembled at Salamis; the Spartans contributed only sixteen vessels, the people of Aegina thirty—swift galleys and well equipped; the Athenians one hundred and eighty; the whole navy, according to Herodotus, consisted of three hundred and seventy-eight 78 ships, besides an inconsiderable number of vessels of fifty oars.
VIII. The fleet was now gathered at Salamis; the Spartans provided only sixteen ships, the people of Aegina thirty—fast galleys that were well-equipped; the Athenians contributed one hundred and eighty. Overall, the navy, according to Herodotus, consisted of three hundred and seventy-eight 78 ships, plus a small number of fifty-oar vessels.
Eurybiades still retained the chief command. A council of war was held. The greater number of the more influential allies were composed of Peloponnesians, and, with the countenance of the Spartan chief, it was proposed to retire from Salamis and fix the station in the isthmus near the land-forces of Peloponnesus. This was highly consonant to the interested policy of the Peloponnesian states, and especially to that of Sparta; Attica was considered already lost, and the fate of that territory they were therefore indisposed to consider. While the debate was yet pending, a messenger arrived from Athens with the intelligence that the barbarian, having reduced to ashes the allied cities of Thespiae and Plataea in Boeotia, had entered Attica; and shortly afterward they learned that (despite a desperate resistance from the handful of Athenians who, some from poverty, some from a superstitious prejudice in favour of the wooden wall of the citadel, had long held out, though literally girt by fire from the burning of their barricades) the citadel had been taken, plundered, and burnt, and the remnant of its defenders put to the sword.
Eurybiades still held the top command. A war council was convened. The majority of the more prominent allies were from the Peloponnesians, and with the support of the Spartan leader, it was suggested to pull back from Salamis and set up camp on the isthmus near the Peloponnesian land forces. This aligned perfectly with the self-serving agenda of the Peloponnesian states, especially Sparta; Attica was seen as already lost, and they were therefore unwilling to contemplate its future. While the debate was still ongoing, a messenger arrived from Athens with the news that the enemy had burned the allied cities of Thespiae and Plataea in Boeotia and had entered Attica. Shortly afterward, they learned that, despite a desperate fight from the few Athenians who, some out of poverty and others out of a superstitious belief in the wooden wall of the citadel, had held out, literally surrounded by flames from their now-destroyed barricades, the citadel had been captured, looted, and set on fire, with the remaining defenders killed.
IX. Consternation seized the council; many of the leaders broke away hastily, went on board, hoisted their sails, and prepared to fly. Those who remained in the council determined that an engagement at sea could only be risked near the isthmus. With this resolve the leaders at night returned to their ships.
IX. Panic struck the council; many of the leaders quickly left, boarded their ships, raised their sails, and got ready to escape. Those who stayed in the council decided that a naval battle could only be attempted near the isthmus. With this decision, the leaders returned to their ships at night.
It is singular how often, in the most memorable events, the fate and the glory of nations is decided by the soul of a single man. When Themistocles had retired to his vessel, he was sought by Mnesiphilus, who is said to have exercised an early and deep influence over the mind of Themistocles, and to have been one of those practical yet thoughtful statesmen called into existence by the sober philosophy of Solon 79, whose lessons on the science of government made a groundwork for the rhetorical corruptions of the later sophists. On learning the determination of the council, Mnesiphilus forcibly represented its consequences. “If the allies,” said he, “once abandon Salamis, you have lost for ever the occasion of fighting for your country. The fleet will certainly separate, the various confederates return home, and Greece will perish. Hasten, therefore, ere yet it be too late, and endeavour to persuade Eurybiades to change his resolution and remain.”
It’s remarkable how often, in the most significant events, the fate and glory of nations are determined by the spirit of a single individual. When Themistocles had returned to his ship, he was approached by Mnesiphilus, who is said to have had an early and profound impact on Themistocles's thinking. He was one of those practical yet reflective leaders inspired by the wise philosophy of Solon 79, whose teachings on governance laid the foundation for the rhetorical manipulations of later sophists. Upon learning the council's decision, Mnesiphilus forcefully pointed out its implications. “If the allies,” he said, “abandon Salamis, you will forever lose the chance to fight for your country. The fleet will certainly disperse, the different allies will go their separate ways, and Greece will be doomed. Hurry, then, before it’s too late, and try to persuade Eurybiades to change his mind and stay.”
This advice, entirely agreeable to the views of Themistocles, excited that chief to new exertions. He repaired at once to Eurybiades; and, by dint of that extraordinary mastery over the minds of others which he possessed, he finally won over the Spartan, and, late as the hour was, persuaded him to reassemble the different leaders.
This advice, completely in line with Themistocles’ views, motivated him to take action. He immediately went to Eurybiades and, through his exceptional ability to influence others, he ultimately convinced the Spartan leader to gather the various commanders again, despite how late it was.
X. In that nocturnal council debate grew loud and warm. When Eurybiades had explained his change of opinion and his motives for calling the chiefs together; Themistocles addressed the leaders at some length and with great excitement. It was so evidently the interest of the Corinthians to make the scene of defence in the vicinity of Corinth, that we cannot be surprised to find the Corinthian leader, Adimantus, eager to interrupt the Athenian. “Themistocles,” said he, “they who at the public games rise before their time are beaten.”
X. During that nighttime meeting, the debate got loud and heated. After Eurybiades explained his change of heart and his reasons for gathering the leaders, Themistocles spoke to them at length and with great enthusiasm. It was clearly in the best interest of the Corinthians to defend their position near Corinth, so it’s no surprise that the Corinthian leader, Adimantus, was quick to cut off the Athenian. “Themistocles,” he said, “those who jump up too early at the public games get beaten.”
“True,” replied Themistocles, with admirable gentleness and temper; “but they who are left behind are never crowned.”
“True,” replied Themistocles, with admirable gentleness and composure; “but those who are left behind are never honored.”
Pursuing the advantage which a skilful use of interruption always gives to an orator, the Athenian turned to Eurybiades. Artfully suppressing his secret motive in the fear of the dispersion of the allies, which he rightly judged would offend without convincing, he had recourse to more popular arguments. “Fight at the isthmus,” he said, “and you fight in the open sea, where, on account of our heavier vessels and inferior number, you contend with every disadvantage. Grant even success, you will yet lose, by your retreat, Salamis, Megara, and Aegina. You would preserve the Peloponnesus, but remember, that by attracting thither the war, you attract not only the naval, but also the land forces of the enemy. Fight here, and we have the inestimable advantage of a narrow sea—we shall preserve Salamis, the refuge of our wives and children—we shall as effectually protect the Peloponnesus as by repairing to the isthmus and drawing the barbarian thither. If we obtain the victory, the enemy will neither advance to the isthmus nor penetrate beyond Attica. Their retreat is sure.”
Seeking the benefit that a skilled interruption always gives to a speaker, the Athenian turned to Eurybiades. Cleverly hiding his true motive behind the fear of losing the allies, which he knew would upset rather than convince, he used more popular arguments. “Fight at the isthmus,” he said, “and you’re going to fight in open sea, where, because of our larger ships and fewer numbers, you’ll face every disadvantage. Even if you win, you’ll still lose Salamis, Megara, and Aegina when you retreat. You might save the Peloponnesus, but remember, by bringing the war there, you not only draw the enemy's naval forces but also their land forces. Fight here, and we have the incredible advantage of a narrow sea—we’ll protect Salamis, the refuge of our wives and children—we’ll guard the Peloponnesus just as effectively by staying here and drawing the enemy to the isthmus. If we win, the enemy won’t be able to move towards the isthmus or push beyond Attica. Their retreat is guaranteed.”
The orator was again interrupted by Adimantus with equal rudeness. And Themistocles, who well knew how to alternate force with moderation, and menace with persuasion, retorted with an equal asperity, but with a singular dignity and happiness of expression.
The speaker was once again interrupted by Adimantus in the same rude manner. Themistocles, who was skilled at balancing strength with restraint and threat with persuasion, responded with equal sharpness, but with a unique dignity and grace in his expression.
“It becomes you,” said Adimantus, scornfully, alluding to the capture of Athens, “it becomes you to be silent, and not to advise us to desert our country; you, who no longer have a country to defend! Eurybiades can only be influenced by Themistocles when Themistocles has once more a city to represent.”
“It suits you,” said Adimantus, mockingly, referring to the capture of Athens, “it suits you to be quiet, and not to suggest that we abandon our country; you, who no longer have a country to defend! Eurybiades can only be swayed by Themistocles when Themistocles has a city to represent again.”
“Wretch!” replied Themistocles, sternly, “we have indeed left our walls and houses—preferring freedom to those inanimate possessions— but know that the Athenians still possess a country and a city, greater and more formidable than yours, well provided with stores and men, which none of the Greeks will be able to resist: our ships are our country and our city.”
“Wretch!” replied Themistocles, sternly, “we have indeed left our walls and houses—choosing freedom over those lifeless possessions—but know that the Athenians still have a country and a city, greater and stronger than yours, well stocked with supplies and people, which none of the Greeks will be able to withstand: our ships are our country and our city.”
“If,” he added, once more addressing the Spartan chief, “if you continue here you will demand our eternal gratitude: fly, and you are the destroyers of Greece. In this war the last and sole resource of the Athenians is their fleet: reject my remonstrances, and I warn you that at once we will take our families on board, and sail to that Siris, on the Italian shores, which of old is said to have belonged to us, and in which, if the oracle be trusted, we ought to found a city. Deprived of us, you will remember my words.”
“If,” he added, once more addressing the Spartan leader, “if you stay here, you will earn our eternal gratitude: leave, and you will be the ones who destroy Greece. In this war, the Athenians' only remaining resource is their fleet: ignore my warnings, and I’m telling you right now that we will immediately board our ships, setting sail for that Siris on the Italian coast, which is said to have once belonged to us, and where, if the oracle is to be believed, we should establish a city. Without us, you will remember what I said.”
XI. The menace of Themistocles—the fear of so powerful a race, unhoused, exasperated, and in search of a new settlement—and the yet more immediate dread of the desertion of the flower of the navy— finally prevailed. Eurybiades announced his concurrence with the views of Themistocles, and the confederates, wearied with altercation, consented to risk the issue of events at Salamis.
XI. The threat of Themistocles—the fear of such a powerful people, displaced, frustrated, and looking for a new home—and the even more pressing worry about losing the best part of the navy—ultimately won out. Eurybiades agreed with Themistocles, and the allies, tired of arguing, agreed to leave the outcome to chance at Salamis.
XII. Possessed of Athens, the Persian king held also his council of war. His fleet, sailing up the Euripus, anchored in the Attic bay of Phalerum; his army encamped along the plains around, or within the walls of Athens. The losses his armament had sustained were already repaired by new re-enforcements of Malians, Dorians, Locrians, Bactrians, Carystians, Andrians, Tenedians, and the people of the various isles. “The farther,” says Herodotus, “the Persians penetrated into Greece, the greater the numbers by which they were followed.” It may be supposed, however, that the motley contributions of an idle and predatory multitude, or of Greeks compelled, not by affection, but fear, ill supplied to Xerxes the devoted thousands, many of them his own gallant Persians, who fell at Thermopylae or perished in the Euboean seas.
XII. With control over Athens, the Persian king also held his war council. His fleet, sailing up the Euripus, anchored in the Attic bay of Phalerum; his army set up camp in the plains around or within the walls of Athens. The losses his forces had suffered were already made up for by new reinforcements from the Malians, Dorians, Locrians, Bactrians, Carystians, Andrians, Tenedians, and the people from various islands. “The farther,” says Herodotus, “the Persians went into Greece, the more numbers followed them.” However, it can be assumed that the mixed contributions of a lazy and plundering crowd, or of Greeks compelled not by friendship but by fear, poorly supplemented Xerxes’s loyal thousands, many of whom were his own brave Persians, who fell at Thermopylae or drowned in the Euboean seas.
XIII. Mardonius and the leaders generally were for immediate battle. The heroine Artemisia alone gave a more prudent counsel. She represented to them, that if they delayed a naval engagement or sailed to the Peloponnesus 80, the Greeks, failing of provisions and overruled by their fears, would be certain to disperse, to retire to their several homes, and, thus detached, fall an easy prey to his arms.
XIII. Mardonius and the leaders were all for an immediate battle. The only one who offered more sensible advice was the heroine Artemisia. She pointed out that if they postponed a naval clash or headed to the Peloponnesus 80, the Greeks, running out of supplies and overwhelmed by their fears, would likely scatter, go back to their homes, and, without their unity, become easy targets for his forces.
Although Xerxes, contrary to expectation, received the adverse opinion of the Carian princess with compliments and praise, he yet adopted the counsel of the majority; and, attributing the ill success at Artemisium to his absence, resolved in person to witness the triumph of his arms at Salamis.
Although Xerxes, unexpectedly, accepted the negative feedback from the Carian princess with compliments and praise, he still followed the advice of the majority; and, blaming the failure at Artemisium on his absence, decided to personally witness the success of his forces at Salamis.
The navy proceeded, in order, to that island: the land-forces on the same night advanced to the Peloponnesus: there, under Cleombrotus, brother to Leonidas, all the strength of the Peloponnesian confederates was already assembled. They had fortified the pass of Sciron, another Thermopylae in its local character, and protected the isthmus by a wall, at the erection of which the whole army worked night and day; no materials sufficing for the object of defence were disdained—wood, stones, bricks, and sand—all were pressed into service. Here encamped, they hoped nothing from Salamis—they believed the last hope of Greece rested solely with themselves. 81
The navy moved in order to that island, while the ground troops advanced that same night to the Peloponnesus. There, under Cleombrotus, Leonidas' brother, all the forces of the Peloponnesian allies were already gathered. They had fortified the pass of Sciron, which was similar to Thermopylae in its geography, and secured the isthmus with a wall that the entire army worked on day and night. They used every material available for their defense—wood, stones, bricks, and sand—all were put to use. Camped here, they had no hope from Salamis; they believed the fate of Greece relied solely on them. 81
XIV. Again new agitation, fear, and dissension broke out in the Grecian navy. All those who were interested in the safety of the Peloponnesus complained anew of the resolution of Eurybiades—urged the absurdity of remaining at Salamis to contend for a territory already conquered—and the leaders of Aegina, Megara, and Athens were left in a minority in the council.
XIV. Once again, fresh turmoil, fear, and disagreement erupted in the Greek navy. Everyone concerned about the safety of the Peloponnesus expressed their discontent with Eurybiades' decision—pointing out the foolishness of staying at Salamis to fight for land that was already conquered—and the leaders from Aegina, Megara, and Athens found themselves in the minority during the council.
Thus overpowered by the Peloponnesian allies, Themistocles is said to have bethought himself of a stratagem, not inconsonant with his scheming and wily character. Retiring privately from the debate, yet unconcluded, and summoning the most confidential messenger in his service 82, he despatched him secretly to the enemy’s fleet with this message—“The Athenian leader, really attached to the king, and willing to see the Greeks subjugated to his power, sends me privately to you. Consternation has seized the Grecian navy; they are preparing to fly; lose not the opportunity of a splendid victory. Divided among themselves, the Greeks are unable to resist you; and you will see, as you advance upon them, those who favour and those who would oppose you in hostility with each other.”
Thus overpowered by the Peloponnesian allies, Themistocles is said to have come up with a plan that matched his cunning and clever personality. He quietly left the debate, which was still unresolved, and called on his most trusted messenger 82. He sent him secretly to the enemy’s fleet with this message: “The Athenian leader, genuinely loyal to the king and eager to see the Greeks under his control, has sent me to you privately. Panic has struck the Greek navy; they are getting ready to flee; don't miss the chance for an amazing victory. The Greeks are divided and unable to fight back; as you approach them, you will see those who support you and those who oppose you in conflict with each other.”
The Persian admiral was sufficiently experienced in the treachery and defection of many of the Greeks to confide in the message thus delivered to him; but he scarcely required such intelligence to confirm a resolution already formed. At midnight the barbarians passed over a large detachment to the small isle of Psyttaleia, between Salamis and the continent, and occupying the whole narrow sea as far as the Attic port of Munychia, under cover of the darkness disposed their ships, so as to surround the Greeks and cut off the possibility of retreat.
The Persian admiral was experienced enough in the betrayal and desertion of many Greeks to trust the information he received; however, he hardly needed such confirmation for a decision he had already made. At midnight, the barbarians moved a large group to the small island of Psyttaleia, which is situated between Salamis and the mainland. Taking advantage of the darkness, they positioned their ships throughout the narrow sea up to the Attic port of Munychia, aiming to encircle the Greeks and prevent any chance of escape.
XV. Unconscious of the motions of the enemy, disputes still prevailed among the chiefs at Salamis, when Themistocles was summoned at night from the council, to which he had returned after despatching his messenger to the barbarian. The person who thus summoned him was Aristides. It was the third year of his exile—which sentence was evidently yet unrepealed—or not in that manner, at night and as a thief, would the eminent and high-born Aristides have joined his countrymen. He came from Aegina in an open boat, under cover of the night passed through the midst of the Persian ships, and arrived at Salamis to inform the Greeks that they were already surrounded.
XV. Unaware of the enemy's movements, arguments were still happening among the leaders at Salamis when Themistocles was called late at night from the council, where he had just returned after sending his message to the Persian forces. The person who called for him was Aristides. It was the third year of his exile—making it clear that his banishment hadn't been lifted—otherwise, the distinguished and noble Aristides wouldn't have approached his fellow countrymen in such a sneaky way at night. He arrived from Aegina in a small boat, stealthily passing through the Persian ships, and reached Salamis to inform the Greeks that they were already surrounded.
“At any time,” said Aristides, “it would become us to forget our private dissensions, and at this time especially; contending only who should most serve his country. In vain now would the Peloponnesians advise retreat; we are encompassed, and retreat is impossible.”
“At any time,” said Aristides, “it would be wise for us to set aside our personal disagreements, and especially now; we should only be focused on who can best serve our country. The Peloponnesians’ suggestions to retreat are pointless now; we are surrounded, and retreat is not an option.”
Themistocles welcomed the new-comer with joy, and persuaded him to enter the council and acquaint the leaders with what he knew. His intelligence, received with doubt, was presently confirmed by a trireme of Tenians, which deserted to them; and they now seriously contemplated the inevitable resort of battle.
Themistocles welcomed the newcomer with enthusiasm and convinced him to join the council and share what he knew. His information, initially met with skepticism, was soon confirmed by a trireme from Tenae that defected to them; now, they were seriously considering the unavoidable option of battle.
XVI. At dawn all was prepared. Assembled on the strand, Themistocles harangued the troops; and when he had concluded, orders were given to embark.
XVI. At dawn, everything was ready. Gathered on the beach, Themistocles addressed the troops; and when he finished, orders were given to board the ships.
It was in the autumn of 480 B. C., two thousand three hundred and sixteen years ago, that the battle of Salamis was fought.
It was in the fall of 480 B.C., two thousand three hundred sixteen years ago, that the battle of Salamis took place.
High on a throne of precious metals, placed on one of the eminences of Mount Aegaleos, sat, to survey the contest, the royal Xerxes. The rising sun beheld the shores of the Eleusinian gulf lined with his troops to intercept the fugitives, and with a miscellaneous and motley crowd of such as were rather spectators than sharers of the conflict. 83
High on a throne made of precious metals, positioned on one of the peaks of Mount Aegaleos, sat the royal Xerxes, watching the contest. The rising sun looked over the shores of the Eleusinian gulf, where his troops were gathered to intercept the fleeing enemies, along with a diverse crowd of people who were more onlookers than participants in the battle. 83
But not as the Persian leaders had expected was the aspect of the foe; nor did the Greeks betray the confusion or the terror ascribed to them by the emissary of Themistocles. As the daylight made them manifest to the Persian, they set up the loud and martial chorus of the paean— “the rocks of Salamis echoed back the shout”—and, to use the expression of a soldier of that day 84, “the trumpet inflamed them with its clangour.”
But the Persian leaders didn’t see their enemy the way they expected, nor did the Greeks show the confusion or fear that the messenger of Themistocles claimed. As daylight revealed them to the Persians, they raised a loud and battle-ready chant of the paean—“the rocks of Salamis echoed back the shout”—and, to use a soldier's words from that day 84, “the trumpet fired them up with its sound.”
As soon as the Greeks began to move, the barbarian vessels advanced swiftly. But Themistocles detained the ardour of the Greeks until the time when a sharp wind usually arose in that sea, occasioning a heavy swell in the channel, which was peculiarly prejudicial to the unwieldy ships of the Persians; but not so to the light, low, and compact vessels of the Greeks. The manner of attack with the ancient navies was to bring the prow of the vessel, which was fortified by long projecting beaks of brass, to bear upon the sides of its antagonist, and this, the swell of the sea causing the Persian galleys to veer about unwieldily, the agile ships of the Greeks were well enabled to effect.
As soon as the Greeks started to advance, the enemy ships moved quickly. But Themistocles held back the enthusiasm of the Greeks until the moment when a strong wind usually picked up in that sea, causing rough waves in the channel, which was especially bad for the bulky Persian ships; however, it was not an issue for the lightweight, low, and compact Greek vessels. In ancient naval battles, the strategy was to drive the front of the ship, which was reinforced with long, sharp bronze prows, into the sides of the enemy ship. The swell of the sea made it difficult for the Persian galleys to maneuver, while the nimble Greek ships could easily take advantage of the situation.
By the time the expected wind arose, the engagement was begun. The Persian admiral 85 directed his manoeuvres chiefly against Themistocles, for on him, as the most experienced and renowned of the Grecian leaders, the eyes of the enemy were turned. From his ship, which was unusually lofty, as from a castle 86, he sent forth darts and arrows, until one of the Athenian triremes, commanded by Aminias, shot from the rest, and bore down upon him with the prow. The ships met, and, fastened together by their brazen beaks, which served as grappling-irons, Ariabignes gallantly boarded the Grecian vessel, and was instantly slain by the hostile pikes and hurled into the sea 87. The first who took a ship was an Athenian named Lycomedes. The Grecians keeping to the straits, the Persians were unable to bring their whole armament to bear at once, and could only enter the narrow pass by detachments; the heaviness of the sea and the cumbrous size of their tall vessels frequently occasioned more embarrassment to themselves than the foe—driven and hustling the one against the other. The Athenians maintaining the right wing were opposed by the Phoenicians; the Spartans on the left by the Ionians. The first were gallantly supported by the Aeginetans, who, long skilled in maritime warfare, eclipsed even their new rivals the Athenians. The Phoenician line was broken. The Greeks pursued their victory, still preserving the steadiest discipline and the most perfect order. The sea became strewn and covered with the wrecks of vessels and the bodies of the dead; while, to the left, the Ionians gave way before that part of the allied force commanded by the Spartans, some fighting with great valour, some favouring the Greek confederates. Meanwhile, as the Persians gave way, and the sea became more clear, Aristides, who had hitherto remained on shore, landed a body of Athenians on the Isle of Psyttaleia, and put the Persian guard there stationed to the sword.
By the time the expected wind picked up, the battle had begun. The Persian admiral 85 focused his tactics mainly against Themistocles, since he was the most experienced and famous of the Greek leaders and was the main target for the enemy. From his exceptionally tall ship, which resembled a castle 86, he launched darts and arrows until one of the Athenian triremes, led by Aminias, broke away from the others and charged at him with its prow. The ships collided and, locked together by their bronze prows, which acted like grappling hooks, Ariabignes bravely boarded the Greek vessel, only to be immediately killed by enemy spears and thrown into the sea 87. The first person to capture a ship was an Athenian named Lycomedes. As the Greeks stayed within the straits, the Persians couldn't deploy their entire fleet at once and could only enter the narrow channel in smaller groups; the weight of the sea and the cumbersome size of their large ships often caused them more trouble than their opponents, pushing and crashing into each other. The Athenians on the right flank faced the Phoenicians, while the Spartans on the left faced the Ionians. The Athenians were strongly supported by the Aeginetans, who were seasoned in naval warfare and outperformed even their new rivals, the Athenians. The Phoenician line was broken. The Greeks pressed on with their victory, maintaining strict discipline and perfect order. The sea became littered with wreckage and bodies; meanwhile, on the left, the Ionians retreated in front of the part of the allied forces led by the Spartans, some fighting bravely, while others supported the Greek allies. As the Persians fell back and the sea cleared, Aristides, who had stayed on shore until then, landed a group of Athenians on the Isle of Psyttaleia and killed the Persian guard stationed there.
Xerxes from the mountain, his countless thousands from the shore, beheld, afar and impotent, the confusion, the slaughter, the defeat of the forces on the sea. Anxious now only for retreat, the barbarians retreated to Phalerum; and there, intercepted by the Aeginetans, were pressed by them in the rear; by the Athenians, led by Themistocles, in front. At this time the heroine Artemisia, pursued by that Aminias whose vessel had first grappled with the Persians, and who of all the Athenian captains was that day the most eminently distinguished, found herself in the extremest danger. Against that remarkable woman the efforts of the Athenians had been especially directed: deeming it a disgrace to them to have an enemy in a woman, they had solemnly set a reward of great amount upon her capture. Thus pursued, Artemisia had recourse to a sudden and extraordinary artifice. Falling in with a vessel of the Persians, commanded by a Calyndian prince, with whom she had once been embroiled, she bore down against the ship and sunk it—a truly feminine stratagem—deceiving at once a public enemy and gratifying a private hatred. The Athenian, seeing the vessel he had pursued thus attack a barbarian, conceived he had mistaken a friendly vessel, probably a deserter from the Persians, for a foe, and immediately sought new objects of assault. Xerxes beheld and admired the prowess of Artemisia, deeming, in the confusion, that it was a hostile vessel she had sunken. 88
Xerxes from the mountain, his countless thousands from the shore, watched helplessly from a distance as confusion, slaughter, and defeat unfolded among the forces at sea. Now only focused on retreat, the barbarians fell back to Phalerum, where they were intercepted by the Aeginetans, who pressed in on them from behind, while the Athenians, led by Themistocles, advanced from the front. At this moment, the heroine Artemisia, pursued by Aminias—whose ship had first engaged the Persians and who was the most distinguished of all the Athenian captains that day—found herself in extreme danger. The Athenians had specifically targeted that remarkable woman; believing it was disgraceful to be outwitted by a female enemy, they had put a high reward on her capture. In her predicament, Artemisia resorted to a sudden and clever tactic. Coming across a Persian vessel commanded by a Calyndian prince, with whom she had a previous conflict, she charged at the ship and sank it—an undeniably clever trick—deceiving both a public enemy and settling a personal grudge. The Athenian captain, noticing the vessel he had been pursuing now attacking a barbarian ship, mistakenly thought he had encountered a friendly vessel, perhaps a deserter from the Persians, and immediately looked for new targets. Xerxes watched and admired Artemisia's skills, mistakenly believing she had sunk a hostile ship in the chaos. 88
XVII. The battle lasted till the dusk of evening, when at length the remnant of the barbarian fleet gained the port of Phalerum; and the Greeks beheld along the Straits of Salamis no other vestige of the enemy than the wrecks and corpses which were the evidence of his defeat.
XVII. The battle went on until evening, when what was left of the barbarian fleet finally reached the port of Phalerum; and the Greeks saw no sign of the enemy along the Straits of Salamis except for the wreckage and bodies that testified to his defeat.
XVIII. When morning came, the Greeks awaited a renewal of the engagement; for the Persian fleet were still numerous, the Persian army yet covered the neighbouring shores, and, by a feint to conceal his real purpose, Xerxes had ordered the Phoenician transports to be joined together, as if to connect Salamis to the continent. But a mandate was already issued for the instant departure of the navy for the Hellespont, and a few days afterward the army itself retired into Boeotia.
XVIII. When morning arrived, the Greeks were ready for another round of fighting; the Persian fleet was still large, the Persian army was still on the nearby shores, and to disguise his true intentions, Xerxes had ordered the Phoenician ships to be tied together, as if to link Salamis to the mainland. However, a directive had already been given for the navy to immediately head to the Hellespont, and a few days later, the army itself withdrew to Boeotia.
The victory of Salamis was celebrated by solemn rejoicings, in which, principally remarkable for the beauty of his person, and his accomplishments on the lyre and in the dance, was a youth named Sophocles, destined afterward to share the glory of Aeschylus, who, no less a warrior than a poet, distinguished himself in the battle, and has bequeathed to us the most detailed and animated account we possess of its events.
The victory at Salamis was celebrated with solemn festivities, during which a young man named Sophocles stood out, mainly because of his good looks and his skills on the lyre and in dance. He was later destined to share the fame of Aeschylus. As much a warrior as he was a poet, he made his mark in the battle and left us with the most detailed and vivid account of the events we have.
The Grecian conquerors beheld the retreat of the enemy with indignation; they were unwilling that any of that armament which had burnt their hearths and altars should escape their revenge; they pursued the Persian ships as far as Andros, where, not reaching them, they cast anchor and held a consultation. Themistocles is said to have proposed, but not sincerely, to sail at once to the Hellespont and destroy the bridge of boats. This counsel was overruled, and it was decided not to reduce so terrible an enemy to despair:—“Rather,” said one of the chiefs (whether Aristides or Eurybiades is differently related), “build another bridge, that Xerxes may escape the sooner out of Europe.”
The Greek conquerors watched the enemy retreat with anger; they were determined that none of the forces that had burned their homes and temples should get away unpunished. They chased the Persian ships all the way to Andros, where they couldn't reach them, so they anchored and held a meeting. It's said that Themistocles suggested, though not seriously, that they should sail straight to the Hellespont and destroy the bridge of boats. This idea was dismissed, and they decided not to push such a fearsome enemy to despair: “Instead,” said one of the leaders (there are differing accounts on whether it was Aristides or Eurybiades), “let's build another bridge so Xerxes can leave Europe sooner.”
Themistocles affected to be converted to a policy which he desired only an excuse to effect; and, in pursuance of the hint already furnished him, is said to have sent secretly to Xerxes, informing him that it was the intention of the allies to sail to the Hellespont and destroy the bridge, so that, if the king consulted his safety, he would return immediately into Asia, while Themistocles would find pretexts to delay the pursuit of the confederates.
Themistocles pretended to adopt a policy that he really wanted just as an excuse to carry it out; and, following the earlier suggestion he received, he allegedly sent a secret message to Xerxes, informing him that the allies planned to sail to the Hellespont and destroy the bridge. So, if the king valued his safety, he should return to Asia immediately, while Themistocles would come up with reasons to delay the allies' pursuit.
This artifice appears natural to the scheming character of Themistocles; and, from concurrent testimony 89, it seems to me undoubted that Themistocles maintained a secret correspondence with Xerxes, and even persuaded that monarch that he was disposed to favour him. But it is impossible to believe, with Herodotus, that he had at that time any real desire to conciliate the Persian, foreseeing that he might hereafter need a refuge at the Eastern court. Then in the zenith of his popularity, so acute a foresight is not in man. He was one of those to whom the spirit of intrigue is delight in itself, and in the present instance it was exerted for the common cause of the Athenians, which, with all his faults, he never neglected for, but rather incorporated with, his own.
This trick seems natural to the cunning nature of Themistocles; and, based on various accounts 89, I believe it’s clear that Themistocles had a secret communication with Xerxes and even convinced the king that he was inclined to support him. However, it’s hard to accept, like Herodotus claims, that he genuinely wanted to win over the Persians at that time, anticipating that he might later need a safe haven at the Eastern court. At the height of his popularity, such sharp foresight isn't typical for anyone. He was one of those people who found enjoyment in intrigue itself, and in this case, it was used for the common good of the Athenians, which, despite all his flaws, he never overlooked but rather blended with his own interests.
XIX. Diverted from the notion of pursuing the Persians, the Grecian allies, flushed with conquest, were yet eager for enterprise. The isles which had leagued with the Mede were strongly obnoxious to the confederates, and it was proposed to exact from them a fine; in defrayal of the expenses of the war. Siege was laid to Andros, and those islanders were the first who resisted the demand. Then was it that they made that memorable answer, which may serve as a warning in all times to the strong when pressing on the desperate.
XIX. Distracted from the idea of chasing the Persians, the Greek allies, high on their victory, were still eager for more ventures. The islands that had joined forces with the Medes were particularly disliked by the confederates, and it was suggested that they should be fined to cover the expenses of the war. A siege was laid on Andros, and those islanders were the first to oppose the demand. That’s when they delivered that famous response, which serves as a warning to the powerful in all times when pushing against the desperate.
“I bring with me,” said Themistocles, “two powerful divinities— Persuasion and Force.”
“I bring with me,” said Themistocles, “two powerful forces—Persuasion and Strength.”
“And we,” answered the Andrians, “have two gods equally powerful on our side—Poverty and Despair.”
“And we,” replied the Andrians, “have two equally strong gods on our side—Poverty and Despair.”
The Andrian deities eventually triumphed, and the siege was raised without effect. But from the Parians and Carystians, and some other islanders, Themistocles obtained enormous sums of money unknown to his colleagues, which, however unjustly extorted, it does not satisfactorily appear that he applied largely to his own personal profit, but, as is more probable, to the rebuilding of Athens. Perhaps he thought, nor without reason, that as the Athenians had been the principal sufferers in the war, and contributed the most largely to its resources, so whatever fines were levied on the seceders were due, not to the confederates generally, but the Athenians alone. The previous conduct of the allies, with so much difficulty preserved from deserting Athens, merited no particular generosity, and excused perhaps the retaliation of a selfish policy. The payment of the fine did not, however, preserve Carystus from attack. After wasting its lands, the Greeks returned to Salamis and divided the Persian spoils. The first fruits were dedicated to the gods, and the choicest of the booty sent to Delphi. And here we may notice one anecdote of Themistocles, which proves, that whatever, at times and in great crises, was the grasping unscrupulousness of his mind, he had at least no petty and vulgar avarice. Seeing a number of bracelets and chains of gold upon the bodies of the dead, he passed them by, and turning to one of his friends, “Take these for yourself,” said he, “for you are not Themistocles.” 90
The Andrian gods eventually won, and the siege was lifted without impact. However, Themistocles managed to secure huge sums of money from the Parians, Carystians, and some other islanders, money that was kept hidden from his colleagues. Even though it was obtained by questionable means, it’s not clear that he used it mostly for his own gain; more likely, he used it to help rebuild Athens. He might have believed, not without reason, that since the Athenians had suffered the most in the war and contributed the most to its resources, any fines imposed on the deserters should go solely to them, not to the other allies. The previous behavior of the allies, who had barely avoided abandoning Athens, didn’t deserve special generosity and perhaps justified a self-serving approach. However, paying the fine didn’t protect Carystus from being attacked. After destroying its lands, the Greeks returned to Salamis and shared the Persian spoils. The first fruits were offered to the gods, and the best of the loot was sent to Delphi. Here, we can mention an incident involving Themistocles, which shows that despite his sometimes ruthless ambition in crises, he didn’t have petty greed. Noticing several gold bracelets and chains on the bodies of the dead, he ignored them and told one of his friends, “Take these for yourself,” adding, “because you are not Themistocles.” 90
Meanness or avarice was indeed no part of the character of Themistocles, although he has been accused of those vices, because guilty, at times, of extortion. He was profuse, ostentatious, and magnificent above his contemporaries and beyond his means. His very vices were on a large and splendid scale; and if he had something of the pirate in his nature, he had nothing of the miser. When he had to choose between two suiters for his daughter, he preferred the worthy to the wealthy candidate—willing that she should rather marry a man without money than money without a man. 91
Meanness or greed was definitely not part of Themistocles' character, even though he was sometimes accused of those qualities because he was guilty, at times, of extortion. He was extravagant, showy, and more impressive than his peers and beyond what he could afford. His flaws were also grand and flashy; and while he had a bit of the pirate in his nature, he had nothing of the miser. When choosing between two suitors for his daughter, he preferred the deserving candidate over the wealthy one—ready to have her marry a man without money rather than a man without character. 91
XX. The booty divided, the allies repaired to the isthmus, according to that beautiful ancient custom of apportioning rewards to such as had been most distinguished. It was in the temple of Neptune that the leaders met. The right of voting was confined to the several chiefs, who were to declare whom they thought the first in merit and whom the second. Each leader wrote his own name a candidate for the first rank; but a great majority of suffrages awarded the second to Themistocles. While, therefore, each leader had only a single suffrage in favour of the first rank, the second rank was unequivocally due to the Athenian.
XX. Once the loot was divided, the allies gathered at the isthmus, following the ancient tradition of distributing rewards to those who had performed exceptionally. The leaders convened in the temple of Neptune. Voting rights were limited to the various chiefs, who were to indicate whom they considered the highest in merit and who was second. Each leader nominated his own name for the top position; however, a significant majority of votes granted the second place to Themistocles. Thus, while every leader had only one vote for the highest rank, the second rank clearly belonged to the Athenian.
XXI. But even conquest had not sufficed to remove the jealousies of the confederate leaders—they evaded the decision of a question which could not but be propitious to the Athenians, and returned home without having determined the point which had assembled them at the isthmus. But Themistocles was not of a temper to brook patiently this fraud upon his honours. Far from sharing the petty and miserable envies of their chiefs, the Greeks generally were loud in praise of his wisdom and services; and, taking advantage of their enthusiasm, Themistocles repaired to Sparta, trusting to the generosity of the principal rival to compensate the injustice of many. His expectations were not ill-founded—the customs of Sparta allowed no slight to a Spartan, and they adjudged therefore the prize of valour to their own Eurybiades, while they awarded that of wisdom or science to Themistocles. Each was equally honoured with a crown of olive. Forgetful of all their prejudices, their envy, and their inhospitable treatment of strangers, that nation of warriors were dazzled by the hero whose courage assimilated to their own. They presented him with the stateliest chariot to be found in Sparta, and solemnly conducted him homeward as far as Tegea, by an escort of three hundred chosen Spartans called “The Knights”—the sole example of the Spartans conducting any man from their city. It is said that on his return to Athens, Themistocles was reproached by Timodemus of Aphidna, a Belbinite by origin 92, and an implacable public enemy, with his visit to Sparta: “The honours awarded you,” said Timodemus, “are bestowed from respect, not to you, but to Athens.”
XXI. But even victory didn't eliminate the jealousy among the confederate leaders—they avoided making a decision on an issue that would have benefitted the Athenians and returned home without resolving the matter that had brought them to the isthmus. However, Themistocles was not one to endure this insult to his honor quietly. Unlike their leaders, the Greeks generally praised his wisdom and contributions; and, seizing on their enthusiasm, Themistocles went to Sparta, relying on the goodwill of his main rival to make up for the injustices he faced. His hopes were not misplaced—the customs of Sparta prevented any slight against a Spartan, so they awarded the prize for valor to their own Eurybiades and the prize for wisdom or knowledge to Themistocles. Both were honored with a crown of olive. Overlooking their previous prejudices, envy, and unwelcoming attitude towards outsiders, the warriors were impressed by the hero whose bravery mirrored their own. They presented him with the grandest chariot available in Sparta and officially escorted him homeward as far as Tegea with a retinue of three hundred elite Spartans known as "The Knights"—the only instance of Spartans escorting anyone from their city. It is said that upon his return to Athens, Themistocles was criticized by Timodemus of Aphidna, a Belbinite by origin, and a relentless public foe, for his visit to Sparta: “The honors given to you,” said Timodemus, “are given out of respect, not for you, but for Athens.”
“My friend,” retorted the witty chief, “the matter stands thus. Had I been a Belbinite, I had not been thus distinguished at Sparta, nor would you, although you had been born an Athenian!”
“My friend,” replied the clever chief, “here’s the deal. If I had been a Belbinite, I wouldn’t have been so distinguished in Sparta, and neither would you, even if you had been born an Athenian!”
While the Greeks were thus occupied, the Persian army had retreated with Mardonius into Thessaly. Here that general selected and marshalled the forces with which he intended to renew the war, retaining in his service the celebrated Immortals. The total, including the cavalry, Herodotus estimates at three hundred thousand men.
While the Greeks were busy, the Persian army had pulled back with Mardonius into Thessaly. There, that general gathered and organized the forces he planned to use to restart the war, keeping the famous Immortals in his service. Herodotus estimates the total, including the cavalry, at three hundred thousand men.
Thus occupied, and ere Xerxes departed from Thessaly, the Spartans, impelled by an oracle, sent a messenger to Xerxes to demand atonement for the death of Leonidas.
Thus occupied, and before Xerxes left Thessaly, the Spartans, urged by a prophecy, sent a messenger to Xerxes to demand reparation for the death of Leonidas.
“Ay,” replied the king, laughing, “this man (pointing to Mardonius) shall make you fitting retribution.”
“Ay,” replied the king, laughing, “this guy (pointing to Mardonius) will give you the justice you deserve.”
Leaving Mardonius in Thessaly, where he proposed to winter, Xerxes now hastened home. Sixty thousand Persians under Artabazus accompanied the king only as far as the passage into Asia; and it was with an inconsiderable force, which, pressed by famine, devastated the very herbage on their way, and which a pestilence and the dysentery diminished as it passed, that the great king crossed the Hellespont, on which the bridge of boats had already been broken by wind and storm. A more abundant supply of provisions than they had yet experienced tempted the army to excesses, to which many fell victims. The rest arrived at Sardis with Xerxes, whence he afterward returned to his more distant capital.
Leaving Mardonius in Thessaly, where he planned to spend the winter, Xerxes hurried home. Sixty thousand Persians led by Artabazus accompanied the king only as far as the crossing into Asia; and it was with a small force, struggling with hunger that ruined the very grass along their route, and diminished by disease and dysentery as they went, that the great king crossed the Hellespont, where the bridge of boats had already been destroyed by wind and storms. A more plentiful supply of food than they had previously known led the army to indulge, with many suffering the consequences. The rest arrived at Sardis with Xerxes, from where he then returned to his more distant capital.
XXII. The people of Potidaea, on the Isthmus of Pallene, and Olynthus, inhabited by the Bottiaeans, a dubious and mongrel race, that boasted their origin from those Athenians who, in the traditional ages, had been sent as tributary captives to the Cretan Minos, no sooner learned the dispersion of the fleet at Salamis, and the retreat of the king, than they openly revolted from the barbarian. Artabazus, returning from the Hellespont, laid siege to Olynthus, massacred the inhabitants, and colonized the town with Chalcidians. He then sat down before Potidaea; but a terrible inundation of the sea, with the sallies of the besieged, destroyed the greater number of the unfortunate invaders. The remnant were conducted by Artabazus into Thessaly, to join the army of Mardonius. The Persian fleet, retreating from Salamis, after passing over the king and his forces from the Chersonese to Abydos, wintered at Cuma; and at the commencement of the spring assembled at Samos.
XXII. The people of Potidaea, located on the Isthmus of Pallene, and Olynthus, inhabited by the Bottiaeans, a questionable and mixed group who claimed their roots from Athenians that were sent as tribute captives to the Cretan Minos in ancient times, quickly learned about the fleet's defeat at Salamis and the king's retreat, and they openly rebelled against the barbarian. Artabazus, returning from the Hellespont, besieged Olynthus, killed the inhabitants, and filled the town with Chalcidians. He then laid siege to Potidaea; however, a massive flood from the sea, combined with attacks from those inside the city, wiped out most of the unfortunate invaders. The survivors were led by Artabazus into Thessaly to join Mardonius's army. The Persian fleet, retreating from Salamis, after transporting the king and his forces from the Chersonese to Abydos, spent the winter at Cuma; and at the start of spring, they gathered at Samos.
Meanwhile the Athenians returned to their dismantled city, and directed their attention to its repair and reconstruction. It was then, too, that in all probability the people hastened, by a formal and solemn reversal of the sentence of ostracism, to reward the services of Aristides, and to restore to the commonwealth the most spotless of its citizens. 93
Meanwhile, the Athenians returned to their ruined city and focused on fixing and rebuilding it. It was also likely during this time that the people quickly moved to formally and officially reverse the ostracism sentence against Aristides, honoring his contributions and reinstating one of their most honorable citizens. 93
CHAPTER VIII.
Embassy of Alexander of Macedon to Athens.—The Result of his Proposals.—Athenians retreat to Salamis.—Mardonius occupies Athens. —The Athenians send Envoys to Sparta.—Pausanias succeeds Cleombrotus as Regent of Sparta.—Battle of Plataea.—Thebes besieged by the Athenians.—Battle of Mycale.—Siege of Sestos.—Conclusion of the Persian War.
Embassy of Alexander of Macedon to Athens. — The Result of his Proposals. — Athenians retreat to Salamis. — Mardonius occupies Athens. — The Athenians send Envoys to Sparta. — Pausanias succeeds Cleombrotus as Regent of Sparta. — Battle of Plataea. — Thebes besieged by the Athenians. — Battle of Mycale. — Siege of Sestos. — Conclusion of the Persian War.
I. The dawning spring and the formidable appearance of Mardonius, who, with his Persian forces, diminished indeed, but still mighty, lowered on their confines, aroused the Greeks to a sense of their danger. Their army was not as yet assembled, but their fleet, consisting of one hundred and ten vessels, under the command of Leotychides, king of Sparta, and Xanthippus of Athens, lay off Aegina. Thus anchored, there came to the naval commanders certain Chians, who, having been discovered in a plot against the life of Strattis, a tyrant imposed upon Chios by the Persians, fled to Aegina. They declared that all Ionia was ripe for revolt, and their representations induced the Greeks to advance as far as the sacred Delos.
I. The spring was just starting, and Mardonius, with his Persian forces—though reduced—still looked intimidating as he hovered near their territory, which made the Greeks aware of their danger. Their army hadn’t assembled yet, but their fleet, made up of one hundred and ten ships, was anchored off Aegina under the command of Leotychides, king of Sparta, and Xanthippus of Athens. While they were anchored there, some Chians arrived. They had escaped to Aegina after being caught in a conspiracy against Strattis, a tyrant imposed on Chios by the Persians. They claimed that all of Ionia was ready to rebel, and their report motivated the Greeks to move as far as the sacred Delos.
Beyond they dared not venture, ignorant alike of the localities of the country and the forces of the enemy. Samos seemed to them no less remote than the Pillars of Hercules, and mutual fear thus kept the space between the Persian and the Greek fleet free from the advance of either. But Mardonius began slowly to stir from his winter lethargy. Influenced, thought the Greeks, perhaps too fondly, by a Theban oracle, the Persian general despatched to Athens no less distinguished an ambassador than Alexander, the king of Macedon. That prince, connected with the Persians by alliance (for his sister had married the Persian Bubares, son of Megabazus), was considered an envoy calculated to conciliate the Athenians while he served their enemy. And it was now the object of Mardonius to reconcile the foe whom he had failed to conquer. Aware of the Athenian valour, Mardonius trusted that if he could detach that state from the confederacy, and prevail on the Athenians to unite their arms to his own, the rest of Greece would become an easy conquest. By land he already deemed himself secure of fortune, by sea what Grecian navy, if deprived of the flower of its forces, could resist him?
Beyond that point, they did not dare to go, completely unaware of the geography of the area and the enemy's strength. To them, Samos felt as distant as the Pillars of Hercules, and mutual fear kept the space between the Persian and Greek fleets free from either side moving forward. However, Mardonius began to shake off his winter slumber gradually. The Greeks believed, perhaps a bit too optimistically, that a Theban oracle influenced him to send no less a distinguished ambassador to Athens than Alexander, the king of Macedon. This prince, connected to the Persians through an alliance (since his sister had married the Persian Bubares, son of Megabazus), was seen as an envoy likely to win over the Athenians while serving their enemy. Mardonius now aimed to reconcile with the adversary he had failed to defeat. Knowing the bravery of the Athenians, Mardonius hoped that if he could persuade that city to break away from the coalition and join forces with him, the rest of Greece would fall easily. He already believed he was assured of victory on land; on the sea, what Greek navy, if stripped of its best forces, could stand in his way?
II. The King of Macedon arrived at Athens; but conscious of the jealous and anxious fear which the news of an embassy from Persia would excite among the confederates, the Athenians delayed to grant him the demanded audience until they had time to send for and obtain deputies from Sparta to be present at the assembly.
II. The King of Macedon arrived in Athens, but aware of the jealousy and anxiety that news of an embassy from Persia would stir among the allies, the Athenians postponed granting him the requested audience until they had time to send for and bring in representatives from Sparta to attend the meeting.
Alexander of Macedon then addressed the Athenians.
Alexander of Macedon then spoke to the Athenians.
“Men of Athens!” said he, “Mardonius informs you, through me, of this mandate from the king: ‘Whatever injuries,’ saith he, ‘the Athenians have done me, I forgive. Restore them their country—let them even annex to it any other territories they covet—permit them the free enjoyment of their laws. If they will ally with me, rebuild the temples I have burnt.’”
“Men of Athens!” he said, “Mardonius is informing you through me about this order from the king: ‘Whatever wrongs,’ he says, ‘the Athenians have done to me, I forgive. Give them back their country—let them even take any other lands they desire—allow them to fully enjoy their laws. If they agree to ally with me, they should rebuild the temples I have destroyed.’”
Alexander then proceeded to dilate on the consequences of this favourable mission, to represent the power of the Persian, and urge the necessity of an alliance. “Let my offers prevail with you,” he concluded, “for to you alone, of all the Greeks, the king extends his forgiveness, desiring your alliance.”
Alexander then went on to discuss the benefits of this favorable mission, to highlight the power of the Persian, and to emphasize the need for an alliance. “Let my offers convince you,” he concluded, “because to you alone, of all the Greeks, the king offers his forgiveness, seeking your alliance.”
When Alexander had concluded, the Spartan envoys thus spoke through their chief, addressing, not the Macedonian, but the Athenians:—“We have been deputed by the Spartans to entreat you to adopt no measures prejudicial to Greece, and to receive no conditions from the barbarians. This, most iniquitous in itself, would be, above all, unworthy and ungraceful in you; with you rests the origin of the war now appertaining to all Greece. Insufferable, indeed, if the Athenians, once the authors of liberty to many, were now the authors of the servitude of Greece. We commiserate your melancholy condition —your privation for two years of the fruits of your soil, your homes destroyed, and your fortunes ruined. We, the Spartans, and the other allies, will receive your women and all who may be helpless in the war while the war shall last. Let not the Macedonian, smoothing down the messages of Mardonius, move you. This becomes him; tyrant himself, he would assist in a tyrant’s work. But you will not heed him if you are wise, knowing that faith and truth are not in the barbarians.”
When Alexander finished speaking, the Spartan envoys, led by their chief, addressed not the Macedonians, but the Athenians: “We have been sent by the Spartans to ask you not to take any actions that would harm Greece and not to accept any terms from the barbarians. This would not only be unjust in itself, but it would also be unworthy and disgraceful for you. The responsibility for the war that now affects all of Greece lies with you. It would be unacceptable if the Athenians, who were once the champions of freedom for many, became the cause of Greece's enslavement. We sympathize with your tragic situation — your two years of deprivation from the fruits of your land, your homes destroyed, and your fortunes ruined. We, the Spartans and our other allies, will take care of your women and anyone else who may be vulnerable during this war. Don't let the Macedonian, trying to soften the messages of Mardonius, sway you. It suits him; being a tyrant himself, he would aid a tyrant's cause. But if you are wise, you will ignore him, knowing that there is no trust or truth to be found with the barbarians.”
III. The answer of the Athenians to both Spartan and Persian, the substance of which is, no doubt, faithfully preserved to us by Herodotus, may rank among the most imperishable records of that high-souled and generous people.
III. The response of the Athenians to both the Spartans and Persians, the content of which is surely accurately maintained for us by Herodotus, may be considered one of the most enduring accounts of that noble and generous people.
“We are not ignorant,” ran the answer, dictated, and, probably, uttered by Aristides 94, “that the power of the Mede is many times greater than our own. We required not that ostentatious admonition. Yet, for the preservation of liberty, we will resist that power as we can. Cease to persuade us to contract alliance with the barbarian. Bear back to Mardonius this answer from the Athenians—So long as yonder sun,” and the orator pointed to the orb 95, “holds the courses which now it holds—so long will we abjure all amity with Xerxes—so long, confiding in the aid of our gods and heroes, whose shrines and altars he hath burnt, will we struggle against him in battle and for revenge. And thou, beware how again thou bearest such proffers to the Athenians; nor, on the plea of benefit to us, urge us to dishonour; for we would not—ungrateful to thee, our guest and our friend—have any evil befall to thee from the anger of the Athenians.”
“We're not naive,” came the response, likely dictated and spoken by Aristides 94, “that the power of the Medes is much greater than our own. We didn’t need that flashy reminder. However, to protect our freedom, we will resist that power as best we can. Stop trying to persuade us to ally with the barbarian. Take this message back to Mardonius from the Athenians—As long as that sun,” and the orator pointed to the orb 95, “follows its current path—so long will we reject any friendship with Xerxes—so long, trusting in the help of our gods and heroes, whose temples and altars he has burned, will we fight against him for revenge. And you, beware of bringing such offers to the Athenians again; nor, under the guise of helping us, push us toward dishonor; for we would not—being ungrateful to you, our guest and our friend—want any harm to come to you from the anger of the Athenians.”
“For you, Spartans! it may be consonant with human nature that you should fear our alliance with the barbarians—yet shamefully you fear it, knowing with what spirit we are animated and act. Gold hath no amount—earth hath no territory, how beautiful soever—that can tempt the Athenians to accept conditions from the Mede for the servitude of Greece. Were we so inclined, many and mighty are our prohibitions; first and chiefly, our temples burnt and overthrown, urging us not to alliance, but to revenge. Next, the whole race of Greece has one consanguinity and one tongue, and common are its manners, its altars, and its gods base indeed, if Athenians were of these the betrayers. Lastly, learn now, if ye knew it not before, that, while one Athenian shall survive, Athens allies herself not with Xerxes.”
“For you, Spartans! It might be natural for you to fear our alliance with the barbarians—but it’s shameful that you do, especially knowing the spirit we have and how we act. No amount of gold—no beautiful territory, no matter how enticing—can persuade the Athenians to accept terms from the Mede that would lead to Greece's enslavement. Even if we were inclined, we have many strong reasons not to; first and foremost, our temples have been burned and destroyed, driving us not toward alliances, but toward revenge. Furthermore, all of Greece shares a common ancestry and language, and we have shared customs, altars, and gods. It would be disgraceful for the Athenians to betray these. Lastly, know this, if you didn’t before: as long as there is one Athenian left, Athens will never ally itself with Xerxes.”
“We thank you for your providence of us—your offers to protect our families—afflicted and impoverished as we are. We will bear, however, our misfortunes as we may—becoming no burden upon you. Be it your care to send your forces to the field. Let there be no delay. The barbarian will be on us when he learns that we have rejected his proposals. Before he proceed to Attica let us meet him in Boeotia.”
“We thank you for your support—your offers to protect our families—afflicted and poor as we are. We will endure our hardships as best we can—without becoming a burden to you. It’s your responsibility to send your troops into the field. Don’t delay. The enemy will come at us once he finds out that we’ve turned down his proposals. Before he moves to Attica, let’s confront him in Boeotia.”
IV. On receiving this answer from the Athenians the Spartan ambassadors returned home; and, shortly afterward, Mardonius, by rapid marches, conducted his army towards Attica; fresh supplies of troops recruiting his forces wheresoever he passed. The Thessalian princes, far from repenting their alliance with Mardonius, animated his ardour.
IV. After receiving this response from the Athenians, the Spartan ambassadors went back home. Soon after, Mardonius quickly led his army toward Attica, gathering fresh troops to strengthen his forces wherever he went. The Thessalian leaders, far from regretting their alliance with Mardonius, boosted his enthusiasm.
Arrived in Boeotia, the Thebans endeavoured to persuade the Persian general to encamp in that territory, and to hazard no battle, but rather to seek by bribes to the most powerful men in each city, to detach the confederates from the existent alliance. Pride, ambition, and the desire of avenging Xerxes once more upon Athens, deterred Mardonius from yielding to this counsel. He marched on to Attica—he found the territory utterly deserted. He was informed that the inhabitants were either at Salamis or with the fleet. He proceeded to Athens (B. C. 479), equally deserted, and, ten months after the first capture by Xerxes, that city a second time was occupied by the Mede.
Upon arriving in Boeotia, the Thebans tried to convince the Persian general to set up camp in that area and avoid a battle. Instead, they suggested using bribes to win over the most influential people in each city to break the alliance. However, Mardonius, driven by pride, ambition, and the urge to retaliate against Athens for Xerxes, rejected this advice. He marched into Attica, only to find the land completely deserted. He learned that the people were either at Salamis or with the fleet. He then went to Athens (B.C. 479), which was also deserted, and, ten months after it was first taken by Xerxes, the city was occupied by the Mede once again.
From Athens Mardonius despatched a Greek messenger to Salamis, repeating the propositions of Alexander. On hearing these offers in council, the Athenians were animated by a species of fury. A counsellor named Lycidas having expressed himself in favour of the terms, he was immediately stoned to death. The Athenian women, roused by a similar passion with the men, inflicted the same fate upon his wife and children—one of those excesses of virtue which become crimes, but for which exigency makes no despicable excuse. 96 The ambassador returned uninjured.
From Athens, Mardonius sent a Greek messenger to Salamis, repeating Alexander's proposals. When the Athenians heard these offers in their council, they were filled with a kind of rage. A council member named Lycidas spoke in favor of the terms and was immediately stoned to death. The Athenian women, stirred by the same passion as the men, inflicted the same fate on his wife and children—one of those extreme acts of virtue that crosses into crime, but for which necessity provides a questionable justification. 96 The ambassador returned unharmed.
V. The flight of the Athenians to Salamis had not been a willing resort. That gallant people had remained in Attica so long as they could entertain any expectation of assistance from the Peloponnesus; nor was it until compelled by despair at the inertness of their allies, and the appearance of the Persians in Boeotia, that they had removed to Salamis.
V. The Athenians' flight to Salamis wasn't a choice they made willingly. That brave people stayed in Attica as long as they hoped for support from the Peloponnesians; it wasn't until they were driven by desperation over their allies' inaction and the arrival of the Persians in Boeotia that they moved to Salamis.
The singular and isolated policy of Sparta, which had curbed and crippled, to an exclusive regard for Spartans, all the more generous and daring principles of action, was never, perhaps, so odiously displayed as in the present indifference to an ally that had so nobly preferred the Grecian liberties to its own security. The whole of the Peloponnesus viewed with apathy the occupation of Attica, and the Spartans were employed in completing the fortifications of the isthmus.
The unique and isolated policy of Sparta, which focused purely on the interests of Spartans and stifled broader and bolder principles of action, was perhaps most glaringly evident in their current indifference to an ally that had bravely prioritized Greek freedoms over its own safety. All of Peloponnesus watched passively as Attica was occupied, while the Spartans busied themselves with fortifying the isthmus.
The Athenians despatched messengers to Sparta, as did also Megara and Plataea. These ambassadors assumed a high and reproachful tone of remonstrance.
The Athenians sent messengers to Sparta, as did Megara and Plataea. These ambassadors took on a bold and accusatory tone in their complaints.
They represented the conduct of the Athenians in rejecting the overtures of the barbarians—they upbraided the Spartans with perfidy for breaking the agreement to meet the enemy in Boeotia—they declared the resentment of the Athenians at the violation of this compact, demanded immediate supplies, and indicated the plains near Thria, a village in Attica, as a fitting field of battle.
They illustrated how the Athenians acted by rejecting the offers from the outsiders—they criticized the Spartans for being traitorous when they broke the agreement to confront the enemy in Boeotia—they expressed the Athenians' anger at the breach of this agreement, demanded immediate supplies, and pointed out the plains near Thria, a village in Attica, as a suitable battleground.
The ephors heard the remonstrance, but from day to day delayed an answer. The Spartans, according to Herodotus, were engaged in celebrating the solemnities in honour of Hyacinthus and Apollo; and this ceremonial might have sufficed as a plausible cause for procrastination, according to all the usages and formalities of Spartan manners. But perhaps there might be another and a graver reason for the delayed determination of the ephors.
The ephors listened to the complaint but kept delaying their response day after day. The Spartans, as Herodotus noted, were busy celebrating the festivals in honor of Hyacinthus and Apollo; this ceremony could have easily served as a valid excuse for their procrastination, given Spartan customs and formalities. However, there might have been another, more serious reason for the ephors' decision being postponed.
When the isthmian fortifications were completed, the superstition of the regent Cleombrotus, who had superintended their construction, was alarmed by an eclipse, and he led back to Sparta the detachment he had commanded in that quarter. He returned but to die; and his son Pausanias succeeded to the regency during the continued minority of Pleistarchus, the infant heir of Leonidas 97. If the funeral solemnities on the death of a regent were similar to those bestowed upon a deceased king, we can account at once for the delay of the ephors, since the ten days which passed without reply to the ambassadors exactly correspond in number with the ten days dedicated to public mourning. 98 But whatever the cause of the Spartan delay —and the rigid closeness of that oligarchic government kept, in yet more important matters, its motives and its policy no less a secret to contemporaneous nations than to modern inquirers—the delay itself highly incensed the Athenian envoys: they even threatened to treat with Mardonius, and abandon Sparta to her fate, and at length fixed the day of their departure. The ephors roused themselves. Among the deputies from the various states, there was then in Sparta that Chileus of Tegea, who had been scarcely less serviceable than Themistocles in managing the affairs of Greece in the isthmian congress. This able and eminent Arcadian forcibly represented to the ephors the danger of forfeiting the Athenian alliance, and the insufficient resistance against the Persian that the fortifications of the isthmus would afford. The ephors heard, and immediately acted with the secrecy and the vigilance that belongs to oligarchies. That very night they privately despatched a body of five thousand Spartans and thirty-five thousand helots (seven to each Spartan), under the command of Pausanias.
When the fortifications at the isthmus were finished, the superstitions of Regent Cleombrotus, who oversaw their building, were stirred up by an eclipse, and he pulled back the troops he had led in that area to Sparta. He returned only to die, and his son Pausanias took over as regent while Pleistarchus, the baby heir of Leonidas 97 remained a minor. If the funeral rites for a regent were anything like those for a deceased king, it explains the delay of the ephors, since the ten days that passed without a response to the ambassadors matched the ten days allocated for public mourning. 98 However, regardless of why the Spartans delayed — and the strict secrecy of that oligarchic government kept its motives and policies hidden from both contemporary nations and modern researchers — the delay frustrated the Athenian envoys: they even threatened to negotiate with Mardonius and abandon Sparta to its fate, eventually setting a date for their departure. The ephors took action. Among the representatives from various states present in Sparta was Chileus of Tegea, who had been just as instrumental as Themistocles in handling Greece's affairs during the isthmian congress. This skilled and notable Arcadian urgently warned the ephors about the risk of losing the Athenian alliance, pointing out that the fortifications at the isthmus wouldn't provide adequate defense against the Persians. The ephors listened and promptly acted with the secrecy and diligence typical of oligarchies. That very night, they secretly sent out a force of five thousand Spartans and thirty-five thousand helots (seven for each Spartan), under the leadership of Pausanias.
The next morning the ephors calmly replied to the angry threats of the Athenians, by protesting that their troops were already on the march, and by this time in Oresteum, a town in Arcadia, about eighteen miles distant from Sparta. The astonished deputies 99 hastened to overtake the Spartan force, and the ephors, as if fully to atone for their past procrastination, gave them the escort and additional re-enforcement of five thousand heavy-armed Laconians or Perioeci.
The next morning, the ephors calmly responded to the furious threats from the Athenians, stating that their troops were already on the move and at that point in Oresteum, a town in Arcadia, about eighteen miles from Sparta. The shocked deputies 99 rushed to catch up with the Spartan force, and the ephors, seemingly to make up for their past delays, provided them with an escort and added five thousand heavily armed Laconians or Perioeci for support.
VI. Mardonius soon learned from the Argives (who, not content with refusing to join the Greek legion, had held secret communications with the Persians) of the departure of the Spartan troops. Hitherto he had refrained from any outrage on the Athenian lands and city, in the hope that Athens might yet make peace with him. He now set fire to Athens, razed the principal part of what yet remained of the walls and temples 100, and deeming the soil of Attica ill adapted to his cavalry, and, from the narrowness of its outlets, disadvantageous in case of retreat, after a brief incursion into Megara he retired towards Thebes, and pitched his tents on the banks of the Asopus, extending from Erythrae to Plataea. Here his force was swelled by such of the Greeks as were friendly to his cause.
VI. Mardonius soon found out from the Argives (who, not satisfied with refusing to join the Greek army, had secretly communicated with the Persians) about the departure of the Spartan troops. Until then, he had avoided any attack on the Athenian lands and city, hoping that Athens would still make peace with him. He now set fire to Athens, destroyed most of what was left of the walls and temples 100, and considering the land of Attica unsuitable for his cavalry and challenging for a retreat due to its narrow exits, after a short raid into Megara, he pulled back towards Thebes and set up his camp on the banks of the Asopus, stretching from Erythrae to Plataea. Here, his forces were joined by those Greeks who were supportive of his cause.
VII. Meanwhile the Spartans were joined at the isthmus by the rest of the Peloponnesian allies. Solemn sacrifices were ordained, and the auguries drawn from the victims being favourable, the Greek army proceeded onward; and, joined at Eleusis by the Athenians, marched to the foot of Cithaeron, and encamped opposite the Persians, with the river of the Asopus between the armies. Aristides commanded the Athenians, at the head of eight thousand foot; and while the armies were thus situated, a dangerous conspiracy was detected and defeated by that able general.
VII. Meanwhile, the Spartans were joined at the isthmus by the other Peloponnesian allies. Formal sacrifices were conducted, and since the omens from the victims were favorable, the Greek army moved forward; after meeting the Athenians at Eleusis, they marched to the base of Cithaeron and set up camp across from the Persians, with the Asopus River between the two armies. Aristides led the Athenians, commanding eight thousand infantry; and while the armies were in this position, a serious conspiracy was uncovered and thwarted by that skilled general.
The disasters of the war—the devastation of lands, the burning of houses—had reduced the fortunes of many of the Athenian nobles. With their property diminished their influence. Poverty, and discontent, and jealousy of new families rising into repute 101, induced these men of fallen fortunes to conspire for the abolition of the popular government at Athens, and, failing that attempt, to betray the cause to the enemy.
The disasters of the war—the destruction of land, the burning of houses—had diminished the wealth of many Athenian nobles. With their property reduced, their influence waned. Poverty, discontent, and jealousy of new families gaining prominence 101 led these men of fallen fortunes to plot against the popular government in Athens, and when that failed, to betray the cause to the enemy.
This project spread secretly through the camp, and corrupted numbers; the danger became imminent. On the one hand, the conspiracy was not to be neglected; and, on the other, in such a crisis it might be dangerous too narrowly to sift a design in which men of mark and station were concerned. Aristides acted with a singular prudence. He arrested eight of the leaders. Of these he prosecuted only two (who escaped during the proceedings), and, dismissing the rest, appealed to the impending battle as the great tribunal which would acquit them of the charge and prove their loyalty to the state. 102
This project spread secretly through the camp and corrupted numbers; the danger became urgent. On one hand, the conspiracy couldn’t be ignored; on the other, in such a crisis, it might be risky to investigate too closely a plan involving prominent individuals. Aristides acted with remarkable caution. He arrested eight of the leaders. Out of these, he prosecuted only two (who escaped during the proceedings), and after dismissing the rest, he pointed to the upcoming battle as the ultimate judge that would clear them of the accusations and prove their loyalty to the state. 102
VIII. Scarce was this conspiracy quelled than the cavalry of the Persians commenced their operations. At the head of that skilful and gallant horse, for which the oriental nations are yet renowned, rode their chief, Masistius, clad in complete armour of gold, of brass, and of iron, and noted for the strength of his person and the splendour of his trappings. Placed on the rugged declivities of Cithaeron, the Greeks were tolerably safe from the Persian cavalry, save only the Megarians, who, to the number of three thousand, were posted along the plain, and were on all sides charged by that agile and vapid cavalry. Thus pressed, the Megarians sent to Pausanias for assistance. The Spartan beheld the air darkened with shafts and arrows, and knew that his heavy-armed warriors were ill adapted to act against horse. He in vain endeavoured to arouse those about him by appeals to their honour —all declined the succour of the Megarians—when Aristides, causing the Athenian to eclipse the Spartan chivalry, undertook the defence. With three hundred infantry, mixed with archers, Olympiodorus, one of the ablest of the Athenian officers, advanced eagerly on the barbarian.
VIII. As soon as this conspiracy was put down, the Persian cavalry began their attack. Leading that skilled and brave cavalry, for which the Eastern nations are still famous, was their chief, Masistius, dressed in full armor made of gold, brass, and iron, known for his strength and the splendor of his gear. Positioned on the steep slopes of Cithaeron, the Greeks were fairly safe from the Persian cavalry, except for the Megarians, who, numbering three thousand, were stationed in the plain and were being surrounded by that nimble and relentless cavalry. Under pressure, the Megarians called for help from Pausanias. The Spartan saw the sky filled with arrows and knew that his heavily armed warriors were not suited to fight against cavalry. He tried in vain to inspire those around him by appealing to their sense of honor—all refused to aid the Megarians—when Aristides, stepping in to overshadow the Spartan knights, took on the defense. With three hundred infantry, along with archers, Olympiodorus, one of the most skilled Athenian officers, rushed forward to confront the enemy.
Masistius himself, at the head of his troops, spurred his Nisaean charger against the new enemy. A sharp and obstinate conflict ensued; when the horse of the Persian general, being wounded, threw its rider, who could not regain his feet from the weight of his armour. There, as he lay on the ground, with a swarm of foes around him, the close scales of his mail protected him from their weapons, until at length a lance pierced the brain through an opening in his visor. After an obstinate conflict for his corpse, the Persians were beaten back to the camp, where the death of one, second only to Mardonius in authority and repute, spread universal lamentation and dismay.
Masistius, leading his troops, urged his Nisaean horse against the new enemy. A fierce and stubborn fight broke out; when the Persian general's horse was injured, it threw him off, and he couldn’t get back on his feet due to the weight of his armor. As he lay on the ground, surrounded by enemies, the tight scales of his mail protected him from their attacks, until finally a spear pierced his brain through a gap in his visor. After a fierce struggle over his body, the Persians were pushed back to their camp, where the news of the death of someone second only to Mardonius in power and reputation caused widespread mourning and panic.
The body of Masistius, which, by its vast size and beautiful proportions, excited the admiration of the victors, remained the prize of the Greeks; and, placed on a bier, it was borne triumphantly through the ranks.
The body of Masistius, notable for its enormous size and stunning proportions, drew the admiration of the victors and became the Greeks' trophy; placed on a bier, it was carried triumphantly through the ranks.
IX. After this victory, Pausanias conducted his forces along the base of Cithaeron into the neighbourhood of Plataea, which he deemed a more convenient site for the disposition of his army and the supply of water. There, near the fountain of Gargaphia 103, one of the sources of the Asopus (which splits into many rivulets, bearing a common name), and renowned in song for the death of the fabulous Actaeon, nor far from the shrine of an old Plataean hero (Androcrates), the Greeks were marshalled in regular divisions, the different nations, some on a gentle acclivity, others along the plain.
IX. After this victory, Pausanias led his troops along the base of Cithaeron to the area around Plataea, which he felt was a better location for setting up his army and accessing water. There, near the fountain of Gargaphia 103, one of the sources of the Asopus (which splits into several streams, all sharing the same name), and famous in songs for the death of the legendary Actaeon, not far from the shrine of an old hero from Plataea (Androcrates), the Greeks were organized into proper divisions, with different nations positioned, some on a gentle slope, others on the flat land.
In the allotment of the several stations a dispute arose between the Athenians and the Tegeans. The latter claimed, from ancient and traditionary prescription, the left wing (the right being unanimously awarded to the Spartans), and assumed, in the course of their argument, an insolent superiority over the Athenians.
In the distribution of the various positions, a conflict erupted between the Athenians and the Tegeans. The Tegeans insisted, based on long-standing tradition, on taking the left flank (with the right being unanimously given to the Spartans) and, as they made their case, displayed a disrespectful arrogance towards the Athenians.
“We came here to fight,” answered the Athenians (or Aristides in their name 104), “and not to dispute. But since the Tegeans proclaim their ancient as well as their modern deeds, fit is it for us to maintain our precedence over the Arcadians.”
“We came here to fight,” replied the Athenians (or Aristides on their behalf 104), “not to argue. But since the Tegeans boast about both their ancient and current achievements, it’s only right for us to assert our superiority over the Arcadians.”
Touching slightly on the ancient times referred to by the Tegeans, and quoting their former deeds, the Athenians insisted chiefly upon Marathon; “Yet,” said their orators, or orator, in conclusion, “while we maintain our right to the disputed post, it becomes us not, at this crisis, to altercate on the localities of the battle. Place us, oh Spartans! wherever seems best to you. No matter what our station; we will uphold our honour and your cause. Command, then—we obey.”
Touching briefly on the ancient times mentioned by the Tegeans and referencing their past actions, the Athenians focused primarily on Marathon. “However,” said their speaker in conclusion, “while we hold our claim to the contested position, it’s not the right time for us to argue about the locations of the battle. Place us, oh Spartans! wherever you think is best. No matter where we are positioned; we will defend our honor and your cause. Just give the orders—we will follow.”
Hearing this generous answer, the Spartan leaders were unanimous in favour of the Athenians; and they accordingly occupied the left wing.
Hearing this generous response, the Spartan leaders agreed completely with the Athenians; so they took position on the left wing.
X. Thus were marshalled that confederate army, presenting the strongest force yet opposed to the Persians, and comprising the whole might and manhood of the free Grecian states; to the right, ten thousand Lacedaemonians, one half, as we have seen, composed of the Perioeci, the other moiety of the pure Spartan race—to each warrior of the latter half were allotted seven armed helots, to each of the heavy-armed Perioeci one serving-man. Their whole force was, therefore, no less than fifty thousand men. Next to the Spartans (a kind of compromise of their claim) were the one thousand five hundred Tegeans; beyond these five thousand Corinthians; and to them contiguous three hundred Potidaeans of Pallene, whom the inundation of their seas had saved from the Persian arms. Next in order, Orchomenus ranged its six hundred Arcadians; Sicyon sent three thousand, Epidaurus eight hundred, and Troezene one thousand warriors. Neighbouring the last were two hundred Lepreatae, and by them four hundred Myceneans and Tirynthians 105. Stationed by the Tirynthians came, in successive order, a thousand Phliasians, three hundred Hermionians, six hundred Eretrians and Styreans, four hundred Chalcidians, five hundred Ambracians, eight hundred Leucadians and Anactorians, two hundred Paleans of Cephallenia, and five hundred only of the islanders of Aegina. Three thousand Megarians and six hundred Plataeans were ranged contiguous to the Athenians, whose force of eight thousand men, under the command of Aristides, closed the left wing.
X. Thus was the confederate army assembled, presenting the strongest force ever gathered against the Persians, consisting of the entire strength and manhood of the free Greek states. On the right were ten thousand Lacedaemonians, half of whom, as we’ve noted, were Perioeci, while the other half were pure Spartans—each warrior from the latter group was assigned seven armed helots, while each heavily armed Perioeci had one servant. Their total force numbered no less than fifty thousand men. Next to the Spartans, as a sort of compromise, were one thousand five hundred Tegeans; beyond them were five thousand Corinthians, and next to them were three hundred Potidaeans from Pallene, saved from the Persian threat by the flood of their seas. Following in line, Orchomenus provided six hundred Arcadians; Sicyon sent three thousand, Epidaurus sent eight hundred, and Troezene contributed one thousand warriors. Next to Troezene were two hundred Lepreatae, alongside four hundred Myceneans and Tirynthians 105. Stationed next to the Tirynthians were, in order, one thousand Phliasians, three hundred Hermionians, six hundred Eretrians and Styreans, four hundred Chalcidians, five hundred Ambracians, eight hundred Leucadians and Anactorians, two hundred Paleans from Cephallenia, and just five hundred islanders from Aegina. Three thousand Megarians and six hundred Plataeans were next to the Athenians, whose force of eight thousand men, under the command of Aristides, made up the left wing.
Thus the total of the heavy-armed soldiery was thirty-eight thousand seven hundred. To these were added the light-armed force of thirty-five thousand helots and thirty-four thousand five hundred attendants on the Laconians and other Greeks; the whole amounting to one hundred and eight thousand two hundred men, besides one thousand eight hundred Thespians, who, perhaps, on account of the destruction of their city by the Persian army, were without the heavy arms of their confederates.
Thus the total number of heavily armed soldiers was thirty-eight thousand seven hundred. Along with them were thirty-five thousand light-armed helots and thirty-four thousand five hundred attendants of the Laconians and other Greeks, bringing the total to one hundred eight thousand two hundred men, plus one thousand eight hundred Thespians, who, due to the destruction of their city by the Persian army, were likely without the heavy arms of their allies.
Such was the force—not insufficient in number, but stronger in heart, union, the memory of past victories, and the fear of future chains— that pitched the tent along the banks of the rivulets which confound with the Asopus their waters and their names.
Such was the strength—not lacking in numbers, but greater in spirit, unity, the memory of past victories, and the fear of future bondage—that set up camp along the banks of the streams that merge their waters and names with the Asopus.
XI. In the interim Mardonius had marched from his former post, and lay encamped on that part of the Asopus nearest to Plataea. His brave Persians fronted the Lacedaemonians and Tegeans; and, in successive order, ranged the Medes and Bactrians, the Indians and the Sacae, the Boeotians, Locrians, Malians, Thessalians, Macedonians, and the reluctant aid of a thousand Phocians. But many of the latter tribe about the fastnesses of Parnassus, openly siding with the Greeks, harassed the barbarian outskirts: Herodotus calculates the hostile force at three hundred and fifty thousand, fifty thousand of which were composed of Macedonians and Greeks. And, although the historian has omitted to deduct from this total the loss sustained by Artabazus at Potidaea, it is yet most probable that the barbarian nearly trebled the Grecian army—odds less fearful than the Greeks had already met and vanquished.
XI. In the meantime, Mardonius had moved from his previous position and set up camp on the part of the Asopus closest to Plataea. His brave Persian troops faced the Lacedaemonians and Tegeans; and following them were the Medes and Bactrians, the Indians and the Sacae, the Boeotians, Locrians, Malians, Thessalians, Macedonians, and the reluctant support of a thousand Phocians. However, many from the latter group near the strongholds of Parnassus openly sided with the Greeks, harassing the enemy's outskirts. Herodotus estimates the total hostile force at three hundred and fifty thousand, of which fifty thousand were Macedonians and Greeks. Although the historian didn’t subtract the losses Artabazus faced at Potidaea from this total, it’s likely that the barbarian forces were nearly three times the size of the Greek army—numbers that were less daunting than the Greeks had already confronted and defeated.
XII. The armies thus ranged, sacrifices were offered up on both sides. It happened, by a singular coincidence, that to either army was an Elean augur. The appearance of the entrails forbade both Persian and Greek to cross the Asopus, and ordained each to act on the defensive.
XII. With the armies positioned, sacrifices were made on both sides. Interestingly, both armies had an Elean augur. The examination of the entrails warned both the Persians and the Greeks not to cross the Asopus and instructed them to adopt a defensive stance.
That the Persian chief should have obeyed the dictates of a Grecian soothsayer is sufficiently probable; partly because a superstitious people rarely despise the superstitions of another faith, principally because a considerable part of the invading army, and that perhaps the bravest and the most skilful, was composed of native Greeks, whose prejudices it was politic to flatter—perilous to affront.
That the Persian leader would follow the advice of a Greek fortune teller seems quite likely; partly because a superstitious culture rarely dismisses the superstitions of another belief, and mainly because a significant portion of the invading army, possibly the bravest and most skilled members, were native Greeks, whose beliefs it was wise to respect—dangerous to insult.
Eight days were consumed in inactivity, the armies confronting each other without motion; when Mardonius, in order to cut off the new forces which every day resorted to the Grecian camp, despatched a body of cavalry to seize the pass of Cithaeron. Falling in with a convoy of five hundred beasts of burden, carrying provisions from the Peloponnesus, the barbarians, with an inhumanity sufficient, perhaps, to prove that the detachment was not composed of Persians, properly so speaking, a mild though gallant people—slaughtered both man and beast. The provisions were brought to the Persian camp.
Eight days went by with both armies just standing still, facing each other without any movement. To cut off the reinforcements that were joining the Greek camp every day, Mardonius sent a group of cavalry to take control of the Cithaeron pass. They encountered a convoy of five hundred pack animals carrying supplies from the Peloponnesus, and the attackers, showing a brutality that suggests this group wasn't actually Persians in the true sense—who are generally known to be both gentle and brave—killed both the men and the animals. The supplies were then taken to the Persian camp.
XIII. During the two following days Mardonius advanced nearer to the Asopus, and his cavalry (assisted by the Thebans, who were the right arm of the barbarian army), in repeated skirmishes, greatly harassed the Greeks with much daring and little injury.
XIII. Over the next two days, Mardonius moved closer to the Asopus, and his cavalry (supported by the Thebans, who were the stronghold of the barbarian army) engaged in several skirmishes, significantly troubling the Greeks with boldness and minimal damage.
At length Mardonius, either wearied of this inactivity or unable to repress the spirit of a superior army, not accustomed to receive the attack, resolved to reject all further compliance with the oracles of this Elean soothsayer, and, on the following morning, to give battle to the Greeks. Acting against one superstition, he sagaciously, however, sought to enlist on his behalf another; and, from the decision of a mortal, he appealed to the ambiguous oracles of the Delphic god, which had ever one interpretation for the enterprise and another for the success.
Eventually, Mardonius, either tired of this inaction or unable to control the will of a stronger army not used to being attacked, decided to ignore any further advice from the Elean soothsayer and to battle the Greeks the next morning. However, in defiance of one superstition, he cleverly tried to invoke another; he turned to the ambiguous prophecies of the Delphic god, which typically offered one interpretation for starting a mission and a different one for achieving success.
XIV. “The watches of the night were set,” says Herodotus, in his animated and graphic strain—“the night itself was far advanced—a universal and utter stillness prevailed throughout the army, buried in repose—when Alexander, the Macedonian prince, rode secretly from the Persian camp, and, coming to the outposts of the Athenians, whose line was immediately opposed to his own, demanded an audience of their commanders. This obtained, the Macedonian thus addressed them: ‘I am come to inform you of a secret you must impart to Pausanias alone. From remote antiquity I am of Grecian lineage. I am solicitous of the safety of Greece. Long since, but for the auguries, would Mardonius have given battle. Regarding these no longer, he will attack you early on the morning. Be prepared. If he change his purpose, remain as you are—he has provisions only for a few days more. Should the event of war prove favourable, you will but deem it fitting to make some effort for the independence of one who exposes himself to so great a peril for the purpose of apprizing you of the intentions of the foe. I am Alexander of Macedon.’”
XIV. "The night watches were set," says Herodotus, in his lively and vivid style—"the night was well advanced—a complete and absolute stillness hung over the army, deep in sleep—when Alexander, the Macedonian prince, quietly rode out from the Persian camp and, arriving at the Athenians’ outposts, which were directly opposite his own, requested to speak with their leaders. Once he got this audience, the Macedonian addressed them: 'I’ve come to share a secret that you must tell Pausanias alone. I come from a long line of Greeks. I care about the safety of Greece. If it weren't for the omens, Mardonius would have attacked long ago. But no longer considering them, he’ll strike at you early in the morning. Be ready. If he changes his mind, stay as you are—he only has provisions for a few more days. If the war goes well, you should certainly make an effort to support someone who risks so much to inform you of the enemy’s plans. I am Alexander of Macedon.'"
“Thus saying, the horseman returned to the Persian camp.”
“After saying that, the horseman went back to the Persian camp.”
“The Athenian leaders hastened to Pausanias, and informed him of what they had heard.”
“The Athenian leaders rushed to Pausanias and told him what they had heard.”
The Spartan does not appear, according to the strong expressions 106 of Herodotus, to have received the intelligence with the customary dauntlessness of his race. He feared the Persians, he was unacquainted with their mode of warfare, and he proposed to the Athenians to change posts with the Lacedaemonians; “For you,” said he, “have before contended with the Mede, and your experience of their warfare you learned at Marathon. We, on the other hand, have fought against the Boeotians and Thessalians [opposed to the left wing]. Let us then change our stations.”
The Spartan didn't seem to respond, according to the strong words 106 of Herodotus, with the usual fearlessness of his people. He was afraid of the Persians, he didn’t know their way of fighting, and he suggested to the Athenians that they switch positions with the Lacedaemonians. “You,” he said, “have already fought against the Mede, and you learned about their warfare at Marathon. We, on the other hand, have only battled the Boeotians and Thessalians [who were on the left wing]. So let’s switch our posts.”
At first the Athenian officers were displeased at the offer, not from terror, but from pride; and it seemed to them as if they were shifted, like helots, from post to post at the Spartan’s pleasure. But Aristides, whose power of persuasion consisted chiefly in appeals, not to the baser, but the loftier passions, and who, in swaying, exalted his countrymen—represented to them that the right wing, which the Spartan proposed to surrender, was, in effect, the station of command.
Initially, the Athenian officers were unhappy with the offer, not out of fear, but out of pride. They felt like they were being moved around like helots at the Spartans' whim. However, Aristides, whose persuasive power relied mostly on appealing to noble rather than base instincts, and who uplifted his fellow citizens while influencing them, pointed out that the right wing, which the Spartan intended to give up, was essentially the position of command.
“And are you,” he said, “not pleased with the honour you obtain, nor sensible of the advantage of contending, not against the sons of Greece, but the barbarian invader?” 107
“And are you,” he said, “not happy with the honor you’ve gained, nor aware of the benefit of fighting, not against the sons of Greece, but against the barbarian invader?” 107
These words animated those whom the Athenian addressed; they instantly agreed to exchange posts with the Spartans, and “to fight for the trophies of Marathon and Salamis.” 108
These words inspired those whom the Athenian spoke to; they quickly agreed to swap positions with the Spartans and “to fight for the trophies of Marathon and Salamis.” 108
XV. As, in the dead of night, the Athenians marched to their new station, they exhorted each other to valour and to the recollection of former victories. But Mardonius, learning from deserters the change of position, moved his Persians opposite the Spartans; and Pausanias again returning to the right, Mardonius pursued a similar manoeuvre. Thus the day was consumed without an action. The troops having resumed their former posts, Mardonius sent a herald to the Spartans, chiding them for their cowardice, and proposing that an allotted number meet equal Spartans in battle, and whoever conquered should be deemed victors over the whole adverse army.
XV. In the dead of night, the Athenians marched to their new position, encouraging each other to be brave and to remember their past victories. However, Mardonius, learning from defectors about the change in their position, moved his Persians to face the Spartans. Pausanias then returned to the right, and Mardonius made a similar move. As a result, the day passed without any fighting. Once the troops had taken their original positions again, Mardonius sent a messenger to the Spartans, mocking them for their cowardice and suggesting that a certain number of soldiers fight against an equal number of Spartans, with the victors being considered winners over the entire opposing army.
This challenge drew no reply from the Spartans. And Mardonius, construing the silence into a proof of fear, already anticipated the victory. His cavalry, advancing upon the Greeks, distressed them from afar and in safety with their shafts and arrows. They succeeded in gaining the Gargaphian fountain, which supplied water to the Grecian army, and choked up the stream. Thus cut off from water, and, at the same time, yet more inconvenienced by the want of provisions, the convoy of which was intercepted by the Persian cavalry, the Grecian chiefs determined to shift the ground, and occupy a space which, being surrounded by rivulets, was termed the Island of Oeroe 109, and afforded an ample supply of water. This island was about a mile from their present encampment: thence they proposed to detach half their army to relieve a convoy of provisions encompassed in the mountains.
This challenge went unanswered by the Spartans. Mardonius, interpreting their silence as a sign of fear, was already expecting victory. His cavalry moved towards the Greeks, attacking them from a distance with their arrows. They managed to take control of the Gargaphian fountain, which provided water for the Greek army, and blocked the stream. Cut off from water and further hampered by a lack of supplies, which the Persian cavalry intercepted, the Greek leaders decided to relocate to a new area surrounded by streams, known as the Island of Oeroe 109, which offered a good water supply. This island was about a mile from their current camp; from there, they planned to send half of their army to rescue a convoy of supplies trapped in the mountains.
About four hours after sunset the army commenced its march; but when Pausanias gave the word to his Spartans, one officer, named Amompharetus, obstinately refused to stir. He alleged the customs and oaths of Sparta, and declared he would not fly from the barbarian foe, nor connive at the dishonour of Sparta.
About four hours after sunset, the army started moving; however, when Pausanias signaled his Spartans, one officer named Amompharetus stubbornly refused to budge. He cited the traditions and oaths of Sparta and stated that he would not flee from the enemy nor be complicit in the disgrace of Sparta.
XVI. Pausanias, though incensed at the obstinacy of the officer, was unwilling to leave him and his troop to perish; and while the dispute was still unsettled, the Athenians, suspicious of their ally, “for they knew well it was the custom of Spartans to say one thing and to think another,” 110 despatched a horseman to Pausanias to learn the cause of the delay. The messenger found the soldiers in their ranks; the leaders in violent altercation. Pausanias was arguing with Amompharetus, when the last, just as the Athenian approached, took up a huge stone with both hands, and throwing it at the feet of Pausanias, vehemently exclaimed, “With this calculus I give my suffrage against flying from the stranger.” Pausanias, in great perplexity, bade the Athenian report the cause of the delay, and implore his countrymen to halt a little, that they might act in concert. At length, towards morning, Pausanias resolved, despite Amompharetus, to commence his march. All his forces proceeded along the steep defiles at the base of Cithaeron, from fear of the Persian cavalry; the more dauntless Athenians along the plain. Amompharetus, after impotent attempts to detain his men, was reluctantly compelled to follow.
XVI. Pausanias, though furious at the officer's stubbornness, didn’t want to abandon him and his troops to doom; while the argument was still going on, the Athenians, skeptical of their ally, “because they knew well that Spartans often said one thing and thought another,” 110 sent a messenger to Pausanias to find out why they were delayed. The messenger found the soldiers lined up and the leaders in a heated argument. Pausanias was arguing with Amompharetus when, just as the Athenian arrived, Amompharetus picked up a large stone with both hands and threw it at Pausanias' feet, yelling, “With this stone, I cast my vote against fleeing from the enemy.” Pausanias, greatly confused, told the Athenian to report the reason for the delay and to urge his fellow countrymen to pause so they could act together. Finally, as morning approached, Pausanias decided, despite Amompharetus, to begin his march. His troops moved through the steep paths at the base of Cithaeron, fearing the Persian cavalry, while the braver Athenians took the flat ground. Amompharetus, after failing to keep his men back, was reluctantly forced to follow.
XVII. Mardonius, beholding the vacant ground before him no longer bristling with the Grecian ranks, loudly vented his disdain of the cowardice of the fugitives, and instantly led his impatient army over the Asopus in pursuit. As yet, the Athenians, who had already passed the plain, were concealed by the hills; and the Tegeans and Lacedaemonians were the sole object of attack.
XVII. Mardonius, seeing the empty ground ahead no longer filled with Greek soldiers, openly expressed his contempt for the cowardice of those who fled and immediately led his eager army across the Asopus in pursuit. At that moment, the Athenians, who had already crossed the plain, were hidden by the hills; and the Tegeans and Lacedaemonians were the only targets of attack.
As the troops of Mardonius advanced, the rest of the Persian armament, deeming the task was now not to fight but to pursue, raised their standards and poured forward tumultuously, without discipline or order.
As Mardonius's troops moved forward, the rest of the Persian army, thinking that it was time not to fight but to chase, raised their banners and rushed ahead chaotically, without any discipline or organization.
Pausanias, pressed by the Persian line, and if not of a timorous, at least of an irresolute temper, lost no time in sending to the Athenians for succour. But when the latter were on their march with the required aid, they were suddenly intercepted by the auxiliary Greeks in the Persian service, and cut off from the rescue of the Spartans.
Pausanias, overwhelmed by the Persian forces, and if not afraid, at least hesitant, quickly sent a request for help to the Athenians. However, as the Athenians were on their way with the necessary support, they were unexpectedly stopped by the Greek allies in the service of the Persians and prevented from reaching the Spartans.
The Spartans beheld themselves thus left unsupported with considerable alarm. Yet their force, including the Tegeans and helots, was fifty-three thousand men. Committing himself to the gods, Pausanias ordained a solemn sacrifice, his whole army awaiting the result, while the shafts of the Persian bowmen poured on them near and fast. But the entrails presented discouraging omens, and the sacrifice was again renewed. Meanwhile the Spartans evinced their characteristic fortitude and discipline—not one man stirring from his ranks until the auguries should assume a more favouring aspect; all harassed, and some wounded, by the Persian arrows, they yet, seeking protection only beneath their broad bucklers, waited with a stern patience the time of their leader and of Heaven. Then fell Callicrates, the stateliest and strongest soldier in the whole army, lamenting, not death, but that his sword was as yet undrawn against the invader.
The Spartans found themselves unsupported and felt considerable alarm. Still, their force, including the Tegeans and helots, totaled fifty-three thousand men. Trusting in the gods, Pausanias ordered a solemn sacrifice, and the entire army waited for the outcome while the Persian archers rained arrows down on them. However, the entrails showed discouraging signs, and the sacrifice was performed again. Meanwhile, the Spartans displayed their usual courage and discipline—not a single man moved from his position until the omens improved; even as they were harassed and some wounded by the Persian arrows, they waited with determined patience, seeking shelter only under their large shields, for the guidance of their leader and the favor of Heaven. Then Callicrates, the tallest and strongest soldier in the entire army, fell, lamenting not death, but that he had not yet drawn his sword against the enemy.
XVIII. And still sacrifice after sacrifice seemed to forbid the battle, when Pausanias, lifting his eyes, that streamed with tears, to the temple of Juno that stood hard by, supplicated the tutelary goddess of Cithaeron, that if the fates forbade the Greeks to conquer, they might at least fall like warriors 111. And while uttering this prayer, the tokens waited for became suddenly visible in the victims, and the augurs announced the promise of coming victory.
XVIII. And yet, with each sacrifice, it seemed like the battle was being denied. Pausanias, lifting his tear-filled eyes to the nearby temple of Juno, pleaded with the protective goddess of Cithaeron. He asked that if the fates prevented the Greeks from winning, they might at least die like true warriors 111. Just as he finished this prayer, the signs they had been waiting for suddenly appeared in the victims, and the augurs proclaimed a promise of future victory.
Therewith the order of battle rang instantly through the army, and, to use the poetical comparison of Plutarch, the Spartan phalanx suddenly stood forth in its strength, like some fierce animal—erecting its bristles and preparing its vengeance for the foe. The ground, broken in many steep and precipitous ridges, and intersected by the Asopus, whose sluggish stream 112 winds over a broad and rushy bed, was unfavourable to the movements of cavalry, and the Persian foot advanced therefore on the Greeks.
Immediately, the battle order spread throughout the army, and, to borrow a poetic comparison from Plutarch, the Spartan phalanx suddenly rose in its strength, like a fierce animal—bristling and ready to strike at its enemy. The ground, uneven with many steep and abrupt ridges, and crossed by the Asopus, whose slow-moving stream 112 flows over a wide and grassy bed, was not suitable for cavalry movements, so the Persian infantry advanced against the Greeks.
Drawn up in their massive phalanx, the Lacedaemonians presented an almost impenetrable body—sweeping slowly on, compact and serried— while the hot and undisciplined valour of the Persians, more fortunate in the skirmish than the battle, broke itself into a thousand waves upon that moving rock. Pouring on in small numbers at a time, they fell fast round the progress of the Greeks—their armour slight against the strong pikes of Sparta—their courage without skill—their numbers without discipline; still they fought gallantly, even when on the ground seizing the pikes with their naked hands, and with the wonderful agility which still characterizes the oriental swordsman, springing to their feet and regaining their arms when seemingly overcome—wresting away their enemies’ shields, and grappling with them desperately hand to hand.
Formed in their strong formation, the Lacedaemonians created a nearly impenetrable front—moving slowly and tightly packed—while the fierce and undisciplined courage of the Persians, more successful in skirmishes than in actual battle, crashed against that solid wall like waves. Advancing in small groups, they quickly surrounded the Greeks— their armor light against the strong spears of Sparta—their bravery lacking skill—their numbers lacking order; yet they fought bravely, even when on the ground grabbing the spears with their bare hands, and with the remarkable agility that still defines Eastern swordsmen, jumping back to their feet and picking up their weapons when it seemed they were defeated—snatching away their enemies’ shields and grappling with them fiercely in close combat.
XIX. Foremost of a band of a thousand chosen Persians, conspicuous by his white charger, and still more by his daring valour, rode Mardonius, directing the attack—fiercer wherever his armour blazed. Inspired by his presence, the Persians fought worthily of their warlike fame, and, even in falling, thinned the Spartan ranks. At length the rash but gallant leader of the Asiatic armies received a mortal wound—his scull was crushed in by a stone from the hand of a Spartan 113. His chosen band, the boast of the army, fell fighting round him, but his death was the general signal of defeat and flight. Encumbered by their long robes, and pressed by the relentless conquerors, the Persians fled in disorder towards their camp, which was secured by wooden intrenchments, by gates, and towers, and walls. Here, fortifying themselves as they best might, they contended successfully, and with advantage, against the Lacedaemonians, who were ill skilled in assault and siege.
XIX. Leading a group of a thousand elite Persians, easily recognized by his white horse and even more by his bold bravery, Mardonius rode at the front, commanding the attack—fiercer wherever his armor shone. Energized by his presence, the Persians fought to live up to their warrior reputation, and even as they fell, they took down some Spartans. Finally, the reckless yet brave leader of the Asian armies suffered a fatal wound—his skull was crushed by a stone thrown by a Spartan 113. His elite group, the pride of the army, fought around him, but his death marked the beginning of their defeat and retreat. Weighed down by their long robes and pursued by their relentless enemies, the Persians scattered toward their camp, which was protected by wooden barricades, gates, towers, and walls. There, they fortified themselves as best as they could and successfully held their ground against the Lacedaemonians, who were not very skilled in assaults or sieges.
Meanwhile the Athenians obtained the victory on the plains over the Greeks of Mardonius—finding their most resolute enemy in the Thebans (three hundred of whose principal warriors fell in the field)—and now joined the Spartans at the Persian camp. The Athenians are said to have been better skilled in the art of siege than the Spartans; yet at that time their experience could scarcely have been greater. The Athenians were at all times, however, of a more impetuous temper; and the men who had “run to the charge” at Marathon were not to be baffled by the desperate remnant of their ancient foe. They scaled the walls —they effected a breach through which the Tegeans were the first to rush—the Greeks poured fast and fierce into the camp. Appalled, dismayed, stupefied by the suddenness and greatness of their loss, the Persians no longer sustained their fame—they dispersed themselves in all directions, falling, as they fled, with a prodigious slaughter, so that out of that mighty armament scarce three thousand effected an escape. We must except, however, the wary and distrustful Artabazus, who, on the first tokens of defeat, had fled with the forty thousand Parthians and Chorasmians he commanded towards Phocis, in the intention to gain the Hellespont. The Mantineans arrived after the capture of the camp, too late for their share of glory; they endeavoured to atone the loss by the pursuit of Artabazus, which was, however, ineffectual. The Eleans arrived after the Mantineans. The leaders of both these people were afterward banished.
Meanwhile, the Athenians defeated the Greeks of Mardonius on the plains—finding their most determined enemy in the Thebans (three hundred of whom fell in battle)—and then joined the Spartans at the Persian camp. It’s said that the Athenians were more skilled in siege warfare than the Spartans; still, at that time, their experience was hardly greater. However, the Athenians were always more impulsive, and the men who had charged at Marathon wouldn’t be deterred by the desperate remnants of their old enemy. They scaled the walls—they made a breach through which the Tegeans were the first to rush in—the Greeks poured into the camp quickly and fiercely. Shocked, unsettled, and stunned by the suddenness and magnitude of their loss, the Persians could no longer maintain their reputation—they scattered in all directions, suffering a massive slaughter as they fled, so that out of that huge force, barely three thousand managed to escape. We must exclude the cautious and suspicious Artabazus, who, at the first signs of defeat, had fled with the forty thousand Parthians and Chorasmians he commanded toward Phocis, aiming to reach the Hellespont. The Mantineans arrived after the camp was captured, too late to share in the glory; they tried to make up for it by pursuing Artabazus, but it was ineffective. The Eleans came after the Mantineans. The leaders of both these groups were later banished.
XX. An Aeginetan proposed to Pausanias to inflict on the corpse of Mardonius the same insult which Xerxes had put upon the body of Leonidas.
XX. A person from Aegina suggested to Pausanias that they should do to the corpse of Mardonius the same disrespect that Xerxes had shown to the body of Leonidas.
The Spartan indignantly refused. “After elevating my country to fame,” said he, “would you have me depress it to infamy by vengeance on the body of the dead? Leonidas and Thermopylae are sufficiently avenged by this mighty overthrow of the living.”
The Spartan angrily refused. “After raising my country to greatness,” he said, “would you have me bring it down to shame by seeking revenge on the dead? Leonidas and Thermopylae are already sufficiently avenged by this great defeat of the living.”
The body of that brave and ill-fated general, the main author of the war, was removed the next day—by whose piety and to what sepulchre is unknown. The tomb of his doubtful fame is alone eternally visible along the plains of Plataea, and above the gray front of the imperishable Cithaeron!
The body of that brave and unfortunate general, the key figure in the war, was taken the next day—who did it and where he was buried is unknown. The tomb of his uncertain legacy remains forever visible on the plains of Plataea, and above the gray face of the lasting Cithaeron!
XXI. The victory won (September, B. C. 479), the conquerors were dazzled by the gorgeous plunder which remained—tents and couches decorated with precious metals—cups, and vessels, and sacks of gold— and the dead themselves a booty, from the costly ornaments of their chains and bracelets, and cimeters vainly splendid—horses, and camels, and Persian women, and all the trappings and appliances by which despotism made a luxury of war.
XXI. After winning the victory (September, B.C. 479), the conquerors were dazzled by the beautiful loot that was left behind—tents and couches adorned with precious metals—cups, vessels, and bags of gold—and the dead themselves became part of the spoils, with their expensive jewelry from chains and bracelets, and eye-catching swords—horses, camels, Persian women, and all the gear and devices that allowed tyranny to turn war into a luxury.
Pausanias forbade the booty to be touched 114, and directed the helots to collect the treasure in one spot. But those dexterous slaves secreted many articles of value, by the purchase of which several of the Aeginetans, whose avarice was sharpened by a life of commerce, enriched themselves—obtaining gold at the price of brass.
Pausanias ordered that the loot not be touched 114, and told the helots to gather the treasure in one place. However, those clever slaves hid away many valuable items, which several Aeginetans, driven by greed from their lives in trade, bought—getting gold for the cost of brass.
Piety dedicated to the gods a tenth part of the booty—from which was presented to the shrine of Delphi a golden tripod, resting on a three-headed snake of brass; to the Corinthian Neptune a brazen state of the deity, seven cubits high; and to the Jupiter of Olympia a statue of ten cubits. Pausanias obtained also a tenth of the produce in each article of plunder—horses and camels, women and gold—a prize which ruined in rewarding him. The rest was divided among the soldiers, according to their merit.
Piety dedicated a tenth of the spoils to the gods, which included a golden tripod for the shrine at Delphi, supported by a brass snake with three heads; a bronze statue of Neptune for Corinth, standing seven cubits tall; and a statue for Jupiter in Olympia that was ten cubits high. Pausanias also received a tenth of the yield from every item of loot—horses and camels, women and gold—a reward that ultimately led to his downfall. The remainder was distributed among the soldiers based on their merit.
So much, however, was left unappropriated in the carelessness of satiety, that, in after times, the battlefield still afforded to the search of the Plataeans chests of silver and gold, and other treasures.
So much, however, was left unused in the careless satisfaction, that later on, the battlefield still provided the Plataeans with chests of silver and gold, along with other treasures.
XXIL Taking possession of the tent of Mardonius, which had formerly been that of Xerxes, Pausanias directed the oriental slaves who had escaped the massacre to prepare a banquet after the fashion of the Persians, and as if served to Mardonius. Besides this gorgeous feast, the Spartan ordered his wonted repast to be prepared; and then, turning to the different chiefs, exclaimed—“See the folly of the Persian, who forsook such splendour to plunder such poverty.”
XXIL After taking over Mardonius's tent, which used to belong to Xerxes, Pausanias instructed the Oriental slaves who had survived the massacre to set up a banquet in the Persian style, as if it was for Mardonius. In addition to this lavish feast, the Spartan had his usual meal prepared; then, turning to the various chiefs, he exclaimed, “Look at the foolishness of the Persian, who abandoned such luxury to steal from such poverty.”
The story has in it something of the sublime. But the austere Spartan was soon corrupted by the very luxuries he affected to disdain. It is often that we despise to-day what we find it difficult to resist to-morrow.
The story has something truly magnificent about it. But the strict Spartan was quickly undermined by the very luxuries he pretended to scorn. It's often the case that we look down on today what we find hard to resist tomorrow.
XXIII. The task of reward to the living completed, the Greeks proceeded to that of honour to the dead. In three trenches the Lacedaemonians were interred; one contained those who belonged to a class in Sparta called the Knights 115, of whom two hundred had conducted Themistocles to Tegea (among these was the stubborn Amompharetus); the second, the other Spartans; the third, the helots. The Athenians, Tegeans, Megarians, Phliasians, each had their single and separate places of sepulture, and, over all, barrows of earth were raised. Subsequently, tribes and states, that had shared indeed the final battle or the previous skirmishes, but without the glory of a loss of life, erected cenotaphs to imaginary dead in that illustrious burial-field. Among those spurious monuments was one dedicated to the Aeginetans. Aristodemus, the Spartan who had returned safe from Thermopylae, fell at Plataea, the most daring of the Greeks on that day, voluntarily redeeming a dishonoured life by a glorious death. But to his manes alone of the Spartan dead no honours were decreed.
XXIII. After rewarding the living, the Greeks moved on to honor the dead. The Lacedaemonians were buried in three trenches; one held the Knights 115, among them two hundred who had escorted Themistocles to Tegea (including the stubborn Amompharetus); the second trench contained the other Spartans, and the third was for the helots. The Athenians, Tegeans, Megarians, and Phliasians each had their own burial places, and mounds of earth were raised over all of them. Later, tribes and states that had fought in the final battle or earlier skirmishes, but without the honor of losing lives, built cenotaphs for imaginary dead in that famous burial field. Among those false monuments was one dedicated to the Aeginetans. Aristodemus, the Spartan who had returned safely from Thermopylae, fell at Plataea, the bravest of the Greeks that day, redeeming his dishonored life with a glorious death. However, no honors were granted to his spirit among the Spartan dead.
XXIV. Plutarch relates that a dangerous dispute ensued between the Spartans and Athenians as to their relative claim to the Aristeia, or first military honours; the question was decided by awarding them to the Plataeans—a state of which none were jealous; from a similar motive, ordinary men are usually found possessed of the honours due to the greatest.
XXIV. Plutarch reports that a serious argument broke out between the Spartans and Athenians over who deserved the Aristeia, or the top military honors; the issue was resolved by giving the honors to the Plataeans—a group that no one envied; for the same reason, everyday people often end up with the accolades that belong to the greatest.
More important than the Aristeia, had the spirit been properly maintained, were certain privileges then conferred on Plataea. Thither, in a subsequent assembly of the allies, it was proposed by Aristides that deputies from the states of Greece should be annually sent to sacrifice to Jupiter the Deliverer, and confer upon the general politics of Greece. There, every fifth year, should be celebrated games in honour of Liberty; while the Plataeans themselves, exempted from military service, should be deemed, so long as they fulfilled the task thus imposed upon them, a sacred and inviolable people. Thus Plataea nominally became a second Elis—its battle-field another Altis. Aristides, at the same time, sought to enforce the large and thoughtful policy commenced by Themistocles. He endeavoured to draw the jealous states of Greece into a common and perpetual league, maintained against all invaders by a standing force of one thousand cavalry, one hundred ships, and ten thousand heavy-armed infantry.
More important than the Aristeia, if the spirit had been properly maintained, were certain privileges then granted to Plataea. Later, in a meeting of the allies, Aristides proposed that representatives from the Greek states should be sent every year to sacrifice to Jupiter the Deliverer and discuss the political matters of Greece. Every fifth year, games should be held in honor of Liberty; meanwhile, the Plataeans, who were exempt from military service, would be considered a sacred and untouchable people as long as they carried out the duties assigned to them. In this way, Plataea effectively became a second Elis—its battlefield another Altis. At the same time, Aristides aimed to implement the broad and thoughtful strategy initiated by Themistocles. He sought to unite the rival states of Greece into a lasting alliance, supported by a standing force of one thousand cavalry, one hundred ships, and ten thousand heavily armed infantry.
XXV. An earnest and deliberate council was now held, in which it was resolved to direct the victorious army against Thebes, and demand the persons of those who had sided with the Mede. Fierce as had been the hostility of that state to the Hellenic liberties, its sin was that of the oligarchy rather than the people. The most eminent of these traitors to Greece were Timagenidas and Attaginus, and the allies resolved to destroy the city unless those chiefs were given up to justice.
XXV. A serious and thoughtful council was held, where it was decided to send the victorious army against Thebes to demand the surrender of those who had allied with the Medes. Although the hostility of that state towards Greek liberties had been intense, their crime was more about the oligarchy than the people. The most notable traitors to Greece were Timagenidas and Attaginus, and the allies agreed to destroy the city unless those leaders were handed over for justice.
On the eleventh day from the battle they sat down before Thebes, and on the refusal of the inhabitants to surrender the chiefs so justly obnoxious, laid waste the Theban lands.
On the eleventh day after the battle, they camped outside Thebes, and when the residents refused to surrender the leaders they rightly despised, they devastated the Theban land.
Whatever we may think of the conduct of Timagenidas in espousing the cause of the invaders of Greece, we must give him the praise of a disinterested gallantry, which will remind the reader of the siege of Calais by Edward III., and the generosity of Eustace de St. Pierre. He voluntarily proposed to surrender himself to the besiegers.
Whatever we might think of Timagenidas’s actions in supporting the invaders of Greece, we have to acknowledge his selfless bravery, which brings to mind the siege of Calais by Edward III and the generosity of Eustace de St. Pierre. He willingly offered to turn himself in to the besiegers.
The offer was accepted: Timagenidas and several others were delivered to Pausanias, removed to Corinth, and there executed—a stern but salutary example. Attaginus saved himself by flight. His children, given up to Pausanias, were immediately dismissed. “Infants,” said the Spartan, “could not possibly have conspired against us with the Mede.”
The offer was accepted: Timagenidas and several others were handed over to Pausanias, taken to Corinth, and executed there—a harsh but necessary lesson. Attaginus escaped by fleeing. His children, turned over to Pausanias, were immediately let go. “Infants,” said the Spartan, “could not possibly have conspired against us with the Mede.”
While Thebes preserved herself from destruction, Artabazus succeeded in effecting his return to Asia, his troop greatly reduced by the attacks of the Thracians, and the excesses of famine and fatigue.
While Thebes saved itself from destruction, Artabazus managed to return to Asia, his troops significantly reduced by the attacks from the Thracians and the harshness of hunger and exhaustion.
XXVI. On the same day as that on which the battle of Plataea crushed the land-forces of Persia, a no less important victory was gained over their fleet at Mycale in Ionia.
XXVI. On the same day that the battle of Plataea defeated the Persian ground forces, an equally significant victory was achieved against their fleet at Mycale in Ionia.
It will be remembered that Leotychides, the Spartan king, and the Athenian Xanthippus, had conducted the Grecian navy to Delos. There anchored, they received a deputation from Samos, among whom was Hegesistratus, the son of Aristagoras. These ambassadors declared that all the Ionians waited only the moment to revolt from the Persian yoke, and that the signal would be found in the first active measures of the Grecian confederates. Leotychides, induced by these representations, received the Samians into the general league, and set sail to Samos. There, drawn up in line of battle, near the temple of Juno, they prepared to hazard an engagement.
It will be remembered that Leotychides, the Spartan king, and Xanthippus from Athens brought the Greek navy to Delos. There, they anchored and met with a delegation from Samos, which included Hegesistratus, the son of Aristagoras. These envoys stated that all the Ionians were just waiting for the right moment to break free from Persian control, and that the signal would come from the first actions taken by the Greek allies. Leotychides, persuaded by these claims, welcomed the Samians into the alliance and set sail for Samos. Once there, they lined up for battle near the temple of Juno, ready to engage in combat.
But the Persians, on their approach, retreated to the continent, in order to strengthen themselves with their land-forces, which, to the amount of sixty thousand, under the command of the Persian Tigranes, Xerxes had stationed at Mycale for the protection of Ionia.
But the Persians, as they advanced, withdrew to the mainland to boost their strength with their ground troops, which numbered sixty thousand, led by the Persian Tigranes. Xerxes had positioned them at Mycale to protect Ionia.
Arrived at Mycale, they drew their ships to land, fortifying them with strong intrenchments and barricades, and then sanguinely awaited the result.
Arrived at Mycale, they brought their ships ashore, reinforcing them with strong defenses and barricades, and then confidently waited for the outcome.
The Greeks, after a short consultation, resolved upon pursuit. Approaching the enemy’s station, they beheld the sea deserted, the ships secured by intrenchments, and long ranks of infantry ranged along the shore. Leotychides, by a herald, exhorted the Ionians in the Persian service to remember their common liberties, and that on the day of battle their watchword would be “Hebe.”
The Greeks, after a quick discussion, decided to pursue. As they got closer to the enemy's position, they saw the sea empty, the ships protected by fortifications, and long lines of infantry lined up along the shore. Leotychides, through a messenger, encouraged the Ionians fighting for the Persians to remember their shared freedoms, and that during the battle, their rallying cry would be "Hebe."
The Persians, distrusting these messages, though uttered in a tongue they understood not, and suspecting the Samians, took their arms from the latter; and, desirous of removing the Milesians to a distance, intrusted them with the guard of the paths to the heights of Mycale. Using these precautions against the desertion of their allies, the Persians prepared for battle.
The Persians, suspicious of these messages, even though they were in a language they didn't understand, and wary of the Samians, confiscated their weapons. Wanting to move the Milesians further away, they assigned them to guard the paths leading to the heights of Mycale. Taking these steps to prevent their allies from abandoning them, the Persians got ready for battle.
The Greeks were anxious and fearful not so much for themselves as for their countrymen in Boeotia, opposed to the mighty force of Mardonius. But a report spreading through the camp that a complete victory had been obtained in that territory (an artifice, most probably, of Leotychides), animated their courage and heightened their hopes.
The Greeks were worried and scared, not really for themselves but for their fellow countrymen in Boeotia, who were up against the powerful army of Mardonius. However, when news spread through the camp that a total victory had been achieved in that region (likely a trick by Leotychides), it boosted their courage and raised their hopes.
The Athenians, who, with the troops of Corinth, Sicyon, and Troezene, formed half the army, advanced by the coast and along the plain—the Lacedaemonians by the more steep and wooded courses; and while the latter were yet on their march, the Athenians were already engaged at the intrenchments (Battle of Mycale, September, B. C. 479).
The Athenians, along with the troops from Corinth, Sicyon, and Troezene, made up half the army. They moved along the coast and through the plain, while the Lacedaemonians took the steeper and more wooded routes. By the time the latter were still on their way, the Athenians were already involved in the defenses (Battle of Mycale, September, B.C. 479).
Inspired not more by enmity than emulation, the Athenians urged each other to desperate feats—that they, and not the Spartans, might have the honours of the day. They poured fiercely on—after an obstinate and equal conflict, drove back the foe to the barricades that girt their ships, stormed the intrenchments, carried the wall, and, rushing in with their allies, put the barbarians to disorderly and rapid flight. The proper Persians, though but few in number, alone stood their ground—and even when Tigranes himself was slain, resolutely fought on until the Lacedaemonians entered the intrenchment, and all who had survived the Athenian, perished by the Spartan, sword.
Motivated more by rivalry than anger, the Athenians pushed each other to achieve incredible feats so that they could win the day instead of the Spartans. They charged forward fiercely—after a stubborn and evenly matched fight, they forced the enemy back to the barricades surrounding their ships, attacked the fortifications, captured the wall, and, rushing in with their allies, sent the barbarians into a chaotic and swift retreat. The proper Persians, although few in number, held their ground—and even when Tigranes was killed, they fought bravely until the Spartans entered the fortifications, and all who survived the Athenian assault fell to the Spartan sword.
The disarmed Samians, as soon as the fortunes of the battle became apparent, gave all the assistance they could render to the Greeks; the other Ionians seized the same opportunity to revolt and turn their arms against their allies. In the mountain defiles the Milesians intercepted their own fugitive allies, consigning them to the Grecian sword, and active beyond the rest in their slaughter. So relentless and so faithless are men, compelled to servitude, when the occasion summons them to be free.
The disarmed Samians, as soon as it became clear how the battle was going, did everything they could to help the Greeks; the other Ionians took the same chance to rebel and turned their weapons against their allies. In the mountain passes, the Milesians caught their own fleeing allies and handed them over to the Greek soldiers, being particularly aggressive in their slaughter. So ruthless and so untrustworthy are people forced into servitude when the chance arises for them to be free.
XXVII. This battle, in which the Athenians were pre-eminently distinguished, was followed up by the conflagration of the Persian ships and the collection of the plunder. The Greeks then retired to Samos. Here deliberating, it was proposed by the Peloponnesian leaders that Ionia should henceforth, as too dangerous and remote to guard, be abandoned to the barbarian, and that, in recompense, the Ionians should be put into possession of the maritime coasts of those Grecian states which had sided with the Mede. The Athenians resisted so extreme a proposition, and denied the power of the Peloponnesians to dispose of Athenian colonies. The point was surrendered by the Peloponnesians; the Ionians of the continent were left to make their own terms with the barbarian, but the inhabitants of the isles which had assisted against the Mede were received into the general confederacy, bound by a solemn pledge never to desert it. The fleet then sailed to the Hellespont, with the design to destroy the bridge, which they believed still existent. Finding it, however, already broken, Leotychides and the Peloponnesians returned to Greece. The Athenians resolved to attempt the recovery of the colony of Miltiades in the Chersonese. The Persians collected their whole remaining force at the strongest hold in that peninsula—the Athenians laid siege to it (begun in the autumn, B. C. 479, concluded in the spring, B. C. 478), and, after enduring a famine so obstinate that the cordage, or rather straps, of their bedding were consumed for food, the Persians evacuated the town, which the inhabitants then cheerfully surrendered.
XXVII. This battle, where the Athenians stood out the most, was followed by the burning of the Persian ships and the gathering of the loot. The Greeks then withdrew to Samos. While here, the Peloponnesian leaders suggested that Ionia should be abandoned to the barbarian, as it was too dangerous and far to protect, and that in return, the Ionians should take control of the coastal areas of those Greek states that had allied with the Mede. The Athenians opposed such an extreme proposal and claimed that the Peloponnesians had no authority over Athenian colonies. The Peloponnesians conceded this point; the Ionians on the mainland were left to negotiate their own terms with the barbarian, but the inhabitants of the islands that had helped against the Mede were welcomed into the wider coalition, bound by a serious promise never to abandon it. The fleet then set sail for the Hellespont, intending to destroy the bridge they believed was still there. However, when they found it already broken, Leotychides and the Peloponnesians returned to Greece. The Athenians decided to try to reclaim the colony of Miltiades in the Chersonese. The Persians gathered their remaining forces at the strongest fortress in that peninsula—the Athenians laid siege to it (beginning in the autumn of 479 BC and ending in the spring of 478 BC), and after facing such severe famine that they even ate the cordage, or rather straps, of their bedding, the Persians evacuated the town, which the inhabitants then willingly surrendered.
Thus concluding their victories, the Athenians returned to Greece, carrying with them a vast treasure, and, not the least precious relics, the fragments and cables of the Hellespontic bridge, to be suspended in their temples.
Thus concluding their victories, the Athenians returned to Greece, carrying with them a vast treasure and, among the most prized items, the fragments and cables of the Hellespontic bridge, to be hung in their temples.
XXVIII. Lingering at Sardis, Xerxes beheld the scanty and exhausted remnants of his mighty force, the fugitives of the fatal days of Mycale and Plataea. The army over which he had wept in the zenith of his power, had fulfilled the prediction of his tears: and the armed might of Media and Egypt, of Lydia and Assyria, was now no more!
XXVIII. While staying in Sardis, Xerxes saw the small and worn-out remnants of his once-great army, the survivors from the disastrous battles of Mycale and Plataea. The army he had mourned during his peak had lived up to the prophecy of his tears: the military strength of Media, Egypt, Lydia, and Assyria was now gone!
So concluded the great Persian invasion—that war the most memorable in the history of mankind, whether from the vastness or from the failure of its designs. We now emerge from the poetry that belongs to early Greece, through the mists of which the forms of men assume proportions as gigantic as indistinct. The enchanting Herodotus abandons us, and we do not yet permanently acquire, in the stead of his romantic and wild fidelity, the elaborate and sombre statesmanship of the calm Thucydides. Henceforth we see more of the beautiful and the wise, less of the wonderful and vast. What the heroic age is to tradition, the Persian invasion is to history.
So ended the great Persian invasion—this war that stands out the most in human history, both for its enormity and for the failure of its objectives. We now move beyond the poetry of early Greece, where the figures of men take on shapes that are both enormous and vague. The captivating Herodotus leaves us, and we don’t yet fully embrace, in place of his romantic and wild loyalty, the complex and serious statesmanship of the composed Thucydides. From now on, we will see more of the beautiful and the wise, and less of the remarkable and the immense. Just as the heroic age signifies tradition, the Persian invasion signifies history.
BOOK IV.
FROM THE END OF THE PERSIAN INVASION TO THE DEATH OF CIMON. B. C. 479—B. C. 449.
FROM THE END OF THE PERSIAN INVASION TO THE DEATH OF CIMON. B.C. 479—B.C. 449.
CHAPTER I.
Remarks on the Effects of War.—State of Athens.—Interference of Sparta with respect to the Fortifications of Athens.—Dexterous Conduct of Themistocles.—The New Harbour of the Piraeus.—Proposition of the Spartans in the Amphictyonic Council defeated by Themistocles. —Allied Fleet at Cyprus and Byzantium.—Pausanias.—Alteration in his Character.—His ambitious Views and Treason.—The Revolt of the Ionians from the Spartan Command.—Pausanias recalled.—Dorcis replaces him.—The Athenians rise to the Head of the Ionian League.— Delos made the Senate and Treasury of the Allies.—Able and prudent Management of Aristides.—Cimon succeeds to the Command of the Fleet. —Character of Cimon.—Eion besieged.—Scyros colonized by Atticans.— Supposed Discovery of the Bones of Theseus.—Declining Power of Themistocles.—Democratic Change in the Constitution.—Themistocles ostracised.—Death of Aristides.
Remarks on the Effects of War.—State of Athens.—Interference of Sparta regarding the Fortifications of Athens.—Smart Tactics of Themistocles.—The New Harbour of Piraeus.—Spartan Proposal in the Amphictyonic Council blocked by Themistocles.—Allied Fleet at Cyprus and Byzantium.—Pausanias.—Change in his Character.—His Ambitious Goals and Betrayal.—The Ionian Revolt against Spartan Control.—Pausanias recalled.—Dorcis takes his place.—The Athenians rise to Leadership in the Ionian League.—Delos becomes the Senate and Treasury of the Allies.—Effective and Wise Leadership of Aristides.—Cimon takes over Command of the Fleet.—Character of Cimon.—Eion under Siege.—Scyros Colonized by Athenians.—Alleged Discovery of Theseus's Bones.—Themistocles's Diminishing Power.—Shift to a More Democratic Constitution.—Themistocles Ostracized.—Death of Aristides.
I. It is to the imperishable honour of the French philosophers of the last century, that, above all the earlier teachers of mankind, they advocated those profound and permanent interests of the human race which are inseparably connected with a love of PEACE; that they stripped the image of WAR of the delusive glory which it took, in the primitive ages of society, from the passions of savages and the enthusiasm of poets, and turned our contemplation from the fame of the individual hero to the wrongs of the butchered millions. But their zeal for that HUMANITY, which those free and bold thinkers were the first to make the vital principle of a philosophical school, led them into partial and hasty views, too indiscriminately embraced by their disciples; and, in condemning the evils, they forgot the advantages of war. The misfortunes of one generation are often necessary to the prosperity of another. The stream of blood fertilizes the earth over which it flows, and war has been at once the scourge and the civilizer of the world: sometimes it enlightens the invader, sometimes the invaded; and forces into sudden and brilliant action the arts and the virtues that are stimulated by the invention of necessity—matured by the energy of distress. What adversity is to individuals, war often is to nations: uncertain in its consequences, it is true that, with some, it subdues and crushes, but with others it braces and exalts. Nor are the greater and more illustrious elements of character in men or in states ever called prominently forth, without something of that bitter and sharp experience which hardens the more robust properties of the mind, which refines the more subtle and sagacious. Even when these—the armed revolutions of the world—are most terrible in their results—destroying the greatness and the liberties of one people— they serve, sooner or later, to produce a counteracting rise and progress in the fortunes of another; as the sea here advances, there recedes, swallowing up the fertilities of this shore to increase the territories of that; and fulfilling, in its awful and appalling agency, that mandate of human destinies which ordains all things to be changed and nothing to be destroyed. Without the invasion of Persia, Greece might have left no annals, and the modern world might search in vain for inspirations from the ancient.
I. The enduring legacy of the French philosophers of the last century lies in their advocacy for the deep and lasting interests of humanity, closely tied to a love of PEACE. They removed the misleading glory that WAR had gained from the savage passions and poetic fervor of earlier societies, shifting our focus from the fame of individual heroes to the suffering of the countless victims. However, their passion for HUMANITY, which these free-thinking pioneers made the core of their philosophical approach, led them to adopt narrow and rash perspectives that were too readily accepted by their followers. In denouncing the horrors of war, they overlooked its benefits. The challenges faced by one generation often pave the way for another's success. The bloodshed can nourish the land it spills on, and war has been both a scourge and a force for civilization: sometimes enlightening the aggressor, sometimes the defenders; it triggers rapid and extraordinary developments in the arts and virtues spurred by urgent needs – refined by the strain of hardship. What adversity is for individuals, war often becomes for nations: unpredictable in its outcomes, it's true it can debilitate and destroy some, while invigorating and elevating others. The greatest qualities of character in individuals or states are rarely brought forth without the harsh lessons that strengthen and hone the mind's resilience and wisdom. Even when global upheavals bring terrible consequences—crushing the greatness and freedoms of one people—they can also trigger a resurgence and advancement in another's fortunes; just as the sea ebbs and flows, taking away the fertility of one shore to expand the land of another, illustrating the relentless nature of human destiny that dictates change rather than destruction. Without the invasion of Persia, Greece might not have had a significant historical legacy, and the modern world could struggle to find inspiration in the past.
II. When the deluge of the Persian arms rolled back to its Eastern bed, and the world was once more comparatively at rest, the continent of Greece rose visibly and majestically above the rest of the civilized earth. Afar in the Latian plains, the infant state of Rome was silently and obscurely struggling into strength against the neighbouring and petty states in which the old Etrurian civilization was rapidly passing to decay. The genius of Gaul and Germany, yet unredeemed from barbarism, lay scarce known, save where colonized by Greeks, in the gloom of its woods and wastes. The pride of Carthage had been broken by a signal defeat in Sicily; and Gelo, the able and astute tyrant of Syracuse, maintained in a Grecian colony the splendour of the Grecian name.
II. When the wave of Persian military power receded back to its Eastern origins, and the world was relatively at peace again, the continent of Greece stood out clearly and magnificently from the rest of the civilized world. In the distant Latian plains, the young state of Rome was quietly and inconspicuously gaining strength against the neighboring small states where the old Etruscan civilization was rapidly fading away. The potential of Gaul and Germany, still trapped in barbarism, was hardly recognized, except where they had been colonized by Greeks, buried in the shadows of their forests and wastelands. The pride of Carthage had been shattered by a significant defeat in Sicily; and Gelo, the skilled and clever ruler of Syracuse, upheld the glory of the Greek name in a Greek colony.
The ambition of Persia, still the great monarchy of the world, was permanently checked and crippled; the strength of generations had been wasted, and the immense extent of the empire only served yet more to sustain the general peace, from the exhaustion of its forces. The defeat of Xerxes paralyzed the East.
The ambition of Persia, still the dominant monarchy in the world, was permanently halted and weakened; the strength of generations had been squandered, and the vast size of the empire only helped to maintain overall peace, due to the exhaustion of its forces. The defeat of Xerxes left the East powerless.
Thus Greece was left secure, and at liberty to enjoy the tranquillity it had acquired, and to direct to the arts of peace the novel and amazing energies which had been prompted by the dangers and exalted by the victories of war.
Thus, Greece was left safe and free to enjoy the peace it had gained, and to channel the new and impressive energy sparked by the threats and heightened by the victories of war into peaceful pursuits.
III. The Athenians, now returned to their city, saw before them the arduous task of rebuilding its ruins and restoring its wasted lands. The vicissitudes of the war had produced many silent and internal as well as exterior changes. Many great fortunes had been broken; and the ancient spirit of the aristocracy had received no inconsiderable shock in the power of new families; the fame of the baseborn and democratic Themistocles, and the victories which a whole people had participated, broke up much of the prescriptive and venerable sanctity attached to ancestral names and to particular families. This was salutary to the spirit of enterprise in all classes. The ambition of the great was excited to restore, by some active means, their broken fortunes and decaying influence—the energies of the humbler ranks, already aroused by their new importance, were stimulated to maintain and to increase it. It was the very crisis in which a new direction might be given to the habits and the character of a whole people; and to seize all the advantages of that crisis, fate, in Themistocles, had allotted to Athens a man whose qualities were not only pre-eminently great in themselves, but peculiarly adapted to the circumstances of the time. And, as I have elsewhere remarked, it is indeed the nature and prerogative of free states to concentrate the popular will into something of the unity of despotism, by producing, one after another, a series of representatives of the wants and exigences of the hour— each leading his generation, but only while he sympathizes with its will; and either baffling or succeeded by his rivals, not in proportion as he excels or he is outshone in genius, but as he gives or ceases to give to the widest range of the legislative power the most concentrated force of the executive; thus uniting the desires of the greatest number under the administration of the narrowest possible control; the constitution popular—the government absolute, but, responsible.
III. The Athenians, back in their city, faced the tough job of rebuilding its destroyed areas and restoring its depleted lands. The ups and downs of the war had brought about many quiet, internal, and external changes. Many great fortunes had been shattered, and the traditional power of the aristocracy had been significantly challenged by new families. The rise of the commoner and democratic Themistocles, along with the victories that involved the whole population, diminished much of the longstanding respect associated with family names and legacies. This was beneficial for encouraging entrepreneurial spirit across all social classes. The ambition of the wealthy was sparked to restore their shattered fortunes and declining influence, while the energies of the lower classes, already stirred by their newfound significance, were motivated to maintain and expand it. This was a critical moment to shift the habits and character of an entire people; and to capture the opportunities of this moment, fate had given Athens a leader in Themistocles, whose qualities were not only remarkably impressive in their own right but also particularly suited to the times. As I noted elsewhere, it is indeed the nature and privilege of free states to channel the popular will into something resembling the unity of despotism by producing a series of representatives that address the current needs and demands—each leading their generation as long as they align with its will; and either being outmatched or replaced by rivals, not based on their brilliance or overshadowing talent, but on how well they provide the broadest powers of legislation with the most concentrated execution; thus bringing together the desires of the majority under the narrowest possible control; the constitution is popular—the government is absolute but, accountable.
IV. In the great events of the late campaign, we have lost sight of the hero of Salamis 116. But the Persian war was no sooner ended than we find Themistocles the most prominent citizen of Athens—a sufficient proof that his popularity had not yet diminished, and that his absence from Plataea was owing to no popular caprice or party triumph.
IV. In the significant events of the recent campaign, we have overlooked the hero of Salamis 116. However, as soon as the Persian war was over, we see Themistocles as the most prominent citizen of Athens—clear evidence that his popularity had not faded, and that his absence from Plataea wasn't due to any popular whim or party victory.
V. In the sweeping revenge of Mardonius, even private houses had been destroyed, excepting those which had served as lodgments for the Persian nobles 117. Little of the internal city, less of the outward walls was spared. As soon as the barbarians had quitted their territory, the citizens flocked back with their slaves and families from the various places of refuge; and the first care was to rebuild the city. They were already employed upon this necessary task, when ambassadors arrived from Sparta, whose vigilant government, ever jealous of a rival, beheld with no unreasonable alarm the increasing navy and the growing fame of a people hitherto undeniably inferior to the power of Lacedaemon. And the fear that was secretly cherished by that imperious nation was yet more anxiously nursed by the subordinate allies 118. Actuated by their own and the general apprehensions, the Spartans therefore now requested the Athenians to desist from the erection of their walls. Nor was it without a certain grace, and a plausible excuse, that the government of a city, itself unwalled, inveighed against the policy of walls for Athens. The Spartan ambassadors urged that fortified towns would become strongholds to the barbarian, should he again invade them; and the walls of Athens might be no less useful to him than he had found the ramparts of Thebes. The Peloponnesus, they asserted, was the legitimate retreat and the certain resource of all; and, unwilling to appear exclusively jealous of Athens, they requested the Athenians not only to desist from their own fortifications, but to join with them in razing every fortification without the limit of the Peloponnesus.
V. In Mardonius's widespread revenge, even private homes were destroyed, except for those that had housed Persian nobles 117. Little of the inner city and even less of the outer walls were spared. As soon as the invaders left their territory, the citizens returned with their slaves and families from various safe places; their first priority was to rebuild the city. They were already busy with this crucial task when ambassadors from Sparta arrived. Spartan leaders, always wary of competitors, were understandably alarmed at the growing navy and rising reputation of a people who had previously been clearly weaker than Sparta. The concerns held by that dominant nation were compounded by their subordinate allies 118. Driven by their own fears and those of the general populace, the Spartans now asked the Athenians to stop building their walls. It was rather ironic that a city without walls criticized Athens for their fortifications. The Spartan ambassadors argued that fortified towns would serve as strongholds for the invaders if they attacked again; the walls of Athens could be just as advantageous for the enemy as the ramparts of Thebes had been. They claimed that the Peloponnesus was the rightful refuge and the guaranteed resource for everyone, and to avoid appearing solely envious of Athens, they requested that the Athenians not only abandon their own construction efforts but also join them in demolishing all fortifications outside the Peloponnesus.
It required not a genius so penetrating as that of Themistocles to divine at once the motive of the demand, and the danger of a peremptory refusal. He persuaded the Athenians to reply that they would send ambassadors to debate the affair; and dismissed the Spartans without further explanation. Themistocles next recommended to the senate 119 that he himself might be one of the ambassadors sent to Sparta, and that those associated with him in the mission (for it was not the custom of Greece to vest embassies in individuals) should be detained at Athens until the walls were carried to a height sufficient, at least, for ordinary defence. He urged his countrymen to suspend for this great task the completion of all private edifices —nay, to spare no building, private or public, from which materials might be adequately selected. The whole population, slaves, women, and children, were to assist in the labour.
It didn't take a genius like Themistocles to quickly figure out the reason behind the request and the risk of outright refusal. He convinced the Athenians to say they would send ambassadors to discuss the matter and sent the Spartans away without further explanation. Themistocles then suggested to the senate 119 that he personally should be one of the ambassadors sent to Sparta, and that those traveling with him (since it wasn't common in Greece to send individuals on such missions) should be held back in Athens until the city walls were built up to a level that provided at least basic defense. He urged his fellow citizens to pause the completion of all private buildings for this important task—he even suggested they shouldn’t spare any structure, public or private, that could provide useful materials. The entire population, including slaves, women, and children, were to help with the work.
VI. This counsel adopted, he sketched an outline of the conduct he himself intended to pursue, and departed for Sparta. His colleagues, no less important than Aristides, and Abronychus, a distinguished officer in the late war, were to follow at the time agreed on.
VI. With this advice accepted, he outlined the actions he planned to take and left for Sparta. His colleagues, just as significant as Aristides, and Abronychus, a respected officer from the recent war, were to join him at the agreed time.
Arrived in the Laconian capital, Themistocles demanded no public audience, avoided all occasions of opening the questions in dispute, and screened the policy of delay beneath the excuse that his colleagues were not yet arrived—that he was incompetent to treat without their counsel and concurrence—and that doubtless they would speedily appear in Sparta.
Arrived in the capital of Laconia, Themistocles asked for no public audience, avoided any chance to address the ongoing disputes, and concealed his strategy of postponement behind the excuse that his colleagues hadn’t arrived yet—that he wasn’t able to negotiate without their advice and agreement—and that they would certainly show up in Sparta soon.
When we consider the shortness of the distance between the states, the communications the Spartans would receive from the neighbouring Aeginetans, more jealous than themselves, and the astute and proverbial sagacity of the Spartan council—it is impossible to believe that, for so long a period as, with the greatest expedition, must have elapsed from the departure of Themistocles to the necessary progress in the fortifications, the ephors could have been ignorant of the preparations at Athens or the designs of Themistocles. I fear, therefore, that we must believe, with Theopompus 120, that Themistocles, the most expert briber of his time, heightened that esteem which Thucydides assures us the Spartans bore him, by private and pecuniary negotiations with the ephors. At length, however, such decided and unequivocal intelligence of the progress of the walls arrived at Sparta, that the ephors could no longer feel or affect incredulity.
When we think about how close the states are to each other, the communication the Spartans would get from the neighboring Aeginetans, who were even more jealous than they were, and the cleverness and well-known wisdom of the Spartan council—it’s hard to believe that, considering how much time must have passed since Themistocles left, the ephors could have stayed unaware of the preparations in Athens or Themistocles' plans. So, I fear we have to agree with Theopompus 120 that Themistocles, the most skilled briber of his time, boosted the high regard that Thucydides says the Spartans had for him through private and financial deals with the ephors. However, eventually, the news about the progress of the walls became so clear and undeniable that the ephors could no longer pretend to be skeptical.
Themistocles met the remonstrances of the Spartans by an appearance of candour mingled with disdain. “Why,” said he, “give credit to these idle rumours? Send to Athens some messengers of your own, in whom you can confide; let them inspect matters with their own eyes, and report to you accordingly.”
Themistocles responded to the Spartans' objections with a mix of openness and disdain. “Why,” he said, “believe these pointless rumors? Send your own messengers to Athens, people you trust; let them see things for themselves and report back to you.”
The ephors (not unreluctantly, if the assertion of Theopompus may be credited) yielded to so plausible a suggestion, and in the mean while the crafty Athenian despatched a secret messenger to Athens, urging the government to detain the Spartan ambassadors with as little semblance of design as possible, and by no means to allow their departure until the safe return of their own mission to Sparta. For it was by no means improbable that, without such hostages, even the ephors, however powerful and however influenced, might not be enabled, when the Spartans generally were made acquainted with the deceit practised upon them, to prevent the arrest of the Athenian delegates. 121
The ephors (not without some hesitation, if we can believe Theopompus) agreed to such a convincing proposal, and in the meantime, the cunning Athenian sent a secret messenger to Athens, urging the government to keep the Spartan ambassadors detained with as little appearance of intent as possible, and definitely not to let them leave until their own mission returned safely from Sparta. For it was very likely that, without such hostages, even the ephors, no matter how powerful or influenced, might not be able to prevent the arrest of the Athenian delegates once the Spartans found out about the trick played on them. 121
At length the walls, continued night and day with incredible zeal and toil, were sufficiently completed; and disguise, no longer possible, was no longer useful. Themistocles demanded the audience he had hitherto deferred, and boldly avowed that Athens was now so far fortified as to protect its citizens. “In future,” he added, haughtily, “when Sparta or our other confederates send ambassadors to Athens, let them address us as a people well versed in our own interests and the interests of our common Greece. When we deserted Athens for our ships, we required and obtained no Lacedaemonian succours to support our native valour; in all subsequent measures, to whom have we shown ourselves inferior, whether in the council or the field? At present we have judged it expedient to fortify our city, rendering it thus more secure for ourselves and our allies. Nor would it be possible, with a strength inferior to that of any rival power, adequately to preserve and equally to adjust the balance of the liberties of Greece.” 122
At last, the walls, built day and night with incredible effort and dedication, were complete enough; and with no way left to hide, it was no longer useful. Themistocles called for the audience he had previously postponed and confidently declared that Athens was now fortified enough to protect its citizens. “From now on,” he added arrogantly, “when Sparta or our other allies send ambassadors to Athens, let them speak to us as a people who understand our own interests and those of our shared Greece. When we abandoned Athens for our ships, we didn’t need help from Lacedaemon to support our courage; in every decision since then, who have we shown ourselves to be inferior to, whether in discussions or in battle? Right now, we have decided to fortify our city, making it safer for ourselves and our allies. And it wouldn’t be possible, with less strength than any rival power, to maintain and equally balance the liberties of Greece.” 122
Contending for this equality, he argued that either all the cities in the Lacedaemonian league should be dismantled of their fortresses, or that it should be conceded, that in erecting fortresses for herself Athens had rightly acted.
Contending for this equality, he argued that either all the cities in the Lacedaemonian league should have their fortresses taken down, or it should be accepted that Athens acted rightly in building fortresses for itself.
VII. The profound and passionless policy of Sparta forbade all outward signs of unavailing and unreasonable resentment. The Spartans, therefore, replied with seeming courtesy, that “in their embassy they had not sought to dictate, but to advise—that their object was the common good;” and they accompanied their excuses with professions of friendship for Athens, and panegyrics on the Athenian valour in the recent war. But the anger they forbore to show only rankled the more bitterly within. 123
VII. The serious and emotionless policy of Sparta prohibited any outward displays of pointless and excessive anger. Consequently, the Spartans responded with apparent politeness, saying that “in their mission they hadn’t aimed to impose, but to offer guidance—that their goal was the common good;” and they backed up their apologies with claims of friendship for Athens and praise for the Athenian bravery in the recent war. However, the anger they restrained only festered more intensely inside. 123
The ambassadors of either state returned home; and thus the mingled firmness and craft of Themistocles, so well suited to the people with whom he had to deal, preserved his country from the present jealousies of a yet more deadly and implacable foe than the Persian king, and laid the foundation of that claim of equality with the most eminent state of Greece, which he hastened to strengthen and enlarge.
The ambassadors from both states went back home; and so, the combination of determination and cleverness in Themistocles, which was perfectly suited to the people he was dealing with, kept his country safe from the current jealousies of an even more dangerous and relentless enemy than the Persian king, and set the stage for that claim of equality with the most prominent state in Greece, which he worked quickly to strengthen and expand.
The ardour of the Athenians in their work of fortification had spared no material which had the recommendation of strength. The walls everywhere presented, and long continued to exhibit, an evidence of the haste in which they were built. Motley and rough hewn, and uncouthly piled, they recalled, age after age, to the traveller the name of the ablest statesman and the most heroic days of Athens. There, at frequent intervals, would he survey stones wrought in the rude fashion of former times—ornaments borrowed from the antique edifices demolished by the Mede—and frieze and column plucked from dismantled sepulchres; so that even the dead contributed from their tombs to the defence of Athens.
The passion of the Athenians in building their fortifications left no strong materials unused. The walls everywhere showed, and for a long time continued to show, clear evidence of the rush in which they were constructed. Jumbled together and roughly hewn, they reminded travelers, generation after generation, of the greatest statesman and the most heroic days of Athens. At regular intervals, they would see stones crafted in the primitive style of earlier times—decorations taken from the ancient buildings destroyed by the Persians—and friezes and columns pulled from ruined tombs; even the dead contributed from their graves to the defense of Athens.
VIII. Encouraged by the new popularity and honours which followed the success of his mission, Themistocles now began to consummate the vast schemes he had formed, not only for the aggrandizement of his country, but for the change in the manners of the citizens. All that is left to us of this wonderful man proves that, if excelled by others in austere virtue or in dazzling accomplishment, he stands unrivalled for the profound and far-sighted nature of his policy. He seems, unlike most of his brilliant countrymen, to have been little influenced by the sallies of impulse or the miserable expediencies of faction—his schemes denote a mind acting on gigantic systems; and it is astonishing with what virtuous motives and with what prophetic art he worked through petty and (individually considered) dishonest means to grand and permanent results. He stands out to the gaze of time, the model of what a great and fortunate statesman should be, so long as mankind have evil passions as well as lofty virtues, and the state that he seeks to serve is surrounded by powerful and restless foes, whom it is necessary to overreach where it is dangerous to offend.
VIII. Inspired by the newfound popularity and honors that followed the success of his mission, Themistocles began to pursue the ambitious plans he had formed, not just for the advancement of his country but also for changing the behavior of its citizens. Everything we have left of this remarkable man shows that, while he may have been outshone by others in strict virtue or impressive achievements, he remains unmatched for the depth and foresight of his policies. Unlike most of his exceptional countrymen, he seemed less swayed by sudden impulses or the unfortunate compromises of political factions—his plans reflect a mind working on a grand scale. It’s astonishing how, with virtuous intentions and prophetic skill, he navigated through small and often questionable methods to achieve significant and lasting results. He stands out through history as the ideal of what a great and fortunate statesman should be, as long as humanity harbors both destructive passions and noble virtues, and the state he aims to serve is confronted by powerful and restless enemies, whom it is crucial to outmaneuver rather than provoke.
In the year previous to the Persian war, Themistocles had filled the office of archon 124, and had already in that year planned the construction of a harbour in the ancient deme of Piraeus 125, for the convenience of the fleet which Athens had formed. Late events had frustrated the continuance of the labour, and Themistocles now resolved to renew and complete it, probably on a larger and more elaborate scale.
In the year before the Persian war, Themistocles served as archon 124, and had already planned the construction of a harbor in the old district of Piraeus 125, to support the fleet that Athens had assembled. Recent events had halted the progress of the work, and now Themistocles decided to restart and finish it, likely on a bigger and more detailed scale.
The port of Phalerun had hitherto been the main harbour of Athens—one wholly inadequate to the new navy she had acquired; another inlet, Munychia, was yet more inconvenient. But equally at hand was the capacious, though neglected port of Piraeus, so formed by nature as to permit of a perfect fortification against a hostile fleet. Of Piraeus, therefore, Themistocles now designed to construct the most ample and the most advantageous harbour throughout all Greece. He looked upon this task as the foundation of his favourite and most ambitious project, viz., the securing to Athens the sovereignty of the sea. 126
The port of Phaleron had previously been the main harbor of Athens, but it was completely inadequate for the new navy she had gained; another inlet, Munychia, was even less convenient. However, there was also the spacious yet neglected port of Piraeus, which was naturally suited for perfect fortification against an enemy fleet. Therefore, Themistocles aimed to build the largest and most advantageous harbor in all of Greece at Piraeus. He viewed this project as the foundation of his favorite and most ambitious goal: securing Athens' dominance over the sea. 126
The completion of the port—the increased navy which the construction of the new harbour would induce—the fame already acquired by Athens in maritime warfare, encouraging attention to naval discipline and tactics—proffered a splendid opening to the ambition of a people at once enterprising and commercial. Themistocles hoped that the results of his policy would enable the Athenians to gain over their own offspring, the Ionian colonies, and by their means to deliver from the Persian yoke, and permanently attach to the Athenian interest, all the Asiatic Greeks. Extending his views, he beheld the various insular states united to Athens by a vast maritime power, severing themselves from Lacedaemon, and following the lead of the Attican republic. He saw his native city thus supplanting, by a naval force, the long-won pre-eminence and iron supremacy of Sparta upon land, and so extending her own empire, while she sapped secretly and judiciously the authority of the most formidable of her rivals.
The completion of the port—the larger navy that building the new harbor would bring—the reputation Athens had already earned in naval warfare, which promoted focus on naval discipline and tactics—created an excellent opportunity for the ambition of a people that were both entrepreneurial and commercial. Themistocles hoped that the outcomes of his policies would allow the Athenians to win over their own descendants, the Ionian colonies, and through them, free all the Asiatic Greeks from Persian control, permanently aligning them with Athenian interests. Expanding his vision, he saw the various island states uniting with Athens through a strong naval force, breaking away from Sparta, and following the lead of the Athenian republic. He envisioned his hometown surpassing Sparta's long-held dominance on land with naval power, thereby expanding its own empire while subtly and strategically undermining the authority of its most formidable rival.
IX. But in the execution of these grand designs Themistocles could not but anticipate considerable difficulties: first, in the jealousy of the Spartans; and, secondly, in the popular and long-rooted prejudices of the Athenians themselves. Hitherto they had discouraged maritime affairs, and their more popular leaders had directed attention to agricultural pursuits. We may suppose, too, that the mountaineers, or agricultural party, not the least powerful, would resist so great advantages to the faction of the coastmen, if acquainted with all the results which the new policy would produce. Nor could so experienced a leader of mankind be insensible of those often not insalutary consequences of a free state in the changing humours of a wide democracy—their impatience at pecuniary demands— their quick and sometimes uncharitable apprehensions of the motives of their advisers. On all accounts it was necessary, therefore, to act with as much caution as the task would admit—rendering the design invidious neither to foreign nor to domestic jealousies. Themistocles seemed to have steered his course through every difficulty with his usual address. Stripping the account of Diodorus 127 of its improbable details, it appears credible at least that Themistocles secured, in the first instance, the co-operation of Xanthippus and Aristides, the heads of the great parties generally opposed to his measures, and that he won the democracy to consent that the outline of his schemes should not be submitted to the popular assembly, but to the council of Five Hundred. It is perfectly clear, however, that, as soon as the plan was carried into active operation, the Athenians could not, as Diodorus would lead us to suppose, have been kept in ignorance of its nature; and all of the tale of Diodorus to which we can lend our belief is, that the people permitted the Five Hundred to examine the project, and that the popular assembly ratified the approbation of that senate without inquiring the reasons upon which it was founded.
IX. However, in carrying out these ambitious plans, Themistocles couldn’t help but foresee significant challenges: first, the jealousy of the Spartans; and second, the longstanding biases of the Athenians themselves. Until then, they had discouraged maritime activities, and their more popular leaders had focused on farming. We can also assume that the mountain dwellers, or the agricultural faction, who had considerable power, would oppose such major benefits for the coastal group if they were aware of all the outcomes that the new policy would bring. An experienced leader like him couldn’t be blind to the often troublesome effects of a free state in the shifting moods of a large democracy—their impatience with financial demands and their quick, sometimes unfair, suspicions about their advisers’ motives. For these reasons, it was essential to proceed with as much caution as the situation would allow—making the plan unobjectionable to both foreign and domestic rivalries. Themistocles appeared to navigate every obstacle with his usual skill. Stripping the account from Diodorus of its unlikely details, it seems believable that Themistocles first secured the cooperation of Xanthippus and Aristides, the leaders of major parties usually opposed to his actions, and that he convinced the democracy to agree that the details of his plans should not be presented to the popular assembly but to the council of Five Hundred. It’s very clear, however, that once the plan was put into action, the Athenians couldn’t have been kept in the dark about what it involved, contrary to what Diodorus suggests. The only part of Diodorus’s account we can accept is that the people allowed the Five Hundred to review the project, and that the popular assembly approved the Senate's endorsement without asking for the reasons behind it.
X. The next care of Themistocles was to anticipate the jealousy of Sparta, and forestall her interference. According to Diodorus, he despatched, therefore, ambassadors to Lacedaemon, representing the advantages of forming a port which might be the common shelter of Greece should the barbarian renew his incursions; but it is so obvious that Themistocles could hardly disclose to Sparta the very project he at first concealed from the Athenians, that while we may allow the fact that Themistocles treated with the Spartans, we must give him credit, at least, for more crafty diplomacy than that ascribed to him by Diodorus 128. But whatever the pretexts with which he sought to amuse or beguile the Spartan government, they appear at least to have been successful. And the customary indifference of the Spartans towards maritime affairs was strengthened at this peculiar time by engrossing anxieties as to the conduct of Pausanias. Thus Themistocles, safe alike from foreign and from civil obstacles, pursued with activity the execution of his schemes. The Piraeus was fortified by walls of amazing thickness, so as to admit two carts abreast. Within, the entire structure was composed of solid masonry, hewn square, so that each stone fitted exactly, and was further strengthened on the outside by cramps of iron. The walls were never carried above half the height originally proposed. But the whole was so arranged as to form a fortress against assault, too fondly deemed impregnable, and to be adequately manned by the smallest possible number of citizens; so that the main force might, in time of danger, be spared to the fleet.
X. The next concern for Themistocles was to foresee Sparta's jealousy and prevent any interference. According to Diodorus, he sent ambassadors to Lacedaemon to highlight the benefits of creating a port that could serve as a common refuge for Greece in case the enemy renewed their attacks. However, it's clear that Themistocles couldn't reveal to Sparta the very project he had initially withheld from the Athenians. While we can accept that Themistocles negotiated with the Spartans, we must at least credit him with more cunning diplomacy than Diodorus suggests 128. Regardless of the reasons he used to distract or deceive the Spartan government, they seem to have worked. The usual Spartan indifference towards naval matters was heightened at this particular time by their pressing concerns about Pausanias's actions. Therefore, Themistocles, free from both foreign and domestic challenges, diligently pushed forward with his plans. The Piraeus was reinforced with remarkably thick walls, wide enough for two carts to pass side by side. Inside, the entire structure was made of solid stone, precisely cut so that each piece fit perfectly, and was additionally strengthened on the outside with iron clamps. The walls were never built above half the original proposed height. However, the entire design was intended to create a fortress against attacks, which was overly thought to be impregnable, and to be sufficiently staffed with the fewest number of citizens possible so that the main force could be saved for the fleet in times of danger.
Thus Themistocles created a sea-fortress more important than the city itself, conformably to the advice he frequently gave to the Athenians, that, if hard pressed by land, they should retire to this arsenal, and rely, against all hostilities, on their naval force. 129
Thus Themistocles built a sea-fortress that was more significant than the city itself, following the advice he often gave to the Athenians: that if they were under threat from land, they should retreat to this arsenal and depend on their naval strength to defend against all attacks. 129
The new port, which soon bore the ambitious title of the Lower City, was placed under the directions of Hippodamus, a Milesian, who, according to Aristotle 130, was the first author who, without any knowledge of practical affairs, wrote upon the theory of government. Temples 131, a market-place, even a theatre, distinguished and enriched the new town. And the population that filled it were not long before they contracted and established a character for themselves different in many traits and attributes from the citizens of the ancient Athens—more bold, wayward, innovating, and tumultuous.
The new port, which soon took on the ambitious name of the Lower City, was put under the guidance of Hippodamus, a guy from Miletus, who, according to Aristotle 130, was the first person to write about government theory without any real-world experience. Temples 131, a marketplace, and even a theater set the new town apart and made it more vibrant. The people who settled there quickly developed a reputation that was different in many ways from the citizens of ancient Athens—more daring, unpredictable, innovative, and chaotic.
But if Sparta deemed it prudent, at present, to avoid a direct assumption of influence over Athens, her scheming councils were no less bent, though by indirect and plausible means, to the extension of her own power. To use the simile applied to one of her own chiefs, where the lion’s skin fell short, she sought to eke it by the fox’s.
But if Sparta thought it wise, for now, to steer clear of directly taking control of Athens, its cunning leaders were still intent, though through indirect and believable methods, on expanding their own power. To use the analogy applied to one of their own leaders, where the lion's skin was lacking, they aimed to supplement it with the fox's.
At the assembly of the Amphictyons, the Lacedaemonian delegates moved that all those states who had not joined in the anti-Persic confederacy should be expelled the council. Under this popular and patriotic proposition was sagaciously concealed the increase of the Spartan authority; for had the Thessalians, Argives, and Thebans (voices ever counter to the Lacedaemonians) been expelled the assembly, the Lacedaemonian party would have secured the preponderance of votes, and the absolute dictation of that ancient council. 132
At the meeting of the Amphictyons, the Spartan delegates proposed that any states that hadn’t joined the anti-Persian alliance should be removed from the council. Hidden beneath this popular and patriotic suggestion was a clever move to boost Spartan power; if the Thessalians, Argives, and Thebans—who consistently opposed the Spartans—were expelled from the assembly, the Spartan faction would have gained the majority of votes and complete control over that ancient council. 132
But Themistocles, who seemed endowed with a Spartan sagacity for the foiling the Spartan interests, resisted the proposition by arguments no less popular. He represented to the delegates that it was unjust to punish states for the errors of their leaders—that only thirty-one cities had contributed to the burden of the war, and many of those inconsiderable—that it was equally dangerous and absurd to exclude from the general Grecian councils the great proportion of the Grecian states.
But Themistocles, who had a keen insight into countering Spartan interests, opposed the proposal with equally popular arguments. He told the delegates that it was unfair to punish cities for the mistakes of their leaders—that only thirty-one cities had contributed to the costs of the war, and many of those were insignificant—that it was both risky and ridiculous to exclude a large number of Greek states from the broader Greek assemblies.
The arguments of Themistocles prevailed, but his success stimulated yet more sharply against him the rancour of the Lacedaemonians; and, unable to resist him abroad, they thenceforth resolved to undermine his authority at home.
The arguments of Themistocles won out, but his success only intensified the bitterness of the Lacedaemonians against him; unable to counter him externally, they decided to undermine his power domestically from that point on.
XI. While, his danger invisible, Themistocles was increasing with his own power that of the state, the allies were bent on new enterprises and continued retribution. From Persia, now humbled and exhausted, it was the moment to wrest the Grecian towns, whether in Europe or in Asia, over which she yet arrogated dominion—it was resolved, therefore, to fit out a fleet, to which the Peloponnesus contributed twenty and Athens thirty vessels. Aristides presided over the latter; Pausanias was commander-in-chief; many other of the allies joined the expedition. They sailed to Cyprus, and reduced with ease most of the towns in that island. Thence proceeding to Byzantium, the main strength and citadel of Persia upon those coasts, and the link between her European and Asiatic dominions, they blockaded the town and ultimately carried it.
XI. While his danger was unseen, Themistocles was growing both his own power and that of the state, while the allies were focused on new ventures and ongoing revenge. With Persia now weakened and exhausted, it was time to take back the Greek towns, whether in Europe or Asia, that she still claimed dominion over. So, it was decided to prepare a fleet, with the Peloponnesus contributing twenty vessels and Athens contributing thirty. Aristides led the Athenian ships; Pausanias was the commander-in-chief; many other allies joined the mission. They sailed to Cyprus and easily captured most of the towns on that island. From there, they advanced to Byzantium, the key stronghold of Persia on those coasts and the connection between her European and Asian territories, where they blockaded the city and eventually took it.
But these foreign events, however important in themselves, were trifling in comparison with a revolution which accompanied them, and which, in suddenly raising Athens to the supreme command of allied Greece, may be regarded at once as the author of the coming greatness —and the subsequent reverses—of that republic.
But these foreign events, no matter how significant they were, were minor compared to a revolution that happened alongside them. This revolution abruptly placed Athens in charge of allied Greece, and can be seen as the catalyst for both the forthcoming greatness and the later setbacks of that republic.
XII. The habits of Sparta—austere, stern, unsocial—rendered her ever more effectual in awing foes than conciliating allies; and the manners of the soldiery were at this time not in any way redeemed or counterbalanced by those of the chief. Since the battle of Plataea a remarkable change was apparent in Pausanias. Glory had made him arrogant, and sudden luxury ostentatious. He had graven on the golden tripod, dedicated by the confederates to the Delphic god, an inscription, claiming exclusively to himself, as the general of the Grecian army, the conquest of the barbarians—an egotism no less at variance with the sober pride of Sparta, than it was offensive to the just vanity of the allies. The inscription was afterward erased by the Spartan government, and another, citing only the names of the confederate cities, and silent as to that of Pausanias, was substituted in its place.
XII. The habits of Sparta—rigid, harsh, and unfriendly—made her better at intimidating enemies than winning over allies; and at this time, the behavior of the soldiers was not balanced out by that of their leader. Since the battle of Plataea, a noticeable change had occurred in Pausanias. His newfound glory had made him arrogant, and sudden wealth turned into showiness. He had engraved on the golden tripod, dedicated by the confederates to the Delphic god, an inscription claiming that he alone, as the general of the Greek army, was responsible for the conquest of the barbarians—an self-centeredness that was as inconsistent with Sparta’s sober pride as it was offensive to the rightful pride of the allies. The inscription was later removed by the Spartan government, and a new one, listing only the names of the allied cities and omitting Pausanias's name, was put in its place.
XIII. To a man of this arrogance, and of a grasping and already successful ambition, circumstances now presented great and irresistible temptation. Though leader of the Grecian armies, he was but the uncle and proxy of the young Spartan king—the time must come when his authority would cease, and the conqueror of the superb Mardonius sink into the narrow and severe confines of a Spartan citizen. Possessed of great talents and many eminent qualities, they but served the more to discontent him with the limits of their legitimate sphere and sterility of the Spartan life. And this discontent, operating on a temper naturally haughty, evinced itself in a manner rude, overbearing, and imperious, which the spirit of his confederates was ill calculated to suffer or forgive.
XIII. For a man with such arrogance and a strong, already successful ambition, circumstances now offered a great and irresistible temptation. Although he was the leader of the Greek armies, he was merely the uncle and stand-in for the young Spartan king—the time would come when his authority would end, and the conqueror of the magnificent Mardonius would be reduced to the narrow and strict confines of a Spartan citizen. Possessing great talents and many notable qualities only made him more dissatisfied with the limits of their legitimate role and the barrenness of Spartan life. This discontent, fueled by a naturally prideful temperament, showed itself in a rude, overbearing, and authoritative manner, which the spirits of his allies were ill-prepared to endure or forgive.
But we can scarcely agree with the ancient historians in attributing the ascendency of the Athenians alone, or even chiefly, to the conduct of Pausanias. The present expedition was naval, and the greater part of the confederates at Byzantium were maritime powers. The superior fleet and the recent naval glories of the Athenians could not fail to give them, at this juncture, a moral pre-eminence over the other allies; and we shall observe that the Ionians, and those who had lately recovered their freedom from the Persian yoke 133, were especially desirous to exchange the Spartan for the Athenian command. Connected with the Athenians by origin—by maritime habits—by a kindred suavity and grace of temperament—by the constant zeal of the Athenians for their liberties (which made, indeed, the first cause of the Persian war)—it was natural that the Ionian Greeks should prefer the standard of Athens to that of a Doric state; and the proposition of the Spartans (baffled by the Athenian councils) to yield up the Ionic settlements to the barbarians, could not but bequeath a lasting resentment to those proud and polished colonies.
But we can hardly agree with the ancient historians who say that the rise of the Athenians was solely, or even mostly, due to Pausanias's actions. This expedition was naval, and most of the allies at Byzantium were maritime powers. The Athenian fleet's superiority and their recent naval victories definitely gave them a moral edge over the other allies at this time. We’ll see that the Ionians, along with those who had recently won their freedom from Persian rule 133, were particularly eager to replace Spartan leadership with Athenian control. The Ionians were connected to the Athenians by their origins, maritime practices, a shared elegance and charm, and the Athenians' ongoing commitment to their freedom (which was, in fact, the main reason for the Persian war). So, it was only natural for the Ionian Greeks to prefer Athens over a Doric state. Moreover, the Spartans' suggestion (which was rejected by the Athenian leaders) to hand over the Ionian settlements to the barbarians certainly left a lasting bitterness among those proud and refined colonies.
XIV. Aware of the offence he had given, and disgusted himself alike with his allies and his country, the Spartan chief became driven by nature and necessity to a dramatic situation, which a future Schiller may perhaps render yet more interesting than the treason of the gorgeous Wallenstein, to whose character that of Pausanias has been indirectly likened 134. The capture of Byzantium brought the Spartan regent into contact with many captured and noble Persians 135, among whom were some related to Xerxes himself. With these conversing, new and dazzling views were opened to his ambition. He could not but recall the example of Demaratus, whose exile from the barren dignities of Sparta had procured him the luxuries and the splendour of oriental pomp, with the delegated authority of three of the fairest cities of Aeolia. Greater in renown than Demaratus, he was necessarily more aspiring in his views. Accordingly, he privately released his more exalted prisoners, pretending they had escaped, and finally explained whatever messages he had intrusted by them to Xerxes, in a letter to the king, confided to an Eretrian named Gongylus, who was versed in the language and the manners of Persia, and to whom he had already deputed the government of Byzantium. In this letter Pausanias offered to assist the king in reducing Sparta and the rest of Greece to the Persian yoke, demanding, in recompense, the hand of the king’s daughter, with an adequate dowry of possessions and of power.
XIV. Aware of the offense he had caused and disgusted with both his allies and his country, the Spartan chief found himself in a dramatic situation driven by necessity, which a future Schiller might make even more captivating than the betrayal of the splendid Wallenstein, to whose character Pausanias has been indirectly compared 134. The capture of Byzantium brought the Spartan regent face-to-face with many captured noble Persians 135, some of whom were related to Xerxes himself. Through conversation with them, new and exciting possibilities opened up for his ambition. He couldn't help but remember Demaratus, whose exile from the empty honors of Sparta had earned him the luxuries and splendor of Eastern opulence, along with the authority over three of the most beautiful cities of Aeolia. Greater in fame than Demaratus, he naturally had higher aspirations. Therefore, he secretly set free his more distinguished prisoners, claiming they had escaped, and finally sent whatever messages he had entrusted with them to Xerxes in a letter addressed to the king, which was given to an Eretrian named Gongylus, who was familiar with the language and customs of Persia, and whom he had already appointed to govern Byzantium. In this letter, Pausanias offered to help the king bring Sparta and the rest of Greece under Persian control, demanding, in return, the hand of the king’s daughter, along with a suitable dowry of wealth and power.
XV. The time had passed when a Persian monarch could deride the loftiness of a Spartan’s pretensions—Xerxes received the communications with delight, and despatched Artabazus to succeed Megabates in Phrygia, and to concert with the Spartan upon the means whereby to execute their joint design 136. But while Pausanias was in the full flush of his dazzled and grasping hopes, his fall was at hand. Occupied with his new projects, his natural haughtiness increased daily. He never accosted the officers of the allies but with abrupt and overbearing insolence; he insulted the military pride by sentencing many of the soldiers to corporeal chastisement, or to stand all day with an iron anchor on their shoulders 137. He permitted none to seek water, forage, or litter, until the Spartans were first supplied—those who attempted it were driven away by rods. Even Aristides, seeking to remonstrate, was repulsed rudely. “I am not at leisure,” said the Spartan, with a frown. 138
XV. The time had passed when a Persian king could mock the ambitions of a Spartan—Xerxes received the messages with pleasure and sent Artabazus to replace Megabates in Phrygia, to collaborate with the Spartan on how to execute their joint plan 136. But while Pausanias was caught up in his dazzled and greedy hopes, his downfall was approaching. Focused on his new ambitions, his natural arrogance grew daily. He never spoke to the allied officers without blunt and overbearing rudeness; he insulted the military pride by sentencing many soldiers to physical punishment or forcing them to stand all day with an iron anchor on their shoulders 137. He allowed no one to fetch water, forage, or supplies until the Spartans were fed first—those who tried were chased off with rods. Even Aristides, trying to interject, was harshly dismissed. “I am not available,” said the Spartan, scowling. 138
Complaints of this treatment were despatched to Sparta, and in the mean while the confederates, especially the officers of Chios, Samos, and Lesbos, pressed Aristides to take on himself the general command, and protect them from the Spartan’s insolence. The Athenian artfully replied, that he saw the necessity of the proposition, but that it ought first to be authorized by some action which would render it impossible to recede from the new arrangement once formed.
Complaints about this treatment were sent to Sparta, and in the meantime, the allies, especially the leaders from Chios, Samos, and Lesbos, urged Aristides to take on the overall command and shield them from the Spartans' disrespect. The Athenian cleverly responded that he recognized the need for the proposal but insisted that it should first be supported by some action that would make it impossible to go back on the new agreement once it was established.
The hint was fiercely taken; and a Samian and a Chian officer, resolving to push matters to the extreme, openly and boldly attacked the galley of Pausanias himself at the head of the fleet. Disregarding his angry menaces, now impotent, this assault was immediately followed up by a public transfer of allegiance; and the aggressors, quitting the Spartan, arrayed themselves under the Athenian, banners. Whatever might have been the consequences of this insurrection were prevented by the sudden recall of Pausanias. The accusations against him had met a ready hearing in Sparta, and that watchful government had already received intimation of his intrigues with the Mede. On his arrival in Sparta, Pausanias was immediately summoned to trial, convicted in a fine for individual and private misdemeanours, but acquitted of the principal charge of treason with the Persians—not so much from the deficiency as from the abundance of proof 139; and it was probably prudent to avoid, if possible, the scandal which the conviction of the general might bring upon the nation.
The hint was taken seriously, and a Samian and a Chian officer, determined to take things to the extreme, openly and boldly attacked Pausanias's ship, which was at the forefront of the fleet. Ignoring his furious threats, which were now powerless, this assault was quickly followed by a public switch in allegiance; the attackers left the Spartan side and rallied under the Athenian banners. Whatever the potential fallout from this uprising was got thwarted by Pausanias’s sudden recall. The accusations against him were well received in Sparta, and the vigilant government had already been informed of his dealings with the Mede. Upon arriving in Sparta, Pausanias was immediately summoned for trial, found guilty and fined for personal misconduct, but acquitted of the main charge of treason with the Persians—not due to a lack of evidence but rather because there was too much evidence 139; and it was likely seen as wise to avoid, if possible, the scandal that a conviction of the general could bring upon the nation.
The Spartans sent Dorcis, with some colleagues, to replace Pausanias in the command; but the allies were already too disgusted with the yoke of that nation to concede it. And the Athenian ascendency was hourly confirmed by the talents, the bearing, and the affable and gracious manners of Aristides. With him was joined an associate of high hereditary name and strong natural abilities, whose character it will shortly become necessary to place in detail before the reader. This comate was no less a person than Cimon, the son of the great Miltiades.
The Spartans sent Dorcis, along with some colleagues, to take over from Pausanias in command; however, the allies were already too fed up with the dominance of that nation to accept it. The Athenian influence was becoming more solid every day thanks to the skills, demeanor, and friendly and charming nature of Aristides. Joining him was an associate of notable family and impressive natural talent, whose character will soon need to be detailed for the reader. This companion was none other than Cimon, the son of the great Miltiades.
XVI. Dorcis, finding his pretensions successfully rebutted, returned home; and the Spartans, never prone to foreign enterprise, anxious for excuses to free themselves from prosecuting further the Persian war, and fearful that renewed contentions might only render yet more unpopular the Spartan name, sent forth no fresh claimants to the command; they affected to yield that honour, with cheerful content, to the Athenians. Thus was effected without a blow, and with the concurrence of her most dreaded rival, that eventful revolution, which suddenly raised Athens, so secondary a state before the Persian war, to the supremacy over Greece. So much, when nations have an equal glory, can the one be brought to surpass the other (B. C. 477) by the superior wisdom of individuals. The victory of Plataea was won principally by Sparta, then at the head of Greece. And the general who subdued the Persians surrendered the results of his victory to the very ally from whom the sagacious jealousy of his countrymen had sought most carefully to exclude even the precautions of defence!
XVI. Dorcis, realizing his ambitions were successfully challenged, went back home; and the Spartans, who were never inclined towards foreign ventures, looking for reasons to avoid continuing the Persian war, and worried that further conflicts might make the Spartan reputation even less popular, didn’t send out any new claimants for command; they pretended to willingly hand over that honor to the Athenians. Thus, without any fighting and with the agreement of their most feared rival, a significant change occurred that suddenly elevated Athens, which had been a secondary state before the Persian war, to dominance over Greece. When nations share equal glory, one can surpass the other (B. C. 477) due to the superior wisdom of individuals. The victory of Plataea was mostly achieved by Sparta, which was then at the forefront of Greece. And the general who defeated the Persians handed over the results of his victory to the very ally from whom his countrymen had so carefully tried to exclude even the precautions of defense!
XVII. Aristides, now invested with the command of all the allies, save those of the Peloponnesus who had returned home, strengthened the Athenian power by every semblance of moderation.
XVII. Aristides, now in charge of all the allies except for those from the Peloponnesus who had gone home, boosted Athenian power by presenting an image of moderation.
Hitherto the Grecian confederates had sent their deputies to the Peloponnesus. Aristides, instead of naming Athens, which might have excited new jealousies, proposed the sacred Isle of Delos, a spot peculiarly appropriate, since it once had been the navel of the Ionian commerce, as the place of convocation and the common treasury: the temple was to be the senate house. A new distribution of the taxes levied on each state, for the maintenance of the league, was ordained. The objects of the league were both defensive and offensive; first, to guard the Aegaean coasts and the Grecian Isles; and, secondly, to undertake measures for the further weakening of the Persian power. Aristides was elected arbitrator in the relative proportions of the general taxation. In this office, which placed the treasures of Greece at his disposal, he acted with so disinterested a virtue, that he did not even incur the suspicion of having enriched himself, and with so rare a fortune that he contented all the allies. The total, raised annually, and with the strictest impartiality, was four hundred and sixty talents (computed at about one hundred and fifteen thousand pounds).
So far, the Greek allies had sent their representatives to the Peloponnesus. Instead of mentioning Athens, which could spark new jealousies, Aristides proposed the sacred Isle of Delos, a place that was particularly fitting since it had once been the center of Ionian trade, as the location for meetings and the common treasury: the temple would serve as the senate house. They established a new division of the taxes imposed on each state for maintaining the alliance. The goals of the alliance were both defensive and offensive; first, to protect the Aegean coasts and the Greek islands, and second, to take steps to further weaken Persian power. Aristides was chosen as the arbitrator for the distribution of general taxation. In this role, which gave him access to Greece's treasures, he acted with such selflessness that he avoided any suspicion of enriching himself and managed to satisfy all the allies. The total amount raised annually, with the strictest fairness, was four hundred and sixty talents (estimated at around one hundred and fifteen thousand pounds).
Greece resounded with the praises of Aristides; it was afterward equally loud in reprobation of the avarice of the Athenians. For with the appointment of Aristides commenced the institution of officers styled Hellenotamiae, or treasurers of Greece; they became a permanent magistracy—they were under the control of the Athenians; and thus that people were made at once the generals and the treasurers of Greece. But the Athenians, unconscious as yet of the power they had attained—their allies yet more blind—it seemed now, that the more the latter should confide, the more the former should forbear. So do the most important results arise from causes uncontemplated by the providence of statesmen, and hence do we learn a truth which should never be forgotten—that that power is ever the most certain of endurance and extent, the commencement of which is made popular by moderation.
Greece was filled with praise for Aristides; later, it was equally loud in condemning the greed of the Athenians. With Aristides' appointment began the creation of officers called Hellenotamiae, or treasurers of Greece; they became a permanent position—they were under the control of the Athenians; thus, this group became both the military leaders and the financial overseers of Greece. However, the Athenians, unaware of the power they had gained—and their allies even more oblivious—seemed to think that the more the allies trusted them, the more the Athenians could hold back. This demonstrates how significant outcomes can arise from circumstances that politicians fail to anticipate, teaching us a lesson that should always be remembered: that power which is gained through moderation is the most likely to last and expand.
XVIII. Thus, upon the decay of the Isthmian Congress, rose into existence the great Ionian league; and thus was opened to the ambition of Athens the splendid destiny of the empire of the Grecian seas. The pre-eminence of Sparta passed away from her, though invisibly and without a struggle, and, retiring within herself, she was probably unaware of the decline of her authority; still seeing her Peloponnesian allies gathering round her, subordinate and submissive, and, by refusing assistance, refusing also allegiance to the new queen of the Ionian league. His task fulfilled, Aristides probably returned to Athens, and it was at this time and henceforth that it became his policy to support the power of Cimon against the authority of Themistocles 140. To that eupatrid, joined before with himself, was now intrusted the command of the Grecian fleet.
XVIII. So, after the decline of the Isthmian Congress, the powerful Ionian League emerged; this opened up the impressive opportunity for Athens to control the empire of the Greek seas. Sparta's dominance faded away, quietly and without conflict, and as she withdrew into herself, she probably didn't realize her authority was slipping. She still saw her Peloponnesian allies rallying around her, obedient and compliant, and by choosing not to offer support, they also rejected loyalty to the new leader of the Ionian League. Once his mission was complete, Aristides likely went back to Athens, and from this point on, he aimed to back Cimon's power against Themistocles' authority 140. The command of the Greek fleet was now entrusted to that noble, who had previously allied with him.
To great natural abilities, Cimon added every advantage of birth and circumstance. His mother was a daughter of Olorus, a Thracian prince; his father the great Miltiades. On the death of the latter, it is recorded, and popularly believed, that Cimon, unable to pay the fine to which Miltiades was adjudged, was detained in custody until a wealthy marriage made by his sister Elpinice, to whom he was tenderly, and ancient scandal whispered improperly, attached, released him from confinement, and the brother-in-law paid the debt. “Thus severe and harsh,” says Nepos, “was his entrance upon manhood.” 141 But it is very doubtful whether Cimon was ever imprisoned for the state-debt incurred by his father—and his wealth appears to have been considerable even before he regained his patrimony in the Chersonese, or enriched himself with the Persian spoils. 142
Cimon had not only great natural talent but also all the advantages of his family background and circumstances. His mother was the daughter of Olorus, a Thracian prince, and his father was the famous Miltiades. After his father’s death, it is noted, and widely believed, that Cimon was unable to pay the fine imposed on Miltiades and was held in custody until a wealthy marriage arranged by his sister Elpinice—who he was affectionately, though rumor has it, improperly, attached to—helped him get released, with his brother-in-law paying off the debt. “Thus severe and harsh,” says Nepos, “was his entrance upon manhood.” 141 However, it’s quite uncertain whether Cimon was ever actually imprisoned for his father’s state debt, and he seems to have had significant wealth even before he reclaimed his inheritance in the Chersonese or profited from the spoils of war with Persia. 142
In early youth, like Themistocles, his conduct had been wild and dissolute 143; and with his father from a child, he had acquired, with the experience, something of the license, of camps. Like Themistocles also, he was little skilled in the graceful accomplishments of his countrymen; he cultivated neither the art of music, nor the brilliancies of Attic conversation; but power and fortune, which ever soften nature, afterward rendered his habits intellectual and his tastes refined. He had not the smooth and artful affability of Themistocles, but to a certain roughness of manner was conjoined that hearty and ingenuous frankness which ever conciliates mankind, especially in free states, and which is yet more popular when united to rank. He had distinguished himself highly by his zeal in the invasion of the Medes, and the desertion of Athens for Salamis; and his valour in the seafight had confirmed the promise of his previous ardour. Nature had gifted him with a handsome countenance and a majestic stature, recommendations in all, but especially in popular states—and the son of Miltiades was welcomed, not less by the people than by the nobles, when he applied for a share in the administration of the state. Associated with Aristides, first in the embassy to Sparta, and subsequently in the expeditions to Cyprus and Byzantium, he had profited by the friendship and the lessons of that great man, to whose party he belonged, and who saw in Cimon a less invidious opponent than himself to the policy or the ambition of Themistocles.
In his early years, much like Themistocles, his behavior had been wild and reckless 143; and growing up with his father, he had picked up the experience, along with some of the freedoms, of camp life. Like Themistocles, he wasn't very skilled in the elegant pursuits of his countrymen; he didn’t learn music or the witty conversation that was typical of Athens. However, the power and fortune that often soften a person's nature later brought a certain intellectuality to his habits and refined his tastes. He didn’t have Themistocles' smooth and crafty charm, but his somewhat rough manner was coupled with a sincere and open honesty that tends to win people over, especially in free societies, and which is even more appreciated when combined with high status. He had made a name for himself through his enthusiasm in the invasion of the Medes and his move from Athens to Salamis; his bravery in naval battles confirmed the promise of his prior passion. Nature had blessed him with a good-looking face and a commanding presence, traits that are valuable everywhere, especially in democratic societies. The son of Miltiades was welcomed by both the people and the nobility when he sought a role in the government. Working alongside Aristides, first on a mission to Sparta and later in campaigns to Cyprus and Byzantium, he benefited from the friendship and teachings of that great leader, to whose faction he belonged, and who viewed Cimon as a less threatening rival to his own policies and ambition than Themistocles.
By the advice of Aristides, Cimon early sought every means to conciliate the allies, and to pave the way to the undivided command he afterward obtained. And it is not improbable that Themistocles might willingly have ceded to him the lead in a foreign expedition, which removed from the city so rising and active an opponent. The appointment of Cimon promised to propitiate the Spartans, who ever possessed a certain party in the aristocracy of Athens—who peculiarly affected Cimon, and whose hardy character and oligarchical policy the blunt genius and hereditary prejudices of that young noble were well fitted to admire and to imitate. Cimon was, in a word, precisely the man desired by three parties as the antagonist of Themistocles; viz., the Spartans, the nobles, and Aristides, himself a host. All things conspired to raise the son of Miltiades to an eminence beyond his years, but not his capacities.
By Aristides' advice, Cimon quickly looked for ways to win over the allies and set the stage for the sole leadership he later achieved. It’s likely that Themistocles would have willingly let him take charge of a military campaign, removing such a rising and dynamic rival from the city. Cimon's appointment was expected to win over the Spartans, who always had a certain influence within the Athenian aristocracy—who particularly favored Cimon, and whose strong character and pro-aristocracy stance aligned well with the straightforward nature and traditional biases of that young noble. In short, Cimon was exactly the person three factions wanted as the rival to Themistocles: the Spartans, the nobles, and Aristides himself, who was also a strong opponent. Everything came together to elevate the son of Miltiades to a status beyond his years, though not beyond his abilities.
XIX. Under Cimon the Athenians commenced their command 144, by marching against a Thracian town called Eion, situated on the banks of the river Strymon, and now garrisoned by a Persian noble. The town was besieged (B. C. 476), and the inhabitants pressed by famine, when the Persian commandant, collecting his treasure upon a pile of wood, on which were placed his slaves, women, and children—set fire to the pile 145. After this suicide, seemingly not an uncommon mode of self-slaughter in the East, the garrison surrendered, and its defenders, as usual in such warfare, were sold for slaves.
XIX. Under Cimon, the Athenians began their command 144, by marching against a Thracian town called Eion, located on the banks of the river Strymon, which was then occupied by a Persian noble. The town was besieged (B. C. 476), and the residents, facing starvation, when the Persian commander, gathering his wealth onto a pile of wood along with his slaves, women, and children—set fire to the pile 145. After this act of suicide, which was seemingly a common method of self-destruction in the East, the garrison surrendered, and its defenders, as is typical in such warfare, were sold into slavery.
From Eion the victorious confederates proceeded to Scyros, a small island in the Aegean, inhabited by the Dolopians, a tribe addicted to piratical practices, deservedly obnoxious to the traders of the Aegean, and who already had attracted the indignation and vengeance of the Amphictyonic assembly. The isle occupied, and the pirates expelled, the territory was colonized by an Attic population.
From Eion, the victorious allies went to Scyros, a small island in the Aegean, home to the Dolopians, a tribe known for their piracy, which rightly made them hated by the Aegean traders. They had already drawn the anger and retribution of the Amphictyonic assembly. Once the island was taken and the pirates driven out, the area was settled by an Athenian population.
An ancient tradition had, as we have seen before, honoured the soil of Scyros with the possession of the bones of the Athenian Theseus—some years after the conquest of the isle, in the archonship of Aphepsion 146, or Apsephion, an oracle ordained the Athenians to search for the remains of their national hero, and the skeleton of a man of great stature, with a lance of brass and a sword by its side was discovered, and immediately appropriated to Theseus. The bones were placed with great ceremony in the galley of Cimon, who was then probably on a visit of inspection to the new colony, and transported to Athens. Games were instituted in honour of this event, at which were exhibited the contests of the tragic poets; and, in the first of these, Sophocles is said to have made his earliest appearance, and gained the prize from Aeschylus (B. C. 469).
An ancient tradition had, as we’ve seen before, honored the soil of Scyros with the bones of the Athenian Theseus. Some years after the conquest of the island, during the archonship of Aphepsion 146 or Apsephion, an oracle instructed the Athenians to look for the remains of their national hero. They discovered the skeleton of a tall man, along with a brass lance and a sword at its side, and immediately claimed it as Theseus. The bones were ceremoniously placed in the galley of Cimon, who was likely visiting the new colony, and were taken back to Athens. Games were established to honor this event, featuring competitions among tragic poets. In the first of these contests, it is said that Sophocles made his debut and won the prize from Aeschylus (B. C. 469).
XXI. It is about the period of Cimon’s conquest of Eion and Scyros (B. C. 476) that we must date the declining power of Themistocles. That remarkable man had already added, both to domestic and to Spartan enmities, the general displeasure of the allies. After baffling the proposition of the Spartans to banish from the Amphictyonic assembly the states that had not joined in the anti-Persic confederacy, he had sailed round the isles and extorted money from such as had been guilty of Medising: the pretext might be just, but the exactions were unpopularly levied. Nor is it improbable that the accusations against him of enriching his own coffers as well as the public treasury had some foundation. Profoundly disdaining money save as a means to an end, he was little scrupulous as to the sources whence he sustained a power which he yet applied conscientiously to patriotic purposes. Serving his country first, he also served himself; and honest upon one grand and systematic principle, he was often dishonest in details.
XXI. We need to look at the time of Cimon’s conquest of Eion and Scyros (B.C. 476) to understand the decline of Themistocles’ power. That remarkable man had already attracted both domestic and Spartan enemies, as well as the general disapproval of the allies. After successfully opposing the Spartans’ proposal to expel from the Amphictyonic assembly the states that didn’t join the anti-Persian alliance, he sailed around the islands and demanded money from those who had sided with the Persians. While his reasoning might have been valid, the way he collected those funds was quite unpopular. It’s also likely that the claims about him enriching his own pockets as well as the public treasury had some truth to them. He deeply valued money only as a means to an end and was not very picky about the sources of income that supported a power he applied diligently to patriotic goals. Putting his country first, he also looked out for himself; and while he was honest in one overarching and systematic way, he was often dishonest in the finer details.
His natural temper was also ostentatious; like many who have risen from an origin comparatively humble, he had the vanity to seek to outshine his superiors in birth—not more by the splendour of genius than by the magnificence of parade. At the Olympic games, the base-born son of Neocles surpassed the pomp of the wealthy and illustrious Cimon; his table was hospitable, and his own life soft and luxuriant 147; his retinue numerous beyond those of his contemporaries; and he adopted the manners of the noble exactly in proportion as he courted the favour of the populace. This habitual ostentation could not fail to mingle with the political hostilities of the aristocracy the disdainful jealousies of offended pride; for it is ever the weakness of the high-born to forgive less easily the being excelled in genius than the being outshone in state by those of inferior origin. The same haughtiness which offended the nobles began also to displease the people; the superb consciousness of his own merits wounded the vanity of a nation which scarcely permitted its greatest men to share the reputation it arrogated to itself. The frequent calumnies uttered against him obliged Themistocles to refer to the actions he had performed; and what it had been illustrious to execute, it became disgustful to repeat. “Are you weary,” said the great man, bitterly, “to receive benefits often from the same hand?” 148 He offended the national conceit yet more by building, in the neighbourhood of his own residence, a temple to Diana, under the name of Aristobule, or “Diana of the best counsel;” thereby appearing to claim to himself the merit of giving the best counsels.
His natural temperament was also showy; like many who have come from a relatively humble background, he had the pride to try to outshine his betters—not just with talent, but also with extravagant displays. At the Olympic games, the low-born son of Neocles outdid the wealth and prestige of the famous Cimon; his table was welcoming, and his lifestyle was comfortable and luxurious 147; his entourage was larger than that of his peers; and he adopted the manners of the nobility exactly as he sought the favor of the masses. This constant showiness inevitably mixed with the political animosities of the aristocracy, fueling envious contempt from upset pride; for it is often the flaw of the highborn to forgive less readily being surpassed in skill than being overshadowed in status by those of lesser birth. The same arrogance that irritated the nobles began to annoy the populace as well; his overwhelming self-awareness hurt the pride of a nation that hardly allowed its greatest figures to share the acclaim it claimed for itself. The repeated insults directed at him forced Themistocles to point out the accomplishments he had achieved; and what had once been honorable to carry out became distasteful to mention. “Are you tired,” the great man said bitterly, “of receiving favors often from the same person?” 148 He further offended the national pride by building, near his own home, a temple to Diana, named Aristobule, or “Diana of the best counsel;” thus appearing to claim credit for providing the best advice.
It is probable, however, that Themistocles would have conquered all party opposition, and that his high qualities would have more than counterbalanced his defects in the eyes of the people, if he had still continued to lead the popular tide. But the time had come when the demagogue was outbid by an aristocrat—when the movement he no longer headed left him behind, and the genius of an individual could no longer keep pace with the giant strides of an advancing people.
It’s likely, though, that Themistocles would have overcome all opposition and that his great qualities would have outweighed his flaws in the eyes of the public, if he had continued to lead the popular movement. But the moment arrived when a demagogue was surpassed by an aristocrat—when the movement he no longer led moved on without him, and the brilliance of one person could no longer keep up with the rapid progress of a forward-moving society.
XXII. The victory at Salamis was followed by a democratic result. That victory had been obtained by the seamen, who were mostly of the lowest of the populace—the lowest of the populace began, therefore, to claim, in political equality, the reward of military service. And Aristotle, whose penetrating intellect could not fail to notice the changes which an event so glorious to Greece produced in Athens, has adduced a similar instance of change at Syracuse, when the mariners of that state, having, at a later period, conquered the Athenians, converted a mixed republic to a pure democracy. The destruction of houses and property by Mardonius—the temporary desertion by the Athenians of their native land—the common danger and the common glory, had broken down many of the old distinctions, and the spirit of the nation was already far more democratic than the constitution. Hitherto, qualifications of property were demanded for the holding of civil offices. But after the battle of Plataea, Aristides, the leader of the aristocratic party, proposed and carried the abolition of such qualifications, allowing to all citizens, with or without property, a share in the government, and ordaining that the archons should be chosen out of the whole body; the form of investigation as to moral character was still indispensable. This change, great as it was, appears, like all aristocratic reforms, to have been a compromise 149 between concession and demand. And the prudent Aristides yielded what was inevitable, to prevent the greater danger of resistance. It may be ever remarked, that the people value more a concession from the aristocratic party than a boon from their own popular leaders. The last can never equal, and the first can so easily exceed, the public expectation.
XXII. The victory at Salamis led to a more democratic outcome. That win was achieved by the sailors, who mostly came from the lowest classes of society—so they started to demand political equality as a reward for their military service. Aristotle, with his keen intellect, couldn't help but notice the changes that such a glorious event for Greece brought to Athens. He referred to a similar situation in Syracuse, where the sailors, after later defeating the Athenians, transformed a mixed republic into a pure democracy. The destruction of homes and property by Mardonius, the temporary abandonment of their homeland by the Athenians, and the shared danger and glory had erased many of the old distinctions, making the national spirit much more democratic than the actual constitution. Up until that point, there were property qualifications required to hold civil offices. But after the battle of Plataea, Aristides, who led the aristocratic faction, proposed and succeeded in removing these qualifications, allowing all citizens, regardless of property, to participate in the government and requiring that the archons be chosen from the entire population; however, the assessment of moral character was still necessary. This change, significant as it was, seems to have been, like all aristocratic reforms, a compromise between giving in and pushing for more. The cautious Aristides conceded what was unavoidable to avert the greater risk of opposition. It can always be noted that the people appreciate a concession from the aristocratic group more than a favor from their own popular leaders. The latter can never match, and the former can easily surpass, public expectations.
XXIII. This decree, uniting the aristocratic with the more democratic party, gave Aristides and his friends an unequivocal ascendency over Themistocles, which, however, during the absence of Aristides and Cimon, and the engrossing excitement of events abroad, was not plainly visible for some years; and although, on his return to Athens, Aristides himself prudently forbore taking an active part against his ancient rival, he yet lent all the influence of his name and friendship to the now powerful and popular Cimon. The victories, the manners, the wealth, the birth of the son of Miltiades were supported by his talents and his ambition. It was obvious to himself and to his party that, were Themistocles removed, Cimon would become the first citizen of Athens.
XXIII. This decree, which brought together the aristocratic and more democratic parties, gave Aristides and his friends a clear advantage over Themistocles. However, during the absence of Aristides and Cimon, and due to the intense focus on events abroad, this advantage wasn't clearly visible for several years. Although Aristides returned to Athens and wisely chose not to take an active role against his old rival, he did lend all his influence through his name and friendship to the now powerful and popular Cimon. The victories, character, wealth, and background of the son of Miltiades were bolstered by his talent and ambition. It was evident to him and his supporters that if Themistocles were out of the picture, Cimon would become the leading citizen of Athens.
XXIV. Such were the causes that long secretly undermined, that at length openly stormed, the authority of the hero of Salamis; and at this juncture we may conclude, that the vices of his character avenged themselves on the virtues. His duplicity and spirit of intrigue, exercised on behalf of his country, it might be supposed, would hereafter be excited against it. And the pride, the ambition, the craft that had saved the people might serve to create a despot.
XXIV. These were the reasons that quietly weakened, and eventually openly attacked, the authority of the hero of Salamis; and at this point, we can conclude that the flaws in his character turned against his strengths. His dishonesty and scheming, which were supposedly used for the benefit of his country, might soon be directed against it. The pride, ambition, and cunning that had saved the people could lead to the rise of a tyrant.
Themistocles was summoned to the ordeal of the ostracism and condemned by the majority of suffrages (B. C. 471). Thus, like Aristides, not punished for offences, but paying the honourable penalty of rising by genius to that state of eminence which threatens danger to the equality of republics.
Themistocles was called to face ostracism and was condemned by the majority of votes (B.C. 471). So, like Aristides, he wasn’t punished for any wrongdoing, but instead was facing the honorable consequence of achieving such greatness that it posed a threat to the equality of the republics.
He departed from Athens, and chose his refuge at Argos, whose hatred to Sparta, his deadliest foe, promised him the securest protection.
He left Athens and found refuge in Argos, where its hostility toward Sparta, his greatest enemy, promised him the safest protection.
XXV. Death soon afterward removed Aristides from all competitorship with Cimon; according to the most probable accounts, he died at Athens; and at the time of Plutarch his monument was still to be seen at Phalerum. His countrymen, who, despite all plausible charges, were never ungrateful except where their liberties appeared imperilled (whether rightly or erroneously our documents are too scanty to prove), erected his monument at the public charge, portioned his three daughters, and awarded to his son Lysimachus a grant of one hundred minae of silver, a plantation of one hundred plethra 150 of land, and a pension of four drachmae a day (double the allowance of an Athenian ambassador).
XXV. Death soon afterward took Aristides out of competition with Cimon; according to the most likely accounts, he died in Athens. By Plutarch's time, his monument could still be seen at Phalerum. His fellow citizens, who, despite all the accusations against him, were never ungrateful except when their freedoms seemed threatened (whether rightly or wrongly our limited records can't confirm), built his monument at public expense, provided for his three daughters, and awarded his son Lysimachus a grant of one hundred minae of silver, a plantation of one hundred plethra 150 of land, and a pension of four drachmae a day (which was double the allowance of an Athenian ambassador).
CHAPTER II.
Popularity and Policy of Cimon.—Naxos revolts from the Ionian League.—Is besieged by Cimon.—Conspiracy and Fate of Pausanias.— Flight and Adventures of Themistocles.—His Death.
Popularity and Policy of Cimon.—Naxos revolts from the Ionian League.—It is besieged by Cimon.—Conspiracy and Fate of Pausanias.—Flight and Adventures of Themistocles.—His Death.
I. The military abilities and early habits of Cimon naturally conspired with past success to direct his ambition rather to warlike than to civil distinctions. But he was not inattentive to the arts which were necessary in a democratic state to secure and confirm his power. Succeeding to one, once so beloved and ever so affable as Themistocles, he sought carefully to prevent all disadvantageous contrast. From the spoils of Byzantium and Sestos he received a vast addition to his hereditary fortunes. And by the distribution of his treasures, he forestalled all envy at their amount. He threw open his gardens to the public, whether foreigners or citizens—he maintained a table to which men of every rank freely resorted, though probably those only of his own tribe 151—he was attended by a numerous train, who were ordered to give mantles to what citizen soever—aged and ill-clad—they encountered; and to relieve the necessitous by aims delicately and secretly administered. By these artful devices he rendered himself beloved, and concealed the odium of his politics beneath the mask of his charities. For while he courted the favour, he advanced not the wishes, of the people. He sided with the aristocratic party, and did not conceal his attachment to the oligarchy of Sparta. He sought to content the people with himself, in order that he might the better prevent discontent with their position. But it may be doubted whether Cimon did not, far more than any of his predecessors, increase the dangers of a democracy by vulgarizing its spirit. The system of general alms and open tables had the effect that the abuses of the Poor Laws 152 have had with us. It accustomed the native poor to the habits of indolent paupers, and what at first was charity soon took the aspect of a right. Hence much of the lazy turbulence, and much of that licentious spirit of exaction from the wealthy, that in a succeeding age characterized the mobs of Athens. So does that servile generosity, common to an anti-popular party, when it affects kindness in order to prevent concession, ultimately operate against its own secret schemes. And so much less really dangerous is it to exalt, by constitutional enactments, the authority of a people, than to pamper, by the electioneering cajoleries of a selfish ambition, the prejudices which thus settle into vices, or the momentary exigences thus fixed into permanent demands.
I. Cimon's military skills and early habits naturally pushed him to focus more on military than on civic achievements, especially given his past successes. However, he was also aware of the strategies needed in a democratic state to maintain and solidify his power. Following in the footsteps of Themistocles, who was once very popular and approachable, he took care to avoid any unfavorable comparisons. From the spoils of Byzantium and Sestos, he gained a significant boost to his wealth. By distributing his riches, he preempted any jealousy over his wealth. He opened his gardens to the public, welcoming both locals and foreigners, and hosted a banquet that anyone, regardless of rank, could attend—though it was likely that only those from his tribe were the most frequent guests. He was accompanied by a large entourage who were instructed to give cloaks to any citizens they encountered who were elderly or poorly dressed, and to help those in need discreetly and delicately. Through these clever tactics, he became well-liked while masking the resentment toward his political maneuvers with acts of charity. While he sought the people's favor, he did not fulfill their desires. He aligned with the aristocratic faction and was open about his support for the Spartan oligarchy. He aimed to keep the people satisfied with him to better manage their discontent with their situation. However, one could argue that Cimon, more than any of his predecessors, compounded the risks of democracy by lowering its spirit. His approach to public assistance and open banquets had a similar effect to the issues caused by our own Poor Laws. It trained the local poor to adopt the behavior of idle dependents, turning what began as charity into a perceived entitlement. This led to a lot of laziness and a sense of entitlement from the wealthy that would later define the mobs of Athens. Thus, that kind of self-serving generosity, typical of an anti-popular group when it pretends to be benevolent to avoid giving in, ultimately backfires against its own hidden agenda. It is much less dangerous to genuinely elevate the authority of the people through constitutional means than to indulge the biases that lead to vices or temporarily urgent needs that become established as long-term demands.
II. While the arts or manners of Cimon conciliated the favour, his integrity won the esteem, of the people. In Aristides he found the example, not more of his aristocratic politics than of his lofty honour. A deserter from Persia, having arrived at Athens with great treasure, and being harassed by informers, sought the protection of Cimon by gifts of money.
II. While Cimon's charm and skills won him the people's favor, his integrity earned their respect. He looked up to Aristides, not just for his elite politics but also for his high sense of honor. A deserter from Persia arrived in Athens with a lot of treasure and, being hounded by informers, sought Cimon’s protection by offering him money.
“Would you have me,” said the Athenian, smiling, “your mercenary or your friend?”
“Do you want me,” said the Athenian, smiling, “as your hired hand or your friend?”
“My friend!” replied the barbarian.
"My friend!" replied the warrior.
“Then take back your gifts.” 153
"Then take back your gifts." __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
III. In the mean while the new ascendency of Athens was already endangered. The Carystians in the neighbouring isle of Euboea openly defied her fleet, and many of the confederate states, seeing themselves delivered from all immediate dread of another invasion of the Medes, began to cease contributions both to the Athenian navy and the common treasury. For a danger not imminent, service became burdensome and taxation odious. And already some well-founded jealousy of the ambition of Athens increased the reluctance to augment her power. Naxos was the first island that revolted from the conditions of the league, and thither Cimon, having reduced the Carystians, led a fleet numerous and well equipped.
III. In the meantime, Athens's new power was already at risk. The Carystians on the nearby island of Euboea openly challenged her fleet, and many of the allied states, feeling safe from any immediate threat of another invasion by the Medes, started to stop their contributions to both the Athenian navy and the common treasury. Since the threat was not urgent, the service felt burdensome, and taxes became unpopular. Additionally, some genuine jealousy of Athens's ambitions increased the hesitance to boost her power. Naxos was the first island to revolt against the league's terms, and there, Cimon, after defeating the Carystians, brought a large and well-equipped fleet.
Whatever the secret views of Cimon for the aggrandizement of his country, he could not but feel himself impelled by his own genius and the popular expectation not lightly to forego that empire of the sea, rendered to Athens by the profound policy of Themistocles and the fortunate prudence of Aristides; and every motive of Grecian, as well as Athenian, policy justified the subjugation of the revolters—an evident truth in the science of state policy, but one somewhat hastily lost sight of by those historians who, in the subsequent and unlooked-for results, forgot the necessity of the earlier enterprise. Greece had voluntarily intrusted to Athens the maritime command of the confederate states. To her, Greece must consequently look for no diminution of the national resources committed to her charge; to her, that the conditions of the league were fulfilled, and the common safety of Greece ensured. Commander of the forces, she was answerable for the deserters. Nor, although Persia at present remained tranquil and inert, could the confederates be considered safe from her revenge. No compact of peace had been procured. The more than suspected intrigues of Xerxes with Pausanias were sufficient proofs that the great king did not yet despair of the conquest of Greece. And the peril previously incurred in the want of union among the several states was a solemn warning not to lose the advantages of that league, so tardily and so laboriously cemented. Without great dishonour and without great imprudence, Athens could not forego the control with which she had been invested; if it were hers to provide the means, it was hers to punish the defaulters; and her duty to Greece thus decorously and justly sustained her ambition for herself.
Whatever Cimon's secret plans for the growth of his country, he couldn't ignore the pressure from his own talents and public expectations to hold onto the naval power that Themistocles had established for Athens through clever strategies and the fortunate decisions of Aristides. Every aspect of both Greek and Athenian interests justified putting down the rebels—an obvious truth in statecraft that some historians, distracted by unexpected outcomes, overlooked the early necessity of the endeavor. Greece had willingly given Athens control over the maritime leadership of the allied states. Therefore, Greece had to rely on Athens to protect the national resources entrusted to her, ensure the terms of the alliance were met, and guarantee the collective safety of Greece. As the leader of the forces, she was responsible for the deserters. Although Persia was currently calm and inactive, the confederates couldn't consider themselves safe from her retribution. No peace agreement had been established. The strongly suspected plots of Xerxes with Pausanias were clear evidence that the Persian king still hoped to conquer Greece. The previous danger stemming from the lack of unity among the various states served as a serious warning not to lose the benefits gained from the alliance, which had been slowly and painstakingly built. Without great shame or significant recklessness, Athens could not relinquish the authority she had been granted; if it was her responsibility to provide resources, it was also her right to hold accountable those who failed to meet their obligations. Thus, her duty to Greece rightfully supported her ambition for herself.
IV. And now it is necessary to return to the fortunes of Pausanias, involving in their fall the ruin of one of far loftier virtues and more unequivocal renown. The recall of Pausanias, the fine inflicted upon him, his narrow escape from a heavier sentence, did not suffice to draw him, intoxicated as he was with his hopes and passions, from his bold and perilous intrigues. It is not improbable that his mind was already tainted with a certain insanity 154. And it is a curious physiological fact, that the unnatural constraints of Sparta, when acting on strong passions and fervent imaginations, seem, not unoften, to have produced a species of madness. An anecdote is recorded 155, which, though romantic, is not perhaps wholly fabulous, and which invests with an interest yet more dramatic the fate of the conqueror of Plataea.
IV. Now it's necessary to go back to the story of Pausanias, involving the downfall of someone with much greater virtues and clearer fame. The recall of Pausanias, the fine imposed on him, and his narrow escape from a harsher punishment didn’t stop him, as he was too caught up in his hopes and passions, from his daring and risky schemes. It’s likely that his mind was already somewhat unhinged 154. Interestingly, the strict rules of Sparta, when combined with strong emotions and passionate imaginations, often seem to have caused a kind of madness. There’s a story recorded 155, which, while romantic, may not be completely fictional, and that adds even more drama to the fate of the conqueror of Plataea.
At Byzantium, runs the story, he became passionately enamoured of a young virgin named Cleonice. Awed by his power and his sternness, the parents yielded her to his will. The modesty of the maiden made her stipulate that the room might be in total darkness when she stole to his embraces. But unhappily, on entering, she stumbled against the light, and the Spartan, asleep at the time, imagined, in the confusion of his sudden waking, that the noise was occasioned by one of his numerous enemies seeking his chamber with the intent to assassinate him. Seizing the Persian cimeter 156 that lay beside him, he plunged it in the breast of the intruder, and the object of his passion fell dead at his feet. “From that hour,” says the biographer, “he could rest no more!” A spectre haunted his nights—the voice of the murdered girl proclaimed doom to his ear. It is added, and, if we extend our belief further, we must attribute the apparition to the skill of the priests, that, still tortured by the ghost of Cleonice, he applied to those celebrated necromancers who, at Heraclea 157, summoned by gloomy spells the manes of the dead, and by their aid invoked the spirit he sought to appease. The shade of Cleonice appeared and told him, “that soon after his return to Sparta he would be delivered from all his troubles.” 158
At Byzantium, the story goes, he became deeply infatuated with a young woman named Cleonice. Overwhelmed by his power and seriousness, her parents gave in to his wishes. The girl’s modesty led her to request that the room be completely dark when she came to him. Unfortunately, as she entered, she tripped over something in the light, and the Spartan, who was asleep at the time, mistakenly thought the noise was caused by an enemy trying to kill him. Grabbing the Persian dagger that was next to him, he stabbed the intruder, and the woman he loved fell dead at his feet. “From that hour,” the biographer states, “he could find no rest!” A ghost tormented his nights—the voice of the murdered girl warned him of his doom. It’s said that, if we are to believe further, the priests were responsible for this apparition; still haunted by Cleonice’s spirit, he sought help from renowned necromancers at Heraclea, who used dark spells to summon the dead, and with their assistance, he tried to appease the spirit. The ghost of Cleonice appeared and told him, “that soon after his return to Sparta, he would be free from all his troubles.”
Such was the legend repeated, as Plutarch tells us, by many historians; the deed itself was probable, and conscience, even without necromancy, might supply the spectre.
Such was the legend recounted, as Plutarch tells us, by many historians; the act itself was likely, and guilt, even without ghostly intervention, could bring forth the apparition.
V. Whether or not this story have any foundation in fact, the conduct of Pausanias seems at least to have partaken of that inconsiderate recklessness which, in the ancient superstition, preceded the vengeance of the gods. After his trial he had returned to Byzantium, without the consent of the Spartan government. Driven thence by the resentment of the Athenians 159, he repaired, not to Sparta, but to Colonae, in Asia Minor, and in the vicinity of the ancient Troy; and there he renewed his negotiations with the Persian king. Acquainted with his designs, the vigilant ephors despatched to him a herald with the famous scytale. This was an instrument peculiar to the Spartans. To every general or admiral, a long black staff was entrusted; the magistrates kept another exactly similar. When they had any communication to make, they wrote it on a roll of parchment, applied it to their own staff, fold upon fold—then cutting it off, dismissed it to the chief. The characters were so written that they were confused and unintelligible until fastened to the stick, and thus could only be construed by the person for whose eye they were intended, and to whose care the staff was confided.
V. Whether or not this story is based on actual events, Pausanias’s actions definitely showed that reckless disregard that, in ancient superstition, came before the gods’ punishment. After his trial, he went back to Byzantium without the approval of the Spartan government. Driven away by the anger of the Athenians 159, he went not to Sparta but to Colonae in Asia Minor, near the ancient city of Troy, where he resumed his negotiations with the Persian king. Aware of his plans, the watchful ephors sent him a herald with the famous scytale. This was a device unique to the Spartans. Each general or admiral was given a long black staff, while the magistrates kept another identical one. When they had a message to send, they wrote it on a roll of parchment, wrapped it around their own staff, and then cut it off before sending it to the chief. The letters were written in a way that made them confusing and unreadable until they were wrapped around the stick, ensuring only the intended recipient, to whom the staff was given, could understand it.
The communication Pausanias now received was indeed stern and laconic. “Stay,” it said, “behind the herald, and war is proclaimed against you by the Spartans.”
The message Pausanias received was really direct and brief. “Stay,” it said, “behind the herald, and war is declared against you by the Spartans.”
On receiving this solemn order, even the imperious spirit of Pausanias did not venture to disobey. Like Venice, whose harsh, tortuous, but energetic policy her oligarchy in so many respects resembled, Sparta possessed a moral and mysterious power over the fiercest of her sons. His fate held him in her grasp, and, confident of acquittal, instead of flying to Persia, the regent hurried to his doom, assured that by the help of gold he could baffle any accusation. His expectations were so far well-founded, that, although, despite his rank as regent of the kingdom and guardian of the king, he was thrown into prison by the ephors, he succeeded, by his intrigues and influence, in procuring his enlargement: and boldly challenging his accusers, he offered to submit to trial.
Upon receiving this serious order, even the commanding spirit of Pausanias didn’t dare to disobey. Like Venice, whose strict, complicated, but effective policies her oligarchy mirrored in many ways, Sparta had a powerful and mysterious influence over even her fiercest sons. His fate was in her hands, and confident of being acquitted, instead of fleeing to Persia, the regent rushed toward his doom, believing that with enough gold, he could counter any accusation. His hopes were somewhat justified, as despite his status as regent of the kingdom and protector of the king, he was imprisoned by the ephors. However, he managed, through his schemes and connections, to secure his release: and defiantly challenging his accusers, he offered to face trial.
The government, however, was slow to act. The proud caution of the Spartans was ever loath to bring scandal on their home by public proceedings against any freeborn citizen—how much more against the uncle of their monarch and the hero of their armies! His power, his talents, his imperious character awed alike private enmity and public distrust. But his haughty disdain of their rigid laws, and his continued affectation of the barbarian pomp, kept the government vigilant; and though released from prison, the stern ephors were his sentinels. The restless and discontented mind of the expectant son-in-law of Xerxes could not relinquish its daring schemes. And the regent of Sparta entered into a conspiracy, on which it were much to be desired that our information were more diffuse.
The government, however, was slow to respond. The Spartans' proud caution made them hesitant to bring shame on their city by taking public action against any freeborn citizen—especially not against the uncle of their king and a hero of their armies! His power, talents, and commanding personality intimidated both personal rivals and public skeptics. But his arrogant disregard for their strict laws, along with his ongoing display of foreign grandeur, kept the government on high alert; and even though he was released from prison, the stern ephors acted as his watchful guardians. The restless and discontented mindset of Xerxes' expected son-in-law couldn't let go of his bold ambitions. And the regent of Sparta became involved in a conspiracy, about which it would be much better if we had more detailed information.
VI. Perhaps no class of men in ancient times excite a more painful and profound interest than the helots of Sparta. Though, as we have before seen, we must reject all rhetorical exaggerations of the savage cruelty to which they were subjected, we know, at least, that their servitude was the hardest imposed by any of the Grecian states upon their slaves 160, and that the iron soldiery of Sparta were exposed to constant and imminent peril from their revolts—a proof that the curse of their bondage had passed beyond the degree which subdues the spirit to that which arouses, and that neither the habit of years, nor the swords of the fiercest warriors, nor the spies of the keenest government of Greece had been able utterly to extirpate from human hearts that law of nature which, when injury passes an allotted, yet rarely visible, extreme, converts suffering to resistance.
VI. No group of people in ancient times evokes a more intense and deep interest than the helots of Sparta. Although we should dismiss any exaggerated claims about the extreme cruelty they faced, we do know that their servitude was the most severe imposed by any of the Greek states on their slaves 160, and that the Spartan soldiers were constantly at risk from their uprisings—showing that the burden of their bondage had shifted from crushing their spirit to provoking it. Neither years of habit, nor the weapons of the fiercest warriors, nor the surveillance of the most astute government in Greece could completely erase from human hearts that natural law which, when suffering surpasses a certain, often unseen, limit, transforms pain into resistance.
Scattered in large numbers throughout the rugged territories of Laconia—separated from the presence, but not the watch, of their master, these singular serfs never abandoned the hope of liberty. Often pressed into battle to aid their masters, they acquired the courage to oppose them. Fierce, sullen, and vindictive, they were as droves of wild cattle, left to range at will, till wanted for the burden or the knife—not difficult to butcher, but impossible to tame.
Scattered in large numbers throughout the rough terrains of Laconia—kept at a distance, but still under the watchful eye of their master, these unique serfs never gave up hope for freedom. Often forced into battle to support their masters, they developed the bravery to stand up against them. Fierce, grim, and vengeful, they were like packs of wild cattle, allowed to roam freely until needed for work or slaughter—not hard to kill, but impossible to control.
We have seen that a considerable number of these helots had fought as light-armed troops at Plataea; and the common danger and the common glory had united the slaves of the army with the chief. Entering into somewhat of the desperate and revengeful ambition that, under a similar constitution, animated Marino Faliero, Pausanias sought, by means of the enslaved multitude, to deliver himself from the thraldom of the oligarchy which held prince and slave alike in subjection. He tampered with the helots, and secretly promised them the rights and liberties of citizens of Sparta, if they would co-operate with his projects and revolt at his command.
We have seen that a significant number of these helots fought as light infantry at Plataea; and the shared danger and glory brought the army's slaves together with their leader. Driven by a desperate and vengeful ambition similar to that of Marino Faliero, Pausanias aimed to free himself from the oppression of the oligarchy that kept both prince and slave in bondage. He secretly engaged with the helots and promised them the rights and freedoms of Spartan citizens if they would support his plans and rebel at his command.
Slaves are never without traitors; and the ephors learned the premeditated revolution from helots themselves. Still, slow and wary, those subtle and haughty magistrates suspended the blow—it was not without the fullest proof that a royal Spartan was to be condemned on the word of helots: they continued their vigilance—they obtained the proof they required.
Slaves always have traitors among them; and the ephors found out about the planned uprising from the helots themselves. However, cautious and wary, those clever and arrogant leaders held back from acting—it was only with complete evidence that a royal Spartan would be condemned based on the testimony of helots: they kept their guard up—they got the proof they needed.
VII. Argilius, a Spartan, with whom Pausanias had once formed the vicious connexion common to the Doric tribes, and who was deep in his confidence, was intrusted by the regent with letters to Artabazus. Argilius called to mind that none intrusted with a similar mission had ever returned. He broke open the seals and read what his fears foreboded, that, on his arrival at the satrap’s court, the silence of the messenger was to be purchased by his death. He carried the packet to the ephors. That dark and plotting council were resolved yet more entirely to entangle their guilty victim, and out of his own mouth to extract his secret; they therefore ordered Argilius to take refuge as a suppliant in the sanctuary of the temple of Neptune on Mount Taenarus. Within the sacred confines was contrived a cell, which, by a double partition, admitted some of the ephors, who, there concealed, might witness all that passed.
VII. Argilius, a Spartan who had once formed a corrupt alliance typical of the Doric tribes and who was deeply trusted by Pausanias, was given letters to Artabazus by the regent. Argilius remembered that no one else sent on a similar mission had ever returned. He broke the seals and read what his fears had predicted: that upon arriving at the satrap’s court, the messenger's silence would be bought with his death. He took the letter to the ephors. That dark and scheming council resolved to further ensnare their guilty target and extract his secret from him. They ordered Argilius to seek refuge as a suppliant in the sanctuary of the temple of Neptune on Mount Taenarus. Within the sacred space, a small cell was created where some of the ephors could hide and witness everything that occurred.
Intelligence was soon brought to Pausanias that, instead of proceeding to Artabazus, his confidant had taken refuge as a suppliant in the temple of Neptune. Alarmed and anxious, the regent hastened to the sanctuary. Argilius informed him that he had read the letters, and reproached him bitterly with his treason to himself. Pausanias, confounded and overcome by the perils which surrounded him, confessed his guilt, spoke unreservedly of the contents of the letter, implored the pardon of Argilius, and promised him safety and wealth if he would leave the sanctuary and proceed on the mission.
Intelligence soon reached Pausanias that, instead of going to Artabazus, his trusted ally had taken refuge as a supplicant in the temple of Neptune. Alarmed and anxious, the regent rushed to the sanctuary. Argilius told him that he had read the letters and bitterly accused him of betraying himself. Pausanias, confused and overwhelmed by the dangers surrounding him, admitted his guilt, spoke openly about the contents of the letter, begged Argilius for forgiveness, and promised him safety and wealth if he would leave the sanctuary and carry out the mission.
The ephors, from their hiding-place, heard all.
The ephors, from their hiding spot, heard everything.
On the departure of Pausanias from the sanctuary, his doom was fixed. But, among the more public causes of the previous delay of justice, we must include the friendship of some of the ephors, which Pausanias had won or purchased. It was the moment fixed for his arrest. Pausanias, in the streets, was alone and on foot. He beheld the ephors approaching him. A signal from one warned him of his danger. He turned—he fled. The temple of Minerva Chalcioecus at hand proffered a sanctuary—he gained the sacred confines, and entered a small house hard by the temple. The ephors—the officers—the crowd pursued; they surrounded the refuge, from which it was impious to drag the criminal. Resolved on his death, they removed the roof—blocked up the entrances (and if we may credit the anecdote, that violating human was characteristic of Spartan nature, his mother, a crone of great age 161, suggested the means of punishment, by placing, with her own hand, a stone at the threshold)—and, setting a guard around, left the conqueror of Mardonius to die of famine. When he was at his last gasp, unwilling to profane the sanctuary by his actual death, they bore him out into the open air, which he only breathed to expire 162. His corpse, which some of the fiercer Spartans at first intended to cast in the place of burial for malefactors, was afterward buried in the neighbourhood of the temple. And thus ended the glory and the crimes—the grasping ambition and the luxurious ostentation— of the bold Spartan who first scorned and then imitated the effeminacies of the Persian he subdued.
On Pausanias's departure from the sanctuary, his fate was sealed. However, one of the main reasons for the earlier delay in justice was the support of some of the ephors, which Pausanias had gained or bought. It was the moment set for his arrest. Pausanias was alone and on foot in the streets when he saw the ephors approaching him. A signal from one alerted him to his danger. He turned and ran. The temple of Minerva Chalcioecus was nearby and offered sanctuary—he reached the sacred area and entered a small house next to the temple. The ephors, the officers, and the crowd chased him; they surrounded the refuge, from which it was wrong to drag the criminal. Determined to see him dead, they tore off the roof and blocked the entrances (and if we can believe the story, reflecting the Spartan mindset, his elderly mother suggested the method of punishment by personally placing a stone at the threshold)—then, setting a guard around, they left the conqueror of Mardonius to die of starvation. When he was on the brink of death, refusing to defile the sanctuary by dying there, they carried him out into the open air, which he only breathed to die. His body, which some of the more aggressive Spartans initially intended to throw into the burial place for criminals, was later buried near the temple. And thus ended the glory and the crimes—the ambitious greed and the extravagant display—of the bold Spartan who first ridiculed and then copied the excesses of the Persian he defeated.
VIII. Amid the documents of which the ephors possessed themselves after the death of Pausanias was a correspondence with Themistocles, then residing in the rival and inimical state of Argos. Yet vindictive against that hero, the Spartan government despatched ambassadors to Athens, accusing him of a share in the conspiracy of Pausanias with the Medes. It seems that Themistocles did not disavow a correspondence with Pausanias, nor affect an absolute ignorance of his schemes; but he firmly denied by letter, his only mode of defence, all approval and all participation of the latter. Nor is there any proof, nor any just ground of suspicion, that he was a party to the betrayal of Greece. It was consistent, indeed, with his astute character, to plot, to manoeuvre, to intrigue, but for great and not paltry ends. By possessing himself of the secret, he possessed himself of the power of Pausanias; and that intelligence might perhaps have enabled him to frustrate the Spartan’s treason in the hour of actual danger to Greece. It is possible that, so far as Sparta alone was concerned, the Athenian felt little repugnance to any revolution or any peril confined to a state whose councils it had been the object of his life to baffle, and whose power it was the manifest interest of his native city to impair. He might have looked with complacency on the intrigues which the regent was carrying on against the Spartan government, and which threatened to shake that Doric constitution to its centre. But nothing, either in the witness of history or in the character or conduct of a man profoundly patriotic, even in his vices, favours the notion that he connived at the schemes which implicated, with the Grecian, the Athenian welfare. Pausanias, far less able, was probably his tool. By an insight into his projects, Themistocles might have calculated on the restoration of his own power. To weaken the Spartan influence was to weaken his own enemies at Athens; to break up the Spartan constitution was to leave Athens herself without a rival. And if, from the revolt of the helots, Pausanias should proceed to an active league with the Persians, Themistocles knew enough of Athens and of Greece to foresee that it was to the victor of Salamis and the founder of the Grecian navy that all eyes would be directed. Such seem the most probable views which would have been opened to the exile by the communications of Pausanias. If so, they were necessarily too subtle for the crowd to penetrate or understand. The Athenians heard only the accusations of the Spartans; they saw only the treason of Pausanias; they learned only that Themistocles had been the correspondent of the traitor. Already suspicious of a genius whose deep and intricate wiles they were seldom able to fathom, and trembling at the seeming danger they had escaped, it was natural enough that the Athenians should accede to the demands of the ambassadors. An Athenian, joined with a Lacedaemonian troop, was ordered to seize Themistocles wherever he should be found. Apprized of his danger, he hastily quitted the Peloponnesus and took refuge at Corcyra. Fear of the vengeance at once of Athens and of Sparta induced the Corcyreans to deny the shelter he sought, but they honourably transported him to the opposite continent. His route was discovered—his pursuers pressed upon him. He had entered the country of Admetus, king of the Molossians, from whose resentment he had everything to dread. For he had persuaded the Athenians to reject the alliance once sought by that monarch, and Admetus had vowed vengeance.
VIII. Among the documents that the ephors found after Pausanias's death was correspondence with Themistocles, who was living in the rival and hostile state of Argos. However, out of spite toward that hero, the Spartan government sent ambassadors to Athens, accusing him of being involved in Pausanias's conspiracy with the Medes. It appears that Themistocles did not deny having correspondence with Pausanias, nor did he pretend to be completely unaware of his plans; but he strongly denied, through letters—his only way of defending himself—any approval or participation in Pausanias's actions. There is no evidence and no reasonable suspicion that he was part of the betrayal of Greece. It was consistent with his cunning character to plot, maneuver, and scheme, but for significant, not trivial reasons. By knowing Pausanias's secrets, he had a hold over his power; this information might have allowed him to thwart the Spartan’s treachery at a time when Greece was in real danger. It's possible that, regarding Sparta alone, the Athenian felt little reluctance toward any upheaval or threat limited to a state whose plans it had been his life's goal to undermine, and whose strength it was obviously in his home city's interest to weaken. He might have looked favorably at the schemes that the regent was carrying out against the Spartan government, which could potentially destabilize that Doric constitution to its core. But nothing, either from historical records or in the nature and actions of a deeply patriotic man—even in his flaws—supports the idea that he was complicit in the plans that endangered both Greek and Athenian well-being. Pausanias, who was far less capable, was likely just his pawn. By understanding his plans, Themistocles might have seen a path to restoring his own influence. Weakening Spartan power meant weakening his enemies in Athens; dismantling Spartan governance would leave Athens without a rival. And if Pausanias were to form an active alliance with the Persians due to the helots' revolt, Themistocles knew too much about Athens and Greece to not realize that all eyes would be on the victor of Salamis and the creator of the Greek navy. These appear to be the most likely perspectives that might have opened up for the exile through Pausanias's communications. If so, they were necessarily too complex for the general public to grasp or understand. The Athenians only heard the Spartans' accusations; they saw only Pausanias's treason; they learned only that Themistocles had been corresponding with the traitor. Already wary of a genius whose deep and convoluted schemes they often couldn't comprehend, and unsettled by the apparent danger they had just avoided, it was not surprising that the Athenians agreed to the ambassadors' demands. An Athenian, together with a Lacedaemonian troop, was ordered to capture Themistocles wherever he may be found. Alerted to his peril, he quickly left the Peloponnesus and sought refuge in Corcyra. Fearing retribution from both Athens and Sparta, the Corcyreans denied him the shelter he sought, but they honorably transported him to the opposite mainland. His route was discovered—his pursuers were closing in on him. He had entered the territory of Admetus, the king of the Molossians, from whom he had much to fear. He had convinced the Athenians to turn down the alliance that the king had once sought, and Admetus had sworn revenge.
Thus situated, the fugitive formed a resolution which a great mind only could have conceived, and which presents to us one of the most touching pictures in ancient history. He repaired to the palace of Admetus himself. The prince was absent. He addressed his consort, and, advised by her, took the young child of the royal pair in his hand, and sat down at the hearth—“THEMISTOCLES THE SUPPLIANT!” 163 On the return of the prince he told his name, and bade him not wreak his vengeance on an exile. “To condemn me now,” he said, “would be to take advantage of distress. Honour dictates revenge only among equals upon equal terms. True that I opposed you once, but on a matter not of life, but of business or of interest. Now surrender me to my persecutors, and you deprive me of the last refuge of life itself.”
Thus situated, the fugitive made a decision that only a great mind could have imagined, presenting one of the most moving scenes in ancient history. He went to the palace of Admetus himself. The prince was away. He spoke to his wife, and with her advice, took the young child of the royal couple in his arms and sat down by the hearth—“THEMISTOCLES THE SUPPLIANT!” 163 When the prince returned, he revealed his name and urged him not to take out his anger on an exile. “To condemn me now,” he said, “would be to exploit my suffering. Honor allows revenge only among equals on equal terms. It’s true that I opposed you once, but it was over something not related to life, but to business or personal interest. If you hand me over to my persecutors, you take away my last refuge of life itself.”
IX. Admetus, much affected, bade him rise, and assured him of protection. The pursuers arrived; but, faithful to the guest who had sought his hearth, after a form peculiarly solemn among the Molossians, Admetus refused to give him up, and despatched him, guarded, to the sea-town of Pydna, over an arduous and difficult mountain-road. The sea-town gained, he took ship, disguised and unknown to all the passengers, in a trading vessel bound to Ionia. A storm arose—the vessel was driven from its course, and impelled right towards the Athenian fleet, that then under Cimon, his bitterest foe, lay before the Isle of Naxos (B. C. 466).
IX. Admetus, deeply moved, told him to get up and promised to protect him. The pursuers arrived; but, loyal to the guest who had come to his home, Admetus refused to turn him over, and sent him off, under guard, to the coastal town of Pydna, through a tough and challenging mountain path. Once he reached the coastal town, he boarded a ship, disguised and unknown to all the other passengers, on a trading vessel headed for Ionia. A storm broke out—the ship was thrown off course and pushed straight toward the Athenian fleet, which was then under Cimon, his fiercest enemy, situated near the Isle of Naxos (B.C. 466).
Prompt and bold in his expedients, Themistocles took aside the master of the vessel—discovered himself; threatened, if betrayed, to inform against the master as one bribed to favour his escape; promised, if preserved, everlasting gratitude; and urged that the preservation was possible, if no one during the voyage were permitted, on any pretext, to quit the vessel.
Prompt and bold in his actions, Themistocles took the ship's captain aside—revealed his identity; threatened that if he betrayed him, he would expose the captain as someone bribed to help him escape; promised that if he was protected, he would be grateful forever; and insisted that his safety was possible if no one was allowed to leave the ship during the journey, under any circumstances.
The master of the vessel was won—kept out at sea a day and a night to windward of the fleet, and landed Themistocles in safety at Ephesus.
The captain of the ship was successful—stayed out at sea for a day and a night against the wind of the fleet, and safely brought Themistocles to shore at Ephesus.
In the mean while the friends of Themistocles had not been inactive in Athens. On the supposed discovery of his treason, such of his property as could fall into the hands of the government was, as usual in such offences, confiscated to the public use; the amount was variously estimated at eighty and a hundred talents 164. But the greater part of his wealth—some from Athens, some from Argos—was secretly conveyed to him at Ephesus 165. One faithful friend procured the escape of his wife and children from Athens to the court of Admetus, for which offence of affection, a single historian, Stesimbrotus (whose statement even the credulous Plutarch questions, and proves to be contradictory with another assertion of the same author), has recorded that he was condemned to death by Cimon. It is not upon such dubious chronicles that we can suffer so great a stain on the character of a man singularly humane. 166
In the meantime, Themistocles’ friends weren’t idle in Athens. After the supposed discovery of his betrayal, the government seized whatever property of his it could, as is typical in such cases; estimates of its value ranged from eighty to a hundred talents 164. However, most of his wealth—some from Athens, some from Argos—was secretly sent to him in Ephesus 165. A loyal friend helped his wife and children escape from Athens to the court of Admetus. For this act of loyalty, a single historian, Stesimbrotus (whose account even the gullible Plutarch questions and contradicts with another statement by the same author), claims he was sentenced to death by Cimon. We cannot base such a serious stain on the character of a notably compassionate man on such unreliable accounts. 166
X. As we have now for ever lost sight of Themistocles on the stage of Athenian politics, the present is the most fitting opportunity to conclude the history of his wild and adventurous career.
X. Since we have now completely lost track of Themistocles in Athenian politics, this is the perfect time to wrap up the story of his tumultuous and adventurous life.
Persecuted by the Spartans, abandoned by his countrymen, excluded from the whole of Greece, no refuge remained to the man who had crushed the power of Persia, save the Persian court. The generous and high-spirited policy that characterized the oriental despotism towards its foes proffered him not only a safe, but a magnificent asylum. The Persian monarchs were ever ready to welcome the exiles of Greece, and to conciliate those whom they had failed to conquer. It was the fate of Themistocles to be saved by the enemies of his country. He had no alternative. The very accusation of connivance with the Medes drove him into their arms.
Persecuted by the Spartans, abandoned by his fellow countrymen, and shut out from all of Greece, the man who had defeated the power of Persia had no refuge left but the Persian court. The generous and noble approach of the Eastern despotism towards its enemies offered him not just safety but also a splendid sanctuary. The Persian kings were always eager to welcome Greek exiles and to win over those they had been unable to conquer. Themistocles' fate was to be saved by the enemies of his homeland. He had no choice. The very accusation of colluding with the Medes pushed him into their embrace.
Under guidance of a Persian, Themistocles traversed the Asiatic continent; and ere he reached Susa, contrived to have a letter, that might prepare the way for him, delivered at the Persian court. His letter ran somewhat thus, if we may suppose that Thucydides preserved the import, though he undoubtedly fashioned the style. 167
Under the guidance of a Persian, Themistocles traveled across Asia; and before he got to Susa, he managed to have a letter delivered to the Persian court that would help him. The letter likely said something like this, assuming that Thucydides captured the meaning, even if he shaped the style. 167
“I, Themistocles, who of all the Greeks have inflicted the severest wounds upon your race, so long as I was called by fate to resist the invasion of the Persians, now come to you.” (He then urged, on the other hand, the services he had rendered to Xerxes in his messages after Salamis, relative to the breaking of the bridges, assuming a credit to which he was by no means entitled—and insisted that his generosity demanded a return.) “Able” (he proceeded) “to perform great services—persecuted by the Greeks for my friendship for you—I am near at hand. Grant me only a year’s respite, that I may then apprize you in person of the object of my journey hither.”
“I, Themistocles, who have dealt the harshest blows to your people of all the Greeks, as long as fate required me to defend against the Persian invasion, now come to you.” (He then emphasized the support he had given Xerxes in his messages after Salamis regarding the destruction of the bridges, claiming credit he didn’t actually deserve—and insisted that his generosity warranted a response.) “Capable” (he continued) “of doing great things—hounded by the Greeks for my loyalty to you—I am here. Just grant me a year's reprieve, so I can tell you in person the purpose of my journey here.”
The bold and confident tone of Themistocles struck the imagination of the young king (Artaxerxes), and he returned a favourable reply. Themistocles consumed the year in the perfect acquisition of the language, and the customs and manners of the country. He then sought and obtained an audience. 168
The bold and confident tone of Themistocles caught the attention of the young king (Artaxerxes), and he responded positively. Themistocles spent the year fully mastering the language, as well as the customs and manners of the country. He then requested and secured an audience. 168
Able to converse with fluency, and without the medium of an interpreter, his natural abilities found their level. He rose to instant favour. Never before had a stranger been so honoured. He was admitted an easy access to the royal person—instructed in the learning of the Magi—and when he quitted the court it was to take possession of the government of three cities—Myus, celebrated for its provisions; Lampsacus, for its vineyards; and Magnesia, for the richness of the soil; so that, according to the spirit and phraseology of oriental taxation, it was not unaptly said that they were awarded to him for meat, wine, and bread.
Able to speak fluently without needing an interpreter, his natural talents shone through. He quickly gained favor. Never before had a newcomer been so honored. He was granted easy access to the royal presence, taught the wisdom of the Magi, and when he left the court, he took control of three cities—Myus, known for its food; Lampsacus, famous for its vineyards; and Magnesia, celebrated for its fertile land; so that, in the terms of Eastern taxation, it was aptly said that they were given to him for meat, wine, and bread.
XI. Thus affluent and thus honoured, Themistocles passed at Magnesia the remainder of his days—the time and method of his death uncertain; whether cut off by natural disease, or, as is otherwise related 169, by a fate than which fiction itself could have invented none more suited to the consummation of his romantic and great career. It is said that when afterward Egypt revolted, and that revolt was aided by the Athenians; when the Grecian navy sailed as far as Cilicia and Cyprus; and Cimon upheld, without a rival, the new sovereignty of the seas; when Artaxerxes resolved to oppose the growing power of a state which, from the defensive, had risen to the offending, power; Themistocles received a mandate to realize the vague promises he had given, and to commence his operations against Greece (B. C. 449). Then (if with Plutarch we accept this version of his fate), neither resentment against the people he had deemed ungrateful, nor his present pomp, nor the fear of life, could induce the lord of Magnesia to dishonour his past achievements 170, and demolish his immortal trophies. Anxious only to die worthily—since to live as became him was no longer possible—he solemnly sacrificed to the gods—took leave of his friends, and finished his days by poison.
XI. Wealthy and respected, Themistocles spent the rest of his days in Magnesia—the details of his death remain uncertain; whether he died from natural causes or, as some accounts suggest 169, by a fate more suitable for the dramatic conclusion of his remarkable life. It’s said that when Egypt later rebelled, and the Athenians supported that rebellion; when the Greek navy reached as far as Cilicia and Cyprus; and Cimon led the newly established dominance of the seas without any rivals; when Artaxerxes decided to counter the rising power of a state that had moved from defense to offense; Themistocles received orders to fulfill the promises he had made and to begin his actions against Greece (B.C. 449). Then (if we accept Plutarch's version of his fate), neither anger at the people he considered ungrateful, nor his current status, nor fear of life, could convince the lord of Magnesia to dishonor his past accomplishments 170, or destroy his enduring achievements. Focused only on dying honorably—since living in accordance with his stature was no longer an option—he made a solemn sacrifice to the gods, said goodbye to his friends, and ended his life by poison.
His monument long existed in the forum of Magnesia; but his bones are said by his own desire to have been borne back privately to Attica, and have rested in the beloved land that exiled him from her bosom. And this his last request seems touchingly to prove his loyalty to Athens, and to proclaim his pardon of her persecution. Certain it is, at least, that however honoured in Persia, he never perpetrated one act against Greece; and that, if sullied by the suspicion of others, his fame was untarnished by himself. He died, according to Plutarch, in his sixty-fifth year, leaving many children, and transmitting his name to a long posterity, who received from his memory the honours they could not have acquired for themselves.
His monument stood for a long time in the forum of Magnesia, but he requested that his bones be quietly returned to Attica, where they rest in the cherished land that once exiled him. This final wish seems to beautifully demonstrate his loyalty to Athens and shows his forgiveness for her mistreatment. It's clear, at least, that despite being honored in Persia, he never acted against Greece; and while others may have tarnished his reputation, he himself remained unblemished. According to Plutarch, he died at the age of sixty-five, leaving behind many children and passing on his name to a future generation that earned honors through his memory that they could not have achieved on their own.
XII. The character of Themistocles has already in these pages unfolded itself—profound, yet tortuous in policy—vast in conception —subtle, patient, yet prompt in action; affable in manner, but boastful, ostentatious, and disdaining to conceal his consciousness of merit; not brilliant in accomplishment, yet master not more of the Greek wiles than the Attic wit; sufficiently eloquent, but greater in deeds than words, and penetrating, by an almost preternatural insight, at once the characters of men and the sequences of events. Incomparably the greatest of his own times, and certainly not surpassed by those who came after him. Pisistratus, Cimon, Pericles, Aristides himself, were of noble and privileged birth. Themistocles was the first, and, except Demosthenes, the greatest of those who rose from the ranks of the people, and he drew the people upward in his rise. His fame was the creation of his genius only. “What other man” (to paraphrase the unusual eloquence of Diodorus) “could in the same time have placed Greece at the head of nations, Athens at the head of Greece, himself at the head of Athens?—in the most illustrious age the most illustrious man. Conducting to war the citizens of a state in ruins, he defeated all the arms of Asia. He alone had the power to unite the most discordant materials, and to render danger itself salutary to his designs. Not more remarkable in war than peace—in the one he saved the liberties of Greece, in the other he created the eminence of Athens.”
XII. The character of Themistocles has already been revealed in these pages—deep, yet complex in strategy—grand in vision—subtle, patient, yet quick to act; friendly in approach but also proud, showy, and unwilling to hide his sense of worth; not dazzling in achievements, yet a master of both Greek cunning and Attic cleverness; fairly eloquent but greater in actions than words, with an almost extraordinary ability to see through people's characters and the unfolding of events. He was undoubtedly the greatest of his time and certainly not surpassed by those who followed. Pisistratus, Cimon, Pericles, and even Aristides were born into privilege. Themistocles was the first, and aside from Demosthenes, the greatest leader to come from the common people, lifting others with him as he rose. His fame was solely the result of his talent. “What other man” (to paraphrase Diodorus’s unique eloquence) “could have simultaneously placed Greece at the top of nations, Athens at the top of Greece, and himself at the top of Athens?—in the most illustrious era, the most illustrious man. Leading the citizens of a broken state into war, he defeated all of Asia’s forces. He alone could unite the most disparate elements and turn even danger to his advantage. Not more remarkable in war than in peace—in war he saved Greece's freedoms, and in peace, he established Athens's greatness.”
After him, the light of the heroic age seems to glimmer and to fade, and even Pericles himself appears dwarfed and artificial beside that masculine and colossal intellect which broke into fragments the might of Persia, and baffled with a vigorous ease the gloomy sagacity of Sparta. The statue of Themistocles, existent six hundred years after his decease, exhibited to his countrymen an aspect as heroical as his deeds. 171
After him, the light of the heroic age seems to shine briefly and then fade, and even Pericles himself seems small and unnatural next to that strong and towering intellect that shattered the power of Persia and easily outsmarted the dark wisdom of Sparta. The statue of Themistocles, still standing six hundred years after his death, showed his fellow countrymen a heroic image that matched his accomplishments. 171
We return to Cimon
We're back to Cimon
CHAPTER III.
Reduction of Naxos.—Actions off Cyprus.—Manners of Cimon.— Improvements in Athens.—Colony at the Nine Ways.—Siege of Thasos.— Earthquake in Sparta.—Revolt of Helots, Occupation of Ithome, and Third Messenian War.—Rise and Character of Pericles.—Prosecution and Acquittal of Cimon.—The Athenians assist the Spartans at Ithome.— Thasos Surrenders.—Breach between the Athenians and Spartans.— Constitutional Innovations at Athens.—Ostracism of Cimon.
Reduction of Naxos.—Actions off Cyprus.—Cimon's Ways.— Improvements in Athens.—Colony at the Nine Ways.—Siege of Thasos.—Earthquake in Sparta.—Helot Revolt, Occupation of Ithome, and the Third Messenian War.—Rise and Character of Pericles.—Prosecution and Acquittal of Cimon.—The Athenians support the Spartans at Ithome.— Thasos Surrenders.—Rift between the Athenians and Spartans.— Constitutional Changes in Athens.—Ostracism of Cimon.
I. At the time in which Naxos refused the stipulated subsidies, and was, in consequence, besieged by Cimon, that island was one of the most wealthy and populous of the confederate states. For some time the Naxians gallantly resisted the besiegers; but, at length reduced, they were subjected to heavier conditions than those previously imposed upon them. No conqueror contents himself with acquiring the objects, sometimes frivolous and often just, with which he commences hostilities. War inflames the passions, and success the ambition. Cimon, at first anxious to secure the Grecian, was now led on to desire the increase of the Athenian power. The Athenian fleet had subdued Naxos, and Naxos was rendered subject to Athens. This was the first of the free states which the growing republic submitted to her yoke 172. The precedent once set, as occasion tempted, the rest shared a similar fate.
I. When Naxos refused the agreed subsidies and was subsequently besieged by Cimon, that island was one of the wealthiest and most populated of the allied states. For a while, the people of Naxos bravely resisted their attackers; however, eventually, they were forced to accept harsher terms than those previously imposed on them. No conqueror is satisfied with merely gaining the things that sparked the war, which can be trivial or justified. War heightens emotions, and victory fuels ambition. Cimon, initially focused on securing the Greek alliance, grew increasingly intent on expanding Athenian power. The Athenian fleet defeated Naxos, making it subject to Athens. This was the first free state that the rising republic brought under its control 172. Once this precedent was established, the rest of the states followed a similar fate as opportunities arose.
II. The reduction of Naxos was but the commencement of the victories of Cimon. In Asia Minor there were many Grecian cities in which the Persian ascendency had never yet been shaken. Along the Carian coast Cimon conducted his armament, and the terror it inspired sufficed to engage all the cities, originally Greek, to revolt from Persia; those garrisoned by Persians he besieged and reduced. Victorious in Caria, he passed with equal success into Lycia 173, augmenting his fleet and forces as he swept along. But the Persians, not inactive, had now assembled a considerable force in Pamphylia, and lay encamped on the banks of the Eurymedon (B. C. 466), whose waters, sufficiently wide, received their fleet. The expected re-enforcement of eighty Phoenician vessels from Cyprus induced the Persians to delay 174 actual hostilities. But Cimon, resolved to forestall the anticipated junction, sailed up the river, and soon forced the barbarian fleet, already much more numerous than his own, into active engagement. The Persians but feebly supported the attack; driven up the river, the crews deserted the ships, and hastened to join the army arrayed along the coast. Of the ships thus deserted, some were destroyed; and two hundred triremes, taken by Cimon, yet more augmented his armament. But the Persians, now advanced to the verge of the shore, presented a long and formidable array, and Cimon, with some anxiety, saw the danger he incurred in landing troops already much harassed by the late action, while a considerable proportion of the hostile forces, far more numerous, were fresh and unfatigued. The spirit of the men, and their elation at the late victory, bore down the fears of the general; yet warm from the late action, he debarked his heavy-armed infantry, and with loud shouts the Athenians rushed upon the foe. The contest was fierce—the slaughter great. Many of the noblest Athenians fell in the action. Victory at length declared in favour of Cimon; the Persians were put to flight, and the Greeks remained masters of the battle and the booty—the last considerable. Thus, on the same day, the Athenians were victorious on both elements—an unprecedented glory, which led the rhetorical Plutarch to declare—that Plataea and Salamis were outshone. Posterity, more discerning, estimates glory not by the greatness of the victory alone, but the justice of the cause. And even a skirmish won by men struggling for liberty on their own shores is more honoured than the proudest battle in which the conquerors are actuated by the desire of vengeance or the lust of enterprise.
II. The capture of Naxos was just the beginning of Cimon's successes. In Asia Minor, there were many Greek cities where Persian control had never been challenged. Cimon led his forces along the Carian coast, and the fear he stirred was enough to persuade all the originally Greek cities to rebel against Persia; those held by Persians he besieged and conquered. After winning in Caria, he moved successfully into Lycia 173, increasing his fleet and troops as he advanced. However, the Persians were also active and had gathered a significant force in Pamphylia, camping by the Eurymedon River (B.C. 466), whose wide waters housed their fleet. The anticipated arrival of eighty Phoenician ships from Cyprus caused the Persians to postpone 174 direct conflict. But Cimon, determined to prevent the expected reinforcement, sailed up the river and quickly forced the larger Persian fleet into a confrontation. The Persians poorly supported the attack; pushed up the river, their crews abandoned the ships and rushed to join the army waiting on the coast. Some of the deserted ships were destroyed, and Cimon captured two hundred triremes, further boosting his forces. Now, the Persians had advanced to the edge of the shore, presenting a long, imposing line, and Cimon anxiously recognized the risk of landing troops already worn out from the previous battle, while a significant portion of the enemy's forces was fresh and unworn. The morale of his men, buoyed by their recent victory, helped alleviate the general's worries; still energized from the earlier conflict, he disembarked his heavy infantry, and with loud cheers, the Athenians charged the enemy. The battle was intense—the casualties were heavy. Many of the finest Athenians fell in the fight. Eventually, victory favored Cimon; the Persians fled, and the Greeks triumphed in both the battle and the spoils—the latter being considerable. Thus, on the same day, the Athenians claimed victories on both land and sea—an extraordinary honor that led the eloquent Plutarch to say that Plataea and Salamis were eclipsed. Future generations, being more discerning, know glory is not just measured by the scale of victory, but by the righteousness of the cause. Even a small skirmish fought by people striving for freedom on their own land carries more honor than the grandest battle motivated by revenge or ambition.
III. To the trophies of this double victory were soon added those of a third, obtained over the eighty vessels of the Phoenicians off the coast of Cyprus. These signal achievements spread the terror of the Athenian arms on remote as on Grecian shores. Without adopting the exaggerated accounts of injudicious authors as to the number of ships and prisoners 175, it seems certain, at least, that the amount of the booty was sufficient, in some degree, to create in Athens a moral revolution—swelling to a vast extent the fortunes of individuals, and augmenting the general taste for pomp, for luxury, and for splendour, which soon afterward rendered Athens the most magnificent of the Grecian states.
III. The trophies from this double victory were soon joined by those from a third win against eighty Phoenician ships off the coast of Cyprus. These impressive victories spread fear of Athenian power on both distant and Greek shores. Without endorsing the inflated claims of careless writers regarding the number of ships and prisoners 175, it’s clear that the amount of loot was enough to spark a moral shift in Athens—significantly enriching individuals and increasing the general appetite for extravagance, luxury, and opulence, which soon made Athens the most magnificent of the Greek states.
The navy of Persia thus broken, her armies routed, the scene of action transferred to her own dominions, all designs against Greece were laid aside. Retreating, as it were, more to the centre of her vast domains, she left the Asiatic outskirts to the solitude, rather of exhaustion than of peace. “No troops,” boasted the later rhetoricians, “came within a day’s journey, on horseback, of the Grecian seas.” From the Chelidonian isles on the Pamphylian coast, to those 176 twin rocks at the entrance of the Euxine, between which the sea, chafed by their rugged base, roars unappeasably through its mists of foam, no Persian galley was descried. Whether this was the cause of defeat or of acknowledged articles of peace, has been disputed. But, as will be seen hereafter, of the latter all historical evidence is wanting.
The Persian navy was defeated, their armies were scattered, and the battlefield shifted to their own territory, leading them to abandon all plans against Greece. In a way, they retreated further into their vast lands, leaving the Asian outskirts in a state of solitude, more from exhaustion than from tranquility. “No troops,” later claimed the rhetoricians, “were within a day’s ride on horseback of the Greek seas.” From the Chelidonian islands off the Pamphylian coast to those 176 twin rocks at the entrance of the Black Sea, where the sea crashes against their rugged bases, no Persian ship was seen. Whether this resulted from their defeat or from an acknowledged peace treaty is debated. However, as will be shown later, there is no historical evidence for the latter.
In a subsequent expedition, Cimon, sailing from Athens with a small force, wrested the Thracian Chersonese from the Persians—an exploit which restored to him his own patrimony.
In a later expedition, Cimon, setting sail from Athens with a small group, took back the Thracian Chersonese from the Persians—an achievement that restored his own inheritance.
IV. Cimon was now at the height of his fame and popularity. His share of the booty, and the recovery of the Chersonese, rendered him by far the wealthiest citizen of Athens; and he continued to use his wealth to cement his power. His intercourse with other nations, his familiarity with the oriental polish and magnificence, served to elevate his manners from their early rudeness, and to give splendour to his tastes. If he had spent his youth among the wild soldiers of Miltiades, the leisure of his maturer years was cultivated by an intercourse with sages and poets. His passion for the sex, which even in its excesses tends to refine and to soften, made his only vice. He was the friend of every genius and every art; and, the link between the lavish ostentation of Themistocles and the intellectual grace of Pericles, he conducted, as it were, the insensible transition from the age of warlike glory to that of civil pre-eminence. He may be said to have contributed greatly to diffuse that atmosphere of poetry and of pleasure which even the meanest of the free Athenians afterward delighted to respire. He led the citizens more and more from the recesses of private life; and carried out that social policy commenced by Pisistratus, according to which all individual habits became merged into one animated, complex, and excited public. Thus, himself gay and convivial, addicted to company, wine, and women, he encouraged shows and spectacles, and invested them with new magnificence; he embellished the city with public buildings, and was the first to erect at Athens those long colonnades—beneath the shade of which, sheltered from the western suns, that graceful people were accustomed to assemble and converse. The Agora, that universal home of the citizens, was planted by him with the oriental planes; and the groves of Academe, the immortal haunt of Plato, were his work. That celebrated garden, associated with the grateful and bright remembrances of all which poetry can lend to wisdom, was, before the time of Cimon, a waste and uncultivated spot. It was his hand that intersected it with walks and alleys, and that poured through its green retreats the ornamental waters so refreshing in those climes, and not common in the dry Attic soil, which now meandered in living streams, and now sparkled into fountains. Besides these works to embellish, he formed others to fortify the city. He completed the citadel, hitherto unguarded on the south side; and it was from the barbarian spoils deposited in the treasury that the expenses of founding the Long Walls, afterward completed, were defrayed.
IV. Cimon was at the peak of his fame and popularity. His share of the loot and the recovery of the Chersonese made him the richest citizen of Athens, and he continued to use his wealth to secure his power. His interactions with other nations and his familiarity with the polish and grandeur of the East refined his manners and enhanced his tastes. While he spent his youth among the rough soldiers of Miltiades, his later years were enriched by connections with wise thinkers and poets. His passion for women, even in its excesses, was his only vice. He was a friend to every genius and every art, acting as a bridge between the extravagant display of Themistocles and the intellectual charm of Pericles. He facilitated the subtle shift from an age of military glory to one of civic prominence. He greatly contributed to creating an atmosphere of poetry and pleasure that even the humblest of the free Athenians later enjoyed. He encouraged citizens to step out of their private lives and continued the social policy started by Pisistratus, merging individual habits into a lively, complex, and vibrant public life. Being cheerful and sociable himself, he loved company, wine, and women, and he promoted shows and spectacles, bringing them new grandeur. He beautified the city with public buildings and was the first to construct those long colonnades in Athens, where the graceful people could gather and chat, sheltered from the western sun. The Agora, the common meeting place for citizens, was planted by him with Eastern sycamores, and he was responsible for the groves of Academe, the timeless retreat of Plato. That famous garden, now linked with the joyous and appreciative memories of what poetry can bring to wisdom, was, before Cimon's time, a wasteland. It was his work that carved paths and trails through it and brought in ornamental waters that were refreshing in that climate and rare in the dry Attic soil, now flowing as lively streams and sparkling as fountains. In addition to these beautifying projects, he also worked on fortifying the city. He completed the citadel, which had previously been unprotected on the south side, and it was from the spoils taken from the barbarians stored in the treasury that the costs of building the Long Walls, which were finished later, were covered.
V. In his conduct towards the allies, the natural urbanity of Cimon served to conceal a policy deep-laid and grasping. The other Athenian generals were stern and punctilious in their demands on the confederates; they required the allotted number of men, and, in default of the supply, increased the rigour of their exactions. Not so Cimon—from those whom the ordinary avocations of a peaceful life rendered averse to active service, he willingly accepted a pecuniary substitute, equivalent to the value of those ships or soldiers they should have furnished. These sums, devoted indeed to the general service, were yet appropriated to the uses of the Athenian navy; thus the states, hitherto warlike, were artfully suffered to lapse into peaceful and luxurious pursuits; and the confederates became at once, under the most lenient pretexts, enfeebled and impoverished by the very means which strengthened the martial spirit and increased the fiscal resources of the Athenians. The tributaries found too late, when they ventured at revolt, that they had parted with the facilities of resistance. 177
V. In his approach to the allies, Cimon's natural charm hid a deep and ambitious policy. The other Athenian generals were strict and exacting in their demands on the confederates; they insisted on the required number of men, and if they fell short, they tightened their grip on their demands. Not Cimon—he gladly accepted a financial substitute from those who, due to their usual peaceful lives, were reluctant to serve actively, amounting to the value of the ships or soldiers they should have supplied. These funds, although intended for the general service, were mainly used for the Athenian navy; as a result, the previously warlike states were cleverly allowed to drift into peaceful and luxurious lifestyles, and the confederates became, under the most lenient justifications, weakened and impoverished by the very means that strengthened Athenian military spirit and increased their financial resources. The tributary states realized too late, when they attempted to revolt, that they had given up their ability to resist. 177
In the mean while it was the object of Cimon to sustain the naval ardour and discipline of the Athenians; while the oar and the sword fell into disuse with the confederates, he kept the greater part of the citizens in constant rotation at maritime exercise or enterprise— until experience and increasing power with one, indolence and gradual subjection with the other, destroying the ancient equality in arms, made the Athenians masters and their confederates subjects. 178
In the meantime, Cimon aimed to maintain the naval enthusiasm and discipline of the Athenians; while the oar and sword became less used by the allies, he kept most citizens regularly engaged in naval training or missions—until the Athenians' experience and growing strength, combined with the allies' laziness and gradual subjugation, destroyed the old balance in arms, making the Athenians rulers and their allies subjects. 178
VI. According to the wise policy of the ancients, the Athenians never neglected a suitable opportunity to colonize; thus extending their dominion while they draughted off the excess of their population, as well as the more enterprising spirits whom adventure tempted or poverty aroused. The conquest of Eion had opened to the Athenians a new prospect of aggrandizement, of which they were now prepared to seize the advantages. Not far from Eion, and on the banks of the Strymon, was a place called the Nine Ways, afterward Amphipolis, and which, from its locality and maritime conveniences, seemed especially calculated for the site of a new city. Thither ten thousand persons, some confederates, some Athenians, had been sent to establish a colony. The views of the Athenians were not, however, in this enterprise, bounded to its mere legitimate advantages. About the same time they carried on a dispute with the Thasians relative to certain mines and places of trade on the opposite coasts of Thrace. The dispute was one of considerable nicety. The Athenians, having conquered Eion and the adjacent territory, claimed the possession by right of conquest. The Thasians, on the other hand, had anciently possessed some of the mines and the monopoly of the commerce; they had joined in the confederacy; and, asserting that the conquest had been made, if by Athenian arms, for the federal good, they demanded that the ancient privileges should revert to them. The Athenian government was not disposed to surrender a claim which proffered to avarice the temptation of mines of gold. The Thasians renounced the confederacy, and thus gave to the Athenians the very pretext for hostilities which the weaker state should never permit to the more strong. While the colony proceeded to its destination, part of the Athenian fleet, under Cimon, sailed to Thasos—gained a victory by sea—landed on the island—and besieged the city.
VI. Following the smart strategies of the ancients, the Athenians always took the chance to colonize whenever it arose, expanding their control while also relieving their population and attracting ambitious individuals drawn by adventure or poverty. The conquest of Eion had opened up new opportunities for the Athenians, and they were ready to capitalize on them. Not far from Eion, on the banks of the Strymon River, was a location called the Nine Ways, later known as Amphipolis, which, due to its position and access to the sea, seemed especially suited for a new city. Ten thousand people, including both allies and Athenians, were sent there to establish a colony. However, the Athenians had broader ambitions in this venture than just its straightforward benefits. Around the same time, they were in a dispute with the Thasians over certain mines and trade areas on the opposite shores of Thrace. This conflict was quite complicated. The Athenians, having conquered Eion and the surrounding lands, claimed ownership based on their conquest. The Thasians, on the other hand, had historically owned some of the mines and held a monopoly on trade; they were part of the alliance and argued that the conquest, though led by Athenian forces, was for the benefit of the alliance, and they insisted that their old privileges should be restored. The Athenian government was not willing to give up a claim that offered the tempting prospect of gold mines. The Thasians withdrew from the alliance, handing the Athenians an excuse for conflict, which a weaker state should never allow a stronger one to have. While the colony made its way to its new location, part of the Athenian fleet, led by Cimon, sailed to Thasos, secured a naval victory, landed on the island, and began besieging the city.
Meanwhile the new colonizers had become masters of the Nine Ways, having dislodged the Edonian Thracians, its previous habitants. But hostility following hostility, the colonists were eventually utterly routed and cut off in a pitched battle at Drabescus (B. C. 465), in Edonia, by the united forces of all the neighbouring Thracians.
Meanwhile, the new colonizers had taken control of the Nine Ways after pushing out the Edonian Thracians, who had lived there before. However, after facing one conflict after another, the colonists were eventually completely defeated and surrounded in a major battle at Drabescus (B.C. 465) in Edonia by the combined forces of all the neighboring Thracians.
VII. The siege of Thasos still continued, and the besieged took the precaution to send to Sparta for assistance. That sullen state had long viewed with indignation the power of Athens; her younger warriors clamoured against the inert indifference with which a city, for ages so inferior to Sparta, had been suffered to gain the ascendency over Greece. In vain had Themistocles been removed; the inexhaustible genius of the people had created a second Themistocles in Cimon. The Lacedaemonians, glad of a pretext for quarrel, courteously received the Thasian ambassadors, and promised to distract the Athenian forces by an irruption into Attica. They were actively prepared in concerting measures for this invasion, when sudden and complicated afflictions, now to be related, forced them to abandon their designs, and confine their attention to themselves.
VII. The siege of Thasos was ongoing, and the people under siege took the step of sending for help to Sparta. That gloomy state had long been angry about the power of Athens; its younger warriors complained about the passive indifference with which a city that had been so inferior to Sparta for ages had been allowed to dominate Greece. Even with Themistocles gone, the endless creativity of the people had given rise to a new Themistocles in Cimon. The Spartans, looking for an excuse to fight, welcomed the Thasian ambassadors and promised to divert the Athenian forces by invading Attica. They were actively preparing for this invasion when unexpected and complicated troubles, which will be explained now, forced them to drop their plans and focus on their own situation.
VIII. An earthquake, unprecedented in its violence, occurred in Sparta. In many places throughout Laconia the rocky soil was rent asunder. From Mount Taygetus, which overhung the city, and on which the women of Lacedaemon were wont to hold their bacchanalian orgies, huge fragments rolled into the suburbs. The greater portion of the city was absolutely overthrown; and it is said, probably with exaggeration, that only five houses wholly escaped the shock. This terrible calamity did not cease suddenly as it came; its concussions were repeated; it buried alike men and treasure: could we credit Diodorus, no less than twenty thousand persons perished in the shock. Thus depopulated, empoverished, and distressed, the enemies whom the cruelty of Sparta nursed within her bosom resolved to seize the moment to execute their vengeance and consummate her destruction. Under Pausanias we have seen before that the helots were already ripe for revolt. The death of that fierce conspirator checked, but did not crush, their designs of freedom. Now was the moment, when Sparta lay in ruins—now was the moment to realize their dreams. From field to field, from village to village, the news of the earthquake became the watchword of revolt. Up rose the helots (B. C. 464)—they armed themselves, they poured on—a wild, and gathering, and relentless multitude, resolved to slay by the wrath of man all whom that of nature had yet spared. The earthquake that levelled Sparta rent her chains; nor did the shock create one chasm so dark and wide as that between the master and the slave.
VIII. A violent earthquake hit Sparta like never before. In many areas across Laconia, the rocky ground split apart. Huge chunks rolled down from Mount Taygetus, which loomed over the city and was where the women of Lacedaemon would often hold their wild parties. Most of the city was completely destroyed; it's said—though likely exaggerated—that only five houses escaped the destruction. This terrible disaster didn't stop suddenly; its shocks kept coming, burying both people and treasure. If we believe Diodorus, around twenty thousand people lost their lives in the quake. With their population dwindling, impoverished, and in distress, the enemies that Sparta had mistreated decided to take advantage of the situation to enact their revenge and bring about its downfall. Under Pausanias, we previously noted that the helots were ready to revolt. The death of that fierce conspirator put a pause on their plans for freedom, but did not eliminate them. Now was the time, as Sparta lay in ruins—now was their chance to realize their dreams. News of the earthquake spread from field to field, from village to village, becoming a rallying cry for rebellion. The helots rose up (B.C. 464)—they armed themselves and surged forward—a wild, gathering, relentless mob, determined to kill everyone that nature had left unharmed. The earthquake that destroyed Sparta also broke their chains; no rift created by the tremor was as deep and wide as the divide between the master and the slave.
It is one of the sublimest and most awful spectacles in history—that city in ruins—the earth still trembling—the grim and dauntless soldiery collected amid piles of death and ruin; and in such a time, and such a scene, the multitude sensible, not of danger, but of wrong, and rising, not to succour, but to revenge: all that should have disarmed a feebler enmity, giving fire to theirs; the dreadest calamity their blessing—dismay their hope it was as if the Great Mother herself had summoned her children to vindicate the long-abused, the all inalienable heritage derived from her; and the stir of the angry elements was but the announcement of an armed and solemn union between nature and the oppressed.
It is one of the most incredible and terrifying sights in history—that city in ruins—the ground still shaking—the fierce and fearless soldiers gathered among heaps of death and destruction; and in this time, in this scene, the crowd felt not fear, but a sense of injustice, rising not to help, but to take revenge: everything that should have softened their anger only fueled it; their greatest disaster became their blessing—fear turned into hope. It was as if the Great Mother herself had called her children to defend the long-suffering, the undeniable legacy passed down from her; and the turbulence of the elements was merely the signal of a powerful and serious alliance between nature and the oppressed.
IX. Fortunately for Sparta, the danger was not altogether unforeseen. After the confusion and horror of the earthquake, and while the people, dispersed, were seeking to save their effects, Archidamus, who, four years before, had succeeded to the throne of Lacedaemon, ordered the trumpets to sound as to arms. That wonderful superiority of man over matter which habit and discipline can effect, and which was ever so visible among the Spartans, constituted their safety at that hour. Forsaking the care of their property, the Spartans seized their arms, flocked around their king, and drew up in disciplined array. In her most imminent crisis, Sparta was thus saved. The helots approached, wild, disorderly, and tumultuous; they came intent only to plunder and to slay; they expected to find scattered and affrighted foes—they found a formidable army; their tyrants were still their lords. They saw, paused, and fled, scattering themselves over the country—exciting all they met to rebellion, and soon, joined with the Messenians, kindred to them by blood and ancient reminiscences of heroic struggles, they seized that same Ithome which their hereditary Aristodemus had before occupied with unforgotten valour. This they fortified; and, occupying also the neighbouring lands, declared open war upon their lords. As the Messenians were the more worthy enemy, so the general insurrection is known by the name of the Third Messenian War.
IX. Luckily for Sparta, the danger wasn’t entirely unexpected. After the chaos and fear caused by the earthquake, while the people were scattered and trying to save their belongings, Archidamus, who had taken the throne of Lacedaemon four years earlier, ordered the trumpets to sound the call to arms. The remarkable ability of people to overcome challenges through habit and discipline, which was always evident among the Spartans, ensured their safety at that moment. Instead of worrying about their possessions, the Spartans grabbed their weapons, gathered around their king, and formed an organized battle line. In its most critical moment, Sparta was saved. The helots approached, chaotic and unruly; they came to plunder and kill. They expected to find scattered and terrified enemies but instead encountered a powerful army; their oppressors remained in control. They paused, saw the situation, and fled, scattering across the countryside—inciting anyone they met to rebel, and soon, joining with the Messenians, who were related to them through blood and shared memories of heroic battles, they took over Ithome, which their ancestral hero Aristodemus had once held with memorable courage. They fortified it and, seizing the surrounding lands, declared open war on their masters. Since the Messenians were the more formidable opponent, this widespread uprising is known as the Third Messenian War.
X. While these events occurred in Sparta, Cimon, intrusting to others the continued siege of Thasos, had returned to Athens 179. He found his popularity already shaken, and his power endangered. The democratic party had of late regained the influence it had lost on the exile of Themistocles. Pericles, son of Xanthippus (the accuser of Miltiades), had, during the last six years, insensibly risen into reputation: the house of Miltiades was fated to bow before the race of Xanthippus, and hereditary opposition ended in the old hereditary results. Born of one of the loftiest families of Athens, distinguished by the fame as the fortunes of his father, who had been linked with Aristides in command of the Athenian fleet, and in whose name had been achieved the victory of Mycale, the young Pericles found betimes an easy opening to his brilliant genius and his high ambition. He had nothing to contend against but his own advantages. The beauty of his countenance, the sweetness of his voice, and the blandness of his address, reminded the oldest citizens of Pisistratus; and this resemblance is said to have excited against him a popular jealousy which he found it difficult to surmount. His youth was passed alternately in the camp and in the schools. He is the first of the great statesmen of his country who appears to have prepared himself for action by study; Anaxagoras, Pythoclides, and Damon were his tutors, and he was early eminent in all the lettered accomplishments of his time. By degrees, accustoming the people to his appearance in public life, he became remarkable for an elaborate and impassioned eloquence, hitherto unknown. With his intellectual and meditative temperament all was science; his ardour in action regulated by long forethought, his very words by deliberate preparation. Till his time, oratory, in its proper sense, as a study and an art, was uncultivated in Athens. Pisistratus is said to have been naturally eloquent, and the vigorous mind of Themistocles imparted at once persuasion and force to his counsels. But Pericles, aware of all the advantages to be gained by words, embellished words with every artifice that his imagination could suggest. His speeches were often written compositions, and the novel dazzle of their diction, and that consecutive logic which preparation alone can impart to language, became irresistible to a people that had itself become a Pericles. Universal civilization, universal poetry, had rendered the audience susceptible and fastidious; they could appreciate the ornate and philosophical harangues of Pericles; and, the first to mirror to themselves the intellectual improvements they had made, the first to represent the grace and enlightenment, as Themistocles had been the first to represent the daring and enterprise, of his time, the son of Xanthippus began already to eclipse that very Cimon whose qualities prepared the way for him.
X. While these events were happening in Sparta, Cimon, leaving the ongoing siege of Thasos to others, returned to Athens 179. He found his popularity already shaken and his power at risk. The democratic party had recently regained the influence it lost when Themistocles was exiled. Pericles, the son of Xanthippus (who had accused Miltiades), had quietly risen in reputation over the last six years. The house of Miltiades was destined to yield to the line of Xanthippus, and the old hereditary rivalry led to the same historical outcomes. Born into one of the most prestigious families in Athens, renowned in line with his father's fame, who had shared command of the Athenian fleet with Aristides and whose name was linked to the victory at Mycale, the young Pericles found early opportunities to showcase his brilliance and high ambition. His only challenge was his own advantages. His good looks, charming voice, and smooth speaking style reminded the oldest citizens of Pisistratus, and this resemblance reportedly stirred up a jealousy against him that was hard to overcome. He spent his youth alternating between military life and academic study. He was the first of Athens' great statesmen to appear to prepare for action through learning; Anaxagoras, Pythoclides, and Damon were his teachers, and he became distinguished in all the literary achievements of his time. Gradually, as he got the people accustomed to seeing him in public life, he became known for a detailed and passionate style of eloquence that was previously unknown. With his intellectual and thoughtful nature, everything was a science to him; his enthusiasm for action was guided by careful planning, and his words were meticulously prepared. Until his time, rhetoric, in the truest sense as a study and an art, was underdeveloped in Athens. Pisistratus was said to be naturally eloquent, and Themistocles’ dynamic mind provided both persuasion and strength to his arguments. But Pericles, recognizing the immense power of words, enhanced his speech with every technique his imagination could conjure. His speeches were often meticulously written, and the novel brilliance of their style, combined with the coherent logic that only preparation can bring to language, became irresistible to a populace that had also come to embody the essence of Pericles. Global culture and poetry had made the audience discerning and sensitive; they could appreciate the elaborate and philosophical speeches of Pericles. And, just as Themistocles had been the first to embody the boldness and initiative of his era, the son of Xanthippus was beginning to overshadow Cimon, whose strengths had paved the way for him.
XI. We must not suppose, that in the contests between the aristocratic and popular parties, the aristocracy were always on one side. Such a division is never to be seen in free constitutions. There is always a sufficient party of the nobles whom conviction, ambition, or hereditary predilections will place at the head of the popular movement; and it is by members of the privileged order that the order itself is weakened. Athens in this respect, therefore, resembled England, and as now in the latter state, so then at Athens, it was often the proudest, the wealthiest, the most high-born of the aristocrats that gave dignity and success to the progress of democratic opinion. There, too, the vehemence of party frequently rendered politics an hereditary heirloom; intermarriages kept together men of similar factions; and the memory of those who had been the martyrs or the heroes of a cause mingled with the creed of their descendants. Thus, it was as natural that one of the race of that Clisthenes who had expelled the Pisistratides, and popularized the constitution, should embrace the more liberal side, as that a Russell should follow out in one age the principles for which his ancestor perished in another. So do our forefathers become sponsors for ourselves. The mother of Pericles was the descendant of Clisthenes; and though Xanthippus himself was of the same party as Aristides, we may doubt, by his prosecution of Miltiades as well as by his connexion with the Alcmaeonids, whether he ever cordially co-operated with the views and the ambition of Cimon. However this be, his brilliant son cast himself at once into the arms of the more popular faction, and opposed with all his energy the aristocratic predilections of Cimon. Not yet, however, able to assume the lead to which he aspired (for it had now become a matter of time as well as intellect to rise), he ranged himself under Ephialtes, a personage of whom history gives us too scanty details, although he enjoyed considerable influence, increased by his avowed jealousy of the Spartans and his own unimpeachable integrity.
XI. We shouldn’t think that in the battles between the aristocratic and popular parties, the aristocracy was always on one side. Such a split is never found in free governments. There’s always a significant number of nobles who, due to their beliefs, ambition, or family ties, will lead the popular movement; and it’s often members of the privileged class who weaken their own order. In this way, Athens was similar to England; just as it is now in England, it was often the most proud, wealthy, and high-born members of the aristocracy who brought dignity and success to the advancement of democratic ideas in Athens. The intensity of party loyalty often made politics an inherited legacy; intermarriages united people from similar factions, and the memories of those who had been the martyrs or heroes of a cause blended with the beliefs of their descendants. Thus, it was just as natural for a descendant of Clisthenes, who had expelled the Pisistratides and popularized the constitution, to embrace the more liberal side as it was for a Russell to uphold the principles for which his ancestor died in another time. Our ancestors act as sponsors for us. The mother of Pericles was a descendant of Clisthenes, and even though Xanthippus was in the same faction as Aristides, we can question whether he truly worked alongside the views and ambitions of Cimon, given his prosecution of Miltiades and his connection with the Alcmaeonids. Regardless, his brilliant son quickly aligned himself with the more popular faction and vigorously opposed Cimon's aristocratic preferences. However, not yet able to take on the leadership he sought (since it had now become about both timing and intelligence to rise), he joined forces with Ephialtes, a figure about whom history provides scant details, though he wielded considerable influence, bolstered by his open jealousy of the Spartans and his own unquestionable integrity.
XII. It is noticeable, that men who become the leaders of the public, less by the spur of passion than by previous study and conscious talent—men whom thought and letters prepare for enterprise—are rarely eager to advance themselves too soon. Making politics a science, they are even fastidiously alive to the qualities and the experience demanded for great success; their very self-esteem renders them seemingly modest; they rely upon time and upon occasion; and, pushed forward rather by circumstance than their own exertions, it is long before their ambition and their resources are fully developed. Despite all his advantages, the rise of Pericles was gradual.
XII. It’s noticeable that men who become public leaders, not just driven by passion but by careful study and inherent talent—men who prepare for action through thought and knowledge—are rarely in a hurry to promote themselves. Treating politics like a science, they are keenly aware of the qualities and experience needed for great success; their self-confidence makes them appear humble. They depend on timing and opportunities, and they often advance because of circumstances rather than their own efforts, taking a long time for their ambitions and abilities to fully develop. Despite all his advantages, Pericles's rise was gradual.
On the return of Cimon the popular party deemed itself sufficiently strong to manifest its opposition. The expedition to Thasos had not been attended with results so glorious as to satisfy a people pampered by a series of triumphs. Cimon was deemed culpable for not having taken advantage of the access into Macedonia, and added that country to the Athenian empire. He was even suspected and accused of receiving bribes from Alexander, the king of Macedon. Pericles 180 is said to have taken at first an active part in this prosecution; but when the cause came on, whether moved by the instances of Cimon’s sister, or made aware of the injustice of the accusation, he conducted himself favourably towards the accused. Cimon himself treated the charges with a calm disdain; the result was worthy of Athens and himself. He was honourably acquitted.
On Cimon's return, the popular party felt strong enough to show their opposition. The expedition to Thasos didn’t bring back results glorious enough to please a people used to a string of victories. Cimon was blamed for not taking the opportunity to expand the Athenian empire into Macedonia, and there were even suspicions and accusations that he accepted bribes from Alexander, the king of Macedon. Pericles 180 is said to have initially played an active role in this prosecution; however, when the trial began, whether influenced by Cimon’s sister or realizing the unfairness of the accusations, he treated the accused favorably. Cimon himself responded to the charges with calm disdain; the outcome was fitting for both Athens and him. He was honorably acquitted.
XIII. Scarce was this impeachment over, when a Spartan ambassador arrived at Athens to implore her assistance against the helots; the request produced a vehement discussion.
XIII. Hardly had this impeachment ended when a Spartan ambassador arrived in Athens to ask for her help against the helots; the request sparked a passionate debate.
Ephialtes strongly opposed the proposition to assist a city, sometimes openly, always heartily, inimical to Athens. “Much better,” he contended, “to suffer her pride to be humbled, and her powers of mischief to be impaired.” Ever supporting and supported by the Lacedaemonian party, whether at home or abroad, Cimon, on the other hand, maintained the necessity of marching to the relief of Sparta. “Do not,” he said, almost sublimely—and his words are reported to have produced a considerable impression on that susceptible assembly— “do not suffer Greece to be mutilated, nor deprive Athens of her companion!”
Ephialtes strongly opposed the idea of helping a city, sometimes openly and always passionately, against Athens. “It's much better,” he argued, “to let her pride be brought down and her ability to cause trouble be weakened.” On the other hand, Cimon, who was always backing and backed by the Lacedaemonian faction, whether at home or abroad, insisted on the need to march to Sparta's aid. “Do not,” he said, almost heroically—and it's said his words made a significant impact on that impressionable assembly—“let Greece be torn apart, nor take away Athens's ally!”
The more generous and magnanimous counsel prevailed with a generous and magnanimous people; and Cimon was sent to the aid of Sparta at the head of a sufficient force. It may be observed, as a sign of the political morality of the time, that the wrongs of the helots appear to have been forgotten. But such is the curse of slavery, that it unfits its victims to be free, except by preparations and degrees. And civilization, humanity, and social order are often enlisted on the wrong side, in behalf of the oppressors, from the license and barbarity natural to the victories of the oppressed. A conflict between the negroes and the planters in modern times may not be unanalogous to that of the helots and Spartans; and it is often a fatal necessity to extirpate the very men we have maddened, by our own cruelties, to the savageness of beasts.
The more generous and noble advice won over a kind and noble people; and Cimon was sent to help Sparta with a strong army. It’s worth noting, as a reflection of the political ethics of the time, that the suffering of the helots seemed to be overlooked. But such is the tragedy of slavery that it makes its victims unable to be free, except through gradual change and preparation. Furthermore, civilization, humanity, and social order are often on the side of the oppressors, because of the lawlessness and brutality that can arise from the victories of the oppressed. A conflict between Black people and plantation owners in modern times may bear some resemblance to that of the helots and Spartans; and it often becomes a tragic necessity to eliminate the very individuals we have driven mad through our own cruelties, reducing them to the brutality of wild animals.
It would appear that, during the revolt of the helots and Messenians, which lasted ten years, the Athenians, under Cimon, marched twice 181 to the aid of the Spartans. In the first (B. C. 464) they probably drove the scattered insurgents into the city of Ithome; in the second (B. C. 461) they besieged the city. In the interval Thasos surrendered (B. C. 463); the inhabitants were compelled to level their walls, to give up their shipping, to pay the arrear of tribute, to defray the impost punctually in future, and to resign all claims on the continent and the mines.
It seems that during the revolt of the helots and Messenians, which lasted ten years, the Athenians, led by Cimon, marched two times 181 to help the Spartans. In the first instance (B.C. 464), they likely drove the scattered rebels into the city of Ithome; in the second (B.C. 461), they laid siege to the city. In the meantime, Thasos surrendered (B.C. 463); the citizens were forced to tear down their walls, give up their ships, pay their back tribute, pay the tax on time in the future, and give up all claims on the mainland and the mines.
XIV. Thus did the Athenians establish their footing on the Thracian continent, and obtain the possession of the golden mines, which they mistook for wealth. In the second expedition of the Athenians, the long-cherished jealousy between themselves and the Spartans could no longer be smothered. The former were applied to especially from their skill in sieges, and their very science galled perhaps the pride of the martial Spartans. While, as the true art of war was still so little understood, that even the Athenians were unable to carry the town by assault, and compelled to submit to the tedious operations of a blockade, there was ample leisure for those feuds which the uncongenial habits and long rivalry of the nations necessarily produced. Proud of their Dorian name, the Spartans looked on the Ionic race of Athens as aliens. Severe in their oligarchic discipline, they regarded the Athenian Demus as innovators; and, in the valour itself of their allies, they detected a daring and restless energy which, if serviceable now, might easily be rendered dangerous hereafter. They even suspected the Athenians of tampering with the helots—led, it may be, to that distrust by the contrast, which they were likely to misinterpret, between their own severity and the Athenian mildness towards the servile part of their several populations, and also by the existence of a powerful party at Athens, which had opposed the assistance Cimon afforded. With their usual tranquil and wary policy, the Spartan government attempted to conceal their real fears, and simply alleging they had no further need of their assistance, dismissed the Athenians. But that people, constitutionally irritable, perceiving that, despite this hollow pretext, the other allies, including the obnoxious Aeginetans, were retained, received their dismissal as an insult. Thinking justly that they had merited a nobler confidence from the Spartans, they gave way to their first resentment, and disregarding the league existing yet between themselves and Sparta against the Mede—the form of which had survived the spirit—they entered into an alliance with the Argives, hereditary enemies of Sparta, and in that alliance the Aleuads of Thessaly were included.
XIV. This is how the Athenians established their presence on the Thracian continent and gained control of the golden mines, which they mistakenly considered to be wealth. In the Athenians' second expedition, the long-standing rivalry between them and the Spartans could no longer be suppressed. The Athenians were particularly sought after for their expertise in sieges, and their knowledge likely irritated the pride of the warrior Spartans. At a time when the true art of war was still not fully grasped, even the Athenians struggled to take the town by force and had to resort to the slow process of a blockade, allowing plenty of time for the conflicts that arose from their contrasting customs and long-standing rivalry. Proud of their Dorian heritage, the Spartans viewed the Ionic Athenians as outsiders. Strict in their oligarchic discipline, they saw the Athenian populace as innovators; and in the courage of their allies, they recognized a bold and restless energy that, while useful now, could easily become a threat in the future. They even suspected the Athenians of colluding with the helots—possibly fueled by the stark difference they misread between their own harshness and the Athenian leniency towards the lower classes of their respective populations, as well as by the presence of a strong faction in Athens that opposed the support Cimon provided. With their usual calm and cautious strategy, the Spartan government tried to hide their true fears, merely claiming they had no further need for Athenian assistance and sent them away. However, the Athenians, who were inherently irritable, saw this dismissal as an insult, especially since the other allies, including the disliked Aeginetans, were still retained. Feeling justifiably that they deserved better trust from the Spartans, they gave in to their initial anger and, disregarding the existing alliance with Sparta against the Mede—which had outlasted its original intent—they formed a pact with the Argives, Sparta's hereditary enemies, and included the Aleuads of Thessaly in that alliance.
XV. The obtaining of these decrees by the popular party was the prelude to the fall of Cimon. The talents of that great man were far more eminent in war than peace; and despite his real or affected liberality of demeanour, he wanted either the faculty to suit the time, or the art to conceal his deficiencies. Raised to eminence by Spartan favour, he had ever too boldly and too imprudently espoused the Spartan cause. At first, when the Athenians obtained their naval ascendency—and it was necessary to conciliate Sparta—the partiality with which Cimon was regarded by that state was his recommendation; now when, no longer to be conciliated, Sparta was to be dreaded and opposed, it became his ruin. It had long been his custom to laud the Spartans at the expense of the Athenians, and to hold out their manners as an example to the admiration of his countrymen. It was a favourite mode of reproof with him—“The Spartans would not have done this.” It was even remembered against him that he had called his son Lacedaemonius. These predilections had of late rankled in the popular mind; and now, when the Athenian force had been contumeliously dismissed, it was impossible to forget that Cimon had obtained the decree of the relief, and that the mortification which resulted from it was the effect of his counsels.
XV. The popular party's adoption of these decrees marked the beginning of Cimon’s downfall. His skills were much more impressive in battle than in diplomacy, and despite his genuine or feigned generosity, he either lacked the ability to adapt to the times or the skill to hide his shortcomings. Elevated to prominence by Spartan support, he had consistently championed the Spartan cause too openly and recklessly. Initially, when the Athenians gained naval superiority and needed to keep Sparta on their side, Cimon's favor with that state was an asset; now, as Sparta became a threat to be resisted rather than appeased, it led to his downfall. He had long made it a habit to praise the Spartans at the expense of the Athenians, using their customs as a standard for his fellow citizens to admire. A common critique he used was, “The Spartans wouldn’t have done this.” It was even held against him that he named his son Lacedaemonius. These biases had recently festered in the public’s mind, and now, after the Athenian forces had been dismissed in disgrace, it was impossible to forget that Cimon was behind the decree for their relief, and the humiliation this caused stemmed from his advice.
Public spirit ran high against the Spartans, and at the head of the Spartan faction in Athens stood Cimon.
Public sentiment was strong against the Spartans, and leading the Spartan faction in Athens was Cimon.
XVI. But at this time, other events, still more intimately connected with the Athenian politics, conspired to weaken the authority of this able general. Those constitutional reforms, which are in reality revolutions under a milder name, were now sweeping away the last wrecks of whatever of the old aristocratic system was still left to the Athenian commonwealth.
XVI. But at this time, other events, even more closely tied to Athenian politics, were working to undermine the authority of this skilled general. The constitutional reforms, which are essentially revolutions under a gentler name, were now erasing the final remnants of the old aristocratic system that still existed in the Athenian commonwealth.
We have seen that the democratic party had increased in power by the decree of Aristides, which opened all offices to all ranks. This, as yet, was productive less of actual than of moral effects. The liberal opinions possessed by a part of the aristocracy, and the legitimate influence which in all countries belongs to property and high descent (greatest, indeed, where the countries are most free)—secured, as a general rule, the principal situations in the state to rank and wealth. But the moral effect of the decree was to elevate the lower classes with a sense of their own power and dignity, and every victory achieved over a foreign foe gave new authority to the people whose voices elected the leader—whose right arms won the battle.
We have seen that the Democratic Party gained power through the decree of Aristides, which opened all positions to people of all ranks. So far, this has had more of a moral than a practical impact. The liberal views held by some of the aristocracy, along with the legitimate influence that property and noble lineage hold in every country (which is strongest in the freest nations), generally ensured that the top positions in government were filled by those of high rank and wealth. However, the moral impact of the decree was to uplift the lower classes, giving them a sense of their own power and dignity. Every victory over a foreign enemy enhanced the authority of the people whose votes elected the leader—whose fighting skills won the battle.
The constitution previous to Solon was an oligarchy of birth. Solon rendered it an aristocracy of property. Clisthenes widened its basis from property to population; as we have already seen, it was, in all probability, Clisthenes also who weakened the more illicit and oppressive influences of wealth, by establishing the ballot or secret suffrage instead of the open voting, which was common in the time of Solon. It is the necessary constitution of society, that when one class obtains power, the ancient checks to that power require remodelling. The Areopagus was designed by Solon as the aristocratic balance to the popular assembly. But in all states in which the people and the aristocracy are represented, the great blow to the aristocratic senate is given, less by altering its own constitution than by infusing new elements of democracy into the popular assembly. The old boundaries are swept away, not by the levelling of the bank, but by the swelling of the torrent. The checks upon democracy ought to be so far concealed as to be placed in the representation of the democracy itself; for checks upon its progress from without are but as fortresses to be stormed; and what, when latent, was the influence of a friend, when apparent, is the resistance of a foe.
The system before Solon was an oligarchy based on birth. Solon changed it to an aristocracy based on property. Clisthenes broadened its foundation from property to include the population. As we've already seen, Clisthenes likely also lessened the more illegal and oppressive effects of wealth by introducing the ballot or secret voting instead of the open voting that was typical in Solon's time. It's an essential part of society that when one group gains power, the old limitations on that power need to be restructured. Solon created the Areopagus as an aristocratic counterbalance to the popular assembly. However, in all systems where both the people and the aristocracy are represented, a significant blow to the aristocratic council comes not just from changing its structure but from adding new democratic elements to the popular assembly. The old barriers come down, not by leveling the land, but by the rise of the flood. The checks on democracy should be integrated enough that they exist within the democratic representation itself because external limitations are like fortresses waiting to be attacked; what seemed like support when hidden becomes opposition when visible.
The Areopagus, the constitutional bulwark of the aristocratic party of Athens, became more and more invidious to the people. And now, when Cimon resisted every innovation on that assembly, he only ensured his own destruction, while he expedited the policy he denounced. Ephialtes directed all the force of the popular opinion against this venerable senate; and at length, though not openly assisted by Pericles 182, who took no prominent part in the contention, that influential statesman succeeded in crippling its functions and limiting its authority.
The Areopagus, the constitutional stronghold of Athens' aristocracy, became increasingly unpopular with the people. Now, when Cimon pushed back against any changes in that assembly, he only brought about his own downfall while promoting the very policies he opposed. Ephialtes rallied public opinion against this respected senate, and eventually, although not directly supported by Pericles 182, who remained on the sidelines of the conflict, that influential politician managed to weaken its functions and restrict its power.
XVII. I do not propose to plunge the reader into the voluminous and unprofitable controversy on the exact nature of the innovations of Ephialtes which has agitated the students of Germany. It appears to me most probable that the Areopagus retained the right of adjudging cases of homicide 183, and little besides of its ancient constitutional authority, that it lost altogether its most dangerous power in the indefinite police it had formerly exercised over the habits and morals of the people, that any control of the finances was wisely transferred to the popular senate 184, that its irresponsible character was abolished, and it was henceforth rendered accountable to the people. Such alterations were not made without exciting the deep indignation of the aristocratic faction.
XVII. I don't intend to dive into the extensive and unhelpful debate about the exact nature of Ephialtes' innovations that has stirred up scholars in Germany. It seems to me most likely that the Areopagus kept the right to judge murder cases 183, and little else of its former constitutional powers. It completely lost its most dangerous authority over the people's habits and morals, and any control over finances was wisely handed over to the popular senate 184, its irresponsible nature was abolished, and it was made accountable to the people from then on. These changes certainly stirred up deep anger among the aristocratic faction.
In all state reforms a great and comprehensive mind does not so much consider whether each reform is just, as what will be the ultimate ascendency given to particular principles. Cimon preferred to all constitutions a limited aristocracy, and his practical experience regarded every measure in its general tendency towards or against the system which he honestly advocated.
In every state reform, a big-picture thinker doesn't focus solely on whether each change is fair, but on the overall dominance of certain principles. Cimon favored a limited aristocracy over all other forms of government, and he evaluated each policy based on how it aligned with or opposed the system he genuinely supported.
XVIII. The struggle between the contending parties and principles had commenced before Cimon’s expedition to Ithome; the mortification connected with that event, in weakening Cimon, weakened the aristocracy itself. Still his fall was not immediate 185, nor did it take place as a single and isolated event, but as one of the necessary consequences of the great political change effected by Ephialtes. All circumstances, however, conspired to place the son of Miltiades in a situation which justified the suspicion and jealousy of the Athenians. Of all the enemies, how powerful soever, that Athens could provoke, none were so dangerous as Lacedaemon.
XVIII. The conflict between the opposing groups and ideas began before Cimon’s mission to Ithome; the embarrassment related to that event, which weakened Cimon, also weakened the aristocracy itself. However, his downfall wasn’t immediate 185, nor did it occur as a singular and isolated incident, but rather as a necessary outcome of the significant political changes brought about by Ephialtes. All factors, nonetheless, worked together to put the son of Miltiades in a position that justified the suspicion and jealousy of the Athenians. Out of all the enemies, no matter how powerful, that Athens could provoke, none were as dangerous as Lacedaemon.
Dark, wily, and implacable, the rugged queen of the Peloponnesus reared her youth in no other accomplishments than those of stratagem and slaughter. Her enmity against Athens was no longer smothered. Athens had everything to fear, not less from her influence than her armies. It was not, indeed, so much from the unsheathed sword as from the secret councils of Sparta that danger was to be apprehended. It cannot be too often remembered, that among a great portion of the Athenian aristocracy, the Spartan government maintained a considerable and sympathetic intelligence. That government ever sought to adapt and mould all popular constitutions to her own oligarchic model; and where she could not openly invade, she secretly sought to undermine, the liberties of her neighbours. Thus, in addition to all fear from an enemy in the field, the Athenian democracy were constantly excited to suspicion against a spy within the city: always struggling with an aristocratic party, which aimed at regaining the power it had lost, there was just reason to apprehend that that party would seize any occasion to encroach upon the popular institutions; every feud with Sparta consequently seemed to the Athenian people, nor without cause, to subject to intrigue and conspiracy their civil freedom; and (as always happens with foreign interference, whether latent or avowed) exasperated whatever jealousies already existed against those for whose political interests the interference was exerted. Bearing this in mind, we shall see no cause to wonder at the vehement opposition to which Cimon was now subjected. We are driven ourselves to search deeply into the causes which led to his prosecution, as to that of other eminent men in Athens, from want of clear and precise historical details. Plutarch, to whom, in this instance, we are compelled chiefly to resort, is a most equivocal authority. Like most biographers, his care is to exalt his hero, though at the expense of that hero’s countrymen; and though an amiable writer, nor without some semi-philosophical views in morals, his mind was singularly deficient in grasp and in comprehension. He never penetrates the subtle causes of effects. He surveys the past, sometimes as a scholar, sometimes as a taleteller, sometimes even as a poet, but never as a statesman. Thus, we learn from him little of the true reasons for the ostracism, either of Aristides, of Themistocles, or of Cimon—points now intricate, but which might then, alas! have been easily cleared up by a profound inquirer, to the acquittal alike of themselves and of their judges. To the natural deficiencies of Plutarch we must add his party predilections. He was opposed to democratic opinions—and that objection, slight in itself, or it might be urged against many of the best historians and the wisest thinkers, is rendered weighty in that he was unable to see, that in all human constitutions perfection is impossible, that we must take the evil with the good, and that what he imputes to one form of government is equally attributable to another. For in what monarchy, what oligarchy, have not great men been misunderstood, and great merits exposed to envy!
Dark, cunning, and relentless, the fierce queen of the Peloponnesus raised her youth with only skills in strategy and violence. Her hatred for Athens was no longer hidden. Athens had everything to worry about, not just from her armies but also from her influence. The danger came more from Sparta's secret plans than from their weapons. It's important to note that a significant part of the Athenian elite had a strong and sympathetic connection to the Spartan government. This government always tried to shape and adapt all democratic systems to fit its own oligarchic style; where it couldn’t invade openly, it covertly worked to undermine its neighbors' freedoms. Therefore, in addition to the threats from an enemy on the battlefield, the Athenian democracy was always on edge, suspicious of spies within the city. They were constantly battling an aristocratic group wanting to regain lost power, creating a valid fear that this faction would seize any opportunity to encroach on democracy. Consequently, any conflict with Sparta made the Athenian people, rightfully, anxious about their civil liberties being threatened by conspiracy; and as is often the case with foreign interference, it heightened existing tensions against those whose political interests were being manipulated. Keeping this in mind, it’s no surprise that Cimon faced intense opposition. We are forced to delve into the reasons leading to his prosecution and that of other prominent figures in Athens due to a lack of clear historical details. Plutarch, whom we largely turn to in this case, is a highly ambiguous source. Like most biographers, he prioritizes glorifying his hero, even at the expense of their fellow citizens. Despite being a likable writer with some semi-philosophical views on ethics, he notably lacks depth and understanding. He fails to grasp the complex causes of outcomes. He examines the past sometimes as a scholar, sometimes as a storyteller, and sometimes even as a poet, but never as a statesman. As a result, we learn little from him about the true reasons for the ostracism of Aristides, Themistocles, or Cimon—subjects that may have been intricately woven but could have been easily clarified by a more insightful investigator, benefitting both them and their judges. On top of Plutarch's natural shortcomings, we must consider his political biases. He was against democratic views—and while this might seem minor, especially when applied to many of the best historians and most astute thinkers, it becomes significant because he couldn’t grasp that in any government system, perfection is unattainable. We must accept flaws alongside virtues, and what he criticizes in one type of government can also be found in another. Because in what monarchy or oligarchy haven’t great individuals been misjudged, and remarkable achievements turned into envy?
Thus, in the life of Cimon, Plutarch says that it was “on a slight pretext” 186 that that leader of the Spartan party in Athens was subjected to the ostracism. We have seen enough to convince us that, whatever the pretext, the reasons, at least, were grave and solid— that they were nothing short of Cimon’s unvarying ardour for, and constant association with, the principles and the government of that state most inimical to Athens, and the suspicious policy of which was, in all times—at that time especially—fraught with danger to her power, her peace, and her institutions. Could we penetrate farther into the politics of the period, we might justify the Athenians yet more. Without calling into question the integrity and the patriotism of Cimon, without supposing that he would have entered into any intrigue against the Athenian independence of foreign powers—a supposition his subsequent conduct effectually refutes—he might, as a sincere and warm partisan of the nobles, and a resolute opposer of the popular party, have sought to restore at home the aristocratic balance of power, by whatever means his great rank, and influence, and connexion with the Lacedaemonian party could afford him. We are told, at least, that he not only opposed all the advances of the more liberal party—that he not only stood resolutely by the interests and dignities of the Areopagus, which had ceased to harmonize with the more modern institutions, but that he expressly sought to restore certain prerogatives which that assembly had formally lost during his foreign expeditions, and that he earnestly endeavoured to bring back the whole constitution to the more aristocratic government established by Clisthenes. It is one thing to preserve, it is another to restore. A people may be deluded under popular pretexts out of the rights they have newly acquired, but they never submit to be openly despoiled of them. Nor can we call that ingratitude which is but the refusal to surrender to the merits of an individual the acquisitions of a nation.
Thus, in Cimon's life, Plutarch says it was “on a slight pretext” 186 that the leader of the Spartan party in Athens faced ostracism. We've seen enough to convince us that, regardless of the pretext, the reasons were serious and substantial—namely, Cimon’s consistent enthusiasm for and close association with the principles and government of a state that was very much opposed to Athens. The suspicious policies of that state were always, especially at that time, a threat to Athens' power, peace, and institutions. If we could delve deeper into the politics of that era, we might further justify the Athenians. Without questioning Cimon's integrity and patriotism, or suggesting that he would have plotted against Athenian independence with foreign powers—something his later actions clearly disprove—he may have, as a genuine supporter of the aristocracy and a firm opponent of the popular party, tried to restore the aristocratic balance of power at home by any means his significant rank, influence, and connections with the Lacedaemonian party could provide. We are told, at least, that he not only resisted the advances of the more liberal faction—that he stood firmly by the interests and dignities of the Areopagus, which had fallen out of sync with the newer institutions—but that he specifically sought to restore certain powers that the assembly had formally lost during his foreign campaigns, and that he earnestly worked to bring the entire constitution back to the more aristocratic governance set up by Clisthenes. It’s one thing to preserve, and another to restore. A people may be misled under popular pretenses and lose the rights they’ve just gained, but they won’t easily allow themselves to be openly stripped of them. We can’t call that ingratitude when it’s merely a refusal to hand over national gains to the merits of an individual.
All things considered, then, I believe, that if ever ostracism was justifiable, it was so in the case of Cimon—nay, it was perhaps absolutely essential to the preservation of the constitution. His very honesty made him resolute in his attempts against that constitution. His talents, his rank, his fame, his services, only rendered those attempts more dangerous.
All things considered, I believe that if there was ever a time when ostracism was justifiable, it was in the case of Cimon—perhaps it was even crucial for preserving the constitution. His integrity made him determined in his actions against that constitution. His skills, status, reputation, and contributions only made those actions more threatening.
XIX. Could the reader be induced to view, with an examination equally dispassionate, the several ostracisms of Aristides and Themistocles, he might see equal causes of justification, both in the motives and in the results. The first was absolutely necessary for the defeat of the aristocratic party, and the removal of restrictions on those energies which instantly found the most glorious vents for action; the second was justified by a similar necessity that produced similar effects. To impartial eyes a people may be vindicated without traducing those whom a people are driven to oppose. In such august and complicated trials the accuser and defendant may be both innocent.
XIX. If the reader could consider, with a calm analysis, the various exiles of Aristides and Themistocles, they might recognize equal reasons for justification, both in the motives and in the outcomes. The first was absolutely essential for defeating the aristocratic faction and lifting the restrictions on those energies that quickly found the most glorious outlets for action; the second was justified by a similar necessity that led to similar results. To impartial observers, a community can be defended without slandering those whom they are compelled to oppose. In such significant and complex situations, both the accuser and the accused can be innocent.
CHAPTER IV.
War between Megara and Corinth.—Megara and Pegae garrisoned by Athenians.—Review of Affairs at the Persian Court.—Accession of Artaxerxes.—Revolt of Egypt under Inarus.—Athenian Expedition to assist Inarus.—Aegina besieged.—The Corinthians defeated.—Spartan Conspiracy with the Athenian Oligarchy.—Battle of Tanagra.—Campaign and Successes of Myronides.—Plot of the Oligarchy against the Republic.—Recall of Cimon.—Long Walls completed.—Aegina reduced.— Expedition under Tolmides.—Ithome surrenders.—The Insurgents are settled at Naupactus.—Disastrous Termination of the Egyptian Expedition.—The Athenians march into Thessaly to restore Orestes the Tagus.—Campaign under Pericles.—Truce of five Years with the Peloponnesians.—Cimon sets sail for Cyprus.—Pretended Treaty of Peace with Persia.—Death of Cimon.
War between Megara and Corinth. — Megara and Pegae were occupied by Athenians. — Review of Situations at the Persian Court. — Rise of Artaxerxes. — Revolt in Egypt led by Inarus. — Athenian Mission to support Inarus. — Aegina under siege. — The Corinthians were defeated. — Spartan Conspiracy with the Athenian Oligarchy. — Battle of Tanagra. — Campaign and Achievements of Myronides. — Conspiracy of the Oligarchy against the Republic. — Recall of Cimon. — Long Walls completed. — Aegina subdued. — Mission under Tolmides. — Ithome surrenders. — The Rebels relocated to Naupactus. — Disastrous End of the Egyptian Mission. — The Athenians march into Thessaly to reinstate Orestes the Tagus. — Campaign under Pericles. — Five-Year Truce with the Peloponnesians. — Cimon sets sail for Cyprus. — Feigned Peace Treaty with Persia. — Death of Cimon.
I. Cimon, summoned to the ostracism, was sentenced to its appointed term of banishment—ten years. By his removal, the situation of Pericles became suddenly more prominent and marked, and he mingled with greater confidence and boldness in public affairs. The vigour of the new administration was soon manifest. Megara had hitherto been faithful to the Lacedaemonian alliance—a dispute relative to the settlement of frontiers broke out between that state and Corinth. Although the Corinthian government, liberal and enlightened, was often opposed to the Spartan oligarchy, it was still essential to the interest of both those Peloponnesian states to maintain a firm general alliance, and to keep the Peloponnesian confederacy as a counterbalance to the restless ambition of the new head of the Ionian league. Sparta could not, therefore, have been slow in preferring the alliance of Corinth to that of Megara. On the other hand, Megara, now possessed of a democratic constitution, had long since abandoned the Dorian character and habits. The situation of its territories, the nature of its institutions, alike pointed to Athens as its legitimate ally. Thus, when the war broke out between Megara and Corinth, on the side of the latter appeared Sparta, while Megara naturally sought the assistance of Athens. The Athenian government eagerly availed itself of the occasion to increase the power which Athens was now rapidly extending over Greece. If we cast our eyes along the map of Greece, we shall perceive that the occupation of Megara proffered peculiar advantages. It became at once a strong and formidable fortress against any incursions from the Peloponnesus, while its seaports of Nisaea and Pegae opened new fields, both of ambition and of commerce, alike on the Saronic and the Gulf of Corinth. The Athenians seized willingly on the alliance thus offered to them, and the Megarians had the weakness to yield both Megara and Pegae to Athenian garrisons, while the Athenians fortified their position by long walls that united Megara with its harbour at Nisaea.
I. Cimon, called to ostracism, was sentenced to the mandatory period of banishment—ten years. His removal suddenly made Pericles' position much more prominent, allowing him to engage with greater confidence and boldness in public affairs. The energy of the new administration soon became obvious. Megara, which had been loyal to the Lacedaemonian alliance, found itself in a dispute with Corinth regarding the settlement of their borders. Although the Corinthian government was often opposed to the Spartan oligarchy due to its liberal and enlightened nature, both Peloponnesian states still needed to maintain a strong alliance to balance the ambitions of the new leader of the Ionian league. Therefore, Sparta must have quickly favored the alliance with Corinth over Megara. On the other hand, Megara, now having a democratic constitution, had long since moved away from its Dorian roots and customs. The positioning of its territories and the nature of its government indicated that Athens was its rightful ally. So, when war broke out between Megara and Corinth, Sparta sided with Corinth, while Megara naturally sought Athens' help. The Athenian government eagerly seized the opportunity to expand its growing influence over Greece. If we look at a map of Greece, we can see that controlling Megara offered significant advantages. It became a strong fortress against any incursions from the Peloponnesus, while its seaports of Nisaea and Pegae opened new opportunities for ambition and trade in both the Saronic Gulf and the Gulf of Corinth. The Athenians gladly accepted the alliance offered to them, and the Megarians weakened their position by conceding both Megara and Pegae to Athenian garrisons, while the Athenians strengthened their position by constructing long walls that connected Megara to its port at Nisaea.
II. A new and more vast enterprise contributed towards the stability of the government by draining off its bolder spirits, and diverting the popular attention from domestic to foreign affairs.
II. A new and larger venture helped stabilize the government by pulling away its more daring individuals and shifting public focus from local issues to international matters.
It is necessary to pass before us, in brief review, the vicissitudes of the Persian court. In republican Greece, the history of the people marches side by side with the biography of great men. In despotic Persia, all history dies away in the dark recesses and sanguinary murthers of a palace governed by eunuchs and defended but by slaves.
It’s important to take a quick look at the ups and downs of the Persian court. In republican Greece, the history of the people runs parallel to the lives of great individuals. In tyrannical Persia, all history fades into the shadows and bloody murders of a palace ruled by eunuchs and protected only by slaves.
In the year 465 B. C. the reign of the unfortunate Xerxes drew to its close. On his return to Susa, after the disastrous results of the Persian invasion, he had surrendered himself to the indolent luxury of a palace. An able and daring traitor, named Artabanus 187, but who seems to have been a different personage from that Artabanus whose sagacity had vainly sought to save the armies of Xerxes from the expedition to Greece, entered into a conspiracy against the feeble monarch. By the connivance of a eunuch, he penetrated at night the chamber of the king—and the gloomy destinies of Xerxes were consummated by assassination. Artabanus sought to throw the guilt upon Darius, the eldest son of the murdered king; and Artaxerxes, the younger brother, seems to have connived at a charge which might render himself the lawful heir to the throne. Darius accordingly perished by the same fate as his father. The extreme youth of Artaxerxes had induced Artabanus to believe that but a slender and insecure life now stood between himself and the throne; but the young prince was already master of the royal art of dissimulation: he watched his opportunity— and by a counter-revolution Artabanus was sacrificed to the manes of his victims. 188
In 465 B.C., the unfortunate reign of Xerxes came to an end. After the disastrous outcome of the Persian invasion, he returned to Susa and surrendered to the lazy luxury of palace life. An ambitious and daring traitor named Artabanus 187, seemingly a different figure from the Artabanus who had previously tried in vain to save Xerxes' armies from the Greek campaign, plotted against the weak king. With the help of a eunuch, he sneaked into the king's chamber at night—and Xerxes' dark fate was sealed by assassination. Artabanus aimed to blame Darius, the eldest son of the slain king, and Artaxerxes, the younger brother, appears to have gone along with this accusation to position himself as the rightful heir to the throne. Consequently, Darius met the same fate as his father. Artabanus underestimated the young Artaxerxes, believing he faced only a fragile and insecure existence between himself and the throne; however, the young prince was already skilled in the royal art of deception. He waited for the right moment—and through a counter-revolution, Artabanus was sacrificed to the memories of his victims. 188
Thus Artaxerxes obtained the undisturbed possession of the Persian throne (B. C. 464). The new monarch appears to have derived from nature a stronger intellect than his father. But the abuses, so rapid and rank of growth in Eastern despotisms, which now ate away the strength of the Persian monarchy, were already, perhaps, past the possibility of reform. The enormous extent of the ill-regulated empire tempted the ambition of chiefs who might have plausibly hoped, that as the Persian masters had now degenerated to the effeminacy of the Assyrians they had supplanted, so the enterprise of a second Cyrus might be crowned by a similar success.
Thus, Artaxerxes took control of the Persian throne without any issues (B.C. 464). The new king seemed to have a sharper mind than his father. However, the rapid and rampant abuses in Eastern autocracies, which were already eroding the strength of the Persian monarchy, were likely beyond the point of reform. The vast expanse of the poorly managed empire tempted the ambitions of leaders who might have reasonably believed that, just as the Persian rulers had declined into the weakness of the Assyrians they replaced, the efforts of a second Cyrus could achieve similar success.
Egypt had been rather overrun by Xerxes than subdued—and the spirit of its ancient people waited only the occasion of revolt. A Libyan prince, of the name of Inarus, whose territories bordered Egypt, entered that country (B. C. 460), and was hailed by the greater part of the population as a deliverer. The recent murder of Xerxes—the weakness of a new reign, commenced in so sanguinary a manner, appeared to favour their desire of independence; and the African adventurer beheld himself at the head of a considerable force. Having already secured foreign subsidiaries, Inarus was anxious yet more to strengthen himself abroad; and more than one ambassador was despatched to Athens, soliciting her assistance, and proffering, in return, a share in the government for whose establishment her arms were solicited: a singular fatality, that the petty colony which, if we believe tradition, had so many centuries ago settled in the then obscure corners of Attica, should now be chosen the main auxiliary of the parent state in her vital struggles for national independence.
Egypt had been more overrun by Xerxes than truly conquered—and the spirit of its ancient people was just waiting for a chance to rebel. A Libyan prince named Inarus, whose lands were next to Egypt, entered the country in 460 B.C. and was welcomed by most of the population as a deliverer. The recent murder of Xerxes and the instability of a new regime that started in such a bloody way seemed to support their desire for independence, and the African adventurer found himself leading a substantial force. Having already secured support from abroad, Inarus was eager to strengthen his position further and sent multiple ambassadors to Athens, asking for assistance and offering a share in the government that he was trying to establish in return. It was a strange twist of fate that the small colony, which, according to tradition, had settled many centuries ago in the then-unknown areas of Attica, would now be chosen as the main supporter of the mother city in its critical fight for national independence.
III. In acceding to the propositions of Inarus, Pericles yielded to considerations wholly contrary to his after policy, which made it a principal object to confine the energies of Athens within the limits of Greece. It is probable that that penetrating and scientific statesman (if indeed he had yet attained to a position which enabled him to follow out his own conceptions) saw that every new government must dazzle either by great enterprises abroad or great changes at home—and that he preferred the former. There are few sacrifices that a wary minister, newly-established, from whom high hopes are entertained, and who can justify the destruction of a rival party only by the splendour of its successor—will not hazard rather than incur the contempt which follows disappointment. He will do something that is dangerous rather than do nothing that is brilliant.
III. By agreeing to Inarus's proposals, Pericles went against what would later be his own strategy, which aimed to keep Athens's focus within the borders of Greece. It's likely that this insightful and analytical leader (if he had already reached a point where he could fully pursue his ideas) understood that any new government needs to impress either through ambitious actions overseas or significant changes at home—and he leaned toward the former. There aren't many risks that a cautious, newly established leader—who has high expectations placed on them and can only justify the downfall of a rival party by the success of its own—won't take to avoid the disdain that comes from failure. They would rather take a risky action than settle for doing nothing that shines.
Neither the hatred nor the fear of Persia was at an end in Athens; and to carry war into the heart of her empire was a proposition eagerly hailed. The more democratic and turbulent portion of the populace, viz., the seamen, had already been disposed of in an expedition of two hundred triremes against Cyprus. But the distant and magnificent enterprise of Egypt—the hope of new empire—the lust of undiscovered treasures—were more alluring than the reduction of Cyprus. That island was abandoned, and the fleet, composed both of Athenian and confederate ships, sailed up the Nile. Masters of that river, the Athenians advanced to Memphis, the capital of Lower Egypt. They stormed and took two of the divisions of that city; the third, called the White Castle (occupied by the Medes, the Persians, and such of the Egyptians as had not joined the revolt), resisted their assault.
Neither the hatred nor the fear of Persia was over in Athens, and the idea of taking the war into the heart of its empire was a plan that everyone eagerly supported. The more democratic and restless part of the population, specifically the seamen, had already been sent on an expedition of two hundred triremes against Cyprus. However, the distant and impressive venture into Egypt—the hope for a new empire and the desire for undiscovered treasures—was even more enticing than the conquest of Cyprus. That island was abandoned, and the fleet, made up of both Athenian and allied ships, sailed up the Nile. As masters of that river, the Athenians moved forward to Memphis, the capital of Lower Egypt. They attacked and captured two parts of the city; the third, known as the White Castle (occupied by the Medes, Persians, and those Egyptians who had not joined the revolt), resisted their assault.
IV. While thus occupied in Egypt, the Athenian arms were equally employed in Greece. The whole forces of the commonwealth were in demand—war on every side. The alliance with Megara not only created an enemy in Corinth, but the Peloponnesian confederacy became involved with the Attic: Lacedaemon herself, yet inert, but menacing; while the neighbouring Aegina, intent and jealous, prepared for hostilities soon manifest.
IV. While busy in Egypt, the Athenian military was also active in Greece. The entire forces of the state were needed—there was war on all fronts. The alliance with Megara not only turned Corinth into an enemy but also pulled the Peloponnesian league into conflict with the Athenians: Sparta itself was still but threatening; meanwhile, the nearby Aegina, focused and envious, got ready for open hostilities.
The Athenians forestalled the attack—made a descent on Haliae, in Argolis—were met by the Corinthians and Epidaurians, and the result of battle was the victory of the latter. This defeat the Athenians speedily retrieved at sea. Off Cecryphalea, in the Saronic gulf, they attacked and utterly routed the Peloponnesian fleet. And now Aegina openly declared war and joined the hostile league. An important battle was fought by these two maritime powers with the confederates of either side. The Athenians were victorious—took seventy ships— and, pushing the advantage they had obtained, landed in Aegina and besieged her city. Three hundred heavy-armed Peloponnesians were despatched to the relief of Aegina; while the Corinthians invaded the Megarian territory, seized the passes of Geranea, and advanced to Megara with their allies. Never was occasion more propitious. So large a force in Egypt, so large a force at Aegina—how was it possible for the Athenians to march to the aid of Megara? They appeared limited to the choice either to abandon Megara or to raise the siege of Aegina: so reasoned the Peloponnesians. But the advantage of a constitution widely popular is, that the whole community become soldiers in time of need. Myronides, an Athenian of great military genius, not unassisted by Pericles, whose splendid qualities now daily developed themselves, was well adapted to give direction to the enthusiasm of the people. Not a man was called from Aegina. The whole regular force disposed of, there yet remained at Athens those too aged and those too young for the ordinary service. Under Myronides, boys and old men marched at once to the assistance of their Megarian ally. A battle ensued; both sides retiring, neither considered itself defeated. But the Corinthians retreating to Corinth, the Athenians erected a trophy on the field. The Corinthian government received its troops with reproaches, and, after an interval of twelve days, the latter returned to the scene of contest, and asserting their claim to the victory, erected a trophy of their own. During the work the Athenians sallied from Megara, where they had ensconced themselves, attacked and put to flight the Corinthians; and a considerable portion of the enemy turning into ground belonging to a private individual, became entangled in a large pit or ditch, from which was but one outlet, viz., that by which they had entered. At this passage the Athenians stationed their heavy-armed troops, while the light-armed soldiers surrounded the ditch, and with the missiles of darts and stones put the enemy to death. The rest (being the greater part) of the Corinthian forces effected a safe but dishonourable retreat.
The Athenians preempted the attack—raided Haliae in Argolis—were confronted by the Corinthians and Epidaurians, and the outcome of the battle was a victory for the latter. The Athenians quickly regrouped at sea. Near Cecryphalea in the Saronic Gulf, they attacked and completely defeated the Peloponnesian fleet. Now, Aegina openly declared war and joined the opposing alliance. A significant battle was fought between these two naval powers with their respective allies. The Athenians won—capturing seventy ships—and, seizing their advantage, landed in Aegina to besiege the city. Three hundred heavily armed Peloponnesians were sent to assist Aegina; meanwhile, the Corinthians invaded the Megarian territory, took control of the passes of Geranea, and advanced to Megara with their allies. The situation couldn’t have been more favorable. Such a large force in Egypt and such a large force at Aegina—how could the Athenians march to help Megara? They could either abandon Megara or lift the siege of Aegina, reasoned the Peloponnesians. However, the great thing about a widely supported government is that the entire community can become soldiers in times of need. Myronides, a highly skilled Athenian military leader, aided by Pericles, whose impressive abilities were becoming more apparent, was well-suited to channel the people’s enthusiasm. No one was called back from Aegina. With the entire regular army deployed, only the old and young remained in Athens, who couldn’t serve in the usual capacity. Under Myronides, boys and old men immediately went to help their ally in Megara. A battle occurred; both sides withdrew, feeling neither had lost. But as the Corinthians retreated to Corinth, the Athenians set up a trophy on the battlefield. The Corinthian government criticized its troops, and after twelve days, they returned to the battlefield, claiming victory and erected their own trophy. While they were at work, the Athenians, who had fortified themselves in Megara, charged out, attacked, and routed the Corinthians; a significant part of the enemy entered private land and got caught in a large pit or ditch, with only one way out—the same way they had entered. At that exit, the Athenians positioned their heavily armed troops, while lighter forces surrounded the ditch and attacked with darts and stones, killing many of the enemy. The rest (which was the majority) of the Corinthian forces managed to retreat safely but in disgrace.
V. This victory effected and Megara secured—although Aegina still held out, and although the fate of the Egyptian expedition was still unknown—the wonderful activity of the government commenced what even in times of tranquillity would have been a great and arduous achievement. To unite their city with its seaports, they set to work at the erection of the long walls, which extended from Athens both to Phalerus and Piraeus. Under Cimon, preparations already had been made for the undertaking, and the spoils of Persia now provided the means for the defence of Athens.
V. This victory was achieved, and Megara was secured—although Aegina still resisted, and the outcome of the Egyptian expedition was still uncertain—the remarkable efforts of the government began what would have been a significant and challenging accomplishment even in peaceful times. They started the construction of the long walls to connect their city with its seaports, extending from Athens to Phalerus and Piraeus. Under Cimon, preparations had already been made for this project, and the spoils from Persia now supplied the resources for the defense of Athens.
Meanwhile, the Spartans still continued at the siege of Ithome. We must not imagine that all the helots had joined in the revolt. This, indeed, would be almost to suppose the utter disorganization of the Spartan state. The most luxurious subjects of a despotism were never more utterly impotent in procuring for themselves the necessaries of life, than were the hardy and abstemious freemen of the Dorian Sparta. It was dishonour for a Spartan to till the land—to exercise a trade. He had all the prejudices against any calling but that of arms which characterized a noble of the middle ages.
Meanwhile, the Spartans continued their siege of Ithome. We shouldn't think that all the helots participated in the uprising. To believe that would be to assume that the Spartan state was completely disorganized. The most pampered subjects of a dictatorship were never more powerless in securing the essentials of life than the tough and self-disciplined free citizens of Dorian Sparta. For a Spartan, it was considered shameful to work the land or practice a trade. He held the same biases against any profession other than that of a soldier as a noble from the Middle Ages would.
As is ever the case in the rebellion of slaves, the rise was not universal; a sufficient number of these wretched dependants remained passive and inert to satisfy the ordinary wants of their masters, and to assist in the rebuilding of the town. Still the Spartans were greatly enfeebled, crippled, and embarrassed by the loss of the rest: and the siege of Ithome sufficed to absorb their attention, and to make them regard without open hostilities, if with secret enmity, the operations of the Athenians. The Spartan alliance formally dissolved —Megara, with its command of the Peloponnesus seized—the Doric city of Corinth humbled and defeated—Aegina blockaded; all these—the Athenian proceedings—the Spartans bore without any formal declaration of war.
As always happens in slave rebellions, the uprising wasn't universal; a significant number of these unfortunate dependents stayed passive and inactive enough to meet their masters' basic needs and help in rebuilding the town. Nonetheless, the Spartans were noticeably weakened, crippled, and troubled by the loss of the others: and the siege of Ithome kept their focus, causing them to watch the Athenians with covert hostility rather than open aggression. The Spartan alliance officially fell apart—Megara, with its control over the Peloponnesus, was seized—the Doric city of Corinth was humbled and defeated—Aegina was blockaded; all of these actions by the Athenians were endured by the Spartans without any formal declaration of war.
VI. And now, in the eighth year of the Messenian war, piety succeeded where pride and revenge had failed, and the Spartans permitted other objects to divide their attention with the siege of Ithome. It was one of the finest characteristics of that singular people, their veneration for antiquity. For the little, rocky, and obscure territory of Doris, whence tradition derived their origin, they felt the affection and reverence of sons. A quarrel arising between the people of this state and the neighbouring Phocians, the latter invaded Doris, and captured one of its three towns 189. The Lacedaemonians marched at once to the assistance of their reputed father-land, with an army of no less than fifteen hundred heavy-armed Spartans and ten thousand of their Peloponnesian allies 190, under the command of Nicomedes, son of Cleombrotus, and guardian of their king Pleistoanax, still a minor. They forced the Phocians to abandon the town they had taken; and having effectually protected Doris by a treaty of peace between the two nations, prepared to return home. But in this they were much perplexed; the pass of Geranea was now occupied by the Athenians: Megara, too, and Pegae were in their hands. Should they pass by sea through the Gulf of Crissa, an Athenian squadron already occupied that passage. Either way they were intercepted 191. Under all circumstances, they resolved to halt a while in Boeotia, and watch an opportunity to effect their return. But with these ostensible motives for that sojourn assigned by Thucydides, there was another more deep and latent. We have had constant occasion to remark how singularly it was the Spartan policy to plot against the constitution of free states, and how well-founded was the Athenian jealousy of the secret interference of the Grecian Venice.
VI. Now, in the eighth year of the Messenian war, faith won out where pride and revenge had failed, and the Spartans allowed other concerns to distract them from the siege of Ithome. One of the best traits of that unique people was their respect for the past. They felt a deep love and reverence for the small, rocky, and obscure region of Doris, which tradition claimed as their origin. When a dispute arose between the people of this state and the neighboring Phocians, the latter invaded Doris and captured one of its three towns 189. The Lacedaemonians quickly marched to help their supposed homeland, bringing an army of at least fifteen hundred heavily armed Spartans and ten thousand of their Peloponnesian allies 190, led by Nicomedes, son of Cleombrotus, and guardian of their king Pleistoanax, who was still a minor. They forced the Phocians to give up the town they had taken, and after effectively securing Doris with a peace treaty between the two nations, they prepared to head home. However, they faced a dilemma; the pass of Geranea was now occupied by the Athenians, and Megara and Pegae were also under their control. If they attempted to travel by sea through the Gulf of Crissa, an Athenian fleet already blocked that route. Either way, they were stuck 191. Given these circumstances, they decided to pause in Boeotia and look for a chance to return. Yet, beneath these apparent reasons for their stay, as noted by Thucydides, lay a deeper and more concealed motive. It has been frequently observed how the Spartan strategy involved plotting against the constitutions of free states, and how justified the Athenian suspicion was of their secret meddling from what was considered the Greek Venice.
Halting now in Boeotia, Nicomedes entered into a clandestine communication with certain of the oligarchic party in Athens, the object of the latter being the overthrow of the existent popular constitution. With this object was certainly linked the recall of Cimon, though there is no reason to believe that great general a party in the treason. This conspiracy was one main reason of the halt in Boeotia. Another was, probably, the conception of a great and politic design, glanced at only by historians, but which, if successful, would have ranked among the masterpieces of Spartan statesmanship. This design was—while Athens was to be weakened by internal divisions, and her national spirit effectually curbed by the creation of an oligarchy, the tool of Sparta—to erect a new rival to Athens in the Boeotian Thebes. It is true that this project was not, according to Diodorus, openly apparent until after the battle of Tanagra. But such a scheme required preparation; and the sojourn of Nicomedes in Boeotia afforded him the occasion to foresee its possibility and prepare his plans. Since the Persian invasion, Thebes had lost her importance, not only throughout Greece, but throughout Boeotia, her dependant territory. Many of the states refused to regard her as their capital, and the Theban government desired to regain its power. Promises to make war upon Athens rendered the Theban power auxiliary to Sparta: the more Thebes was strengthened, the more Athens was endangered: and Sparta, ever averse to quitting the Peloponnesus, would thus erect a barrier to the Athenian arms on the very frontiers of Attica.
Halting now in Boeotia, Nicomedes secretly communicated with some members of the oligarchic faction in Athens, aiming to overturn the current popular constitution. This goal was definitely tied to the recall of Cimon, though there’s no reason to think that the great general was involved in the betrayal. This conspiracy was a main reason for the stop in Boeotia. Another reason was likely the idea of a significant and strategic plan, hinted at by historians, which, if successful, would have been one of the great achievements of Spartan politics. This plan was to weaken Athens through internal conflict and to restrain its national spirit by creating an oligarchy that served Sparta, while establishing a new rival to Athens in the Boeotian city of Thebes. It is true that this project wasn’t clearly visible until after the battle of Tanagra, according to Diodorus. However, such a scheme needed preparation, and Nicomedes’ stay in Boeotia allowed him to foresee its possibility and start planning. Since the Persian invasion, Thebes had lost its significance, not just within Greece but across Boeotia, its dependent territory. Many states stopped recognizing it as their capital, and the Theban government wanted to regain its power. Promises to wage war against Athens made Thebes a support for Sparta: the stronger Thebes became, the more danger it posed to Athens. Sparta, always reluctant to leave the Peloponnesus, could thus create a barrier against Athenian forces right at the borders of Attica.
VII. While such were the designs and schemes of Nicomedes, the conspiracy of the aristocratic party could not be so secret in Athens but what some rumour, some suspicion, broke abroad. The people became alarmed and incensed. They resolved to anticipate the war; and, judging Nicomedes cut off from retreat, and embarrassed and confined in his position, they marched against him with a thousand Argives, with a band of Thessalian horse, and some other allied troops drawn principally from Ionia, which, united to the whole force of the armed population within their walls, amounted, in all, to fourteen thousand men.
VII. While Nicomedes had his plans and schemes, the conspiracy of the aristocratic party in Athens couldn't stay completely hidden, and some rumors and suspicions got out. The people grew worried and angry. They decided to strike first, thinking that Nicomedes was cut off from escape and trapped in his situation. They marched against him with a thousand Argives, a group of Thessalian cavalry, and some other allied forces mainly from Ionia, which, combined with the entire armed population within their city, totaled about fourteen thousand men.
VIII. It is recorded by Plutarch, that during their march Cimon appeared, and sought permission to join the army. This was refused by the senate of Five Hundred, to whom the petition was referred, not from any injurious suspicion of Cimon, but from a natural fear that his presence, instead of inspiring confidence, would create confusion; and that it might be plausibly represented that he sought less to resist the Spartans than to introduce them into Athens—a proof how strong was the impression against him, and how extensive had been the Spartan intrigues. Cimon retired, beseeching his friends to vindicate themselves from the aspersions cast upon them. Placing the armour of Cimon—a species of holy standard—in their ranks, a hundred of the warmest supporters among his tribe advanced to battle conscious of the trust committed to their charge.
VIII. Plutarch notes that during their march, Cimon showed up and asked to join the army. The senate of Five Hundred, to whom the request was sent, refused him—not because they held any ill will towards Cimon, but due to a natural fear that his presence would cause confusion rather than inspire confidence. They were concerned that it could be interpreted as him wanting to let the Spartans into Athens rather than resist them—a clear indication of how strong the negative perceptions against him were and how deep the Spartan plots had run. Cimon stepped back, urging his friends to clear their names from the accusations against them. With Cimon’s armor—considered a kind of sacred standard—placed among their ranks, a hundred of his most loyal supporters from his tribe stepped forward to fight, aware of the responsibility they carried.
IX. In the territory of Tanagra a severe engagement took place. On that day Pericles himself fought in the thickest part of the battle (B. C. 457); exposing himself to every danger, as if anxious that the loss of Cimon should not be missed. The battle was long, obstinate, and even: when in the midst of it, the Thessalian cavalry suddenly deserted to the Spartans. Despite this treachery, the Athenians, well supported by the Argives, long maintained their ground with advantage. But when night separated the armies 192, victory remained with the Spartans and their allies. 193
IX. In the region of Tanagra, a fierce battle took place. On that day, Pericles fought in the thick of it (B.C. 457), putting himself at great risk, as if he wanted to prove that the loss of Cimon was not in vain. The battle was long, stubborn, and evenly matched until, suddenly, the Thessalian cavalry switched sides and joined the Spartans. Despite this betrayal, the Athenians, backed by the Argives, held their ground effectively for a long time. However, when night fell and separated the armies 192, the victory went to the Spartans and their allies. 193
The Athenians were not, however, much disheartened by defeat, nor did the Spartans profit by their advantage. Anxious only for escape, Nicomedes conducted his forces homeward, passed through Megara, destroying the fruit-trees on his march; and, gaining the pass of Geranea, which the Athenians had deserted to join the camp at Tanagra, arrived at Lacedaemon.
The Athenians weren't too discouraged by their defeat, nor did the Spartans really benefit from their advantage. Focused only on getting away, Nicomedes led his troops back home, passed through Megara while destroying the fruit trees along the way, and after reaching the Geranea pass—which the Athenians had abandoned to join the camp at Tanagra—arrived in Lacedaemon.
Meanwhile the Thebans took advantage of the victory to extend their authority, agreeably to the project conceived with Sparta. Thebes now attempted the reduction of all the cities of Boeotia. Some submitted, others opposed.
Meanwhile, the Thebans took advantage of the victory to expand their power, in line with the plan they made with Sparta. Thebes now tried to bring all the cities of Boeotia under its control. Some submitted, while others resisted.
X. Aware of the necessity of immediate measures against a neighbour, brave, persevering, and ambitious, the Athenian government lost no time in recruiting its broken forces. Under Myronides, an army, collected from the allies and dependant states, was convened to assemble upon a certain day. Many failed the appointment, and the general was urged to delay his march till their arrival. “It is not the part of a general,” said Myronides, sternly, “to await the pleasure of his soldiers! By delay I read an omen of the desire of the loiterers to avoid the enemy. Better rely upon a few faithful than on many disaffected.”
X. Understanding the need for immediate action against a neighbor who was brave, determined, and ambitious, the Athenian government quickly got to work on rebuilding its forces. Under Myronides, an army made up of allies and dependent states was called to assemble on a specific day. Many didn’t show up, and the general was encouraged to postpone his march until they arrived. “A general should not wait for his soldiers,” Myronides said firmly. “By delaying, I see a sign that those who are late want to avoid the fight. It’s better to depend on a few loyal troops than on many who are discontent.”
With a force comparatively small, Myronides commenced his march, entered Boeotia sixty-two days only after the battle of Tanagra, and, engaging the Boeotians at Oenophyta, obtained a complete and splendid victory (B. C. 456). This battle, though Diodorus could find no details of the action, was reckoned by Athens among the most glorious she had ever achieved; preferred by the vain Greeks even to those of Marathon and Plataea, inasmuch as Greek was opposed to Greek, and not to the barbarians. Those who fell on the Athenian side were first honoured by public burial in the Ceramichus—“As men,” says Plato, “who fought against Grecians for the liberties of Greece.” Myronides followed up his victory by levelling the walls of Tanagra. All Boeotia, except Thebes herself, was brought into the Athenian alliance—as democracies in the different towns, replacing the oligarchical governments, gave the moral blow to the Spartan ascendency. Thus, in effect, the consequences of the battle almost deserved the eulogies bestowed upon the victory. Those consequences were to revolutionize nearly all the states in Boeotia; and, by calling up a democracy in each state, Athens at once changed enemies into allies.
With a relatively small force, Myronides began his march, entered Boeotia just sixty-two days after the battle of Tanagra, and, after engaging the Boeotians at Oenophyta, achieved a complete and impressive victory (B.C. 456). Although Diodorus couldn't find specifics about the battle, it was considered one of the most glorious achievements in Athens' history; it was even favored by the proud Greeks over the victories at Marathon and Plataea, since it was Greek against Greek, rather than fighting barbarians. The Athenian casualties were honored with public burials in the Ceramichus—“As men,” Plato states, “who fought against Greeks for the liberties of Greece.” Myronides followed up his victory by demolishing the walls of Tanagra. Except for Thebes, all of Boeotia joined the Athenian alliance, as democracies were established in various towns, replacing the oligarchical governments and delivering a significant blow to Spartan dominance. Consequently, the aftermath of the battle matched the praise given to the victory. These outcomes were set to transform nearly all the states in Boeotia; by establishing democracy in each state, Athens turned former enemies into allies.
From Boeotia, Myronides marched to Phocis, and, pursuing the same policy, rooted out the oligarchies, and established popular governments. The Locrians of Opus gave a hundred of their wealthiest citizens as hostages. Returned to Athens, Myronides was received with public rejoicings 194, and thus closed a short but brilliant campaign, which had not only conquered enemies, but had established everywhere garrisons of friends.
From Boeotia, Myronides moved to Phocis and, following the same approach, eliminated the oligarchies and set up popular governments. The Locrians of Opus provided a hundred of their richest citizens as hostages. When he returned to Athens, Myronides was welcomed with public celebrations 194, successfully wrapping up a brief but impressive campaign that not only defeated enemies but also established friendly garrisons everywhere.
XI. Although the banishment of Cimon had appeared to complete the triumph of the popular party in Athens, his opinions were not banished also. Athens, like all free states, was ever agitated by the feud of parties, at once its danger and its strength. Parties in Athens were, however, utterly unlike many of those that rent the peace of the Italian republics; nor are they rightly understood in the vague declamations of Barthelemi or Mitford; they were not only parties of names and men—they were also parties of principles—the parties of restriction and of advance. And thus the triumph of either was invariably followed by the triumph of the principle it espoused. Nobler than the bloody contests of mere faction, we do not see in Athens the long and sweeping proscriptions, the atrocious massacres that attended the party-strifes of ancient Rome or of modern Italy. The ostracism, or the fine, of some obnoxious and eminent partisans, usually contented the wrath of the victorious politicians. And in the advance of a cause the people found the main vent for their passions. I trust, however, that I shall not be accused of prejudice when I state as a fact, that the popular party in Athens seems to have been much more moderate and less unprincipled even in its excesses than its antagonists. We never see it, like the Pisistratidae, leagued with the Persian, nor with Isagoras, betraying Athens to the Spartan. What the oligarchic faction did when triumphant, we see hereafter in the establishment of the Thirty Tyrants. And compared with their offences, the ostracism of Aristides, or the fine and banishment of Cimon, lose all their colours of wrong.
XI. Even though Cimon's banishment seemed to mark a complete victory for the popular party in Athens, his views didn’t disappear. Athens, like all free states, was always stirred by party conflicts, which were both a danger and a strength. However, the parties in Athens were very different from those that disrupted the peace of the Italian republics, and they aren't accurately represented in the vague speeches of Barthelemi or Mitford; they were not just groups defined by names and individuals—they were also groups driven by principles—the parties of restriction and progress. Thus, the victory of either side was always followed by the victory of the principle it supported. Unlike the violent clashes of mere factions, Athens did not see the long and brutal proscriptions or horrific massacres that characterized the party struggles of ancient Rome or modern Italy. Instead, the ostracism or fines of certain disliked and prominent supporters usually satisfied the anger of the winning politicians. In the advancement of a cause, the people found their main outlet for their passions. However, I hope I won't be seen as biased when I say that the popular party in Athens seemed to be much more moderate and less unethical, even in its excesses, than its opponents. We never saw them, like the Pisistratidae, allied with the Persians, or with Isagoras, betraying Athens to the Spartans. What the oligarchic faction did when in power becomes clear later with the rise of the Thirty Tyrants. Compared to their crimes, the ostracism of Aristides, or the fines and banishment of Cimon, lose all their significance as wrong.
XII. The discontented advocates for an oligarchy, who had intrigued with Nicomedes, had been foiled in their object, partly by the conduct of Cimon in disavowing all connexion with them, partly by the retreat of Nicomedes himself. Still their spirit was too fierce to suffer them to forego their schemes without a struggle, and after the battle of Tanagra they broke out into open conspiracy against the republic.
XII. The unhappy supporters of an oligarchy, who had conspired with Nicomedes, were thwarted in their goals, partly due to Cimon's refusal to be associated with them and partly because Nicomedes withdrew. However, their fierce determination didn't allow them to abandon their plans without a fight, and after the battle of Tanagra, they openly conspired against the republic.
The details of this treason are lost to us; it is one of the darkest passages of Athenian history. From scattered and solitary references we can learn, however, that for a time it threatened the democracy with ruin. 195
The specifics of this betrayal are unknown to us; it’s one of the darkest moments in Athenian history. From a few scattered mentions, we can gather that for a while it put the democracy at serious risk. 195
The victory of the Spartans at Tanagra gave strength to the Spartan party in Athens; it also inspired with fear many of the people; it was evidently desirable rather to effect a peace with Sparta than to hazard a war. Who so likely to effect that peace as the banished Cimon? Now was the time to press for his recall. Either at this period, or shortly afterward, Ephialtes, his most vehement enemy, was barbarously murdered—according to Aristotle, a victim to the hatred of the nobles.
The Spartans' victory at Tanagra strengthened their supporters in Athens and instilled fear in many citizens. It was clear that they were more inclined to pursue peace with Sparta rather than risk a war. Who better to negotiate that peace than the exiled Cimon? Now was the perfect time to push for his return. Either during this time or soon after, Ephialtes, Cimon's fiercest opponent, was brutally murdered—Aristotle claims it was due to the animosity of the nobles.
XIII. Pericles had always conducted his opposition to Cimon with great dexterity and art; and indeed the aristocratic leaders of contending parties are rarely so hostile to each other as their subordinate followers suppose. In the present strife for the recall of his rival, amid all the intrigues and conspiracies, the open violence and the secret machination, which threatened not only the duration of the government, but the very existence of the republic, Pericles met the danger by proposing himself the repeal of Cimon’s sentence.
XIII. Pericles had always been very skillful in his rivalry with Cimon; in fact, the elite leaders of opposing factions are rarely as hostile to each other as their followers believe. In the current struggle for the return of his opponent, with all the schemes and plots, the public violence and the hidden agendas, which threatened not just the stability of the government but the very survival of the republic, Pericles responded to the threat by suggesting the repeal of Cimon’s verdict.
Plutarch, with a childish sentimentality common to him when he means to be singularly effective, bursts into an exclamation upon the generosity of this step, and the candour and moderation of those times, when resentments could be so easily laid aside. But the profound and passionless mind of Pericles was above all the weakness of a melodramatic generosity. And it cannot be doubted that this measure was a compromise between the government and the more moderate and virtuous of the aristocratic party. Perhaps it was the most advantageous compromise Pericles was enabled to effect; for by concession with respect to individuals, we can often prevent concession as to things. The recall 196 of the great leader of the anti-popular faction may have been deemed equivalent to the surrender of many popular rights. And had we a deeper insight into the intrigues of that day and the details of the oligarchic conspiracy, I suspect we should find that, by recalling Cimon, Pericles saved the constitution. 197
Plutarch, with his usual sentimental flair aimed at being impactful, exclaims about the generosity of this action and the honesty and restraint of that era, when grudges could be easily set aside. However, Pericles, with his deep and unemotional intellect, rose above the flaws of dramatic generosity. It's undeniable that this decision was a compromise between the government and the more moderate and principled members of the aristocracy. It might have been the best compromise Pericles could achieve; by conceding on individual matters, we can often prevent concessions on larger issues. The recall 196 of the prominent leader of the anti-populist faction may have been seen as equivalent to giving up many popular rights. And if we had a better understanding of the intrigues of that time and the specifics of the oligarchic conspiracy, I suspect we would find that by recalling Cimon, Pericles saved the constitution. 197
XIV. The first and most popular benefit anticipated from the recall of the son of Miltiades in a reconciliation between Sparta and Athens, was not immediately realized further than by an armistice of four months. 198
XIV. The first and most expected benefit from bringing back the son of Miltiades in the reconciliation between Sparta and Athens was only realized to the extent of a four-month ceasefire. 198
About this time the long walls of the Piraeus were completed (B. C. 455), and shortly afterward Aegina yielded to the arms of the Athenians (B. C. 455), upon terms which subjected the citizens of that gallant and adventurous isle (whose achievements and commerce seem no less a miracle than the greatness of Athens when we survey the limits of their narrow and rocky domain) to the rival they had long so fearlessly, nor fruitlessly braved. The Aeginetans surrendered their shipping, demolished their walls, and consented to the payment of an annual tribute. And so was fulfilled the proverbial command of Pericles, that Aegina ought not to remain the eyesore of Athens.
Around this time, the long walls of Piraeus were finished (B.C. 455), and soon after, Aegina fell to the Athenians (B.C. 455), under terms that subordinated the people of that brave and adventurous island (whose achievements and trade seem just as incredible as Athens's greatness when we consider the limits of their small and rocky land) to the rival they had long faced so boldly and without success. The Aeginetans turned over their ships, tore down their walls, and agreed to pay an annual tribute. Thus, Pericles’s famous remark was fulfilled: Aegina should no longer be a blemish on Athens.
XV. Aegina reduced, the Athenian fleet of fifty galleys, manned by four thousand men 199, under the command of Tolmides, circumnavigated the Peloponnesus—the armistice of four months had expired—and, landing in Laconia, Tolmides burnt Gythium, a dock of the Lacedaemonians; took Chalcis, a town belonging to Corinth, and, debarking at Sicyon, engaged and defeated the Sicyonians. Thence proceeding to Cephallenia, he mastered the cities of that isle; and descending at Naupactus, on the Corinthian gulf, wrested it from the Ozolian Locrians.
XV. With Aegina taken, the Athenian fleet of fifty ships, crewed by four thousand men 199, under the leadership of Tolmides, sailed around the Peloponnesus—the four-month truce had ended—and, landing in Laconia, Tolmides burned Gythium, a port of the Lacedaemonians; seized Chalcis, a town owned by Corinth, and, landing at Sicyon, fought and defeated the Sicyonians. From there, he moved on to Cephallenia and took control of the cities on that island; and after arriving at Naupactus, on the Corinthian gulf, he captured it from the Ozolian Locrians.
In the same year with this expedition, and in the tenth year of the siege (B. C. 455), Ithome surrendered to Lacedaemon. The long and gallant resistance of that town, the precipitous site of which nature herself had fortified, is one of the most memorable and glorious events in the Grecian history; and we cannot but regret that the imperfect morality of those days, which saw glory in the valour of freemen, rebellion only in that of slaves, should have left us but frigid and scanty accounts of so obstinate a siege. To posterity neither the cause nor the achievements of Marathon or Plataea, seem the one more holy, the other more heroic, than this long defiance of Messenians and helots against the prowess of Sparta and the aid of her allies. The reader will rejoice to learn that it was on no dishonourable terms that the city at last surrendered. Life and free permission to depart was granted to the besieged, and recorded by a pillar erected on the banks of the Alpheus 200. But such of the helots as had been taken in battle or in the neighbouring territory were again reduced to slavery—the ringleaders so apprehended alone executed. 201
In the same year as this expedition, and in the tenth year of the siege (B.C. 455), Ithome surrendered to Lacedaemon. The long and brave resistance of that town, which nature itself had fortified with its steep location, is one of the most memorable and glorious events in Greek history. We can’t help but regret that the imperfect morals of those times, which saw glory in the bravery of free people but considered rebellion only in that of slaves, left us with such cold and limited accounts of such a stubborn siege. To future generations, neither the cause nor the achievements of Marathon or Plataea seem more sacred or heroic than this long defiance of the Messenians and helots against the strength of Sparta and the support of her allies. The reader will be glad to learn that the city ultimately surrendered on honorable terms. The besieged were granted their lives and the freedom to leave, as recorded by a pillar erected on the banks of the Alpheus 200. However, those helots who were captured in battle or in the surrounding territory were once again enslaved—the only ones executed were the ringleaders who were caught. 201
The gallant defenders of Ithome having conditioned to quit for ever the Peloponnesus, Tolmides invested them with the possession of his new conquest of Naupactus. There, under a democratic government, protected by the power of Athens, they regained their ancient freedom, and preserved their hereditary name of Messenians—long distinguished from their neighbours by their peculiar dialect.
The brave defenders of Ithome agreed to leave the Peloponnesus for good, and Tolmides granted them control over his recent conquest of Naupactus. There, under a democratic government and protected by Athens, they regained their old freedom and kept their ancestral name of Messenians—long set apart from their neighbors by their unique dialect.
XVI. While thus, near at home, the Athenians had extended their conquests and cemented their power, the adventurers they had despatched to the Nile were maintaining their strange settlement with more obstinacy than success. At first, the Athenians and their ally, the Libyan Inarus, had indeed, as we have seen, obtained no inconsiderable advantage.
XVI. While the Athenians were expanding their conquests and solidifying their power back home, the adventurers they sent to the Nile were holding on to their unusual settlement with more determination than success. Initially, the Athenians and their ally, the Libyan Inarus, had certainly gained a significant advantage, as we have seen.
Anxious to detach the Athenians from the Egyptian revolt, Artaxerxes had despatched an ambassador to Sparta, in order to prevail upon that state to make an excursion into Attica, and so compel the Athenians to withdraw their troops from Egypt. The liability of the Spartan government to corrupt temptation was not unknown to a court which had received the Spartan fugitives; and the ambassador was charged with large treasures to bribe those whom he could not otherwise convince. Nevertheless, the negotiation failed; the government could not be induced to the alliance with the Persian king. There was indeed a certain spirit of honour inherent in that haughty nation which, if not incompatible with cunning and intrigue, held at least in profound disdain an alliance with the barbarian, for whatsoever ends. But, in fact, the Spartans were then entirely absorbed in the reduction of Ithome, and the war in Arcady; and it would, further, have been the height of impolicy in that state, if meditating any designs against Athens, to assist in the recall of an army which it was its very interest to maintain employed in distant and perilous expeditions.
Anxious to pull the Athenians away from the Egyptian revolt, Artaxerxes sent an ambassador to Sparta to persuade the city-state to launch an expedition into Attica, forcing the Athenians to withdraw their troops from Egypt. The Spartan government’s susceptibility to corruption wasn't a secret to a court that had taken in Spartan refugees; the ambassador was sent with plenty of money to bribe those he couldn’t otherwise persuade. However, the negotiation didn’t succeed; the government refused to ally with the Persian king. There was a certain sense of honor inherent in that proud nation which, while not incompatible with cunning and intrigue, held an alliance with a foreign invader in disdain for any reason. In fact, the Spartans were completely focused on the siege of Ithome and the war in Arcadia; also, it would have been extremely unwise for them, if they had any plans against Athens, to assist in recalling an army that was in their best interest to keep engaged in distant and dangerous missions.
The ambassador had the satisfaction indeed of wasting some of his money, but to no purpose; and he returned without success to Asia. Artaxerxes then saw the necessity of arousing himself to those active exertions which the feebleness of an exhausted despotism rendered the final, not the first resort. Under Megabyzus an immense army was collected; traversing Syria and Phoenicia, it arrived in Egypt, engaged the Egyptian forces in a pitched battle, and obtained a complete victory. Thence marching to Memphis, it drove the Greeks from their siege of the White Castle, till then continued, and shut them up in Prosopitis, an island in the Nile, around which their ships lay anchored. Megabyzus ordered the channel to be drained by dikes, and the vessels, the main force of the Athenians, were left stranded. Terrified by this dexterous manoeuvre, as well as by the success of the Persians, the Egyptians renounced all further resistance; and the Athenians were deprived at once of their vessels and their allies. 202
The ambassador definitely felt the disappointment of wasting some of his money, but it didn’t accomplish anything; he returned to Asia empty-handed. Artaxerxes then realized he needed to take action in a way that was more necessary than it had been before, given how weak an exhausted regime had made him. Under Megabyzus, a huge army was gathered; moving through Syria and Phoenicia, it reached Egypt, fought the Egyptian forces in a major battle, and achieved a total victory. From there, they marched to Memphis and drove the Greeks away from their siege of the White Castle, which had been ongoing, and trapped them in Prosopitis, an island in the Nile where their ships were anchored. Megabyzus ordered the channel to be drained using dikes, leaving the ships, which were the main force of the Athenians, stuck on land. Alarmed by this clever tactic, along with the success of the Persians, the Egyptians gave up any further resistance; the Athenians suddenly found themselves without their ships and their allies. 202
XVII. Nothing daunted, and inspired by their disdain no less than by their valour, the Athenians were yet to the barbarian what the Norman knights were afterward to the Greeks. They burnt their vessels that they might be as useless to the enemy as to themselves, and, exhorting each other not to dim the glory of their past exploits, shut up still in the small town of Byblus situated in the isle of Prosopitis, resolved to defend themselves to the last.
XVII. Undeterred and motivated by both their scorn and their bravery, the Athenians were to the barbarians what the Norman knights later became to the Greeks. They burned their ships so that they would be useless to the enemy just as much as to themselves, and while encouraging one another not to tarnish the glory of their past achievements, they confined themselves in the small town of Byblus located on the isle of Prosopitis, determined to fight until the end.
The blockade endured a year and a half, such was the singular ignorance of the art of sieges in that time. At length, when the channel was drained, as I have related, the Persians marched across the dry bed, and carried the place by a land assault. So ended this wild and romantic expedition. The greater part of the Athenians perished; a few, however, either forced their way by arms, or, as Diodorus more probably relates, were permitted by treaty to retire, out of the Egyptian territory. Taking the route of Libya, they arrived at Cyrene, and finally reached Athens.
The blockade lasted a year and a half, reflecting the unique ignorance of siege tactics at that time. Eventually, when the water was gone, as I mentioned before, the Persians crossed the dry riverbed and captured the city in a ground assault. This marked the end of this chaotic and adventurous campaign. Most of the Athenians died; however, a few managed to escape by force, or, as Diodorus more likely suggests, were allowed to leave the Egyptian territory through a treaty. Taking the route through Libya, they reached Cyrene and finally made it back to Athens.
Inarus, the author of the revolt, was betrayed, and perished on the cross, and the whole of Egypt once more succumbed to the Persian yoke, save only that portion called the marshy or fenny parts (under the dominion of a prince named Amyrtaeus), protected by the nature of the soil and the proverbial valour of the inhabitants. Meanwhile a squadron of fifty vessels, despatched by Athens to the aid of their countrymen, entered the Mendesian mouth of the Nile too late to prevent the taking of Byblus. Here they were surprised and defeated by the Persian troops and a Phoenician fleet (B. C. 455), and few survived a slaughter which put the last seal on the disastrous results of the Egyptian expedition.
Inarus, the instigator of the revolt, was betrayed and executed on the cross, and once again, Egypt fell under Persian control, except for the area known as the marshy regions, which was ruled by a prince named Amyrtaeus. This area was safeguarded by the terrain and the famous courage of its people. Meanwhile, a squadron of fifty ships sent by Athens to help their compatriots arrived at the Mendesian mouth of the Nile too late to stop the capture of Byblus. They were caught off guard and defeated by the Persian forces and a Phoenician fleet (B.C. 455), with only a few surviving a massacre that sealed the tragic outcome of the Egyptian campaign.
At home the Athenians continued, however, their military operations. Thessaly, like the rest of Greece, had long shaken off the forms of kingly government, but the spirit of monarchy still survived in a country where the few were opulent and the multitude enslaved. The Thessalian republics, united by an assembly of deputies from the various towns, elected for their head a species of protector—who appears to have possessed many of the characteristics of the podesta of the Italian states. His nominal station was that of military command—a station which, in all save the most perfect constitutions, comprehends also civil authority. The name of Tagus was given to this dangerous chief, and his power and attributes so nearly resembled those of a monarch, that even Thucydides confers on a Tagus the title of king. Orestes, one of these princes, had been driven from his country by a civil revolution. He fled to Athens, and besought her assistance to effect his restoration. That the Athenians should exert themselves in favour of a man whose rank so nearly resembled the odious dignity of a monarch, appears a little extraordinary. But as the Tagus was often the favourite of the commonalty and the foe of the aristocratic party, it is possible that, in restoring Orestes, the Athenians might have seen a new occasion to further the policy so triumphantly adopted in Boeotia and Phocis—to expel a hostile oligarchy and establish a friendly democracy 203. Whatever their views, they decided to yield to the exile the assistance he demanded, and under Myronides an army in the following year accompanied Orestes into Thessaly. They were aided by the Boeotians and Phocians. Myronides marched to Pharsalus, a Thessalian city, and mastered the surrounding country; but the obstinate resistance of the city promising a more protracted blockade than it was deemed advisable to await, the Athenians raised the siege without effecting the object of the expedition.
At home, the Athenians continued their military operations. Thessaly, like the rest of Greece, had long moved away from kingly rule, but the spirit of monarchy still lingered in a land where the wealthy few thrived while the many were enslaved. The Thessalian republics, connected through an assembly of representatives from various towns, elected a kind of protector as their leader—someone who seemed to have many traits similar to the podesta of the Italian states. His official role was that of a military commander, a position that, except in the most well-structured governments, also included civil authority. The title of Tagus was given to this powerful leader, and his power and responsibilities were so akin to those of a monarch that even Thucydides referred to a Tagus as king. Orestes, one of these leaders, had been ousted from his homeland due to a civil uprising. He escaped to Athens, asking for support to regain his throne. It seems a bit surprising that the Athenians would take action on behalf of someone whose position closely resembled the disliked title of monarch. However, since the Tagus was often favored by the common people and opposed by the aristocracy, the Athenians may have viewed restoring Orestes as a chance to further their strategy, which had been successfully implemented in Boeotia and Phocis—to remove a hostile oligarchy and establish a supportive democracy 203. Whatever their motivations, they decided to provide the exiled prince with the help he requested, and under Myronides, an army accompanied Orestes into Thessaly the following year. They received support from the Boeotians and Phocians. Myronides advanced to Pharsalus, a city in Thessaly, and took control of the surrounding area; however, the stubborn resistance of the city indicated a longer blockade than they were willing to endure, so the Athenians lifted the siege without achieving their goal for the expedition.
XVIII. The possession of Pegae and the new colony of Naupactus 204 induced the desire of extending the Athenian conquests on the neighbouring coasts, and the government were naturally anxious to repair the military honours of Athens—lessened in Egypt, and certainly not increased in Thessaly. With a thousand Athenian soldiers, Pericles himself set out for Pegae. Thence the fleet, there anchored, made a descent on Sicyon; Pericles defeated the Sicyonians in a pitched battle, and besieged the city; but, after some fruitless assaults, learning that the Spartans were coming to the relief of the besieged, he quitted the city, and, re-enforced by some Achaeans, sailed to the opposite side of the continent, crossed over the Corinthian Bay, besieged the town of Oeniadae in Acarnania (B. C. 454) (the inhabitants of which Pausanias 205 styles the hereditary enemies of the Athenians), ravaged the neighbouring country, and bore away no inconsiderable spoils. Although he reduced no city, the successes of Pericles were signal enough to render the campaign triumphant 206; and it gratified the national pride and resentment to have insulted the cities and wasted the lands of the Peloponnesus.
XVIII. The control of Pegae and the new colony of Naupactus 204 sparked the desire to expand Athenian conquests along the nearby coasts, and the government was understandably eager to restore Athens' military reputation—diminished in Egypt and not improved in Thessaly. With a thousand Athenian soldiers, Pericles himself set out for Pegae. From there, the fleet, which was anchored, launched an attack on Sicyon; Pericles defeated the Sicyonians in a major battle and laid siege to the city. However, after multiple unsuccessful assaults and learning that the Spartans were coming to assist the besieged, he abandoned the city and, reinforced by some Achaeans, sailed to the other side of the continent, crossed the Corinthian Bay, and besieged the town of Oeniadae in Acarnania (B.C. 454) (whose inhabitants Pausanias 205 calls the longstanding enemies of the Athenians), devastated the surrounding region, and took away considerable spoils. Although he did not capture any city, Pericles' successes were significant enough to make the campaign a triumph 206; and it satisfied the national pride and resentment by having humiliated the cities and ravaged the lands of the Peloponnesus.
These successes were sufficient to render a peace with Sparta and her allies advisable for the latter, while they were not sufficiently decided to tempt the Athenians to prolong irregular and fruitless hostilities. Three years were consumed without further aggressions on either side, and probably in negotiations for peace. At the end of that time, the influence and intervention of Cimon obtained a truce of five years between the Athenians and the Peloponnesians.
These successes were enough to make a peace with Sparta and her allies a good idea for them, while they were not confident enough to encourage the Athenians to continue with chaotic and pointless fighting. Three years went by without any further attacks from either side, likely spent in peace talks. After that time, Cimon's influence and intervention secured a five-year truce between the Athenians and the Peloponnesians.
XIX. The truce with the Peloponnesians (B. C. 450) removed the main obstacle to those more bright and extensive prospects of enterprise and ambition which the defeat of the Persians had opened to the Athenians. In that restless and unpausing energy, which is the characteristic of an intellectual republic, there seems, as it were, a kind of destiny: a power impossible to resist urges the state from action to action, from progress to progress, with a rapidity dangerous while it dazzles; resembling in this the career of individuals impelled onward, first to obtain, and thence to preserve, power, and who cannot struggle against the fate which necessitates them to soar, until, by the moral gravitation of human things, the point which has no beyond is attained; and the next effort to rise is but the prelude of their fall. In such states Time indeed moves with gigantic strides; years concentrate what would be the epochs of centuries in the march of less popular institutions. The planet of their fortunes rolls with an equal speed through the cycle of internal civilization as of foreign glory. The condition of their brilliant life is the absence of repose. The accelerated circulation of the blood beautifies but consumes, and action itself, exhausting the stores of youth by its very vigour, becomes a mortal but divine disease.
XIX. The truce with the Peloponnesians (B.C. 450) removed the main obstacle to the brighter and more ambitious opportunities that the defeat of the Persians had opened up for the Athenians. In their relentless energy, which is typical of an intellectual republic, there seems to be a kind of destiny at play: an irresistible power pushes the state from one action to the next, from one achievement to another, with a speed that is both thrilling and dangerous; much like individuals driven to gain and then maintain power, unable to resist the fate that compels them to rise until they reach a point beyond which there is no further ascent; and the next effort to climb is merely the prelude to their downfall. In such states, time indeed moves at a breakneck pace; years condense what would be the milestones of centuries in less popular institutions. Their fortunes progress rapidly through both internal development and foreign glory. The hallmark of their vibrant life is the lack of rest. The quickened flow of life enhances beauty yet consumes it, and action itself, which depletes the reserves of youth through its very intensity, turns into a mortal yet divine affliction.
XX. When Athens rose to the ascendency of Greece, it was necessary to the preservation of that sudden and splendid dignity that she should sustain the naval renown by which it had been mainly acquired. There is but one way to sustain reputation, viz., to increase it and the memory of past glories becomes dim unless it be constantly refreshed by new. It must also be borne in mind that the maritime habits of the people had called a new class into existence in the councils of the state. The seamen, the most democratic part of the population, were now to be conciliated and consulted: it was requisite to keep them in action, for they were turbulent—in employment, for they were poor: and thus the domestic policy and the foreign interests of Athens alike conspired to necessitate the prosecution of maritime enterprise.
XX. When Athens became the dominant power in Greece, it was essential for maintaining that sudden and impressive status to uphold the naval reputation that had largely earned it. There’s only one way to uphold reputation: by increasing it, and the memory of past glories fades unless it’s consistently refreshed with new achievements. It’s also important to remember that the seafaring culture of the people had brought about a new class in the state’s councils. The sailors, who were the most democratic segment of the population, now needed to be engaged and consulted: it was necessary to keep them active, as they were restless—employed, because they were poor. Therefore, both the domestic policies and foreign interests of Athens required the pursuit of maritime ventures.
XXI. No longer harassed and impeded by fears of an enemy in the Peloponnesus, the lively imagination of the people readily turned to more dazzling and profitable warfare. The Island of Cyprus had (we have seen) before attracted the ambition of the mistress of the Aegaean. Its possession was highly advantageous, whether for military or commercial designs, and once subjected, the fleet of the Athenians might readily retain the dominion. Divided into nine petty states, governed, not by republican, but by monarchical institutions, the forces of the island were distracted, and the whole proffered an easy as well as glorious conquest; while the attempt took the plausible shape of deliverance, inasmuch as Persia, despite the former successes of Cimon, still arrogated the supremacy over the island, and the war was, in fact, less against Cyprus than against Persia. Cimon, who ever affected great and brilliant enterprises, and whose main policy it was to keep the Athenians from the dangerous borders of the Peloponnesus, hastened to cement the truce he had formed with the states of that district, by directing the spirit of enterprise to the conquest of Cyprus.
XXI. No longer troubled and held back by fears of an enemy in the Peloponnesus, the vibrant imagination of the people easily shifted to more exciting and profitable warfare. The Island of Cyprus had (as we have seen) previously caught the attention of the ruler of the Aegean. Its control was highly beneficial for both military and commercial plans, and once captured, the Athenian fleet could easily maintain dominance. Divided into nine small states, ruled not by democracy but by monarchy, the island's forces were scattered, making it an easy and glorious target for conquest; the effort even appeared to be a form of liberation since Persia, despite Cimon's earlier victories, still claimed authority over the island, and the conflict was really more against Persia than Cyprus. Cimon, who always pursued great and impressive ventures, and whose primary goal was to keep the Athenians away from the perilous borders of the Peloponnesus, rushed to strengthen the truce he had established with the states in that region by channeling the spirit of ambition towards the conquest of Cyprus.
Invested with the command of two hundred galleys, he set sail for that island (B. C. 450) 207. But designs more vast were associated with this enterprise. The objects of the late Egyptian expedition still tempted, and sixty vessels of the fleet were despatched to Egypt to the assistance of Amyrtaeus, who, yet unconquered, in the marshy regions, sustained the revolt against the Persian king.
Invested with the command of two hundred galleys, he set sail for that island (B.C. 450) 207. But there were bigger plans linked to this mission. The goals of the recent Egyptian expedition still lured him, so sixty ships from the fleet were sent to Egypt to assist Amyrtaeus, who, still undefeated in the marshy areas, continued to resist the Persian king.
Artabazus commanded the Persian forces, and with a fleet of three hundred vessels he ranged himself in sight of Cyprus. Cimon, however, landing on the island, succeeded in capturing many of its principal towns. Humbled and defeated, it was not the policy of Persia to continue hostilities with an enemy from whom it had so much to fear and so little to gain. It is not, therefore, altogether an improbable account of the later authorities, that ambassadors with proposals of peace were formally despatched to Athens. But we must reject as a pure fable the assertions that a treaty was finally agreed upon, by which it was decreed, on the one hand, that the independence of the Asiatic Greek towns should be acknowledged, and that the Persian generals should not advance within three days’ march of the Grecian seas; nor should a Persian vessel sail within the limit of Phaselis and the Cyanean rocks; while, on the other hand, the Athenians were bound not to enter the territories of Artaxerxes 208. No such arrangement was known to Thucydides; no reference is ever made to such a treaty in subsequent transactions with Persia. A document, professing to be a copy of this treaty, was long extant; but it was undoubtedly the offspring of a weak credulity or an ingenious invention. But while negotiations, if ever actually commenced, were yet pending, Cimon was occupied in the siege of Citium, where famine conspired with the obstinacy of the besieged to protract the success of his arms. It is recorded among the popular legends of the day that Cimon 209 sent a secret mission to the oracle of Jupiter Ammon. “Return,” was the response to the messengers; “Cimon is with me!” The messengers did return to find the son of Miltiades was no more. He expired during the blockade of Citium (B. C. 449). By his orders his death was concealed, the siege raised, and, still under the magic of Cimon’s name, the Athenians engaging the Phoenicians and Cilicians off the Cyprian Salamis, obtained signal victories both by land and sea. Thence, joined by the squadron despatched to Egypt, which, if it did not share, did not retrieve, the misfortunes of the previous expedition, they returned home.
Artabazus led the Persian forces, and with a fleet of three hundred ships, he positioned himself near Cyprus. However, Cimon landed on the island and successfully captured many of its major towns. Defeated and humiliated, Persia didn’t see any advantage in continuing the fight against an enemy it feared so much. Therefore, it’s not entirely unbelievable that later sources say ambassadors were sent to Athens with peace proposals. However, we should dismiss the claims that a treaty was ultimately reached, stating that the independence of the Greek towns in Asia would be recognized, and Persian generals would not approach within three days' march of the Greek seas. Additionally, no Persian ship would sail within the boundaries of Phaselis and the Cyanean rocks, while on the other hand, the Athenians were prohibited from entering the territories of Artaxerxes 208. Thucydides had no knowledge of such an arrangement, and there’s no mention of this treaty in later dealings with Persia. A document claiming to be a copy of this treaty existed for a long time, but it was clearly the creation of either wishful thinking or clever fabrication. While negotiations, if they ever actually started, were still ongoing, Cimon was focused on the siege of Citium, where famine combined with the stubbornness of the defenders prolonged his efforts. It is said in popular legends that Cimon 209 sent a secret mission to the oracle of Jupiter Ammon. “Return,” was the oracle's response; “Cimon is with me!” The messengers returned only to find that the son of Miltiades had passed away. He died during the blockade of Citium (B.C. 449). At his command, the news of his death was kept hidden, the siege was lifted, and, still riding on Cimon’s reputation, the Athenians faced the Phoenicians and Cilicians off the coast of Cyprian Salamis, achieving remarkable victories both on land and at sea. They then returned home, joined by the squadron sent to Egypt, which, while it didn’t share in the earlier misfortunes, also failed to recover from the previous expedition.
The remains of Cimon were interred in Athens, and the splendid monument consecrated to his name was visible in the time of Plutarch.
The remains of Cimon were buried in Athens, and the impressive monument dedicated to his name could be seen during Plutarch's time.
CHAPTER V.
Change of Manners in Athens.—Begun under the Pisistratidae.—Effects of the Persian War, and the intimate Connexion with Ionia.—The Hetaerae.—The Political Eminence lately acquired by Athens.—The Transfer of the Treasury from Delos to Athens.—Latent Dangers and Evils.—First, the Artificial Greatness of Athens not supported by Natural Strength.—Secondly, her pernicious Reliance on Tribute.— Thirdly, Deterioration of National Spirit commenced by Cimon in the Use of Bribes and Public Tables.—Fourthly, Defects in Popular Courts of Law.—Progress of General Education.—History.—Its Ionian Origin. —Early Historians.—Acusilaus.—Cadmus.—Eugeon.—Hellanicus.— Pherecides.—Xanthus.—View of the Life and Writings of Herodotus.— Progress of Philosophy since Thales.—Philosophers of the Ionian and Eleatic Schools.—Pythagoras.—His Philosophical Tenets and Political Influence.—Effect of these Philosophers on Athens.—School of Political Philosophy continued in Athens from the Time of Solon.— Anaxagoras.—Archelaus.—Philosophy not a thing apart from the ordinary Life of the Athenians.
Change of Manners in Athens.—Started under the Pisistratidae.—Effects of the Persian War and the close connection with Ionia.—The Hetaerae.—The political prominence recently gained by Athens.—The transfer of the treasury from Delos to Athens.—Hidden dangers and issues.—First, the artificial greatness of Athens isn't backed by natural strength.—Secondly, her harmful dependence on tribute.—Thirdly, the decline of national spirit initiated by Cimon through the use of bribes and public feasts.—Fourthly, flaws in the popular courts of law.—Advancement of general education.—History.—Its Ionian origin. —Early historians.—Acusilaus.—Cadmus.—Eugeon.—Hellanicus.—Pherecides.—Xanthus.—Overview of the life and writings of Herodotus.—Progress of philosophy since Thales.—Philosophers of the Ionian and Eleatic schools.—Pythagoras.—His philosophical beliefs and political influence.—Impact of these philosophers on Athens.—The school of political philosophy continued in Athens since the time of Solon.—Anaxagoras.—Archelaus.—Philosophy is not separate from the everyday life of the Athenians.
I. Before we pass to the administration of Pericles—a period so brilliant in the history not more of Athens than of art—it may not be unseasonable to take a brief survey of the progress which the Athenians had already made in civilization and power (B. C. 449).
I. Before we move on to the leadership of Pericles—a time that shines brightly not just in Athens' history but in the world of art—it’s a good idea to take a quick look at the advancements the Athenians had already achieved in civilization and power (B.C. 449).
The comedians and the rhetoricians, when at a later period they boldly represented to the democracy, in a mixture of satire and of truth, the more displeasing features of the popular character, delighted to draw a contrast between the new times and the old. The generation of men whom Marathon and Salamis had immortalized were, according to these praisers of the past, of nobler manners and more majestic virtues than their degenerate descendants. “Then,” exclaimed Isocrates, “our young men did not waste their days in the gambling-house, nor with music-girls, nor in the assemblies, in which whole days are now consumed then did they shun the Agora, or, if they passed through its haunts, it was with modest and timorous forbearance—then, to contradict an elder was a greater offence than nowadays to offend a parent—then, not even a servant of honest repute would have been seen to eat or drink within a tavern!” “In the good old times,” says the citizen of Aristophanes 210, “our youths breasted the snow without a mantle— their music was masculine and martial—their gymnastic exercises decorous and chaste. Thus were trained the heroes of Marathon!”
The comedians and the speakers, later on, boldly pointed out to the public, blending satire and truth, the less appealing aspects of the popular character. They loved to highlight the contrast between the new times and the old. According to these admirers of the past, the people celebrated by Marathon and Salamis were of finer character and more admirable virtues than their disappointing descendants. “Back then,” declared Isocrates, “our young men didn’t waste their time in gambling halls, or with entertainers, or in assemblies where entire days are now wasted. They avoided the Agora, or if they went there, it was with modesty and caution—back then, contradicting an elder was seen as a worse offense than offending a parent today—back then, not even a servant of good reputation would have been seen eating or drinking in a tavern!” “In the good old days,” says the citizen in Aristophanes 210, “our young men faced the snow without a coat—their music was strong and military—their athletic training was proper and virtuous. This is how the heroes of Marathon were shaped!”
In such happy days we are informed that mendicancy and even want were unknown. 211
In those happy days, we were told that begging and even poverty were unheard of. 211
It is scarcely necessary to observe, that we must accept these comparisons between one age and another with considerable caution and qualification. We are too much accustomed to such declamations in our own time not to recognise an ordinary trick of satirists and declaimers. As long as a people can bear patiently to hear their own errors and follies scornfully proclaimed, they have not become altogether degenerate or corrupt. Yet still, making every allowance for rhetorical or poetic exaggeration, it is not more evident than natural that the luxury of civilization—the fervour of unbridled competition, in pleasure as in toil—were attended with many changes of manners and life favourable to art and intellect, but hostile to the stern hardihood of a former age.
It’s hardly necessary to point out that we should approach comparisons between different eras with a lot of caution and nuance. We’re too used to hearing such speeches in our own time not to recognize a common tactic of satirists and orators. As long as people can patiently listen to their own mistakes and foolishness being criticized, they haven’t completely declined or become corrupt. Still, even considering any rhetorical or poetic exaggeration, it’s clear that the luxury of civilization—the intense competition in both pleasure and work—has brought about many changes in behavior and lifestyle that support art and intellect but are unfavorable to the tough resilience of earlier times.
II. But the change was commenced, not under a democracy, but under a tyranny—it was consummated, not by the vices, but the virtues of the nation. It began with the Pisistratidae 212, who first introduced into Athens the desire of pleasure and the habits of ostentation, that refine before they enervate; and that luxury which, as in Athenaeus it is well and profoundly said, is often the concomitant of freedom, “as soft couches took their name from Hercules”—made its rapid progress with the result of the Persian war. The plunder of Plataea, the luxuries of Byzantium, were not limited in their effect to the wild Pausanias. The decay of old and the rise of new families tended to give a stimulus to the emulation of wealth—since it is by wealth that new families seek to eclipse the old. And even the destruction of private houses, in the ravages of Mardonius, served to quicken the career of art. In rebuilding their mansions, the nobles naturally availed themselves of the treasures and the appliances of the gorgeous enemy they had vanquished and despoiled. Few ever rebuild their houses on as plain a scale as the old ones. In the city itself the residences of the great remained plain and simple; they were mostly built of plaster and unburnt brick, and we are told that the houses of Cimon and Pericles were scarcely distinguishable from those of the other citizens. But in their villas in Attica, in which the Athenians took a passionate delight, they exhibited their taste and displayed their wealth 213. And the lucrative victories of Cimon, backed by his own example of ostentation, gave to a vast number of families, hitherto obscure, at once the power to gratify luxury and the desire to parade refinement. Nor was the Eastern example more productive of emulation than the Ionian. The Persian war, and the league which followed it, brought Athens into the closest intercourse with her graceful but voluptuous colonies. Miletus fell, but the manners of Miletus survived her liberties. That city was renowned for the peculiar grace and intellectual influence of its women; and it is evident that there must have been a gradual change of domestic habits and the formation of a new class of female society in Athens before Aspasia could have summoned around her the power, and the wisdom, and the wit of Athens—before an accomplished mistress could have been even suspected of urging the politic Pericles into war—and, above all, before an Athenian audience could have assented in delight to that mighty innovation on their masculine drama—which is visible in the passionate heroines and the sentimental pathos of Euripides.
II. But the change started, not under a democracy, but under a tyranny—it was completed, not by the flaws, but the strengths of the nation. It began with the Pisistratidae 212, who first brought into Athens the desire for pleasure and the habits of showiness that refine before they weaken; and that luxury which, as Athenaeus wisely pointed out, often accompanies freedom, “as soft couches took their name from Hercules”—saw rapid growth following the Persian war. The plundering of Plataea and the luxuries of Byzantium didn’t just impact the reckless Pausanias. The decline of the old families and the rise of new ones fueled the competition for wealth—since new families strive to outshine the old through riches. Even the destruction of private homes during Mardonius's invasions spurred the advancement of art. When rebuilding their mansions, the nobles naturally took advantage of the treasures and resources of the lavish enemy they had defeated. Few ever rebuild their homes as modestly as the originals. In the city itself, the residences of the wealthy remained simple; most were made of plaster and unburned bricks, and we’re told that the houses of Cimon and Pericles were hardly different from those of the other citizens. But in their villas in Attica, which the Athenians cherished, they showcased their taste and exhibited their wealth 213. The successful victories of Cimon, along with his showy lifestyle, provided many previously unknown families the means to indulge in luxury and the desire to display sophistication. The Eastern influence was as inspiring for emulation as the Ionian. The Persian war and the alliance that followed brought Athens into close contact with her elegant yet indulgent colonies. Miletus fell, but its customs lived on even after its freedoms faded. That city was famous for the unique charm and intellectual influence of its women; it’s clear there must have been a gradual shift in domestic habits and the emergence of a new class of female society in Athens before Aspasia could gather around her the power, wisdom, and wit of Athens—before a skilled woman could even be suspected of pushing the political Pericles into war—and, most importantly, before an Athenian audience could have enthusiastically accepted that significant change in their male-dominated drama—which is evident in the passionate heroines and the emotional depth of Euripides.
But this change was probably not apparent in the Athenian matrons themselves, who remained for the most part in primitive seclusion; and though, I think, it will be shown hereafter that modern writers have greatly exaggerated both the want of mental culture and the degree of domestic confinement to which the Athenian women 214 were subjected, yet it is certain, at least, that they did not share the social freedom or partake the intellectual accomplishments of their lords. It was the new class of “Female Friends” or “Hetaerae,” a phrase ill translated by the name of “courtesans” (from whom they were indubitably but not to our notions very intelligibly, distinguished), that exhibited the rarest union of female blandishment and masculine culture. “The wife for our house and honour,” implies Demosthenes, “the Hetaera for our solace and delight.” These extraordinary women, all foreigners, and mostly Ionian, made the main phenomenon of Athenian society. They were the only women with whom an enlightened Greek could converse as equal to himself in education. While the law denied them civil rights, usage lavished upon them at once admiration and respect. By stealth, as it were, and in defiance of legislation, they introduced into the ambitious and restless circles of Athens many of the effects, pernicious or beneficial, which result from the influence of educated women upon the manners and pursuits of men. 215
But this change probably wasn’t noticeable to the Athenian women themselves, who mostly stayed in traditional seclusion. Although I believe it will be shown later that modern writers have greatly overstated both the lack of intellectual development and the extent of domestic confinement that Athenian women 214 experienced, it is certain that they did not enjoy the same social freedom or intellectual achievements as their husbands. It was the new class of “Female Friends” or “Hetaerae,” a term poorly translated as “courtesans” (from whom they were definitely, but not very clearly in our understanding, distinguished), that displayed the rarest combination of feminine charm and masculine education. “The wife for our home and honor,” suggests Demosthenes, “the Hetaera for our comfort and pleasure.” These remarkable women, all foreigners and mostly from Ionia, were the main feature of Athenian society. They were the only women with whom an educated Greek could engage as equals. While the law denied them civil rights, social customs showered them with admiration and respect. By operating discreetly and in defiance of the law, they brought to the ambitious and restless circles of Athens many of the effects, whether harmful or beneficial, that come from the influence of educated women on the behavior and interests of men. 215
III. The alteration of social habits was not then sudden and startling (such is never the case in the progress of national manners), but, commencing with the graces of a polished tyranny, ripened with the results of glorious but too profitable victories. Perhaps the time in which the state of transition was most favourably visible was just prior to the death of Cimon. It was not then so much the over-refinement of a new and feebler generation, as the polish and elegance which wealth, art, and emulation necessarily imparted to the same brave warriors who exchanged posts with the Spartans at Plataea, and sent out their children and old men to fight and conquer with Myronides.
III. The change in social habits wasn’t sudden and shocking (that’s never how national customs evolve), but it began with the elegance of a soft tyranny and developed with the outcomes of glorious but overly rewarding victories. The time when this transition was most clearly visible was just before Cimon's death. It wasn’t so much the excessive refinement of a new and weaker generation, but rather the polish and sophistication that wealth, art, and rivalry naturally gave to the same brave warriors who faced off against the Spartans at Plataea and sent their children and elderly to fight and win alongside Myronides.
IV. A rapid glance over the events of the few years commemorated in the last book of this history will suffice to show the eminence which Athens had attained over the other states of Greece. She was the head of the Ionian League—the mistress of the Grecian seas; with Sparta, the sole rival that could cope with her armies and arrest her ambition, she had obtained a peace; Corinth was humbled, Aegina ruined, Megara had shrunk into her dependency and garrison. The states of Boeotia had received their very constitution from the hands of an Athenian general—the democracies planted by Athens served to make liberty itself subservient to her will, and involved in her safety. She had remedied the sterility of her own soil by securing the rich pastures of the neighbouring Euboea. She had added the gold of Thasos to the silver of Laurion, and established a footing in Thessaly which was at once a fortress against the Asiatic arms and a mart for Asiatic commerce. The fairest lands of the opposite coast— the most powerful islands of the Grecian seas—contributed to her treasury, or were almost legally subjected to her revenge. Her navy was rapidly increasing in skill, in number, and renown; at home, the recall of Cimon had conciliated domestic contentions, and the death of Cimon dispirited for a while the foes to the established constitution. In all Greece, Myronides was perhaps the ablest general—Pericles (now rapidly rising to the sole administration of affairs 216) was undoubtedly the most highly educated, cautious, and commanding statesman.
IV. A quick look at the events of the last few years covered in the previous book of this history shows how prominent Athens had become compared to the other states in Greece. She was the leader of the Ionian League—the ruler of the Greek seas; with Sparta, her only rival capable of challenging her armies and ambitions, she secured peace. Corinth was defeated, Aegina was devastated, and Megara had become dependent on her and was garrisoned. The states of Boeotia got their constitution from an Athenian general—the democracies set up by Athens made freedom itself serve her interests and depend on her security. She improved her own barren land by taking control of the fertile pastures of nearby Euboea. She added the gold from Thasos to the silver from Laurion and established a presence in Thessaly that served as both a defense against Asian forces and a trading hub for Asian commerce. The best lands across the sea—the most powerful islands in the Greek seas—contributed to her treasury or were practically under her control. Her navy was quickly becoming more skilled, larger, and more renowned; at home, the return of Cimon had eased internal conflicts, and his death temporarily discouraged those opposing the established government. In all of Greece, Myronides was probably the most capable general—Pericles (who was quickly rising to complete control of affairs 216) was undoubtedly the most educated, cautious, and commanding statesman.
But a single act of successful daring had, more than all else, contributed to the Athenian power. Even in the lifetime of Aristides it had been proposed to transfer the common treasury from Delos to Athens 217. The motion failed—perhaps through the virtuous opposition of Aristides himself. But when at the siege of Ithome the feud between the Athenians and Spartans broke out, the fairest pretext and the most favourable occasion conspired in favour of a measure so seductive to the national ambition. Under pretence of saving the treasury from the hazard of falling a prey to the Spartan rapacity or need,—it was at once removed to Athens (B. C. 461 or 460) 218; and while the enfeebled power of Sparta, fully engrossed by the Messenian war, forbade all resistance to the transfer from that the most formidable quarter, the conquests of Naxos and the recent reduction of Thasos seem to have intimidated the spirit, and for a time even to have silenced the reproaches, of the tributary states themselves. Thus, in actual possession of the tribute of her allies, Athens acquired a new right to its collection and its management; and while she devoted some of the treasures to the maintenance of her strength, she began early to uphold the prerogative of appropriating a part to the enhancement of her splendour. 219
But one bold act of success had contributed more than anything else to Athenian power. Even during Aristides' lifetime, there was a proposal to move the common treasury from Delos to Athens 217. The proposal failed—possibly due to Aristides' principled opposition. However, when the conflict between the Athenians and Spartans intensified during the siege of Ithome, a perfect excuse and an opportune moment came together to support a measure that appealed to national ambition. Under the guise of protecting the treasury from the risk of being taken by Spartan greed or necessity, it was quickly moved to Athens (B.C. 461 or 460) 218; and since the weakened Spartan power was fully occupied with the Messenian war, there was no resistance to the transfer from the most formidable faction. The conquests of Naxos and the recent pacification of Thasos seemed to have intimidated the tributary states' spirits, even silencing their complaints for a time. Thus, with control over the tributes of her allies, Athens gained a new right to collect and manage them; and while she dedicated some of the resources to maintaining her strength, she also started to claim a portion for enhancing her grandeur. 219
As this most important measure occurred at the very period when the power of Cimon was weakened by the humiliating circumstances that attended his expedition to Ithome, and by the vigorous and popular measures of the opposition, so there seems every reason to believe that it was principally advised and effected by Pericles, who appears shortly afterward presiding over the administration of the finances. 220
As this crucial action took place during a time when Cimon's influence was diminished by the embarrassing events of his campaign at Ithome, along with the strong and popular actions taken by the opposition, there is good reason to think that it was mainly suggested and carried out by Pericles, who soon after took charge of managing the finances. 220
Though the Athenian commerce had greatly increased, it was still principally confined to the Thracian coasts and the Black Sea. The desire of enterprises, too vast for a state whose power reverses might suddenly destroy, was not yet indulged to excess; nor had the turbulent spirits of the Piraeus yet poured in upon the various barriers of the social state and the political constitution, the rashness of sailors and the avarice of merchants. Agriculture, to which all classes in Athens were addicted, raised a healthful counteraction to the impetus given to trade. Nor was it till some years afterward, when Pericles gathered all the citizens into the town, and left no safety-valve to the ferment and vices of the Agora, that the Athenian aristocracy gradually lost all patriotism and manhood, and an energetic democracy was corrupted into a vehement though educated mob. The spirit of faction, it is true, ran high, but a third party, headed by Myronides and Tolmides, checked the excesses of either extreme.
Even though Athenian trade had grown significantly, it was still mainly limited to the Thracian coasts and the Black Sea. The ambition for ventures that were too large for a city-state, whose power could quickly be undone, hadn’t yet been excessively pursued; nor had the restless individuals of Piraeus managed to disrupt the various structures of society and the political system, with the recklessness of sailors and the greed of merchants. Agriculture, which everyone in Athens was fond of, provided a healthy counterbalance to the surge in trade. It wasn't until several years later, when Pericles gathered all the citizens into the city and removed any outlet for the unrest and vices of the Agora, that the Athenian aristocracy gradually lost all sense of patriotism and courage, and a once dynamic democracy turned into a passionate but misled mob. It’s true that factionalism was intense, but a third faction, led by Myronides and Tolmides, managed to curb the extremes of either side.
V. Thus, at home and abroad, time and fortune, the concurrence of events, and the happy accident of great men, not only maintained the present eminence of Athens, but promised, to ordinary foresight, a long duration of her glory and her power. To deeper observers, the picture might have presented dim but prophetic shadows. It was clear that the command Athens had obtained was utterly disproportioned to her natural resources—that her greatness was altogether artificial, and rested partly upon moral rather than physical causes, and partly upon the fears and the weakness of her neighbours. A steril soil, a limited territory, a scanty population—all these—the drawbacks and disadvantages of nature—the wonderful energy and confident daring of a free state might conceal in prosperity; but the first calamity could not fail to expose them to jealous and hostile eyes. The empire delegated to the Athenians they must naturally desire to retain and to increase; and there was every reason to forbode that their ambition would soon exceed their capacities to sustain it. As the state became accustomed to its power, it would learn to abuse it. Increasing civilization, luxury, and art, brought with them new expenses, and Athens had already been permitted to indulge with impunity the dangerous passion of exacting tribute from her neighbours. Dependance upon other resources than those of the native population has ever been a main cause of the destruction of despotisms, and it cannot fail, sooner or later, to be equally pernicious to the republics that trust to it. The resources of taxation, confined to freemen and natives, are almost incalculable; the resources of tribute, wrung from foreigners and dependants, are sternly limited and terribly precarious—they rot away the true spirit of industry in the people that demand the impost—they implant ineradicable hatred in the states that concede it.
V. So, both at home and abroad, time and chance, the convergence of events, and the fortunate rise of influential individuals not only upheld Athens' current prominence but also suggested, to those with ordinary foresight, a long-lasting period of her glory and power. To more insightful observers, the scene might have revealed faint but prophetic signs. It was evident that the authority Athens had gained was completely disproportionate to her natural resources—that her greatness was entirely artificial, relying partly on moral rather than physical factors, and partly on the fears and weaknesses of her neighbors. A poor soil, limited territory, and a sparse population—all these disadvantages of nature—the remarkable energy and bold risk-taking of a free state might hide in times of prosperity; but the first disaster would inevitably expose them to envious and adversarial scrutiny. The empire entrusted to the Athenians was something they would naturally want to keep and expand; and there were plenty of reasons to worry that their ambitions would soon outstrip their ability to maintain it. As the state grew accustomed to its power, it would start to misuse it. Rising civilization, luxury, and art brought new expenses, and Athens had already been allowed to indulge in the dangerous practice of demanding tribute from her neighbors without consequence. Relying on resources other than those of the native population has always been a leading cause of the downfall of tyrannies, and it will inevitably become equally harmful to republics that depend on it. The resources from taxation, limited to free citizens and natives, are nearly limitless; the resources from tribute, extracted from foreigners and dependents, are strictly limited and extremely unstable—they undermine the true spirit of productivity in the people that impose the tax—they create deep-seated hatred in the states that concede to it.
VI. Two other causes of great deterioration to the national spirit were also at work in Athens. One, as I have before hinted, was the policy commenced by Cimon, of winning the populace by the bribes and exhibitions of individual wealth. The wise Pisistratus had invented penalties—Cimon offered encouragement—to idleness. When the poor are once accustomed to believe they have a right to the generosity of the rich, the first deadly inroad is made upon the energies of independence and the sanctity of property. A yet more pernicious evil in the social state of the Athenians was radical in their constitution—it was their courts of justice. Proceeding upon a theory that must have seemed specious and plausible to an inexperienced and infant republic, Solon had laid it down as a principle of his code, that as all men were interested in the preservation of law, so all men might exert the privilege of the plaintiff and accuser. As society grew more complicated, the door was thus opened to every species of vexatious charge and frivolous litigation. The common informer became a most harassing and powerful personage, and made one of a fruitful and crowded profession; and in the very capital of liberty there existed the worst species of espionage. But justice was not thereby facilitated. The informer was regarded with universal hatred and contempt; and it is easy to perceive, from the writings of the great comic poet, that the sympathies of the Athenian audience were as those of the English public at this day, enlisted against the man who brought the inquisition of the law to the hearth of his neighbour.
VI. Two additional factors severely weakened the national spirit in Athens. One, as I mentioned earlier, was the strategy initiated by Cimon to win over the public through handouts and displays of personal wealth. The wise Pisistratus had implemented penalties for laziness—Cimon offered incentives instead. Once the poor start to believe they deserve the generosity of the wealthy, the first fatal blow is dealt to their independence and the security of property. An even more harmful issue in Athenian society was rooted in their legal system—it was their courts. Following a theory that must have seemed reasonable and convincing to a young and inexperienced republic, Solon established in his legal code that since everyone had a stake in upholding the law, everyone should have the right to be a plaintiff and an accuser. As society became more complex, this opened the floodgates to all kinds of vexatious claims and trivial lawsuits. The common informer became a major nuisance and wielded considerable power, thriving in a crowded profession; even in the heart of liberty, the worst form of spying flourished. However, this did not make justice easier to achieve. The informer was met with widespread disdain and contempt; and it's clear from the writings of the great comic poet that the sympathies of the Athenian audience were similar to those of the English public today, standing against the person who brought legal scrutiny into the lives of their neighbors.
VII. Solon committed a yet more fatal and incurable error when he carried the democratic principle into judicial tribunals. He evidently considered that the very strength and life of his constitution rested in the Heliaea—a court the numbers and nature of which have been already described. Perhaps, at a time when the old oligarchy was yet so formidable, it might have been difficult to secure justice to the poorer classes while the judges were selected from the wealthier. But justice to all classes became a yet more capricious uncertainty when a court of law resembled a popular hustings. 221
VII. Solon made an even more serious and irreparable mistake when he introduced the democratic principle into the judicial system. He clearly believed that the strength and integrity of his constitution depended on the Heliaea—a court whose size and nature have already been outlined. Back when the old oligarchy was still so powerful, it might have been hard to ensure justice for the poorer classes if the judges were chosen from the wealthier segment of society. However, achieving justice for everyone became even more unpredictable when a court looked like a public election gathering. 221
If we intrust a wide political suffrage to the people, the people at least hold no trust for others than themselves and their posterity— they are not responsible to the public, for they are the public. But in law, where there are two parties concerned, the plaintiff and defendant, the judge should not only be incorruptible, but strictly responsible. In Athens the people became the judge; and, in offences punishable by fine, were the very party interested in procuring condemnation; the numbers of the jury prevented all responsibility, excused all abuses, and made them susceptible of the same shameless excesses that characterize self-elected corporations—from which appeal is idle, and over which public opinion exercises no control. These numerous, ignorant, and passionate assemblies were liable at all times to the heats of party, to the eloquence of individuals—to the whims and caprices, the prejudices, the impatience, and the turbulence which must ever be the characteristics of a multitude orally addressed. It was evident, also, that from service in such a court, the wealthy, the eminent, and the learned, with other occupation or amusement, would soon seek to absent themselves. And the final blow to the integrity and respectability of the popular judicature was given at a later period by Pericles, when he instituted a salary, just sufficient to tempt the poor and to be disdained by the affluent, to every dicast or juryman in the ten ordinary courts 222. Legal science became not the profession of the erudite and the laborious few, but the livelihood of the ignorant and idle multitude. The canvassing—the cajoling—the bribery—that resulted from this, the most vicious institution of the Athenian democracy—are but too evident and melancholy tokens of the imperfection of human wisdom. Life, property, and character were at the hazard of a popular election. These evils must have been long in progressive operation; but perhaps they were scarcely visible till the fatal innovation of Pericles, and the flagrant excesses that ensued allowed the people themselves to listen to the branding and terrible satire upon the popular judicature, which is still preserved to us in the comedy of Aristophanes.
If we give a broad political vote to the people, they have trust only in themselves and their future generations—they aren't accountable to anyone else because they are the public. However, in law, where there are two sides involved, the plaintiff and the defendant, the judge must not only be incorruptible but also fully accountable. In Athens, the people acted as the judge; and for offenses that were punishable by fines, they had a direct interest in securing convictions. The large number of jurors removed all sense of responsibility, excused all abuses, and made them prone to the same blatant excesses typical of self-appointed groups, which cannot be effectively challenged and are beyond public oversight. These numerous, uninformed, and emotionally charged assemblies were always subject to party passions, individual charisma, the whims and biases, the impatience, and the chaos that come with a crowd listening to speeches. It was also clear that the wealthy, the influential, and the educated, with other interests or leisure activities, would quickly look to avoid serving in such a court. The ultimate blow to the integrity and respectability of the people's judiciary was dealt later by Pericles, who introduced a salary just enough to attract the poor while being looked down upon by the rich for every juror in the ten standard courts 222. Legal expertise ceased to be the domain of the knowledgeable and hardworking few and instead became the means of survival for the ignorant and idle masses. The campaigning, the flattery, and the bribery that resulted from this truly corrupt aspect of Athenian democracy are clear and disappointing reminders of human folly. Lives, property, and reputations hung in the balance of a popular vote. These issues must have been developing for a long time; however, they likely became more evident only after Pericles' disastrous innovation, and the blatant abuses that followed allowed the people themselves to hear the scathing and scornful critiques of the popular judiciary preserved in the comedies of Aristophanes.
At the same time, certain critics and historians have widely and grossly erred in supposing that these courts of “the sovereign multitude” were partial to the poor and hostile to the rich. All testimony proves that the fact was lamentably the reverse. The defendant was accustomed to engage the persons of rank or influence whom he might number as his friends, to appear in court on his behalf. And property was employed to procure at the bar of justice the suffrages it could command at a political election. The greatest vice of the democratic Heliaea was, that by a fine the wealthy could purchase pardon—by interest the great could soften law. But the chances were against the poor man. To him litigation was indeed cheap, but justice dear. He had much the same inequality to struggle against in a suit with a powerful antagonist, that he would have had in contesting with him for an office in the administration. In all trials resting on the voice of popular assemblies, it ever has been and ever will be found, that, caeteris paribus, the aristocrat will defeat the plebeian.
At the same time, some critics and historians have made serious errors by thinking that these courts of “the sovereign multitude” were biased in favor of the poor and against the rich. All evidence shows that the reality was sadly the opposite. The defendant would usually enlist influential friends to appear in court on his behalf. And wealth was used to secure favorable votes in justice just as it did in political elections. The biggest issue with the democratic Heliaea was that wealthy individuals could buy forgiveness through fines—by connections, the powerful could bend the law. But the odds were stacked against the poor. For them, litigation was indeed affordable, but justice was expensive. They faced a similar disadvantage in a lawsuit against a strong opponent as they would in competing for a position in the administration. In all trials that rely on the votes of popular assemblies, it has always been and will always be observed that, all else being equal, the aristocrat will triumph over the commoner.
VIII. Meanwhile the progress of general education had been great and remarkable. Music 223, from the earliest time, was an essential part of instruction; and it had now become so common an acquirement, that Aristotle 224 observes, that at the close of the Persian war there was scarcely a single freeborn Athenian unacquainted with the flute. The use of this instrument was afterward discontinued, and indeed proscribed in the education of freemen, from the notion that it was not an instrument capable of music sufficiently elevated and intellectual 225; yet it was only succeeded by melodies more effeminate and luxurious. And Aristophanes enumerates the change from the old national airs and measures among the worst symptoms of Athenian degeneracy. Besides the musician, the tutor of the gymnasium and the grammarian still made the nominal limit of scholastic instruction. 226 But life itself had now become a school. The passion for public intercourse and disputation, which the gardens and the Agora, and exciting events, and free institutions, and the rise of philosophy, and a serene and lovely climate, made the prevalent characteristic of the matured Athenian, began to stir within the young. And in the mean while the tardy invention of prose literature worked its natural revolution in intellectual pursuits.
VIII. In the meantime, the advancement of general education was significant and impressive. Music 223, right from the start, was a vital part of learning; and it had become so widely practiced that Aristotle 224 notes that at the end of the Persian War, there was hardly a freeborn Athenian who didn't know how to play the flute. The use of this instrument eventually faded out and was actually banned in the education of free citizens because it was thought not to produce music that was elevated and intellectual enough 225; however, it was only replaced by tunes that were more delicate and extravagant. Aristophanes points out that the shift away from traditional national songs was one of the worst signs of Athenian decline. Besides the musician, the gymnasium tutor and the grammarian still defined the formal boundaries of education. 226 But life had become a school in itself. The desire for public interaction and debate, fueled by the gardens, the Agora, exciting events, free institutions, the emergence of philosophy, and a pleasant climate, became a prevailing trait of the mature Athenian, starting to ignite within the youth. Meanwhile, the slow emergence of prose literature was bringing about a natural change in intellectual activities.
IX. It has been before observed, that in Greece, as elsewhere, the first successor of the poet was the philosopher, and that the oral lecturer preceded the prose writer. With written prose HISTORY commenced. Having found a mode of transmitting that species of knowledge which could not, like rhythmical tales or sententious problems, be accurately preserved by the memory alone, it was natural that a present age should desire to record and transmit the past— chtaema es aei—an everlasting heirloom to the future.
IX. It has been noted before that in Greece, just like in other places, the initial successor of the poet was the philosopher, and that the oral speaker came before the prose writer. Written prose marked the beginning of HISTORY. Once they figured out how to share that kind of knowledge which couldn't be accurately kept in mind like rhythmic stories or pithy sayings, it made sense that the current generation wanted to document and pass on the past— chtaema es aei—an everlasting gift to the future.
To a semi-barbarous nation history is little more than poetry. The subjects to which it would be naturally devoted are the legends of religion—the deeds of ancestral demigods—the triumphs of successful war. In recording these themes of national interest, the poet is the first historian. As philosophy—or rather the spirit of conjecture, which is the primitive and creative breath of philosophy—becomes prevalent, the old credulity directs the new research to the investigation of subjects which the poets have not sufficiently explained, but which, from their remote and religious antiquity, are mysteriously attractive to a reverent and inquisitive population, with whom long descent is yet the most flattering proof of superiority. Thus genealogies, and accounts of the origin of states and deities, made the first subjects of history, and inspired the Argive Acusilaus 227, and, as far as we can plausibly conjecture, the Milesian Cadmus.
For a somewhat uncivilized nation, history feels more like poetry. The topics it naturally focuses on are the myths of religion—the heroic acts of legendary ancestors—the victories in battle. In telling these stories of national importance, the poet becomes the first historian. As philosophy—or more accurately, the spirit of speculation, which is the early, creative essence of philosophy—gains traction, the old beliefs push new inquiries into areas that poets haven't fully explored, yet which, due to their ancient and sacred origins, are intriguing to a respectful and curious population, where a long lineage is still seen as the best proof of superiority. This is how genealogies and stories about the beginnings of states and gods became the earliest subjects of history, inspiring figures like the Argive Acusilaus 227 and, as far as we can reasonably guess, the Milesian Cadmus.
X. The Dorians—a people who never desired to disturb tradition, unwilling carefully to investigate, precisely because they superstitiously venerated, the past, little inquisitive as to the manners or the chronicles of alien tribes, satisfied, in a word, with themselves, and incurious as to others—were not a race to whom history became a want. Ionia—the subtle, the innovating, the anxious, and the restless—nurse of the arts, which the mother country ultimately reared, boasts in Cadmus the Milesian the first writer of history and of prose 228; Samos, the birthplace of Pythagoras, produced Eugeon, placed by Dionysius at the head of the early historians; and Mitylene claimed Hellanicus, who seems to have formed a more ambitious design than his predecessors. He wrote a history of the ancient kings of the earth, and an account of the founders of the most celebrated cities in each kingdom 229. During the early and crude attempts of these and other writers, stern events contributed to rear from tedious research and fruitless conjecture the true genius of history; for it is as a people begin to struggle for rights, to comprehend political relations, to contend with neighbours abroad, and to wrestle with obnoxious institutions at home, that they desire to secure the sanction of antiquity, to trace back to some illustrious origin the rights they demand, and to stimulate hourly exertions by a reference to departed fame. Then do mythologies, and genealogies, and geographical definitions, and the traditions that concern kings and heroes, ripen into chronicles that commemorate the convulsions or the progress of a nation.
X. The Dorians—a group of people who never wanted to disrupt tradition, unwilling to investigate too deeply because they superstitiously revered the past, were not very curious about the customs or histories of other tribes. They were content with themselves and showed little interest in others—they weren’t a race that felt the need for history. Ionia—the clever, innovative, anxious, and restless region, which was the birthplace of the arts that the motherland ultimately nurtured—proudly claims Cadmus the Milesian as the first historian and prose writer 228; Samos, the birthplace of Pythagoras, produced Eugeon, recognized by Dionysius as the leading early historian; and Mitylene boasted Hellanicus, who seemed to have a more ambitious vision than his predecessors. He wrote a history of the ancient kings of the earth along with an account of the founders of the most renowned cities in each kingdom 229. During the early and rough attempts of these and other writers, significant events helped shape the true essence of history from tedious research and fruitless speculation; as people began to fight for their rights, understand political relationships, contend with foreign neighbors, and confront troublesome institutions at home, they sought to validate their demands by connecting to a glorious past, tracing their rights back to some prominent origin, and invigorating their efforts with references to past glory. This is when mythologies, genealogies, geographical definitions, and traditions surrounding kings and heroes evolved into chronicles that document the upheavals or progress of a nation.
During the stormy period which saw the invasion of Xerxes (B. C. 480), when everything that could shed lustre upon the past incited to present struggles, flourished Pherecydes. He is sometimes called of Leria, which seems his birthplace—sometimes of Athens, where he resided thirty years, and to which state his history refers. Although his work was principally mythological, it opened the way to sound historical composition, inasmuch as it included references to later times—to existent struggles—the descent of Miltiades—the Scythian expedition of Darius. Subsequently, Xanthus, a Lydian, composed a work on his own country (B. C. 463), of which some extracts remain, and from which Herodotus did not disdain to borrow.
During the turbulent time of Xerxes's invasion (B.C. 480), when everything that could highlight the past stirred up present conflicts, Pherecydes thrived. He’s sometimes referred to as being from Leria, which seems to be his birthplace; other times he’s described as from Athens, where he lived for thirty years and where his history is focused. Though his work was mainly mythological, it paved the way for solid historical writing because it included references to later events—the struggles that were happening at the time, the story of Miltiades, and Darius's expedition against the Scythians. Later, Xanthus, a Lydian, wrote about his own country (B.C. 463), and some excerpts of that remain, from which Herodotus didn't hesitate to borrow.
XI. It was nearly a century after the invention of prose and of historical composition, and with the guides and examples of, many writers not uncelebrated in their day before his emulation, that Herodotus first made known to the Grecian public, and, according to all probable evidence, at the Olympic Games, a portion of that work which drew forth the tears of Thucydides, and furnishes the imperishable model of picturesque and faithful narrative. This happened in a brilliant period of Athenian history; it was in the same year as the battle of Oenophyta, when Athens gave laws and constitutions to Boeotia, and the recall of Cimon established for herself both liberty and order. The youth of Herodotus was passed while the glory of the Persian war yet lingered over Greece, and while with the ascendency of Athens commenced a new era of civilization. His genius drew the vital breath from an atmosphere of poetry. The desire of wild adventure still existed, and the romantic expedition of the Athenians into Egypt had served to strengthen the connexion between the Greeks and that imposing and interesting land. The rise of the Greek drama with Aeschylus probably contributed to give effect, colour, and vigour to the style of Herodotus. And something almost of the art of the contemporaneous Sophocles may be traced in the easy skill of his narratives, and the magic yet tranquil energy of his descriptions.
XI. It was almost a hundred years after prose and historical writing were invented, with many well-known authors serving as guides and examples for him to emulate, that Herodotus first presented a part of his work to the Greek public, likely at the Olympic Games. This work moved Thucydides to tears and serves as an enduring model of vivid and accurate storytelling. This occurred during a vibrant period in Athenian history, the same year as the battle of Oenophyta, when Athens provided laws and constitutions to Boeotia, and the return of Cimon established liberty and order for the city. Herodotus's youth was spent in the shadow of the Persian War's glory, as the rise of Athens marked the beginning of a new era of civilization. His genius thrived in a poetic atmosphere. The longing for adventure was still alive, and the Athenians' romantic expedition to Egypt had strengthened the connection between the Greeks and that fascinating land. The emergence of Greek drama with Aeschylus likely added effect, color, and vigor to Herodotus's style. We can see traces of the artistry of contemporary Sophocles in the fluid skill of his narratives and the captivating yet calm energy of his descriptions.
XII. Though Dorian by ancient descent, it was at Halicarnassus, in Caria, a city of Asia Minor, that Herodotus was born; nor does his style, nor do his views, indicate that he derived from the origin of his family any of the Dorian peculiarities. His parents were distinguished alike by birth and fortune. Early in life those internal commotions, to which all the Grecian towns were subjected, and which crushed for a time the liberties of his native city, drove him from Halicarnassus: and, suffering from tyranny, he became inspired by that enthusiasm for freedom which burns throughout his immortal work. During his exile he travelled through Greece, Thrace, and Macedonia—through Scythia, Asia, and Egypt. Thus he collected the materials of his work, which is, in fact, a book of travels narrated historically. If we do not reject the story that he read a portion of his work at the Olympian Games, when Thucydides, one of his listeners, was yet a boy, and if we suppose the latter to have been about fifteen, this anecdote is calculated 230 to bear the date of Olym. 81, B. C. 456, when Herodotus was twenty-eight.
XII. Although Dorian by heritage, Dorian was born in Halicarnassus, in Caria, a city in Asia Minor. His writing style and viewpoints don’t suggest he inherited any of the Dorian traits from his family background. His parents were both well-born and wealthy. Early in his life, the internal struggles that affected all Greek towns, which temporarily took away the freedoms of his hometown, forced him to leave Halicarnassus. Experiencing tyranny inspired him with a passion for freedom that shines through in his timeless work. While in exile, he traveled through Greece, Thrace, and Macedonia—through Scythia, Asia, and Egypt. This is how he gathered the material for his work, which is essentially a historical travelogue. If we accept the story that he read part of his work at the Olympic Games, when Thucydides, one of his listeners, was still a boy, and if we assume Thucydides was about fifteen, this story would date back to Olym. 81, B.C. 456, when Herodotus was twenty-eight.
The chief residence of Herodotus was at Samos, until a revolution broke out in Halicarnassus. The people conspired against their tyrant Lygdamis. Herodotus repaired to his native city, took a prominent part in the conspiracy, and finally succeeded in restoring the popular government. He was not, however, long left to enjoy the liberties he had assisted to acquire for his fellow-citizens: some intrigue of the counter-party drove him a second time into exile. Repairing to Athens, he read the continuation of his history at the festival of the Panathenaea (B. C. 446). It was received with the most rapturous applause; and we are told that the people solemnly conferred upon the man who had immortalized their achievements against the Mede the gift of ten talents. The disposition of this remarkable man, like that of all travellers, inclined to enterprise and adventure. His early wanderings, his later vicissitudes, seem to have confirmed a temperament originally restless and inquisitive. Accordingly, in his forty-first year, he joined the Athenian emigrators that in the south of Italy established a colony at Thurium (B. C. 443).
The main home of Herodotus was in Samos until a revolution broke out in Halicarnassus. The people plotted against their tyrant Lygdamis. Herodotus returned to his hometown, played a key role in the conspiracy, and eventually succeeded in restoring the popular government. However, he didn’t get to enjoy the freedoms he helped recover for his fellow citizens for long: some scheme from the opposing side drove him into exile again. He went to Athens and read the continuation of his history at the Panathenaea festival (B.C. 446). It was met with incredible applause, and it’s said that the people formally awarded the man who had immortalized their victories against the Mede a gift of ten talents. The character of this remarkable man, like that of all travelers, was inclined toward adventure and exploration. His early travels and later challenges seemed to reinforce a naturally restless and curious temperament. So, at the age of forty-one, he joined the Athenian emigrants who established a colony in Thurium in southern Italy (B.C. 443).
VIII. At Thurium Herodotus apparently passed the remainder of his life, though whether his tomb was built there or in Athens is a matter of dispute. These particulars of his life, not uninteresting in themselves, tend greatly to illustrate the character of his writings. Their charm consists in the earnestness of a man who describes countries as an eyewitness, and events as one accustomed to participate in them. The life, the raciness, the vigour of an adventurer and a wanderer glow in every page. He has none of the refining disquisitions that are born of the closet. He paints history rather than descants on it; he throws the colourings of a mind, unconsciously poetic, over all he describes. Now a soldier—now a priest—now a patriot—he is always a poet, if rarely a philosopher. He narrates like a witness, unlike Thucydides, who sums up like a judge. No writer ever made so beautiful an application of superstitions to truths. His very credulities have a philosophy of their own; and modern historians have acted unwisely in disdaining the occasional repetition even of his fables. For if his truths record the events, his fables paint the manners and the opinions of the time; and the last fill up the history, of which events are only the skeleton.
VIII. Herodotus seems to have spent the rest of his life in Thurium, though there's some debate about whether his tomb was built there or in Athens. These details of his life, while not uninteresting on their own, really help to highlight the nature of his writings. His charm comes from the sincerity of a man who describes places as someone who’s actually seen them, and events as one who’s used to being part of them. The life, the vibrancy, the energy of an adventurer and a wanderer shines through every page. He doesn’t have the polished analyses that come from isolation. He depicts history instead of just discussing it; he infuses his descriptions with a naturally poetic touch. One moment he's a soldier—then a priest—then a patriot—yet he’s always a poet, even if he’s rarely a philosopher. He tells stories like a witness, unlike Thucydides, who summarizes like a judge. No writer has ever applied superstitions to truths so beautifully. His own beliefs have their own philosophy; and modern historians have been shortsighted in dismissing even his fables occasionally. Because while his truths capture events, his fables illustrate the customs and opinions of the time, and those nuances complete the history, of which events are just the framework.
To account for his frequent use of dialogue and his dramatic effects of narrative, we must remember the tribunal to which the work of Herodotus was subjected. Every author, unconsciously to himself, consults the tastes of those he addresses. No small coterie of scholars, no scrupulous and critical inquirers, made the ordeal Herodotus underwent. His chronicles were not dissertations to be coldly pondered over and skeptically conned: they were read aloud at solemn festivals to listening thousands; they were to arrest the curiosity—to amuse the impatience—to stir the wonder of a lively and motley crowd. Thus the historian imbibed naturally the spirit of the taleteller. And he was driven to embellish his history with the romantic legend—the awful superstition—the gossip anecdote—which yet characterize the stories of the popular and oral fictionist, in the bazars of the Mussulman, or on the seasands of Sicily. Still it has been rightly said that a judicious reader is not easily led astray by Herodotus in important particulars. His descriptions of localities, of manners and customs, are singularly correct; and modern travellers can yet trace the vestiges of his fidelity. As the historian, therefore, was in some measure an orator, so his skill was to be manifest in the arts which keep alive the attention of an audience. Hence Herodotus continually aims at the picturesque; he gives us the very words of his actors, and narrates the secrets of impenetrable palaces with as much simplicity and earnestness as if he had been placed behind the arras. 231
To understand his frequent use of dialogue and the dramatic effects in his narrative, we need to remember the audience that Herodotus was writing for. Every author, often without realizing it, takes into account the preferences of their readers. Herodotus didn’t face the scrutiny of a small group of scholars or critical examiners. His chronicles weren't meant to be analyzed in a detached way; they were read aloud at significant festivals to thousands of listeners. They needed to captivate curiosity, entertain impatience, and spark the wonder of a diverse crowd. This environment naturally influenced the historian to embrace the style of a storyteller. He felt compelled to enrich his history with romantic legends, intense superstitions, and entertaining anecdotes, which are still characteristic of popular oral storytelling found in bustling markets or on Sicilian beaches. Still, it's been rightly noted that a careful reader isn't easily misled by Herodotus regarding major details. His descriptions of places, customs, and manners are remarkably accurate; modern travelers can still see traces of his truthfulness. Because the historian was somewhat of an orator, his talent showed in the techniques that keep an audience engaged. Therefore, Herodotus often aims for vivid imagery; he shares the exact words of his characters and narrates the secrets of hidden palaces with as much clarity and sincerity as if he were behind the curtains. 231
That it was impossible for the wandering Halicarnassian to know what Gyges said to Candaules, or Artabanus to Xerxes, has, perhaps, been too confidently asserted. Heeren reminds us, that both by Jewish and Grecian writers there is frequent mention of the scribes or secretaries who constantly attended the person of the Persian monarch —on occasion of festivals 232, of public reviews 233, and even in the tumult of battle; and, with the idolatrous respect in which despotism was held, noted down the words that fell from the royal lip. The ingenious German then proceeds to show that this custom was common to all the Asiatic nations. Thus were formed the chronicles or archives of the Persians; and by reference to these minute and detailed documents, Herodotus was enabled to record conversations and anecdotes, and preserve to us the memoirs of a court. And though this conjecture must be received with caution, and, to many passages unconnected with Persia or the East, cannot be applied, it is sufficiently plausible, in some very important parts of the history, not to be altogether dismissed with contempt.
That it was impossible for the wandering Halicarnassian to know what Gyges said to Candaules or what Artabanus said to Xerxes has probably been stated too confidently. Heeren reminds us that both Jewish and Greek writers frequently mention the scribes or secretaries who always accompanied the Persian king — during festivals 232, public reviews 233, and even amidst the chaos of battle; and, with the kind of idolatrous respect reserved for despots, they noted down the words that came from the king's mouth. The clever German then goes on to show that this practice was common among all the Asian nations. This is how the chronicles or archives of the Persians were created; and by referring to these detailed documents, Herodotus was able to record conversations and stories, preserving for us the memoirs of a royal court. And although this theory should be taken with caution and may not apply to many passages unrelated to Persia or the East, it is plausible enough in some significant parts of history not to be entirely dismissed.
But it is for another reason that I have occasionally admitted the dialogues of Herodotus, as well as the superstitious anecdotes current at the day. The truth of history consists not only in the relation of events, but in preserving the character of the people, and depicting the manners of the time. Facts, if too nakedly told, may be very different from truths, in the impression they convey; and the spirit of Grecian history is lost if we do not feel the Greeks themselves constantly before us. Thus when, as in Herodotus, the agents of events converse, every word reported may not have been spoken; but what we lose in accuracy of details we more than gain by the fidelity of the whole. We acquire a lively and accurate impression of the general character—of the thoughts, and the manners, and the men of the age and the land. It is so also with legends, sparingly used, and of which the nature is discernible from fact by the most superficial gaze; we more sensibly feel that it was the Greeks who were engaged at Marathon when we read of the dream of Hippias or the apparition of Theseus. Finally, an historian of Greece will, almost without an effort, convey to the reader a sense of the mighty change, from an age of poetical heroes to an age of practical statesmen, if we suffer Herodotus to be his model in the narrative of the Persian war, and allow the more profound and less imaginative Thucydides to colour the pictures of the Peloponnesian.
But there's another reason I've sometimes included the dialogues of Herodotus, along with the superstitious stories popular at the time. The truth of history isn't just about recounting events; it's also about capturing the character of the people and portraying the customs of the era. Facts, if stated too bluntly, can convey a very different impression from truths; and we lose the essence of Greek history if we don't have a constant sense of the Greeks themselves. So, when, as in Herodotus, the participants in events are depicted conversing, not every word reported may have been actually spoken; but what we sacrifice in detailed accuracy, we more than gain in overall fidelity. We get a vivid and precise sense of the general character—the thoughts, the customs, and the people of that time and place. The same applies to legends, used sparingly, and which even the most casual observer can distinguish from fact; we can more powerfully feel that it was the Greeks at Marathon when we read about Hippias’s dream or Theseus's apparition. Finally, a historian of Greece will almost effortlessly give readers a sense of the significant transformation, from a time of poetic heroes to a time of practical statesmen, if we let Herodotus inspire the narrative of the Persian War and allow the deeper, less imaginative Thucydides to shape the accounts of the Peloponnesian War.
XIV. The period now entered upon is also remarkable for the fertile and rapid development of one branch of intellectual cultivation in which the Greeks were pre-eminently illustrious. In history, Rome was the rival of Greece; in philosophy, Rome was never more than her credulous and reverend scholar.
XIV. The period we've now entered is also notable for the fruitful and quick growth of one area of intellectual development where the Greeks truly excelled. In history, Rome was a competitor to Greece; in philosophy, Rome was always just her trusting and respectful student.
We have seen the dawn of philosophy with Thales; Miletus, his birthplace, bore his immediate successors. Anaximander, his younger contemporary 234, is said, with Pherecydes, to have been the first philosopher who availed himself of the invention of writing. His services have not been sufficiently appreciated—like those of most men who form the first steps in the progress between the originator and the perfector. He seems boldly to have differed from his master, Thales, in the very root of his system. He rejected the original element of water or humidity, and supposed the great primary essence and origin of creation to be in that EVERYTHING or NOTHING which he called THE INFINITE, and which we might perhaps render as “The Chaos;” 235 that of this vast element, the parts are changed—the whole immutable, and all things arise from and return unto that universal source 236. He pursued his researches into physics, and attempted to account for the thunder, the lightning, and the winds. His conjectures are usually shrewd and keen; and sometimes, as in his assertion, “that the moon shone in light borrowed from the sun,” may deserve a higher praise. Both Anaximander and Pherecydes concurred in the principles of their doctrines, but the latter seems to have more distinctly asserted the immortality of the soul. 237
We saw the beginning of philosophy with Thales; Miletus, where he was born, had his immediate successors. Anaximander, his younger contemporary 234, is said, along with Pherecydes, to be the first philosopher who took advantage of writing. His contributions haven't been appreciated enough—like those of most people who are the first steps in the journey between the originator and the perfectionist. He seems to have boldly differed from his teacher, Thales, at the very core of his system. He rejected the original element of water or moisture and believed that the great primary essence and source of creation was in what he called THE INFINITE, which we might refer to as “The Chaos;” 235 in this vast element, the parts change—the whole remains constant, and everything arises from and returns to that universal source 236. He explored physics and tried to explain thunder, lightning, and the winds. His ideas are usually insightful and sharp; and sometimes, as in his claim that “the moon shines with light borrowed from the sun,” they may deserve even more recognition. Both Anaximander and Pherecydes agreed on the principles of their doctrines, but the latter seems to have more clearly stated the immortality of the soul. 237
Anaximenes, also of Miletus, was the friend and follower of Anaximander (B. C. 548). He seems, however, to have deserted the abstract philosophical dogmas of his tutor, and to have resumed the analogical system commenced by Thales—like that philosopher, he founded axioms upon observations, bold and acute, but partial and contracted. He maintained that air was the primitive element. In this theory he united the Zeus, or ether, of Pherecydes, and the Infinite of Anaximander, for he held the air to be God in itself, and infinite in its nature.
Anaximenes, also from Miletus, was a friend and follower of Anaximander (B.C. 548). However, he seemed to move away from the abstract philosophical ideas of his teacher and returned to the analogical method started by Thales. Like Thales, he based his principles on bold, sharp observations, but they were limited and narrow. He argued that air was the fundamental element. In this theory, he combined the Zeus, or ether, of Pherecydes with the Infinite of Anaximander, as he believed that air was, in itself, God and infinite in nature.
XV. While these wild but ingenious speculators conducted the career of that philosophy called the Ionian, to the later time of the serene and lofty spiritualism of Anaxagoras, two new schools arose, both founded by Ionians, but distinguished by separate names—the Eleatic and the Italic. The first was founded by Xenophanes of Colophon, in Elea, a town in western Italy. Migrating to an alien shore, colonization seems to have produced in philosophy the same results which it produced in politics: it emancipated the reason from all previous prejudice and prescriptive shackles. Xenophanes was the first thinker who openly assailed the popular faith (B. C. 538). He divested the Great Deity of the human attributes which human vanity, assimilating God to man, had bestowed upon him. The divinity of Xenophanes is that of modern philosophy—eternal, unalterable, and alone: graven images cannot represent his form. His attributes are— ALL HEARING, ALL SIGHT, and ALL THOUGHT.
XV. While these wild but clever thinkers were advancing the philosophy known as Ionian, leading up to the calm and elevated spiritualism of Anaxagoras, two new schools emerged, both established by Ionians but known by different names—the Eleatic and the Italic. The first was founded by Xenophanes of Colophon in Elea, a town in western Italy. Moving to a new land seemed to have the same impact on philosophy as it did on politics: it freed reasoning from all previous biases and constraints. Xenophanes was the first philosopher to openly challenge the common beliefs (B.C. 538). He stripped the Great Deity of the human traits that people, out of vanity, had projected onto God. The divinity of Xenophanes reflects that of modern philosophy—eternal, unchanging, and unique: physical representations cannot capture His essence. His attributes are— ALL HEARING, ALL SIGHT, and ALL THOUGHT.
To the Eleatic school, founded by Xenophanes, belong Parmenides, Melissus the Samian, Zeno, and Heraclitus of Ephesus. All these were thinkers remarkable for courage and subtlety. The main metaphysical doctrines of this school approach, in many respects, to those that have been familiar to modern speculators. Their predecessors argued, as the basis of their system, from experience of the outward world, and the evidence of the senses; the Eleatic school, on the contrary, commenced their system from the reality of ideas, and thence argued on the reality of external objects; experience with them was but a show and an appearance; knowledge was not in things without, but in the mind; they were the founders of idealism. With respect to the Deity, they imagined the whole universe filled with it—God was ALL IN ALL. Such, though each philosopher varied the system in detail, were the main metaphysical dogmas of the Eleatic school. Its masters were high-wrought, subtle, and religious thinkers; but their doctrines were based upon a theory that necessarily led to parodox and mysticism; and finally conduced to the most dangerous of all the ancient sects—that of the sophists.
To the Eleatic school, founded by Xenophanes, belong Parmenides, Melissus the Samian, Zeno, and Heraclitus of Ephesus. These thinkers were known for their bravery and depth of thought. The main metaphysical ideas of this school are, in many ways, similar to those that modern philosophers are familiar with. Their predecessors based their systems on experiences of the external world and sensory evidence; in contrast, the Eleatic school started with the reality of ideas and then argued for the reality of external objects. For them, experience was merely an illusion or appearance; knowledge resided not in the outside world but within the mind. They were the founders of idealism. Regarding the Deity, they believed that the entire universe was filled with it—God was ALL IN ALL. Though each philosopher had their own variations, these were the core metaphysical beliefs of the Eleatic school. Its leaders were deeply thoughtful, nuanced, and spiritual thinkers; however, their theories led to paradoxes and mysticism, and ultimately contributed to the rise of the most dangerous ancient sect—the sophists.
We may here observe, that the spirit of poetry long continued to breathe in the forms of philosophy. Even Anaximander, and his immediate followers in the Ionic school, while writing in prose, appear, from a few fragments left to us, to have had much recourse to poetical expression, and often convey a dogma by an image; while, in the Eleatic school, Xenophanes and Parmenides adopted the form itself of verse, as the medium for communicating their theories; and Zeno, perhaps from the new example of the drama, first introduced into philosophical dispute that fashion of dialogue which afterward gave to the sternest and loftiest thought the animation and life of dramatic pictures.
We can note that the spirit of poetry continued to influence philosophy for a long time. Even Anaximander and his followers in the Ionic school, while writing in prose, seem to have frequently relied on poetic expression, often using images to convey their ideas. In the Eleatic school, both Xenophanes and Parmenides chose to use verse as the medium for sharing their theories. Zeno, possibly inspired by the new example of drama, was the first to introduce a dialogue format into philosophical discussions, which later infused serious and profound thoughts with the dynamism and vibrancy of dramatic imagery.
XVI. But even before the Eleatic school arose, the most remarkable and ambitious of all the earlier reasoners, the arch uniter of actual politics with enthusiastic reveries—the hero of a thousand legends—a demigod in his ends and an impostor in his means—Pythagoras of Samos —conceived and partially executed the vast design of establishing a speculative wisdom and an occult religion as the keystone of political institutions.
XVI. But even before the Eleatic school emerged, the most notable and ambitious of all the earlier thinkers, the ultimate unifier of real politics with passionate dreams—the hero of countless legends—a demigod in his goals and a fraud in his methods—Pythagoras of Samos—conceived and partially carried out the grand plan of creating a philosophical wisdom and a hidden religion as the foundation of political institutions.
So mysterious is everything relating to Pythagoras, so mingled with the grossest fables and the wildest superstitions, that he seems scarcely to belong to the age of history, or to the advanced and practical Ionia. The date of his birth—his very parentage, are matters of dispute and doubt. Accounts concur in considering his father not a native of Samos; and it seems a probable supposition that he was of Lemnian or Pelasgic origin. Pythagoras travelled early into Egypt and the East, and the system most plausibly ascribed to him betrays something of oriental mystery and priestcraft in its peculiar doctrines, and much more of those alien elements in its pervading and general spirit. The notion of uniting a state with religion is especially Eastern, and essentially anti-Hellenic. Returning to Samos, he is said to have found the able Polycrates in the tyranny of the government, and to have quitted his birthplace in disgust. If, then, he had already conceived his political designs, it is clear that they could never have been executed under a jealous and acute tyrant; for, in the first place, radical innovations are never so effectually opposed as in governments concentrated in the hands of a single man; and, secondly, the very pith and core of the system of Pythagoras consisted in the establishment of an oligarchic aristocracy—a constitution most hated and most persecuted by the Grecian tyrants. The philosopher migrated into Italy. He had already, in all probability, made himself renowned in Greece. For it was then a distinction to have travelled into Egypt, the seat of mysterious and venerated learning; and philosophy, like other novelties, appears to have passed into fashion even with the multitude. Not only all the traditions respecting this extraordinary man, but the certain fact of the mighty effect that, in his single person, he afterward wrought in Italy, prove him also to have possessed that nameless art of making a personal impression upon mankind, and creating individual enthusiasm, which is necessary to those who obtain a moral command, and are the founders of sects and institutions. It is so much in conformity with the manners of the time and the objects of Pythagoras to believe that he diligently explored the ancient, religions and political systems of Greece, from which he had long been a stranger, that we cannot reject the traditions (however disfigured with fable) that he visited Delos, and affected to receive instructions from the pious ministrants of Delphi. 238
Everything about Pythagoras is so mysterious, intertwined with outrageous myths and wild superstitions, that he hardly seems to fit into the historical era or the advanced, practical culture of Ionia. The details of his birth and even his parentage are disputed and uncertain. Most accounts agree that his father wasn’t from Samos, and it’s likely he had roots from Lemnos or Pelasgia. Pythagoras traveled early on to Egypt and the East, and the ideas most commonly linked to him show hints of Eastern mystery and priestly traditions in their unique teachings, along with many foreign influences in their overall spirit. The idea of combining state and religion is especially Eastern and fundamentally opposed to Hellenic ideals. When he returned to Samos, he reportedly found the capable Polycrates ruling tyrannically and left his homeland in frustration. If he had already formed his political ideas, it’s clear they could never be realized under a jealous and perceptive tyrant; for one, radical changes are most effectively resisted in governments ruled by a single individual, and two, the core of Pythagoras's system centered on establishing an oligarchic aristocracy—a structure most despised and persecuted by Greek tyrants. The philosopher moved to Italy. He had likely already gained prominence in Greece, as it was then a mark of distinction to have traveled to Egypt, a center of mysterious and respected knowledge; philosophy, like other trends, seems to have become fashionable even among the masses. Not only the myriad stories about this remarkable man but also the undeniable impact he later had in Italy indicate that he possessed an extraordinary ability to make a personal impression on people and generate individual enthusiasm, qualities crucial for those who wield moral authority and establish sects and institutions. It aligns well with the customs of his time and Pythagoras’s goals to believe he carefully studied the ancient religions and political systems of Greece, which he had long been away from. Hence, we can't dismiss the traditions (even if they’re embellished) that claim he visited Delos and sought knowledge from the devoted priests of Delphi. 238
At Olympia, where he could not fail to be received with curiosity and distinction, the future lawgiver is said to have assumed the title of philosopher, the first who claimed the name. For the rest, we must yield our faith to all probable accounts, both of his own earnest preparations for his design, and of the high repute he acquired in Greece, that may tend to lessen the miracle of the success that awaited him in the cities of the west.
At Olympia, where he was sure to be greeted with interest and respect, the future lawmaker is said to have taken on the title of philosopher, the first person to do so. For everything else, we should trust the likely stories about his serious preparations for his purpose and the esteemed reputation he gained in Greece, which might help explain the remarkable success that awaited him in the cities of the west.
XVII. Pythagoras (B. C. 540-510) arrived in Italy during the reign of Tarquinius Superbus, according to the testimony of Cicero and Aulus Gellius 239, and fixed his residence in Croton, a city in the Bay of Tarentum, colonized by Greeks of the Achaean tribe 240. If we may lend a partial credit to the extravagant fables of later disciples, endeavouring to extract from florid superaddition some original germe of simple truth, it would seem that he first appeared in the character of a teacher of youth 241; and, as was not unusual in those times, soon rose from the preceptor to the legislator. Dissensions in the city favoured his objects. The senate (consisting of a thousand members, doubtless of a different race from the body of the people; the first the posterity of the settlers, the last the native population) availed itself of the arrival and influence of an eloquent and renowned philosopher. He lent himself to the consolidation of aristocracies, and was equally inimical to democracy and tyranny. But his policy was that of no vulgar ambition; he refused, at least for a time, ostensible power and office, and was contented with instituting an organized and formidable society—not wholly dissimilar to that mighty order founded by Loyola in times comparatively recent. The disciples admitted into this society underwent examination and probation; it was through degrees that they passed into its higher honours, and were admitted into its deepest secrets. Religion made the basis of the fraternity—but religion connected with human ends of advancement and power. He selected the three hundred who, at Croton, formed his order, from the noblest families, and they were professedly reared to know themselves, that so they might be fitted to command the world. It was not long before this society, of which Pythagoras was the head, appears to have supplanted the ancient senate and obtained the legislative administration. In this institution, Pythagoras stands alone—no other founder of Greek philosophy resembles him. By all accounts, he also differed from the other sages of his time in his estimate of the importance of women. He is said to have lectured to and taught them. His wife was herself a philosopher, and fifteen disciples of the softer sex rank among the prominent ornaments of his school. An order based upon so profound a knowledge of all that can fascinate or cheat mankind, could not fail to secure a temporary power. His influence was unbounded in Croton—it extended to other Italian cities—it amended or overturned political constitutions; and had Pythagoras possessed a more coarse and personal ambition, he might, perhaps, have founded a mighty dynasty, and enriched our social annals with the results of a new experiment. But his was the ambition, not of a hero, but a sage. He wished rather to establish a system than to exalt himself; his immediate followers saw not all the consequences that might be derived from the fraternity he founded: and the political designs of his gorgeous and august philosophy, only for a while successful, left behind them but the mummeries of an impotent freemasonry and the enthusiastic ceremonies of half-witted ascetics.
XVII. Pythagoras (B.C. 540-510) arrived in Italy during the reign of Tarquinius Superbus, according to Cicero and Aulus Gellius 239, and settled in Croton, a city in the Bay of Tarentum, colonized by Greeks from the Achaean tribe 240. If we give some credit to the elaborate tales of later followers trying to extract some core truth from their embellishments, it seems he initially appeared as a teacher of young people 241; and, as was common in those days, soon rose from being a mentor to a legislator. Conflicts in the city supported his goals. The senate (made up of a thousand members, likely from a different background than the general population; the former descended from settlers, the latter the native people) took advantage of the arrival and influence of a famous and persuasive philosopher. He contributed to the strengthening of aristocracies and was opposed to both democracy and tyranny. However, his approach was not one of ordinary ambition; he initially refused obvious power and office, choosing instead to create an organized and powerful society—not entirely unlike the significant order founded by Loyola in more recent times. The disciples admitted into this society underwent tests and trials; they advanced through stages into its higher honors and were granted access to its deepest secrets. Religion was the foundation of the brotherhood—but a religion connected to human progress and power. He selected three hundred members at Croton from the noblest families, and they were specifically raised to understand themselves, so they could be prepared to lead the world. It wasn’t long before this society, led by Pythagoras, seemed to have replaced the ancient senate and taken over legislative power. In this institution, Pythagoras stands out—no other founder of Greek philosophy is like him. By all accounts, he also differed from the other philosophers of his time in how he viewed the importance of women. He is said to have lectured and taught them. His wife was a philosopher herself, and fifteen female disciples were notable figures in his school. An order based on such deep knowledge of what can attract or deceive people was bound to secure temporary power. His influence was vast in Croton—it spread to other Italian cities—it altered or overturned political constitutions; and had Pythagoras possessed a more ruthless and personal ambition, he might have founded a powerful dynasty, enriching our social history with the outcomes of a new experiment. But his ambition was not that of a hero, but of a sage. He aimed to establish a system rather than elevate himself; his immediate followers did not foresee all the consequences that could arise from the fraternity he founded: the political ambitions of his grand and noble philosophy, though momentarily successful, left behind merely the superficial rituals of a powerless freemasonry and the fervent ceremonies of misguided ascetics.
XVIII. It was when this power, so mystic and so revolutionary, had, by the means of branch societies, established itself throughout a considerable portion of Italy, that a general feeling of alarm and suspicion broke out against the sage and his sectarians. The anti-Pythagorean risings, according to Porphyry, were sufficiently numerous and active to be remembered for long generations afterward. Many of the sage’s friends are said to have perished, and it is doubtful whether Pythagoras himself fell a victim to the rage of his enemies, or died a fugitive among his disciples at Metapontum. Nor was it until nearly the whole of Lower Italy was torn by convulsions, and Greece herself drawn into the contest, as pacificator and arbiter, that the ferment was allayed—the Pythagorean institutions were abolished, and the timocratic democracies 242 of the Achaeans rose upon the ruins of those intellectual but ungenial oligarchies.
XVIII. It was when this powerful, mysterious, and revolutionary force had established itself across a large part of Italy through various local groups that a widespread sense of alarm and suspicion emerged against the philosopher and his followers. According to Porphyry, the anti-Pythagorean uprisings were numerous and active enough to be remembered for many generations to come. Many of the philosopher’s friends reportedly lost their lives, and it remains uncertain whether Pythagoras himself was killed by his enemies or died as a fugitive among his disciples in Metapontum. It wasn’t until nearly all of Lower Italy was in turmoil, and Greece was drawn into the conflict as a peacekeeper and mediator, that the unrest calmed—the Pythagorean institutions were dismantled, and the timocratic democracies 242 of the Achaeans emerged from the ruins of those intellectual but unwelcoming oligarchies.
XIX. Pythagoras committed a fatal error when, in his attempt to revolutionize society, he had recourse to aristocracies for his agents. Revolutions, especially those influenced by religion, can never be worked out but by popular emotions. It was from this error of judgment that he enlisted the people against him—for, by the account of Neanthes, related by Porphyry 243, and, indeed, from all other testimony, it is clearly evident that to popular, not party commotion, his fall must be ascribed. It is no less clear that, after his death, while his philosophical sect remained, his political code crumbled away. The only seeds sown by philosophers, which spring up into great states, are those that, whether for good or evil, are planted in the hearts of the many.
XIX. Pythagoras made a critical mistake when, in his effort to change society, he turned to aristocrats as his agents. Revolutions, especially those driven by religion, can only come from the emotions of the masses. This misjudgment led him to turn the people against him—according to Neanthes, as recounted by Porphyry 243, and indeed, from all other evidence, it's clear that his downfall was due to popular rather than party unrest. It is equally evident that, after his death, while his philosophical group persisted, his political ideology fell apart. The only ideas planted by philosophers that grow into great states are those that, whether for better or worse, take root in the hearts of the many.
XX. The purely intellectual additions made by Pythagoras to human wisdom seem to have been vast and permanent. By probable testimony, he added largely to mathematical science; and his discoveries in arithmetic, astronomy, music, and geometry, constitute an era in the history of the mind. His metaphysical and moral speculations are not to be separated from the additions or corruptions of his disciples. But we must at least suppose that Pythagoras established the main proposition of the occult properties of NUMBERS, which were held to be the principles of all things. According to this theory, unity is the abstract principle of all perfection, and the ten elementary numbers contain the elements of the perfect system of nature. By numbers the origin and the substance of all things could be explained 244. Numbers make the mystery of earth and heaven—of the gods themselves. And this part of his system, which long continued to fool mankind, was a sort of monstrous junction between arithmetic and magic—the most certain of sciences with the most fantastic of chimeras. The Pythagoreans supposed the sun, or central fire, to be the seat of Jupiter and the principle of life. The stars were divine. Men, and even animals, were held to have within them a portion of the celestial nature. The soul, emanating from the celestial fire 245—can combine with any form of matter, and is compelled to pass through various bodies. Adopting the Egyptian doctrine of transmigration, the Pythagoreans coupled it with the notion of future punishment or reward.
XX. The intellectual contributions made by Pythagoras to human knowledge seem to have been significant and lasting. According to reliable sources, he greatly expanded mathematical science, and his discoveries in arithmetic, astronomy, music, and geometry mark a pivotal moment in the history of thought. His metaphysical and moral ideas are intertwined with the interpretations or distortions introduced by his followers. However, we can at least assume that Pythagoras established the core concept of the hidden properties of NUMBERS, which were believed to be the foundation of everything. According to this idea, unity is the essential principle of all perfection, and the ten basic numbers contain the elements of the ideal system of nature. Through numbers, the origin and essence of all things could be explained 244. Numbers reveal the mysteries of the Earth and sky—of the gods themselves. This aspect of his philosophy, which continued to mislead people for a long time, was a bizarre mix of arithmetic and magic—the most reliable of sciences with the most fanciful of illusions. The Pythagoreans believed the sun, or central fire, was the home of Jupiter and the source of life. They viewed the stars as divine. Humans, and even animals, were thought to possess a fragment of celestial nature. The soul, which comes from the celestial fire 245—can merge with any form of matter and is required to experience various incarnations. Embracing the Egyptian belief in transmigration, the Pythagoreans linked it with ideas of future punishment or reward.
Much of the doctrinal morality of Pythagoras is admirable; but it is vitiated by the ceremonial quackery connected with it. Humanity to all things—gentleness—friendship—love—and, above all the rest, SELF-COMMAND—form the principal recommendations of his mild and patriarchal ethics. But, perhaps, from his desire to establish a political fraternity—perhaps from his doubt of the capacity of mankind to embrace Truth unadorned, enamoured only of her own beauty— these doctrines were united with an austere and frivolous ascetism. And virtue was but to be attained by graduating through the secret and rigid ceremonies of academical imposture. His disciples soon pushed the dogmas of their master into an extravagance at once dangerous and grotesque; and what the sage designed but for symbols of a truth were cultivated to the prejudice of the truth itself. The influence of Pythagoras became corrupt and pernicious in proportion as the original tenets became more and more adulterated or obscure, and served, in succeeding ages, to invest with the sanctity of a great name the most visionary chimeras and the most mischievous wanderings of perverted speculation. But, looking to the man himself—his discoveries—his designs—his genius—his marvellous accomplishments—we cannot but consider him as one of the most astonishing persons the world ever produced; and, if in part a mountebank and an impostor, no one, perhaps, ever deluded others with motives more pure—from an ambition more disinterested and benevolent.
A lot of Pythagoras's moral teachings are admirable, but they're tainted by the ceremonial nonsense that goes along with them. Compassion for all beings—kindness—friendship—love—and, most importantly, SELF-CONTROL—are the main points of his gentle and patriarchal ethics. However, maybe because he wanted to create a political brotherhood—or perhaps due to his doubts about humanity's ability to accept Truth as it is, simply because of its inherent beauty—these teachings got mixed up with strict and pointless asceticism. Virtue seemed obtainable only through the secret and rigid ceremonies of academic trickery. His followers quickly took their master's principles to an extreme that was both dangerous and ridiculous; what the sage intended as symbols of a deeper truth became a hindrance to that very truth. Pythagoras's influence grew corrupt and harmful as the original teachings became increasingly distorted or unclear, allowing the most fanciful ideas and harmful deviations of twisted speculation to be cloaked in the reverence of a great name in later ages. Yet, when we consider the man himself—his discoveries—his ambitions—his talents—his incredible achievements—we have to see him as one of the most remarkable individuals in history; and, even if he was partly a charlatan and a fraud, perhaps no one ever misled others with more genuine motives born from a more selfless and kind ambition.
XXI. Upon the Athenians the effect of these various philosophers was already marked and influential. From the time of Solon there had existed in Athens a kind of school of political philosophy 246. But it was not a school of refining dogmas or systematic ethics; it was too much connected with daily and practical life to foster to any great extent the abstract contemplations and recondite theories of metaphysical discoveries. Mnesiphilus, the most eminent of these immediate successors of Solon, was the instructor of Themistocles, the very antipodes of rhetoricians and refiners. But now a new age of philosophy was at hand. Already the Eleatic sages, Zeno and Parmenides, had travelled to Athens, and there proclaimed their doctrines, and Zeno numbered among his listeners and disciples the youthful Pericles. But a far more sensible influence was exercised by Anaxagoras of the Ionian school. For thirty years, viz., from B. C. 480 to B. C. 450, during that eventful and stirring period intervening between the battle of Thermopylae and the commencement of the five years’ truce with Sparta, followed by the death of Cimon (B. C. 449), this eminent and most accomplished reasoner resided in Athens 247. His doctrines were those most cherished by Pericles, who ranked the philosopher among his intimate friends. After an absence of some years, he again returned to Athens; and we shall then find him subjected to a prosecution in which religious prejudice was stimulated by party feud. More addicted to physics than to metaphysical research, he alarmed the national superstition by explaining on physical principles the formation even of the celestial bodies. According to him, the sun itself—that centre of divine perfection with the Pythagoreans—was ejected from the earth and heated into fire by rapid motion. He maintained that the proper study of man was the contemplation of nature and the heavens 248: and he refined the Author of the universe into an intellectual principle (Nous), which went to the root of the material causes mostly favoured by his predecessors and contemporaries. He admitted the existence of matter, but INTELLIGENCE was the animating and prevailing principle, creating symmetry from chaos, imposing limit and law on all things, and inspiring life, and sensation, and perception. His predecessors in the Ionian school, who left the universe full of gods, had not openly attacked the popular mythology. But the assertion of One Intelligence, and the reduction of all else to material and physical causes, could not but have breathed a spirit wholly inimical to the numerous and active deities of Hellenic worship. Party feeling against his friend and patron Pericles ultimately drew the general suspicion into a focus; and Anaxagoras was compelled to quit Athens, and passed the remainder of his days at Lampsacus. But his influence survived his exile. His pupil Archelaus was the first native Athenian who taught philosophy at Athens (B. C. 450), and from him we date the foundation of those brilliant and imperishable schools which secured to Athens an intellectual empire long after her political independence had died away 249. Archelaus himself (as was the usual custom of the earlier sages) departed widely from the tenets of his master. He supposed that two discordant principles, fire and water, had, by their operation, drawn all things from chaos into order, and his metaphysics were those of unalloyed materialism. At this period, too, or a little later, began slowly to arise in Athens the sect of the Sophists, concerning whom so much has been written and so little is known. But as the effects of their lessons were not for some time widely apparent, it will be more in the order of this history to defer to a later era an examination of the doctrines of that perverted but not wholly pernicious school.
XXI. The impact of these various philosophers on the Athenians was already significant and influential. Since the time of Solon, there had been a kind of school of political philosophy in Athens 246. However, it wasn't a school focused on refining doctrines or systematic ethics; it was too tied to everyday life to really encourage abstract thought and complex theories of metaphysical discoveries. Mnesiphilus, the most notable of Solon's immediate successors, taught Themistocles, who was quite the opposite of rhetoricians and refineries. But a new era of philosophy was on the horizon. The Eleatic sages, Zeno and Parmenides, had already traveled to Athens and shared their ideas there, with Zeno counting the young Pericles among his listeners and followers. But Anaxagoras of the Ionian school had an even stronger influence. For thirty years, from 480 B.C. to 450 B.C., during that significant and tumultuous time between the battle of Thermopylae and the start of the five-year truce with Sparta, followed by the death of Cimon (449 B.C.), this prominent and highly educated thinker lived in Athens 247. His ideas were particularly favored by Pericles, who considered him a close friend. After being away for a few years, Anaxagoras returned to Athens and faced prosecution fueled by religious bias and political rivalry. More interested in physics than metaphysics, he startled the public's superstitions by explaining the formation of celestial bodies through physical principles. He argued that the sun, that center of divine perfection according to the Pythagoreans, was expelled from the earth and turned into fire through rapid motion. He believed that the main focus for humans should be the study of nature and the heavens 248: he redefined the creator of the universe as an intellectual principle (Nous), which challenged the material causes favored by his predecessors and contemporaries. While he acknowledged the existence of matter, INTELLIGENCE was the driving force that brought order out of chaos, establishing limits and laws for everything, and giving rise to life, sensation, and perception. His predecessors in the Ionian school, who filled the universe with gods, didn't openly challenge the popular mythology. However, the claim of one intelligence and attributing all else to material and physical causes was bound to undermine the numerous and active deities of Greek worship. Political opposition against his friend and supporter Pericles eventually heightened general suspicion, leading to Anaxagoras being forced to leave Athens, where he spent the rest of his life in Lampsacus. Nonetheless, his influence continued after his exile. His student Archelaus was the first native Athenian to teach philosophy in Athens (450 B.C.), marking the beginning of those brilliant and lasting schools that granted Athens an intellectual empire long after its political independence had faded away 249. Archelaus himself, as was common with earlier philosophers, significantly diverged from his mentor's teachings. He believed that two opposing forces, fire and water, had brought everything from chaos into order, and his metaphysics leaned towards pure materialism. Around this time, or shortly after, the Sophists began to emerge slowly in Athens, a group about which much has been written yet little is truly understood. However, since the effects of their teachings were not widely felt for some time, it makes more sense in this history to postpone examining the ideas of this twisted but not entirely harmful school to a later chapter.
XXII. Enough has been now said to convey to the reader a general notion of the prodigious rise which, in the most serene of intellectual departments, had been made in Greece, from the appearance of Solon to the lectures of Archelaus, who was the master of Socrates. With the Athenians philosophy was not a thing apart from the occupations of life and the events of history—it was not the monopoly of a few studious minds, but was cultivated as a fashion by the young and the well-born, the statesman, the poet, the man of pleasure, the votary of ambition 250. It was inseparably interwoven with their manners, their pursuits, their glory, their decay. The history of Athens includes in itself the history of the human mind. Science and art—erudition and genius—all conspired—no less than the trophies of Miltiades, the ambition of Alcibiades—the jealousy of Sparta—to the causes of the rise and fall of Athens. And even that satire on themselves, to which, in the immortal lampoons of Aristophanes, the Athenian populace listened, exhibits a people whom, whatever their errors, the world never can see again—with whom philosophy was a pastime—with whom the Agora itself was an academe—whose coarsest exhibitions of buffoonery and caricature sparkle with a wit, or expand into a poetry, which attest the cultivation of the audience no less than the genius of the author; a people, in a word, whom the stagirite unconsciously individualized when he laid down a general proposition, which nowhere else can be received as a truism—that the common people are the most exquisite judges of whatever in art is graceful, harmonious, or sublime.
XXII. Enough has been said to give the reader a general idea of the incredible growth that occurred in Greece, from Solon's time to the lectures of Archelaus, who was Socrates's teacher. For the Athenians, philosophy wasn’t something separate from everyday life or history—it wasn’t just for a few dedicated scholars, but was embraced as a trend by the young and privileged, the statesman, the poet, the hedonist, the ambitious 250. It was deeply woven into their customs, pursuits, glory, and decline. The history of Athens includes the history of human thought. Science and art—knowledge and creativity—all played a role—just like the achievements of Miltiades, the ambitions of Alcibiades, and the rivalry with Sparta—in the rise and fall of Athens. Even the self-mockery found in the timeless satirical plays of Aristophanes shows a people who, despite their flaws, the world will never see again—a people for whom philosophy was a leisure activity—a people for whom the Agora itself was a school—whose most crude displays of humor and caricature are filled with wit and elevate into a poetry that reflects both the audience's sophistication and the author's talent; a people, in short, that Aristotle unwittingly identified when he stated a general truth that cannot be applied elsewhere—that the common people are the finest judges of anything in art that is beautiful, harmonious, or sublime.
BOOK V.
FROM THE DEATH OF CIMON, B. C. 449, TO THE DEATH OF PERICLES, IN THE THIRD YEAR OF THE PELOPONNESIAN WAR, B. C. 429.
FROM THE DEATH OF CIMON, B.C. 449, TO THE DEATH OF PERICLES, IN THE THIRD YEAR OF THE PELOPONNESIAN WAR, B.C. 429.
CHAPTER I.
Thucydides chosen by the Aristocratic Party to oppose Pericles.—His Policy.—Munificence of Pericles.—Sacred War.—Battle of Coronea.— Revolt of Euboea and Megara.—Invasion and Retreat of the Peloponnesians.—Reduction of Euboea.—Punishment of Histiaea—A Thirty Years’ Truce concluded with the Peloponnesians.—Ostracism of Thucydides.
Thucydides was selected by the Aristocratic Party to challenge Pericles. — His Policy. — The generosity of Pericles. — Sacred War. — Battle of Coronea. — The Revolt of Euboea and Megara. — Invasion and Retreat of the Peloponnesians. — Conquest of Euboea. — Punishment of Histiaea. — A Thirty Years' Truce was agreed upon with the Peloponnesians. — The ostracism of Thucydides.
I. On the death of Cimon (B. C. 449) the aristocratic party in Athens felt that the position of their antagonists and the temper of the times required a leader of abilities widely distinct from those which had characterized the son of Miltiades. Instead of a skilful and enterprising general, often absent from the city on dazzling but distant expeditions, it was necessary to raise up a chief who could contend for their enfeebled and disputed privileges at home, and meet the formidable Pericles, with no unequal advantages of civil experience and oratorical talent, in the lists of the popular assembly, or in the stratagems of political intrigue. Accordingly their choice fell neither on Myronides nor Tolmides, but on one who, though not highly celebrated for military exploits, was deemed superior to Cimon, whether as a practical statesman or a popular orator. Thucydides, their new champion, united with natural gifts whatever advantage might result from the memory of Cimon; and his connexion with that distinguished warrior, to whom he was brother-in-law, served to keep together the various partisans of the faction, and retain to the eupatrids something of the respect and enthusiasm which the services of Cimon could not fail to command, even among the democracy. The policy embraced by Thucydides was perhaps the best which the state of affairs would permit; but it was one which was fraught with much danger. Hitherto the eupatrids and the people, though ever in dispute, had not been absolutely and totally divided; the struggles of either faction being headed by nobles, scarcely permitted to the democracy the perilous advantage of the cry—that the people were on one side, and the nobles on the other. But Thucydides, seeking to render his party as strong, as compact, and as united as possible, brought the main bulk of the eupatrids to act together in one body. The means by which he pursued and attained this object are not very clearly narrated; but it was probably by the formation of a political club—a species of social combination, which afterward became very common to all classes in Athens. The first effect of this policy favoured the aristocracy, and the energy and union they displayed restored for a while the equilibrium of parties; but the aristocratic influence, thus made clear and open, and brought into avowed hostility with the popular cause, the city was rent in two, and the community were plainly invited to regard the nobles as their foes 251. Pericles, thus more and more thrown upon the democracy, became identified with their interests, and he sought, no less by taste than policy, to prove to the populace that they had grown up into a wealthy and splendid nation, that could dispense with the bounty, the shows, and the exhibitions of individual nobles. He lavished the superfluous treasures of the state upon public festivals, stately processions, and theatrical pageants. As if desirous of elevating the commons to be themselves a nobility, all by which he appealed to their favour served to refine their taste and to inspire the meanest Athenian with a sense of the Athenian grandeur. It was said by his enemies, and the old tale has been credulously repeated, that his own private fortune not allowing him to vie with the wealthy nobles whom he opposed, it was to supply his deficiencies from the public stock that he directed some part of the national wealth to the encouragement of the national arts and the display of the national magnificence. But it is more than probable that it was rather from principle than personal ambition that Pericles desired to discountenance and eclipse the interested bribes to public favour with which Cimon and others had sought to corrupt the populace. Nor was Pericles without the means or the spirit to devote his private fortune to proper objects of generosity. “It was his wealth and his prudence,” says Plutarch, when, blaming the improvidence of Anaxagoras, “that enabled him to relieve the distressed.” What he spent in charity he might perhaps have spent more profitably in display, had he not conceived that charity was the province of the citizen, magnificence the privilege of the state. It was in perfect consonance with the philosophy that now began to spread throughout Greece, and with which the mind of this great political artist was so deeply imbued, to consider that the graces ennobled the city they adorned, and that the glory of a state was intimately connected with the polish of the people.
I. When Cimon died (B.C. 449), the aristocratic party in Athens realized that they needed a leader with a very different skill set than what had defined Miltiades' son. They needed someone who could fight for their weakened and disputed privileges at home, taking on the powerful Pericles without being at a disadvantage in experience or speaking ability in the popular assembly and political maneuvering. So, they chose not Myronides or Tolmides, but Thucydides, who wasn't particularly known for military feats but was considered a better practical statesman and public speaker than Cimon. Thucydides combined natural talent with the legacy of Cimon, and his connection to that illustrious warrior, being his brother-in-law, helped unify their faction and maintain some of the respect and enthusiasm that Cimon commanded, even among the common people. Thucydides' policy was perhaps the best that the situation allowed, but it was also quite risky. Up until then, the aristocrats and the people had been in conflict, but they weren't completely split; both factions were led by nobles, which prevented the common people from feeling like they were on one side and the nobles on the other. However, Thucydides, aiming to make his party as strong, cohesive, and united as possible, got most of the eupatrids to work together. The specific methods he used to achieve this aren't very well-documented, but it likely involved forming a political club—a sort of social organization that later became common among all classes in Athens. The immediate effect of this strategy was to benefit the aristocracy, and their energy and unity temporarily regained the balance of power. Still, this clear and open aristocratic influence made its opposition to the popular cause evident, splitting the city in two and encouraging the community to see the nobles as their enemies 251. Consequently, Pericles increasingly aligned himself with the democracy, becoming identified with their interests. He aimed, both out of preference and strategy, to demonstrate to the populace that they had developed into a wealthy and impressive nation that didn't need the generosity, spectacles, and exhibitions of individual nobles. He poured the state's surplus treasures into public festivals, grand processions, and theatrical performances. It seemed he wanted to elevate the common people to a nobility of their own, as everything he did to win their favor refined their tastes and inspired even the most average Athenian with a sense of Athenian greatness. His rivals claimed, and the story was readily accepted, that since his personal finances couldn't compete with those rich nobles he opposed, he redirected part of the national wealth toward the national arts and grandeur to make up for his shortcomings. However, it's more likely that he sought to undermine and overshadow the self-serving bribes that Cimon and others had used to manipulate the populace out of principle rather than personal ambition. Pericles had both the means and the willingness to dedicate his personal wealth to worthy causes. “It was his wealth and his prudence,” Plutarch states, criticizing Anaxagoras' recklessness, “that enabled him to help those in need.” What he spent on charity might have been more profitable used for public displays had he not believed that charity belonged to the individual, while magnificence was the state's privilege. This view aligned perfectly with the philosophy that was beginning to spread through Greece, with which this remarkable political figure was deeply engaged, seeing that the arts elevated the city they beautified, and that a state's glory was closely tied to the refinement of its people.
II. While, at home, the divisions of the state were progressing to that point in which the struggle between the opposing leaders must finally terminate in the ordeal of the ostracism—abroad, new causes of hostility broke out between the Athenians and the Spartans. The sacred city of Delphi formed a part of the Phocian station; but, from a remote period, its citizens appear to have exercised the independent right of managing to affairs of the temple 252, and to have elected their own superintendents of the oracle and the treasures. In Delphi yet lingered the trace of the Dorian institutions and the Dorian blood, but the primitive valour and hardy virtues of the ancestral tribe had long since mouldered away. The promiscuous intercourse of strangers, the contaminating influence of unrelaxing imposture and priestcraft—above all, the wealth of the city, from which the natives drew subsistence, and even luxury, without labour 253, contributed to enfeeble and corrupt the national character. Unable to defend themselves by their own exertions against any enemy, the Delphians relied on the passive protection afforded by the superstitious reverence of their neighbours, or on the firm alliance that existed between themselves and the great Spartan representatives of their common Dorian race. The Athenian government could not but deem it desirable to wrest from the Delphians the charge over the oracle and the temple, since that charge might at any time be rendered subservient to the Spartan cause; and accordingly they appear to have connived at a bold attempt of the Phocians, who were now their allies. These hardier neighbours of the sacred city claimed and forcibly seized the right of superintendence of the temple. The Spartans, alarmed and aroused, despatched an armed force to Delphi, and restored their former privileges to the citizens. They piously gave to their excursion the name of the Sacred War. Delphi formally renounced the Phocian league, declared itself an independent state, and even defined the boundaries between its own and the Phocian domains. Sparta was rewarded for its aid by the privilege of precedence in consulting the oracle, and this decree the Spartans inscribed on a brazen wolf in the sacred city. The Athenians no longer now acted through others—they recognised all the advantage of securing to their friends and wresting from their foes the management of an oracle, on whose voice depended fortune in war and prosperity in peace. Scarce had the Spartans withdrawn, than an Athenian force, headed by Pericles, who is said to have been freed by Anaxagoras from superstitious prejudices, entered the city, and restored the temple to the Phocians. The same image which had recorded the privilege of the Spartans now bore an inscription which awarded the right of precedence to the Athenians. The good fortune of this expedition was soon reversed.
II. While back home, the divisions in the state were reaching a point where the conflict between the opposing leaders had to end with the process of ostracism—overseas, new tensions arose between the Athenians and the Spartans. The sacred city of Delphi was part of the Phocian territory; however, from a long time ago, its citizens seemed to have had the independent right to manage the affairs of the temple 252, and to elect their own supervisors for the oracle and the treasures. Delphi still had remnants of Dorian institutions and Dorian lineage, but the original bravery and strong values of the ancestral tribe had long faded away. The mingling of strangers, the corrupting influence of deceit and priestcraft—especially the city's wealth, which allowed the locals to gain a living, and even luxury, without working 253, weakened and corrupted their national character. Unable to defend themselves against any enemy, the Delphians relied on the passive protection offered by the superstitious respect of their neighbors, or on the solid alliance they had with the prominent Spartan figures of their common Dorian heritage. The Athenian government found it necessary to take control of the oracle and the temple from the Delphians, as that control could be used at any time to support the Spartan cause; thus, they seemingly allowed a bold move by the Phocians, who were now their allies. These bolder neighbors of the sacred city claimed and forcefully took the right to oversee the temple. The Spartans, alarmed and alert, sent an armed force to Delphi and restored the former privileges to the citizens. They respectfully called their mission the Sacred War. Delphi formally rejected the Phocian alliance, declared itself an independent state, and even set the boundaries between its own territory and that of the Phocians. Sparta was rewarded for its assistance with the privilege of first access to consult the oracle, and this decree was engraved on a bronze wolf in the sacred city. The Athenians no longer operated through others—they understood the importance of securing control of the oracle for their friends and taking it away from their enemies, as the voice of this oracle determined success in war and prosperity in peace. Just as the Spartans were leaving, an Athenian force led by Pericles, who was said to have been freed from superstitious beliefs by Anaxagoras, entered the city and returned control of the temple to the Phocians. The same plaque that had recorded the Spartans' privilege now bore an inscription granting the right of first access to the Athenians. The good fortune of this operation was soon reversed.
III. When the Athenians, after the battle of Oenophyta, had established in the Boeotian cities democratic forms of government, the principal members of the defeated oligarchy, either from choice or by compulsion, betook themselves to exile. These malecontents, aided, no doubt, by partisans who did not share their banishment, now seized upon Chaeronea, Orchomenus, and some other Boeotian towns. The Athenians, who had valued themselves on restoring liberty to Boeotia, and, for the first time since the Persian war, had honoured with burial at the public expense those who fell under Myronides, could not regard this attempt at counterrevolution with indifference. Policy aided their love of liberty; for it must never be forgotten that the change from democratic to oligarchic government in the Grecian states was the formal exchange of the Athenian for the Spartan alliance. Yet Pericles, who ever unwillingly resorted to war, and the most remarkable attribute of whose character was a profound and calculating caution, opposed the proposition of sending an armed force into Boeotia. His objections were twofold—he considered the time unseasonable, and he was averse to hazard upon an issue not immediately important to Athens the flower of her Hoplites, or heavy-armed soldiery, of whom a thousand had offered their services in the enterprise. Nevertheless, the counsel of Tolmides, who was eager for the war, and flushed with past successes, prevailed. “If,” said Pericles, “you regard not my experience, wait, at least, for the advice of TIME, that best of counsellors.” The saying was forgotten in the popular enthusiasm it opposed—it afterward attained the veneration of a prophecy. 254
III. After the battle of Oenophyta, when the Athenians set up democratic governments in the Boeotian cities, the main members of the defeated oligarchy either chose to flee or were forced into exile. These dissatisfied individuals, likely supported by followers who remained, seized control of Chaeronea, Orchomenus, and some other Boeotian towns. The Athenians, proud of having restored freedom to Boeotia, and for the first time since the Persian war, having honored with public funds those who died in battle under Myronides, could not ignore this attempt to undermine their efforts. Their desire for freedom was supported by political strategy; it was crucial to remember that the shift from democratic to oligarchic government in Greek states meant replacing the Athenian alliance with the Spartan one. However, Pericles, who was always reluctant to go to war and known for his deep and calculated caution, opposed the idea of sending troops into Boeotia. He had two main reasons—he believed the timing was wrong, and he didn’t want to risk losing the best of Athens' heavy infantry, of whom a thousand had volunteered for the mission, on a matter that wasn’t immediately critical for Athens. Still, the advice of Tolmides, who was eager for conflict and buoyed by previous victories, won out. "If," said Pericles, "you don’t value my experience, at least wait for advice from TIME, the best of counselors." His words were overlooked in the excitement of the crowd—they later gained the respect of a prophecy. 254
IV. Aided by some allied troops, and especially by his thousand volunteers, Tolmides swept into Boeotia—reduced Chaeronea—garrisoned the captured town, and was returning homeward, when, in the territory of Coronea, he suddenly fell in with a hostile ambush 255, composed of the exiled bands of Orchomenus, of Opuntian Locrians, and the partisans of the oligarchies of Euboea. Battle ensued—the Athenians received a signal and memorable defeat (B. C. 447); many were made prisoners, many slaughtered: the pride and youth of the Athenian Hoplites were left on the field; the brave and wealthy Clinias (father to the yet more renowned Alcibiades), and Tolmides himself, were slain. But the disaster of defeat was nothing in comparison with its consequences. To recover their prisoners, the Athenian government were compelled to enter into a treaty with the hostile oligarchies and withdraw their forces from Boeotia. On their departure, the old oligarchies everywhere replaced the friendly democracies, and the nearest neighbours of Athens were again her foes. Nor was this change confined to Boeotia. In Locris and Phocis the popular party fell with the fortunes of Coronea—the exiled oligarchies were re-established— and when we next read of these states, they are the allies of Sparta. At home, the results of the day of Coronea were yet more important. By the slaughter of so many of the Hoplites, the aristocratic party in Athens were greatly weakened, while the neglected remonstrances and fears of Pericles, now remembered, secured to him a respect and confidence which soon served to turn the balance against his competitor Thucydides.
IV. With some allied troops and especially his thousand volunteers, Tolmides charged into Boeotia—took control of Chaeronea—secured the captured town, and was on his way home when, in the area of Coronea, he unexpectedly ran into a hostile ambush 255, made up of the exiled groups from Orchomenus, the Opuntian Locrians, and supporters of the oligarchies of Euboea. A battle followed—the Athenians faced a significant and memorable defeat (B.C. 447); many were captured, many killed: the pride and youth of the Athenian Hoplites lay on the battlefield; the brave and wealthy Clinias (father of the even more famous Alcibiades), and Tolmides himself, were among the slain. However, the impact of this defeat was far worse than the loss itself. To get their prisoners back, the Athenian government had to negotiate a treaty with the rival oligarchies and pull their forces out of Boeotia. When they left, the old oligarchies took over from the friendly democracies, and Athens' closest neighbors became her enemies once again. This shift wasn't limited to Boeotia. In Locris and Phocis, the popular faction fell alongside the fortunes of Coronea—the exiled oligarchies were restored—and the next time we see these states, they are allies of Sparta. Back home, the consequences of the day at Coronea were even more significant. The death of so many Hoplites greatly weakened the aristocratic faction in Athens, while the overlooked warnings and concerns of Pericles, now recalled, earned him respect and confidence that soon tipped the scales against his rival Thucydides.
V. The first defeat of the proud mistress of the Grecian sea was a signal for the revolt of disaffected dependants. The Isle of Euboea, the pasturages of which were now necessary to the Athenians, encouraged by the success that at Coronea had attended the arms of the Euboean exiles, shook off the Athenian yoke (B. C. 445). In the same year expired the five years truce with Sparta, and that state forthwith prepared to avenge its humiliation at Delphi. Pericles seems once more to have been called into official power—he was not now supine in action. At the head of a sufficient force he crossed the channel, and landed in Euboea. Scarce had he gained the island, when he heard that Megara had revolted—that the Megarians, joined by partisans from Sicyon, Epidaurus, and Corinth, had put to the sword the Athenian garrison, save a few who had ensconced themselves in Nisaea, and that an army of the Peloponnesian confederates was preparing to march to Attica. On receiving these tidings, Pericles re-embarked his forces and returned home. Soon appeared the Peloponnesian forces, commanded by the young Pleistoanax, king of Sparta, who, being yet a minor, was placed under the guardianship of Cleandridas; the lands by the western frontier of Attica, some of the most fertile of that territory, were devastated, and the enemy penetrated to Eleusis and Thria. But not a blow was struck—they committed the aggression and departed. On their return to Sparta, Pleistoanax and Cleandridas were accused of having been bribed to betray the honour or abandon the revenge of Sparta. Cleandridas fled the prosecution, and was condemned to death in his exile. Pleistoanax also quitted the country, and took refuge in Arcadia, in the sanctuary of Mount Lycaeum. The suspicions of the Spartans appear to have been too well founded, and Pericles, on passing his accounts that year, is stated to have put down ten talents 256 as devoted to a certain use —an item which the assembly assented to in conscious and sagacious silence. This formidable enemy retired, Pericles once more entered Euboea, and reduced the isle (B. C. 445). In Chalcis he is said by Plutarch to have expelled the opulent landowners, who, no doubt, formed the oligarchic chiefs of the revolt, and colonized Histiaea with Athenians, driving out at least the greater part of the native population 257. For the latter severity was given one of the strongest apologies that the stern justice of war can plead for its harshest sentences—the Histiaeans had captured an Athenian vessel and murdered the crew. The rest of the island was admitted to conditions, by which the amount of tribute was somewhat oppressively increased. 258
V. The first defeat of the proud ruler of the Greek sea marked the start of a rebellion among dissatisfied followers. The Isle of Euboea, whose pastures were now vital to the Athenians, encouraged by the success that the Euboean exiles had experienced at Coronea, shook off Athenian control (B.C. 445). That same year, the five-year truce with Sparta ended, and Sparta immediately prepared to respond to its humiliation at Delphi. Pericles seems to have returned to official power—he was no longer inactive. Leading a sufficient force, he crossed the channel and landed in Euboea. Hardly had he arrived on the island when he learned that Megara had revolted—that the Megarians, joined by supporters from Sicyon, Epidaurus, and Corinth, had killed the Athenian garrison, except for a few who had taken refuge in Nisaea, and that an army of the Peloponnesian allies was getting ready to march into Attica. After receiving this news, Pericles re-embarked his forces and headed back home. Soon, the Peloponnesian forces appeared, led by the young Pleistoanax, king of Sparta, who, being still a minor, was protected by Cleandridas; the lands along the western border of Attica, some of the most fertile in the area, were ravaged, and the enemy advanced to Eleusis and Thria. However, no battle occurred—they committed the attack and left. Upon their return to Sparta, Pleistoanax and Cleandridas were accused of being bribed to tarnish Spartan honor or abandon their revenge. Cleandridas fled from prosecution and was sentenced to death in his exile. Pleistoanax also left the country and sought refuge in Arcadia, in the sanctuary of Mount Lycaeum. The suspicions of the Spartans seem to have been justified, and Pericles, while reviewing his accounts that year, reportedly wrote down ten talents 256 for a specific purpose—an item that the assembly acknowledged in knowing and wise silence. This formidable enemy retreated, and Pericles returned to Euboea, conquering the island (B.C. 445). In Chalcis, Plutarch says he expelled the wealthy landowners, who likely were the oligarchic leaders of the revolt, and settled Histiaea with Athenians, driving out at least most of the local population 257. The harshness of this action was justified by one of the strongest arguments that the stern justice of war can present for its toughest decisions—the Histiaeans had captured an Athenian ship and killed the crew. The rest of the island was subjected to terms that significantly increased the tribute 258.
VI. The inglorious result of the Peloponnesian expedition into Attica naturally tended to make the Spartans desirous of peace upon honourable terms, while the remembrance of dangers, eluded rather than crushed, could not fail to dispose the Athenian government to conciliate a foe from whom much was to be apprehended and little gained. Negotiations were commenced and completed (B. C. 445). The Athenians surrendered some of the most valuable fruits of their victories in their hold on the Peloponnesus. They gave up their claim on Nisaea and Pegae—they renounced the footing they had established in Troezene—they abandoned alliance or interference with Achaia, over which their influence had extended to a degree that might reasonably alarm the Spartans, since they had obtained the power to raise troops in that province, and Achaean auxiliaries had served under Pericles at the siege of Oeniadae 259. Such were the conditions upon which a truce of thirty years was based 260. The articles were ostensibly unfavourable to Athens. Boeotia was gone—Locris, Phocis, an internal revolution (the result of Coronea) had torn from their alliance. The citizens of Delphi must have regained the command of their oracle, since henceforth its sacred voice was in favour of the Spartans. Megara was lost—and now all the holds on the Peloponnesus were surrendered. These reverses, rapid and signal, might have taught the Athenians how precarious is ever the military eminence of small states. But the treaty with Sparta, if disadvantageous, was not dishonourable. It was founded upon one broad principle, without which, indeed, all peace would have been a mockery—viz., that the Athenians should not interfere with the affairs of the Peloponnesus. This principle acknowledged, the surrender of advantages or conquests that were incompatible with it was but a necessary detail. As Pericles was at this time in office 261, and as he had struggled against an armed interference with the Boeotian towns, so it is probable that he followed out his own policy in surrendering all right to interfere with the Peloponnesian states. Only by peace with Sparta could he accomplish his vast designs for the greatness of Athens— designs which rested not upon her land forces, but upon her confirming and consolidating her empire of the sea; and we shall shortly find, in our consideration of her revenues, additional reasons for approving a peace essential to her stability.
VI. The unfortunate outcome of the Peloponnesian expedition into Attica made the Spartans eager for a peace agreement on good terms. Meanwhile, the Athenians, remembering the dangers they faced but managed to avoid, were inclined to reach out to an enemy from whom they had much to fear and little to gain. Negotiations began and were concluded (B.C. 445). The Athenians gave up some of the most important victories they had achieved in the Peloponnesus. They relinquished their claim on Nisaea and Pegae, they abandoned their foothold in Troezene, and they stopped interfering with Achaia, where their influence had become significant enough to alarm the Spartans, as they had the ability to recruit troops there, and Achaean allies had fought under Pericles at the siege of Oeniadae 259. These were the conditions on which a thirty-year truce was established 260. The terms were clearly not favorable for Athens. They had lost Boeotia, Locris, Phocis, and an internal conflict (the result of Coronea) had broken their alliance. The citizens of Delphi must have regained control of their oracle, as its sacred voice now supported the Spartans. Megara was lost and all their footholds in the Peloponnesus were surrendered. These quick and significant losses should have taught the Athenians how fragile the military status of small states can be. However, although the treaty with Sparta was not advantageous, it was not dishonorable. It was based on a fundamental principle, without which any peace agreement would have been meaningless—that the Athenians would not interfere in the affairs of the Peloponnesus. Once this principle was accepted, the surrender of advantages or conquests that contradicted it was just a necessary detail. Since Pericles was in office at this time 261 and had opposed armed interference with the Boeotian towns, it’s likely he adhered to his policy by relinquishing any claim to interfere with the Peloponnesian states. Peace with Sparta was the only way he could achieve his grand plans for the greatness of Athens—plans that were based not on her land forces, but on strengthening and consolidating her maritime empire; and we will soon find, in our analysis of her revenues, further reasons to support a peace that was crucial for her stability.
VII. Scarce was the truce effected ere the struggle between Thucydides and Pericles approached its crisis. The friends of the former never omitted an occasion to charge Pericles with having too lavishly squandered the public funds upon the new buildings which adorned the city. This charge of extravagance, ever an accusation sure to be attentively received by a popular assembly, made a sensible impression. “If you think,” said Pericles to the great tribunal before which he urged his defence, “that I have expended too much, charge the sums to my account, not yours—but on this condition, let the edifices be inscribed with my name, not that of the Athenian people.” This mode of defence, though perhaps but an oratorical hyperbole 262, conveyed a rebuke which the Athenians were an audience calculated to answer but in one way—they dismissed the accusation, and applauded the extravagance.
VII. The temporary peace was short-lived before the conflict between Thucydides and Pericles reached its peak. Thucydides' supporters constantly took the opportunity to accuse Pericles of wasting public funds on the new buildings that enhanced the city. This claim of recklessness was always likely to resonate with a popular assembly, making a notable impact. “If you believe,” Pericles told the large court where he defended himself, “that I’ve spent too much, put it on my tab, not yours—but with one condition, let the buildings bear my name, not the name of the Athenian people.” This defense, although likely a rhetorical exaggeration 262, delivered a rebuke that the Athenians, as an audience, could only respond to in one way—they rejected the accusation and praised the extravagance.
VIII. Accusations against public men, when unsuccessful, are the fairest stepping-stones in their career. Thucydides failed against Pericles. The death of Tolmides—the defeat of Coronea—the slaughter of the Hoplites—weakened the aristocratic party; the democracy and the democratic administration seized the occasion for a decisive effort. Thucydides was summoned to the ostracism, and his banishment freed Pericles from his only rival for the supreme administration of the Athenian empire.
VIII. Accusations against public figures, when they don't succeed, often become the best opportunities for their advancement. Thucydides didn't succeed against Pericles. The death of Tolmides—the defeat at Coronea—the massacre of the Hoplites—all weakened the aristocratic faction; the democratic party and its administration seized the chance for a major push. Thucydides was called to be ostracized, and his banishment removed Pericles's only competitor for the top position in the Athenian empire.
CHAPTER II.
Causes of the Power of Pericles.—Judicial Courts of the dependant Allies transferred to Athens.—Sketch of the Athenian Revenues.— Public Buildings the Work of the People rather than of Pericles.— Vices and Greatness of Athens had the same Sources.—Principle of Payment characterizes the Policy of the Period.—It is the Policy of Civilization.—Colonization, Cleruchia.
Causes of the Power of Pericles.—Judicial Courts of the dependent Allies were moved to Athens.—Overview of the Athenian Revenues.—Public Buildings were the work of the People rather than of Pericles.—The Vices and Greatness of Athens stemmed from the same Sources.—The Principle of Payment defines the Policy of the Period.—It is the Policy of Civilization.—Colonization, Cleruchia.
I. In the age of Pericles (B. C. 444) there is that which seems to excite, in order to disappoint, curiosity. We are fully impressed with the brilliant variety of his gifts—with the influence he exercised over his times. He stands in the midst of great and immortal names, at the close of a heroic, and yet in the sudden meridian of a civilized age. And scarcely does he recede from our gaze, ere all the evils which only his genius could keep aloof, gather and close around the city which it was the object of his life not less to adorn as for festival than to crown as for command. It is almost as if, with Pericles, her very youth departed from Athens. Yet so scanty are our details and historical materials, that the life of this surprising man is rather illustrated by the general light of the times than by the blaze of his own genius. His military achievements are not dazzling. No relics, save a few bold expressions, remain of the eloquence which awed or soothed, excited or restrained, the most difficult audience in the world. It is partly by analyzing the works of his contemporaries—partly by noting the rise of the whole people— and partly by bringing together and moulding into a whole the scattered masses of his ambitious and thoughtful policy, that we alone can gauge and measure the proportions of the master-spirit of the time. The age of Pericles is the sole historian of Pericles.
I. In the age of Pericles (B.C. 444), there's something that seems to stir up curiosity, only to end in disappointment. We are fully aware of the impressive range of his talents and the influence he had during his time. He stands among great and lasting figures, at the end of a heroic era and at the peak of a civilized age. And just as he slips from our view, all the troubles that only his brilliance could fend off start to gather and surround the city he aimed to both beautify for celebration and lead with authority. It feels almost as if, with Pericles, the youthful spirit of Athens vanished. Yet our details and historical records are so sparse that the life of this remarkable man is more illuminated by the general context of the times than by the brilliance of his own intellect. His military records are not striking. Only a few bold statements remain of the eloquence that inspired, calmed, provoked, or restrained the most challenging audience in the world. We can only assess the reaches of this pivotal figure by analyzing the works of those around him, observing the rise of the entire society, and piecing together and shaping the scattered elements of his ambitious and thoughtful policies. The age of Pericles is the only historian of Pericles.
This statesman was now at that period of life when public men are usually most esteemed—when, still in the vigour of manhood, they have acquired the dignity and experience of years, outlived the earlier prejudices and jealousies they excited, and see themselves surrounded by a new generation, among whom rivals must be less common than disciples and admirers. Step by step, through a long and consistent career, he had ascended to his present eminence, so that his rise did not startle from its suddenness; while his birth, his services, and his genius presented a combination of claims to power that his enemies could not despise, and that justified the enthusiasm of his friends. His public character was unsullied; of the general belief in his integrity there is the highest evidence 263; and even the few slanders afterward raised against him—such as that of entering into one war to gratify the resentment of Aspasia, and into another to divert attention from his financial accounts, are libels so unsupported by any credible authority, and so absurd in themselves, that they are but a proof how few were the points on which calumny could assail him.
This politician was now at that stage in life when public figures are usually held in high regard—when, still strong in their prime, they possess the dignity and experience that comes with age, have moved past the early biases and rivalries they inspired, and find themselves surrounded by a new generation, where rivals are less frequent than followers and fans. Step by step, through a long and steady career, he climbed to his current position, so his rise wasn’t surprising due to its abruptness; his background, contributions, and talent formed a powerful combination that his opponents couldn't dismiss, and that justified the enthusiasm of his supporters. His public image was spotless; there is strong evidence of the widespread belief in his integrity 263; and even the few rumors later spread about him—like the accusations of entering one war to satisfy Aspasia's resentment and another to distract from his financial issues—are baseless and ridiculous, serving only to show how limited the points were from which detractors could attack him.
II. The obvious mode to account for the moral power of a man in any particular time, is to consider his own character, and to ascertain how far it is suited to command the age in which he lived and the people whom he ruled. No Athenian, perhaps, ever possessed so many qualities as Pericles for obtaining wide and lasting influence over the various classes of his countrymen. By his attention to maritime affairs, he won the sailors, now the most difficult part of the population to humour or control; his encouragement to commerce secured the merchants and conciliated the alien settlers; while the stupendous works of art, everywhere carried on, necessarily obtained the favour of the mighty crowd of artificers and mechanics whom they served to employ. Nor was it only to the practical interests, but to all the more refined, yet scarce less powerful sympathies of his countrymen, that his character appealed for support. Philosophy, with all parties, all factions, was becoming an appetite and passion. Pericles was rather the friend than the patron of philosophers. The increasing refinement of the Athenians—the vast influx of wealth that poured into the treasury from the spoils of Persia and the tributes of dependant cities, awoke the desire of art; and the graceful intellect of Pericles at once indulged and directed the desire, by advancing every species of art to its perfection. The freedom of democracy—the cultivation of the drama (which is the oratory of poetry)—the rise of prose literature—created the necessity of popular eloquence—and with Pericles the Athenian eloquence was born. Thus his power was derived from a hundred sources: whether from the grosser interests—the mental sympathies—the vanity—ambition—reason—or imagination of the people. And in examining the character of Pericles, and noting its harmony with his age, the admiration we bestow on himself must be shared by his countrymen. He obtained a greater influence than Pisistratus, but it rested solely on the free-will of the Athenians— it was unsupported by armed force—it was subject to the laws—it might any day be dissolved; and influence of this description is only obtained, in free states, by men who are in themselves the likeness and representative of the vast majority of the democracy they wield. Even the aristocratic party that had so long opposed him appear, with the fall of Thucydides, to have relaxed their hostilities. In fact, they had less to resent in Pericles than in any previous leader of the democracy. He was not, like Themistocles, a daring upstart, vying with, and eclipsing their pretensions. He was of their own order. His name was not rendered odious to them by party proscriptions or the memory of actual sufferings. He himself had recalled their idol Cimon—and in the measures that had humbled the Areopagus, so discreetly had he played his part, or so fortunately subordinate had been his co-operation, that the wrath of the aristocrats had fallen only on Ephialtes. After the ostracism of Thucydides, “he became,” says Plutarch 264, “a new man—no longer so subservient to the multitude—and the government assumed an aristocratical, or rather monarchical, form.” But these expressions in Plutarch are not to be literally received. The laws remained equally democratic—the agora equally strong—Pericles was equally subjected to the popular control; but having now acquired the confidence of the people, he was enabled more easily to direct them, or, as Thucydides luminously observes, “Not having obtained his authority unworthily, he was not compelled to flatter or to sooth the popular humours, but, when occasion required, he could even venture vehemently to contradict them.” 265 The cause which the historian assigns to the effect is one that deserves to be carefully noted by ambitious statesmen—because the authority of Pericles was worthily acquired, the people often suffered it to be even unpopularly exercised. On the other hand, this far-seeing and prudent statesman was, no doubt, sufficiently aware of the dangers to which the commonwealth was exposed, if the discontents of the great aristocratic faction were not in some degree conciliated, to induce his wise and sober patriotism, if not actually to seek the favour of his opponents, at least cautiously to shun all idle attempts to revenge past hostilities or feed the sources of future irritation. He owed much to the singular moderation and evenness of his temper; and his debt to Anaxagoras must have been indeed great, if the lessons of that preacher of those cardinal virtues of the intellect, serenity and order, had assisted to form the rarest of all unions—a genius the most fervid, with passions the best regulated.
II. The obvious way to understand a man's moral power at any given time is to look at his character and see how well it aligns with the era he lived in and the people he governed. No Athenian probably had as many qualities as Pericles that allowed him to gain significant and lasting influence over different groups within his country. His focus on maritime issues won over the sailors, who were the hardest part of the population to please or control; his support for commerce secured the backing of merchants and made peace with the foreign settlers; while the massive art projects being undertaken garnered the favor of the many artisans and workers whom they employed. His character not only appealed to practical interests but also connected with the more refined yet still powerful sentiments of his fellow citizens. Philosophy became a passion for all factions, and Pericles was more of a friend than a patron to philosophers. The growing sophistication of the Athenians, fueled by the wealth streaming in from the spoils of Persia and tribute from allied cities, cultivated an appetite for art; and Pericles' refined intellect not only satisfied but also guided this desire, advancing all forms of art to their peak. The freedom of democracy, the growth of drama (which is the poetry of oratory), and the rise of prose literature created a need for popular eloquence—and with Pericles, Athenian eloquence was born. His power derived from countless sources: whether it was base interests, mental affinities, vanity, ambition, reason, or imagination of the people. When we examine Pericles' character, we see how well it matched his time, and the admiration we have for him must be shared by his compatriots. He wielded greater influence than Pisistratus, but it rested entirely on the free will of the Athenians—unbacked by military power—it was bound by laws—and could be dissolved at any moment; such influence in free states is only held by those who embody and represent the vast majority of the democracy they lead. Even the aristocratic faction that had long opposed him seemed to have eased their hostilities with Thucydides' downfall. In fact, they had less reason to resent Pericles than any past democratic leader. He wasn’t, like Themistocles, a bold upstart eclipsing their claims. He belonged to their class. His name wasn’t made detestable by political bans or the memory of actual suffering. He had brought back their idol Cimon—and in the measures that had diminished the power of the Areopagus, he had either played his role so discreetly or had been so fortunate in his cooperation that the aristocrats' anger fell only on Ephialtes. After Thucydides' ostracism, “he became,” says Plutarch 264, “a new man—no longer so subservient to the masses—and the government took on a more aristocratic, or rather monarchical, form.” But these comments in Plutarch shouldn’t be taken literally. The laws remained just as democratic—the agora was still powerful—Pericles was still subject to popular control; but having gained the people's trust, he could now guide them more easily, or, as Thucydides eloquently points out, “Not having gained his authority unworthily, he wasn’t forced to flatter or appease the public mood, but when necessary, he could even boldly contradict them.” 265 The reason the historian gives for this effect is one that ambitious politicians should note carefully—because Pericles' authority was rightfully earned, the people often allowed it to be exercised even when it was unpopular. On the other hand, this perceptive and cautious statesman was undoubtedly aware of the dangers facing the commonwealth if the discontent of the powerful aristocratic faction wasn’t addressed to some extent, which likely encouraged his wise and sensible patriotism; rather than seeking the favor of his opponents, he avoided futile attempts to settle past grievances or provoke future discord. He owed much to the unique moderation and balance of his character; and he likely had a great debt to Anaxagoras, as the teachings of that mentor on the fundamental virtues of intellect, calmness, and order must have helped shape the rarest combination—a passionate genius with well-regulated emotions.
III. It was about this time, too, in all probability, that Pericles was enabled to consummate the policy he had always adopted with respect to the tributary allies. We have seen that the treasury had been removed from Delos to Athens; it was now resolved to make Athens also the seat and centre of the judicial authority. The subject allies were compelled, if not on minor, at least on all important cases, to resort to Athenian courts of law for justice 266. And thus Athens became, as it were, the metropolis of the allies. A more profound and sagacious mode of quickly establishing her empire it was impossible for ingenuity to conceive; but as it was based upon an oppression that must have been daily and intolerably felt—that every affair of life must have called into irritating action, so, with the establishment of the empire was simultaneously planted an inevitable cause of its decay. For though power is rarely attained without injustice, the injustice, if continued, is the never-failing principle of its corruption. And, in order to endure, authority must hasten to divest itself of all the more odious attributes of conquest.
III. Around this time, Pericles likely was able to finalize the policy he had always applied regarding the tributary allies. We have seen that the treasury had been moved from Delos to Athens; it was now decided to make Athens the main place and center of judicial authority. The subject allies were required, if not for minor cases, at least for all major cases, to go to Athenian courts for justice 266. And so Athens became, in a sense, the capital of the allies. There couldn't be a more clever and effective way to quickly establish her empire; however, since it was built on an oppression that must have been felt daily and unbearably—that every aspect of life must have stirred up irritation—this establishment of empire simultaneously planted an inevitable cause for its downfall. For although power is seldom gained without injustice, that same injustice, if persistent, is the guaranteed principle of its corruption. To survive, authority must swiftly rid itself of all the more repulsive traits of conquest.
IV. As a practical statesman, one principal point of view in which we must regard Pericles is in his capacity of a financier. By English historians his policy and pretensions in this department have not been sufficiently considered; yet, undoubtedly, they made one of the most prominent features of his public character in the eyes of his countrymen. He is the first minister in Athens who undertook the scientific management of the national revenues, and partly from his scrupulous integrity, partly from his careful wisdom, and partly from a fortunate concurrence of circumstances, the Athenian revenues, even when the tribute was doubled, were never more prosperously administered. The first great source of the revenue was from the tributes of the confederate cities 267. These, rated at four hundred and sixty talents in the time of Aristides, had increased to six hundred in the time of Pericles; but there is no evidence to prove that the increased sum was unfairly raised, or that fresh exactions were levied, save in rare cases 268, on the original subscribers to the league. The increase of a hundred and forty talents is to be accounted for partly by the quota of different confederacies acquired since the time of Aristides, partly by the exemption from military or maritime service, voluntarily if unwisely purchased, during the administration of Cimon, by the states themselves. So far as tribute was a sign of dependance and inferiority, the impost was a hardship; but for this they who paid it are to be blamed rather than those who received. Its practical burden on each state, at this period, appears, in most cases, to have been incredibly light; and a very trifling degree of research will prove how absurdly exaggerated have been the invectives of ignorant or inconsiderate men, whether in ancient or modern times, on the extortions of the Athenians, and the impoverishment of their allies. Aristophanes 269 attributes to the empire of Athens a thousand tributary cities: the number is doubtless a poetical license; yet, when we remember the extent of territory which the league comprehended, and how crowded with cities were all the coasts and islands of Greece, we should probably fall short of the number of tributary cities if we estimated it at six hundred; so that the tribute would not in the time of Pericles average above a talent, or 241l. 13s. 4d. 270 English money, for each city! Even when in a time of urgent demand on the resources of the state 271, Cythera fell into the hands of the Athenians 272, the tribute of that island was assessed but at four talents. And we find, by inscriptions still extant, that some places were rated only at two thousand, and even one thousand drachmas. 273
IV. As a practical politician, one key perspective from which we should view Pericles is in his role as a financier. English historians haven't given enough attention to his policies and ambitions in this area; yet, they were undoubtedly a major aspect of his public persona for his fellow citizens. He was the first leader in Athens to take on the scientific management of national finances, and thanks to his unwavering integrity, thoughtful wisdom, and a fortunate mix of circumstances, the Athenian revenues thrived even when the tribute was doubled. The primary source of revenue came from the tributes of the allied cities 267. These were valued at four hundred and sixty talents during Aristides’ time and grew to six hundred during Pericles’ leadership. However, there's no evidence that the increased amount was raised unfairly or that new demands were placed on the original contributors to the league, except in rare instances 268. The increase of one hundred and forty talents can be explained partly by the shares from various alliances formed since Aristides’ era and partly by the voluntary – though unwise – purchase of exemptions from military or naval service during Cimon's administration. While the tribute reflected dependence and inferiority, the burden fell more on those who paid rather than those who collected. The actual financial burden for each state at this time seems to have been surprisingly light; a little research will show how exaggerated the complaints of uninformed or thoughtless people, both ancient and modern, have been regarding Athenian extortion and the impoverishment of their allies. Aristophanes 269 claims that Athens had a thousand tributary cities: this number is likely an exaggeration, but considering the vast territory covered by the league and how densely populated the coasts and islands of Greece were, we might underestimate if we pegged the number of tributary cities at six hundred. This means that, in the time of Pericles, the average tribute per city would not have exceeded a talent, or £241 13s. 4d. 270 in English money! Even during a period of high demand on state resources 271, when Cythera was captured by the Athenians 272, the tribute from that island was set at just four talents. Additionally, inscriptions that still exist show that some places were valued at only two thousand or even one thousand drachmas. 273
Finally, if the assessment by Aristides, of four hundred and sixty talents, was such as to give universal satisfaction from its equity and moderation, the additional hundred and forty talents in the time of Pericles could not have been an excessive increase, when we consider how much the league had extended, how many states had exchanged the service for the tribute, and how considerable was the large diffusion of wealth throughout the greater part of Greece, the continued influx of gold 274, and the consequent fall in value of the precious metals.
Finally, if Aristides’ assessment of four hundred and sixty talents was widely accepted for its fairness and balance, the extra hundred and forty talents during Pericles' time shouldn't be seen as too much, especially when we take into account how much the league had expanded, how many states had shifted from serving to paying tribute, and the significant spread of wealth across much of Greece, along with the ongoing inflow of gold 274, and the resulting decrease in the value of precious metals.
V. It was not, then, the amount of the tribute which made its hardship, nor can the Athenian government be blamed for having continued, a claim voluntarily conceded to them. The original object of the tribute was the maintenance of a league against the barbarians —the Athenians were constituted the heads of the league and the guardians of the tribute; some states refused service and offered money—their own offers were accepted; other states refused both—it was not more the interest than the duty of Athens to maintain, even by arms, the condition of the league—so far is her policy justifiable. But she erred when she reduced allies to dependants—she erred when she transferred the treasury from the central Delos to her own state— she erred yet more when she appropriated a portion of these treasures to her own purposes. But these vices of Athens are the vices of all eminent states, monarchic or republican—for they are the vices of the powerful. “It was,” say the Athenian ambassadors in Thucydides, with honest candour and profound truth—“it was from the nature of the thing itself that we were at first compelled to advance our empire to what it is—chiefly through fear—next for honour—and, lastly, for interest; and then it seemed no longer safe for us to venture to let go the reins of government, for the revolters would have gone over to you” (viz., to the Spartans) 275. Thus does the universal lesson of history teach us that it is the tendency of power, in what hands soever it be placed, to widen its limits, to increase its vigour, in proportion as the counteracting force resigns the security for its administration, or the remedy for its abuse.
V. The hardship of the tribute wasn’t about its size, nor can we blame the Athenian government for accepting a claim that was willingly given to them. The original purpose of the tribute was to support a coalition against the barbarians—the Athenians were placed as the leaders of the league and the stewards of the tribute; some states refused to serve and offered money instead—those offers were accepted; other states refused both—it was both in Athens' interest and duty to maintain the league, even by force, which makes her policy defensible. However, she made a mistake when she turned allies into dependents—she erred when she moved the treasury from central Delos to her own city—she was even more mistaken when she took part of that money for her own use. But these flaws of Athens are common to all powerful states, whether monarchies or republics—these are the flaws of the powerful. “It was,” say the Athenian ambassadors in Thucydides, with honest candor and profound truth—“it was the nature of the situation that we were initially forced to expand our empire to what it has become—mainly out of fear—then for honor—and lastly, for self-interest; and at that point it seemed too risky for us to give up control, because the rebels would have sided with you” (referring to the Spartans) 275. Thus, history universally teaches us that power tends to expand, and becomes stronger as the opposing forces relinquish their control or the means to correct its excesses.
VI. Pericles had not scrupled, from the date of the transfer of the treasury to Athens, to devote a considerable proportion of the general tribute to public buildings and sacred exhibitions—purposes purely Athenian. But he did so openly—he sought no evasion or disguise—he maintained in the face of Greece that the Athenians were not responsible to the allies for these contributions; that it was the Athenians who had resisted and defended the barbarians, while many of the confederate states had supplied neither ships nor soldiers; that Athens was now the head of a mighty league; and that, to increase her glory, to cement her power, was a duty she owed no less to the allies than to herself. Arguments to which armies, and not orators, could alone reply. 276
VI. Pericles had no hesitation, since the treasury was moved to Athens, in using a significant portion of the overall tribute for public buildings and sacred displays—purposes that were solely Athenian. But he did this openly—he didn’t seek any avoidance or pretense—he asserted before all of Greece that the Athenians weren’t accountable to their allies for these contributions; that it was the Athenians who had fought against and defended against the barbarians, while many of the allied states had provided neither ships nor soldiers; that Athens was now the leader of a powerful league; and that increasing her glory and solidifying her power was a duty she owed as much to her allies as to herself. Arguments that could only be answered by armies, not speeches. 276
The principal other sources whence the Athenian revenue was derived, it may be desirable here to state as briefly and as clearly as the nature of the subject will allow. By those who would search more deeply, the long and elaborate statistics of Boeckh must be carefully explored. Those sources of revenue were—
The main other sources of Athenian revenue should be outlined here as simply and clearly as possible, given the complexity of the topic. For those wanting to delve deeper, the detailed statistics of Boeckh should be thoroughly examined. These sources of revenue were—
1st. Rents from corporate estates—such as pastures, forests, rivers, salt-works, houses, theatres, etc., and mines, let for terms of years, or on heritable leases.
1st. Rents from corporate estates—like pastures, forests, rivers, salt works, houses, theaters, etc., and mines, leased for terms of years, or on long-term leases.
2dly. Tolls, export and import duties, probably paid only by strangers, and amounting to two per cent., a market excise, and the twentieth part of all exports and imports levied in the dependant allied cities—the last a considerable item.
2dly. Tolls, export and import duties, likely only paid by outsiders, and totaling two percent, a market tax, and one-twentieth of all exports and imports charged in the dependent allied cities—the last being a significant amount.
3dly. Tithes, levied only on lands held in usufruct, as estates belonging to temples.
3rdly. Tithes, collected only on lands held for use, as properties belonging to temples.
4thly. A protection tax 277, paid by the settlers, or Metoeci, common to most of the Greek states, but peculiarly productive in Athens from the number of strangers that her trade, her festivals, and her renown attracted. The policy of Pericles could not fail to increase this source of revenue.
4thly. A protection tax 277, paid by the settlers or Metoeci, was common to most Greek states but particularly generated significant revenue in Athens due to the large number of foreigners drawn by its trade, festivals, and reputation. Pericles' policies undoubtedly boosted this source of income.
Most of these taxes appear to have been farmed out.
Most of these taxes seem to have been outsourced.
6thly. Judicial fees and fines. As we have seen that the allies in most important trials were compelled to seek justice in Athens, this, in the time of Pericles, was a profitable source of income. But it was one, the extent of which necessarily depended upon peace.
6thly. Judicial fees and fines. As we have seen, the allies in most significant trials were forced to seek justice in Athens. During Pericles' time, this became a lucrative source of income. However, the amount depended heavily on peace.
Fines were of many classes, but not, at least in this period, of very great value to the state. Sometimes (as in all private accusations) the fine fell to the plaintiff, sometimes a considerable proportion enriched the treasury of the tutelary goddess. The task of assessing the fines was odious, and negligently performed by the authorities, while it was easy for those interested to render a false account of their property.
Fines came in many types, but at least during this time, they weren't very valuable to the state. Sometimes (like in all private accusations) the fine went to the plaintiff, and other times, a significant portion filled the treasury of the protective goddess. The job of determining fines was unpleasant and poorly handled by the authorities, while it was simple for those involved to give a false report about their property.
Lastly. The state received the aid of annual contributions, or what were termed liturgies, from individuals for particular services.
Lastly, the state received support through annual contributions, known as liturgies, from individuals for specific services.
The ordinary liturgies were, 1st. The Choregia, or duty of furnishing the chorus for the plays—tragic, comic, and satirical—of remunerating the leader of the singers and musicians—of maintaining the latter while trained—of supplying the dresses, the golden crowns and masks, and, indeed, the general decorations and equipments of the theatre. He on whom this burdensome honour fell was called Choregus; his name, and that of his tribe, was recorded on the tripod which commemorated the victory of the successful poet, whose performances were exhibited. 279
The usual responsibilities included, 1st, the Choregia, or the duty of providing the chorus for the plays—tragic, comic, and satirical—paying the leader of the singers and musicians, covering their expenses while they were being trained, supplying costumes, golden crowns, masks, and, in general, overseeing the decorations and equipment for the theater. The person who took on this demanding honor was called the Choregus; his name, along with his tribe's name, was recorded on a tripod that celebrated the victory of the successful poet whose performances were showcased. 279
2dly. The Gymnasiarchy, or charge of providing for the expense of the torch-race, celebrated in honour of the gods of fire, and some other sacred games. In later times the gymnasiarchy comprised the superintendence of the training schools, and the cost of ornamenting the arena.
2dly. The Gymnasiarchy, or responsibility for covering the expenses of the torch race celebrated in honor of the fire gods and some other sacred games. Later on, the gymnasiarchy included overseeing the training schools and the costs of decorating the arena.
3dly. The Architheoria, or task of maintaining the embassy to sacred games and festivals.
3dly. The Architheoria, or the duty of managing the embassy for sacred games and festivals.
And, 4thly, the Hestiasis, or feasting of the tribes, a costly obligation incurred by some wealthy member of each tribe for entertaining the whole of the tribe at public, but not very luxurious, banquets. This last expense did not often occur. The hestiasis was intended for sacred objects, connected with the rites of hospitality, and served to confirm the friendly intercourse between the members of the tribe.
And, fourthly, the Hestiasis, or feasting of the tribes, was an expensive obligation taken on by a wealthy member of each tribe to host the entire tribe at public, but not overly lavish, banquets. This last expense didn't happen very often. The hestiasis was meant for sacred objects related to the traditions of hospitality and helped strengthen the friendly relationships among the tribe's members.
These three ordinary liturgies had all a religious character; they were compulsory on those possessed of property not less than three talents—they were discharged in turn by the tribes, except when volunteered by individuals.
These three regular ceremonies all had a religious aspect; they were mandatory for anyone owning property worth at least three talents—they were carried out in rotation by the tribes, unless individuals chose to volunteer.
VII. The expenses incurred for the defence or wants of the state were not regular, but extraordinary liturgies—such as the TRIERARCHY, or equipment of ships, which entailed also the obligation of personal service on those by whom the triremes were fitted out. Personal service was indeed the characteristic of all liturgies, a property-tax, which was not yet invented, alone excepted; and this, though bearing the name, has not the features, of a liturgy. Of the extraordinary liturgies, the trierarchy was the most important. It was of very early origin. Boeckh observes 280 that it was mentioned in the time of Hippias. At the period of which we treat each vessel had one trierarch. The vessel was given to the trierarch, sometimes ready equipped; he also received the public money for certain expenses; others fell on himself 281. Occasionally, but rarely, an ambitious or patriotic trierarch defrayed the whole cost; but in any case he rendered strict account of the expenses incurred. The cost of a whole trierarchy was not less than forty minas, nor more than a talent.
VII. The expenses for the defense or needs of the state were not regular, but rather extraordinary duties—like the TRIERARCHY, which involved equipping ships and also required personal service from those who provided the triremes. Personal service was indeed a hallmark of all such duties, except for a property tax, which had not yet been established; although it shares the name, it lacks the characteristics of a duty. Among the extraordinary duties, the trierarchy was the most significant. Its origins go back very far. Boeckh notes 280 that it was mentioned during Hippias's time. In the period we’re discussing, each ship had one trierarch. The ship was assigned to the trierarch, sometimes already equipped; he also received public funds for certain expenses, while others were his responsibility 281. Occasionally, though rarely, an ambitious or patriotic trierarch covered the entire cost; but in any case, he had to provide a detailed account of the expenses incurred. The total cost of a trierarchy was no less than forty minas and no more than a talent.
VIII. Two liturgies could not be demanded simultaneously from any individual, nor was he liable to any one more often than every other year. He who served the trierarchies was exempted from all other contributions. Orphans were exempted till the year after they had obtained their majority, and a similar exemption was, in a very few instances, the reward of eminent public services. The nine archons were also exempted from the trierarchies.
VIII. No individual could be required to serve in two liturgies at the same time, and he wasn’t liable to do so more than once every other year. Those who served in the trierarchies were exempt from all other contributions. Orphans were exempt until the year after they turned 18, and similar exemptions were granted in rare cases as a reward for exceptional public service. The nine archons were also exempt from the trierarchies.
IX. The moral defects of liturgies were the defects of a noble theory, which almost always terminates in practical abuses. Their principle was that of making it an honour to contribute to the public splendour or the national wants. Hence, in the earlier times, an emulation among the rich to purchase favour by a liberal, but often calculating and interested ostentation; hence, among the poor, actuated by an equal ambition, was created so great a necessity for riches as the means to power 282, that the mode by which they were to be acquired was often overlooked. What the theory designed as the munificence of patriotism, became in practice but a showy engine of corruption; and men vied with each other in the choregia or the trierarchy, not so much for the sake of service done to the state, as in the hope of influence acquired over the people. I may also observe, that in a merely fiscal point of view, the principle of liturgies was radically wrong; that principle went to tax the few instead of the many; its operation was therefore not more unequal in its assessments than it was unproductive to the state in proportion to its burden on individuals.
IX. The moral flaws of liturgies were the flaws of a noble idea that often leads to practical abuses. The principle was to honor contributions to public grandeur or national needs. As a result, in earlier times, the wealthy competed to gain favor through generous yet often calculated and self-interested displays; similarly, among the poor, driven by the same ambition, a significant need for wealth emerged as a means to power 282, causing them to overlook how it was acquired. What the theory intended as the generosity of patriotism turned into a flashy tool of corruption in practice; men competed in the choregia or the trierarchy not so much for the service provided to the state but in the hope of gaining influence over the people. I should also note that, from a purely financial perspective, the principle of liturgies was fundamentally flawed; it taxed the few instead of the many, making its assessments both unequal and less productive for the state relative to the burden it imposed on individuals.
X. The various duties were farmed—a pernicious plan of finance common to most of the Greek states. The farmers gave sureties, and punctuality was rigorously exacted from them, on penalty of imprisonment, the doubling of the debt, the confiscation of their properties, the compulsory hold upon their sureties.
X. The different duties were farmed out—a harmful financial scheme common to most Greek states. The farmers provided guarantees, and punctuality was strictly enforced, with penalties including imprisonment, doubling of the debt, confiscation of their property, and mandatory claims against their guarantors.
XI. Such were the main sources of the Athenian revenue. Opportunities will occur to fill up the brief outline and amplify each detail. This sketch is now presented to the reader as comprising a knowledge necessary to a clear insight into the policy of Pericles. A rapid glance over the preceding pages will suffice to show that it was on a rigid avoidance of all unnecessary war—above all, of distant and perilous enterprises, that the revenue of Athens rested. Her commercial duties—her tax on settlers—the harvest of judicial fees, obtained from the dependant allies—the chief profits from the mines— all rested upon the maintenance of peace: even the foreign tribute, the most productive of the Athenian resources, might fail at once, if the Athenian arms should sustain a single reverse, as indeed it did after the fatal battle of Aegospotamos 283. This it was which might have shown to the great finance minister that peace with the Peloponnesus could scarce be too dearly purchased 284. The surrender of a few towns and fortresses was nothing in comparison with the arrest and paralysis of all the springs of her wealth, which would be the necessary result of a long war upon her own soil. For this reason Pericles strenuously checked all the wild schemes of the Athenians for extended empire. Yet dazzled with the glories of Cimon, some entertained the hopes of recovering Egypt, some agitated the invasion of the Persian coasts; the fair and fatal Sicily already aroused the cupidity and ambition of others; and the vain enthusiasts of the Agora even dreamed of making that island the base and centre of a new and vast dominion, including Carthage on one hand and Etruria on the other 285. Such schemes it was the great object of Pericles to oppose. He was not less ambitious for the greatness of Athens than the most daring of these visionaries; but he better understood on what foundations it should be built. His objects were to strengthen the possessions already acquired, to confine the Athenian energies within the frontiers of Greece, and to curb, as might better be done by peace than war, the Peloponnesian forces to their own rocky barriers. The means by which he sought to attain these objects were, 1st, by a maritime force; 2dly, by that inert and silent power which springs as it were from the moral dignity and renown of a nation; whatever, in this latter respect, could make Athens illustrious, made Athens formidable.
XI. These were the main sources of Athenian revenue. There will be chances to fill in the brief outline and expand on each detail. This overview is now presented to the reader as essential knowledge for understanding Pericles' policy. A quick look over the previous pages will show that Athens' revenue relied heavily on a strict avoidance of unnecessary wars—especially distant and risky campaigns. Its commercial duties, the tax on settlers, judicial fees collected from its allied states, and the major profits from the mines all depended on maintaining peace. Even the foreign tribute, which was the most significant of Athenian resources, could easily collapse if Athenian forces faced a single setback, as indeed happened after the disastrous battle of Aegospotamos 283. This situation should have made clear to the great finance minister that peace with the Peloponnesus could hardly be bought too dearly 284. The loss of a few towns and fortresses paled in comparison to the halt and freeze of all the sources of wealth, which would inevitably result from a long war on Athenian soil. For this reason, Pericles firmly opposed all the reckless ambitions of the Athenians for an extended empire. Yet, mesmerized by the achievements of Cimon, some harbored dreams of reclaiming Egypt, while others pushed for an invasion of the Persian coasts; the alluring but dangerous Sicily sparked the greed and ambition of many, and the naive dreamers in the Agora even entertained the idea of making that island the center of a new and vast empire, encompassing Carthage on one side and Etruria on the other 285. These ambitions were what Pericles aimed to counter. He was just as ambitious for the greatness of Athens as the boldest of these dreamers, but he better understood the solid foundations on which it should be built. His goals were to strengthen the territories already obtained, to keep Athenian efforts within the borders of Greece, and to restrain, as could be more effectively done through peace than war, the Peloponnesian forces to their own rugged boundaries. He sought to achieve these objectives by, first, building a strong navy; secondly, by that quiet and powerful influence that comes from the moral authority and reputation of a nation; anything that could enhance Athens' reputation also made Athens formidable.
XII. Then rapidly progressed those glorious fabrics which seemed, as Plutarch gracefully expresses it, endowed with the bloom of a perennial youth. Still the houses of private citizens remained simple and unadorned; still were the streets narrow and irregular; and even centuries afterward, a stranger entering Athens would not at first have recognised the claims of the mistress of Grecian art. But to the homeliness of her common thoroughfares and private mansions, the magnificence of her public edifices now made a dazzling contrast. The Acropolis, that towered above the homes and thoroughfares of men—a spot too sacred for human habitation—became, to use a proverbial phrase, “a city of the gods.” The citizen was everywhere to be reminded of the majesty of the STATE—his patriotism was to be increased by the pride in her beauty—his taste to be elevated by the spectacle of her splendour. Thus flocked to Athens all who throughout Greece were eminent in art. Sculptors and architects vied with each other in adorning the young empress of the seas 286; then rose the masterpieces of Phidias, of Callicrates, of Mnesicles 287, which even, either in their broken remains, or in the feeble copies of imitators less inspired, still command so intense a wonder, and furnish models so immortal. And if, so to speak, their bones and relics excite our awe and envy, as testifying of a lovelier and grander race, which the deluge of time has swept away, what, in that day, must have been their brilliant effect—unmutilated in their fair proportions—fresh in all their lineaments and hues? For their beauty was not limited to the symmetry of arch and column, nor their materials confined to the marbles of Pentelicus and Paros. Even the exterior of the temples glowed with the richest harmony of colours, and was decorated with the purest gold; an atmosphere peculiarly favourable both to the display and the preservation of art, permitted to external pediments and friezes all the minuteness of ornament—all the brilliancy of colours; such as in the interior of Italian churches may yet be seen—vitiated, in the last, by a gaudy and barbarous taste. Nor did the Athenians spare any cost upon the works that were, like the tombs and tripods of their heroes, to be the monuments of a nation to distant ages, and to transmit the most irrefragable proof “that the power of ancient Greece was not an idle legend.” 288 The whole democracy were animated with the passion of Pericles; and when Phidias recommended marble as a cheaper material than ivory for the great statue of Minerva, it was for that reason that ivory was preferred by the unanimous voice of the assembly. Thus, whether it were extravagance or magnificence, the blame in one case, the admiration in another, rests not more with the minister than the populace. It was, indeed, the great characteristic of those works, that they were entirely the creations of the people: without the people, Pericles could not have built a temple or engaged a sculptor. The miracles of that day resulted from the enthusiasm of a population yet young—full of the first ardour for the beautiful—dedicating to the state, as to a mistress, the trophies, honourably won or the treasures injuriously extorted—and uniting the resources of a nation with the energy of an individual, because the toil, the cost, were borne by those who succeeded to the enjoyment and arrogated the glory.
XII. Then rapidly advanced those glorious structures which seemed, as Plutarch elegantly puts it, filled with the freshness of eternal youth. Still, the homes of regular citizens were simple and unembellished; the streets remained narrow and irregular; and even centuries later, a newcomer entering Athens wouldn't immediately recognize the greatness of the hub of Greek art. However, the simplicity of its everyday streets and private homes now stood in stark contrast to the grandeur of its public buildings. The Acropolis, towering above the houses and streets, a place too sacred for ordinary living, became, as the saying goes, "a city of the gods." The citizen was constantly reminded of the greatness of the STATE—his patriotism fueled by pride in her beauty—his taste refined by the sight of her splendor. Thus, all the renowned artists from across Greece flocked to Athens. Sculptors and architects competed to beautify the young queen of the seas 286; then emerged the masterpieces of Phidias, Callicrates, and Mnesicles 287, which, even in their broken remains or in the weak replicas by less inspired imitators, still inspire awe and provide timeless models. And if, so to speak, their bones and remnants stir our admiration and envy, echoing a more stunning and grand era that the flood of time has washed away, just imagine what their brilliant display must have been like—whole in their beautiful proportions—vivid in every detail and color? Their beauty wasn't just confined to the symmetry of arcs and columns, nor limited to the marbles of Pentelicus and Paros. Even the exteriors of the temples shone with the richest harmony of colors and were adorned with the purest gold; an atmosphere particularly suited to showcasing and preserving art allowed for intricate details and vibrant colors on the outer pediments and friezes, similar to what can still be seen inside Italian churches today—though those later examples are often tainted by a loud and crude taste. The Athenians also spared no expense on the works that were, like the tombs and tripods of their heroes, destined to serve as monuments for future generations and to provide the most undeniable proof "that the power of ancient Greece was not merely a fable." 288 The entire democracy was inspired by the passion of Pericles; and when Phidias suggested marble as a cheaper alternative to ivory for the grand statue of Minerva, the assembly unanimously chose ivory instead. Thus, whether it was extravagance or grandeur, the responsibility in one case, the admiration in another, lies equally with both the leader and the public. It was, after all, a defining feature of those works that they were entirely created by the people: without the people, Pericles couldn't have built a temple or hired a sculptor. The miracles of that era were born from the enthusiasm of a still young population—filled with an initial passion for beauty—dedicating to the state, as to a beloved partner, the trophies they had honorably earned or the treasures they had wrongfully acquired—merging the resources of a nation with the drive of an individual, because the labor and costs were carried by those who would reap the benefits and claim the glory.
XIII. It was from two sources that Athens derived her chief political vices; 1st, Her empire of the seas and her exactions from her allies; 2dly, an unchecked, unmitigated democratic action, void of the two vents known in all modern commonwealths—the press, and a representative, instead of a popular, assembly. But from these sources she now drew all her greatness also, moral and intellectual. Before the Persian war, and even scarcely before the time of Cimon, Athens cannot be said to have eclipsed her neighbours in the arts and sciences. She became the centre and capital of the most polished communities of Greece, and she drew into a focus all the Grecian intellect; she obtained from her dependants the wealth to administer the arts, which universal traffic and intercourse taught her to appreciate; and thus the Odeon, and the Parthenon, and the Propylaea arose! During the same administration, the fortifications were completed, and a third wall, parallel 289 and near to that uniting Piraeus with Athens, consummated the works of Themistocles and Cimon, and preserved the communication between the twofold city, even should the outer walls fall into the hands of an enemy.
XIII. Athens derived her main political problems from two sources: first, her empire over the seas and the demands she made on her allies; second, a constant, unchecked democratic action that lacked the two outlets found in all modern democracies—the press and a representative assembly instead of a purely popular one. However, she also drew her greatness, both moral and intellectual, from these same sources. Before the Persian War, and even just before Cimon's time, Athens didn't outshine her neighbors in the arts and sciences. She became the center and capital of the most refined communities in Greece, attracting all the Greek intellect; she gained the wealth from her subjects to support the arts, which trade and interaction helped her to value; and thus the Odeon, the Parthenon, and the Propylaea were built! During the same administration, her fortifications were completed, with a third wall, parallel 289 and close to the one linking Piraeus with Athens, finalizing the projects of Themistocles and Cimon, ensuring communication between the two parts of the city, even if the outer walls fell to an enemy.
But honour and wealth alone would not have sufficed for the universal emulation, the universal devotion to all that could adorn or exalt the nation. It was the innovations of Aristides and Ephialtes that breathed into that abstract and cold formality, THE STATE, the breath and vigour of a pervading people, and made the meanest citizen struggle for Athens with that zeal with which an ambitious statesman struggles for himself 290. These two causes united reveal to us the true secret why Athens obtained a pre-eminence in intellectual grandeur over the rest of Greece. Had Corinth obtained the command of the seas and the treasury of Delos—had Corinth established abroad a power equally arbitrary and extensive, and at home a democracy equally broad and pure—Corinth might have had her Pericles and Demosthenes, her Phidias, her Sophocles, her Aristophanes, her Plato—and posterity might not have allowed the claim of Athens to be the Hellas Hellados, “the Greece of Greece.”
But honor and wealth alone wouldn't have been enough for people everywhere to admire or show loyalty to everything that could beautify or elevate the nation. It was the innovations of Aristides and Ephialtes that brought life and energy to that abstract and cold concept, THE STATE, inspiring even the lowest citizen to fight for Athens with the same passion that an ambitious politician fights for his own interests 290. These two combined factors reveal the true reason why Athens achieved superiority in intellectual greatness over the rest of Greece. If Corinth had gained control of the seas and the treasury of Delos—if Corinth had established a power abroad that was as absolute and extensive, and at home a democracy that was equally broad and pure—Corinth could have had her Pericles and Demosthenes, her Phidias, her Sophocles, her Aristophanes, her Plato—and history might not have recognized Athens as the Hellas Hellados, “the Greece of Greece.”
XIV. But the increase of wealth bounded not its effects to these magnificent works of art—they poured into and pervaded the whole domestic policy of Athens. We must recollect, that as the greatness of the state was that of the democracy, so its treasures were the property of the free population. It was the people who were rich; and according to all the notions of political economy in that day, the people desired practically to enjoy their own opulence. Thus was introduced the principal of payment for service, and thus was sanctioned and legalized the right of a common admission to spectacles, the principal cost of which was defrayed from common property. That such innovations would be the necessary and unavoidable result of an overflowing treasury in a state thus democratic is so obvious, that nothing can be more absurd than to lay the blame of the change upon Pericles. He only yielded to, and regulated the irresistible current of the general wish. And we may also observe, that most of those innovations, which were ultimately injurious to Athens, rested upon the acknowledged maxims of modern civilization; some were rather erroneous from details than principles; others, from the want of harmony between the new principles and the old constitution to which then were applied. Each of the elements might be healthful—amalgamated, they produced a poison.
XIV. But the increase in wealth didn’t just lead to these impressive works of art—it influenced and infused the entire domestic policy of Athens. We must remember that as the strength of the state was tied to the democracy, so its wealth belonged to the free citizens. It was the people who were affluent; and according to the beliefs of political economy at that time, the people wanted to actively enjoy their own riches. This led to the principle of payment for service, and it established and legalized the right to common access to events, the main costs of which were covered by communal resources. That such changes were the inevitable and unavoidable outcome of having a surplus treasury in a democratic state is so clear that it’s ridiculous to blame Pericles for the shift. He simply responded to and shaped the unstoppable wave of public desire. We should also note that many of those changes, which eventually harmed Athens, were based on widely accepted ideas of modern civilization; some were flawed more in detail than in principle; others stemmed from a lack of harmony between the new ideas and the old system to which they were applied. Each part could be beneficial—when combined, they created a toxic mix.
XV. It is, for instance, an axiom in modern politics that judges should receive a salary 291. During the administration of Pericles, this principle was applied to the dicasts in the popular courts of judicature. It seems probable that the vast accession of law business which ensued from the transfer of the courts in the allied states to the Athenian tribunal was the cause of this enactment. Lawsuits became so common, that it was impossible, without salaries, that the citizens could abandon their own business for that of others. Payment was, therefore, both equitable and unavoidable, and, doubtless, it would have seemed to the Athenians, as now to us, the best means, not only of securing the attention, but of strengthening the integrity, of the judges or the jurors. The principle of salaries was, therefore, right, but its results were evil, when applied to the peculiar constitution of the courts. The salary was small—the judges numerous, and mostly of the humblest class—the consequences I have before shown 292. Had the salaries been high and the number of the judges small, the means of a good judicature would have been attained. But, then, according to the notions, not only of the Athenians, but of all the Hellenic democracies, the democracy itself, of which the popular courts were deemed the constitutional bulwark and the vital essence, would have been at an end. In this error, therefore, however fatal it might be, neither Pericles nor the Athenians, but the theories of the age, are to be blamed 293. It is also a maxim formerly acted upon in England, to which many political philosophers now incline, and which is yet adopted in the practice of a great and enlightened portion of the world, that the members of the legislative assembly should receive salaries. This principle was now applied in Athens 294. But there the people themselves were the legislative assembly, and thus a principle, perhaps sound in itself, became vitiated to the absurdity of the people as sovereign paying the people as legislative. Yet even this might have been necessary to the preservation of the constitution, as meetings became numerous and business complicated; for if the people had not been tempted and even driven to assemble in large masses, the business of the state would have been jobbed away by active minorities, and the life of a democracy been lost 295. The payment was first one obolus— afterward increased to three. Nor must we suppose, as the ignorance or effrontery of certain modern historians has strangely asserted, that in the new system of payments the people were munificent only to themselves. The senate was paid—the public advocates and orators were paid—so were the ambassadors, the inspectors of the youths in the trading schools, the nomothetae or law-commissioners, the physicians, the singers, even the poets; all the servants of the different officers received salaries. And now, as is the inevitable consequence of that civilization in a commercial society which multiplies and strongly demarcates the divisions of labour, the safety of the state no longer rested solely upon the unpurchased arms and hearts of its citizens—but not only were the Athenians themselves who served as soldiers paid, but foreign mercenaries were engaged—a measure in consonance with the characteristic policy of Pericles, which was especially frugal of the lives of the citizens. But peculiar to the Athenians of all the Grecian states was the humane and beautiful provision for the poor, commenced under Solon or Pisistratus. At this happy and brilliant period few were in need of it—war and disaster, while they increased the number of the destitute, widened the charity of the state.
XV. It's a given in modern politics that judges should receive a salary 291. During Pericles' administration, this idea was put into practice for the dicasts in the popular courts. It's likely that the huge increase in legal cases from transferring courts in allied states to the Athenian tribunal led to this decision. Lawsuits became so frequent that citizens couldn't just leave their own businesses to handle those of others without pay. Therefore, payment was both fair and necessary, and the Athenians likely saw it, just like we do today, as the best way to ensure judges' focus and integrity. The principle of salaries was right, but in the unique context of the courts, the outcomes were negative. The salary was low, the judges were many, and mostly from the lowest classes—the consequences I’ve detailed before 292. If the salaries had been higher and the number of judges smaller, a good judicial system could have been achieved. But, according to the beliefs of both the Athenians and all Hellenic democracies, this would have ended the democracy itself, which was seen as upheld by the popular courts. Thus, in this error—however disastrous—neither Pericles nor the Athenians were to blame, but rather the theories of the time 293. It was also once a principle in England, which many political philosophers support today, and is still practiced in many enlightened parts of the world, that legislative assembly members should receive salaries. This principle was now applied in Athens 294. However, in Athens, the people themselves were the legislative assembly, which made a principle that might be sound in theory become absurd—the people as sovereign were paying the people as legislators. Yet even this might have been necessary to maintain the constitution, as gatherings became frequent and business grew complicated; if the people hadn’t been tempted and even forced to meet in large groups, the state's business would have been controlled by active minorities, ultimately risking the essence of democracy 295. Initially, payment was one obolus—later increased to three. And we shouldn't assume, as some ignorant or bold modern historians have claimed, that in the revised payment system, the people were generous only to themselves. The senate was paid, public advocates and orators were paid, and so were ambassadors, inspectors of youth in trade schools, law commissioners, physicians, singers, and even poets; all servants of various officers received salaries. Now, as is the unavoidable outcome of civilization in a commercial society that amplifies and clearly defines labor divisions, the safety of the state no longer relied solely on the unpaid arms and hearts of its citizens—Athenians who served as soldiers were paid, and foreign mercenaries were employed—a decision aligned with Pericles' characteristic policy of being especially sparing of citizens' lives. What was unique to Athenians among all Greek states was the humane and admirable assistance for the poor, which began under Solon or Pisistratus. During this fortunate and prosperous time, few were in need of it—war and disaster, while increasing the number of destitute individuals, also expanded the charity of the state.
XVI. Thus, then, that general system of payment which grew up under Pericles, and produced many abuses under his successors, was, after all, but the necessary result of the increased civilization and opulence of the period. Nor can we wonder that the humbler or the middle orders, who, from their common stock, lavished generosity upon genius 296, and alone, of all contemporaneous states, gave relief to want—who maintained the children of all who died in war—who awarded remunerations for every service, should have deemed it no grasping exaction to require for their own attendance on offices forced on them by the constitution a compensation for the desertion of their private affairs, little exceeding that which was conferred upon the very paupers of the state. 297
XVI. So, the overall payment system that developed during Pericles' time, which later caused many issues under his successors, was really just a necessary outcome of the increasing civilization and wealth of that era. It's not surprising that the lower and middle classes, who generously supported talent and, unlike any other contemporary states, provided aid to those in need—who supported the children of soldiers who died in battle—who paid for every service, would think it was reasonable to request compensation for their involvement in positions mandated by the constitution, which required them to neglect their own private matters, just slightly more than what was given to the very poor in the state.
XVII. But there was another abuse which sprang out of the wealth of the people, and that love for spectacles and exhibitions which was natural to the lively Ionic imagination, and could not but increase as leisure and refinement became boons extended to the bulk of the population—an abuse trifling in itself—fatal in the precedent it set. While the theatre was of wood, free admissions were found to produce too vast a concourse for the stability of the building; and once, indeed, the seats gave way. It was, therefore, long before the present period, deemed advisable to limit the number of the audience by a small payment of two obols for each seat; and this continued after a stately edifice of stone replaced the wooden temple of the earlier drama.
XVII. However, there was another issue that arose from the wealth of the people and their natural love for shows and performances, which was typical of the vibrant Ionic imagination. This love only grew as leisure and refinement became widely accessible to the general population—an issue that seemed minor at first but had serious implications. When the theater was made of wood, free admissions resulted in such large crowds that the building struggled to hold them; in fact, there was one instance when the seats collapsed. Because of this, it was long before the current period that it was considered wise to limit the audience size by charging a small fee of two obols for each seat, and this practice continued even after a grand stone building replaced the wooden structure of the earlier performances.
But as riches flowed into the treasury, and as the drama became more and more the most splendid and popular of the national exhibitions, it seemed but just to return to the ancient mode of gratuitous admissions. It was found, however, convenient, partly, perhaps, for greater order and for the better allotment of the seats—partly, also, for the payment of several expenses which fell not on the state, but individuals—and partly, no doubt, to preserve the distinctions between the citizens and the strangers, to maintain the prices, but to allow to those whose names were enrolled in the book of the citizens the admittance money from the public treasury. This fund was called the THEORICON. But the example once set, Theorica were extended to other festivals besides those of the drama 298, and finally, under the plausible and popular pretext of admitting the poorer classes to those national or religious festivals, from which, as forming the bulk of the nation, it was against the theory of the constitution to exclude them, paved the way to lavish distributions of the public money, which at once tended to exhaust the wealth of the state, and to render effeminate and frivolous the spirit of the people. But these abuses were not yet visible: on the contrary, under Pericles, the results of the Theoricon were highly favourable to the manners and genius of the people. Art was thus rendered the universal right, and while refinement of taste became diffused, the patriotism of the citizens was increased by the consciousness that they were the common and legitimate arbiters of all which augmented the splendour and renown of Athens.
But as wealth poured into the treasury, and as the performances became more and more the most magnificent and popular of the national events, it seemed only fair to return to the old practice of free admissions. However, it was found to be more convenient—partly, perhaps, for better organization and the efficient allocation of seats, partly to cover various expenses that fell on individuals rather than the state, and partly, no doubt, to maintain the distinctions between citizens and visitors—to keep the ticket prices but allow those whose names were listed in the citizen registry to have their admission fees covered by the public treasury. This fund was called the THEORICON. Once this was established, Theorica was expanded to include other festivals besides those of the theater 298, and eventually, under the convenient and popular rationale of allowing lower-income individuals to attend those national or religious festivals—which, being the majority of the population, should not be excluded according to constitutional theory—it led to extravagant distributions of public funds that tended to deplete the state's wealth and weaken the spirit of the people. But these issues were not yet apparent: on the contrary, under Pericles, the outcomes of the Theoricon were very beneficial to the character and creativity of the people. Art thus became a universal right, and as cultural refinement spread, the patriotism of the citizens grew stronger with the awareness that they were the common and rightful judges of everything that enhanced the glory and reputation of Athens.
Thus, in fact, the after evils that resulted from the more popular part of the internal policy of Pericles, it was impossible to foresee; they originated not in a single statement, but in the very nature of civilization. And as in despotisms, a coarse and sensual luxury, once established, rots away the vigour and manhood of a conquering people, so in this intellectual republic it was the luxury of the intellect which gradually enervated the great spirit of the victor race of Marathon and Salamis, and called up generations of eloquent talkers and philosophical dreamers from the earlier age of active freemen, restless adventurers, and hardy warriors. The spirit of poetry, or the pampered indulgence of certain faculties to the prejudice of others, produced in a whole people what it never fails to produce in the individual: it unfitted them just as they grew up into a manhood exposed to severer struggles than their youth had undergone—for the stern and practical demands of life; and suffered the love of the beautiful to subjugate or soften away the common knowledge of the useful. Genius itself became a disease, and poetry assisted towards the euthanasia of the Athenians.
Thus, the negative consequences that came from the more popular aspects of Pericles' internal policies were impossible to foresee; they arose not from a single statement but from the very nature of civilization. Just as in authoritarian regimes, a harsh and indulgent luxury, once established, corrodes the strength and masculinity of a conquering people, in this intellectual community it was the luxury of the mind that gradually weakened the noble spirit of the victorious race of Marathon and Salamis, giving rise to generations of eloquent speakers and philosophical dreamers, moving away from the earlier age of active free individuals, restless adventurers, and brave warriors. The spirit of poetry, or the excessive indulgence of certain abilities at the expense of others, created in an entire population what it always creates in an individual: it unprepared them just as they matured into a manhood faced with harsher struggles than their youth had experienced—for the tough and practical demands of life; and allowed the admiration of beauty to overpower or diminish the basic knowledge of the practical. Genius itself became a burden, and poetry contributed to the decline of the Athenians.
XVIII. As all the measures of Pericles were directed towards consolidating the Athenian empire, so under his administration was not omitted the politic expedient of colonization. Of late years, states having become confirmed and tribes settled, the Grecian migrations were far less frequent than of old; and one principal cause of colonization, in the violent feud of parties, and the expulsion of a considerable number of citizens, arose from the disasters of infant communities, and was no longer in force under the free but strong government of Athens. As with the liberties fell the commerce of Miletus and Ionia, so also another principal source of the old colonization became comparatively languid and inert. But now, under the name of Cleruchi 299, a new description of colonists arose— colonists by whom the mother country not only draughted off a redundant population, or rid herself of restless adventurers, but struck the roots of her empire in the various places that came under her control. In the classic as in the feudal age, conquest gave the right to the lands of the conquered country. Thus had arisen, and thus still existed, upon the plundered lands of Laconia, the commonwealth of Sparta—thus were maintained the wealthy and luxurious nobles of Thessaly—and thus, in fine, were created all the ancient Dorian oligarchies. After the return of the Heraclidae, this mode of consummating conquest fell into disuse, not from any moral conviction of its injustice, but because the wars between the various states rarely terminated in victories so complete as to permit the seizure of the land and the subjugation of the inhabitants. And it must be ever remembered, that the old Grecian tribes made war to procure a settlement, and not to increase dominion. The smallness of their population rendered human life too valuable to risk its waste in the expeditions that characterized the ambition of the leaders of oriental hordes. But previous to the Persian wars, the fertile meadows of Euboea presented to the Athenians a temptation it could scarcely be expected that victorious neighbours would have the abstinence to forego; and we have seen that they bestowed the lands of the Hippobotae on Athenian settlers. These colonists evacuated their possessions during the Persian war: the Hippobotae returned, and seem to have held quiet, but probably tributary, possession of their ancient estates, until after the recent retreat of the Peloponnesians. Pericles defeated and displaced them; their lands fell once more to Athenian colonists; and the north of Euboea was protected and garrisoned by the erection of Oreus, a new town that supplanted the old Histiaea. Territories in Scyros, Lemnos, and Imbros had been also bestowed on Athenian settlers during the earlier successes of the Athenian arms—and the precedent thus set, examples became more numerous, under the profound and systematic policy of Pericles. This mode of colonization, besides the ordinary advantages of all colonization, proffered two peculiar to itself. In the first place, it supplied the deficiency of land, which was one of the main inconveniences of Attica, and rewarded the meritorious or appeased the avaricious citizens, with estates which it did not impoverish the mother country to grant. 2dly. It secured the conquests of the state by planting garrisons which it cost little to maintain 300. Thus were despatched by Pericles a thousand men to the valuable possessions in the Chersonese, two hundred and fifty to Andros, five hundred to Naxos, a thousand to Thrace. At another period, the date of which is uncertain, but probably shortly subsequent to the truce with the Peloponnesians, a large fleet, commanded by Pericles, swept the Euxine, in order to awe and impress the various states and nations along the adjacent coasts, whether Greek or barbarian, with the display of the Athenian power; and the city of Sinope, being at that time divided with contentions for and against its tyrant Timesilaus, the republican party applied to the head of the Greek democracies for aid. Lamachus, a warrior to whose gallant name, afterward distinguished in the Peloponnesian war, Aristophanes has accorded the equal honour of his ridicule and his praise, was intrusted with thirteen galleys and a competent force for the expulsion of the tyrant and his adherents. The object effected, the new government of Sinope rewarded six hundred Athenians with the freedom of the city and the estates of the defeated faction.
XVIII. Just like all of Pericles' actions aimed at strengthening the Athenian empire, his leadership also included the strategic move of colonization. In recent years, as states became established and tribes settled, Greek migrations happened much less frequently than before. One main reason for colonization—stemming from intense political rivalry and the expulsion of many citizens—had diminished due to the stable yet strong government of Athens. As the freedoms of Miletus and Ionia declined, another major source of old colonization also grew weak and inactive. However, a new type of colonist emerged under the name of Cleruchia 299, allowing the mother country to not only relieve itself of surplus population or restless adventurers but also to establish roots of its empire in various regions it controlled. In both ancient and feudal times, conquest granted the right to the lands of the conquered. This led to the formation, and ongoing existence, of the Spartan commonwealth on the plundered lands of Laconia, the preserved wealth and luxury of Thessalian nobles, and all the ancient Dorian oligarchies. After the return of the Heraclidae, this method of solidifying conquest faded away—not due to any moral recognition of its unfairness, but because wars between various states rarely ended in clear victories that allowed for land grabs and the subjugation of local populations. It's important to remember that the old Greek tribes went to war primarily to establish settlements, not to expand their dominion. Their small populations made human life too precious to waste on the costly military campaigns typical of leaders of Eastern hordes. Yet, before the Persian wars, the rich fields of Euboea lured the Athenians, and it was hard to believe that victorious neighbors would just leave them alone. We saw that they granted the lands of the Hippobotae to Athenian settlers. Those colonists abandoned their properties during the Persian War; the Hippobotae returned and seemed to maintain quiet, possibly tributary, control over their old lands until after the recent retreat of the Peloponnesians. Pericles defeated and pushed them out; their lands returned to Athenian colonists, and the north of Euboea was secured and fortified by the establishment of Oreus, a new town that replaced the old Histiaea. Territories in Scyros, Lemnos, and Imbros were also given to Athenian settlers during earlier successes of Athenian military efforts—and as this precedent was set, more examples followed under Pericles' thorough and systematic policies. This method of colonization, besides the usual benefits of all colonization, had two unique advantages. Firstly, it addressed the land shortage, one of the main issues in Attica, rewarding deserving citizens or satisfying greedy ones with estates that didn't impoverish the mother country to allocate. Secondly, it solidified the state's conquests by installing garrisons that were inexpensive to maintain 300. Thus, Pericles sent a thousand men to valuable holdings in the Chersonese, two hundred and fifty to Andros, five hundred to Naxos, and a thousand to Thrace. At another time, likely shortly after the truce with the Peloponnesians, a large fleet led by Pericles cruised the Euxine to impress the various states and nations along the nearby coasts, whether they were Greek or non-Greek, with the might of Athens; at that time, the city of Sinope was torn by conflicts over its tyrant Timesilaus. The republican faction sought help from the leader of the Greek democracies. Lamachus, a warrior whose brave reputation later stood out in the Peloponnesian War and earned equal parts mockery and praise from Aristophanes, was given thirteen galleys and enough troops to remove the tyrant and his followers. Once the goal was achieved, the new government of Sinope honored six hundred Athenians with city citizenship and the estates of the defeated faction.
While thus Athens fixed her footing on remoter lands, gradually her grasp extended over the more near and necessary demesnes of Euboea, until the lands of more than two thirds of that island were in the possession of Athenians 301. At a later period, new opportunities gave rise to new cleruchiae. 302
XIX. Besides these cleruchiae, in the second year of the supreme administration of Pericles a colony, properly so called, was established in Western Italy—interesting alike from the great names of its early adventurers, the beauty of its site, and from the circumstance of its being, besides that at Amphipolis, the only pure and legitimate colony 303, in contradistinction to the cleruchiae, founded by Athens, since her ancient migrations to Ionia and the Cyclades. Two centuries before, some Achaeans, mingled with Troezenians, had established, in the fertile garden of Magna Graecia, the state of Sybaris. Placed between two rivers, the Crathis and the Sybaris—possessing extraordinary advantages of site and climate, this celebrated colony rose with unparalleled rapidity to eminence in war and luxury in peace. So great were its population and resources, that it is said by Diodorus to have brought at one time three hundred thousand men into the field—an army which doubled that which all Greece could assemble at Plataea! The exaggeration is evident; but it still attests the belief of a populousness and power which must have rested upon no fabulous foundation. The state of Sybaris had prospered for a time by the adoption of a principle which is ever apt to force civilization to premature development, and not unfrequently to end in the destruction of national character and internal stability—viz., it opened its arms to strangers of every tribe and class. Thronged by mercantile adventurers, its trade, like that of Agrigentum, doubtless derived its sources from the oil and wine which it poured into the harbours of Africa and Gaul. As with individuals, so with states, wealth easily obtained is prodigally spent, and the effeminate and voluptuous ostentation of Sybaris passed into a proverb more enduring than her prosperity. Her greatness, acquired by a tempered and active democracy, received a mortal blow by the usurpation of a tyrant named Telys, who, in 510 B. C., expelled five hundred of the principal citizens. Croton received the exiles, a war broke out, and in the same year, or shortly afterward, the Crotoniates, under Milo, defeated the Sybarites with prodigious slaughter, and the city was abandoned to pillage, and left desolate and ruined. Those who survived fled to Laos and Scidrus. Fifty-eight years afterward, aided by some Thessalians, the exiled Sybarites again sought possession of their former settlement, but were speedily expelled by the Crotoniates. It was now that they applied to Sparta and Athens for assistance. The former state had neither population to spare, nor commerce to strengthen, nor ambition to gratify, and rejected the overtures of the Sybarite envoys. But a different success awaited the exiles at Athens. Their proposition, timed in a period when it was acceptable to the Athenian policy (B. C. 443), was enforced by Pericles. Adventurers from all parts of Greece, but invited especially from the Peloponnesus, swelled the miscellaneous band: eminent among the rest were Lysias, afterward so celebrated as a rhetorician 304, and Herodotus, the historian.
XIX. In addition to these cleruchiae, during the second year of Pericles' leadership, a proper colony was established in Western Italy—significant for the notable figures among its early settlers, the beauty of its location, and the fact that it was, aside from Amphipolis, the only true colony 303, unlike the cleruchiae founded by Athens during its ancient migrations to Ionia and the Cyclades. Two centuries earlier, some Achaeans, along with Troezenians, had founded the state of Sybaris in the fertile region of Magna Graecia. Situated between the Crathis and the Sybaris rivers—with outstanding advantages in both location and climate—this famous colony quickly rose to prominence in war and luxury in peace. Its population and resources were so vast that Diodorus claims it once mustered three hundred thousand men for battle—an army that was twice as large as the total that all of Greece could gather at Plataea! While this may be an exaggeration, it still reflects the widespread belief in Sybaris' significant population and power, which was based on more than mere legend. Sybaris thrived for a time by embracing a principle that often pushes civilizations towards rapid development and can lead to a deterioration of national identity and internal stability—namely, it welcomed strangers from every background. Filled with mercantile adventurers, its trade undoubtedly flourished like that of Agrigentum, primarily from the oil and wine it exported to the ports of Africa and Gaul. Just like individuals, states can squander easily acquired wealth, and Sybaris’ excessive and indulgent lifestyle became a lasting proverb that outlived its prosperity. Its greatness, achieved through a balanced and active democracy, suffered a fatal blow when a tyrant named Telys usurped power in 510 B.C., driving out five hundred prominent citizens. The exiles sought refuge in Croton, leading to a war, and soon after, the Crotoniates, led by Milo, inflicted a devastating defeat on the Sybarites, leaving their city ravaged and abandoned. Those who survived fled to Laos and Scidrus. Fifty-eight years later, aided by some Thessalians, the exiled Sybarites attempted to reclaim their former home but were quickly driven out again by the Crotoniates. It was at this point that they turned to Sparta and Athens for help. Sparta had no population to spare, lacked commerce to boost, and wasn’t looking to expand, so they rejected the Sybarite envoys’ requests. However, the exiles had more luck with Athens. Their appeal came at a time that aligned well with Athenian interests (B.C. 443) and was backed by Pericles. Adventurers from all over Greece, especially from the Peloponnesus, joined the mix, including notable figures like Lysias, who would later become famous as a rhetorician 304, and Herodotus, the historian.
As in the political code of Greece the religious character of the people made a prevailing principle, so in colonization the deity of the parent state transplanted his worship with his votaries, and the relation between the new and the old country was expressed and perpetuated by the touching symbol of taking fire from the Prytaneum of the native city. A renowned diviner, named Lampon 305, whose sacred pretensions did not preserve him from the ridicule of the comic poets 306, accompanied the emigrants (B. C. 440), and an oracle dictated the site of the new colony near the ancient city, and by the fountain of Thurium. The Sybarites, with the common vanity of men whose ancestors have been greater than themselves, increased their pretensions in proportion as they lost their power; they affected superiority over their companions, by whose swords alone they again existed as a people; claimed the exclusive monopoly of the principal offices of government, and the first choice of lands; and were finally cut off by the very allies whose aid they had sought, and whose resentment they provoked. New adventurers from Greece replaced the Sybarites, and the colonists of Thurium, divided into ten tribes (four, the representatives of the united Ionians, Euboeans, Islanders, and Athenians; three of the Peloponnesians; and three of the settlers from Northern Greece)—retained peaceable possession of their delightful territory, and harmonized their motley numbers by the adoption of the enlightened laws and tranquil institutions of Charondas. Such was the home of Herodotus, the historian.
As in the political system of Greece, the spiritual nature of the people was a key principle. This was also true in colonization, where the god of the parent state brought his worship along with his followers. The connection between the new and old countries was symbolized and maintained by the meaningful act of taking fire from the Prytaneum of the native city. A famous diviner named Lampon 305, whose sacred claims didn’t save him from the jokes of comic poets 306, traveled with the emigrants (B.C. 440). An oracle pointed out the location for the new colony near the ancient city by the fountain of Thurium. The Sybarites, with the usual arrogance of people whose ancestors were once greater than they are, boosted their claims as they lost power. They pretended to be superior to their fellow colonists, who were the ones that enabled their survival as a community by their swords. They demanded exclusive rights to hold key government positions and the best choice of lands. Ultimately, they were abandoned by the very allies they had relied on and whose anger they had provoked. New settlers from Greece took the place of the Sybarites, and the colonists of Thurium, divided into ten tribes (four representing the united Ionians, Euboeans, Islanders, and Athenians; three from the Peloponnesians; and three from Northern Greece)—kept peaceful control of their beautiful land and united their diverse groups by adopting the progressive laws and stable institutions of Charondas. This was the home of Herodotus, the historian.
CHAPTER III.
Revision of the Census.—Samian War.—Sketch of the Rise and Progress of the Athenian Comedy to the Time of Aristophanes.
Revision of the Census.—Samian War.—Overview of the Development of Athenian Comedy up to the Time of Aristophanes.
I. In proportion as it had become matter of honourable pride and lucrative advantage to be a citizen of Athens, it was natural that the laws defining and limiting the freedom of the city should increase in strictness. Even before the time of Themistocles, those only were considered legitimate 307 who, on either side, derived parentage from Athenian citizens. But though illegitimate, they were not therefore deprived of the rights of citizenship; nor had the stain upon his birth been a serious obstacle to the career of Themistocles himself. Under Pericles, the law became more severe, and a decree was passed (apparently in the earlier period of his rising power), which excluded from the freedom of the city those whose parents were not both Athenian. In the very year in which he attained the supreme administration of affairs, occasion for enforcing the law occurred: Psammetichus, the pretender to the Egyptian throne, sent a present of corn to the Athenian people (B. C. 444); the claimants for a share in the gift underwent the ordeal of scrutiny as to their titles to citizenship, and no less than five thousand persons were convicted of having fraudulently foisted themselves into rights which were now tantamount to property; they were disfranchised 308; and the whole list of the free citizens was reduced to little more than fourteen thousand. 309
I. As it became a matter of honorable pride and financial benefit to be a citizen of Athens, it was natural for the laws defining and limiting the city's freedom to become stricter. Even before Themistocles' time, only those were considered legitimate 307 who had Athenian citizen parents on either side. However, being illegitimate didn't strip them of citizenship rights; the stigma around his birth did not significantly hinder Themistocles' own career. Under Pericles, the law tightened, and a decree was passed (likely during the early stage of his rising power) that excluded from citizenship those whose parents were not both Athenian. In the very year he took full control of the government, a situation arose to enforce the law: Psammetichus, a pretender to the Egyptian throne, sent a corn gift to the Athenian people (B.C. 444); those claiming a share of the gift were subjected to scrutiny regarding their citizenship, and no fewer than five thousand people were found to have fraudulently claimed rights that were now equivalent to property; they were disfranchised 308; and the entire list of free citizens was reduced to just over fourteen thousand. 309
II. While under this brilliant and energetic administration Athens was daily more and more concentrating on herself the reluctant admiration and the growing fears of Greece, her policy towards her dependant allies involved her in a war which ultimately gave, if not a legal, at least an acknowledged, title to the pretensions she assumed. Hostilities between the new population of Miletus and the oligarchic government of Samos had been for some time carried on; the object of contention was the city of Priene—united, apparently, with rival claims upon Anaea, a town on the coast opposite Samos. The Milesians, unsuccessful in the war, applied to Athens for assistance. As the Samians were among the dependant allies, Pericles, in the name of the Athenian people, ordered them to refer to Athens the decision of the dispute; on their refusal an expedition of forty galleys was conducted against them by Pericles in person. A still more plausible colour than that of the right of dictation was given to this interference; for the prayer of the Milesians was backed and sanctioned by many of the Samians themselves, oppressed by the oligarchic government which presided over them. A ridiculous assertion was made by the libellers of the comic drama and the enemies of Pericles, that the war was undertaken at the instigation of Aspasia, with whom that minister had formed the closest connexion; but the expedition was the necessary and unavoidable result of the twofold policy by which the Athenian government invariably directed its actions; 1st, to enforce the right of ascendency over its allies; 2dly, to replace oligarchic by democratic institutions. Nor, on this occasion, could Athens have remained neutral or supine without materially weakening her hold upon all the states she aspired at once to democratize and to govern.
II. During this brilliant and energetic administration, Athens increasingly drew the reluctant admiration and growing fears of Greece into itself. However, its policy toward its dependent allies led to a war that ultimately granted, if not a legal, at least an acknowledged claim to the pretensions it assumed. For some time, there had been hostilities between the new population of Miletus and the oligarchic government of Samos, with the city of Priene being the main point of contention—though there were also competing claims over Anaea, a town across the coast from Samos. The Milesians, having failed in the war, sought help from Athens. Since the Samians were among the dependent allies, Pericles ordered them, in the name of the Athenian people, to bring the dispute to Athens. When they refused, Pericles led an expedition of forty ships against them personally. This interference was given a more plausible justification than mere authority; the Milesians' request was supported and endorsed by many Samians themselves, who were oppressed by their oligarchic government. Critics and enemies of Pericles spread the ridiculous claim that the war was initiated at Aspasia's instigation since she was closely connected to him. However, the expedition was a necessary outcome of the dual policy by which the Athenian government consistently directed its actions: first, to assert dominance over its allies, and second, to replace oligarchic systems with democratic ones. Furthermore, Athens could not have remained neutral or passive without significantly undermining its control over the states it aimed to democratize and govern.
III. The fleet arrived at Samos—the oligarchic government was deposed—one hundred hostages (fifty men—fifty boys) from its partisans were taken and placed at Lemnos, and a garrison was left to secure the new constitution of the island. Some of the defeated faction took refuge on the Asiatic continent—entered into an intrigue with the Persian Pissuthnes, satrap of Sardis; and having, by continued correspondence with their friends at Samos, secured connivance at their attempt, they landed by night at Samos with a hired force of seven hundred soldiers, and succeeded in mastering the Athenian garrison, and securing the greater part of the chiefs of the new administration; while, by a secret and well-contrived plot, they regained their hostages left at Lemnos. They then openly proclaimed their independence—restored the oligarchy—and, as a formal proof of defiance, surrendered to Pissuthnes the Athenians they had captured. Byzantium hastened to join the revolt. Their alliance with Pissuthnes procured the Samians the promised aid of a Phoenician fleet, and they now deemed themselves sufficiently strong to renew their hostilities with Miletus. Their plans were well laid, and their boldness made a considerable impression on the states hostile to Athens. Among the Peloponnesian allies it was debated whether or not, despite the treaty, the Samians should be assisted: opinions were divided, but Corinth 310, perhaps, turned the scale, by insisting on the right of every state to deal with its dependants. Corinth had herself colonies over which she desired to preserve a dictatorial sway; and she was disposed to regard the Samian revolution less as the gallantry of freemen than the enterprise of rebels. It was fortunate, too, perhaps, for Athens, that the Samian insurgents had sought their ally in the Persian satrap; nor could the Peloponnesian states at that time have decorously assisted the Persian against the Athenian arms. But short time for deliberation was left by a government which procured for the Athenians the character to be not more quick to contrive than to execute—to be the only people who could simultaneously project and acquire—and who even considered a festival but as a day on which some necessary business could be accomplished 311. With a fleet of sixty sail, Pericles made for Samos; some of the vessels were stationed on the Carian coast to watch the movements of the anticipated Phoenician re-enforcement; others were despatched to collect aid from Chios and Lesbos. Meanwhile, though thus reduced to forty-four sail, Pericles, near a small island called Tragia, engaged the Samian fleet returning from Miletus, consisting of seventy vessels, and gained a victory. Then, re-enforced by forty galleys from Athens, and twenty-five from Lesbos and Chios, he landed on the island, defeated the Samians in a pitched battle, drove them into their city, invested it with a triple line of ramparts, and simultaneously blockaded the city by sea. The besieged were not, however, too discouraged to sally out; and, under Melissus, who was at once a philosopher and a hero, they even obtained advantage in a seafight. But these efforts were sufficiently unimportant to permit Pericles to draw off sixty of his vessels, and steer along the Carian coast to meet the expected fleet of the Phoenicians. The besieged did not suffer the opportunity thus afforded them to escape—they surprised the naval blockading force, destroyed the guard-ships, and joining battle with the rest of the fleet, obtained a decisive victory (B. C. 440), which for fourteen days left them the mastery of the open sea, and enabled them to introduce supplies.
III. The fleet arrived at Samos—the oligarchic government was overthrown—one hundred hostages (fifty men and fifty boys) from its supporters were taken and sent to Lemnos, and a garrison was left to secure the island's new constitution. Some members of the defeated faction sought refuge on the Asian mainland and got involved in a scheme with the Persian Pissuthnes, satrap of Sardis. Through ongoing communication with their allies in Samos, they coordinated their plan and landed at Samos by night with a hired force of seven hundred soldiers. They managed to overpower the Athenian garrison and seize most of the leaders of the new administration, while secretly recovering their hostages left at Lemnos. They then publicly declared their independence—restored the oligarchy—and, as a show of defiance, handed over the captured Athenians to Pissuthnes. Byzantium quickly joined the revolt. Their alliance with Pissuthnes secured the promised support of a Phoenician fleet, and they felt strong enough to renew hostilities with Miletus. Their plans were well thought out, and their boldness made a significant impression on the states opposed to Athens. Among the Peloponnesian allies, there was debate about whether or not to support the Samians despite the treaty; opinions were divided, but Corinth 310, perhaps, swayed the decision by emphasizing the right of every state to manage its dependents. Corinth had her own colonies that she wanted to control tightly, and she viewed the Samian uprising less as the bravery of free men and more as the actions of rebels. It was probably fortunate for Athens that the Samian insurgents sought an ally in the Persian satrap; the Peloponnesian states couldn’t have appropriately supported the Persian against the Athenians at that time. However, there was little time for deliberation for a government that earned the reputation of being as quick to act as to plan—being the only people who could simultaneously strategize and execute—and who viewed a festival merely as an opportunity to conduct necessary business 311. With a fleet of sixty ships, Pericles headed for Samos; some vessels were positioned on the Carian coast to monitor the movements of the expected Phoenician reinforcements, while others were sent to gather support from Chios and Lesbos. Meanwhile, although reduced to forty-four ships, Pericles engaged the Samian fleet, returning from Miletus and consisting of seventy vessels, near a small island called Tragia, and won a victory. Then, bolstered by forty galleys from Athens and twenty-five from Lesbos and Chios, he landed on the island, defeated the Samians in a major battle, forced them back into their city, surrounded it with three lines of fortifications, and simultaneously blockaded it by sea. The besieged, however, weren't too discouraged to venture out; under Melissus, who was both a philosopher and a hero, they even gained the upper hand in a naval battle. But these efforts were minor enough to allow Pericles to withdraw sixty of his ships and sail along the Carian coast to confront the anticipated Phoenician fleet. The besieged didn’t let this opportunity slip away—they launched a surprise attack on the blockading ships, destroyed the guard vessels, and battled the rest of the fleet, achieving a decisive victory (B.C. 440), which left them with control of the open sea for fourteen days and enabled them to bring in supplies.
IV. While lying in wait for the Phoenician squadron, which did not, however, make its appearance, tidings of the Samian success were brought to Pericles. He hastened back and renewed the blockade—fresh forces were sent to his aid—from Athens, forty-eight ships, under three generals, Thucydides 312, Agnon, and Phormio; followed by twenty more under Tlepolemus and Anticles, while Chios and Lesbos supplied an additional squadron of thirty. Still the besieged were not disheartened; they ventured another engagement, which was but an ineffectual struggle, and then, shut up within their city, stood a siege of nine months.
IV. While waiting for the Phoenician fleet, which didn’t show up, Pericles received news about the success at Samos. He quickly returned and resumed the blockade. Fresh forces were sent to support him from Athens: forty-eight ships under three commanders, Thucydides 312, Agnon, and Phormio; followed by another twenty ships led by Tlepolemus and Anticles, while Chios and Lesbos provided an extra squadron of thirty. Still, the besieged were not discouraged; they attempted another battle, which turned out to be an ineffective struggle, and then, confined within their city, endured a siege that lasted nine months.
With all the small Greek states it had ever been the policy of necessity to shun even victories attended with great loss. This policy was refined by Pericles into a scientific system. In the present instance, he avoided all assaults which might weaken his forces, and preferred the loss of time to the loss of life. The tedious length of the blockade occasioned some murmurs among the lively and impatient forces he commanded; but he is said to have diverted the time by the holyday devices, which in the middle ages often so graced and softened the rugged aspect of war. The army was divided into eight parts, and by lot it was decided which one of the eight divisions should, for the time, encounter the fatigues of actual service; the remaining seven passed the day in sports and feasting 313. A concourse of women appear to have found their way to the encampment 314, and a Samian writer ascribes to their piety or their gratitude the subsequent erection of a temple to Venus. The siege, too, gave occasion to Pericles to make experiment of military engines, which, if invented before, probably now received mechanical improvement. Although, in the earlier contest, mutual animosities had been so keen that the prisoners on either side had been contumeliously branded 315, it was, perhaps, the festive and easy manner in which the siege was afterward carried on, that, mitigating the bitterness of prolonged hostilities, served to procure, at last, for the Samians articles of capitulation more than usually mild. They embraced the conditions of demolishing their fortifications, delivering up their ships, and paying by instalments a portion towards the cost of the siege 316. Byzantium, which, commanding the entrance of the Euxine, was a most important possession to the Athenians 317, whether for ambition or for commerce, at the same time accepted, without resistance, the terms held out to it, and became once more subject to the Athenian empire.
With all the small Greek states, it had always been necessary to avoid victories that came with heavy losses. Pericles refined this approach into a systematic strategy. In this situation, he avoided any attacks that could weaken his forces and chose to delay action rather than risk lives. The long duration of the blockade caused some complaints among his restless and impatient troops, but he reportedly kept them occupied with festive activities, similar to the celebrations that often softened the harshness of war in the Middle Ages. The army was divided into eight groups, and by drawing lots, it was decided which division would take on the duties of service while the other seven enjoyed sports and feasting 313. A group of women seemed to have come to the camp 314, and a Samian writer attributed the later building of a temple to Venus to their devotion or gratitude. The siege also allowed Pericles to test military machines, which, if they existed before, probably improved during this time. Although, in earlier conflicts, the rivalries had been so intense that prisoners on both sides were brutally branded 315, it may have been the festive and easygoing nature of the siege that helped lessen the bitterness of ongoing hostilities, ultimately leading to terms for the Samians that were more lenient than usual. They accepted conditions to tear down their fortifications, surrender their ships, and pay in installments a part of the expenses for the siege 316. Byzantium, which controlled the entrance to the Euxine and was crucial for Athenian interests 317, also accepted the terms without resistance and once again fell under Athenian control.
V. On his return, Pericles was received with an enthusiasm which attested the sense entertained of the value of his conquest. He pronounced upon those who had fallen in the war a funeral oration. 318 When he descended from the rostrum, the women crowded round and showered fillets and chaplets on the eloquent victor. Elpinice, the sister of Cimon, alone shared not the general enthusiasm. “Are these actions,” she said to Pericles, “worthy of chaplets and garlands? actions purchased by the loss of many gallant citizens—not won against the Phoenician and the Mede, like those of Cimon, but by the ruin of a city united with ourselves in amity and origin.” The ready minister replied to the invective of Elpinice by a line from Archilochus, which, in alluding to the age and coquetry of the lady, probably answered the oratorical purpose of securing the laugh on his own side. 319
V. When he returned, Pericles was welcomed with enthusiasm that showed how much his victory was valued. He gave a funeral speech for those who had died in the war. 318 When he stepped down from the podium, women gathered around and showered him with ribbons and wreaths in honor of the eloquent victor. Elpinice, Cimon's sister, did not share in the overall excitement. “Are these actions,” she said to Pericles, “worthy of wreaths and garlands? Actions bought at the cost of many brave citizens—not achieved against the Phoenician and the Mede, like those of Cimon, but through the destruction of a city that was allied with us by friendship and heritage.” The quick-witted minister responded to Elpinice's criticism with a line from Archilochus, which, referencing the lady's age and flirtation, likely served to secure a laugh on his side. 319
While these events confirmed the authority of Athens and the Athenian government, a power had grown up within the city that assumed a right, the grave assertion of which without the walls would have been deeply felt and bitterly resented—a power that sat in severe and derisive judgment upon Athens herself, her laws, her liberties, her mighty generals, her learned statesmen, her poets, her sages, and her arrogant democracy—a power that has come down to foreign nations and distant ages as armed with irresistible weapons—which now is permitted to give testimony, not only against individuals, but nations themselves, but which, in that time, was not more effective in practical results than at this day a caricature in St. James’s-street, or a squib in a weekly newspaper—a power which exposed to relentless ridicule, before the most susceptible and numerous tribunal, the loftiest names in rank, in wisdom, and in genius—and which could not have deprived a beggar of his obol or a scavenger of his office: THE POWER OF THE COMIC MUSE.
While these events confirmed the authority of Athens and its government, a force emerged within the city that claimed a right—an assertion that, if made outside the walls, would have been deeply felt and bitterly resented. This force judged Athens herself, her laws, her freedoms, her great generals, her wise statesmen, her poets, her philosophers, and her proud democracy with severe and mocking scrutiny. This power has reached foreign nations and distant times, armed with unstoppable influence—it can now offer critique not just against individuals but entire nations. Yet, at that time, it was no more impactful in practical results than a caricature on St. James’s Street or a feeble joke in a weekly newspaper. This force relentlessly ridiculed the highest names in rank, wisdom, and talent before the most sensitive and numerous audiences—and it could not have taken a coin from a beggar or stripped a street cleaner of their job: THE POWER OF THE COMIC MUSE.
VI. We have seen that in the early village festivals, out of which grew the tragedy of Phrynichus and Aeschylus, there were, besides the Dithyramb and the Satyrs, the Phallic processions, which diversified the ceremony by the lowest jests mingled with the wildest satire. As her tragedy had its origin in the Dithyramb—as her satyric after-piece had its origin in the satyric buffooneries—so out of the Phallic processions rose the Comedy of Greece (B. C. 562) 320. Susarion is asserted by some to have been a Megarian by origin; and while the democracy of Megara was yet in force, he appears to have roughly shaped the disorderly merriment of the procession into a rude farce, interspersed with the old choral songs. The close connexion between Megara and Athens soon served to communicate to the latter the improvements of Susarion; and these improvements obtained for the Megarian the title of inventer of comedy, with about the same justice as a similar degree of art conferred upon the later Thespis the distinction of the origin of tragedy. The study of Homer’s epics had suggested its true province to tragedy; the study of the Margites, attributed also to Homer, seems to have defined and enlarged the domain of comedy. Eleven years after Phrynichus appeared, and just previous to the first effort of Aeschylus (B. C. 500), Epicharmus, who appears to have been a native of Cos 321, produced at Syracuse the earliest symmetrical and systematic form of comic dialogue and fable. All accounts prove him to have been a man of extraordinary genius, and of very thoughtful and accomplished mind. Perhaps the loss of his works is not the least to be lamented of those priceless treasures which time has destroyed. So uncertain, after all, is the great tribunal of posterity, which is often as little to be relied upon as the caprice of the passing day! We have the worthless Electra of Euripides—we have lost all, save the titles and a few sententious fragments, of thirty-five comedies of Epicharmus! Yet if Horace inform us rightly, that the poet of Syracuse was the model of Plautus, perhaps in the Amphitryon we can trace the vein and genius of the father of true comedy; and the thoughts and the plot of the lost Epicharmus may still exist, mutilated and disguised, in the humours of the greatest comic poet 322 of modern Europe.
VI. We've seen that in the early village festivals, which eventually led to the tragedies of Phrynichus and Aeschylus, there were, in addition to the Dithyramb and the Satyrs, the Phallic processions. These added variety to the ceremony with the lowest jokes mixed in with the wildest satire. Just as her tragedy originated from the Dithyramb—her satyric after-piece came from the satyric buffoonery—so from the Phallic processions arose the Comedy of Greece (B.C. 562) 320. Some claim that Susarion was originally from Megara; and while the democracy of Megara was still intact, he seems to have roughly shaped the chaotic fun of the procession into a crude farce, blended with the old choral songs. The close connection between Megara and Athens soon allowed Athens to adopt Susarion's improvements, earning the Megarian the title of the inventor of comedy, just as a similar recognition given to Thespis later marked him as the originator of tragedy. The study of Homer's epics suggested the true purpose of tragedy; the study of the Margites, also attributed to Homer, seems to have defined and expanded the domain of comedy. Eleven years after Phrynichus appeared, and just before Aeschylus's first effort (B.C. 500), Epicharmus, who was likely a native of Cos 321, produced the earliest structured and systematic form of comic dialogue and story at Syracuse. All accounts indicate that he was a man of extraordinary genius and a very thoughtful and accomplished mind. Perhaps the loss of his works is one of the greatest losses among the priceless treasures that time has destroyed. The great judgment of posterity is so uncertain that it is often just as unreliable as the whims of the day! We have the worthless Electra of Euripides—but we have lost everything except the titles and a few wise fragments of thirty-five comedies by Epicharmus! Yet if Horace is correct, and the poet from Syracuse was the model for Plautus, perhaps we can find traces of the vein and genius of the father of true comedy in the Amphitryon; and the ideas and plot of the lost Epicharmus may still exist, albeit twisted and disguised, in the humor of the greatest comic poet 322 of modern Europe.
VII. It was chiefly from the rich stores of mythology that Epicharmus drew his fables; but what was sublimity with the tragic poet, was burlesque with the comic. He parodied the august personages and venerable adventures of the gods of the Greek Pantheon. By a singular coincidence, like his contemporary Aeschylus 323, he was a Pythagorean, and it is wonderful to observe how rapidly and how powerfully the influence of the mysterious Samian operated on the most original intellects of the age. The familiar nature of the Hellenic religion sanctioned, even in the unphilosophical age of Homer, a treatment of celestial persons that to our modern notions would, at first glance, evince a disrespect for the religion itself. But wherever homage to “dead men” be admitted, we may, even in our own times, find that the most jocular legends are attached to names held in the most reverential awe. And he who has listened to an Irish or an Italian Catholic’s familiar stories of some favourite saint, may form an adequate notion of the manner in which a pious Greek could jest upon Bacchus to-day and sacrifice to Bacchus to-morrow. With his mythological travesties the Pythagorean mingled, apparently, many earnest maxims of morality 324, and though not free, in the judgment of Aristotle, from a vice of style usually common only to ages the most refined 325; he was yet proverbial, even in the most polished period of Grecian letters, for the graces of his diction and the happy choice of his expressions.
VII. Epicharmus primarily drew his fables from the rich depths of mythology; what was grand for the tragic poet became humorous for the comic. He mocked the esteemed figures and revered adventures of the Greek gods. Interestingly, like his contemporary Aeschylus 323, he was a Pythagorean, and it’s remarkable to see how quickly and profoundly the influence of the mysterious Samian impacted the most original minds of the time. The familiar nature of Hellenic religion allowed, even in the unphilosophical era of Homer, a portrayal of divine beings that, by modern standards, might seem disrespectful to the religion itself. Yet, wherever respect for "dead men" is accepted, we can find that even today, the most humorous legends are connected to names that are deeply revered. Anyone who has heard an Irish or Italian Catholic share light-hearted stories about a favorite saint can understand how a devout Greek could joke about Bacchus one day and sacrifice to him the next. Alongside his mythological parodies, the Pythagorean seemed to blend many serious moral maxims 324, and although Aristotle judged him as not free from a stylistic flaw typically found only in the most refined ages 325; he remained well-known, even in the most sophisticated period of Greek literature, for the elegance of his language and the thoughtful choice of his words.
Phormis, a contemporary of Epicharmus, flourished also at Syracuse, and though sometimes classed with Epicharmus, and selecting his materials from the same source, his claims to reputation are immeasurably more equivocal. Dinolochus continued the Sicilian school, and was a contemporary of the first Athenian comic writer.
Phormis, who lived at the same time as Epicharmus, also thrived in Syracuse. While he is sometimes grouped with Epicharmus and drew his materials from the same sources, his reputation is much less certain. Dinolochus continued the Sicilian tradition and was a contemporary of the first Athenian comic playwright.
VIII. Hence it will be seen that the origin of comedy does not rest with the Athenians; that Megara, if the birthplace of Susarion, may fairly claim whatever merit belongs to the first rude improvement, and that Syracuse is entitled to the higher distinction of raising humour into art. So far is comedy the offspring of the Dorians—not the Dorians of a sullen oligarchy, with whom to vary an air of music was a crime—not the Dorians of Lacedaemon—but of Megara and Syracuse—of an energetic, though irregular democracy—of a splendid, though illegitimate monarchy. 326
VIII. Therefore, it is clear that comedy did not originate with the Athenians; Megara, being the birthplace of Susarion, can rightfully take credit for the initial rough improvements, while Syracuse deserves the greater honor of elevating humor to an art form. Comedy is indeed the product of the Dorians—not the Dorians of a gloomy oligarchy, where changing a musical tune was considered a crime—not the Dorians of Lacedaemon—but those from Megara and Syracuse—of a lively, albeit chaotic, democracy—and of a magnificent, though illegitimate, monarchy. 326
But the comedy of Epicharmus was not altogether the old comedy of Athens. The last, as bequeathed to us by Aristophanes, has features which bear little family resemblance to the philosophical parodies of the Pythagorean poet. It does not confine itself to mythological subjects—it avoids the sententious style—it does not preach, but ridicule philosophy—it plunges amid the great practical business of men—it breathes of the Agora and the Piraeus—it is not a laughing sage, but a bold, boisterous, gigantic demagogue, ever in the thickest mob of human interests, and wielding all the various humours of a democracy with a brilliant audacity, and that reckless ease which is the proof of its astonishing power.
But Epicharmus's comedy wasn't exactly the old comedy of Athens. The latter, as passed down to us by Aristophanes, has characteristics that don't closely resemble the philosophical parodies of the Pythagorean poet. It doesn't stick to mythological topics—it steers clear of a preachy tone—it mocks philosophy rather than lecturing it—it gets into the real, practical affairs of people—it feels alive with the spirit of the Agora and the Piraeus—it’s not a wise old man making jokes, but a bold, loud, larger-than-life demagogue, always right in the middle of human interests, skillfully using all the different moods of a democracy with a dazzling confidence and that carefree attitude that shows its incredible power.
IX. Chionides was the first Athenian comic writer. We find him before the public three years after the battle of Marathon (B. C. 487), when the final defeat of Hippias confirmed the stability of the republic; and when the improvements of Aeschylus in tragedy served to communicate new attractions to the comic stage. Magnes, a writer of great wit, and long popular, closely followed, and the titles of some of the plays of these writers confirm the belief that Attic comedy, from its commencement, took other ground than that occupied by the mythological burlesques of Epicharmus. So great was the impetus given to the new art, that a crowd of writers followed simultaneously, whose very names it is wearisome to mention. Of these the most eminent were Cratinus and Crates. The earliest recorded play of Cratinus, though he must have exhibited many before 327, appeared the year prior to the death of Cimon (the Archilochi, B. C. 448). Plutarch quotes some lines from this author, which allude to the liberality of Cimon with something of that patron-loving spirit which was rather the characteristic of a Roman than an Athenian poet. Though he himself, despite his age, was proverbially of no very abstemious or decorous habits, Cratinus was unsparing in his attacks upon others, and wherever he found or suspected vice, he saw a subject worthy of his genius. He was admired to late posterity, and by Roman critics, for the grace and even for the grandeur of his hardy verses; and Quintilian couples him with Eupolis and Aristophanes as models for the formation of orators. Crates appeared (B. C. 451) two years before the first recorded play of Cratinus. He had previously been an actor, and performed the principal characters in the plays of Cratinus. Aristophanes bestows on him the rare honour of his praise, while he sarcastically reminds the Athenian audience of the ill reception that so ingenious a poet often received at their hands. Yet, despite the excellence of the earlier comic writers, they had hitherto at Athens very sparingly adopted the artistical graces of Epicharmus. Crates, who did not write before the five years’ truce with Sparta, is said by Aristotle not only to have been the first who abandoned the Iambic form of comedy, but the first Athenian who invented systematic fable or plot—a strong argument to show how little the Athenian borrowed from the Sicilian comedy, since, if the last had been its source of inspiration, the invented stories of Epicharmus (by half a century the predecessor of Crates) would naturally have been the most striking improvement to be imitated. The Athenian comedy did not receive the same distinctions conferred upon tragedy. So obscure was its rise to its later eminence, that even Aristotle could not determine when or by whom the various progressive improvements were made: and, regarded with jealous or indifferent eyes by the magistrature as an exhibition given by private competitors, nor calling for the protection of the state, which it often defied, it was long before its chorus was defrayed at the public cost.
IX. Chionides was the first comic playwright from Athens. He came before the public three years after the battle of Marathon (B.C. 487), when Hippias was finally defeated, securing the stability of the republic. This was also a time when Aeschylus's innovations in tragedy brought new appeal to comedy. Magnes, a very witty writer who had been popular for a long time, quickly followed, and the names of some of their plays suggest that Attic comedy, from the beginning, took a different direction from the mythological parodies of Epicharmus. The new art gained so much momentum that many writers emerged simultaneously, making it tedious to list them all. Among the most distinguished were Cratinus and Crates. The earliest recorded play by Cratinus, though he likely performed many before 327, was the year before Cimon's death (the Archilochi, B.C. 448). Plutarch quotes some lines from Cratinus that reference Cimon's generosity, echoing a patronage spirit more typical of Roman poets than Athenian ones. Even though Cratinus himself was known for his indulgent lifestyle, he was relentless in criticizing others, viewing any perceived vice as worthy of his creative attack. He was admired even in later generations and by Roman critics for the elegance and boldness of his verses, and Quintilian mentions him alongside Eupolis and Aristophanes as models for aspiring orators. Crates appeared (B.C. 451) two years before Cratinus's first recorded play. He had been an actor before this and played the leading roles in Cratinus's works. Aristophanes gives him the rare honor of praise while sarcastically reminding the Athenian audience of how poorly that clever poet often fared with them. Yet, despite how excellent the earlier comic writers were, they had only minimally incorporated the artistic flourishes of Epicharmus in Athens. Crates, who began writing after the five-year truce with Sparta, is noted by Aristotle as the first to move away from the Iambic style of comedy and the first Athenian to create a systematic fable or plot. This strongly indicates how little the Athenians borrowed from Sicilian comedy since, if Sicilian works had inspired them, the inventive tales of Epicharmus (who was Crates's predecessor by half a century) would have been the most likely source for imitation. Athenian comedy did not receive the same recognition that tragedy enjoyed. Its rise to prominence was so unclear that even Aristotle couldn't pinpoint when or who made the various improvements. Viewed with jealousy or indifference by the ruling class as a performance by private individuals, and not seen as needing state support—which it often resisted—it took a long time before its chorus was funded by public resources.
Under Cratinus and Crates 328, however, in the year of the Samian war, the comic drama assumed a character either so personally scurrilous, or so politically dangerous, that a decree was passed interdicting its exhibitions (B. C. 440). The law was repealed three years afterward (B. C. 437) 329. Viewing its temporary enforcement, and the date in which it was passed, it appears highly probable that the critical events of the Samian expedition may have been the cause of the decree. At such a time the opposition of the comic writers might have been considered dangerous. With the increased stability of the state, the law was, perhaps, deemed no longer necessary. And from the recommencement of the comic drama, we may probably date both the improvements of Crates and the special protection of the state; for when, for the first time, Comedy was formally authorized by the law, it was natural that the law should recognise the privileges it claimed in common with its sister Tragedy. There is no authority for supposing that Pericles, whose calm temper and long novitiate in the stormy career of public life seem to have rendered him callous to public abuse, was the author of this decree. It is highly probable, indeed, that he was absent at the siege of Samos 330 when it was passed; but he was the object of such virulent attacks by the comic poets that we might consider them actuated by some personal feeling of revenge and spleen, were it not evident that Cratinus at least (and probably Crates, his disciple) was attached to the memory of Cimon, and could not fail to be hostile to the principles and government of Cimon’s successor. So far at this period had comedy advanced; but, in the background, obscure and undreamed of, was one, yet in childhood, destined to raise the comic to the rank of the tragic muse; one who, perhaps, from his earliest youth, was incited by the noisy fame of his predecessors, and the desire of that glorious, but often perverted power, so palpable and so exultant, which rides the stormy waves of popular applause 331. About thirteen years after the brief prohibition of comedy appeared that wonderful genius, the elements and attributes of whose works it will be a pleasing, if arduous task, in due season, to analyze and define; matchless alike in delicacy and strength, in powers the most gigantic, in purpose the most daring—with the invention of Shakspeare—the playfulness of Rabelais—the malignity of Swift—need I add the name of Aristophanes?
Under Cratinus and Crates 328, however, in the year of the Samian war, the comic drama took on a tone that was either excessively slanderous or politically threatening, leading to a decree banning its performances (B.C. 440). This law was revoked three years later (B.C. 437) 329. Considering its temporary enforcement and the timing of its issuance, it seems very likely that the significant events of the Samian expedition prompted this decree. During such times, the criticism from comic writers could have seemed dangerous. As the stability of the state increased, the law was perhaps seen as no longer needed. The revival of comic drama likely marked both Crates' advancements and the state’s special protection; for when Comedy was legally sanctioned for the first time, it was reasonable that the law would acknowledge the rights it shared with its counterpart, Tragedy. There’s no evidence to suggest that Pericles, whose calm demeanor and extensive experience in the turbulent world of public life seemed to have made him indifferent to public ridicule, was the one who issued this decree. It’s quite probable that he was away during the siege of Samos 330 when it was enacted; nonetheless, he faced intense criticism from the comic poets, which might make us think their actions were driven by personal vendetta and spite, if it weren't clear that Cratinus at least (and likely Crates, his follower) had loyalties to the memory of Cimon and could not help but oppose the ideals and governance of Cimon’s successor. At this point, comedy had advanced significantly; yet, in the background, hidden and unimagined, was someone still in childhood, destined to elevate comedy to the level of tragic art; someone who, perhaps, from a young age, was inspired by the loud reputation of his predecessors and the pursuit of that glorious, yet often misused power, so evident and so triumphant, that rides the turbulent waves of public approval 331. About thirteen years after the brief ban on comedy emerged that extraordinary talent, whose works will be a pleasurable, if challenging, task to analyze and define in due time; unmatched in both delicacy and strength, possessing the most colossal powers and the boldest intentions—comparable to the invention of Shakespeare—the playfulness of Rabelais—the malice of Swift—should I also mention Aristophanes?
X. But while comedy had thus progressed to its first invidious dignity, that of proscription, far different was the reward that awaited the present representative and master of the tragic school. In the year that the muse of Cratinus was silenced, Sophocles was appointed one of the colleagues with Pericles in the Samian war.
X. But while comedy had moved up to its first unfortunate status, that of being banned, a very different reward awaited the current leading figure of the tragic school. In the year that Cratinus's muse was silenced, Sophocles was appointed as one of Pericles's colleagues in the Samian war.
CHAPTER IV.
The Tragedies of Sophocles.
I. It was in the very nature of the Athenian drama, that, when once established, it should concentrate and absorb almost every variety of the poetical genius. The old lyrical poetry, never much cultivated in Athens, ceased in a great measure when tragedy arose, or rather tragedy was the complete development, the new and perfected consummation of the Dithyrambic ode. Lyrical poetry transmigrated into the choral song, as the epic merged into the dialogue and plot, of the drama. Thus, when we speak of Athenian poetry, we speak of dramatic poetry—they were one and the same. As Helvetius has so luminously shown 332, genius ever turns towards that quarter in which fame shines brightest, and hence, in every age, there will be a sympathetic connexion between the taste of the public and the direction of the talent.
I. It was inherent to Athenian drama that, once it was established, it would focus on and encompass almost every type of poetic talent. The older lyrical poetry, which was never widely embraced in Athens, largely faded away when tragedy emerged; or rather, tragedy represented the complete evolution, the new and refined culmination of the Dithyrambic ode. Lyrical poetry transformed into the choral song, just as epic poetry blended into the dialogue and narrative of drama. Therefore, when we refer to Athenian poetry, we refer to dramatic poetry—they were one and the same. As Helvetius has so clearly illustrated 332, genius consistently gravitates towards the area where fame shines the brightest, and as a result, in every era, there will be a connection between public taste and the direction of talent.
Now in Athens, where audiences were numerous and readers few, every man who felt within himself the inspiration of the poet would necessarily desire to see his poetry put into action—assisted with all the pomp of spectacle and music, hallowed by the solemnity of a religious festival, and breathed by artists elaborately trained to heighten the eloquence of words into the reverent ear of assembled Greece.
Now in Athens, where there were lots of spectators and few readers, everyone who felt inspired like a poet would naturally want to see their poetry performed—enhanced by all the grandeur of spectacle and music, honored by the seriousness of a religious festival, and delivered by skilled artists who could elevate the power of words to the respectful audience of gathered Greece.
Hence the multitude of dramatic poets, hence the mighty fertility of each; hence the life and activity of this—the comparative torpor and barrenness of every other—species of poetry. To add to the pre-eminence of the art, the applauses of the many were sanctioned by the critical canons of the few. The drama was not only the most alluring form which the Divine Spirit could assume—but it was also deemed the loftiest and the purest; and when Aristotle ranked 333 the tragic higher than even the epic muse, he probably did but explain the reasons for a preference which the generality of critics were disposed to accord to her. 334
Therefore, the large number of dramatic poets and their incredible creativity; thus, the vibrancy and energy of this genre—the relative dullness and emptiness of all other types of poetry. To enhance the superiority of the art, the praises from the many were backed by the standards of the few. The drama was not only the most captivating form that the Divine Spirit could take on—but it was also considered the highest and the most genuine; and when Aristotle ranked 333 the tragic higher than even the epic muse, he was likely just explaining the reasons for a preference that most critics already had for her. 334
II. The career of the most majestic of the Greek poets was eminently felicitous. His birth was noble, his fortune affluent; his natural gifts were the rarest which nature bestows on man, genius and beauty. All the care which the age permitted was lavished on his education. For his feet even the ordinary obstacles in the path of distinction were smoothed away. He entered life under auspices the most propitious and poetical. At the age of sixteen he headed the youths who performed the triumphant paean round the trophy of Salamis. At twenty-five, when the bones of Theseus were borne back to Athens in the galley of the victorious Cimon, he exhibited his first play, and won the prize from Aeschylus. That haughty genius, whether indignant at the success of a younger rival, or at a trial for impiety before the Areopagus, to which (though acquitted) he was subjected, or at the rapid ascendency of a popular party, that he seems to have scorned with the disdain at once of an eupatrid and a Pythagorean, soon after retired from Athens to the Syracusan court; and though he thence sent some of his dramas to the Athenian stage 335, the absent veteran could not but excite less enthusiasm than the young aspirant, whose artful and polished genius was more in harmony with the reigning taste than the vast but rugged grandeur of Aeschylus, who, perhaps from the impossibility tangibly and visibly to body forth his shadowy Titans and obscure sublimity of design, does not appear to have obtained a popularity on the stage equal to his celebrity as a poet 336. For three-and-sixty years did Sophocles continue to exhibit; twenty times he obtained the first prize, and he is said never to have been degraded to the third. The ordinary persecutions of envy itself seem to have spared this fortunate poet. Although his moral character was far from pure 337, and even in extreme old age he sought after the pleasures of his youth 338, yet his excesses apparently met with a remarkable indulgence from his contemporaries. To him were known neither the mortifications of Aeschylus nor the relentless mockery heaped upon Euripides. On his fair name the terrible Aristophanes himself affixes no brand 339. The sweetness of his genius extended indeed to his temper, and personal popularity assisted his public triumphs. Nor does he appear to have keenly shared the party animosities of his day; his serenity, like that of Goethe, has in it something of enviable rather than honourable indifference. He owed his first distinction to Cimon, and he served afterward under Pericles; on his entrance into life, he led the youths that circled the trophy of Grecian freedom—and on the verge of death, we shall hereafter see him calmly assent to the surrender of Athenian liberties. In short, Aristophanes perhaps mingled more truth than usual with his wit, when even in the shades below he says of Sophocles, “He was contented here—he’s contented there.” A disposition thus facile, united with an admirable genius, will, not unoften, effect a miracle, and reconcile prosperity with fame. 340
II. The career of the greatest of the Greek poets was incredibly fortunate. He was born into nobility, had wealth, and possessed natural gifts that were the rarest—talent and beauty. All the resources of his time were dedicated to his education. Even the usual challenges that might prevent success were removed for him. He entered life under the most favorable and poetic conditions. At sixteen, he led the young men in celebrating a triumphant song around the trophy of Salamis. By the age of twenty-five, when Theseus's bones were brought back to Athens on the victorious Cimon's ship, he presented his first play and won the prize from Aeschylus. That proud genius, whether outraged by the success of a younger rival, by a trial for impiety before the Areopagus (from which he was acquitted), or by the swift rise of a popular faction that he seemed to disdain both as a noble and a Pythagorean, soon left Athens for the court of Syracuse. Even though he sent some of his plays to the Athenian stage 335, the absent veteran couldn't generate as much enthusiasm as the rising star, whose refined and sophisticated talent matched the current tastes better than Aeschylus's vast but rough grandeur. Perhaps due to the challenge of representing his elusive Titans and obscure themes, Aeschylus didn’t achieve the same stage popularity as his renown as a poet 336. Sophocles continued to present plays for sixty-three years; he won the first prize twenty times and is said never to have finished in third. The usual envy-driven attacks seemed to spare this fortunate poet. Although his moral character was far from spotless 337, and even in old age, he sought out pleasures reminiscent of his youth 338, his indulgences appeared to be surprisingly accepted by his contemporaries. He knew neither the humiliations experienced by Aeschylus nor the harsh ridicule faced by Euripides. Even the fearsome Aristophanes didn’t tarnish his good name 339. The sweetness of his talent also reflected in his temperament, and his personal popularity contributed to his public successes. He didn’t seem to be deeply affected by the political rivalries of his time; his calm demeanor, reminiscent of Goethe, seems more enviable than admirable. His initial recognition came from Cimon, and he later served under Pericles; at the start of his life, he led the youths celebrating Greek freedom, and as he neared death, we will see him calmly agree to the surrender of Athenian liberties. In short, Aristophanes arguably blended more truth than usual with humor when he said of Sophocles, “He was contented here—he’s contented there.” Such an easygoing nature, combined with remarkable talent, often achieves the rare feat of harmonizing success with fame. 340
At the age of fifty-seven, Sophocles was appointed, as I before said 341, to a command, as one of the ten generals in the Samian war; but history is silent as to his military genius 342. In later life we shall again have occasion to refer to him, condemned as he was to illustrate (after a career of unprecedented brilliancy—nor ever subjected to the caprice of the common public) the melancholy moral inculcated by himself 343, and so often obtruded upon us by the dramatists of his country, “never to deem a man happy till death itself denies the hazard of reverses.” Out of the vast, though not accurately known, number of the dramas of Sophocles, seven remain.
At fifty-seven, Sophocles was appointed, as I mentioned before 341, to a command as one of the ten generals in the Samian war; however, history doesn't give us any insight into his military skills 342. Later in life, we will have the chance to refer to him again, as he was fated to illustrate (after an incredibly brilliant career—never swayed by the whims of the general public) the sad moral he himself taught 343, which was also often emphasized by the dramatists of his time: “never consider a man happy until death removes the chance of misfortune.” Out of the many plays Sophocles wrote, though not all are well-known, seven have survived.
III. A great error has been committed by those who class Aeschylus and Sophocles together as belonging to the same era, and refer both to the age of Pericles, because each was living while Pericles was in power. We may as well class Dr. Johnson and Lord Byron in the same age, because both lived in the reign of George III. The Athenian rivals were formed under the influences of very different generations; and if Aeschylus lived through a considerable portion of the career of the younger Sophocles, the accident of longevity by no means warrants us to consider then the children of the same age—the creatures of the same influences. Aeschylus belonged to the race and the period from which emerged Themistocles and Aristides—Sophocles to those which produced Phidias and Pericles. Sophocles indeed, in the calmness of his disposition, and the symmetry and stateliness of his genius, might almost be entitled the Pericles of poetry. And as the statesman was called the Olympian, not from the headlong vehemence, but the serene majesty of his strength; so of Sophocles also it may be said, that his power is visible in his repose, and his thunders roll from the depth of a clear sky.
III. It’s a big mistake to group Aeschylus and Sophocles together as if they were from the same time period just because they both lived during the era of Pericles. We might as well group Dr. Johnson and Lord Byron together because they both lived during the reign of George III. The Athenian playwrights were shaped by very different generations; and while Aeschylus lived through a significant part of Sophocles's career, just being older doesn't mean they were influenced by the same era. Aeschylus came from the generation that produced Themistocles and Aristides, while Sophocles was from the time that gave rise to Phidias and Pericles. Indeed, Sophocles, with his calm nature and the balance and dignity of his work, could almost be called the Pericles of poetry. Just as the statesman was referred to as the Olympian not because of his impulsive intensity, but because of the steady majesty of his strength, it can also be said of Sophocles that his power shines through his calmness, with his dramatic impact coming from the clarity of his vision.
IV. The age of Pericles is the age of art 344. It was not Sophocles alone that was an artist in that time; he was but one of the many who, in every department, sought, in study and in science, the secrets of the wise or the beautiful. Pericles and Phidias were in their several paths of fame what Sophocles was in his. But it was not the art of an emasculate or effeminate period—it grew out of the example of a previous generation of men astonishingly great. It was art still fresh from the wells of nature. Art with a vast field yet unexplored, and in all its youthful vigour and maiden enthusiasm. There was, it is true, at a period a little later than that in which the genius of Sophocles was formed, one class of students among whom a false taste and a spurious refinement were already visible—the class of rhetoricians and philosophical speculators. For, in fact, the art which belongs to the imagination is often purest in an early age; but that which appertains to the reason and intellect is slow before it attains mature strength and manly judgment, Among these students was early trained and tutored the thoughtful mind of Euripides; and hence that art which in Sophocles was learned in more miscellaneous and active circles, and moulded by a more powerful imagination, in Euripides often sickens us with the tricks of a pleader, the quibbles of a schoolman, or the dullness of a moralizing declaimer. But as, in the peculiar attributes and character of his writings, Euripides somewhat forestalled his age—as his example had a very important influence upon his successors—as he did not exhibit till the fame of Sophocles was already confirmed—and as his name is intimately associated with the later age of Aristophanes and Socrates—it may be more convenient to confine our critical examination at present to the tragedies of Sophocles.
IV. The age of Pericles is the age of art 344. It wasn't just Sophocles who was an artist during that time; he was just one of many who, in various fields, pursued the secrets of wisdom and beauty through study and science. Pericles and Phidias achieved fame in their own ways, just like Sophocles did in his. However, this was not an era of weak or feminine art; it emerged from the example of an incredibly great previous generation. It was art still fresh from the sources of nature, with vast areas yet to explore, full of youthful energy and enthusiasm. Admittedly, shortly after the time when Sophocles' genius was shaping, there emerged a group of students who displayed false tastes and pretentious refinement—the rhetoricians and philosophical theorists. In truth, the art that comes from imagination is often at its purest in earlier periods, while the art linked to reason and intellect takes longer to develop mature strength and sound judgment. Among these students was the reflective mind of Euripides, who was trained early on; thus, the art that in Sophocles was learned through diverse and active settings and shaped by a more powerful imagination often feels burdened in Euripides' work by the theatrics of a pleader, the sophistries of a scholar, or the dullness of a moralizing speaker. However, since Euripides’ unique qualities and writing style anticipated his time, significantly influenced his successors, and appeared only after Sophocles' fame was solidified—along with his close association with the later era of Aristophanes and Socrates—it may be more practical to focus our critical analysis for now on the tragedies of Sophocles.
Although the three plays of the “Oedipus Tyrannus,” the “Oedipus at Coloneus,” and the “Antigone,” were composed and exhibited at very wide intervals of time, yet, from their connexion with each other, they may almost be said to form one poem. The “Antigone,” which concludes the story, was the one earliest written; and there are passages in either “Oedipus” which seem composed to lead up, as it were, to the catastrophe of the “Antigone,” and form a harmonious link between the several dramas. These three plays constitute, on the whole, the greatest performance of Sophocles, though in detached parts they are equalled by passages in the “Ajax” and the “Philoctetes.”
Although the three plays “Oedipus Tyrannus,” “Oedipus at Colonus,” and “Antigone” were written and performed at very different times, they connect with each other so well that they can almost be considered one poem. “Antigone,” which wraps up the story, was the earliest written; and there are parts in either “Oedipus” that seem to build up to the climax of “Antigone,” creating a smooth transition between the various dramas. Overall, these three plays represent the greatest work of Sophocles, although individual sections are matched by passages in “Ajax” and “Philoctetes.”
V. The “Oedipus Tyrannus” opens thus. An awful pestilence devastates Thebes. Oedipus, the king, is introduced to us, powerful and beloved; to him whose wisdom had placed him on the throne, look up the priest and the suppliants for a remedy even amid the terrors of the plague. Oedipus informs them that he has despatched Creon (the brother of his wife Jocasta) to the Pythian god to know by what expiatory deed the city might be delivered from its curse. Scarce has he concluded, when Creon himself enters, and announces “glad tidings” in the explicit answer of the oracle. The god has declared—that a pollution had been bred in the land, and must be expelled the city—that Laius, the former king, had been murdered—and that his blood must be avenged. Laius had left the city never to return; of his train but one man escaped to announce his death by assassins. Oedipus instantly resolves to prosecute the inquiry into the murder, and orders the people to be summoned. The suppliants arise from the altar, and a solemn chorus of the senators of Thebes (in one of the most splendid lyrics of Sophocles) chant the terrors of the plague—“that unarmed Mars”—and implore the protection of the divine averters of destruction. Oedipus then, addressing the chorus, demands their aid to discover the murderer, whom he solemnly excommunicates, and dooms, deprived of aid and intercourse, to waste slowly out a miserable existence; nay, if the assassin should have sought refuge in the royal halls, there too shall the vengeance be wreaked and the curse fall.
V. The “Oedipus Tyrannus” starts like this. A terrible plague is ravaging Thebes. Oedipus, the king, is introduced to us as strong and well-loved; the priest and the people, looking to him for a solution even in the face of the horror of the plague, appeal to him for help. Oedipus tells them he has sent Creon (his wife Jocasta's brother) to the oracle at Delphi to find out what action can free the city from its curse. As he finishes speaking, Creon arrives and brings “good news” with the oracle's clear message. The god has revealed that a curse has taken root in the land and must be expelled from the city; Laius, the former king, was murdered, and his death must be avenged. Laius left the city and never returned; only one person from his group survived to report his murder by assassins. Oedipus immediately decides to investigate the murder and commands that the people be called together. The supplicants rise from the altar, and a solemn chorus of Theban senators (in one of Sophocles' most magnificent lyrics) sings about the horrors of the plague—“that unarmed Mars”—and begs for the protection of the gods who prevent destruction. Oedipus then speaks to the chorus, asking for their help to find the murderer, whom he formally excommunicates and condemns to a lonely and miserable existence, without help or connection; moreover, if the killer has taken refuge in the royal palace, the same wrath will be brought down there, and the curse will follow.
“For I,” continued Oedipus,
“For I,” Oedipus continued,
“I, who the sceptre which he wielded wield;
I, who have mounted to his marriage bed;
I, in whose children (had he issue known)
His would have claimed a common brotherhood;
Now that the evil fate bath fallen o’er him—
I am the heir of that dead king’s revenge,
Not less than if these lips had hailed him ‘father!’”
“I, who hold the scepter that he once held;
I, who have shared his marriage bed;
I, in whose children (if he had any)
His would have shared a common brotherhood;
Now that the cruel fate has come upon him—
I am the heir to that dead king’s revenge,
No less than if these lips had called him ‘father!’” A few more sentences introduce to us the old soothsayer Tiresias—for whom, at the instigation of Creon, Oedipus had sent. The seer answers the adjuration of the king with a thrilling and ominous burst—
A few more sentences introduce us to the old soothsayer Tiresias—whom, at Creon's urging, Oedipus had summoned. The seer responds to the king's request with a chilling and foreboding revelation—
“Wo—wo!—how fearful is the gift of wisdom,
When to the wise it bears no blessing!—wo!”
“Wow—wow!—how frightening is the gift of wisdom, When it brings no blessing to the wise!—wow!”
The haughty spirit of Oedipus breaks forth at the gloomy and obscure warnings of the prophet. His remonstrances grow into threats. In his blindness he even accuses Tiresias himself of the murder of Laius—and out speaks the terrible diviner:
The arrogant attitude of Oedipus comes out in response to the dark and unclear warnings from the prophet. His protests turn into threats. In his ignorance, he even blames Tiresias for the murder of Laius—and the fearsome prophet speaks out:
“Ay—is it so? Abide then by thy curse
And solemn edict—never from this day
Hold human commune with these men or me;
Lo, where thou standest—lo, the land’s polluter!”
“Is that really how it is? Then accept your curse and strict command—never from this day on engage in human interaction with these men or with me; look where you’re standing—the one who pollutes the land!”
A dialogue of great dramatic power ensues. Oedipus accuses Tiresias of abetting his kinsman, Creon, by whom he had been persuaded to send for the soothsayer, in a plot against his throne—and the seer, who explains nothing and threatens all things, departs with a dim and fearful prophecy.
A powerful dialogue follows. Oedipus accuses Tiresias of helping his relative, Creon, who convinced him to summon the prophet, as part of a scheme against his throne. The seer, offering no explanations and making ominous threats, leaves with a vague and unsettling prophecy.
After a song from the chorus, in which are imbodied the doubt, the trouble, the terror which the audience may begin to feel—and here it may be observed, that with Sophocles the chorus always carries on, not the physical, but the moral, progress of the drama 345—Creon enters, informed of the suspicion against himself which Oedipus had expressed. Oedipus, whose whole spirit is disturbed by the weird and dark threats of Tiresias, repeats the accusation, but wildly and feebly. His vain worldly wisdom suggests to him that Creon would scarcely have asked him to consult Tiresias, nor Tiresias have ventured on denunciations so tremendous, had not the two conspired against him: yet a mysterious awe invades him—he presses questions on Creon relative to the murder of Laius, and seems more anxious to acquit himself than accuse another.
After a song from the chorus, which embodies the doubt, troubles, and fears the audience might start to feel—and it’s worth noting that with Sophocles, the chorus always reflects the moral, not just the physical, development of the drama 345—Creon enters, aware of the suspicion Oedipus has voiced against him. Oedipus, whose mind is troubled by the eerie and ominous threats from Tiresias, repeats the accusation but in a frantic and weak manner. His futile worldly wisdom leads him to think that Creon wouldn’t have suggested he consult Tiresias, nor would Tiresias have made such grave accusations, if they hadn’t secretly plotted against him: yet a sense of mysterious dread overwhelms him—he bombard Creon with questions about the murder of Laius and seems more concerned about defending himself than blaming someone else.
While the princes contend, the queen, Jocasta, enters. She chides their quarrel, learns from Oedipus that Tiresias had accused him of the murder of the deceased king, and, to convince him of the falseness of prophetic lore, reveals to him, that long since it was predicted that Laius should be murdered by his son joint offspring of Jocasta and himself. Yet, in order to frustrate the prophecy, the only son of Laius had been exposed to perish upon solitary and untrodden mountains, while, in after years, Laius himself had fallen, in a spot where three roads met, by the hand of a stranger; so that the prophecy had not come to pass.
While the princes argue, Queen Jocasta enters. She scolds them for their fight, learns from Oedipus that Tiresias accused him of the murder of the late king, and to prove the falsehood of prophetic claims, reveals to him that it was predicted long ago that Laius would be killed by his son, their joint offspring. To avoid this prophecy, Laius's only son had been abandoned to die on remote and uncrossed mountains. Later, Laius himself had been killed at a crossroads by a stranger, meaning the prophecy did not come true.
At this declaration terror seizes upon Oedipus. He questions Jocasta eagerly and rapidly—the place where the murder happened, the time in which it occurred, the age and personal appearance of Laius—and when he learns all, his previous arrogant conviction of innocence deserts him; and as he utters a horrid exclamation, Jocasta fixes her eyes upon him, and “shudders as she gazes.” 346 He inquires what train accompanied Laius—learns that there were five persons; that but one escaped; that on his return to Thebes, seeing Oedipus on the throne, the surviver had besought the favour to retire from the city. Oedipus orders this witness of the murder to be sent for, and then proceeds to relate his own history. He has been taught to believe that Polybus of Corinth and Merope of Doris were his parents. But once at a banquet he was charged with being a supposititious child; the insult galled him, and he went to Delphi to consult the oracle. It was predicted to him that he should commit incest with his mother, and that his father should fall by his hand. Appalled and horror-stricken, he resolves to fly the possible fulfilment of the prophecy, and return no more to Corinth. In his flight by the triple road described by Jocasta he meets an old man in a chariot, with a guide or herald, and other servitors. They attempt to thrust him from the road—a contest ensues—he slays the old man and his train. Could this be Laius? Can it be to the marriage couch of the man he slew that he has ascended? No, his fears are too credulous! he clings to a straw; the herdsman who had escaped the slaughter of Laius and his attendants may prove that it was not the king whom he encountered. Jocasta sustains this hope—she cannot believe a prophecy—for it had been foretold that Laius should fall by the hand of his son, and that son had long since perished on the mountains. The queen and Oedipus retire within their palace; the chorus resume their strains; after which, Jocasta reappears on her way to the temple of Apollo, to offer sacrifice and prayer. At this time a messenger arrives to announce to Oedipus the death of Polybus, and the wish of the Corinthians to elect Oedipus to the throne! At these tidings Jocasta is overjoyed.
At this declaration, terror grips Oedipus. He eagerly and quickly questions Jocasta about the place of the murder, the time it happened, and Laius's age and appearance. When he discovers everything, his previous confident belief in his innocence vanishes; and as he lets out a horrible exclamation, Jocasta stares at him, “shuddering as she gazes.” 346 He asks about the group that accompanied Laius—finding out there were five people, and only one survived; when this survivor returned to Thebes and saw Oedipus on the throne, he begged to leave the city. Oedipus orders for this witness of the murder to be brought in and then starts to tell his own story. He had always believed that Polybus from Corinth and Merope from Doris were his parents. However, at a banquet, someone accused him of being a bastard; the insult hurt him, and he went to Delphi to consult the oracle. The oracle predicted that he would commit incest with his mother and that he would kill his father. Horrified and terrified, he decided to flee from the potential of this prophecy coming true and never return to Corinth. While escaping on the triple road described by Jocasta, he encounters an old man in a chariot accompanied by a guide and other servants. They try to push him off the road, leading to a struggle—he kills the old man and his attendants. Could this be Laius? Could he have reached the marriage bed of the man he killed? No, his fears are too much! He’s grasping at straws; the herdsman who escaped the slaughter of Laius and his companions might prove that it was not the king he ran into. Jocasta supports this hope—she can’t accept a prophecy—since it was said that Laius would be killed by his son, and that son had supposedly died long ago in the mountains. The queen and Oedipus go back inside their palace; the chorus resumes their song; then Jocasta comes back on her way to the temple of Apollo to offer sacrifices and prayers. At this moment, a messenger arrives to tell Oedipus about Polybus's death and the Corinthians' desire to make him king! At this news, Jocasta is overjoyed.
“Predictions of the gods, where are ye now?
Lest by the son’s doomed hand the sire should fall,
The son became a wanderer on the earth,
Lo, not the son, but Nature, gives the blow!”
“Predictions of the gods, where are you now? Lest by the son’s doomed hand the father should fall, The son became a wanderer on the earth, Look, it’s not the son, but Nature, that delivers the blow!”
Oedipus, summoned to the messenger, learns the news of his supposed father’s death! It is a dread and tragic thought, but the pious Oedipus is glad that his father is no more, since he himself is thus saved from parricide; yet the other part of the prediction haunts him. His mother!—she yet lives. He reveals to the messenger the prophecy and his terror. To cheer him, the messenger now informs him that he is not the son of Merope and Polybus. A babe had been found in the entangled forest-dells of Cithaeron by a herdsman and slave of Laius —he had given the infant to another—that other, the messenger who now tells the tale. Transferred to the care of Polybus and Merope, the babe became to them as a son, for they were childless. Jocasta hears—stunned and speechless—till Oedipus, yet unconscious of the horrors still to come, turns to demand of her if she knew the herdsman who had found the child. Then she gasps wildly out—
Oedipus, called by the messenger, learns the news of his supposed father's death! It’s a terrifying and tragic thought, but the devout Oedipus feels relieved that his father is gone, as this means he is safe from killing him; however, the other part of the prophecy continues to haunt him. His mother!—she is still alive. He shares the prophecy and his fear with the messenger. To comfort him, the messenger reveals that he is not the son of Merope and Polybus. A baby was found in the tangled forests of Cithaeron by a herdsman and slave of Laius—he gave the infant to another person—the messenger who is now telling the story. Taken into the care of Polybus and Merope, the baby became like a son to them, as they were childless. Jocasta listens, stunned and speechless, until Oedipus, still unaware of the horrors that lie ahead, asks her if she knows the herdsman who found the child. Then she gasps in shock—
“Whom speaks he of? Be silent—heed it not—
Blot it out from thy memory!—it is evil!
Oedipus. It cannot be—the clew is here; and I
Will trace it through that labyrinth—my birth.
Jocasta. By all the gods I warn thee; for the sake
Of thine own life beware; it is enough
For me to hear and madden!”
“Who is he talking about? Be quiet—ignore it—
Forget it!—it's bad!
Oedipus. It can't be—the clue is here; and I
Will follow it through that maze—my origins.
Jocasta. By all the gods, I warn you; for the sake
Of your own life, be careful; it's enough
For me to hear and go crazy!”Oedipus (suspecting only that the pride of his queen revolts from the thought of her husband’s birth being proved base and servile) replies,
Oedipus, thinking only that his queen's pride is upset by the idea of her husband's lowly and humble origins, responds,
“Nay, nay, cheer thee!
Were I through three descents threefold a slave,
My shame would not touch thee.
Jocasta. I do implore thee,
This once obey me—this once.
Oedipus I will not!
To truth I grope my way.
Jocasta. And yet what love
Speaks in my voice! Thine ignorance is thy bliss.
Oedipus. A bliss that tortures!
Jocasta. Miserable man!
Oh couldst thou never learn the thing thou art!
Oedipus. Will no one quicken this slow herdsman’s steps
The unquestioned birthright of a royal name
Let this proud queen possess!
Jocasta. Wo! wo! thou wretch!
Wo! my last word!—words are no more for me!”
“Come on, cheer up! Even if I were a slave three times over, my shame wouldn’t affect you. Jocasta. Please, I beg you, Just this once, listen to me—just this once. Oedipus. I won't! I'm searching for the truth. Jocasta. And yet, what love Is in my voice! Your ignorance is your bliss. Oedipus. A bliss that torments! Jocasta. Poor man! Oh, can you never understand who you are! Oedipus. Can't someone hurry this slow shepherd along? Let this proud queen have the unquestioned right to her royal name! Jocasta. Oh! Oh! You miserable wretch! Oh! This is my final word!—I have no more words left!”
With this Jocasta rushes from the scene. Still Oedipus misconstrues her warning; he ascribes her fears to the royalty of her spirit. For himself, Fortune was his mother, and had blessed him; nor could the accident of birth destroy his inheritance from nature. The chorus give way to their hopes! their wise, their glorious Oedipus might have been born a Theban! The herdsman enters: like Tiresias, he is loath to speak. The fiery king extorts his secret. Oedipus is the son of Laius and Jocasta—at his birth the terrible prophecies of the Pythian induced his own mother to expose him on the mountains—the compassion of the herdsman saved him—saved him to become the bridegroom of his mother, the assassin of his sire. The astonishing art with which, from step to step, the audience and the victim are led to the climax of the discovery, is productive of an interest of pathos and of terror which is not equalled by the greatest masterpieces of the modern stage 347, and possesses that species of anxious excitement which is wholly unparalleled in the ancient. The discovery is a true catastrophe—the physical denouement is but an adjunct to the moral one. Jocasta, on quitting the scene, had passed straight to the bridal-chamber, and there, by the couch from which had sprung a double and accursed progeny, perished by her own hands. Meanwhile, the predestined parricide, bursting into the chamber, beheld, as the last object on earth, the corpse of his wife and mother! Once more Oedipus reappears, barred for ever from the light of day. In the fury of his remorse, he “had smote the balls of his own eyes,” and the wise baffler of the sphinx, Oedipus, the haughty, the insolent, the illustrious, is a forlorn and despairing outcast. But amid all the horror of the concluding scene, a beautiful and softening light breaks forth. Blind, powerless, excommunicated, Creon, whom Oedipus accused of murder, has now become his judge and his master. The great spirit, crushed beneath its intolerable woes, is humbled to the dust; and the “wisest of mankind” implores but two favours—to be thrust from the land an exile, and once more to embrace his children. Even in translation the exquisite tenderness of this passage cannot altogether fail of its effect.
With this, Jocasta rushes off the stage. Still, Oedipus misinterprets her warning; he thinks her fears come from her royal nature. For him, Fortune was like a mother, blessing him; no matter what his birth circumstances were, they couldn't erase his natural inheritance. The chorus gives in to their hopes! Their wise, glorious Oedipus could have been born a Theban! The herdsman enters: like Tiresias, he hesitates to speak. The fiery king forces him to reveal the truth. Oedipus is the son of Laius and Jocasta—at his birth, the terrifying prophecies from the Oracle made his own mother abandon him on the mountains—out of compassion, the herdsman saved him—saved him to become the husband of his mother, the killer of his father. The incredible skill with which both the audience and the protagonist are led to the shocking revelation creates a sense of pathos and terror that rivals even the greatest works of modern theater 347, offering a unique kind of anxious excitement that is unmatched in ancient times. The discovery is a true tragedy—the physical outcome is merely an addition to the moral one. After leaving the scene, Jocasta went straight to the bridal chamber, where she perished by her own hand by the couch that bore an accursed offspring. Meanwhile, the destined parricide, bursting into the room, saw as his last sight the corpse of his wife and mother! Once again, Oedipus appears, forever barred from the light of day. In his rage and remorse, he “struck out his own eyes,” and the once clever solver of the Sphinx, Oedipus, the proud, the arrogant, the illustrious, is now a desolate and despairing outcast. But in the midst of all the horror in this final scene, a gentle and beautiful light emerges. Blind, powerless, exiled, Creon, whom Oedipus accused of murder, has now become his judge and master. The great spirit, crushed under its unbearable sorrows, is brought low; and the “wisest of men” pleads for just two things—to be cast out as an exile from the land, and to embrace his children once more. Even in translation, the exquisite tenderness of this passage remains impactful.
“For my fate, let it pass! My children, Creon!
My sons—nay, they the bitter wants of life
May master—they are MEN?—my girls—my darlings—
Why, never sat I at my household board
Without their blessed looks—our very bread
We brake together; thou’lt be kind to them
For my sake, Creon—and (oh, latest prayer!)
Let me but touch them—feel them with these hands,
And pour such sorrow as may speak farewell
O’er ills that must be theirs! By thy pure line—
For thin is pure—do this, sweet prince. Methinks
I should not miss these eyes, could I but touch them.
What shall I say to move thee?
Sobs! And do I,
Oh do I hear my sweet ones? Hast thou sent,
In mercy sent, my children to my arms?
Speak—speak—I do not dream!
Creon. They are thy children;
I would not shut thee from the dear delight
In the old time they gave thee.
Oedipus. Blessings on thee
For this one mercy mayst thou find above
A kinder God than I have. Ye—where are ye?
My children—come!—nearer and nearer yet,” etc.
“Let my fate be what it is! My children, Creon! My sons—are they truly the bitter needs of life that can control them?—my girls—my darlings— I’ve never sat at my family table without their precious faces— we broke our bread together; you’ll be kind to them for my sake, Creon—and (oh, my final prayer!) just let me touch them—feel them with these hands, and express all the sorrow that says goodbye to the troubles they must face! By your noble blood— for it is noble—do this, dear prince. I think I wouldn’t miss their eyes if I could just touch them. What can I say to convince you? Sobs! And do I—oh, do I hear my little ones? Have you sent, in mercy, my children to my arms? Speak—speak—I’m not dreaming! Creon. They are your children; I wouldn’t keep you from the dear joy they once brought you. Oedipus. Bless you for this one act of mercy; may you find above a kinder God than I am. Where are you? My children—come!—closer and closer yet,” etc.
The pathos of this scene is continued to the end; and the very last words Oedipus utters as his children cling to him, implore that they at least may not be torn away.
The emotional impact of this scene carries on until the end; and the very last words Oedipus speaks as his children hold onto him, pleading not to be separated.
It is in this concluding scene that the art of the play is consummated; the horrors of the catastrophe, which, if a last impression, would have left behind a too painful and gloomy feeling, are softened down by this beautiful resort to the tenderest and holiest sources of emotion. And the pathos is rendered doubly effective, not only from the immediate contrast of the terror that preceded it, but from the masterly skill with which all display of the softer features in the character of Oedipus is reserved to the close. In the breaking up of the strong mind and the daring spirit, when empire, honour, name, are all annihilated, the heart is seen, as it were, surviving the wrecks around it, and clinging for support to the affections.
It is in this final scene that the play reaches its peak; the horrors of the disaster, which could have left a too painful and dark feeling as a last impression, are softened by a beautiful appeal to the most tender and sacred emotions. The emotional impact is made even stronger, not just because of the immediate contrast to the terror that came before, but also because of the incredible skill in how all of Oedipus's softer qualities are held back until the end. As the strong mind and daring spirit break down—when empire, honor, and name are all destroyed—we see the heart, as if surviving the wreckage around it, seeking support in love and connections.
VII. In the “Oedipus at Coloneus,” the blind king is presented to us, after the lapse of years, a wanderer over the earth, unconsciously taking his refuge in the grove of the furies 348—“the awful goddesses, daughters of Earth and Darkness.” His young daughter, Antigone, one of the most lovely creations of poetry, is his companion and guide; he is afterward joined by his other daughter, Ismene, whose weak and selfish character is drawn in strong contrast to the heroism and devotion of Antigone. The ancient prophecies that foretold his woes had foretold also his release. His last shelter and resting-place were to be obtained from the dread deities, and a sign of thunder, or earthquake, or lightning was to announce his parting hour. Learning the spot to which his steps had been guided, Oedipus solemnly feels that his doom approaches: thus, at the very opening of the poem, he stands before us on the verge of a mysterious grave.
VII. In “Oedipus at Coloneus,” the blind king is shown to us after many years as a wanderer across the land, unknowingly seeking refuge in the grove of the Furies 348 — “the terrifying goddesses, daughters of Earth and Darkness.” His young daughter, Antigone, one of the most beautiful characters in poetry, accompanies and guides him; later, his other daughter, Ismene, joins them, whose weak and selfish nature is sharply contrasted with the bravery and devotion of Antigone. The ancient prophecies that predicted his suffering also foretold his release. His final resting place was to be given by the fearsome deities, and a sign of thunder, earthquake, or lightning would announce the moment of his departure. As he realizes the location his path has led him to, Oedipus grimly senses that his fate is nearing: thus, at the very beginning of the poem, he stands before us on the edge of a mysterious grave.
The sufferings which have bowed the parricide to a premature old age 349 have not crushed his spirit; the softness and self-humiliation which were the first results of his awful affliction are passed away. He is grown once more vehement and passionate, from the sense of wrong; remorse still visits him, but is alternated with the yet more human feeling of resentment at the unjust severity of his doom 350. His sons, who, “by a word,” might have saved him from the expulsion, penury, and wanderings he has undergone, had deserted his cause—had looked with indifferent eyes on his awful woes—had joined with Creon to expel him from the Theban land. They are the Goneril and Regan of the classic Lear, as Antigone is the Cordelia on whom he leans—a Cordelia he has never thrust from him. “When,” says Oedipus, in stern bitterness of soul,
The pain that has forced the killer to age prematurely hasn’t broken his spirit; the softness and self-deprecation that were the initial reactions to his terrible suffering have faded away. He has become intense and passionate again, driven by a sense of injustice; remorse still visits him, but it alternates with a more human feeling of anger at the unfair harshness of his fate. His sons, who could have saved him with just a word from the expulsion, poverty, and wandering he has experienced, have abandoned him—have looked on his terrible suffering with indifference—have sided with Creon to drive him out of Thebes. They are the Goneril and Regan of the classic Lear, while Antigone is the Cordelia he leans on—a Cordelia he has never pushed away. “When,” says Oedipus, in deep bitterness,
“When my soul boiled within me—when ‘to die’
Was all my prayer—and death was sweetness, yea,
Had they but stoned me like a dog, I’d blessed them;
Then no man rose against me—but when time
Brought its slow comfort—when my wounds were scarred—
All my griefs mellow’d, and remorse itself
Judged my self-penance mightier than my sins,
Thebes thrust me from her breast, and they, my sons,
My blood, mine offspring, from their father shrunk:
A word of theirs had saved me—one small word—
They said it not—and lo! the wandering beggar!”
“When my soul was boiling inside me—when ‘to die’ was all I prayed for—and death felt sweet, yeah, if they had just stoned me like a dog, I would’ve blessed them; then no one rose up against me—but when time brought its slow comfort—when my wounds had healed— all my griefs softened, and even my regret judged my self-punishment stronger than my sins, Thebes pushed me away, and they, my sons, my blood, my offspring, shrank from their father: A word from them could have saved me—one small word—they didn’t say it—and look! Here I am, a wandering beggar!”
In the mean while, during the exile of Oedipus, strife had broken out between the brothers: Eteocles, here represented as the younger, drove out Polynices, and seized the throne; Polynices takes refuge at Argos, where he prepares war against the usurper: an oracle declares that success shall be with that party which Oedipus joins, and a mysterious blessing is pronounced on the land which contains his bones. Thus, the possession of this wild tool of fate—raised up in age to a dread and ghastly consequence—becomes the argument of the play, as his death must become the catastrophe. It is the deep and fierce revenge of Oedipus that makes the passion of the whole. According to a sublime conception, we see before us the physical Oedipus in the lowest state of destitution and misery—in rags, blindness, beggary, utter and abject impotence. But in the moral, Oedipus is all the majesty of a power still royal. The oracle has invested one, so fallen and so wretched in himself, with the power of a god—the power to confer victory on the cause he adopts, prosperity on the land that becomes his tomb. With all the revenge of age, all the grand malignity of hatred, he clings to this shadow and relic of a sceptre. Creon, aware of the oracle, comes to recall him to Thebes. The treacherous kinsman humbles himself before his victim—he is the suppliant of the beggar, who defies and spurns him. Creon avenges himself by seizing on Antigone and Ismene. Nothing can be more dramatically effective than the scene in which these last props of his age are torn from the desolate old man. They are ultimately restored to him by Theseus, whose amiable and lofty character is painted with all the partial glow of colouring which an Athenian poet would naturally lavish on the Athenian Alfred. We are next introduced to Polynices. He, like Creon, has sought Oedipus with the selfish motive of recovering his throne by means of an ally to whom the oracle promises victory. But there is in Polynices the appearance of a true penitence, and a mingled gentleness and majesty in his bearing which interests us in his fate despite his faults, and which were possibly intended by Sophocles to give a new interest to the plot of the “Antigone,” composed and exhibited long before. Oedipus is persuaded by the benevolence of Theseus, and the sweet intercession of Antigone, to admit his son. After a chant from the chorus on the ills of old age 351, Polynices enters. He is struck with the wasted and miserable appearance of the old man, and bitterly reproaches his own desertion.
While Oedipus was in exile, conflict arose between his sons: Eteocles, portrayed as the younger, expelled Polynices and took the throne; Polynices sought refuge in Argos, where he plotted against the usurper. An oracle revealed that victory would favor the side Oedipus supports, and a mysterious blessing was placed on the land that held his remains. Therefore, the possession of this unpredictable force of fate—brought forth in age to a terrifying and grim outcome—becomes the central theme of the play, as his death must serve as the climax. It is Oedipus's deep and intense desire for revenge that fuels the entire narrative. In an impressive depiction, we see Oedipus physically reduced to the lowest depths of despair—dressed in rags, blind, living in poverty, utterly powerless. Yet, morally, Oedipus retains the dignity of a former king. The oracle has granted this fallen and wretched man the power of a deity—the ability to bring victory to the cause he chooses and prosperity to the land that becomes his grave. With all the bitterness of age and the profound malice of hatred, he clings to this shadow of a scepter. Creon, aware of the oracle, comes to bring him back to Thebes. The treacherous relative humbles himself before his victim—he is the suppliant before the beggar, who scorns and rejects him. Creon retaliates by taking Antigone and Ismene. Nothing is more dramatically powerful than the moment when these last supports of his age are ripped away from the broken old man. Eventually, Theseus restores them to him, and his kind and noble character is portrayed with the affectionate admiration an Athenian poet would naturally bestow upon a fellow Athenian hero. Next, we meet Polynices. Like Creon, he has come to Oedipus with the self-serving aim of reclaiming his throne with the help of an ally that the oracle promises will bring victory. However, Polynices appears genuinely repentant, and there is a blend of tenderness and dignity in his demeanor that makes us care about his fate despite his flaws, which Sophocles may have intended to add a new layer to the plot of "Antigone," written and performed long before. Oedipus is moved by Theseus's kindness and Antigone's gentle persuasion to accept his son. After a chant from the chorus reflecting on the troubles of old age 351, Polynices enters. He is deeply affected by the old man's frail and miserable condition and harshly criticizes his own abandonment.
“But since,” he says, with almost a Christian sentiment—
“But since,” he says, with almost a Christian vibe—
“Since o’er each deed, upon the Olympian throne,
Mercy sits joint presider with great Jove,
Let her, oh father, also take her stand
Within thy soul—and judge me! The past sins
Yet have their cure—ah, would they had recall!
Why are you voiceless? Speak to me, my father?
Turn not away—will you not answer me?” etc.
“Since over each deed, on the Olympian throne, Mercy sits alongside great Jove, Let her, oh father, also take her place Within your soul—and judge me! The past sins Still have their cure—ah, if only they could be undone! Why are you silent? Speak to me, my father. Don’t turn away—won’t you answer me?” etc.
Oedipus retains his silence in spite of the prayers of his beloved Antigone, and Polynices proceeds to narrate the wrongs he has undergone from Eteocles, and, warming with a young warrior’s ardour, paints the array that he has mustered on his behalf—promises to restore Oedipus to his palace—and, alluding to the oracle, throws himself on his father’s pardon.
Oedipus stays silent despite the pleas of his beloved Antigone, while Polynices goes on to describe the injustices he has faced from Eteocles. Fueled by the passion of a young warrior, he depicts the forces he has gathered to support him, promises to bring Oedipus back to his palace, and, referencing the oracle, begs for his father's forgiveness.
Then, at last, outspeaks Oedipus, and from reproach bursts into curses.
Then, finally, Oedipus speaks up, and instead of blame, he erupts into curses.
“And now you weep; you wept not at these woes
Until you wept your own. But I—I weep not.
These things are not for tears, but for Endurance.
My son is like his sire—a parricide!
Toil, exile, beggary—daily bread doled out
From stranger hands—these are your gifts, my son!
My nurses, guardians—they who share the want,
Or earn the bread, are daughters; call them not
Women, for they to me are men. Go to!
Thou art not mine—I do disclaim such issue.
Behold, the eyes of the avenging God
Are o’er thee! but their ominous light delays
To blast thee yet. March on—march on—to Thebes!
Not—not for thee, the city and the throne;
The earth shall first be reddened with thy blood—
Thy blood and his, thy foe—thy brother! Curses!
Not for the first time summoned to my wrongs—
Curses! I call ye back, and make ye now
Allies with this old man!
* * * * * *
Yea, curses shall possess thy seat and throne,
If antique Justice o’er the laws of earth
Reign with the thunder-god. March on to ruin!
Spurned and disowned—the basest of the base—
And with thee bear this burden: o’er thine head
I pour a prophet’s doom; nor throne nor home
Waits on the sharpness of the levelled spear:
Thy very land of refuge hath no welcome;
Thine eyes have looked their last on hollow Argos.
Death by a brother’s hand—dark fratricide,
Murdering thyself a brother—shall be thine.
Yea, while I curse thee, on the murky deep
Of the primeval hell I call! Prepare
These men their home, dread Tartarus! Goddesses,
Whose shrines are round me—ye avenging Furies!
And thou, oh Lord of Battle, who hast stirred
Hate in the souls of brethren, hear me—hear me!—
And now, ‘tis past!—enough!—depart and tell
The Theban people, and thy fond allies,
What blessings, from his refuge with the Furies,
The blind old Oedipus awards his sons!” 352
“And now you’re crying; you didn’t cry over these sorrows
Until you felt your own pain. But me—I don’t cry.
These things aren’t for tears, but for Endurance.
My son is like his father—a killer of his own!
Hard work, exile, begging—living on daily handouts
From strangers—these are your gifts, my son!
My caretakers, protectors—they who share the struggle,
Or earn the bread, are daughters; don’t call them
Women, for to me, they are men. Go on!
You are not mine—I disown such offspring.
Look! The eyes of the vengeful God
Are upon you! But their ominous light waits
To strike you yet. Move on—move on—to Thebes!
Not—for you, the city and the throne;
The earth will first be stained with your blood—
Your blood and his, your enemy—your brother! Curses!
Not for the first time called upon to avenge my wrongs—
Curses! I summon you back, and now make you
Allies with this old man!
* * * * * *
Yes, curses will take over your seat and throne,
If ancient Justice over the laws of earth
Rules with the thunder-god. Move forward to destruction!
Rejected and disowned—the lowest of the low—
And with you carry this burden: over your head
I pour a prophet’s doom; neither throne nor home
Awaits the sharpness of the pointed spear:
Your very refuge has no welcome;
Your eyes have looked their last on empty Argos.
Death by a brother’s hand—dark fratricide,
Killing your own brother—will be yours.
Yes, while I curse you, to the murky depths
Of the ancient hell I call! Prepare
These men for their home, dread Tartarus! Goddesses,
Whose shrines are around me—you avenging Furies!
And you, oh Lord of Battle, who have stirred
Hate in the hearts of brothers, hear me—hear me!—
And now, it’s over!—enough!—go and tell
The Theban people, and your dear allies,
What blessings, from his refuge with the Furies,
The blind old Oedipus grants his sons!” 352As is usual with Sophocles, the terrific strength of these execrations is immediately followed by a soft and pathetic scene between Antigone and her brother. Though crushed at first by the paternal curse, the spirit of Polynices so far recovers its native courage that he will not listen to the prayer of his sister to desist from the expedition to Thebes, and to turn his armies back to Argos. “What,” he says,
As is typical with Sophocles, the intense power of these curses is soon followed by a tender and emotional moment between Antigone and her brother. Even though Polynices initially feels defeated by their father's curse, he finds his courage again and refuses to heed his sister's plea to abandon the attack on Thebes and return his forces to Argos. “What,” he says,
“Lead back an army that could deem I trembled!”
“Take back an army that could say I was scared!”
Yet he feels the mournful persuasion that his death is doomed; and a glimpse of the plot of the “Antigone” is opened upon us by his prayer to his sister, that if he perish, they should lay him with due honours in the tomb. The exquisite loveliness of Antigone’s character touches even Polynices, and he departs, saying,
Yet he feels a sad certainty that his death is inevitable; and we get a glimpse of the story of "Antigone" through his prayer to his sister, asking that if he dies, they should honorably bury him in the tomb. The stunning beauty of Antigone’s character even affects Polynices, and he leaves, saying,
“With the gods rests the balance of our fate;
But thee, at least—oh never upon thee
May evil fall! Thou art too good for sorrow!”
“The gods hold the balance of our destiny;
But you, at least—oh, may evil never touch
You! You are too kind for sadness!”The chorus resume their strains, when suddenly thunder is heard, and Oedipus hails the sign that heralds him to the shades. Nothing can be conceived more appalling than this omen. It seems as if Oedipus had been spared but to curse his children and to die. He summons Theseus, tells him that his fate is at hand, and that without a guide he himself will point out the spot where he shall rest. Never may that spot be told—that secret and solemn grave shall be the charm of the land and a defence against its foes. Oedipus then turns round, and the instinct within guides him as he gropes along. His daughters and Theseus follow the blind man, amazed and awed. “Hither,” he says,
The chorus starts up again when suddenly thunder is heard, and Oedipus acknowledges the sign that leads him to the afterlife. There's nothing more terrifying than this omen. It seems like Oedipus was spared just to curse his children and to die. He calls Theseus, tells him that his fate is near, and that without a guide, he will point out the place where he will rest. That spot must never be revealed—its secret and sacred grave will be a charm for the land and a protection against its enemies. Oedipus then turns around, and the instinct inside him leads him as he feels his way along. His daughters and Theseus follow the blind man, astonished and respectful. “Over here,” he says,
“Hither—by this way come—for this way leads
The unseen conductor of the dead 353—and she
Whom shadows call their queen! 354 Oh light, sweet light,
Rayless to me—mine once, and even now
I feel thee palpable, round this worn form,
Clinging in last embrace—I go to shroud
The waning life in the eternal Hades!”
“Come this way—this path leads The unseen guide of the dead 353—and she Whom shadows call their queen! 354 Oh light, sweet light, Invisible to me—once mine, and even now I feel you close, surrounding this weary form, Holding on in one last embrace—I go to cover The fading life in the eternal underworld!”
Thus the stage is left to the chorus, and the mysterious fate of Oedipus is recited by the Nuntius, in verses which Longinus has not extolled too highly. Oedipus had led the way to a cavern, well known in legendary lore as the spot where Perithous and Theseus had pledged their faith, by the brazen steps which make one of the entrances to the infernal realms;
Thus the stage is left to the chorus, and the mysterious fate of Oedipus is recounted by the Messenger, in verses that Longinus has not praised too highly. Oedipus had led the way to a cave, famously known in legend as the place where Perithous and Theseus swore their loyalty, by the bronze steps that serve as one of the entrances to the underworld;
“Between which place and the Thorician stone—
The hollow thorn, and the sepulchral pile
He sat him down.”
“Between that place and the Thorician stone— The hollow thorn and the burial mound He sat down.”
And when he had performed libations from the stream, and laved, and decked himself in the funeral robes, Jove thundered beneath the earth, and the old man’s daughters, aghast with horror, fell at his knees with sobs and groans.
And when he had poured out offerings from the stream, washed himself, and put on the funeral robes, Jupiter thundered from beneath the earth, and the old man’s daughters, filled with fear, fell at his knees, sobbing and groaning.
“Then o’er them as they wept, his hands he clasped,
And ‘Oh my children,’ said he, ‘from this day
Ye have no more a father—all of me
Withers away—the burden and the toil
Of mine old age fall on ye nevermore.
Sad travail have ye home for me, and yet
Let one thought breathe a balm when I am gone—
The thought that none upon the desolate world
Loved you as I did; and in death I leave
A happier life to you!’
Thus movingly,
With clinging arms and passionate sobs, the three
Wept out aloud, until the sorrow grew
Into a deadly hush—nor cry nor wail
Starts the drear silence of the solitude.
Then suddenly a bodiless voice is heard
And fear came cold on all. They shook with awe,
And horror, like a wind, stirred up their hair.
Again, the voice—again—‘Ho! Oedipus, Why linger we so long?
Come—hither—come.’”
“Then over them as they cried, he clasped his hands,
And ‘Oh my children,’ he said, ‘from this day
You no longer have a father—all of me
Withers away—the burden and the toil
Of my old age will fall on you no more.
You’ve had harsh struggles waiting for me, and yet
Let one thought provide comfort when I’m gone—
The thought that no one in this desolate world
Loved you as much as I did; and in death, I leave
A happier life for you!’
Thus movingly,
With clinging arms and passionate sobs, the three
Wept out loud, until the sorrow grew
Into a deadly hush—neither cry nor wail
Disturbs the dreary silence of the solitude.
Then suddenly a disembodied voice was heard
And fear came cold upon them all. They shook with awe,
And horror, like a wind, stirred their hair.
Again, the voice—again—‘Ho! Oedipus, why do we linger so long?
Come—here—come.’”Oedipus then solemnly consigns his children to Theseus, dismisses them, and Theseus alone is left with the old man.
Oedipus then seriously hands over his children to Theseus, sends them away, and only Theseus remains with the old man.
“So groaning we depart—and when once more
We turned our eyes to gaze, behold, the place
Knew not the man! The king alone was there,
Holding his spread hands o’er averted brows
As if to shut from out the quailing gaze
The horrid aspect of some ghastly thing
That nature durst not look on. So we paused
Until the king awakened from the terror,
And to the mother Earth, and high Olympus,
Seat of the gods, he breathed awe—stricken prayer
But, how the old man perished, save the king,
Mortal can ne’er divine; for bolt, nor levin,
Nor blasting tempest from the ocean borne,
Was heard or seen; but either was he rapt
Aloft by wings divine, or else the shades,
Whose darkness never looked upon the sun,
Yawned in grim mercy, and the rent abyss
Ingulf’d the wanderer from the living world.”
“So we groan as we leave—and when we look back again, behold, the place no longer recognized the man! The king was the only one left, holding his hands above his furrowed brows as if to shield his trembling eyes from the terrifying sight of something so horrifying that nature wouldn't dare confront it. We waited until the king recovered from his fear and offered a prayer, awe-struck, to Mother Earth and high Olympus, the home of the gods. But how the old man met his end, except for the king, no mortal can ever know; no lightning bolt, nor thunder, nor raging storm from the ocean was heard or seen. Either he was lifted away by divine wings, or the shadows, whose darkness never sees the sun, yawned in grim mercy, and the gaping abyss swallowed the wanderer from the world of the living.”
Such, sublime in its wondrous power, its appalling mystery, its dim, religious terror, is the catastrophe of the “Oedipus at Coloneus.” The lines that follow are devoted to the lamentations of the daughters, and appear wholly superfluous, unless we can consider that Sophocles desired to indicate the connexion of the “Oedipus” with the “Antigone,” by informing us that the daughters of Oedipus are to be sent to Thebes at the request of Antigone herself, who hopes, in the tender courage of her nature, that she may perhaps prevent the predicted slaughter of her brothers.
Such, magnificent in its incredible power, its shocking mystery, and its faint, spiritual fear, is the disaster of “Oedipus at Coloneus.” The lines that follow are focused on the mourning of the daughters and seem entirely unnecessary, unless we consider that Sophocles wanted to show the connection between “Oedipus” and “Antigone” by letting us know that Oedipus's daughters are being sent to Thebes at the request of Antigone herself, who hopes, with her gentle courage, that she might prevent the foretold killing of her brothers.
VII. Coming now to the tragedy of “Antigone,” we find the prophecy of Oedipus has been fulfilled—the brothers have fallen by the hand of each other—the Argive army has been defeated—Creon has obtained the tyranny, and interdicts, on the penalty of death, the burial of Polynices, whose corpse remains guarded and unhonoured. Antigone, mindful of her brother’s request to her in their last interview, resolves to brave the edict, and perform those rites so indispensably sacred in the eyes of a Greek. She communicates her resolution to her sister Ismene, whose character, still feeble and commonplace, is a perpetual foil to the heroism of Antigone. She acts upon her resolutions, baffles the vigilant guards, buries the corpse. Creon, on learning that his edict has been secretly disobeyed, orders the remains to be disinterred, and in a second attempt Antigone is discovered, brought before him, and condemned to death. Haemon, the son of Creon, had been affianced to Antigone. On the news of her sentence he seeks Creon, and after a violent scene between the two, which has neither the power nor the dignity common to Sophocles, departs with vague menaces. A short but most exquisite invocation to love from the chorus succeeds, and in this, it may be observed, the chorus express much left not represented in the action—they serve to impress on the spectator all the irresistible effects of the passion which the modern artist would seek to represent in some moving scene between Antigone and Haemon. The heroine herself now passes across the stage on her way to her dreadful doom, which is that of living burial in “the cavern of a rock.” She thus addresses the chorus—
VII. Now turning to the tragedy of “Antigone,” we see that the prophecy of Oedipus has come true—the brothers have killed each other—the Argive army has been defeated—Creon has taken control and, under penalty of death, forbids the burial of Polynices, whose body remains unburied and dishonored. Remembering her brother’s request from their last meeting, Antigone decides to defy the order and carry out the sacred rites that are so important to the Greeks. She shares her plan with her sister Ismene, whose weak and ordinary character always contrasts with Antigone’s heroism. Antigone acts on her decision, evades the watchful guards, and buries the body. When Creon learns that his decree has been secretly broken, he orders the remains to be dug up, and in another attempt, Antigone is caught, brought before him, and sentenced to death. Haemon, Creon's son, was engaged to Antigone. Upon hearing her sentence, he confronts Creon, and after a heated argument that lacks the strength and dignity typical of Sophocles, he leaves with vague threats. A brief but beautiful tribute to love follows from the chorus, which expresses much that isn't shown in the action—they highlight the powerful effects of love that a modern artist would depict in a poignant scene between Antigone and Haemon. The heroine now crosses the stage on her way to her terrible fate, which is to be buried alive in “the cavern of a rock.” She addresses the chorus—
“Ye, of the land wherein my fathers dwelt,
Behold me journeying to my latest bourne!
Time hath no morrow for these eyes. Black Orcus,
Whose court hath room for all, leads my lone steps,
E’en while I live, to shadows. Not for me
The nuptial blessing or the marriage hymn:
Acheron, receive thy bride!
(Chorus.) Honoured and mourned
Nor struck by slow disease or violent hand,
Thy steps glide to the grave! Self-judged, like Freedom, 355
Thou, above mortals gifted, shalt descend
All living to the shades.
Antigone. Methinks I have heard—
So legends go—how Phrygian Niobe
(Poor stranger) on the heights of Sipylus
Mournfully died. The hard rock, like the tendrils
O’ the ivy, clung and crept unto her heart—
Her, nevermore, dissolving into showers,
Pale snows desert; and from her sorrowful eyes,
As from unfailing founts adown the cliffs,
Fall the eternal dews. Like her, the god
Lulls me to sleep, and into stone!”
“Hey, from the land where my ancestors lived, Look at me as I journey to my final destination! Time has no tomorrow for these eyes. Dark Orcus, Whose realm has space for everyone, guides my lonely steps, Even while I live, towards the shadows. Not for me The wedding blessing or the marriage hymn: Acheron, accept your bride! (Chorus.) Honored and mourned Not taken by slow disease or violent hand, Your steps glide to the grave! Self-judged, like Freedom, 355 You, gifted above mortals, shall descend All living to the shades. Antigone. I think I have heard— So the legends say—how Phrygian Niobe (Poor stranger) on the heights of Sipylus Mournfully died. The hard rock, like the tendrils Of the ivy, clung and crept to her heart— Her, nevermore, dissolving into streams, Pale snows depart; and from her sorrowful eyes, As from unfailing fountains down the cliffs, Fall the eternal dews. Like her, the god Lulls me to sleep, and into stone!”
Afterward she adds in her beautiful lament, “That she has one comfort —that she shall go to the grave dear to her parents and her brother.”
Afterward, she adds in her beautiful lament, “That she has one comfort — that she will go to the grave dear to her parents and her brother.”
The grief of Antigone is in perfect harmony with her character—it betrays no repentance, no weakness—it is but the natural sorrow, of youth and womanhood, going down to that grave which had so little of hope in the old Greek religion. In an Antigone on our stage we might have demanded more reference to her lover; but the Grecian heroine names him not, and alludes rather to the loss of the woman’s lot of wedlock than the loss of the individual bridegroom. But it is not for that reason that we are to conclude, with M. Schlegel and others, that the Greek women knew not the sentiment of love. Such a notion, that has obtained an unaccountable belief, I shall hereafter show to be at variance with all the poetry of the Greeks—with their drama itself— with their modes of life—and with the very elements of that human nature, which is everywhere the same. But Sophocles, in the character of Antigone, personifies duty, not passion. It is to this, her leading individuality, that whatever might weaken the pure and statue-like effect of the creation is sacrificed. As she was to her father, so is she to her brother. The sorrows and calamities of her family have so endeared them to her heart that she has room for little else. “Formed,” as she exquisitely says of herself, “to love, not to hate,” 356 she lives but to devote affections the most sacred to sad and pious tasks, and the last fulfilled, she has done with earth.
The grief of Antigone perfectly matches her character—it shows no regret or weakness—it’s simply the natural sorrow of youth and womanhood, facing that grave which held so little hope in the old Greek religion. In a modern Antigone, we might expect more mention of her lover; but the Greek heroine doesn’t name him, and instead refers more to the loss of marriage than the loss of a specific groom. However, that doesn’t mean we should conclude, like M. Schlegel and others, that Greek women didn’t experience love. This idea, which has strangely gained traction, I will later show to be inconsistent with all Greek poetry—with their drama itself—with their way of life—and with the very essence of human nature, which is the same everywhere. But Sophocles, through the character of Antigone, embodies duty, not passion. It is this central trait of hers to which anything that might detract from the pure and statue-like impact of her character is sacrificed. As she was to her father, so she is to her brother. The sorrows and misfortunes of her family are so precious to her that she has little room for anything else. “Formed,” as she beautifully describes herself, “to love, not to hate,” 356 she exists solely to dedicate her deepest affections to sad and sacred tasks, and once her final duty is fulfilled, she leaves the earth behind.
When Antigone is borne away, an august personage is presented to us, whose very name to us, who usually read the Oedipus Tyrannus before the Antigone, is the foreteller of omen and doom. As in the Oedipus Tyrannus, Tiresias the soothsayer appears to announce all the terrors that ensue—so now, at the crowning desolation of that fated house, he, the solemn and mysterious surviver of such dark tragedies, is again brought upon the stage. The auguries have been evil—birds battle with each other in the air—the flame will not mount from the sacrificial victim—and the altars and hearths are full of birds and dogs, gathering to their feast on the corpse of Polynices. The soothsayer enjoins Creon not to war against the dead, and to accord the rites of burial to the prince’s body. On the obstinate refusal of Creon, Tiresias utters prophetic maledictions and departs. Creon, whose vehemence of temper is combined with a feeble character, and strongly contrasts the mighty spirit of Oedipus, repents, and is persuaded by the chorus to release Antigone from her living prison, as well as to revoke the edict which denies sepulture to Polynices. He quits the stage for that purpose, and the chorus burst into one of their most picturesque odes, an Invocation to Bacchus, thus inadequately presented to the English reader.
When Antigone is taken away, a notable figure is introduced to us, whose name alone signals bad omens and doom, especially to those of us who usually read Oedipus Tyrannus before Antigone. Just like in Oedipus Tyrannus, Tiresias the seer appears to reveal all the horrors that follow—now, at the final tragedy of that doomed family, he, the serious and enigmatic survivor of such dark stories, is brought back onto the stage. The omens have been dire—birds are fighting each other in the sky—the flames won’t rise from the sacrificial animal—and the altars and hearths are filled with birds and dogs, gathering to feast on the body of Polynices. The seer warns Creon not to wage war against the dead and to give the proper burial rites to the prince’s body. When Creon stubbornly refuses, Tiresias pronounces prophetic curses and leaves. Creon, whose intense temper mixes with a weak character, stands in sharp contrast to the strong spirit of Oedipus; he feels remorse and is convinced by the chorus to free Antigone from her living tomb and to reverse the decree that denies burial to Polynices. He exits to make that happen, and the chorus breaks into one of their most vibrant odes, an Invocation to Bacchus, which is not fully captured for the English reader.
“Oh thou, whom earth by many a title hails,
Son of the thunder-god, and wild delight
Of the wild Theban maid!
Whether on far Italia’s shores obey’d,
Or where Eleusis joins thy solemn rites
With the great mother’s 357, in mysterious vales—
Bacchus in Bacchic Thebes best known,
Thy Thebes, who claims the Thyads as her daughters;
Fast by the fields with warriors dragon-sown,
And where Ismenus rolls his rapid waters.
It saw thee, the smoke,
On the horned height—358
It saw thee, and broke
With a leap into light;
Where roam Corycian nymphs the glorious mountain,
And all melodious flows the old Castalian fountain
Vocal with echoes wildly glad,
The Nysian steeps with ivy clad,
And shores with vineyards greenly blooming,
Proclaiming, steep to shore,
That Bacchus evermore
Is guardian of the race,
Where he holds his dwelling-place
With her 359, beneath the breath
Of the thunder’s glowing death,
In the glare of her glory consuming.
Oh now with healing steps along the slope
Of loved Parnassus, or in gliding motion,
O’er the far-sounding deep Euboean ocean—
Come! for we perish—come!—our Lord and hope!
Leader of the stately choir
Of the great stars, whose very breath is light,
Who dost with hymns inspire
Voices, oh youngest god, that sound by night;
Come, with thy Maenad throng,
Come with the maidens of thy Naxian isle,
Who chant their Lord Bacchus—all the while
Maddening, with mystic dance, the solemn midnight long!”
“Oh you, whom the earth calls by many names,
Son of the thunder god, and wild joy
Of the wild Theban girl!
Whether obeyed on distant Italian shores,
Or where Eleusis holds your sacred rites
With the great mother’s 357, in mysterious valleys—
Bacchus, best known in Bacchic Thebes,
Your Thebes, which claims the Thyads as her daughters;
Close by the fields with warriors dragon-born,
And where Ismenus flows swiftly.
It saw you, the smoke,
On the horned height—358
It saw you, and burst
Into light;
Where the Corycian nymphs roam the glorious mountain,
And the old Castalian fountain flows melodiously,
Filled with echoes joyfully wild,
The Nysian heights draped in ivy,
And shores with blooming green vineyards,
Proclaiming, steep to shore,
That Bacchus forevermore
Guards the race,
Where he makes his home
With her 359, beneath the breath
Of the thunder’s glowing death,
In the blaze of her glory consuming.
Oh now with healing steps along the slope
Of beloved Parnassus, or moving smoothly,
Over the far-sounding Euboean sea—
Come! for we perish—come!—our Lord and hope!
Leader of the grand choir
Of the great stars, whose very breath is light,
Who inspires with hymns
Voices, oh youngest god, that sound by night;
Come, with your Maenad crowd,
Come with the maidens of your Naxian isle,
Who sing to their Lord Bacchus—all the while
Frenzied, with mystic dance, throughout the solemn midnight long!”At the close of the chorus the Nuntius enters to announce the catastrophe, and Eurydice, the wife of Creon, disturbed by rumours within her palace, is made an auditor of the narration. Creon and his train, after burying Polynices, repair to the cavern in which Antigone had been immured. They hear loud wailings within “that unconsecrated chamber”—it is the voice of Haemon. Creon recoils—the attendants enter—within the cavern they behold Antigone, who, in the horror of that deathlike solitude, had strangled herself with the zone of her robe; and there was her lover lying beside, his arms clasped around her waist. Creon at length advances, perceives his son, and conjures him to come forth.
At the end of the chorus, the Messenger enters to announce the disaster, and Eurydice, Creon's wife, troubled by rumors inside her palace, is made a listener to the story. After burying Polynices, Creon and his entourage head to the cave where Antigone had been locked away. They hear loud cries coming from "that unholy chamber"—it's Haemon's voice. Creon is taken aback as the attendants come in—inside the cave, they find Antigone, who, in the despair of that lifeless isolation, has hanged herself with her robe's belt; and there is her lover lying next to her, arms wrapped around her waist. Creon finally steps forward, sees his son, and urges him to come out.
“Then, glaring on his father with wild eyes,
The son stood dumb, and spat upon his face,
And clutched the unnatural sword—the father fled,
And, wroth, as with the arm that missed a parent,
The wretched man drove home unto his breast
The abhorrent steel; yet ever, while dim sense
Struggled within the fast-expiring soul—
Feebler, and feebler still, his stiffening arms
Clung to that virgin form—and every gasp
Of his last breath with bloody dews distained
The cold white cheek that was his pillow. So
Lies death embracing death!” 360
“Then, staring at his father with wild eyes, The son stood speechless and spat in his face, And grabbed the unnatural sword—the father ran away, And, enraged, as though with the arm that failed to protect him, The miserable man drove the hideous blade into his own chest; Yet even as his fading senses fought within his almost-dead soul— Weaker and weaker still, his stiffening arms Wrapped around that pure figure—and every gasp Of his final breath stained the cold white cheek That served as his pillow with bloody droplets. So Lies death embracing death!” 360
In the midst of this description, by a fine stroke of art, Euridice, the mother of Haemon, abruptly and silently quits the stage 361. When next we hear of her, she has destroyed herself, with her last breath cursing her husband as the murderer of her child. The end of the play leaves Creon the surviver. He himself does not perish, for he himself has never excited our sympathies 362. He is punished through his son and wife—they dead, our interest ceases in him, and to add his death to theirs and to that of Antigone would be bathos.
In the middle of this description, through a clever artistic choice, Euridice, Haemon's mother, suddenly and silently leaves the stage 361. When we next hear about her, she has taken her own life, cursing her husband with her last breath for being the killer of her child. The end of the play leaves Creon as the only one left standing. He survives because he's never stirred our sympathy 362. He faces punishment through the deaths of his son and wife—once they’re gone, our interest in him fades, and adding his death to theirs and Antigone's would feel melodramatic.
VIII. In the tragedy of “Electra,” the character of the heroine stands out in the boldest contrast to the creation of the Antigone; both are endowed with surpassing majesty and strength of nature—they are loftier than the daughters of men, their very loveliness is of an age when gods were no distant ancestors of kings—when, as in the early sculptors of Pallas, or even of Aphrodite, something of the severe and stern was deemed necessary to the realization of the divine; and the beautiful had not lost the colossal proportions of the sublime. But the strength and heroism of Antigone is derived from love—love, sober, serene, august—but still love. Electra, on the contrary, is supported and exalted above her sex by the might of her hatred. Her father, “the king of men,” foully murdered in his palace —herself compelled to consort with his assassins—to receive from their hands both charity and insult—the adulterous murderer on her father’s throne, and lord of her father’s marriage bed 363—her brother a wanderer and an outcast. Such are the thoughts unceasingly before her!—her heart and soul have for years fed upon the bitterness of a resentment, at once impotent and intense, and nature itself has turned to gall. She sees not in Clytemnestra a mother, but the murderess of a father. The doubt and the compunction of the modern Hamlet are unknown to her more masculine spirit. She lives on but in the hope of her brother’s return and of revenge. The play opens with the appearance of Orestes, Pylades, and an old attendant—arrived at break of day at the habitation of the Pelopidae—“reeking with blood” —the seats of Agamemnon. Orestes, who had been saved in childhood by his sister from the designs of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, has now returned in manhood. It is agreed that, in order to lull all suspicion in the royal adulterers, a false account of the death of Orestes by an accident in the Pythian Games shall be given to Clytemnestra; and Orestes and Pylades themselves are afterward to be introduced in the character of Phocians, bearing the ashes of the supposed dead. Meanwhile the two friends repair to the sepulchre of Agamemnon to offer libations, etc. Electra then appears, indulges her indignant lamentations at her lot, and consoles herself with the hope of her brother’s speedy return.
VIII. In the tragedy of “Electra,” the heroine is strikingly different from Antigone; both are incredibly majestic and strong—they are greater than ordinary women, their beauty belongs to an era when gods were not just ancient ancestors of kings—when, like in the early sculptures of Pallas or even Aphrodite, a certain severity was seen as essential to depict the divine; and beauty hadn't yet lost the grand proportions of the sublime. But Antigone's strength and heroism come from love—love that is calm, dignified, and profound—but still love. Electra, on the other hand, is elevated above her gender by the power of her hatred. Her father, “the king of men,” was brutally murdered in his palace—she is forced to live among his killers—to receive both kindness and insults from them—the adulterous murderer now sitting on her father’s throne and in her father's marriage bed 363—while her brother is a wanderer and an outcast. These thoughts are constantly in her mind! Her heart and soul have been consumed for years by a resentment that is both helpless and intense, turning her very nature to bitterness. She sees Clytemnestra not as a mother but as her father’s murderer. The doubts and guilt that haunt the modern Hamlet are foreign to her more masculine spirit. She survives only on the hope of her brother's return and revenge. The play begins with the arrival of Orestes, Pylades, and an old servant—arriving at dawn at the home of the Pelopidae—“reeked with blood”—the seats of Agamemnon. Orestes, who was saved in childhood by his sister from Clytemnestra and Aegisthus’s plans, has now returned as a man. They agree that, to avoid raising suspicion with the royal adulterers, they will tell Clytemnestra a false story about Orestes dying in an accident at the Pythian Games; Orestes and Pylades will later be introduced as Phocians carrying the ashes of the supposedly dead. Meanwhile, the two friends head to Agamemnon’s grave to make offerings, etc. Electra then appears, expressing her furious laments about her situation and comforts herself with the hope of her brother’s quick return.
She is joined by her sister Chrysothemis, who is bearing sepulchral offerings to the tomb of Agamemnon; and in this interview Sophocles, with extraordinary skill and deep knowledge of human nature, contrives to excite our admiration and sympathy for the vehement Electra by contrasting her with the weak and selfish Chrysothemis. Her very bitterness against her mother is made to assume the guise of a solemn duty to her father. Her unfeminine qualities rise into courage and magnanimity—she glories in the unkindness and persecution she meets with from Clytemnestra and Aegisthus—they are proofs of her reverence to the dead. Woman as she is, she is yet the daughter of a king—she cannot submit to a usurper—“she will not, add cowardice to misery.” Chrysothemis informs Electra that on the return of Aegisthus it is resolved to consign her to a vault “where she may chant her woes unheard.” Electra learns the meditated sentence undismayed—she will not moderate her unwelcome wo—“she will not be a traitoress to those she loves.” But a dream has appalled Clytemnestra—Agamemnon has appeared to her as in life. In the vision he seemed to her to fix his sceptre on the soil, whence it sprouted up into a tree that overshadowed the whole land. Disquieted and conscience-stricken, she now sends Chrysothemis with libations to appease the manes of the dead. Electra adjures Chrysothemis not to render such expiations to scatter them to the winds or on the dust—to let them not approach the resting-place of the murdered king. Chrysothemis promises to obey the injunction, and departs. A violent and powerful scene between Clytemnestra and Electra ensues, when the attendant enters (as was agreed on) to announce the death of Orestes. In this recital he portrays the ceremony of the Pythian races in lines justly celebrated, and which, as an animated and faithful picture of an exhibition so renowned, the reader may be pleased to see, even in a feeble and cold translation. Orestes had obtained five victories in the first day—in the second he starts with nine competitors in the chariot-race—an Achaean, a Spartan, two Libyans—he himself with Thessalian steeds—a sixth from Aetolia, a Magnesian, an Enian, an Athenian, and a Boeotian complete the number.
She is accompanied by her sister Chrysothemis, who is bringing offerings to the tomb of Agamemnon. In this exchange, Sophocles skillfully and insightfully highlights our admiration and sympathy for the passionate Electra by contrasting her with the weak and selfish Chrysothemis. Electra's bitterness towards her mother takes on the appearance of a solemn duty to her father. Her untraditional qualities transform into courage and nobility—she takes pride in the cruelty and persecution she faces from Clytemnestra and Aegisthus; they serve as evidence of her respect for the dead. Despite being a woman, she is still a king’s daughter—she cannot bow to a usurper—“she will not add cowardice to misery.” Chrysothemis tells Electra that when Aegisthus returns, it has been decided to confine her to a vault “where she may mourn her sorrows unheard.” Electra hears the planned punishment without fear—she refuses to suppress her unwanted sorrow—“she will not betray those she loves.” But a nightmare has shaken Clytemnestra—Agamemnon has appeared to her as he was in life. In the vision, he seemed to plant his scepter in the ground, which then grew into a tree that cast shade over the entire land. Troubled and guilty, she now sends Chrysothemis with libations to appease the spirits of the dead. Electra urges Chrysothemis not to make such offerings to scatter them to the winds or on the ground—to keep them away from the resting place of the murdered king. Chrysothemis promises to follow her instructions and leaves. A dramatic and intense scene unfolds between Clytemnestra and Electra when an attendant arrives (as agreed) to announce the death of Orestes. In this account, he describes the ceremony of the Pythian games in lines justly famous, and which, as an animated and faithful depiction of such a renowned event, the reader may find enjoyable, even in a weak and dull translation. Orestes had secured five victories on the first day—on the second day, he competes against nine rivals in the chariot race—an Achaean, a Spartan, two Libyans—he himself rides with Thessalian horses—alongside a sixth from Aetolia, a Magnesian, an Enian, an Athenian, and a Boeotian to complete the group.
“They took their stand where the appointed judges
Had cast their lots, and ranged the rival cars;
Rang out the brazen trump! Away they bound,
Cheer the hot steeds and shake the slackened reins
As with a body the large space is filled
With the huge clangour of the rattling cars:
High whirl aloft the dust-clouds; blent together
Each presses each—and the lash rings—and loud
Snort the wild steeds, and from their fiery breath,
Along their manes and down the circling wheels,
Scatter the flaking foam. Orestes still,
Ay, as he swept around the perilous pillar
Last in the course, wheel’d in the rushing axle,
The left rein curbed—that on the dexter hand
Flung loose. So on erect the chariots rolled!
Sudden the Aenian’s fierce and headlong steeds
Broke from the bit—and, as the seventh time now
The course was circled, on the Libyan car
Dash’d their wild fronts: then order changed to ruin:
Car crashed on car—the wide Crissaean plain
Was, sealike, strewn with wrecks: the Athenian saw,
Slackened his speed, and, wheeling round the marge,
Unscathed and skilful, in the midmost space,
Left the wild tumult of that tossing storm.
Behind, Orestes, hitherto the last,
Had yet kept back his coursers for the close;
Now one sole rival left—on, on he flew,
And the sharp sound of the impelling scourge
Rang in the keen ears of the flying steeds.
He nears—he reaches—they are side by side
Now one—the other—by a length the victor.
The courses all are past—the wheels erect
All safe—when as the hurrying coursers round
The fatal pillar dash’d, the wretched boy
Slackened the left rein; on the column’s edge
Crash’d the frail axle—headlong from the car,
Caught and all meshed within the reins he fell;
And masterless, the mad steeds raged along!
Loud from that mighty multitude arose
A shriek—a shout! But yesterday such deeds
To-day such doom! Now whirled upon the earth,
Now his limbs dash’d aloft, they dragged him—those
Wild horses—till all gory from the wheels
Released—and no man, not his nearest friends,
Could in that mangled corpse have traced Orestes.
They laid the body on the funeral pyre,
And while we speak, the Phocian strangers bear,
In a small, brazen, melancholy urn,
That handful of cold ashes to which all
The grandeur of the beautiful hath shrunk.
Hither they bear him—in his father’s land
To find that heritage—a tomb!”
“They took their place where the appointed judges had drawn their lots, and lined up the rival chariots; the loud trumpet sounded! They charged ahead, urging on the eager horses and shaking the loosened reins as the vast space filled with the huge noise of the rattling cars: Dust clouds swirled high; each chariot pressed against the other—and the whips cracked—and the wild horses snorted, and from their fiery breath, foam scattered along their manes and down the spinning wheels. Orestes still, as he circled around the dangerous post, last in the race, steered with the rushing axle, the left rein pulled tight—while the right rein was let loose. And so, the chariots rolled on upright! Suddenly, the Aenian’s fierce and rushing horses broke free from the bit—and as they circled the course for the seventh time, they crashed against the Libyan car with their wild fronts: then order turned to chaos: cars collided— the vast Crissaean plain was strewn with wreckage like a sea; the Athenian saw, slowed down, and by carefully rounding the edge, unscathed and skilled, he navigated through the chaos of that tossing storm. Behind him, Orestes, who had been in last place, had held his horses back for the finish; now with only one rival left—he surged ahead, and the sharp sound of the urging whip rang in the eager ears of the flying horses. He closed in—he reached them—they were side by side now—one ahead of the other—by a length the victor. All the laps were complete—the wheels upright—all safe—when as the speeding horses rounded the dangerous pillar, the unfortunate boy loosened the left rein; the weak axle broke against the column's edge—he fell headlong from the chariot, caught and tangled in the reins; and without a driver, the frenzied horses raced away! A loud cry arose from that huge crowd— a shout! Just yesterday such deeds, today such a fate! Now whirled across the ground, now bouncing high, they dragged him—those wild horses—until, bloodied from the wheels, they released him—and no one, not even his closest friends, could recognize Orestes in that mangled body. They placed the corpse on the funeral pyre, and while we speak, the Phocian strangers carry in a small, bronze, sorrowful urn, that handful of cold ashes to which all the greatness of beauty has shrunk. They bring him here—in his father’s land to find that inheritance—a tomb!”
It is much to be regretted that this passage, so fine in the original, is liable to one great objection—it has no interest as connected with the play, because the audience know that Orestes is not dead; and though the description of the race retains its animation, the report of the catastrophe loses the terror of reality, and appears but a highly-coloured and elaborate falsehood.
It’s unfortunate that this section, which is beautiful in the original, has a major drawback—it doesn’t connect with the play because the audience knows that Orestes isn’t dead. While the description of the race remains lively, the account of the disaster loses its sense of real fear and instead comes off as an exaggerated and intricate lie.
The reader will conceive the lamentations of Electra and the fearful joy of Clytemnestra at a narrative by which the one appears to lose a brother and a friend—the other a son and an avenging foe.
The reader will understand the sorrows of Electra and the anxious joy of Clytemnestra in a story where one seems to lose a brother and a friend—while the other loses a son and an avenging enemy.
Chrysothemis joyfully returns to announce, that by the tomb of Agamemnon she discovers a lock of hair; libations yet moisten the summit of the mound, and flowers of every hue are scattered over the grave. “These,” she thinks, “are signs that Orestes is returned.” Electra, informing her of the fatal news, proposes that they, women as they are, shall attempt the terrible revenge which their brother can no longer execute. When Chrysothemis recoils and refuses, Electra still nurses the fell design. The poet has more than once, and now again with judgment, made us sensible of the mature years of Electra 364; she is no passionate, wavering, and inexperienced girl, but the eldest born of the house; the guardian of the childhood of its male heir; unwedded and unloving, no soft matron cares, no tender maiden affections, have unbent the nerves of her stern, fiery, and concentrated soul. Year after year has rolled on to sharpen her hatred—to disgust her with the present—to root her to one bloody memory of the past—to sour and freeze up the gentle thoughts of womanhood—to unsex
Chrysothemis happily returns to announce that by Agamemnon's tomb, she finds a lock of hair; offerings still wet the top of the mound, and flowers of every color are scattered over the grave. “These,” she thinks, “are signs that Orestes has come back.” Electra, sharing the tragic news, suggests that since they are women, they should carry out the terrible revenge their brother can no longer fulfill. When Chrysothemis recoils and refuses, Electra continues to hold onto her dark plan. The poet has reminded us before, and now again with clarity, of Electra's mature years 364; she is not a passionate, indecisive, and inexperienced girl, but the eldest of the family; the protector of her brother's childhood; unmarried and without love, no gentle domestic concerns, no tender youthful feelings, have softened the nerves of her stern, intense, and focused soul. Year after year has passed, sharpening her hatred—to make her disgusted with the present—to tether her to one bloody memory of the past—to harden and freeze the gentle thoughts of womanhood—to unsex
“And fill her from the crown to the toe, topful
Of direst cruelty—make thick her blood
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,” 365
“And fill her from head to toe, completely
Full of the worst cruelty—thicken her blood
Block any chance of remorse,” 365and fit her for one crowning deed, for which alone the daughter of the king of men lives on.
and prepare her for one great accomplishment, which is the only reason the daughter of the king of men continues to live.
At length the pretended Phocians enter, bearing the supposed ashes of Orestes; the chief of the train addresses himself to Electra, and this is the most dramatic and touching scene in the whole tragedy. When the urn containing, as she believes, the dust of her brother, is placed in the hands of Electra, we can well overleap time and space, and see before us the great actor who brought the relics of his own son upon the stage, and shed no mimic sorrows 366—we can well picture the emotions that circle round the vast audience—pity itself being mingled with the consciousness to which the audience alone are admitted, that lamentation will soon be replaced by joy, and that the living Orestes is before his sister. It is by a most subtle and delicate art that Sophocles permits this struggle between present pain and anticipated pleasure, and carries on the passion of the spectators to wait breathlessly the moment when Orestes shall be discovered. We now perceive why the poet at once, in the opening of the play, announced to us the existence and return of Orestes—why he disdained the vulgar source of interest, the gross suspense we should have felt, if we had shared the ignorance of Electra, and not been admitted to the secret we impatiently long to be communicated to her. In this scene, our superiority to Electra, in the knowledge we possess, refines and softens our compassion, blending it with hope. And most beautifully here does Sophocles remove far from us the thought of the hard hatred that hitherto animates the mourner—the strong, proud spirit is melted away—the woman and the sister alone appear. He whom she had loved more dearly than a mother—whom she had nursed, and saved, and prayed for, is “a nothing” in her hands; and the last rites it had not been hers to pay. He had been
At last, the fake Phocians enter, carrying what are believed to be the ashes of Orestes. The leader of the group speaks to Electra, creating the most dramatic and emotional scene in the entire tragedy. When the urn, which she thinks contains her brother's remains, is placed in her hands, we can easily imagine the great actor who brought his own son's remains to the stage and displayed genuine sorrow—it's easy to picture the emotions circulating among the vast audience, with pity mingling with the secret knowledge that only the audience possesses, that grief will soon give way to joy, and that the living Orestes stands before his sister. Sophocles skillfully demonstrates this tension between current pain and future happiness, heightening the audience's anticipation for the moment when Orestes will be revealed. Now we understand why the poet told us right at the start of the play about Orestes' existence and return—why he rejected the simplistic source of tension that would have arisen if we shared Electra's ignorance and were not privy to the secret we long to reveal to her. In this scene, our knowledge sets us apart from Electra, refining and softening our sympathy, blending it with hope. Here, Sophocles beautifully distances us from the intense hatred that previously fueled the mourner—the strong, proud spirit is melted away, leaving just the woman and sister. The one she loved more than anything—whom she cared for, saved, and prayed for—now feels like “nothing” in her hands; the final rites she was unable to perform. He had been
“By strangers honoured and by strangers mourned.”
“Honored by strangers and mourned by strangers.”
All things had vanished with him—“vanished in a day”—“vanished as by a hurricane”—she is left with her foes alone. “Admit me” (she cries), “to thy refuge—make room for me in thy home.”
All things disappeared with him—“disappeared in a day”—“disappeared like a hurricane”—she is left alone with her enemies. “Let me in” (she cries), “welcome me into your home—make space for me in your life.”
In these lamentations, the cold, classic drama seems to warm into actual life. Art, exquisite because invisible, unites us at once with imperishable nature—we are no longer delighted with Poetry—we are weeping with Truth.
In these expressions of sorrow, the timeless drama feels like it comes alive. Art, beautiful because it's intangible, connects us with everlasting nature—we’re not just enjoying Poetry anymore—we’re crying with Truth.
At length Orestes reveals himself, and now the plot draws to its catastrophe. Clytemnestra is alone in her house, preparing a caldron for the burial; Electra and the chorus are on the stage; the son—the avenger, is within; suddenly the cries of Clytemnestra are heard. Again—again! Orestes re-enters a parricide! 367 He retires as Aegisthus is seen approaching; and the adulterous usurper is now presented to us for the first and last time—the crowning victim of the sacrifice. He comes flushed with joy and triumph. He has heard that the dreaded Orestes is no more. Electra entertains him a few moments with words darkly and exultingly ambiguous. He orders the doors to be thrown open, that all Argos and Mycenae may see the remains of his sole rival for the throne. The scene opens. On the threshold (where, with the Greeks, the corpse of the dead was usually set out to view) lies a body covered with a veil or pall. Orestes (the supposed Phocian) stands beside.
At last, Orestes reveals himself, and now the plot is heading towards its disaster. Clytemnestra is alone in her house, preparing a cauldron for the burial; Electra and the chorus are on stage; the son—the avenger—is inside; suddenly, Clytemnestra's cries are heard. Again—again! Orestes re-enters as a killer of his father! 367 He steps back as Aegisthus approaches; the adulterous usurper is now presented to us for the first and last time—the final victim of the sacrifice. He comes in, filled with joy and triumph. He has heard that the feared Orestes is no more. Electra keeps him entertained for a moment with darkly and exultantly ambiguous words. He orders the doors to be thrown open, so all of Argos and Mycenae can see the remains of his only rival for the throne. The scene unfolds. On the threshold (where, among the Greeks, the corpse of the dead was typically displayed) lies a body covered with a veil or pall. Orestes (the supposed Phocian) stands beside it.
“Aegisthus. Great Jove! a grateful spectacle!—if thus
May it be said unsinning; yet if she,
The awful Nemesis, be nigh and hear,
I do recall the sentence! Raise the pall.
The dead was kindred to me, and shall know
A kinsman’s sorrow.
Orestes. Lift thyself the pall;
Not mine, but thine, the office to survey
That which lies mute beneath, and to salute,
Lovingly sad, the dead one.
Aegisthus. Be it so—
It is well said. Go thou and call the queen:
Is she within?
Orestes. Look not around for her—
She is beside thee!”
“Aegisthus. Great Jove! What a sight to see!—if that can be called innocent; but if she,
the terrible Nemesis, is close by and listening,
I take back what I said! Raise the shroud.
The dead was related to me and deserves
a kinsman's grief.
Orestes. You lift the shroud;
it’s your job to look at what lies silent below and to greet,
sadly yet affectionately, the deceased.
Aegisthus. So be it—
That’s a good point. Go and call for the queen:
Is she here?
Orestes. Don’t look around for her—
she’s right next to you!”Aegisthus lifts the pall, and beholds the body of Clytemnestra! He knows his fate at once. He knows that Orestes is before him. He attempts to speak. The fierce Electra cuts him short, and Orestes, with stern solemnity, conducts him from the stage to the spot on which Aegisthus had slain Agamemnon, so that the murderer might die by the son’s hand in the place where the father fell. Thus artistically is the catastrophe not lessened in effect, but heightened, by removing the deed of death from the scene—the poetical justice, in the calm and premeditated selection of the place of slaughter, elevates what on the modern stage would be but a spectacle of physical horror into the deeper terror and sublimer gloom of a moral awe; and vindictive murder, losing its aspect, is idealized and hallowed into religious sacrifice.
Aegisthus lifts the curtain and sees Clytemnestra's body! He immediately understands his fate. He realizes that Orestes is right in front of him. He tries to speak, but the fierce Electra cuts him off, and Orestes, with a serious demeanor, leads him off the stage to the spot where Aegisthus killed Agamemnon so that the murderer can die by the son’s hand in the place where the father fell. This artistic choice doesn't lessen the impact of the outcome; instead, it enhances it by taking the act of death offstage—the poetic justice, in the calm and deliberate choice of the murder scene, transforms what would be just a display of physical horror on a modern stage into a deeper terror and a more profound sense of moral dread; and vengeful murder, losing its brutality, is idealized and turned into a religious sacrifice.
IX. Of the seven plays left to us, “The Trachiniae” is usually considered the least imbued with the genius of Sophocles; and Schlegel has even ventured on the conjecture, singularly destitute of even plausible testimony, that Sophocles himself may not be the author. The plot is soon told. The play is opened by Deianira, the wife of Hercules, who indulges in melancholy reflections on the misfortunes of her youth, and the continual absence of her husband, of whom no tidings have been heard for months. She soon learns from her son, Hyllus, that Hercules is said to be leading an expedition into Euboea; and our interest is immediately excited by Deianira’s reply, which informs us that oracles had foretold that this was to be the crisis 368 in the life of Hercules—that he was now to enjoy rest from his labours, either in a peaceful home or in the grave; and she sends Hyllus to join his father, share his enterprise and fate. The chorus touchingly paint the anxious love of Deianira in the following lines:
IX. Of the seven plays left to us, “The Trachiniae” is usually seen as the least influenced by the genius of Sophocles; and Schlegel has even gone so far as to suggest, without any solid evidence, that Sophocles himself might not be the author. The plot is simple. The play begins with Deianira, the wife of Hercules, who reflects sadly on the troubles of her youth and the constant absence of her husband, who has been missing for months. She soon learns from her son, Hyllus, that Hercules is reportedly on an expedition to Euboea; and our interest is immediately piqued by Deianira’s response, which reveals that oracles had predicted this would be a turning point 368 in Hercules’s life—that he would finally have rest from his labors, either in a peaceful home or in the grave; and she sends Hyllus to join his father, sharing in his mission and fate. The chorus movingly expresses Deianira's anxious love in the following lines:
“Thou, whom the starry-spangled Night did lull
Into the sleep from which—her journey done
Her parting steps awake thee—beautiful
Fountain of flame, oh Sun!
Say, on what seagirt strand, or inland shore
(For earth is bared before thy solemn gaze),
In orient Asia, or where milder rays
Tremble on western waters, wandereth he
Whom bright Alcmena bore?
Ah! as some bird within a lonely nest
The desolate wife puts sleep away with tears;
And ever ills to be
Haunting the absence with dim hosts of fears,
Fond fancy shapes from air dark prophets of the breast.”
“Hey, you, whom the starry Night put to sleep into the dream from which—her journey done her parting steps wake you—beautiful Fountain of flame, oh Sun! Tell me, on what ocean shore or inland coast (For earth is laid bare before your solemn gaze), In eastern Asia, or where softer rays tremble on western waters, does he roam whom bright Alcmena bore? Ah! Like a bird in a lonely nest, the desolate wife pushes sleep away with tears; And always with troubles to come haunting the absence with dim fears, fond imagination creates from thin air dark predictions of the heart.”
In her answer to the virgin chorus, Deianira weaves a beautiful picture of maiden youth as a contrast to the cares and anxieties of wedded life:
In her response to the virgin chorus, Deianira paints a vivid picture of young womanhood as a contrast to the worries and stresses of married life:
“Youth pastures in a valley of its own;
The scorching sun, the rains and winds of Heaven,
Mar not the calm—yet virgin of all care;
But ever with sweet joys it buildeth up
The airy halls of life.”
“Youth thrives in its own valley;
The blazing sun, the rains, and the winds of Heaven
Do not disturb the peace—still untouched by worries;
But always, with sweet joys, it constructs
The airy halls of life.”Deianira afterward receives fresh news of Hercules. She gives way to her joy. Lichas, the herald, enters, and confides to her charge some maidens whom the hero had captured. Deianira is struck with compassion for their lot, and with admiration of the noble bearing of one of them, Iole. She is about to busy herself in preparation for their comfort, when she learns that Iole is her rival—the beloved mistress of Hercules. The jealousy evinced by Deianira is beautifully soft and womanly 369. Even in uttering a reproach on Hercules, she says she cannot feel anger with him, yet how can she dwell in the same house with a younger and fairer rival;
Deianira then receives new news about Hercules. She can’t help but feel joy. Lichas, the messenger, arrives and entrusts her with some maidens that the hero has captured. Deianira feels compassion for their situation and is struck by the noble appearance of one of them, Iole. She is about to start preparing for their comfort when she learns that Iole is her rival—the beloved of Hercules. The jealousy that Deianira shows is tender and very much like that of a woman. Even when she scolds Hercules, she says she can’t be angry with him, but how can she live in the same house with a younger and more beautiful rival?
“She in whose years the flower that fades in mine
Opens the leaves of beauty.”
“She in whose years the flower that fades in mine opens the leaves of beauty.”
Her affection, her desire to retain the love of the hero, suggests to her remembrance a gift she had once received from a centaur who had fallen by the shaft of Hercules. The centaur had assured her that the blood from his wound, if preserved, would exercise the charm of a filter over the heart of Hercules, and would ever recall and fix upon her his affection. She had preserved the supposed charm—she steeps with it a robe that she purposes to send to Hercules as a gift; but Deianira, in this fatal resolve, shows all the timidity and sweetness of her nature; she even questions if it be a crime to regain the heart of her husband; she consults the chorus, who advise the experiment (and here, it may be observed, that this is skilfully done, for it conveys the excuse of Deianira, the chorus being, as it were, the representative of the audience). Accordingly, she sends the garment by Lichas. Scarce has the herald gone, ere Deianira is terrified by a strange phenomenon: a part of the wool with which the supposed filter had been applied to the garment was thrown into the sunlight, upon which it withered away—“crumbling like sawdust”—while on the spot where it fell a sort of venomous foam froths up. While relating this phenomenon to the chorus, her son, Hyllus, returns 370, and relates the agonies of his father under the poisoned garment: he had indued the robe on the occasion of solemn sacrifice, and all was rejoicing, when,
Her love and desire to keep the hero's affection remind her of a gift she once received from a centaur who was killed by Hercules. The centaur had told her that the blood from his wound, if kept, would act like a charm that would make Hercules love her forever. She has kept this supposed charm—she soaks a robe in it to send to Hercules as a gift. However, Deianira shows her typical shyness and gentleness in this dangerous decision; she even wonders if it’s wrong to want her husband back. She asks the chorus for their advice, and they encourage her to try it (which cleverly gives Deianira an excuse, as the chorus represents the audience). So, she sends the robe with Lichas. Just after the messenger leaves, Deianira becomes frightened by a strange sight: part of the wool she used to apply the supposed charm to the robe was exposed to sunlight, and it dried up—"crumbling like sawdust"—while a kind of poisonous foam bubbled up where it fell. While she is explaining this to the chorus, her son, Hyllus, returns 370 and tells her about his father's suffering from the poisoned robe: he wore the robe during a solemn sacrifice, and everyone was celebrating when,
“As from the sacred offering and the pile
The flame broke forth,”
“As from the sacred offering and the pile The flame broke forth,”
the poison began to work, the tunic clung to the limbs of the hero, glued as if by the artificer, and, in his agony and madness, Hercules dashes Lichas, who brought him the fatal gift, down the rock, and is now on his way home. On hearing these news and the reproaches of her son, Deianira steals silently away, and destroys herself upon the bridal-bed. The remainder of the play is very feeble. Hercules is represented in his anguish, which is but the mere raving of physical pain; and after enjoining his son to marry Iole (the innocent cause of his own sufferings), and to place him yet living upon his funeral pyre, the play ends.
the poison began to take effect, the tunic stuck to the hero's limbs, as if crafted by an artisan, and in his pain and madness, Hercules throws Lichas, who gave him the deadly gift, off the cliff and starts his journey home. Upon hearing this news and her son's accusations, Deianira quietly slips away and takes her life on their wedding bed. The rest of the play is pretty weak. Hercules is depicted in his torment, which comes off as just the frantic cries of physical suffering; after telling his son to marry Iole (the innocent reason for his own pain) and to place him, still alive, on his funeral pyre, the play concludes.
The beauty of the “Trachiniae” is in detached passages, in some exquisite bursts by the chorus, and in the character of Deianira, whose artifice to regain the love of her consort, unhappily as it terminates, is redeemed by a meekness of nature, a delicacy of sentiment, and an anxious, earnest, unreproachful devotion of conjugal love, which might alone suffice to show the absurdity of modern declamations on the debasement of women, and the absence of pure and true love in that land from which Sophocles drew his experience.
The beauty of the “Trachiniae” lies in its individual sections, some stunning moments by the chorus, and the character of Deianira. Her attempts to win back her husband’s love, despite the tragic outcome, are redeemed by her gentle nature, sensitive feelings, and her anxious, sincere, unwavering devotion to her marriage. This alone could demonstrate the foolishness of today’s criticisms about the degradation of women and the lack of genuine love in the society that inspired Sophocles.
X. The “Ajax” is far superior to the “Trachiniae.” The subject is one that none but a Greek poet could have thought of or a Greek audience have admired. The master-passion of a Greek was emulation— the subject of the “Ajax” is emulation defeated. He has lost to Ulysses the prize of the arms of Achilles, and the shame of being vanquished has deprived him of his senses.
X. The “Ajax” is much better than the “Trachiniae.” This is a topic that only a Greek poet could have conceived and only a Greek audience could have appreciated. The main drive for a Greek was competition— the theme of the “Ajax” is about competition lost. He has been defeated by Ulysses for the prize of Achilles' armor, and the humiliation of being beaten has driven him to madness.
In the fury of madness he sallies from his tent at night—slaughters the flocks, in which his insanity sees the Greeks, whose award has galled and humbled him—and supposes he has slain the Atridae and captured Ulysses. It is in this play that Sophocles has, to a certain extent, attempted that most effective of all combinations in the hands of a master—the combination of the ludicrous and the terrible 371: as the chorus implies, “it is to laugh and to weep.” But when the scene, opening, discovers Ajax sitting amid the slaughtered victims— when that haughty hero awakens from his delirium—when he is aware that he has exposed himself to the mockery and derision of his foes— the effect is almost too painful even for tragedy. In contrast to Ajax is the soothing and tender Tecmessa. The women of Sophocles are, indeed, gifted with an astonishing mixture of majesty and sweetness. After a very pathetic farewell with his young son, Ajax affects to be reconciled to his lot, disguises the resolution he has formed, and by one of those artful transitions of emotion which at once vary and heighten interest on the stage, the chorus, before lamenting, bursts into a strain of congratulation and joy. The heavy affliction has passed away—Ajax is restored. The Nuntius arrives from the camp. Calchas, the soothsayer, has besought Teucer, the hero’s brother, not to permit Ajax to quit his tent that day, for on that day only Minerva persecutes him; and if he survive it, he may yet be preserved and prosper. But Ajax has already wandered away, none know whither. Tecmessa hastens in search of him, and, by a very rare departure from the customs of the Greek stage, the chorus follow.
In a fit of madness, he rushes out of his tent at night—kills the flocks, which his insanity mistakes for the Greeks, whose awards have hurt and humiliated him—and thinks he has killed the Atridae and captured Ulysses. In this play, Sophocles has, to some extent, tried that most effective combination in the hands of a master—the mixture of the ridiculous and the dreadful 371: as the chorus suggests, “it is to laugh and to weep.” But when the scene opens and reveals Ajax sitting among the slaughtered victims—when that proud hero wakes from his delirium—when he realizes that he has exposed himself to the ridicule and scorn of his enemies—the effect is almost too painful even for tragedy. In contrast to Ajax is the comforting and gentle Tecmessa. The women in Sophocles' works are, indeed, endowed with an amazing blend of dignity and warmth. After an incredibly heartbreaking farewell with his young son, Ajax pretends to accept his fate, hides the choice he has made, and through one of those clever shifts in emotion that both vary and enhance interest on stage, the chorus, before lamenting, breaks into a song of congratulations and joy. The heavy sorrow has lifted—Ajax is back. The messenger arrives from the camp. Calchas, the seer, has urged Teucer, the hero’s brother, not to let Ajax leave his tent that day, because on this day only Minerva torments him; and if he survives it, he might still be saved and thrive. But Ajax has already wandered away, and no one knows where. Tecmessa quickly goes in search of him, and, in a very rare departure from the conventions of Greek theatre, the chorus follows.
Ajax appears again. His passions are now calm and concentrated, but they lead him on to death. He has been shamed, dishonoured—he has made himself a mockery to his foes. Nobly to live or nobly to die is the sole choice of a brave man. It is characteristic of the Greek temperament, that the personages of the Greek poetry ever bid a last lingering and half-reluctant farewell to the sun. There is a magnificent fulness of life in those children of the beautiful West; the sun is to them as a familiar friend—the affliction or the terror of Hades is in the thought that its fields are sunless. The orb which animated their temperate heaven, which ripened their fertile earth, in which they saw the type of eternal youth, of surpassing beauty, of incarnate poetry—human in its associations, and yet divine in its nature—is equally beloved and equally to be mourned by the maiden tenderness of Antigone or the sullen majesty of Ajax. In a Chaldaean poem the hero would have bid farewell to the stars!
Ajax reappears. His emotions are now calm and focused, but they ultimately lead him to death. He feels shamed and dishonored—he has become a joke to his enemies. A brave person faces the choice of living nobly or dying nobly. It's typical of the Greek mindset that characters in Greek poetry often bid a long, reluctant farewell to the sun. There’s a rich vitality in those children of the beautiful West; the sun is like a close friend to them, and the thought of Hades without sunlight is terrifying. The sun that brings life to their mild skies, ripens their fertile land, and embodies eternal youth, surpassing beauty, and living poetry—human in its connections, yet divine in essence—is loved and mourned equally by the gentle Antigone or the brooding Ajax. In a Chaldaean poem, the hero would have said goodbye to the stars!
It is thus that Ajax concludes his celebrated soliloquy.
It is in this way that Ajax finishes his famous soliloquy.
“And thou that mak’st high heaven thy chariot-course,
Oh sun—when gazing on my father-land,
Draw back thy golden rein, and tell my woes
To the old man, my father—and to her
Who nursed me at her bosom—my poor mother!
There will be wailing through the echoing walls
When—but away with thoughts like these!—the hour
Brings on the ripening deed. Death, death, look on me!
Did I say death?—it was a waste of words;
We shall be friends hereafter.
‘Tis the DAY,
Present and breathing round me, and the car
Of the sweet sun, that never shall again
Receive my greeting!—henceforth time is sunless,
And day a thing that is not! Beautiful light,
My Salamis—my country—and the floor
Of my dear household hearth—and thou, bright Athens,
Thou—for thy sons and I were boys together—
Fountains and rivers, and ye Trojan plains,
I loved ye as my fosterers—fare ye well!
Take in these words, the last earth hears from Ajax—
All else unspoken, in a spectre land
I’ll whisper to the dead!”
“And you, who make high heaven your chariot path,
Oh sun—when gazing on my homeland,
Pull back your golden reins, and share my sorrows
With the old man, my father—and with her
Who nursed me at her breast—my poor mother!
There will be wailing through the echoing walls
When—but forget those thoughts!—the time
Comes for the inevitable deed. Death, death, look at me!
Did I say death?—that was a waste of breath;
We will be friends from now on.
It’s the DAY,
Present and alive around me, and the chariot
Of the sweet sun, that will never again
Receive my greeting!—from now on, time is sunless,
And day is something that doesn't exist! Beautiful light,
My Salamis—my country—and the ground
Of my beloved home hearth—and you, bright Athens,
You—because your sons and I grew up together—
Fountains and rivers, and you Trojan plains,
I loved you as my nurturers—farewell!
Take these words, the last earth hears from Ajax—
Everything else left unspoken, in a ghostly land
I’ll whisper to the dead!”Ajax perishes on his sword—but the interest of the play survives him. For with the Greeks, burial rather than death made the great close of life. Teucer is introduced to us; the protector of the hero’s remains and his character, at once fierce and tender, is a sketch of extraordinary power. Agamemnon, on the contrary—also not presented to us till after the death of Ajax—is but a boisterous tyrant 372. Finally, by the generous intercession of Ulysses, who redeems his character from the unfavourable conception we formed of him at the commencement of the play, the funeral rites are accorded, and a didactic and solemn moral from the chorus concludes the whole.
Ajax dies by his own sword—but the impact of the play lives on. For the Greeks, a burial rather than death marked the true end of life. Teucer is introduced to us; he’s the guardian of the hero’s body, and his character, both fierce and gentle, is a powerful portrayal. Agamemnon, on the other hand—also revealed to us only after Ajax's death—is just a loud tyrant 372. Finally, thanks to Ulysses’ generous intervention, who clears up the negative impression we had of him at the start of the play, the funeral rites are granted, and a meaningful, serious moral from the chorus wraps everything up.
XI. The “Philoctetes” has always been ranked by critics among the most elaborate and polished of the tragedies of Sophocles. In some respects it deserves the eulogies bestowed on it. But one great fault in the conception will, I think, be apparent on the simple statement of the plot.
XI. The “Philoctetes” has always been regarded by critics as one of the most detailed and refined tragedies of Sophocles. In some ways, it deserves the praise it receives. However, one significant flaw in the concept will, I believe, be clear from just a straightforward summary of the plot.
Philoctetes, the friend and armour-bearer of Hercules, and the heir of that hero’s unerring shafts and bow, had, while the Grecian fleet anchored at Chryse (a small isle in the Aegaean), been bitten in the foot by a serpent; the pain of the wound was insufferable—the shrieks and groans of Philoctetes disturbed the libations and sacrifices of the Greeks. And Ulysses and Diomed, when the fleet proceeded, left him, while asleep, on the wild and rocky solitudes of Lemnos. There, till the tenth year of the Trojan siege, he dragged out an agonizing life. The soothsayer, Helenus, then declared that Troy could not fall till Philoctetes appeared in the Grecian camp with the arrows and bow of Hercules. Ulysses undertakes to effect this object, and, with Neoptolemus (son of Achilles), departs for Lemnos. Here the play opens. A wild and desolate shore—a cavern with two mouths (so that in winter there might be a double place to catch the sunshine, and in summer a twofold entrance for the breeze), and a little fountain of pure water, designate the abode of Philoctetes.
Philoctetes, the friend and armor bearer of Hercules, and the heir of that hero's unerring arrows and bow, had been bitten in the foot by a snake while the Greek fleet was anchored at Chryse, a small island in the Aegean. The pain from the wound was unbearable—the screams and groans of Philoctetes interrupted the libations and sacrifices of the Greeks. Ulysses and Diomed, when the fleet set sail, left him sleeping in the wild and rocky wilderness of Lemnos. There, for nearly ten years during the Trojan siege, he endured a painful existence. The seer, Helenus, then declared that Troy could not fall until Philoctetes showed up in the Greek camp with the arrows and bow of Hercules. Ulysses takes on the mission to bring him back and, along with Neoptolemus (the son of Achilles), heads to Lemnos. This is where the play begins. A wild and desolate shore, a cave with two openings (so there could be double sunshine in the winter and a twofold entrance for the breeze in the summer), and a small fountain of fresh water mark the home of Philoctetes.
Agreeably to his character, it is by deceit and stratagem that Ulysses is to gain his object. Neoptolemus is to dupe him whom he has never seen with professions of friendship and offers of services, and to snare away the consecrated weapons. Neoptolemus—whose character is a sketch which Shakspeare alone could have bodied out—has all the generous ardour and honesty of youth, but he has also its timid irresolution—its docile submission to the great—its fear of the censure of the world. He recoils from the base task proposed to him; he would prefer violence to fraud; yet he dreads lest, having undertaken the enterprise, his refusal to act should be considered treachery to his coadjutor. It is with a deep and melancholy wisdom that Ulysses, who seems to comtemplate his struggles with compassionate and not displeased superiority, thus attempts to reconcile the young man:
True to his character, Ulysses plans to achieve his goal through deception and cunning. Neoptolemus will trick someone he's never met by pretending to be a friend and offering help, all to steal the sacred weapons. Neoptolemus—whose character is something only Shakespeare could fully capture—has all the passionate energy and honesty of youth, but he also has its fearful uncertainty, its willingness to submit to authority, and its anxiety about public judgment. He recoils from the dishonorable task set before him; he would rather use force than trickery; yet he fears that if he takes on the job and then refuses to act, it would be seen as betrayal to his ally. With a deep and sorrowful wisdom, Ulysses, who seems to observe his struggles with both compassion and a sense of superiority, tries to persuade the young man:
“Son of a noble sire! I too, in youth,
Had thy plain speech and thine impatient arm:
But a stern test is time! I have lived to see
That among men the tools of power and empire
Are subtle words—not deeds.”
“Son of a noble father! I too, when I was young,
Had your straightforward words and your eager strength:
But time is a tough teacher! I have lived to witness
That among people, the tools for power and control
Are clever words—not actions.”Neoptolemus is overruled. Ulysses withdraws, Philoctetes appears. The delight of the lonely wretch on hearing his native language; on seeing the son of Achilles—his description of his feelings when he first found himself abandoned in the desert—his relation of the hardships he has since undergone, are highly pathetic. He implores Neoptolemus to bear him away, and when the youth consents, he bursts into an exclamation of joy, which, to the audience, in the secret of the perfidy to be practised on him, must have excited the most lively emotions. The characteristic excellence of Sophocles is, that in his most majestic creations he always contrives to introduce the sweetest touches of humanity.—Philoctetes will not even quit his miserable desert until he has returned to his cave to bid it farewell—to kiss the only shelter that did not deny a refuge to his woes. In the joy of his heart he thinks, poor dupe, that he has found faith in man—in youth. He trusts the arrows and the bow to the hand of Neoptolemus. Then, as he attempts to crawl along, the sharp agony of his wound completely overmasters him. He endeavours in vain to stifle his groans; the body conquers the mind. This seems to me, as I shall presently again observe, the blot of the play; it is a mere exhibition of physical pain. The torture exhausts, till insensibility or sleep comes over him. He lies down to rest, and the young man watches over him. The picture is striking. Neoptolemus, at war with himself, does not seize the occasion. Philoctetes wakes. He is ready to go on board; he implores and urges instant departure. Neoptolemus recoils— the suspicions of Philoctetes are awakened; he thinks that this stranger, too, will abandon him. At length the young man, by a violent effort, speaks abruptly out, “Thou must sail to Troy—to the Greeks—the Atridae.”
Neoptolemus is overruled. Ulysses steps back, and Philoctetes shows up. The joy of the lonely outcast when he hears his own language and sees the son of Achilles is profound—his description of his emotions when he first found himself abandoned in the wilderness and his account of the struggles he has faced since are deeply moving. He begs Neoptolemus to take him away, and when the young man agrees, he erupts in a shout of happiness, which, knowing the betrayal that awaits him, must have stirred the audience's emotions intensely. The hallmark of Sophocles is that even in his most grand works, he manages to weave in the most touching aspects of humanity. Philoctetes refuses to leave his miserable wilderness until he goes back to his cave for a final goodbye—to kiss the only place that offered him refuge from his suffering. In his moment of happiness, he foolishly believes he has found trust in another person—in youth. He hands the arrows and bow over to Neoptolemus. Then, as he tries to move, the sharp pain from his wound completely overwhelms him. He struggles to suppress his groans; his body wins over his mind. In my view, which I will elaborate on shortly, this is the flaw of the play; it becomes merely a display of physical suffering. The agony exhausts him until he falls into insensibility or sleep. He lies down to rest, and the young man keeps watch over him. The scene is powerful. Neoptolemus, battling his own feelings, misses the opportunity. Philoctetes wakes up. He's ready to board; he pleads and insists on leaving immediately. Neoptolemus hesitates—Philoctetes becomes suspicious, fearing this stranger will abandon him too. Finally, the young man forces himself to say abruptly, “You must sail to Troy—to the Greeks—the Atridae.”
“The Greeks—the Atridae!” the betrayers of Philoctetes—those beyond pardon—those whom for ten years he has pursued with the curses of a wronged, and deserted, and solitary spirit. “Give me back,” he cries, “my bow and arrows.” And when Neoptolemus refuses, he pours forth a torrent of reproach. The son of the truth—telling Achilles can withstand no longer. He is about to restore the weapons, when Ulysses rushes on the stage and prevents him.
“The Greeks—the Atridae!” the traitors of Philoctetes—those who are beyond forgiveness—those whom he has been hunting for ten years with the curses of a wronged, abandoned, and lonely soul. “Give me back,” he cries, “my bow and arrows.” And when Neoptolemus refuses, he unleashes a flood of accusations. The son of the honest Achilles can’t take it anymore. He’s about to return the weapons when Ulysses rushes onto the stage and stops him.
At length, the sufferer is to be left—left once more alone in the desert. He cannot go with his betrayers—he cannot give glory and conquest to his inhuman foes; in the wrath of his indignant heart even the desert is sweeter than the Grecian camp. And how is he to sustain himself without his shafts! Famine adds a new horror to his dreary solitude, and the wild beasts may now pierce into his cavern: but their cruelty would be mercy! His contradictory and tempestuous emotions, as the sailors that compose the chorus are about to depart, are thus told.
At last, the sufferer must be left—left once again alone in the desert. He can't join his betrayers—he can't give glory and victory to his heartless enemies; in the anger of his outraged heart, even the desert is more appealing than the Greek camp. And how will he survive without his arrows? Hunger adds a new terror to his bleak solitude, and the wild beasts might now invade his cave: but their cruelty would feel like mercy! His conflicting and stormy emotions, as the sailors in the chorus are about to leave, are expressed.
The chorus entreat him to accompany them.
The chorus urges him to join them.
Phil. Begone.
Chor. It is a friendly bidding—we obey—
Come, let us go. To ship, my comrades.
Phil. No—
No, do not go—by the great Jove, who hears
Men’s curses—do not go.
Chor. Be calm.
Phil. Sweet strangers!
In mercy, leave me not.
* * * * * *
Chor. But now you bade us!
Phil. Ay—meet cause for chiding,
That a poor desperate wretch, maddened with pain,
Should talk as madmen do!
Chor. Come, then, with us.
Phil. Never! oh—never! Hear me—not if all
The lightnings of the thunder-god were made
Allies with you, to blast me! Perish Troy,
And all beleaguered round its walls—yea; all
Who had the heart to spurn a wounded wretch;
But, but—nay—yes—one prayer, one boon accord me.
Chor. What wouldst thou have?
Phil. A sword, an axe, a something;
So it can strike, no matter!
Chor. Nay—for what?
Phil. What! for this hand to hew me off this head—
These limbs! To death, to solemn death, at last
My spirit calls me.
Chor. Why?
Phil. To seek my father.
Chor. On earth?
Phil. In Hades.
Phil. Go away.
Chor. It's a friendly request—we'll obey—
Come on, let's go. To the ship, my friends.
Phil. No—
No, please don’t go—by the great Jove, who hears
Men’s curses—don’t go.
Chor. Calm down.
Phil. Sweet strangers!
Please, don’t leave me.
* * * * * *
Chor. But you just told us to leave!
Phil. Yes—a valid reason to be upset,
That a poor desperate soul, tormented with pain,
Should speak like a madman!
Chor. Then come with us.
Phil. Never! oh—never! Listen to me—not even if all
The lightning from the thunder-god joined forces
With you to strike me! Let Troy fall,
And everyone besieging its walls—yes, all
Who could turn away a wounded soul;
But, but—no—yes—just one prayer, one request.
Chor. What do you want?
Phil. A sword, an axe, anything;
As long as it can strike, I don’t care!
Chor. No—what for?
Phil. What! for this hand to cut off this head—
These limbs! To death, to solemn death, at last
My spirit calls me.
Chor. Why?
Phil. To find my father.
Chor. On earth?
Phil. In Hades.Having thus worked us up to the utmost point of sympathy with the abandoned Philoctetes, the poet now gradually sheds a gentler and holier light over the intense gloom to which we had been led. Neoptolemus, touched with generous remorse, steals back to give the betrayed warrior his weapons—he is watched by the vigilant Ulysses— an angry altercation takes place between them. Ulysses, finding he cannot intimidate, prudently avoids personal encounter with the son of Achilles, and departs to apprize the host of the backsliding of his comrade.—A most beautiful scene, in which Neoptolemus restores the weapons to Philoctetes—a scene which must have commanded the most exquisite tears and the most rapturous applauses of the audience, ensues; and, finally, the god so useful to the ancient poets brings all things, contrary to the general rule of Aristotle 373, to a happy close. Hercules appears and induces his former friend to accompany Neoptolemus to the Grecian camp, where his wound shall be healed.. The farewell of Philoctetes to his cavern—to the nymphs of the meadows—to the roar of the ocean, whose spray the south wind dashed through his rude abode—to the Lycian stream and the plain of Lemnos—is left to linger on the ear like a solemn hymn, in which the little that is mournful only heightens the majestic sweetness of all that is musical. The dramatic art in the several scenes of this play Sophocles has never excelled, and scarcely equalled. The contrast of character in Ulysses and Neoptolemus has in it a reality, a human strength and truth, that is more common to the modern than the ancient drama. But still the fault of the story is partly that the plot rests upon a base and ignoble fraud, and principally that our pity is appealed to by the coarse sympathy with physical pain: the rags that covered the sores, the tainted corruption of the ulcers, are brought to bear, not so much on the mind as on the nerves; and when the hero is represented as shrinking with corporeal agony—the blood oozing from his foot, the livid sweat rolling down the brow—we sicken and turn away from the spectacle; we have no longer that pleasure in our own pain which ought to be the characteristic of true tragedy. It is idle to vindicate this error by any dissimilarity between ancient and modern dramatic art. As nature, so art, always has some universal and permanent laws. Longinus rightly considers pathos a part of the sublime, for pity ought to elevate us; but there is nothing to elevate us in the noisome wounds, even of a mythical hero; our human nature is too much forced back into itself—and a proof that in this the ancient art did not differ from the modern, is in the exceeding rarity with which bodily pain is made the instrument of compassion with the Greek tragedians. The Philoctetes and the Hercules are among the exceptions that prove the rule. 374
Having worked us up to the highest point of sympathy with the abandoned Philoctetes, the poet now gradually brings in a gentler, holier light to the intense gloom we experienced. Neoptolemus, filled with genuine remorse, sneaks back to give the betrayed warrior his weapons—he is being watched by the alert Ulysses—a heated argument breaks out between them. Ulysses, realizing he can't intimidate him, wisely avoids a direct confrontation with the son of Achilles and leaves to inform their comrades about his friend’s betrayal. A beautiful scene follows, where Neoptolemus returns the weapons to Philoctetes—this moment must have evoked the most exquisite tears and the loudest applause from the audience. In the end, the helpful god from ancient poetry brings everything, contrary to Aristotle's usual rule 373, to a happy conclusion. Hercules appears and encourages his old friend to join Neoptolemus on his way to the Greek camp, where his wound will be healed. Philoctetes’ farewell to his cave, to the nymphs of the fields, to the roar of the ocean whose spray the south wind has sent through his rough dwelling, to the Lycian river and the plain of Lemnos, lingers in our ears like a solemn hymn, where the little sadness only enhances the majestic sweetness of everything musical. The dramatic art in the various scenes of this play is something that Sophocles has rarely surpassed, if ever equaled. The contrast between the characters of Ulysses and Neoptolemus possesses a reality, a human strength and truth that aligns more with modern than ancient drama. Still, a flaw in the story is that the plot is based on a low and shameful deception, and primarily, our pity is stirred by an unrefined sympathy for physical pain: the rags covering the sores, the foulness of the ulcers, are aimed not so much at our minds as at our nerves; and when the hero is shown recoiling from intense agony—blood seeping from his foot, cold sweat streaming down his forehead—we feel nauseated and turn away from the sight; we lose that pleasure in our own suffering which should be the hallmark of true tragedy. It's pointless to justify this mistake by pointing out differences between ancient and modern dramatic art. Just like nature, art always follows universal and enduring laws. Longinus rightly argues that pathos is part of the sublime, as pity should elevate us; however, there’s nothing to uplift us in the foul wounds, even of a mythical hero; our human nature is pushed back into itself—and the proof that ancient art didn’t differ from modern in this regard is the rarity with which bodily pain serves as an instrument of compassion in Greek tragedies. Philoctetes and Hercules are among the exceptions that prove the rule. 374
XII. Another drawback to our admiration of the Philoctetes is in the comparison it involuntarily courts with the Prometheus of Aeschylus. Both are examples of fortitude under suffering—of the mind’s conflict with its fate. In either play a dreary waste, a savage solitude, constitute the scene. But the towering sublimity of the Prometheus dwarfs into littleness every image of hero or demigod with which we contrast it. What are the chorus of mariners, and the astute Ulysses, and the boyish generosity of Neoptolemus—what is the lonely cave on the shores of Lemnos—what the high-hearted old warrior, with his torturing wound and his sacred bow—what are all these to the vast Titan, whom the fiends chain to the rock beneath which roll the rivers of hell, for whom the daughters of Ocean are ministers, to whose primeval birth the gods of Olympus are the upstarts of a day, whose soul is the treasure-house of a secret which threatens the realm of heaven, and for whose unimaginable doom earth reels to its base, all the might of divinity is put forth, and Hades itself trembles as it receives its indomitable and awful guest! Yet, as I have before intimated, it is the very grandeur of Aeschylus that must have made his poems less attractive on the stage than those of the humane and flexible Sophocles. No visible representation can body forth his thoughts—they overpower the imagination, but they do not come home to our household and familiar feelings. In the contrast between the “Philoctetes” and the “Prometheus” is condensed the contrast between Aeschylus and Sophocles. They are both poets of the highest conceivable order; but the one seems almost above appeal to our affections—his tempestuous gloom appals the imagination, the vivid glare of his thoughts pierces the innermost recesses of the intellect, but it is only by accident that he strikes upon the heart. The other, in his grandest flights, remembers that men make his audience, and seems to feel as if art lost the breath of its life when aspiring beyond the atmosphere of human intellect and human passions. The difference between the creations of Aeschylus and Sophocles is like the difference between the Satan of Milton and the Macbeth of Shakspeare. Aeschylus is equally artful with Sophocles—it is the criticism of ignorance that has said otherwise. But there is this wide distinction—Aeschylus is artful as a dramatist to be read, Sophocles as a dramatist to be acted. If we get rid of actors, and stage, and audience, Aeschylus will thrill and move us no less than Sophocles, through a more intellectual if less passionate medium. A poem may be dramatic, yet not theatrical—may have all the effects of the drama in perusal, but by not sufficiently enlisting the skill of the actor—nay, by soaring beyond the highest reach of histrionic capacities, may lose those effects in representation. The storm in “Lear” is a highly dramatic agency when our imagination is left free to conjure up the angry elements,
XII. Another issue with our admiration of Philoctetes is the comparison it unintentionally invites with Aeschylus’s Prometheus. Both showcase courage in the face of suffering and the struggle of the mind against its fate. Each play is set in a bleak wilderness, a harsh isolation. However, the immense grandeur of Prometheus makes every image of hero or demigod seem small by comparison. What are the chorus of sailors, the clever Ulysses, or the youthful generosity of Neoptolemus—what is the isolated cave by the shores of Lemnos—what is the noble old warrior, suffering from his painful wound and holding his sacred bow—what do all these represent next to the colossal Titan, chained to a rock while the rivers of hell flow beneath him? He has Ocean's daughters as attendants, the gods of Olympus seem like newcomers compared to his ancient birth, his soul holds a secret that threatens the heavens, and the earth shakes to its core as all the power of divinity is summoned, with Hades itself trembling at the arrival of its formidable and terrifying guest! Yet, as I’ve mentioned before, Aeschylus’s grandeur may have made his works less appealing on stage compared to the more relatable and adaptable Sophocles. No visual performance can fully capture his ideas—they overwhelm the imagination but fail to resonate with our everyday feelings. The contrast between Philoctetes and Prometheus exemplifies the difference between Aeschylus and Sophocles. Both are poets of the highest order, yet one seems almost beyond our emotional reach—his turbulent darkness shocks the imagination, the bright clarity of his thoughts penetrates the deepest parts of the mind, but he touches the heart only by chance. The other, in his most magnificent moments, remembers that people make up his audience and seems aware that art loses its essence when it aims too high, beyond the realm of human intellect and feelings. The distinction between Aeschylus's and Sophocles's works is akin to the difference between Milton's Satan and Shakespeare's Macbeth. Aeschylus is just as skillful as Sophocles—only ignorance claims otherwise. But there is a significant difference—Aeschylus writes for the reader, while Sophocles writes for the stage. Without actors, sets, and an audience, Aeschylus can still move and excite us as much as Sophocles, through a more intellectual, if less emotional, medium. A poem can be dramatic without being theatrical—possessing all the effects of drama in reading, but if it doesn't fully engage the actor's talent—or if it aims higher than what actors can convey—it may lose those effects in performance. The storm in Lear is highly dramatic when our imagination is free to envision the raging elements.
“Bid the winds blow the earth into the sea,
Or swell the curled waters.”
“Let the winds push the earth into the sea,
Or make the waves rise.”But a storm on the stage, instead of exceeding, so poorly mimics the reality, that it can never realize the effect which the poet designs, and with which the reader is impressed. So is it with supernatural and fanciful creations, especially of the more delicate and subtle kind. The Ariel of the “Tempest,” the fairies of the “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and the Oceanides of the “Prometheus,” are not to be represented by human shapes. We cannot say that they are not dramatic, but they are not theatrical. We can sympathize with the poet, but not with the actor. For the same reason, in a lesser degree, all creations, even of human character, that very highly task the imagination, that lift the reader wholly out of actual experience, and above the common earth, are comparatively feeble when reduced to visible forms. The most metaphysical plays of Shakspeare are the least popular in representation. Thus the very genius of Aeschylus, that kindles us in the closet, must often have militated against him on the stage. But in Sophocles all—even the divinities themselves— are touched with humanity; they are not too subtle or too lofty to be submitted to mortal gaze. We feel at once that on the stage Sophocles ought to have won the prize from Aeschylus; and, as a proof of this, if we look at the plays of each, we see that scarcely any of the great characters of Aeschylus could have called into sufficient exercise the powers of an actor. Prometheus on his rock, never changing even his position, never absent from the scene, is denied all the relief, the play and mobility, that an actor needs. His earthly representative could be but a grand reciter. In the “Persians,” not only the theatrical, but the dramatic effect is wanting—it is splendid poetry put into various mouths, but there is no collision of passions, no surprise, no incident, no plot, no rapid dialogue in which words are but the types of emotions. In the “Suppliants” Garrick could have made nothing of Pelasgus. In the “Seven before Thebes” there are not above twenty or thirty lines in the part of Eteocles in which the art of the actor could greatly assist the genius of the poet. In the’ trilogy of the “Agamemnon,” the “Choephori,” and the “Orestes,” written in advanced years, we may trace the contagious innovation of Sophocles; but still, even in these tragedies, there is no part so effective in representation as those afforded by the great characters of Sophocles. In the first play the hypocrisy and power of Clytemnestra would, it is true, have partially required and elicited the talents of the player; but Agamemnon himself is but a thing of pageant, and the splendid bursts of Cassandra might have been effectively uttered by a very inferior histrionic artist. In the second play, in the scene between Orestes and his mother, and in the gathering madness of Orestes, the art of the poet would unquestionably task to the uttermost the skill of the performer. But in the last play (the Furies), perhaps the sublimest poem of the three, which opens so grandly with the parricide at the sanctuary, and the Furies sleeping around him, there is not one scene from the beginning to the end in which an eminent actor could exhibit his genius.
But a storm on stage, instead of exceeding expectations, poorly mimics reality, and can never achieve the effect the poet intended, which moves the reader. The same goes for supernatural and fanciful creations, especially the more delicate and subtle ones. The Ariel from “The Tempest,” the fairies from “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and the Oceanides from “Prometheus” can't be represented by human forms. We can't say they aren’t dramatic, but they aren’t theatrical. We may sympathize with the poet, but not with the actor. For the same reason, to a lesser extent, all creations—even those of human characters—that heavily challenge the imagination, lifting the reader far above actual experience and common life, are comparatively weak when turned into visual forms. The most metaphysical plays by Shakespeare tend to be the least popular in performance. Thus, the very genius of Aeschylus, which engages us in reading, often works against him on stage. In Sophocles, however, even the divine characters are touched with humanity; they’re not too subtle or elevated to be seen by human eyes. We immediately feel that on stage, Sophocles should have triumphed over Aeschylus. As evidence of this, if we look at the plays of each, we find that hardly any of Aeschylus’s great characters could adequately showcase an actor’s skills. Prometheus on his rock, never changing position or leaving the scene, lacks all the variety, energy, and movement that an actor needs. His earthly counterpart could only be a grand reciter. In “The Persians,” both the theatrical and dramatic effects are missing—it’s beautiful poetry spoken by various characters, but there’s no clash of emotions, no surprises, no incidents, no plot, and no quick dialogue where words reflect emotions. In “The Suppliants,” Garrick could have done nothing with Pelasgus. In “The Seven Against Thebes,” there are barely twenty or thirty lines in Eteocles's part where an actor's craft would significantly enhance the poet's genius. In the trilogy of “Agamemnon,” “Choephori,” and “Orestes,” written in his later years, we can see the contagious innovation of Sophocles; yet even in these tragedies, no role is as effective in performance as those by the great characters of Sophocles. In the first play, the hypocrisy and power of Clytemnestra would partially require and showcase the actor’s talent; but Agamemnon himself is merely a spectacle, and the magnificent moments of Cassandra could have been effectively delivered by a much less skilled performer. In the second play, during the scene between Orestes and his mother, and in Orestes’s growing madness, the poet's artistry would undoubtedly stretch the performer’s skills to the limit. However, in the final play (the Furies), perhaps the most sublime of the three, which opens so grandly with the parricide at the sanctuary and the Furies sleeping around him, there isn't a single scene from beginning to end where an excellent actor could display his talent.
But when we come to the plays of Sophocles, we feel that a new era in the drama is created; we feel that the artist poet has called into full existence the artist actor. His theatrical effects 375 are tangible, actual—could be represented to-morrow in Paris—in London— everywhere. We find, therefore, that with Sophocles has passed down to posterity the name of the great actor 376 in his principal plays. And I think the English reader, even in the general analysis and occasional translations with which I have ventured to fill so many pages, will perceive that all the exertions of subtle, delicate, and passionate power, even in a modern actor, would be absolutely requisite to do justice to the characters of Oedipus at Coloneus, Antigone, Electra, and Philoctetes.
But when we look at the plays of Sophocles, we sense that a new era in drama has begun; we realize that the artist poet has fully brought to life the artist actor. His theatrical effects 375 are tangible and real—they could be staged tomorrow in Paris—in London—anywhere. So, we find that the name of the great actor 376 has been passed down through the ages alongside Sophocles' major plays. I believe the English reader, even with the general analysis and occasional translations I've included over these many pages, will see that all the subtle, delicate, and passionate skills of a modern actor would be absolutely necessary to do justice to the characters of Oedipus at Coloneus, Antigone, Electra, and Philoctetes.
This, then, was the distinction between Aeschylus and Sophocles—both were artists, as genius always must be, but the art of the latter adapts itself better to representation. And this distinction in art was not caused merely by precedence in time. Had Aeschylus followed Sophocles, it would equally have existed—it was the natural consequence of the distinctions in their genius—the one more sublime, the other more impassioned—the one exalting the imagination, the other appealing to the heart. Aeschylus is the Michael Angelo of the drama, Sophocles the Raffaele.
This, then, was the difference between Aeschylus and Sophocles—both were artists, as true genius always is, but the art of the latter is better suited for performance. This difference in their art wasn't just a result of being from different times. If Aeschylus had come after Sophocles, the distinction would still be there—it stemmed from the natural differences in their genius—one being more sublime, the other more passionate—one elevating the imagination, the other reaching out to the heart. Aeschylus is the Michelangelo of drama, while Sophocles is the Raphael.
XIII. Thus have I presented to the general reader the outline of all the tragedies of Sophocles. In the great length at which I have entered in this, not the least difficult, part of my general task, I have widely innovated on the plan pursued by the writers of Grecian history. For this innovation I offer no excuse. It is her poetry at the period we now examine, as her philosophy in a later time, that makes the individuality of Athens. In Sophocles we behold the age of Pericles. The wars of that brilliant day were as pastimes to the mighty carnage of oriental or northern battle. The reduction of a single town, which, in our time, that has no Sophocles and no Pericles, a captain of artillery would demolish in a week, was the proudest exploit of the Olympian of the Agora; a little while, and one defeat wrests the diadem of the seas from the brows of “The Violet Queen;” scanty indeed the ruins that attest the glories of “The Propylaea, the Parthenon, the Porticoes, and the Docks,” to which the eloquent orator appealed as the “indestructible possessions” of Athens; along the desolate site of the once tumultuous Agora the peasant drives his oxen—the champion deity 377 of Phidias, whose spectral apparition daunted the barbarian Alaric 378, and the gleam of whose spear gladdened the mariner beneath the heights of Sunium, has vanished from the Acropolis; but, happily, the age of Pericles has its stamp and effigy in an art more imperishable than that of war—in materials more durable than those of bronze and marble, of ivory and gold. In the majestic harmony, the symmetrical grace of Sophocles, we survey the true portraiture of the genius of the times, and the old man of Coloneus still celebrates the name of Athens in a sweeter song than that of the nightingale 379, and melodies that have survived the muses of Cephisus 380. Sophocles was allegorically the prophet when he declared that in the grave of Oedipus was to be found the sacred guardian and the everlasting defence of the city of Theseus.
XIII. I've laid out for the general reader an overview of all the tragedies of Sophocles. In the extensive detail I've provided, especially in this challenging part of my overall task, I've made significant changes to the approach taken by historians of ancient Greece. I don't offer an apology for this change. It is the poetry of Athens during this period, just as her philosophy in later times, that shapes its uniqueness. In Sophocles, we see the age of Pericles. The wars of that remarkable time were trivial compared to the massive slaughter of battles in the East or North. The conquest of a single town, which today a military leader could destroy in a week without a Sophocles or a Pericles, was the proudest achievement of the heroes of the Agora. Soon, one defeat would snatch the crown of the seas from the head of “The Violet Queen;” the remnants that show the glories of “The Propylaea, the Parthenon, the Porticoes, and the Docks,” which the eloquent speaker referred to as the “indestructible possessions” of Athens, are indeed meager; across the desolate area of the once bustling Agora, the farmer drives his oxen—the champion deity 377 of Phidias, whose ghostly figure frightened the barbarian Alaric 378, and the shine of whose spear brought joy to sailors beneath the heights of Sunium, has disappeared from the Acropolis; but, fortunately, the age of Pericles has left its mark in an art that lasts longer than the art of war—in materials more enduring than bronze and marble, ivory, and gold. In the majestic harmony and balanced grace of Sophocles, we see the true representation of the genius of the time, and the old man of Coloneus still honors the name of Athens in a sweeter song than that of the nightingale 379, and melodies that have outlasted the muses of Cephisus 380. Sophocles was a sort of prophet when he declared that in the grave of Oedipus lay the sacred guardian and the everlasting protector of the city of Theseus.
FOOTNOTES
1 (return)
[ In their passage through the
press I have, however, had many opportunities to consult and refer to Mr.
Thirlwall’s able and careful work.
1 (return)
[ In their time in the press, I've had plenty of chances to refer to Mr. Thirlwall's impressive and thorough work.
2 (return)
[ The passage in Aristotle
(Meteorol., l. I, c. 14), in which, speaking of the ancient Hellas (the
country about Dodona and the river Achelous), the author says it was
inhabited by a people (along with the Helli, or Selli) then called Graeci,
now Hellenes (tote men Graikoi, nun de Hellaenes) is well known. The Greek
chronicle on the Arundel marbles asserts, that the Greeks were called
Graeci before they were called Hellenes; in fact, Graeci was most probably
once a name for the Pelasgi, or for a powerful, perhaps predominant, tribe
of the Pelasgi widely extended along the western coast—by them the
name was borne into Italy, and (used indiscriminately with that of
Pelasgi) gave the Latin appellation to the Hellenic or Grecian people.
2 (return)
[ The section in Aristotle (Meteorol., l. I, c. 14), where he talks about ancient Hellas (the area around Dodona and the river Achelous), mentions that it was settled by a group of people (along with the Helli, or Selli) then referred to as Graeci, now known as Hellenes (tote men Graikoi, nun de Hellaenes), is well recognized. The Greek chronicle inscribed on the Arundel marbles claims that the Greeks were called Graeci before they were known as Hellenes; in fact, Graeci likely originally referred to the Pelasgi, or a strong, possibly dominant, tribe of the Pelasgi that spread widely along the western coast—this name was carried into Italy, and (used interchangeably with Pelasgi) provided the Latin name for the Hellenic or Greek people.
3 (return)
[ Modern travellers, in their
eloquent lamentations over the now niggard waters of these immortal
streams, appear to forget that Strabo expressly informs us that the
Cephisus flowed in the manner of a torrent, and failed altogether in the
summer. “Much the same,” he adds, “was the Ilissus.” A deficiency of water
was always a principal grievance in Attica, as we may learn from the laws
of Solon relative to wells.
3 (return)
[ Modern travelers, in their passionate complaints about the now meager waters of these legendary streams, seem to overlook that Strabo specifically tells us that the Cephisus flowed like a torrent and completely dried up in the summer. “The same was true,” he adds, “for the Ilissus.” A lack of water has always been a major issue in Attica, as we can see from Solon's laws regarding wells.
4 (return)
[ Platon. Timaeus. Clinton’s
Fasti Hellenici, vol. i., p. 5.
4 (return)
[ Plato. Timaeus. Clinton’s
Fasti Hellenici, vol. i., p. 5.
5
[ According to some they were from India, to others from Egypt, to
others again from Phoenicia. They have been systematized into Bactrians,
and Scythians, and Philistines—into Goths, and into Celts; and
tracked by investigations as ingenious as they are futile, beyond the
banks of the Danube to their settlements in the Peloponnese. No erudition
and no speculation can, however, succeed in proving their existence in any
part of the world prior to their appearance in Greece.
5
[ Some say they came from India, others say Egypt, and some say Phoenicia. They've been categorized as Bactrians, Scythians, and Philistines—also as Goths and Celts; and traced through investigations that are as clever as they are pointless, beyond the Danube to their homes in the Peloponnese. However, no scholarship or theory has been able to prove they existed anywhere in the world before showing up in Greece.
6 (return)
[ Sophoc. Ajax, 1251.
6 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Sophocles, Ajax, 1251.
7 (return)
[ All those words (in the Latin)
which make the foundation of a language, expressive of the wants or simple
relations of life, are almost literally Greek—such as pater, frater,
aratrum, bos, ager, etc. For the derivation of the Latin from the Aeolic
dialect of Greece, see “Scheid’s Prolegomena to Lennep’s Etymologicon
Linguae Grecae.”
7 (return)
[ All those words (in Latin) that form the foundation of a language and express basic needs or simple relationships in life are nearly identical in Greek—like pater, frater, aratrum, bos, ager, etc. For the origin of Latin from the Aeolic dialect of Greece, refer to “Scheid’s Prolegomena to Lennep’s Etymologicon Linguae Grecae.”
8 (return)
[ The Leleges, Dryopes, and most
of the other hordes prevalent in Greece, with the Pelasgi, I consider,
with Mr. Clinton, but as tribes belonging to the great Pelasgic family.
One tribe would evidently become more civilized than the rest, in
proportion to the social state of the lands through which it migrated—its
reception of strangers from the more advanced East—or according as
the circumstances of the soil in which it fixed its abode stimulated it to
industry, or forced it to invention. The tradition relative to Pelasgus,
that while it asserts him to have been the first that dwelt in Arcadia,
declares also that he first taught men to build huts, wear garments of
skins, and exchange the yet less nutritious food of herbs and roots for
the sweet and palatable acorns of the “fagus,” justly puzzled Pausanias.
Such traditions, if they prove any thing, which I more than doubt, tend to
prove that the tribe personified by the word “Pelasgus,” migrated into
that very Arcadia alleged to have been their aboriginal home, and taught
their own rude arts to the yet less cultivated population they found
there.
8 (return)
[ The Leleges, Dryopes, and most of the other groups found in Greece, along with the Pelasgians, are considered by me, along with Mr. Clinton, to be tribes that belong to the larger Pelasgic family. One tribe would clearly become more advanced than the others, depending on the social conditions of the areas they moved through—especially their interactions with more developed cultures from the East—or based on whether the land they settled in encouraged them to work hard or forced them to innovate. The story about Pelasgus, which claims he was the first to live in Arcadia, also states that he was the first to teach people how to build huts, wear animal skin clothing, and trade the less nutritious food of herbs and roots for the sweeter and tastier acorns from the “fagus,” genuinely confused Pausanias. Such traditions, if they prove anything, which I seriously question, suggest that the tribe symbolized by the name “Pelasgus” migrated to that very Arcadia that is said to be their original home and passed on their basic skills to the even less developed people they encountered there.
9 (return)
[ See Isaiah xxiii.
9 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ See Isaiah 23.
10 (return)
[ The received account of the
agricultural skill of the Pelasgi is tolerably well supported. Dionysius
tells us that the Aboriginals having assigned to those Pelasgi, whom the
oracle sent from Dodona into Italy, the marshy and unprofitable land
called Velia, they soon drained the fen:—their love of husbandry
contributed, no doubt, to form the peculiar character of their
civilization and religion.
10 (return)
[ The information we have about the farming skills of the Pelasgi is fairly well documented. Dionysius tells us that the Indigenous people assigned the Pelasgi, who were sent from Dodona to Italy by the oracle, to the marshy and unproductive land known as Velia. They quickly drained the swampy area—their passion for farming certainly played a role in shaping their unique civilization and religion.
11 (return)
[ Solinus and Pliny state that
the Pelasgi first brought letters into Italy. Long the leading race of
Italy, their power declined, according to Dionysius, two generations
before the Trojan war.
11 (return)
[ Solinus and Pliny say that the Pelasgi were the first to introduce writing to Italy. They were the dominant people in Italy for a long time, but their strength started to fade, according to Dionysius, two generations before the Trojan war.
12 (return)
[ Paus. Arcad., c. xxxviii. In
a previous chapter (II.) that accomplished antiquary observes, that it
appeared to him that Cecrops and Lycaon (son of Pelasgus and founder of
Lycosura) were contemporaries. By the strong and exaggerating expression
of Pausanias quoted in the text, we must suppose, not that he considered
Lycosura the first town of the earth, but the first walled and fortified
city. The sons of Lycaon were great builders of cities, and in their time
rapid strides in civilization appear by tradition to have been made in the
Peloponnesus. The Pelasgic architecture is often confounded with the
Cyclopean. The Pelasgic masonry is polygonal, each stone fitting into the
other without cement; that called the Cyclopean, and described by
Pausanias, is utterly different, being composed by immense blocks of
stone, with small pebbles inserted in the interstices. (See Gell’s
Topography of Rome and its Vicinity.) By some antiquaries, who have not
made the mistake of confounding these distinct orders of architecture, the
Cyclopean has been deemed more ancient than the Pelasgic,—but this
also is an error. Lycosura was walled by the Pelasgians between four and
five centuries prior to the introduction of the Cyclopean masonry—in
the building of the city of Tiryns. Sir William Gell maintains the
possibility of tracing the walls of Lycosura near the place now called
Surias To Kastro.
12 (return)
[ Paus. Arcad., c. xxxviii. In a previous chapter (II.), that knowledgeable historian notes that he believed Cecrops and Lycaon (the son of Pelasgus and founder of Lycosura) lived during the same time. Based on Pausanias’ strong and somewhat exaggerated wording, we should interpret that he did not think of Lycosura as the first town on earth, but rather the first walled and fortified city. The sons of Lycaon were significant city builders, and during their time, it seems there were rapid advancements in civilization in the Peloponnesus according to tradition. Pelasgic architecture is often confused with Cyclopean architecture. Pelasgic masonry is characterized by its polygonal stones, each fitting perfectly together without the use of cement; while Cyclopean masonry, as described by Pausanias, is entirely different, made up of massive stone blocks with smaller pebbles filling the gaps. (See Gell’s Topography of Rome and its Vicinity.) Some historians, who have correctly identified these two architectural styles, consider Cyclopean masonry to be older than Pelasgic—a mistake. Lycosura was fortified by the Pelasgians around four to five centuries before the introduction of Cyclopean masonry in the construction of the city of Tiryns. Sir William Gell argues that it is possible to trace the walls of Lycosura close to the area now known as Surias To Kastro.
13 (return)
[ The expulsion of the Hyksos,
which was not accomplished by one sudden, but by repeated revolutions,
caused many migrations; among others, according to the Egyptians, that of
Danaus.
13 (return)
[ The expulsion of the Hyksos, which didn’t happen all at once but through several uprisings, led to many migrations; one of these, as noted by the Egyptians, was that of Danaus.
14 (return)
[ The Egyptian monarchs, in a
later age, employed the Phoenicians in long and adventurous maritime
undertakings. At a comparatively recent date, Neco, king of Egypt,
despatched certain Phoenicians on no less an enterprise than that of the
circumnavigation of Africa. [Footnote Herod., iv., 12. Rennell., Geog. of
Herod.: That monarch was indeed fitted for great designs. The
Mediterranean and the Red Sea already received his fleets, and he had
attempted to unite them by a canal which would have rendered Africa an
island. [Footnote Herod., ii., 158, 159. Heeren., Phoenicians, c. iii. See
also Diodorus.:
14 (return)
[ The Egyptian kings, in a later era, employed the Phoenicians for long and daring sea ventures. Not long ago, Neco, the king of Egypt, sent some Phoenicians on a significant mission to sail all the way around Africa. [Footnote Herod., iv., 12. Rennell., Geog. of Herod.: That king was truly suited for grand projects. His fleets had already navigated the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, and he had tried to connect them with a canal that would have turned Africa into an island. [Footnote Herod., ii., 158, 159. Heeren., Phoenicians, c. iii. See also Diodorus.:
15 (return)
[ The general habits of a
people can in no age preclude exceptions in individuals. Indian rajahs do
not usually travel, but we had an Indian rajah for some years in the
Regent’s Park; the Chinese are not in the habit of visiting England, but a
short time ago some Chinese were in London. Grant that Phoenicians had
intercourse with Egypt and with Greece, and nothing can be less improbable
than that a Phoenician vessel may have contained some Egyptian
adventurers. They might certainly be men of low rank and desperate
fortunes—they might be fugitives from the law—but they might
not the less have seemed princes and sages to a horde of Pelasgic savages.
15 (return)
[ The general habits of a people don’t rule out exceptions among individuals. Indian rajahs typically don’t travel, but we had one living in Regent’s Park for several years; the Chinese generally don’t visit England, yet recently some Chinese were in London. It's true that Phoenicians interacted with Egypt and Greece, and it’s not unlikely that a Phoenician ship might have carried some Egyptian adventurers. They could have been men of low status and desperate means—they might have been on the run from the law—but they could still have appeared to a group of Pelasgic savages as if they were princes and wise men.
16 (return)
[ The authorities in favour of
the Egyptian origin of Cecrops are.—Diod., lib. i.; Theopomp.;
Schol. Aristoph.; Plot.; Suidas. Plato speaks of the ancient connexion
between Sais and Athens. Solon finds the names of Erechtheus and Cecrops
in Egypt, according to the same authority, I grant a doubtful one (Plat.
Critias.) The best positive authority of which I am aware in favour of the
contrary supposition that Cecrops was indigenous, is Apollodorus.
16 (return)
[ The experts who support the idea that Cecrops originated from Egypt include Diodorus (book 1), Theopompus, the scholars of Aristophanes, Plotinus, and Suidas. Plato mentions an ancient link between Sais and Athens. According to the same source, which I admit is questionable (Plato, Critias), Solon discovered the names of Erechtheus and Cecrops in Egypt. The strongest evidence I know of that argues against the idea that Cecrops was from Egypt and suggests he was local comes from Apollodorus.
17 (return)
[ To enter into all the
arguments that have been urged on either side relative to Cecrops would
occupy about two hundred pages of this work, and still leave the question
in dispute. Perhaps two hundred pages might be devoted to subjects more
generally instructive.
17 (return)
[ Discussing all the points raised on both sides regarding Cecrops would take around two hundred pages of this work, and it would still leave the question unresolved. Maybe those two hundred pages could be better spent covering topics that are more broadly educational.
18 (return)
[ So, in the Peruvian
traditions, the apparition of two persons of majestic form and graceful
garments, appearing alone and unarmed on the margin of the Lake Titiaca,
sufficed to reclaim a naked and wretched horde from their savage life, to
inculcate the elements of the social union, and to collect a people in
establishing a throne.
18 (return)
[ In the Peruvian traditions, the appearance of two majestic figures in elegant clothing, appearing alone and unarmed by the shores of Lake Titicaca, was enough to bring a naked and miserable crowd out of their savage existence, to teach them the basics of social unity, and to gather a people to form a kingdom.
19 (return)
[ “Like the Greeks,” says
Herodotus (book ii., c. 112), “the Egyptians confine themselves to one
wife.” Latterly, this among the Greeks, though a common, was not an
invariable, restraint; but more on this hereafter.
19 (return)
[ “Just like the Greeks,” says Herodotus (book ii., c. 112), “the Egyptians stick to one wife.” In later times, this was a common but not an absolute rule among the Greeks; more on this later.
21 (return)
[ It is by no means probable
that this city, despite its fortress, was walled like Lycosura.
21 (return)
[ It's unlikely that this city, despite its fortress, was walled like Lycosura.
22 (return)
[ At least Strabo assigns
Boeotia to the government of Cecrops. But I confess, that so far from his
incorporating Boeotia with Attica, I think that traditions relative to his
immediate successors appear to indicate that Attica itself continued to
retain independent tribes— soon ripening, if not already advanced,
to independent states.
22 (return)
[ Strabo at least attributes the governance of Boeotia to Cecrops. However, I must admit that rather than him combining Boeotia with Attica, I believe that the traditions about his immediate successors suggest that Attica itself still maintained independent tribes—quickly developing, if not already established, as independent states.
25 (return)
[ That all the Pelasgi—scattered
throughout Greece, divided among themselves—frequently at war with
each other, and certainly in no habits of peaceful communication—each
tribe of different modes of life, and different degrees of civilization,
should have concurred in giving no names to their gods, and then have
equally concurred in receiving names from Egypt, is an assertion so
preposterous, that it carries with it its own contradiction. Many of the
mistakes relative to the Pelasgi appear to have arisen from supposing the
common name implied a common and united tribe, and not a vast and
dispersed people, subdivided into innumerable families, and diversified by
innumerable influences.
25 (return)
[ The idea that all the Pelasgi—scattered across Greece, often at war with each other, and definitely not accustomed to peaceful communication—each tribe having different lifestyles and levels of civilization, could have all agreed not to name their gods and then similarly agreed to adopt names from Egypt, is so absurd that it contradicts itself. Many of the misconceptions about the Pelasgi seem to stem from assuming the common name indicated a united tribe, rather than a large and fragmented population, divided into countless families and shaped by many different influences.
26 (return)
[ The connexion of Ceres with
Isis was a subsequent innovation.
26 (return)
[ The connection between Ceres and Isis was a later development.
27 (return)
[ Orcos was the personification
of an oath, or the sanctity of an oath.
27 (return)
[ Orcos represented the concept of an oath, or the importance of keeping one's promises.
29 (return)
[ If Onca, or Onga, was the
name of the Phoenician goddess!—In the “Seven against Thebes,” the
chorus invoke Minerva under the name of Onca—and there can be no
doubt that the Grecian Minerva is sometimes called Onca; but it is not
clear to me that the Phoenicians had a deity of that name—nor can I
agree with those who insist upon reading Onca for Siga in Pausanias (lib.
ix., chap. 12), where he says Siga was the name of the Phoenician Minerva.
The Phoenicians evidently had a deity correspondent with the Greek
Minerva; but that it was named Onca, or Onga, is by no means
satisfactorily proved; and the Scholiast, on Pindar, derives the epithet
as applies to Minerva from a Boeotian village.
29 (return)
[ If Onca, or Onga, was the name of the Phoenician goddess!—In “Seven against Thebes,” the chorus calls upon Minerva using the name Onca—and it’s clear that the Greek Minerva is sometimes referred to as Onca; but I’m not convinced that the Phoenicians had a deity by that name—nor do I agree with those who insist on interpreting Onca instead of Siga in Pausanias (lib. ix., chap. 12), where he states Siga was the name of the Phoenician Minerva. The Phoenicians obviously had a deity that corresponded to the Greek Minerva; however, that it was named Onca, or Onga, is not convincingly established; and the Scholiast on Pindar connects the epithet applied to Minerva to a Boeotian village.
31 (return)
[ The Egyptians supposed three
principles: 1st. One benevolent and universal Spirit. 2d. Matter coeval
with eternity. 3d. Nature opposing the good of the universal Spirit. We
find these principles in a variety of shapes typified through their
deities. Besides their types of nature, as the Egyptians adopted hero
gods, typical fables were invented to conceal their humanity, to excuse
their errors, or to dignify their achievements.
31 (return)
[ The Egyptians believed in three main ideas: 1st. One kind and universal Spirit. 2nd. Matter that has existed since eternity. 3rd. Nature that stands against the goodness of the universal Spirit. We see these ideas represented in various forms through their gods. In addition to their representations of nature, the Egyptians created hero gods and invented typical stories to hide their human flaws, justify their mistakes, or elevate their accomplishments.
32 (return)
[ See Heeren’s Political
History of Greece, in which this point is luminously argued.
32 (return)
[ Check out Heeren’s Political History of Greece, where this point is clearly explained.
33 (return)
[ Besides, it is not the
character of emigrants from a people accustomed to castes, to propagate
those castes superior to then own, of which they have exported no
representatives. Suppose none of that privileged and noble order, called
the priests, to have accompanied the Egyptian migrators, those migrators
would never have dreamed of instituting that order in their new settlement
any more than a colony of the warrior caste in India would establish out
of their own order a spurious and fictitious caste of Bramins.
33 (return)
[ Also, it's not typical for emigrants from a society with castes to promote those castes as better than their own, especially when none of their representatives have moved along with them. If none of the privileged and noble class, known as priests, had joined the Egyptian migrants, those migrants would never have considered creating that class in their new settlement, just like a group from the warrior caste in India wouldn't form a fake and made-up caste of Brahmins from their own ranks.
34 (return)
[ When, in a later age,
Karmath, the impostor of the East, sough to undermine Mahometanism, his
most successful policy was in declaring its commands to be allegories.
34 (return)
[ In a later time, Karmath, the fraud from the East, tried to weaken Islam by claiming its teachings were just allegories.
35 (return)
[ Herodotus (b. ii, c. 53)
observes, that it is to Hesiod and Homer the Greeks owe their theogony;
that they gave the gods their titles, fixed their ranks, and described
their shapes. And although this cannot be believed literally, in some
respects it may metaphorically. Doubtless the poets took their
descriptions from popular traditions; but they made those traditions
immortal. Jupiter could never become symbolical to a people who had once
pictured to themselves the nod and curls of the Jupiter of Homer.
35 (return)
[ Herodotus (b. ii, c. 53) notes that the Greeks owe their creation story to Hesiod and Homer; these poets gave the gods their names, established their ranks, and depicted their appearances. While this shouldn’t be taken literally, it can be understood metaphorically in some ways. The poets certainly drew their descriptions from common traditions, but they made those traditions everlasting. Jupiter could never become a symbol for a culture that once imagined the nod and curls of Homer’s Jupiter.
36 (return)
[ Cicero de Natura Deorum, b.
ii.—Most of the philosophical interpretations of the Greek mythology
were the offspring of the Alexandrine schools. It is to the honour of
Aristarchus that he combated a theory that very much resembles the
philosophy that would convert the youthful readers of Mother Bunch into
the inventors of allegorical morality.
36 (return)
[ Cicero de Natura Deorum, b. ii.—Most of the philosophical interpretations of Greek mythology originated from the Alexandrine schools. Aristarchus deserves recognition for opposing a theory that closely resembles the philosophy aimed at turning young readers of Mother Bunch into creators of allegorical morality.
37 (return)
[ But the worship can be traced
to a much earlier date than that the most plausibly ascribed to the
Persian Zoroaster.
37 (return)
[ But the worship can be traced back to a much earlier date than the one most commonly linked to the Persian Zoroaster.
38 (return)
[ So Epimenides of Crete is
said to have spent forty-five years in a cavern, and Minos descends into
the sacred cave of Jupiter to receive from him the elements of law. The
awe attached to woods and caverns, it may be observed, is to be found in
the Northern as well as Eastern superstitions. And there is scarcely a
nation on the earth in which we do not find the ancient superstition has
especially attached itself to the cavern and the forest, peopling them
with peculiar demons. Darkness, silence, and solitude are priests that
eternally speak to the senses; and few of the most skeptical of us have
been lost in thick woods, or entered lonely caverns, without acknowledging
their influence upon the imagination: “Ipsa silentia,” says beautifully
the elder Pliny, “ipsa silentia adoramus.” The effect of streams and
fountains upon the mind seems more unusual and surprising. Yet, to a
people unacquainted with physics, waters imbued with mineral properties,
or exhaling mephitic vapours, may well appear possessed of a something
preternatural. Accordingly, at this day, among many savage tribes we find
that such springs are regarded with veneration and awe. The people of
Fiji, in the South Seas, have a well which they imagine the passage to the
next world, they even believe that you may see in its waters the spectral
images of things rolling on to eternity. Fountains no less than groves,
were objects of veneration with our Saxon ancestors.—See Meginhard,
Wilkins, etc.
38 (return)
[ So, Epimenides of Crete is said to have spent forty-five years in a cave, and Minos goes into the sacred cave of Jupiter to receive the principles of law from him. The reverence for woods and caves can be seen in Northern as well as Eastern superstitions. There’s hardly a nation on Earth that hasn’t had ancient superstitions tied to caves and forests, filling them with unique spirits. Darkness, silence, and solitude are like priests that continually reach out to the senses; and even the most skeptical among us have felt their impact on the imagination when lost in dense woods or entering lonely caves: “Ipsa silentia,” beautifully states the older Pliny, “ipsa silentia adoramus.” The effect of streams and springs on the mind seems more unusual and surprising. However, for people unfamiliar with physics, waters rich in minerals or releasing foul vapors might seem to possess something supernatural. Therefore, even today, many indigenous tribes regard such springs with respect and awe. The people of Fiji in the South Seas have a well they believe leads to the next world, and they even think that you can see the ghostly images of things moving into eternity in its waters. Fountains, just like groves, were objects of reverence for our Saxon ancestors.—See Meginhard, Wilkins, etc.
40 (return)
[ Of the three graces, Aglaia,
Euphrosyne, and Thalia, the Spartans originally worshipped but one—(Aglaia,
splendour) under the name of Phaenna, brightness: they rejected the other
two, whose names signify Joy and Pleasure, and adopted a substitute in one
whose name was Sound (Cletha,)—a very common substitute nowadays!
40 (return)
[ Out of the three Graces—Aglaia, Euphrosyne, and Thalia—the Spartans originally only worshipped Aglaia (splendor), calling her Phaenna, which means brightness. They dismissed the other two, whose names represent Joy and Pleasure, and replaced them with a figure named Cletha, which means Sound—a pretty popular substitute these days!
41 (return)
[ The Persian creed, derived
from Zoroaster, resembled the most to that of Christianity. It inculcated
the resurrection of the dead, the universal triumph of Ormuzd, the
Principle of Light—the destruction of the reign of Ahrimanes, the
Evil Principle.
41 (return)
[ The Persian belief system, based on Zoroaster, was similar to that of Christianity. It taught the resurrection of the dead, the eventual victory of Ormuzd, the Principle of Light—the defeat of Ahrimanes, the Evil Principle.
42 (return)
[ Wherever Egyptian, or indeed
Grecian colonies migrated, nothing was more natural than that, where they
found a coincidence of scene, they should establish a coincidence of name.
In Epirus were also the Acheron and Cocytus; and Campania contains the
whole topography of the Virgilian Hades.
42 (return)
[ Wherever Egyptian or Greek colonies settled, it made perfect sense for them to adopt similar names when they encountered familiar landscapes. In Epirus, there were also the Acheron and Cocytus, and Campania has the entire layout of the underworld described by Virgil.
44 (return)
[ Fire was everywhere in the
East a sacred symbol—though it cannot be implicitly believed that
the Vulcan or Hephaistus of the Greeks has his prototype or original in
the Egyptian Phta or Phtas. The Persian philosophy made fire a symbol of
the Divine intelligence— the Persian credulity, like the Grecian,
converted the symbol into the god (Max. Tyr., Dissert. 38; Herod., lib. 3,
c. 16). The Jews themselves connected the element with their true Deity.
It is in fire that Jehovah reveals himself. A sacred flame was burnt
unceasingly in the temples of Israel, and grave the punishment attached to
the neglect which suffered its extinction.—(Maimonides, Tract. vi.)
44 (return)
Fire was a sacred symbol throughout the East—though we can't necessarily believe that the Greek gods Vulcan or Hephaestus were directly inspired by the Egyptian Phta or Phtas. Persian philosophy viewed fire as a symbol of Divine intelligence—the Persian belief, similar to the Greek, turned this symbol into a god (Max. Tyr., Dissert. 38; Herod., lib. 3, c. 16). The Jews also linked the element to their true God. It is through fire that Jehovah reveals himself. A sacred flame was continuously kept burning in the temples of Israel, and there were serious consequences for allowing it to be extinguished.—(Maimonides, Tract. vi.)
45 (return)
[ The Anaglyph expressed the
secret writings of the Egyptians, known only to the priests. The
hieroglyph was known generally to the educated.
45 (return)
[ The Anaglyph revealed the hidden writings of the Egyptians, which were known only to the priests. The hieroglyphs were generally recognized by the educated.
46 (return)
[ In Gaul, Cesar finds some
tribes more civilized than the rest, cultivating the science of sacrifice,
and possessed of the dark philosophy of superstitious mysteries; but in
certain other and more uncivilized tribes only the elements and the
heavenly luminaries (quos cernunt et quorum opibus aperte juvantur) were
worshipped, and the lore of sacrifice was unstudied. With the Pelasgi as
with the Gauls, I believe that such distinctions might have been found
simultaneously in different tribes.
46 (return)
[ In Gaul, Caesar discovers that some tribes are more advanced than others, practicing the art of sacrifice and having a belief system filled with superstitious mysteries. However, in certain other, less advanced tribes, only the natural elements and celestial bodies (which they see and are openly sustained by their powers) were worshipped, and the knowledge of sacrifice was not studied. Just like with the Pelasgi and the Gauls, I think these differences could have existed at the same time among various tribes.
47 (return)
[ The arrival of Ceres in
Attica is referred to the time of Pandion by Apollodorus.
47 (return)
[ Apollodorus dates the arrival of Ceres in Attica to the time of Pandion.
48 (return)
[ When Lobeck desires to fix
the date of this religious union at so recent an epoch as the time of
Solon, in consequence of a solitary passage in Herodotus, in which Solon,
conversing with Croesus, speaks of hostilities between the Athenians and
Eleusinians, he seems to me to fail in sufficient ground for the
assumption. The rite might have been instituted in consequence of a far
earlier feud and league—even that traditionally recorded in the
Mythic age of Erechtheus and Eumolpus, but could not entirely put an end
to the struggles of Eleusis for independence, or prevent the outbreak of
occasional jealousy and dissension.
48 (return)
[ When Lobeck wants to set the date of this religious union as recent as the time of Solon, based on a single reference in Herodotus where Solon talks with Croesus about conflicts between the Athenians and Eleusinians, it seems to me he lacks enough evidence for that assumption. The rite could have been established due to a much earlier conflict and alliance—even the one traditionally noted from the Mythic age of Erechtheus and Eumolpus. However, it couldn't fully end the Eleusinians' struggles for independence or stop occasional jealousy and disputes from arising.
49 (return)
[ Kneph, the Agatho demon, or
Good Spirit of Egypt, had his symbol in the serpent. It was precisely
because sacred with the rest of the world that the serpent would be an
object of abhorrence with the Jews. But by a curious remnant of oriental
superstition, the early Christians often represented the Messiah by the
serpent—and the emblem of Satan became that of the Saviour.
49 (return)
[ Kneph, the Agatho demon, or Good Spirit of Egypt, was symbolized by the serpent. The serpent was seen as sacred by most cultures, which is why it was viewed with disgust by the Jews. However, due to a strange remnant of Eastern superstition, early Christians often depicted the Messiah as a serpent—and the symbol of Satan became that of the Saviour.
51 (return)
[ And this opinion is confirmed
by Dionysius and Strabo, who consider the Dodona oracle originally
Pelasgic.
51 (return)
[ And this view is supported by Dionysius and Strabo, who believe that the Dodona oracle was originally Pelasgian.
53 (return)
[ “The Americans did not long
suppose the efficacy of conjuration to be confined to one subject—they
had recourse to it in every situation of danger or distress.———From
this weakness proceeded likewise the faith of the Americans in dreams,
their observation of omens, their attention to the chirping of birds and
the cries of animals, all which they supposed to be indications of future
events.” —Robertson’s History of America, book iv.
53 (return)
[ “The Americans didn’t believe that the power of conjuring was limited to just one thing—they relied on it in every dangerous or distressing situation. —This tendency also led to their belief in dreams, their awareness of omens, and their attention to the singing of birds and the calls of animals, all of which they thought were signs of future events.” —Robertson’s History of America, book iv.
Might not any one imagine that he were reading the character of the ancient Greeks? This is not the only point of resemblance between the Americans (when discovered by the Spaniards) and the Greeks in their early history; but the resemblance is merely that of a civilization in some respects equally advanced.
Couldn’t someone think they were reading about the ancient Greeks? This is not the only similarity between the Americans (when they were discovered by the Spaniards) and the early Greeks; the similarity lies in a civilization that, in some ways, was equally advanced.
54 (return)
[ The notion of Democritus of
Abdera, respecting the origin of dreams and divination, may not be
uninteresting to the reader, partly from something vast and terrible in
the fantasy, partly as a proof of the strange, incongruous, bewildered
chaos of thought, from which at last broke the light of the Grecian
philosophy. He introduced the hypothesis of images (eidola,), emanating as
it were from external objects, which impress our sense, and whose
influence creates sensation and thought. Dreams and divination he referred
to the impressions communicated by images of gigantic and vast stature,
which inhabited the air and encompassed the world. Yet this philosopher is
the original of Epicurus, and Epicurus is the original of the modern
Utilitarians!
54 (return)
[ The idea of Democritus of Abdera about the origins of dreams and divination might interest the reader, partly because of the vast and terrifying aspects of the imagination, and partly as evidence of the strange, mismatched, and confusing chaos of thought that eventually led to the clarity of Greek philosophy. He proposed the theory of images (eidola), which seemed to come from external objects, affecting our senses and whose impact generates sensation and thought. He attributed dreams and divination to impressions made by massive and towering images that filled the air and surrounded the world. Yet this philosopher is the forerunner of Epicurus, and Epicurus is the source of modern Utilitarianism!
55 (return)
[ Isaiah lxvi. I.
55 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Isaiah 66:1.
56 (return)
[ This Lucian acknowledges
unawares, when, in deriding the popular religion, he says that a youth who
reads of the gods in Homer or Hesiod, and finds their various immoralities
so highly renowned, would feel no little surprise when he entered the
world, to discover that these very actions of the gods were condemned and
punished by mankind.
56 (return)
[ This Lucian unknowingly points out that when a young person reads about the gods in Homer or Hesiod and sees their various immoralities being celebrated, they would be quite surprised upon entering the real world to find that these same actions of the gods are condemned and punished by people.
58 (return)
[ So the celebrated preamble to
the laws for the Locrians of Italy (which, though not written by Zaleucus,
was, at all events, composed by a Greek) declares that men must hold their
souls clear from every vice; that the gods did not accept the offerings of
the wicked, but found pleasure only in the just and beneficent actions of
the good.— See Diod. Siculus, lib. 8.
58 (return)
[ The famous introduction to the laws for the Locrians of Italy (which, although not written by Zaleucus, was definitely created by a Greek) states that people must keep their souls free from any wrongdoing; that the gods do not accept the offerings of the wicked, but take delight only in the fair and kind actions of the good.— See Diod. Siculus, lib. 8.
59 (return)
[ A Mainote hearing the Druses
praised for their valour, said, with some philosophy, “They would fear
death more if they believed in an hereafter!”
59 (return)
[ A Mainote who heard the Druses praised for their bravery remarked, with a bit of wisdom, “They would be more afraid of death if they believed in an afterlife!”
60 (return)
[ In the time of Socrates, we
may suspect, from a passage in Plato’s Phaedo, that the vulgar were
skeptical of the immortality of the soul, and it may be reasonably doubted
whether the views of Socrates and his divine disciple were ever very
popularly embraced.
60 (return)
[During the time of Socrates, we can infer from a section in Plato’s Phaedo that common people were doubtful about the immortality of the soul, and it’s reasonable to question whether the beliefs of Socrates and his esteemed student were ever widely accepted.
61 (return)
[ It is always by connecting
the divine shape with the human that we exalt our creations—so, in
later times, the saints, the Virgin, and the Christ, awoke the genius of
Italian art.
61 (return)
[ It's always by linking the divine with the human that we elevate our creations—so, in later times, the saints, the Virgin, and Christ inspired the genius of Italian art.
63 (return)
[ In the later age of
philosophy I shall have occasion to return to the subject. And in the
Appendix, with which I propose to complete the work, I may indulge in some
conjectures relative to the Corybantes Curetes, Teichines, etc.
63 (return)
[ In the later age of philosophy, I will revisit this topic. In the Appendix, which I plan to use to finish the work, I might explore some theories about the Corybantes, Curetes, Teichines, and so on.
64 (return)
[ Herodotus (I. vi., c. 137)
speaks of a remote time when the Athenians had no slaves. As we have the
authority of Thucydides for the superior repose which Attica enjoyed as
compared with the rest of Greece—so (her population never having
been conquered) slavery in Attica was probably of later date than
elsewhere, and we may doubt whether in that favoured land the slaves were
taken from any considerable part of the aboriginal race. I say
considerable part, for crime or debt would have reduced some to servitude.
The assertion of Herodotus that the Ionians were indigenous (and not
conquerors as Mueller pretends), is very strongly corroborated by the
absence in Attica of a class of serfs like the Penestae of Thessaly and
the Helots of Laconia. A race of conquerors would certainly have produced
a class of serfs.
64 (return)
[ Herodotus (I. vi., c. 137) mentions a distant time when the Athenians had no slaves. We have Thucydides' account of how much more peaceful Attica was compared to the rest of Greece—so (since its population was never conquered) slavery in Attica likely came about later than in other areas, and we can question whether slaves there came from a significant portion of the original population. I specify significant portion because crime or debt might have caused some individuals to become enslaved. Herodotus' claim that the Ionians were native (and not conquerors as Mueller suggests) is strongly supported by the lack of a class of serfs in Attica like the Penestae in Thessaly and the Helots in Laconia. A conquering race would certainly have led to the emergence of a class of serfs.
65 (return)
[ Or else the land (properly
speaking) would remain with the slaves, as it did with the Messenians an
Helots—but certain proportions of the produce would be the due of
the conquerors.
65 (return)
[ Otherwise, the land would basically stay with the slaves, just like it did for the Messenians and Helots—but a certain share of the crops would belong to the conquerors.
66 (return)
[ Immigration has not hitherto
been duly considered as one of the original sources of slavery.
66 (return)
[ Immigration has not yet been properly recognized as one of the original sources of slavery.
67 (return)
[ In a horde of savages never
having held communication or intercourse with other tribes, there would
indeed be men who, by a superiority of physical force, would obtain an
ascendency over the rest; but these would not bequeath to their
descendants distinct privileges. Exactly because physical power raised the
father into rank—the want of physical power would merge his children
among the herd. Strength and activity cannot be hereditary. With
individuals of a tribe as yet attaching value only to a swift foot or a
strong arm, hereditary privilege is impossible. But if one such barbarous
tribe conquer another less hardy, and inhabit the new settlement,—
then indeed commences an aristocracy—for amid communities, though
not among individuals, hereditary physical powers can obtain. One man may
not leave his muscles to his son; but one tribe of more powerful
conformation than another would generally contrive to transmit that
advantage collectively to their posterity. The sense of superiority
effected by conquest soon produces too its moral effects—elevating
the spirit of the one tribe, depressing that of the other, from generation
to generation. Those who have denied in conquest or colonization the
origin of hereditary aristocracy, appear to me to have founded their
reasonings upon the imperfectness of their knowledge of the savage states
to which they refer for illustration.
67 (return)
In a group of savages who have never interacted with other tribes, there would definitely be strong individuals who would gain power over the others through their physical strength; however, those individuals wouldn't pass down any special privileges to their descendants. The very reason that physical strength elevates a father’s status is that the lack of it would leave his children as part of the common group. Strength and agility aren’t inherited. In a tribe that values a fast runner or a strong fighter, inherited privilege can’t exist. But if one such barbaric tribe conquers a weaker one and takes over their territory, that’s when an aristocracy begins to form—because among groups, although not among individuals, inherited physical advantages can appear. One person can't pass on their muscles to their child, but a tribe that is stronger than another could collectively maintain that advantage for future generations. The sense of superiority that comes from conquest quickly leads to moral changes—boosting the confidence of one tribe while diminishing that of the other, generation after generation. Those who deny that hereditary aristocracy originated from conquest or colonization seem to base their arguments on an incomplete understanding of the primitive societies they reference for examples.
68 (return)
[ Accordingly we find in the
earliest records of Greek history—in the stories of the heroic and
the Homeric age—that the king possessed but little authority except
in matters of war: he was in every sense of the word a limited monarch,
and the Greeks boasted that they had never known the unqualified despotism
of the East. The more, indeed, we descend from the patriarchal times; the
more we shall find that colonists established in their settlements those
aristocratic institutions which are the earliest barriers against
despotism. Colonies are always the first teachers of free institutions.
There is no nation probably more attached to monarchy than the English,
yet I believe that if, according to the ancient polity, the English were
to migrate into different parts, and establish, in colonizing, their own
independent forms of government; there would scarcely be a single such
colony not republican!
68 (return)
[ In the earliest records of Greek history—in the tales of heroes and the Homeric era—we see that the king had very little power, except in times of war: he was basically a limited monarch, and the Greeks prided themselves on never experiencing the absolute rule seen in the East. The further we move away from patriarchal times, the more we notice that colonists established aristocratic systems in their settlements as initial safeguards against tyranny. Colonies are often the first to promote free institutions. There is probably no nation more devoted to monarchy than the English, yet I believe that if, following the old system, the English were to spread out and create their own independent governments in new territories, there would hardly be a single colony that wasn't republican!
69 (return)
[ In Attica, immigration, not
conquest, must have led to the institution of aristocracy. Thucydides
observes, that owing to the repose in Attica (the barren soil of which
presented no temptation to the conqueror), the more powerful families
expelled from the other parts of Greece, betook themselves for security
and refuge to Athens. And from some of these foreigners many of the
noblest families in the historical time traced their descent. Before the
arrival of these Grecian strangers, Phoenician or Egyptian settlers had
probably introduced an aristocratic class.
69 (return)
[ In Attica, immigration, not conquest, likely led to the establishment of aristocracy. Thucydides notes that because Attica's barren land didn't attract conquerors, more powerful families expelled from other parts of Greece sought security and refuge in Athens. Many of the noble families during historical times traced their lineage back to these foreigners. Before these Greek newcomers arrived, it's likely that Phoenician or Egyptian settlers had already introduced an aristocratic class.
70 (return)
[ Modern inquirers pretend to
discover the Egyptian features in the effigy of Minerva on the earliest
Athenian coins. Even the golden grasshopper, with which the Athenians
decorated their hair, and which was considered by their vanity as a symbol
of their descent from the soil, has been construed into an Egyptian
ornament—a symbol of the initiated.—(Horapoll. Hierogl., lib.
ii., c. 55.) “They are the only Grecian people,” says Diodorus, “who swear
by Isis, and their manners are very conformable to those of the Egyptians;
and so much truth was there at one time (when what was Egyptian became the
fashion) in this remark, that they were reproached by the comic writer
that their city was Egypt and not Athens.” But it is evident that all such
resemblance as could have been derived from a handful of Egyptians,
previous to the age of Theseus, was utterly obliterated before the age of
Solon. Even if we accord to the tale of Cecrops all implicit faith, the
Atticans would still remain a Pelasgic population, of which a few early
institutions—a few benefits of elementary civilization— and,
it may be, a few of the nobler families, were probably of Egyptian origin.
70 (return)
[ Modern scholars claim to find Egyptian characteristics in the depiction of Minerva on the earliest Athenian coins. Even the golden grasshopper, which the Athenians used to adorn their hair and considered a symbol of their connection to the land, has been interpreted as an Egyptian ornament—a mark of those who are initiated.—(Horapoll. Hierogl., lib. ii., c. 55.) “They are the only Greek people,” Diodorus states, “who swear by Isis, and their customs closely resemble those of the Egyptians; and at one point, when Egyptian culture was in vogue, there was so much truth in this that a comic writer mocked them, saying their city was Egypt and not Athens.” However, it is clear that any similarities that might have arisen from a small number of Egyptians prior to the time of Theseus were completely erased by the time of Solon. Even if we fully believe the story of Cecrops, the Athenians would still be a Pelasgian population, of which only a few early institutions—a few aspects of basic civilization—and perhaps some of the noble families, were likely of Egyptian descent.
71 (return)
[ It has been asserted by some
that there is evidence in ancient Attica of the existence of castes
similar to those in Egypt and the farther East. But this assertion has
been so ably refuted that I do not deem it necessary to enter at much
length into the discussion. It will be sufficient to observe that the
assumption is founded upon the existence of four tribes in Attica, the
names of which etymological erudition has sought to reduce to titles
denoting the different professions of warriors, husbandmen, labourers, and
(the last much more disputable and much more disputed) priests. In the
first place, it has been cogently remarked by Mr. Clinton (F. H., vol. i.,
p. 54), that this institution of castes has been very inconsistently
attributed to the Greek Ion,—not (as, if Egyptian, it would have
been) to the Egyptian Cecrops. 2dly, If rightly referred to Ion, who did
not long precede the heroic age, how comes it that in that age a spirit
the most opposite to that of castes universally prevailed—as all the
best authenticated enactments of Theseus abundantly prove? Could
institutions calculated to be the most permanent that legislation ever
effected, and which in India have resisted every innovation of time, every
revolution of war, have vanished from Attica in the course of a few
generations? 3dly, It is to be observed, that previous to the divisions
referred to Ion, we find the same number of four tribes under wholly
different names;—under Cecrops, under Cranaus, under Ericthonius or
Erectheus, they received successive changes of appellations, none of which
denoted professions, but were moulded either from the distinctions of the
land they inhabited, or the names of deities they adored. If remodelled by
Ion to correspond with distinct professions and occupations (and where is
that social state which does not form different classes—a formation
widely opposite to that of different castes?) cultivated by the majority
of the members of each tribe, the name given to each tribe might be but a
general title by no means applicable to every individual, and certainly
not implying hereditary and indelible distinctions. 4thly, In
corroboration of this latter argument, there is not a single evidence—a
single tradition, that such divisions ever were hereditary. 5thly, In the
time of Solon and the Pisistratida we find the four Ionic tribes
unchanged, but without any features analogous to those of the Oriental
castes.—(Clinton, F. H., vol. i., p. 55.) 6thly, I shall add what I
have before intimated (see note [Footnote 33:), that I do not think it the
character of a people accustomed to castes to establish castes mock and
spurious in any country which a few of them might visit or colonize. Nay,
it is clearly and essentially contrary to such a character to imagine that
a handful of wandering Egyptians, even supposing (which is absurd) that
their party contained members of each different caste observed by their
countrymen, would have incorporated with such scanty specimens of each
caste any of the barbarous natives—they would leave all the natives
to a caste by themselves. And an Egyptian hierophant would as little have
thought of associating with himself a Pelasgic priest, as a Bramin would
dream of making a Bramin caste out of a set of Christian clergymen. But if
no Egyptian hierophant accompanied the immigrators, doubly ridiculous is
it to suppose that the latter would have raised any of their own body, to
whom such a change of caste would be impious, and still less any of the
despised savages, to a rank the most honoured and the most reverent which
Egyptian notions of dignity could confer. Even the very lowest Egyptians
would not touch any thing a Grecian knife had polluted—the very
rigidity with which caste was preserved in Egypt would forbid the
propagation of castes among barbarians so much below the very lowest caste
they could introduce. So far, therefore, from Egyptian adventurers
introducing such an institution among the general population, their own
spirit of caste must rapidly have died away as intermarriage with the
natives, absence from their countrymen, and the active life of an
uncivilized home, mixed them up with the blood, the pursuits, and the
habits of their new associates. Lastly, If these arguments (which might be
easily multiplied) do not suffice, I say it is not for me more completely
to destroy, but for those of a contrary opinion more completely to
substantiate, an hypothesis so utterly at variance with the Athenian
character—the acknowledged data of Athenian history; and which would
assert the existence of institutions the most difficult to establish;—when
established, the most difficult to modify, much more to efface.
71 (return)
[ Some have claimed that there's evidence in ancient Attica for the existence of castes similar to those in Egypt and the East. However, this claim has been effectively challenged, so I don't think it's necessary to delve into it in detail. It's enough to note that this assumption is based on the existence of four tribes in Attica, whose names have been linguistically analyzed to correspond to the professions of warriors, farmers, laborers, and (the last one is much more contested) priests. First, Mr. Clinton has pointed out (F. H., vol. i., p. 54) that this caste system has been inconsistently attributed to the Greek Ion—not to the Egyptian Cecrops, as it would have been if it was truly Egyptian. Second, if it's properly linked to Ion, who lived just before the heroic age, why was there such an opposing spirit to caste during that time—as all the verified laws of Theseus clearly show? Could systems meant to be permanent, which in India have survived countless changes through time and war, have disappeared from Attica in just a few generations? Third, it's worth noting that before the divisions associated with Ion, there were four tribes with totally different names; under Cecrops, Cranaus, and Ericthonius or Erectheus, they went through various name changes, none of which indicated professions. Instead, these names came from the geographical distinctions of their land or the deities they worshipped. If Ion restructured these to match specific professions (and what society doesn't form different classes, which is quite different from a caste system?), the name given to each tribe might have just been a general term, not specifically applicable to every individual, and certainly not suggesting hereditary and permanent differences. Fourth, in support of this argument, there's no evidence or tradition that such divisions were ever hereditary. Fifth, during the time of Solon and the Pisistratids, we see the four Ionic tribes remain unchanged, but with no features similar to those of Oriental castes.—(Clinton, F. H., vol. i., p. 55.) Lastly, as I've noted before (see note [Footnote 33:), I believe that a people used to castes wouldn't create mock or spurious castes in any land they might visit or colonize. In fact, it's fundamentally contrary to such a character to think that a small group of wandering Egyptians, even if (absurdly) they had representatives of all the different castes, would have integrated with such few examples of each caste any of the local natives—they would leave the natives in a caste of their own. An Egyptian priest wouldn't have thought to associate himself with a Pelasgic priest any more than a Brahmin would consider forming a Brahmin caste out of a group of Christian clergy. If no Egyptian priest traveled with the settlers, it's even more ridiculous to think that they would have elevated any of their own community, to whom such a change of caste would be unthinkable, much less any of the despised locals, to a rank of the utmost honor and respect that Egyptian standards of dignity could confer. Even the lowest-ranking Egyptians would avoid anything tainted by a Greek knife—the strictness with which caste was maintained in Egypt would prevent the creation of castes among people they viewed as far beneath even their lowest caste. Therefore, rather than the Egyptian settlers introducing this system among the general populace, their own caste mindset would likely have dissipated as they intermarried with the locals, lived far from their fellow Egyptians, and engaged with the unrefined lifestyle of their new environment, blending their blood, activities, and habits with those of their new peers. If these arguments (which could easily be expanded) aren't enough, then it's not my role to dismantle this notion further; it falls to those holding contrary views to provide stronger support for a hypothesis that is fundamentally at odds with Athenian character and the established facts of Athenian history, which would claim the existence of extremely difficult-to-establish institutions that, once established, would be extremely hard to alter, let alone eradicate.
73 (return)
[ Thucyd., lib. i.
73 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Thucyd., book 1.
74 (return)
[ Homer—so nice a
discriminator that he dwells upon the barbarous tongue even of the Carians—never
seems to intimate any distinction between the language and race of the
Pelasgi and Hellenes, yet he wrote in an age when the struggle was still
unconcluded, and when traces of any marked difference must have been
sufficiently obvious to detect—sufficiently interesting to notice.
74 (return)
[ Homer—such a keen observer that he even takes note of the coarse speech of the Carians—never seems to suggest any difference between the language and ethnicity of the Pelasgians and Hellenes. However, he lived during a time when the conflict was still ongoing, and signs of any significant difference must have been quite noticeable and interesting to observe.
75 (return)
[ Strabo, viii.
75 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Strabo, viii.
76 (return)
[ Pausan., viii.
76 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Pausan., viii.
77 (return)
[ With all my respect for the
deep learning and acute ingenuity of Mueller, it is impossible not to
protest against the spirit in which much of the History of the Dorians is
conceived—a spirit than which nothing can be more dangerous to sound
historical inquiry. A vague tradition, a doubtful line, suffice the daring
author for proof of a foreign conquest, or evidence of a religious
revolution. There are German writers who seem to imagine that the new
school of history is built on the maxim of denying what is, and explaining
what is not? Ion is never recorded as supplanting, or even succeeding, an
Attic king. He might have introduced the worship of Apollo; but, as Mr.
Clinton rightly observes, that worship never superseded the worship of
Minerva, who still remained the tutelary divinity of the city. However
vague the traditions respecting Ion, they all tend to prove an alliance
with the Athenians, viz., precisely the reverse of a conquest of them.
77 (return)
[ As much as I respect Mueller's deep understanding and sharp insight, I can't help but object to the mindset that shapes much of the History of the Dorians—a mindset that can be incredibly harmful to proper historical investigation. A vague tradition or an uncertain lineage is enough for the bold author to claim evidence of a foreign takeover or a religious upheaval. Some German writers seem to believe that the new approach to history is based on the principle of denying what is true and explaining what isn’t. Ion is never mentioned as replacing or even succeeding an Athenian king. He may have brought the worship of Apollo, but, as Mr. Clinton correctly points out, that worship never replaced the worship of Minerva, who continued to be the protective goddess of the city. Regardless of how unclear the traditions about Ion are, they all suggest an alliance with the Athenians, which is exactly the opposite of a conquest of them.
78 (return)
[ That connexion which existed
throughout Greece, sometimes pure, sometimes perverted, was especially and
originally Doric.
78 (return)
[ The connection that existed across Greece, sometimes genuine, sometimes corrupted, was particularly and originally Doric.
79 (return)
[ Prideaux on the Marbles. The
Iones are included in this confederacy; they could not, then, have taken
their name from the Hellenic Ion, for Ion was not born at the time of
Amphictyon. The name Amphictyon is, however, but a type of the thing
amphictyony, or association. Leagues of this kind were probably very
common over Greece, springing almost simultaneously out of the
circumstances common to numerous tribes, kindred with each other, yet
often at variance and feud. A common language led them to establish, by a
mutual adoption of tutelary deities, a common religious ceremony, which
remained in force after political considerations died away. I take the
Amphictyonic league to be one of the proofs of the affinity of language
between the Pelasgi and Hellenes. It was evidently made while the Pelasgi
were yet powerful and unsubdued by Hellenic influences, and as evidently
it could not have been made if the Pelasgi and Hellenes were not perfectly
intelligible to each other. Mr. Clinton (F. H., vol. i., 66), assigns a
more recent date than has generally been received to the great
Amphictyonic league, placing it between the sixtieth and the eightieth
year from the fall of Troy. His reason for not dating it before the former
year is, that until then the Thessali (one of the twelve nations) did not
occupy Thessaly. But, it may be observed consistently with the reasonings
of that great authority, first, that the Thessali are not included in the
lists of the league given by Harpocratio and Libanius; and, secondly, that
even granting that the great Amphictyonic assembly of twelve nations did
not commence at an earlier period, yet that that more celebrated
amphictyony might have been preceded by other and less effectual attempts
at association, agreeably to the legends of the genealogy. And this Mr.
Clinton himself implies.
79 (return)
[ Prideaux on the Marbles. The Iones are part of this alliance; they couldn’t have derived their name from the Hellenic Ion since Ion wasn’t alive when Amphictyon existed. The name Amphictyon represents a type of amphictyony, or association. Such leagues were probably quite common throughout Greece, emerging nearly simultaneously from the shared circumstances of various tribes, who were related yet often in conflict. A common language led them to create, through a shared adoption of protective deities, a common religious ceremony that continued even after political ties faded. I view the Amphictyonic league as evidence of the linguistic connection between the Pelasgi and Hellenes. It clearly formed while the Pelasgi were still strong and not influenced by Hellenic culture, and it couldn't have been established unless the Pelasgi and Hellenes could easily understand one another. Mr. Clinton (F. H., vol. i., 66) suggests a more recent date for the great Amphictyonic league than what is typically accepted, placing it between sixty and eighty years after the fall of Troy. His reason for this timeline is that the Thessali (one of the twelve nations) did not settle in Thessaly until then. However, it's worth noting that, consistent with that authority’s arguments, first, the Thessali are not included in the league lists provided by Harpocratio and Libanius; and second, even if the great Amphictyonic assembly of twelve nations didn’t start earlier, it’s possible that the more well-known amphictyony was preceded by other, less effective attempts at association, in line with the legends of genealogy. Mr. Clinton himself implies this.
80 (return)
[ Strabo, lib. ix.
80 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Strabo, book 9.
82 (return)
[ Probably chosen in rotation
from the different cities.
82 (return)
[ Likely selected in rotation from various cities.
83 (return)
[ Even the bieromnemons (or
deputies intrusted with religious cares) must have been as a class very
inferior in ability to the pylagorae; for the first were chosen by lot,
the last by careful selection. And thus we learn, in effect, that while
the hieromnemon had the higher grade of dignity, the pylagoras did the
greater share of business.
83 (return)
[ Even the bieromnemons (or deputies responsible for religious duties) were likely a less capable group compared to the pylagorae; because the former were chosen by chance, while the latter were selected through careful consideration. This way, we understand that while the hieromnemon held a higher position of dignity, the pylagoras took on a larger portion of the work.
85 (return)
[ No man of rank among the old
northern pirates was deemed honourable if not a pirate, gloriam sibi
acquirens, as the Vatzdaela hath it.
85 (return)
[ No man of status among the old northern pirates was considered honorable unless he was a pirate, seeking glory for himself, as the Vatzdaela states.
86 (return)
[ Most probably more than one
prince. Greece has three well accredited pretenders to the name and
attributes even of the Grecian Hercules.
86 (return)
[ Most likely more than one prince. Greece has three well-known claimants to the name and attributes of the Greek Hercules.
87 (return)
[ Herodotus marks the
difference between the Egyptian and Grecian deity, and speaks of a temple
erected by the Phoenicians to Hercules, when they built Thasus, five
hundred years before the son of Amphitryon was known to the Greeks. The
historian commends such of the Greeks as erected two temples to the
divinity of that name, worshipping in the one as to a god, but in the
other observing only the rites as to a hero.-B. ii., c. 13, 14.
87 (return)
[ Herodotus points out the differences between the Egyptian and Greek gods, mentioning a temple built by the Phoenicians for Hercules when they founded Thasos, five hundred years before the Greeks recognized the son of Amphitryon. The historian praises those Greeks who built two temples for this deity, worshipping in one as a god and only observing heroic rites in the other.-B. ii., c. 13, 14.
88 (return)
[ Plot. in Vit. Thes.—Apollod.,
l. 3. This story is often borrowed by the Spanish romance-writers, to whom
Plutarch was a copious fountain of legendary fable.
88 (return)
[ Plot. in Vit. Thes.—Apollod., l. 3. This story is frequently taken by Spanish romance writers, who found in Plutarch a rich source of legendary tales.
90 (return)
[ Mr. Mueller’s ingenious
supposition, that the tribute was in fact a religious ceremony, and that
the voyage of Theseus had originally no other meaning than the landings at
Naxos and Delos, is certainly credible, but not a whit more so than, and
certainly not so simple as, the ancient accounts in Plutarch; as with
mythological, so with historical legends, it is better to take the plain
and popular interpretation whenever it seems conformable to the manners of
the times, than to construe the story by newly-invented allegories. It is
very singular that that is the plan which every writer on the early
chronicles of France and England would adopt,—and yet which so few
writers agree to*****[Footnote three illegible words in the print
copy:***** the obscure records of the Greeks.
90 (return)
[ Mr. Mueller’s clever theory that the tribute was actually a religious ceremony and that Theseus’s journey originally only signified the stops in Naxos and Delos is definitely plausible, but no more so than, and certainly not simpler than, the ancient accounts in Plutarch. Just like with myths, when it comes to historical legends, it’s better to stick with the straightforward and widely accepted interpretation, especially when it aligns with the customs of the time, rather than to interpret the story using new and complicated allegories. It’s quite unusual that this is the approach every writer on the early histories of France and England would take—yet so few writers agree to it.*****[Footnote three illegible words in the print copy:***** the obscure records of the Greeks.
91 (return)
[ Plutarch cites Clidemus in
support of another version of the tale, somewhat less probable, viz.,
that, by the death of Minos and his son Deucalion, Ariadne became
possessed of the throne, and that she remitted the tribute.
91 (return)
[ Plutarch refers to Clidemus to back up a different version of the story, which is a bit less believable, that after the deaths of Minos and his son Deucalion, Ariadne took the throne and canceled the tribute.
93 (return)
[ But many Athenians preferred
to a much later age the custom of living without the walls—scattered
over the country.—(Thucyd., lib. ii., 15.) We must suppose it was
with them as with the moderns—the rich and the great generally
preferred the capital, but there were many exceptions.
93 (return)
[ But many Athenians preferred to live outside the city walls—spread out across the countryside—for a long time. (Thucyd., lib. ii., 15.) We can assume it was like today, where the wealthy and influential typically chose the city, but there were plenty of exceptions.
94 (return)
[ For other instances in which
the same word is employed by Homer, see Clinton’s Fast Hell., vol. i.,
introduction, ix.
94 (return)
[ For other times that the same word is used by Homer, see Clinton’s Fast Hell., vol. i., introduction, ix.
96 (return)
[ Paus., l. vii., c. 25. An
oracle of Dodona had forewarned the Athenians of the necessity of sparing
the suppliants.
96 (return)
[ Paus., l. vii., c. 25. An oracle of Dodona had warned the Athenians about the importance of protecting the supplicants.
97 (return)
[ Herod. (lib. v., 76) cites
this expedition of the Dorians for the establishment of a colony at Megara
as that of their first incursion into Attica,
97 (return)
[ Herod. (lib. v., 76) mentions this mission of the Dorians to set up a colony at Megara as their initial invasion of Attica,
98 (return)
[ Suidas. One cannot but be
curious as to the motives and policy of a person, virtuous as a man, but
so relentless as a lawgiver. Although Draco was himself a noble, it is
difficult to suppose that laws so stern and impartial would not operate
rather against the more insolent and encroaching class than against the
more subordinate ones. The attempt shows a very unwholesome state of
society, and went far to produce the democratic action which Solon
represented rather than created.
98 (return)
[ Suidas. It's hard not to wonder about the motives and approach of someone who is a good person but a harsh lawmaker. Even though Draco was a nobleman, it’s hard to believe that his strict and unbiased laws wouldn’t impact the more arrogant and overstepping class more than the lower ones. This shows a troubling state of society and contributed significantly to the democratic movement that Solon represented rather than initiated.
99 (return)
[ Hume utters a sentiment
exactly the reverse: “To expect,” says he, in his Essay on the rise of
Arts and Sciences, “that the arts and sciences should take their first
rise in a monarchy, is to expect a contradiction;” and he holds, in a
subsequent part of the same essay, that though republics originate the
arts and sciences, they may be transferred to a monarchy. Yet this
sentiment is utterly at variance with the fact; in the despotic monarchies
of the East were the elements of the arts and sciences; it was to
republics they were transferred, and republics perfected them. Hume,
indeed, is often the most incautious and uncritical of all writers. What
can we think of an author who asserts that a refined taste succeeds best
in monarchies, and then refers to the indecencies of Horace and Ovid as an
example of the reverse in a republic—as if Ovid and Horace had not
lived under a monarchy! and throughout the whole of this theory he is as
thoroughly in the wrong. By refined taste he signifies an avoidance of
immodesty of style. Beaumont and Fletcher, Rochester, Dean Swift, wrote
under monarchies—their pruriencies are not excelled by any
republican authors of ancient times. What ancient authors equal in
indelicacy the French romances from the time of the Regent of Orleans to
Louis XVI.? By all accounts, the despotism of China is the very sink of
indecencies, whether in pictures or books. Still more, what can we think
of a writer who says, that “the ancients have not left us one piece of
pleasantry that is excellent, unless one may except the Banquet of
Xenophon and the Dialogues of Lucian?” What! has he forgotten
Aristophanes? Has he forgotten Plautus! No—but their pleasantry is
not excellent to his taste; and he tacitly agrees with Horace in censuring
the “coarse railleries and cold jests” of the Great Original of Moliere!
99 (return)
[ Hume expresses a sentiment that is completely the opposite: “To expect,” he says in his Essay on the Rise of Arts and Sciences, “that arts and sciences should first emerge in a monarchy is to expect a contradiction;” and he states later in the same essay that while republics give rise to the arts and sciences, they can be taken over by a monarchy. However, this view is completely at odds with reality; the foundations of the arts and sciences were in the despotic monarchies of the East; they were transferred to republics, which then perfected them. Hume, in fact, is often the most careless and uncritical of all writers. What are we to make of an author who claims that refined taste thrives best in monarchies and then cites the indecencies of Horace and Ovid as examples of the contrary in a republic—as if Ovid and Horace hadn't lived under a monarchy! Throughout this theory, he is fundamentally mistaken. By refined taste, he means avoiding immodesty in style. Beaumont and Fletcher, Rochester, Dean Swift—their explicitness is unmatched by any republican authors of ancient times. What ancient authors can rival the indecency found in French romances from the period of the Regent of Orleans to Louis XVI.? According to all accounts, the despotism of China is the ultimate source of indecencies, whether in images or literature. Even more, what can we think of a writer who claims that “the ancients haven't given us a single piece of excellent humor, except maybe the Banquet of Xenophon and the Dialogues of Lucian?” What! Has he forgotten Aristophanes? Has he forgotten Plautus? No—it's just that their humor isn't to his taste; he implicitly agrees with Horace in criticizing the “coarse jokes and dull wit” of the Great Original of Moliere!
100 (return)
[ Which forbade the
concentration of power necessary to great conquests. Phoenicia was not one
state, it was a confederacy of states; so, for the same reason, Greece,
admirably calculated to resist, was ill fitted to invade.
100 (return)
[ Which prohibited the concentration of power required for significant conquests. Phoenicia wasn't a single state; it was a confederation of states. Similarly, while Greece was well-suited for defense, it was poorly equipped for invasion.
101 (return)
[ For the dates of these
migrations, see Fast. Hell., vol. i.
101 (return)
[ For the dates of these migrations, check Fast. Hell., vol. i.
102 (return)
[ To a much later period in
the progress of this work I reserve a somewhat elaborate view of the
history of Sicily.
102 (return)
[ At a much later stage in the development of this work, I will provide a more detailed overview of the history of Sicily.
103 (return)
[ Pausanias, in corroboration
of this fact, observes, that Periboea, the daughter of Alcathous, was sent
with Theseus with tribute into Crete.
103 (return)
[ Pausanias, supporting this fact, notes that Periboea, the daughter of Alcathous, was sent with Theseus to Crete as part of a tribute.
104 (return)
[ When, according to
Pausanias, it changed its manners and its language.
104 (return)
[ When, according to Pausanias, it changed its customs and its language.
105 (return)
[ In length fifty-two
geographical miles, and about twenty-eight to thirty-two broad.
105 (return)
[ It measures fifty-two geographical miles long and about twenty-eight to thirty-two miles wide.
106 (return)
[ A council of five presided
over the business of the oracle, composed of families who traced their
descent from Deucalion.
106 (return)
[ A council of five oversaw the oracle's affairs, made up of families who can trace their lineage back to Deucalion.
107 (return)
[ Great grandson to
Antiochus, son of Hercules.—Pausanias, l. 2, c. 4.
107 (return)
[ Great-grandson of Antiochus, son of Hercules.—Pausanias, l. 2, c. 4.
108 (return)
[ But at Argos, at least, the
name, though not the substance, of the kingly government was extant as
late as the Persian war.
108 (return)
[ But at Argos, at least, the name, though not the essence, of the royal government was still around as recently as the Persian war.
109 (return)
[ Those who meant to take
part in the athletic exercises were required to attend at Olympia thirty
days previous to the games, for preparation and practice.
109 (return)
[ Anyone who wanted to participate in the athletic events had to be at Olympia thirty days before the games for preparation and practice.
110 (return)
[ It would appear by some
Etruscan vases found at Veii, that the Etruscans practised all the Greek
games—leaping, running, cudgel-playing, etc., and were not
restricted, as Niebuhr supposes, to boxing and chariot-races.
110 (return)
[ It seems that some Etruscan vases discovered at Veii indicate that the Etruscans participated in all the Greek games—such as jumping, running, and stick-fighting—and were not limited, as Niebuhr suggests, to just boxing and chariot racing.
111 (return)
[ It however diminishes the
real honour of the chariot-race, that the owner of horses usually won by
proxy.
111 (return)
[ However, it takes away from the true honor of the chariot race that the horse owner typically won through someone else's efforts.
112 (return)
[ The indecorum of attending
contests where the combatants were unclothed, was a sufficient reason for
the exclusion of females. The priestess of Ceres, the mighty mother, was
accustomed to regard all such indecorums as symbolical, and had therefore
refined away any remarkable indelicacy.
112 (return)
[ The inappropriate nature of attending competitions where the participants were naked was a valid reason for excluding women. The priestess of Ceres, the powerful mother, usually viewed all such indecencies as symbolic and had therefore polished away any notable lack of modesty.
113 (return)
[ Plut. in Alex. When one of
the combatants with the cestus killed his antagonist by running the ends
of his fingers through his ribs, he was ignominiously expelled the
stadium. The cestus itself made of thongs of leather, was evidently meant
not to increase the severity of the blow, but for the prevention of foul
play by the antagonists laying hold of each other, or using the open hand.
I believe that the iron bands and leaden plummets were Roman inventions,
and unknown at least till the later Olympic games. Even in the pancratium,
the fiercest of all the contests—for it seems to have united
wrestling with boxing (a struggle of physical strength, without the
precise and formal laws of the boxing and wrestling matches), it was
forbidden to kill an enemy, to injure his eyes, or to use the teeth.
113 (return)
[ Plut. in Alex. When one of the fighters with the cestus killed his opponent by jabbing his fingers into his ribs, he was shamefully kicked out of the stadium. The cestus, made of leather straps, was clearly intended not to make the blows harder, but to prevent cheating by opponents grabbing each other or using an open hand. I think the iron bands and lead weights were inventions of the Romans and weren't known until at least the later Olympic games. Even in the pancratium, the toughest of all the competitions—since it seems to have combined wrestling with boxing (a struggle involving physical strength, without the strict and formal rules of boxing and wrestling matches)—it was prohibited to kill an opponent, injure his eyes, or use one's teeth.
114 (return)
[ Even to the foot-race, in
which many of the competitors were of the lowest rank, the son of Amyntas,
king of Macedon, was not admitted till he had proved an Argive descent. He
was an unsuccessful competitor.
114 (return)
[ Even in the foot race, where many of the participants were from the lowest classes, the son of Amyntas, king of Macedon, could not compete until he demonstrated Argive ancestry. He did not win.
115 (return)
[ Herodotus relates an
anecdote, that the Eleans sent deputies to Egypt, vaunting the glories of
the Olympic games, and inquiring if the Egyptians could suggest any
improvement. The Egyptians asked if the citizens of Elis were allowed to
contend, and, on hearing that they were, declared it was impossible they
should not favour their own countrymen, and consequently that the games
must lead to injustice—a suspicion not verified.
115 (return)
[ Herodotus tells a story about how the Eleans sent representatives to Egypt, bragging about the glory of the Olympic games and asking if the Egyptians had any suggestions for improvement. The Egyptians inquired whether the citizens of Elis were allowed to compete, and when they learned that they were, they stated that it was impossible for them not to show favoritism towards their own countrymen, and thus the games would inevitably lead to injustice—a suspicion that was never proven.
117 (return)
[ Nero (when the glory had
left the spot) drove a chariot of ten horses in Olympia, out of which he
had the misfortune to tumble. He obtained other prizes in other Grecian
games, and even contended with the heralds as a crier. The vanity of Nero
was astonishing, but so was that of most of his successors. The Roman
emperors were the sublimest coxcombs in history. In men born to stations
which are beyond ambition, all aspirations run to seed.
117 (return)
[ Nero (after the glory had faded) raced a chariot pulled by ten horses in Olympia, but he unfortunately fell out. He won other prizes in different Greek games and even competed with the heralds as an announcer. Nero's vanity was incredible, but so was that of most of his successors. The Roman emperors were the most self-absorbed fools in history. In people born to positions that exceed ambition, all desires go to waste.
118 (return)
[ Plut. in Sympos.
118 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Plut. in Sympos.
119 (return)
[ It does not appear that at
Elis there were any of the actual contests in music and song which made
the character of the Pythian games. But still it was a common exhibition
for the cultivation of every art. Sophist, and historian, and orator, poet
and painter found their mart in the Olympic fair.
119 (return)
[ It seems that there weren't any actual music and song contests at Elis that defined the Pythian games. However, it was still a popular event for showcasing all kinds of art. Sophists, historians, orators, poets, and painters all found their place at the Olympic fair.
121 (return)
[ Pausanias, lib. v.
121 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Pausanias, vol. v.
122 (return)
[ When Phidias was asked on
what idea he should form his statue, he answered by quoting the well-known
verses of Homer, on the curls and nod of the thunder god.
122 (return)
[ When Phidias was asked what idea he should use for his statue, he replied by quoting the famous lines from Homer about the curls and nod of the thunder god.
123 (return)
[ I am of course aware that
the popular story that Herodotus read portions of his history at Olympia
has been disputed—but I own I think it has been disputed with very
indifferent success against the testimony of competent authorities,
corroborated by the general practice of the time.
123 (return)
[ I know that the common story about Herodotus reading parts of his history at Olympia has been challenged, but I honestly think those challenges haven't been very convincing against the evidence from knowledgeable sources, backed by the general practices of that era.
124 (return)
[ We find, indeed, that the
Messenians continued to struggle against their conquerors, and that about
the time of the battle of Marathon they broke out into a resistance
sometimes called the third war.—Plato, Leg. III.
124 (return)
[ We see that the Messenians kept fighting against their conquerors, and around the time of the battle of Marathon, they started a rebellion often referred to as the third war.—Plato, Leg. III.
125 (return)
[ Suppose Vortigern to have
been expelled by the Britons, and to have implored the assistance of the
Saxons to reinstate him in his throne, the Return of Vortigern would have
been a highly popular name for the invasion of the Saxons. So, if the
Russians, after Waterloo, had parcelled out France, and fixed a Cossack
settlement in her “violet vales,” the destruction of the French would have
been still urbanely entitled “The Return of the Bourbons.”
125 (return)
[ Imagine Vortigern being kicked out by the Britons and then asking the Saxons for help to get back on his throne; the Saxon invasion would have been famously known as the Return of Vortigern. Similarly, if the Russians had divided France after Waterloo and established a Cossack settlement in her "violet valleys," the downfall of the French would still have been politely called "The Return of the Bourbons." ]
126 (return)
[ According to Herodotus, the
Spartan tradition assigned the throne to Aristodemus himself, and the
regal power was not divided till after his death.
126 (return)
[ Herodotus states that the Spartan tradition granted the throne to Aristodemus himself, and the royal power wasn’t divided until after his death.
127 (return)
[ He wrote or transcribed
them, is the expression of Plutarch, which I do not literally translate,
because this touches upon very disputed ground.
127 (return)
[ He wrote or copied them, as Plutarch put it, which I won't translate directly, since this is a very contentious topic.
128 (return)
[ “Sometimes the states,”
says Plutarch, “veered to democracy— sometimes to arbitrary power;”
that is, at one time the nobles invoked the people against the king; but
if the people presumed too far, they supported the king against the
people. If we imagine a confederacy of Highland chiefs even a century or
two ago—give them a nominal king— consider their pride and
their jealousy—see them impatient of authority in one above them,
yet despotic to those below—quarrelling with each other—united
only by clanship, never by citizenship;—and place them in a
half-conquered country, surrounded by hostile neighbours and mutinous
slaves—we may then form, perhaps, some idea of the state of Sparta
previous to the legislation of Lycurgus.
128 (return)
[ “Sometimes the states,” says Plutarch, “swung between democracy and absolute power;” that is, at one moment the nobles rallied the people against the king; but if the people overstepped their bounds, they backed the king against the people. If we picture a coalition of Highland chiefs from a century or two ago—give them a nominal king—consider their pride and jealousy—observe how they were intolerant of authority from someone above them, yet oppressive to those below—constantly arguing with one another—united only by clan, never by citizenship;—and place them in a partially conquered land, surrounded by hostile neighbors and rebellious slaves—we might then get a glimpse of the state of Sparta before Lycurgus' reforms.
129 (return)
[ When we are told that the
object of Lycurgus was to root out the luxury and effeminacy existent in
Sparta, a moment’s reflection tells us that effeminacy and luxury could
not have existed. A tribe of fierce warriors, in a city unfortified—shut
in by rocks—harassed by constant war—gaining city after city
from foes more civilized, stubborn to bear, and slow to yield—maintaining
a perilous yoke over the far more numerous races they had subdued—what
leisure, what occasion had such men to become effeminate and luxurious?
129 (return)
[ When we hear that Lycurgus aimed to eliminate the luxury and softness found in Sparta, a moment’s thought reveals that softness and luxury couldn't have existed. A tribe of fierce warriors, in a city without fortifications—surrounded by rocks—constantly troubled by war—conquering city after city from more civilized and stubborn enemies—maintaining a risky dominance over the much larger populations they had conquered—what time, what reason did such men have to become soft and indulgent?
130 (return)
[ See Mueller’s Dorians, vol.
ii., p. 12 (Translation).
130 (return)
[ See Mueller’s Dorians, vol. ii., p. 12 (Translation).
131 (return)
[ In the same passage
Aristotle, with that wonderful sympathy in opinion between himself and the
political philosophers of our own day, condemns the principle of seeking
and canvassing for suffrages.
131 (return)
[ In the same passage, Aristotle, with a remarkable alignment in thought with modern political philosophers, criticizes the idea of seeking and soliciting votes.
132 (return)
[ In this was preserved the
form of royalty in the heroic times. Aristotle well remarks, that in the
council Agamemnon bears reproach and insult, but in the field he becomes
armed with authority over life itself—“Death is in his hand.”
132 (return)
[ This preserved the idea of royalty during heroic times. Aristotle points out that in the council, Agamemnon faces criticism and insults, but in battle, he holds power over life and death—“Death is in his hand.”
133 (return)
[ Whereas the modern
republics of Italy rank among the causes which prevented their assuming a
widely conquering character, their extreme jealousy of their commanders,
often wisely ridiculed by the great Italian historians; so that a
baggage-cart could scarcely move, or a cannon be planted, without an order
from the senate!
133 (return)
[ While the modern republics of Italy are partly to blame for not becoming more widely conquering, their deep mistrust of their leaders—often humorously pointed out by the great Italian historians—prevented any movement, whether it was a baggage cart or a cannon, without a directive from the senate!
134 (return)
[ Mueller rightly observes,
that though the ephoralty was a common Dorian magistrature, “yet,
considered as an office, opposed to the king and council, it is not for
that reason less peculiar to the Spartans; and in no Doric, nor even in
any Grecian state is there any thing which exactly corresponds with it.”
134 (return)
[ Mueller correctly notes that while the ephoralty was a typical Dorian office, “it is still unique to the Spartans when seen as a position that opposes the king and council, and there is nothing in any Dorian, or even any Greek state, that corresponds exactly to it.”]
135 (return)
[ They rebuked Archidamus for
having married too small a wife. See Mueller’s Dorians, vol. ii.
(Translation), p. 124, and the authorities he quotes.
135 (return)
[ They criticized Archidamus for marrying a wife who was too short. See Mueller’s Dorians, vol. ii. (Translation), p. 124, and the sources he refers to.
137 (return)
[ Idem.
137 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
Same.
138 (return)
[ These remarks on the
democratic and representative nature of the ephoralty are only to be
applied to it in connexion with the Spartan people. It must be remembered
that the ephors represented the will of that dominant class, and not of
the Laconians or Perioeci, who made the bulk of the non-enslaved
population; and the democracy of their constitution was therefore but the
democracy of an oligarchy.
138 (return)
[ These comments about the democratic and representative nature of the ephoralty should only be understood in relation to the Spartan people. It's important to remember that the ephors represented the interests of the ruling class, not the Laconians or Perioeci, who made up most of the free population. Therefore, the democracy of their system was really just the democracy of an oligarchy.
139 (return)
[ Machiavel (Discourses on
the first Decade of Livy, b. i., c. vi.), attributes the duration of the
Spartan government to two main causes—first, the fewness of the body
to be governed, allowing fewness in the governors; and secondly, the
prevention of all the changes and corruption which the admission of
strangers would have occasioned. He proceeds then to show that for the
long duration of a constitution the people should be few in number, and
all popular impulse and innovation checked; yet that, for the splendour
and greatness of a state, not only population should be encouraged, but
even political ferment and agitation be leniently regarded. Sparta is his
model for duration, republican Rome for progress and empire. “To my
judgment,” the Florentine concludes, “I prefer the latter, and for the
strife and emulation between the nobles and the people, they are to be
regarded indeed as inconveniences, but necessary to a state that would
rise to the Roman grandeur.”
139 (return)
[ Machiavelli (Discourses on the first Decade of Livy, book i, chapter vi.) attributes the longevity of the Spartan government to two main factors—first, the small number of people being governed, which allows for a smaller governing body; and second, the prevention of all the changes and corruption that would have arisen from including outsiders. He goes on to argue that for a constitution to last, the population should be small, and any popular impulses and innovations should be suppressed; however, for the glory and greatness of a state, population should be encouraged, and even political unrest and agitation should be viewed more leniently. Sparta is his example for longevity, while republican Rome stands for progress and empire. “In my opinion,” the Florentine concludes, “I prefer the latter; despite the conflicts and competition between the nobles and the people being seen as inconveniences, they are essential for a state that aspires to Roman greatness.”
140 (return)
[ Plut. de Musica.
140 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Plut. on Music.
141 (return)
[ At Corinth they were
abolished by Periander as favourable to an aristocracy, according to
Aristotle; but a better reason might be that they were dangerous to
tyranny.
141 (return)
[ In Corinth, Periander abolished them because they supported an aristocracy, according to Aristotle; but a more compelling reason might be that they posed a threat to tyranny.
142 (return)
[ “Yet, although goods were
appropriated, their uses,” says Aristotle, “were freely communicated,—a
Spartan could use the horses, the slaves, the dogs, and carriages of
another.” If this were to be taken literally, it is difficult to see how a
Spartan could be poor. We must either imagine that different times are
confounded, or that limitations with which we are unacquainted were made
in this system of borrowing.
142 (return)
[ "Yet, even though possessions were owned, their uses," Aristotle says, "were freely shared—a Spartan could use another person's horses, slaves, dogs, and carts." If this is taken literally, it's hard to understand how a Spartan could be considered poor. We must either think that different time periods are mixed up, or that there were restrictions we don't know about in this system of borrowing.
143 (return)
[ See, throughout the Grecian
history, the Helots collecting the plunder of the battle-field, hiding it
from the gripe of their lords, and selling gold at the price of brass!
143 (return)
[ Look, throughout Greek history, the Helots gathered the spoils of war, kept them hidden from their masters, and sold gold as if it were brass!
144 (return)
[ Aristotle, who is
exceedingly severe on the Spartan ladies, says very shrewdly, that the men
were trained to submission to a civil by a military system, while the
women were left untamed. A Spartan hero was thus made to be henpecked.
Yet, with all the alleged severity of the Dorian morals, these sturdy
matrons rather discarded the graces than avoided the frailties of their
softer contemporaries. Plato [Footnote Plat. de legibus, lib. i. and lib.
vi.: and Aristotle [Footnote Aristot. Repub., lib. ii.: give very
unfavourable testimonials of their chastity. Plutarch, the blind
panegyrist of Sparta, observes with amusing composure, that the Spartan
husbands were permitted to lend their wives to each other; and Polybius
(in a fragment of the 12th book) [Footnote Fragm. Vatican., tom. ii., p.
384.: informs us that it was an old-fashioned and common custom in Sparta
for three or four brothers to share one wife. The poor husbands!—no
doubt the lady was a match for them all! So much for those gentle
creatures whom that grave German professor, M. Mueller, holds up to our
admiration and despair.
144 (return)
[ Aristotle, who is very critical of Spartan women, wisely points out that men were trained to obey authority through a military system, while women were left wild. A Spartan hero was essentially made to be henpecked. However, despite the supposed strictness of Dorian morals, these strong matrons often ditched elegance rather than avoid the weaknesses found in their more delicate peers. Plato [Footnote Plat. de legibus, lib. i. and lib. vi.: and Aristotle [Footnote Aristot. Repub., lib. ii.: provide very negative comments about their chastity. Plutarch, the blind admirer of Sparta, notes with curious calm that Spartan husbands were allowed to lend their wives to one another; and Polybius (in a fragment of the 12th book) [Footnote Fragm. Vatican., tom. ii., p. 384.: tells us that it was an old and common practice in Sparta for three or four brothers to share one wife. The poor husbands!—no doubt the lady was a match for them all! So much for those gentle beings that the serious German professor, M. Mueller, presents for our admiration and despair.
145 (return)
[ In Homer the condition of
the slave seems, everywhere, tempered by the kindness and indulgence of
the master.
145 (return)
[ In Homer, the treatment of slaves appears to be consistently softened by the master's kindness and leniency.
146 (return)
[ Three of the equals always
attended the king’s person in war.
146 (return)
[ Three of the equals always stayed close to the king during warfare.
147 (return)
[ The institution of the
ephors has been, with probability, referred to this epoch—chosen at
first as the viceroys in the absence of the kings.
147 (return)
[ The role of the ephors is likely linked to this period—initially chosen as the representatives in the absence of the kings.
148 (return)
[ Pausanias, Messenics.
148 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Pausanias, Messenics.
149 (return)
[ See Mueller’s Dorians, vol.
i., p. 172, and Clinton’s Fast. Hell. vol. i., p. 183.
149 (return)
[ See Mueller’s Dorians, vol. i., p. 172, and Clinton’s Fast. Hell. vol. i., p. 183.
150 (return)
[ For the dates here given of
the second Messenian war see Fast. Hell., vol. i., 190, and Appendix 2.
150 (return)
[ For the dates mentioned here regarding the second Messenian war, see Fast. Hell., vol. i., 190, and Appendix 2.
151 (return)
[ Now called Messina.
151 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Now known as Messina.
152 (return)
[ In Phocis were no less than
twenty-two states (poleis); in Boeotia, fourteen; in Achaia, ten. The
ancient political theorists held no community too small for independence,
provided the numbers sufficed for its defence. We find from Plato that a
society of five thousand freemen capable of bearing arms was deemed
powerful enough to constitute an independent state. One great cause of the
ascendency of Athens and Sparta was, that each of those cities had from an
early period swept away the petty independent states in their several
territories of Attica and Laconia.
152 (return)
In Phocis, there were at least twenty-two city-states; in Boeotia, fourteen; and in Achaia, ten. Ancient political thinkers believed that no community was too small to be independent, as long as it had enough people to defend itself. According to Plato, a society of five thousand free men who could bear arms was considered strong enough to be its own independent state. One major reason for the rise of Athens and Sparta was that each city had, from an early time, eliminated the smaller independent states in their respective areas of Attica and Laconia.
153 (return)
[ Machiavel (Discor., lib.
i., c. ii.).
153 (return)
[ Machiavelli (Discourses, Book i, Chapter ii).
155 (return)
[ Aristotle cites among the
advantages of wealth, that of being enabled to train horses. Wherever the
nobility could establish among themselves a cavalry, the constitution was
oligarchical. Yet, even in states which did not maintain a cavalry (as
Athens previous to the constitution of Solon), an oligarchy was the first
form of government that rose above the ruins of monarchy.
155 (return)
[ Aristotle points out that one of the benefits of wealth is the ability to train horses. In places where the nobility could form a cavalry, the government was oligarchical. However, even in states that didn't have a cavalry (like Athens before Solon's constitution), an oligarchy was the first type of government to emerge after the fall of monarchy.
156 (return)
[ One principal method of
increasing the popular action was by incorporating the neighbouring
villages or wards in one municipality with the capital. By this the people
gained both in number and in union.
156 (return)
[ One main way to boost community involvement was by uniting nearby villages or districts into one municipality with the capital. This way, the people benefited from both increased numbers and stronger unity.
157 (return)
[ Sometimes in ancient Greece
there arose a species of lawful tyrants, under the name of Aesymnetes.
These were voluntarily chosen by the people, sometimes for life, sometimes
for a limited period, and generally for the accomplishment of some
particular object. Thus was Pittacus of Mitylene elected to conduct the
war against the exiles. With the accomplishment of the object he abdicated
his power. But the appointment of Aesymnetes can hardly be called a
regular form of government. They soon became obsolete—the mere
creatures of occasion. While they lasted, they bore a strong resemblance
to the Roman dictators—a resemblance remarked by Dionysius, who
quotes Theophrastus as agreeing with Aristotle in his account of the
Aesymnetes.
157 (return)
[ Sometimes in ancient Greece, a type of lawful tyrant emerged, known as Aesymnetes. These leaders were chosen by the people, sometimes for life and other times for a set period, usually to achieve a specific goal. For example, Pittacus of Mitylene was elected to lead the war against the exiles. Once his objective was achieved, he gave up his power. However, the role of Aesymnetes cannot really be seen as a standard form of government. They quickly became outdated—merely products of their time. While they existed, they were quite similar to the Roman dictators—a similarity noted by Dionysius, who cites Theophrastus agreeing with Aristotle’s description of the Aesymnetes.
158 (return)
[ For, as the great
Florentine has well observed, “To found well a government, one man is the
best—once established, the care and execution of the laws should be
transferred to many.”—(Machiavel. Discor., lib. i., c. 9.) And thus
a tyranny builds the edifice, which the republic hastens to inhabit.
158 (return)
[ Because, as the great Florentine pointed out, "To create a solid government, one person is the best choice—once it's established, the responsibility for the laws should be given to many."—(Machiavel. Discor., lib. i., c. 9.) And so, a tyranny constructs the framework, which the republic quickly occupies.
159 (return)
[ That of Orthagoras and his
sons in Sicyon. “Of all governments,” says Aristotle, “that of an
oligarchy, or of a tyrant, is the least permanent.” A quotation that
cannot be too often pressed on the memory of those reasoners who insist so
much on the brief duration of the ancient republics.
159 (return)
[ That of Orthagoras and his sons in Sicyon. “Of all governments,” Aristotle says, “an oligarchy or a tyranny is the least lasting.” This is a quote worth remembering for those thinkers who emphasize the short lifespan of ancient republics.
160 (return)
[ Besides the representation
necessary to confederacies—such as the Amphictyonic League, etc., a
representative system was adopted at Mantinea, where the officers were
named by deputies chosen by the people. “This form of democracy,” says
Aristotle, “existed among the shepherds and husbandmen of Arcadia;” and
was probably not uncommon with the ancient Pelasgians. But the myrioi of
Arcadia had not the legislative power.
160 (return)
[ In addition to the representation needed for confederacies—like the Amphictyonic League, etc., a representative system was established at Mantinea, where officers were appointed by deputies chosen by the people. “This type of democracy,” Aristotle states, “was present among the shepherds and farmers of Arcadia;” and likely wasn't rare among the ancient Pelasgians. However, the myrioi of Arcadia did not have legislative authority.
161 (return)
[ “Then to the lute’s soft
voice prolong the night, Music, the banquet’s most refined delight.”
Pope’s Odyssey, book xxi., 473.
161 (return)
[ “Then let the gentle melody of the lute extend the night, Music, the most sophisticated pleasure of the feast.” Pope’s Odyssey, book xxi., 473.
It is stronger in the original—
It is stronger in the original—
Moltae kai phormingi tu gar t’anathaemata daitos.
Moltae kai phormingi tu gar t’anathaemata daitos.
162 (return)
[ Iliad, book ix., Pope’s
translation, line 250.
162 (return)
[ Iliad, book 9, Pope’s translation, line 250.
164 (return)
[ Pope’s translation, b. iv.,
line 75, etc.
164 (return)
[ Pope’s translation, b. iv., line 75, etc.
165 (return)
[ At least this passage is
sufficient to refute the arguments of Mr. Mitford, and men more learned
than that historian, who, in taking for their premises as an indisputable
fact the extraordinary assumption, that Homer never once has alluded to
the return of the Heraclidae, arrive at a conclusion very illogical, even
if the premises were true, viz., that therefore Homer preceded the date of
that great revolution.
165 (return)
[ At least this section is enough to counter the arguments of Mr. Mitford and others more knowledgeable than him, who, by accepting as an undeniable fact the outrageous claim that Homer never mentioned the return of the Heraclidae, come to a conclusion that is quite illogical, even if their premise were correct, namely, that Homer existed before that major event.
166 (return)
[ I own that this seems to me
the most probable way of accounting for the singular and otherwise
disproportioned importance attached by the ancient poets to that episode
in the Trojan war, which relates to the feud of Achilles and Agamemnon. As
the first recorded enmity between the great Achaeans and the warriors of
Phthiotis, it would have a solemn and historical interest both to the
conquering Dorians and the defeated Achaeans, flattering to the national
vanity of either people.
166 (return)
[ I admit that this seems to be the most likely explanation for the oddly exaggerated importance that ancient poets placed on the conflict between Achilles and Agamemnon during the Trojan war. As the first documented rivalry between the powerful Achaeans and the soldiers of Phthiotis, it would hold a serious and historical significance for both the victorious Dorians and the defeated Achaeans, appealing to the national pride of both groups.
167 (return)
[ I adopt the analysis of the
anti-Homer arguments so clearly given by Mr. Coleridge in his eloquent
Introduction to the Study of the Greek Poets. Homer, p. 39.
167 (return)
[ I embrace the critique of the anti-Homer arguments as clearly presented by Mr. Coleridge in his insightful Introduction to the Study of the Greek Poets. Homer, p. 39.
168 (return)
[ en spanei biblon, are the
words of Herodotus. Leaves and the bark of trees were also used from a
very remote period previous to the common use of the papyrus, and when we
are told that leaves would not suffice for works of any length or
duration, it must not be forgotten that in a much later age it was upon
leaves (and mutton bones) that the Koran was transcribed. The rudest
materials are sufficient for the preservation of what men deem it their
interest to preserve!
168 (return)
[In the Spanish book, these are the words of Herodotus. People used leaves and tree bark for writing long before papyrus became common. While it's said that leaves weren't enough for lengthy works, we shouldn't forget that much later, the Koran was written on leaves (and sheep bones). The simplest materials can serve to keep what people consider important to save!
169 (return)
[ See Clinton’s F. H., vol.
i., p. 145.
169 (return)
[ See Clinton’s F. H., vol.
i., p. 145.
170 (return)
[ Critics, indeed, discover
some pretended gaps and interpolations; but these, if conceded, are no
proof against the unity of Homer; the wonder is, that there should be so
few of such interpolations, considering the barbarous age which intervened
between their composition and the time in which they were first carefully
edited and collected. With more force it is urged against the argument in
favour of the unity of Homer, derived from the unity of the style and
character, that there are passages which modern critics agree to be
additions to the original poems, made centuries afterward, and yet
unsuspected by the ancients; and that in these additions—such as the
last books of the Iliad, with many others less important—the Homeric
unity of style and character is still sustained. We may answer, however,
that, in the first place, we have a right to be skeptical as to these
discoveries—many of them rest on very insufficient critical grounds;
in the second place, if we grant them, it is one thing whether a forged
addition be introduced into a poem, and another thing whether the poem be
all additions; in the third place, we may observe, that successful
imitations of the style and characters of an author, however great, may be
made many centuries afterward with tolerable ease, and by a very inferior
genius, although, at the time he wrote or sung, it is not easy to suppose
that half a dozen or more poets shared his spirit or style. It is a very
common scholastic trick to imitate, nowadays, and with considerable
felicity, the style of the greatest writers, ancient and modern. But the
unity of Homer does not depend on the question whether imitative forgeries
were introduced into a great poem, but whether a multitude of great poets
combined in one school on one subject. An ingenious student of Shakspeare,
or the elder dramatists, might impose upon the public credulity a new
scene, or even a new play, as belonging to Shakspeare, but would that be
any proof that a company of Shakspeares combined in the production of
Macbeth? I own, by-the-way, that I am a little doubtful as to our acumen
in ascertaining what is Homeric and what is not, seeing that Schlegel,
after devoting half a life to Shakspeare (whose works are composed in a
living language, the authenticity of each of which works a living nation
can attest), nevertheless attributes to that poet a catalogue of plays of
which Shakspeare is perfectly innocent!—but, to be sure, Steevens
does the same!
170 (return)
[ Critics often claim to find some fake gaps and additions, but even if we accept that, it doesn’t prove anything against the unity of Homer. It’s surprising that there are so few of these interpolations, considering the rough time period between when they were written and when they were first properly edited and compiled. A stronger argument against the claim of Homer’s unity based on the consistency of style and character is that there are parts which modern critics agree are additions made centuries later, yet went unnoticed by the ancients; and even in these additions—like the last books of the Iliad, among others—the Homeric unity of style and character still holds. However, we can respond by saying that, first, we have a right to be skeptical about these claims—many of them are based on very weak critical evidence; second, allowing these claims, it’s one thing for a forged addition to be added to a poem, and another for that poem to be entirely made up of additions; third, we can note that skillful imitations of an author's style and characters, regardless of how great they are, can be made many centuries later fairly easily, even by much lesser talents, although at the time the original was written, it’s hard to imagine that more than a handful of poets shared his style or spirit. It’s quite common nowadays to successfully mimic the style of the greatest writers, both ancient and modern. But the unity of Homer doesn't hinge on whether imitative forgeries were inserted into a great poem, but on whether many great poets came together in one school focused on one subject. A clever student of Shakespeare or earlier playwrights might fool the public into believing a new scene or even a new play is by Shakespeare, but would that prove that a group of Shakespeares collaborated on Macbeth? I admit, by the way, that I’m a bit skeptical about our ability to determine what is truly Homeric, especially since Schlegel, after spending half his life studying Shakespeare (whose works are in a living language and whose authenticity can be verified by a living nation), still lists a number of plays that Shakespeare didn’t write!—but, of course, Steevens does that too!
171 (return)
[ That Pisistratus or his
son, assisted by the poets of his day, did more than collect, arrange, and
amend poems already in high repute, we have not only no authority to
suppose, but much evidence to contradict. Of the true services of
Pisistratus to Homer, more hereafter.
171 (return)
[ We have no reason to believe that Pisistratus or his son, with the help of the poets of their time, did anything more than gather, organize, and revise poems that were already well-regarded; in fact, there's plenty of evidence to the contrary. More on the real contributions of Pisistratus to Homer later.
172 (return)
[ “The descent of Theseus
with Pirithous into hell,” etc.—Paus., ix., c. 31.
172 (return)
[ “The descent of Theseus with Pirithous into hell,” etc.—Paus., ix., c. 31.
173 (return)
[ Especially if with the
Boeotians we are to consider the most poetical passage (the introductory
lines to the muses) a spurious interpolation.
173 (return)
[ Especially if we view the most poetic part (the opening lines to the muses) with the Boeotians as a fake addition.
174 (return)
[ A herdsman.
174 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ A shepherd.
175 (return)
[ I cannot omit a tradition
recorded by Pausanias. A leaden table near the fountain was shown by the
Boeotians as that on which the “Works and Days” was written. The poems of
Hesiod certainly do not appear so adapted to recital as perusal. Yet, by
the most plausible chronology, they were only composed about one hundred
years after those of Homer!
175 (return)
[ I can’t skip over a tradition mentioned by Pausanias. The Boeotians pointed out a lead table near the fountain as the one on which the “Works and Days” was written. Hesiod’s poems definitely seem more suited for reading than for reciting. Still, according to the most reasonable timeline, they were written only about a hundred years after Homer’s works!
176 (return)
[ The Aones, Hyantes, and
other tribes, which I consider part of the great Pelasgic family, were
expelled from Boeotia by Thracian hordes. [Footnote They afterward
returned in the time of the Dorian emigration.: Some of the population
must, however, have remained—the peasantry of the land; and in
Hesiod we probably possess the national poetry, and arrive at the national
religion, of the old Pelasgi.
176 (return)
[ The Aones, Hyantes, and other tribes, which I see as part of the larger Pelasgic family, were driven out of Boeotia by Thracian invaders. [Footnote They later came back during the Dorian migration.: Some of the local population must have stayed—the rural people of the area; and in Hesiod, we likely have access to the national poetry and can understand the national religion of the ancient Pelasgi.
177 (return)
[ Welcker.
177 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Welcker.
178 (return)
[ The deadly signs which are
traced by Praetus on the tablets of which Bellerophon was the bearer, and
which are referred to in the Iliad, are generally supposed by the learned
to have been pictorial, and, as it were, hieroglyphical figures; my own
belief, and the easiest interpretation of the passage, is, that they were
alphabetical characters—in a word, writing, not painting.
178 (return)
[ The deadly signs that Praetus marked on the tablets carried by Bellerophon, mentioned in the Iliad, are commonly believed by scholars to be pictorial or hieroglyphic symbols. I personally think, and it seems the simplest interpretation of the passage, is that they were alphabetical characters—in other words, writing, not art.
179 (return)
[ Pausanias, lib. i., c. 27,
speaks of a wooden statue in the Temple of Pohas, in Athens, said to have
been the gift of Cecrops; and, with far more claim to belief, in the
previous chapter he tells us that the most holy of all the images was a
statue of Minerva, which, by the common consent of all the towns before
incorporated in one city, was dedicated in the citadel, or polis.
Tradition, therefore, carried the date of this statue beyond the time of
Theseus. Plutarch also informs us that Theseus himself, when he ordained
divine honours to be paid to Ariadne, ordered two little statues to be
made of her—one of silver and one of brass.
179 (return)
[ Pausanias, book i, chapter 27, mentions a wooden statue in the Temple of Pohas in Athens, which is said to have been a gift from Cecrops. Additionally, with even more credibility, in the previous chapter, he states that the most sacred of all images was a statue of Minerva, which, by agreement of all the towns that were later united into one city, was dedicated in the citadel, or polis. Tradition thus places the date of this statue earlier than the time of Theseus. Plutarch also tells us that Theseus, when he established divine honors for Ariadne, ordered two small statues to be made of her—one in silver and one in brass.
180 (return)
[ All that Homer calls the
work of Vulcan, such as the dogs in the palace of Alcinous, etc., we may
suppose to be the work of foreigners. A poet could scarcely attribute to
the gods a work that his audience knew an artificer in their own city had
made!
180 (return)
[ Everything that Homer refers to as the work of Vulcan, like the dogs in the palace of Alcinous, etc., we can assume were crafted by foreigners. A poet would hardly credit the gods with something his audience knew was made by a craftsman in their own city!
182 (return)
[ The effect of the arts,
habits, and manners of a foreign country is immeasurably more important
upon us if we visit that country, than if we merely receive visits from
its natives. For example, the number of French emigrants who crowded our
shores at the time of the French revolution very slightly influenced
English customs, etc. But the effect of the French upon us when, after the
peace, our own countrymen flocked to France, was immense.
182 (return)
[ The impact of the arts, customs, and culture of a foreign country is way more significant for us when we actually visit that country than when we just have visitors from there. For instance, the influx of French emigrants to our shores during the French Revolution had a minimal influence on English customs, etc. However, the influence of the French on us was huge when, after the peace, our own people traveled to France in large numbers.
184 (return)
[ Grecian architecture seems
to have been more free from obligation to any technical secrets of
Egyptian art than Grecian statuary or painting. For, in the first place,
it is more than doubtful whether the Doric order was not invented in
European Greece long prior to the reign of Psammetichus [Footnote The
earliest known temple at Corinth is supposed by Col. Leake to bear date B.
C. 800, about one hundred and thirty years before the reign of
Psammetichus in Egypt.:; and, in the second place, it is evident that the
first hints and rudiments both of the Doric and the Ionic order were
borrowed, not from buildings of the massive and perennial materials of
Egyptian architecture, but from wooden edifices; growing into perfection
as stone and marble were introduced, and the greater difficulty and
expense of the workmanship insensibly imposed severer thought and more
elaborate rules upon the architect. But I cannot agree with Mueller and
others, that because the first hints of the Doric order were taken from
wooden buildings, therefore the first invention was necessarily with the
Dorians, since many of the Asiatic cities were built chiefly of wood. It
seems to me most probable that Asia gave the first notions of these
beautiful forms, and that the Greeks carried them to perfection before the
Asiatics, not only from their keen perception of the graceful, but because
they earlier made a general use of stone. We learn from Herodotus that the
gorgeous Sardis was built chiefly of wood, at a time when the marble of
Paros was a common material of the Grecian temples.
184 (return)
[ Grecian architecture appears to have been less bound by the technical secrets of Egyptian art than Grecian sculpture or painting. For starters, it's uncertain whether the Doric order was actually invented in European Greece well before the reign of Psammetichus [Footnote The earliest known temple at Corinth is believed by Col. Leake to date to B.C. 800, about one hundred and thirty years before the reign of Psammetichus in Egypt.:; and, additionally, it's clear that the initial concepts and basics of both the Doric and Ionic orders were borrowed not from the massive and lasting materials of Egyptian architecture, but from wooden structures; they evolved into their final forms as stone and marble were introduced, and the greater difficulty and expense of the craftsmanship naturally led to more rigorous thinking and complex rules for the architect. However, I disagree with Mueller and others who assert that since the initial ideas for the Doric order came from wooden buildings, the Dorians must have invented it. Many Asian cities were primarily made of wood. It seems most likely to me that Asia provided the first ideas for these beautiful forms, and the Greeks perfected them not only because of their sharp sense of beauty, but also because they adopted stone earlier and more widely. We learn from Herodotus that the magnificent Sardis was mainly built of wood at a time when Parian marble was a common material for Greek temples.
185 (return)
[ Thales was one of the seven
wise men, B. C. 586, when Pherecydes of Syrus, the first prose writer, was
about fourteen years old. Mr. Clinton fixes the acme of Pherecydes about
B. C. 572. Cadmus of Miletus flourished B. C. 530.
185 (return)
[ Thales was one of the seven wise men, 586 B.C., when Pherecydes of Syrus, the first prose writer, was about fourteen years old. Mr. Clinton places the peak of Pherecydes's influence around 572 B.C. Cadmus of Miletus thrived around 530 B.C.
186 (return)
[ To this solution of the
question, why literature should generally commence with attempts at
philosophy, may be added another: —When written first breaks upon
oral communication, the reading public must necessarily be extremely
confined. In many early nations, that reading public would be composed of
the caste of priests; in this case philosophy would be cramped by
superstition. In Greece, there being no caste of priests, philosophy
embraced those studious minds addicted to a species of inquiry which
rejected the poetical form, as well as the poetical spirit. It may be
observed, that the more limited the reading public, the more abstruse are
generally prose compositions; as readers increase, literature goes back to
the fashion of oral communication; for if the reciter addressed the
multitude in the earlier age, so the writer addresses a multitude in the
later; literature, therefore, commences with poetical fiction, and usually
terminates with prose fiction. It was so in the ancient world—it
will be so with England and France. The harvest of novels is, I fear, a
sign of the approaching exhaustion of the soil.
186 (return)
[ To this explanation of why literature often starts with attempts at philosophy, we can add another reason: When writing first emerges from oral communication, the reading audience is usually very limited. In many early societies, this audience would consist mainly of priests, which would narrow philosophy due to superstition. In Greece, where there wasn't a priestly class, philosophy attracted scholars who favored a type of inquiry that rejected both poetic forms and the poetic spirit. It's worth noting that the more restricted the reading audience, the more complex prose works tend to be; as the number of readers grows, literature shifts back to resemble oral communication. Just as ancient storytellers addressed larger crowds, later writers engage with wider audiences; thus, literature often begins with poetic fiction and usually ends with prose fiction. This was the case in the ancient world, and it will likely be true for England and France. I fear that the surge of novels is a sign of the coming depletion of creativity.
187 (return)
[ See chapter i.
187 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ See chapter 1.
188 (return)
[ Instead of Periander of
Corinth, is (by Plato, and therefore) more popularly, but less justly,
ranked Myson of Chene.
188 (return)
[ Instead of Periander of Corinth, Myson of Chene is more commonly, though less accurately, ranked (by Plato, and therefore) as a counterpart.
189 (return)
[ Attributed also to Thales;
Stob. Serm.
189 (return)
[ Also credited to Thales; Stob. Serm.
190 (return)
[ Aristotle relates (Pol.,
lib. i.) a singular anecdote of the means whereby this philosopher
acquired wealth. His skill in meteorology made him foresee that there
would be one season an extraordinary crop of olives. He hired during the
previous winter all the oil-presses in Chios and Miletus, employing his
scanty fortune in advances to the several proprietors. When the
approaching season showed the ripening crops, every man wished to provide
olive-presses as quickly as possible; and Thales, having them all, let
them at a high price. His monopoly made his fortune, and he showed to his
friends, says Aristotle, that it was very easy for philosophers to be rich
if they desire it, though such is not their principal desire;—
philosophy does not find the same facilities nowadays.
190 (return)
[ Aristotle shares an interesting story about how this philosopher gained wealth. His expertise in weather patterns allowed him to predict that there would be an exceptional olive harvest one season. He rented all the olive presses in Chios and Miletus the previous winter, investing his limited resources as upfront payments to the various owners. As the season approached and the olives began to ripen, everyone rushed to secure olive presses, but Thales had them all and rented them out at a premium price. His monopoly brought him fortune, and he demonstrated to his friends, according to Aristotle, that it’s quite easy for philosophers to become wealthy if they want to, even though that's not their main goal;— philosophy doesn’t have the same opportunities these days.
191 (return)
[ Thus Homer is cited in
proof of the progenital humidity,
191 (return)
[ So, Homer is referenced as evidence of the original moisture,
“‘Okeanos hosper ginesis pantos tet ktai;”
“‘Okeanos hosper ginesis pantos tet ktai;”
The Bryant race of speculators would attack us at once with “the spirit moving on the face of the waters.” It was not an uncommon opinion in Greece that chaos was first water settling into slime, and then into earth; and there are good but not sufficient reasons to attribute a similar, and of course earlier, notion to the Phoenicians, and still more perhaps to the Indians.
The Bryant group of speculators would jump on us right away with “the spirit moving over the waters.” It was a common belief in Greece that chaos began as water settling into sludge, and then into soil; and there are some solid but not enough reasons to connect a similar, and likely earlier, idea to the Phoenicians, and maybe even more to the Indians.
193 (return)
[ Ap. Stob. Serm.
193 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Ap. Stob. Serm.
194 (return)
[ Laert.
194 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Laert.
195 (return)
[ According to Clinton’s
chronology, viz., one year after the legislation of Draco. This emendation
of dates formerly received throws considerable light upon the causes of
the conspiracy, which perhaps took its strength from the unpopularity and
failure of Draco’s laws. Following the very faulty chronology which
pervades his whole work, Mr. Mitford makes the attempt of Cylon precede
the legislation of Draco.
195 (return)
[ According to Clinton’s timeline, specifically one year after Draco's laws were established. This correction of dates sheds significant light on the reasons behind the conspiracy, which may have gained momentum from the unpopularity and failure of Draco’s laws. Following the flawed timeline that runs throughout his entire work, Mr. Mitford suggests that Cylon's attempt occurred before Draco's legislation.
196 (return)
[ A cap.
196 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ A hat.
197 (return)
[ The expedition against
Salamis under Solon preceded the arrival of Epimenides at Athens, which
was in 596. The legislation of Solon was B. C. 594—the first tyranny
of Pisistratus B. C. 560: viz., thirty-four years after Solon’s
legislation, and at least thirty-seven years after Solon’s expedition to
Salamis. But Pisistratus lived thirty-three years after his first
usurpation, so that, if he had acted in the first expedition to Salamis,
he would have lived to an age little short of one hundred, and been
considerably past eighty at the time of his third most brilliant and most
energetic government! The most probable date for the birth of Pisistratus
is that assigned by Mr. Clinton, about B. C. 595, somewhat subsequent to
Solon’s expedition to Salamis, and only about a year prior to Solon’s
legislation. According to this date, Pisistratus would have been about
sixty-eight at the time of his death. The error of Plutarch evidently
arose from his confounding two wars with Megara for Salamis, attended with
similar results—the first led by Solon, the second by Pisistratus. I
am the more surprised that Mr. Thirlwall should have fallen into the error
of making Pisistratus contemporary with Solon in this affair, because he
would fix the date of the recovery of Salamis at B. C. 604 (see note to
Thirlwall’s Greece, p. 25, vol. ii.), and would suppose Solon to be about
thirty-two at that time (viz., twenty-six years old in 612 B. C.). (See
Thirlwall, vol. ii., p. 23, note.) Now, as Pisistratus could not have been
well less than twenty-one, to have taken so prominent a share as that
ascribed to him by Plutarch and his modern followers, in the expedition,
he must, according to such hypothesis, have been only eleven years younger
than Solon, have perpetrated his first tyranny just before Solon died of
old age, and married a second wife when he was near eighty! Had this been
the case, the relations of the lady could not reasonably have been angry
that the marriage was not consummated!
197 (return)
[ The expedition against Salamis led by Solon happened before Epimenides arrived in Athens in 596 B.C. Solon’s laws were established in 594 B.C., while Pisistratus's first tyranny occurred in 560 B.C., which is thirty-four years after Solon’s legislation and at least thirty-seven years after Solon’s expedition to Salamis. However, Pisistratus lived another thirty-three years after his initial takeover, so if he had participated in the first Salamis expedition, he would have been just shy of one hundred years old and well over eighty during his third and most notable period of governance! The most likely birth year for Pisistratus, as suggested by Mr. Clinton, is around 595 B.C., a little after Solon’s expedition to Salamis and only about a year before Solon’s legislation. Based on this timing, Pisistratus would have been around sixty-eight when he died. Plutarch’s mistake came from confusing two wars with Megara over Salamis, which had similar outcomes—the first led by Solon and the second by Pisistratus. I find it surprising that Mr. Thirlwall would make the mistake of placing Pisistratus as a contemporary of Solon in this situation, since he dates the recovery of Salamis to 604 B.C. (refer to note in Thirlwall’s Greece, p. 25, vol. ii.) and assumes Solon was about thirty-two at that time (meaning he was twenty-six in 612 B.C.). (See Thirlwall, vol. ii., p. 23, note.) Now, since Pisistratus would have had to be at least twenty-one to take on the significant role attributed to him by Plutarch and his followers in the expedition, under that theory, he would have only been eleven years younger than Solon, would have established his first tyranny just before Solon died of old age, and married a second wife when he was nearly eighty! If that were the case, the lady’s relatives couldn't reasonably be angry that the marriage wasn't consummated!
198 (return)
[ We cannot suppose, as the
careless and confused Plutarch would imply, that the people, or popular
assembly, reversed the decree; the government was not then democratic, but
popular assemblies existed, which, in extraordinary cases—especially,
perhaps, in the case of war—it was necessary to propitiate, and
customary to appeal to. I make no doubt that it was with the countenance
and consent of the archons that Solon made his address to the people,
preparing them to receive the repeal of the decree, which, without their
approbation, it might be unsafe to propose.
198 (return)
[ We can't assume, as the careless and confused Plutarch might suggest, that the people or the assembly overturned the decree; the government wasn’t democratic at that time, but popular assemblies did exist. In exceptional cases—especially during war—it was essential to win their favor and usually customary to consult them. I'm sure it was with the support and agreement of the archons that Solon addressed the people, getting them ready to accept the repeal of the decree, which it could be risky to propose without their approval. ]
199
[ As the quotation from Homer is extremely equivocal, merely
stating that Ajax joined the ships that he led from Salamis with those of
the Athenians, one cannot but suppose, that if Solon had really taken the
trouble to forge a verse, he would have had the common sense to forge one
much more decidedly in favour of his argument.
199
[ Since the quote from Homer is quite ambiguous, simply saying that Ajax brought the ships he led from Salamis together with those of the Athenians, one can't help but think that if Solon had actually bothered to create a verse, he would have had the sense to make one that clearly supported his argument.
200 (return)
[ Fifty-seven, according to
Pliny.
200 (return)
[ According to Pliny, there were fifty-seven.
203 (return)
[ This regulation is probably
of later date than the time of Solon. To Pisistratus is referred a law for
disabled citizens, though its suggestion is ascribed to Solon. It was,
however, a law that evidently grew out of the principles of Solon.
203 (return)
[ This regulation probably came after Solon’s time. A law for disabled citizens is attributed to Pisistratus, although its idea is credited to Solon. Nevertheless, it was clearly a law that stemmed from Solon’s principles.
204 (return)
[ A tribe contained three
phratries, or fraternities—a phratry contained three genes or clans—a
genos or clan was composed of thirty heads of families. As the population,
both in the aggregate and in these divisions, must have been exposed to
constant fluctuations, the aforesaid numbers were most probably what we
may describe as a fiction in law, as Boeckh (Pol. Econ. of Athens, vol.
i., p. 47, English translation) observes, “in the same manner that the
Romans called the captain a centurion, even if he commanded sixty men, so
a family might have been called a triakas (i.e., a thirtiad), although it
contained fifty or more persons.” It has been conjectured indeed by some,
that from a class not included in these families, vacancies in the
phratries were filled up; but this seems to be a less probable supposition
than that which I have stated above. If the numbers in Pollux were taken
from a census in the time of Solon, the four tribes at that time contained
three hundred and sixty families, each family consisting of thirty
persons; this would give a total population of ten thousand eight hundred
free citizens. It was not long before that population nearly doubled
itself, but the titles of the subdivisions remained the same. I reserve
for an appendix a more detailed and critical view of the vehement but
tedious disputes of the learned on the complicated subject of the Athenian
tribes and families.
204 (return)
[ A tribe included three phratries, or fraternities—a phratry included three genes or clans—a genos or clan was made up of thirty heads of families. As the population, overall and in these divisions, must have faced constant changes, the mentioned numbers were likely a legal fiction. As Boeckh (Pol. Econ. of Athens, vol. i., p. 47, English translation) notes, “just as the Romans referred to a leader as a centurion even if he commanded sixty men, a family might have been called a triakas (i.e., a thirtiad), even if it had fifty or more people.” Some have speculated that vacancies in the phratries were filled from a class not included in these families, but this seems to be a less likely assumption than the one I mentioned earlier. If the numbers in Pollux came from a census during Solon’s time, the four tribes then contained three hundred and sixty families, each consisting of thirty people; this would total ten thousand eight hundred free citizens. It wasn’t long before that population nearly doubled, but the names of the divisions stayed the same. I will provide a more detailed and critical look at the intense but tedious debates of scholars on the complicated topic of the Athenian tribes and families in an appendix.
205 (return)
[ Boeckh (Pub. Econ. of
Athens, book iv., chap. v.) contends, from a law preserved by Demosthenes,
that the number of measures for the zeugitae was only one hundred and
fifty. But his argument, derived from the analogy of the sum to be given
to an heiress by her nearest relation, if he refused to marry her, is by
no means convincing enough to induce us to reject the proportion of two
hundred measures, “preserved (as Boeckh confesses) by all writers,”
especially as in the time of Demosthenes. Boeckh himself, in a subsequent
passage, rightly observes, that the names of zeugitae, etc., could only
apply to new classes introduced in the place of those instituted by Solon.
205 (return)
[ Boeckh (Public Economy of Athens, book iv., chapter v.) argues, based on a law held by Demosthenes, that the number of measures for the zeugitae was only one hundred and fifty. However, his reasoning, which draws from the analogy of the amount to be given to an heiress by her closest relative if he declined to marry her, isn't convincing enough for us to dismiss the figure of two hundred measures, “as Boeckh admits is stated by all writers,” particularly considering the time of Demosthenes. Boeckh himself later notes correctly that the names of zeugitae and others could only refer to new classes that replaced those established by Solon.
206 (return)
[ With respect to the value
of “a measure” in that time, it was estimated at a drachma, and a drachma
was the price of a sheep.
206 (return)
[ In terms of the value of "a measure" at that time, it was estimated to be a drachma, which was the cost of a sheep.
207 (return)
[ The law against idleness is
attributable rather to Pisistratus than Solon.
207 (return)
[ The law against idleness is more likely credited to Pisistratus than Solon.
208 (return)
[ Athenaeus, lib. xiv.
208 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[Athenaeus, Book 14.]
209 (return)
[ Plutarch de Gloria Athen. I
do not in this sketch entirely confine myself to Solon’s regulations
respecting the areopagus.
209 (return)
[ Plutarch de Gloria Athen. I
In this summary, I don't limit myself only to Solon's rules about the Areopagus.
210 (return)
[ The number of the
areopagites depending upon the number of the archons, was necessarily
fluctuating and uncertain. An archon was not necessarily admitted to the
areopagus. He previously underwent a rigorous and severe examination of
the manner in which he had discharged the duties of his office, and was
liable to expulsion upon proofs of immorality or unworthiness.
210 (return)
[ The number of the
areopagites varied depending on how many archons there were, making it
unpredictable and unstable. An archon wasn't automatically allowed into
the areopagus. He had to go through a strict and thorough evaluation of
how he performed his duties, and could be expelled if there was evidence
of immorality or unworthiness.
211 (return)
[ Some modern writers have
contended that at the time of Solon the members of the council were not
chosen by lot; their arguments are not to me very satisfactory. But if
merely a delegation of the Eupatrids, as such writers suppose, the council
would be still more vicious in its constitution.
211 (return)
[ Some modern writers have argued that during Solon's time, the council members were not selected by lot; I find their arguments unconvincing. However, if it were just a delegation of the Eupatrids, as those writers suggest, the council's structure would be even more flawed.
212 (return)
[ Pollux.
212 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Pollux.
213 (return)
[ Aeschines in Timarch.
213 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Aeschines in Timarch.
214 (return)
[ Each member was paid (as in
England once, as in America at this day) a moderate sum (one drachma) for
his maintenance, and at the termination of his trust, peculiar integrity
was rewarded with money from the public treasury.
214 (return)
[ Each member was paid (just like in England once and in America today) a reasonable amount (one drachma) for their upkeep, and when their service ended, exceptional honesty was rewarded with money from the public treasury.
215 (return)
[ When there were ten tribes,
each tribe presided thirty-five days, or five weeks; when the number was
afterward increased to twelve, the period of the presidency was one month.
215 (return)
[ When there were ten tribes, each tribe led for thirty-five days, or five weeks; when the number later increased to twelve, the leadership period became one month.
216 (return)
[ Atimos means rather
unhonoured than dishonoured. He to whom, in its milder degree, the word
was applied, was rather withdrawn (as it were) from honour than branded
with disgrace. By rapid degrees, however, the word ceased to convey its
original meaning; it was applied to offences so ordinary and common, that
it sunk into a mere legal term.
216 (return)
[ Atimos means more about being unrecognized than being dishonored. Someone who, in a lighter sense, was described with this term was more distanced from honor than marked by disgrace. However, over time, the term lost its original meaning; it came to refer to offenses that were so commonplace that it turned into just a legal term.
217 (return)
[ The more heinous of the
triple offences, termed eisangelia.
217 (return)
[ The most serious of the three offenses, called eisangelia.
218 (return)
[ This was a subsequent law;
an obolus, or one penny farthing, was the first payment; it was afterward
increased to three oboli, or threepence three farthings.
218 (return)
[ This was a later law; an obolus, or one penny farthing, was the initial payment; it was later raised to three oboli, or threepence three farthings.
219 (return)
[ Sometimes, also, the
assembly was held in the Pnyx, afterward so celebrated: latterly, also
(especially in bad weather), in the temple of Bacchus;—on
extraordinary occasions, in whatever place was deemed most convenient or
capacious.
219 (return)
[ Sometimes, the assembly took place in the Pnyx, which later became famous; also, during bad weather, it was held in the temple of Bacchus; on special occasions, it was held in the most suitable or spacious location.
220 (return)
[ Plato de Legibus.
220 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Plato de Legibus.
221 (return)
[ Plutarch assures us that
Solon issued a decree that his laws were to remain in force a hundred
years: an assertion which modern writers have rejected as incompatible
with their constant revision. It was not, however, so contradictory a
decree as it seems at first glance—for one of the laws not to be
altered was this power of amending and revising the laws. And, therefore,
the enactment in dispute would only imply that the constitution was not to
be altered except through the constitutional channel which Solon had
appointed.
221 (return)
[ Plutarch tells us that Solon made a rule that his laws would stay in effect for a hundred years, although modern writers have dismissed this as inconsistent with their ongoing updates. However, this decree wasn’t as contradictory as it seems at first—one of the unchangeable laws was the ability to amend and revise the laws themselves. So, this controversial enactment would only mean that the constitution couldn't be changed except through the legal process that Solon had set up.
223 (return)
[ Including, as I before
observed, that law which provided for any constitutional change in a
constitutional manner.
223 (return)
[ Including, as I mentioned earlier, the law that allowed for any constitutional change to be made in a constitutional way.
224 (return)
[ “Et Croesum quem vox justi
facunda Solonis Respicere ad longae jussit spatia ultima vitae.” Juv.,
Sat. x., s. 273.
224 (return)
[ "And Solon's eloquent speech told Croesus to think about the farthest reaches of a long life." Juv., Sat. x., s. 273.
The story of the interview and conversation between Croesus and Solon is supported by so many concurrent authorities, that we cannot but feel grateful to the modern learning, which has removed the only objection to it in an apparent contradiction of dates. If, as contended for by Larcher, still more ably by Wesseling, and since by Mr. Clinton, we agree that Croesus reigned jointly with his father Alyattes, the difficulty vanishes at once.
The account of the interview and discussion between Croesus and Solon is backed by so many sources that we can’t help but appreciate modern scholarship, which has eliminated the main issue regarding the supposed inconsistency in dates. If, as argued by Larcher, then even more effectively by Wesseling, and later by Mr. Clinton, we accept that Croesus ruled alongside his father Alyattes, the problem disappears immediately.
225 (return)
[ Plutarch gives two accounts
of the recovery of Salamis by Solon; one of them, which is also preferred
by Aelian (var. c. xix., lib. vii.), I have adopted and described in my
narrative of that expedition: the second I now give, but refer to
Pisistratus, not Solon: in support of which opinion I am indebted to Mr.
Clinton for the suggestion of two authorities. Aeneas Tacticus, in his
Treatise on Sieges, chap. iv., and Frontinus de Stratagem., lib. iv., cap.
vii.—Justin also favours the claim of Pisistratus to this stratagem,
lib. xi., c. viii.
225 (return)
[ Plutarch shares two versions of how Salamis was reclaimed by Solon; I've chosen one, which Aelian also favors (var. c. xix., lib. vii.), and included it in my account of that mission. Now, I present the second version, attributing it to Pisistratus instead of Solon: I owe this perspective to Mr. Clinton for pointing me to two sources. Aeneas Tacticus, in his Treatise on Sieges, chap. iv., and Frontinus in de Stratagem., lib. iv., cap. vii.—Justin also supports Pisistratus's claim regarding this tactic, in lib. xi., c. viii.
226 (return)
[ The most sanguine hope
indeed that Cicero seems to have formed with respect to the conduct of
Cesar, was that he might deserve the title of the Pisistratus of Rome.
226 (return)
[ The most optimistic hope that Cicero seemed to have about Caesar's behavior was that he might earn the title of the Pisistratus of Rome.
227 (return)
[ If we may, in this
anecdote, accord to Plutarch (de Vit. Sol.) and Aelian (Var. lib. viii.,
c. xvi.) a belief which I see no reason for withholding.
227 (return)
[ If we can, in this story, give credit to Plutarch (de Vit. Sol.) and Aelian (Var. lib. viii., c. xvi.) for a belief that I have no reason to dispute.
228 (return)
[ His own verses, rather than
the narrative of Plutarch, are the evidence of Solon’s conduct on the
usurpation of Pisistratus.
228 (return)
[ His own poems, instead of Plutarch's account, are the proof of Solon's actions during Pisistratus's takeover.
229 (return)
[ This historian fixes the
date of Solon’s visit to Croesus and to Cyprus (on which island he asserts
him to have died), not during his absence of ten years, but during the
final exile for which he contends.
229 (return)
[ This historian identifies the date of Solon’s visit to Croesus and Cyprus (where he claims Solon died), not during his absence of ten years, but during the last exile that he argues took place.
231 (return)
[ The procession of the
goddess of Reason in the first French revolution solves the difficulty
that perplexed Herodotus.
231 (return)
[ The march of the goddess of Reason during the first French Revolution addresses the issue that confused Herodotus.
232 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford considers this
story as below the credit of history. He gives no sufficient reason
against its reception, and would doubtless have been less skeptical had he
known more of the social habits of that time, or possessed more intimate
acquaintance with human nature generally.
232 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford views this story as not worthy of historical credibility. He doesn't provide enough justification for dismissing it, and he likely would have been less doubtful if he had better understood the social customs of that era or had a deeper familiarity with human nature overall.
233 (return)
[ Upon which points, of men
and money, Mr. Mitford, who is anxious to redeem the character of
Pisistratus from the stain of tyranny, is dishonestly prevaricating.
Quoting Herodotus, who especially insists upon these undue sources of aid,
in the following words—‘Errixose taen tyrannida, epikouroisi te
polloisi kai chraematon synodoisi, ton men, autothen, ton de, apo
Strumanos potamou synionton: this candid historian merely says, “A
particular interest with the ruling parties in several neighbouring
states, especially Thebes and Argos, and a wise and liberal use of a very
great private property, were the resources in which besides he mostly
relied.” Why he thus slurs over the fact of the auxiliary forces will
easily be perceived. He wishes us to understand that the third tyranny of
Pisistratus, being wholesome, was also acceptable to the Athenians, and
not, as it in a great measure was, supported by borrowed treasure and
foreign swords.
233 (return)
[ Regarding those points about people and money, Mr. Mitford, who is eager to clear Pisistratus's name from the stain of tyranny, is misleadingly evasive. He quotes Herodotus, who specifically highlights these questionable sources of support, saying—‘Errixose taen tyrannida, epikouroisi te polloisi kai chraematon synodoisi, ton men, autothen, ton de, apo Strumanos potamou synionton: this honest historian simply states, “A particular interest with the ruling parties in several neighboring states, especially Thebes and Argos, and a wise and generous use of a very large private fortune, were the main resources he relied on.” Why he glosses over the fact of the auxiliary forces is easy to see. He wants us to believe that the third tyranny of Pisistratus, being beneficial, was also accepted by the Athenians, and not, as it largely was, backed by borrowed wealth and foreign soldiers.
234 (return)
[ Who, according to Plutarch,
first appeared at the return of Solon; but the proper date for his
exhibitions is ascertained (Fast. Hell., vol. ii., p. 11) several years
after Solon’s death.
234 (return)
[ Who, as Plutarch mentions, first showed up when Solon returned; however, the accurate date for his performances was determined (Fast. Hell., vol. ii., p. 11) several years after Solon’s death.
235 (return)
[ These two wars, divided by
so great an interval of time,—the one terminated by Periander of
Corinth, the other undertaken by Pisistratus,—are, with the usual
blundering of Mr. Mitford, jumbled together into the same event. He places
Alcaeus in the war following the conquest of Sigeum by Pisistratus. Poor
Alcaeus! the poet flourished Olym. 42 (611 B. C.); the third tyranny of
Pisistratus may date somewhere about 537 B. C., so that Alcaeus, had he
been alive in the time ascribed by Mr. Mitford to his warlike exhibitions,
would have been (supposing him to be born twenty-six years before the date
of his celebrity in 611) just a hundred years old—a fitting age to
commence the warrior! The fact is, Mr. Mitford adopted the rather confused
account of Herodotus, without taking the ordinary pains to ascertain
dates, which to every one else the very names of Periander and Alcaeus
would have suggested.
235 (return)
[ These two wars, separated by such a long gap in time—the first ending with Periander of Corinth and the second led by Pisistratus—are, due to Mr. Mitford's typical errors, mixed up into a single event. He places Alcaeus in the war that happened after Pisistratus conquered Sigeum. Poor Alcaeus! The poet thrived around 42nd Olympiad (611 B.C.); the third tyranny of Pisistratus likely began around 537 B.C., meaning that if Alcaeus had been alive during the time Mr. Mitford claims he was active, he would have been around a hundred years old, assuming he was born twenty-six years before his recognition in 611. Quite an age to start being a warrior! The truth is, Mr. Mitford relied on the somewhat unclear account by Herodotus without the usual effort to verify dates, which would have been obvious to anyone else familiar with the names Periander and Alcaeus.
236 (return)
[ For the reader will
presently observe the share taken by Croesus in the affairs of this
Miltiades during his government in the Chersonesus; now Croesus was
conquered by Cyrus about B. C. 546—it must, therefore, have been
before that period. But the third tyranny of Pisistratus appears to have
commenced nine years afterward, viz., B. C. 537. The second tyranny
probably commenced only two years before the fall of the Lydian monarchy,
and seems to have lasted only a year, and during that period Croesus no
longer exercised over the cities of the coast the influence he exerted
with the people of Lampsacus on behalf of Miltiades; the departure of
Miltiades, son of Cypselus, must therefore have been in the first tyranny,
in the interval 560 B. C.—554 B. C., and probably at the very
commencement of the reign—viz., about 550 B. C.
236 (return)
[ The reader will soon notice the role Croesus played in the matters of Miltiades during his time in the Chersonesus; Croesus was defeated by Cyrus around 546 B.C.—so, this must have happened before that time. However, the third tyranny of Pisistratus seems to have started nine years later, around 537 B.C. The second tyranny likely began only two years before the fall of the Lydian monarchy and seemed to last for just a year. During that time, Croesus no longer had the influence he had over the coastal cities that he had with the people of Lampsacus on behalf of Miltiades. Therefore, Miltiades, the son of Cypselus, must have left during the first tyranny, between 560 B.C. and 554 B.C., probably right at the beginning of that reign—in about 550 B.C.
237 (return)
[ In the East, the master of
the family still sits before the door to receive visiters or transact
business.
237 (return)
[ In the East, the head of the family still sits by the door to welcome visitors or conduct business.
238 (return)
[ Thucydides, b. vi., c. 54.
The dialogue of Hipparchus, ascribed to Plato, gives a different story,
but much of the same nature. In matters of history, we cannot doubt which
is the best authority, Thucydides or Plato,—especially an apocryphal
Plato.
238 (return)
[ Thucydides, b. vi., c. 54. The dialogue of Hipparchus, attributed to Plato, tells a different story, though it's quite similar. When it comes to history, there's no question about who is the more reliable source—Thucydides or Plato, especially an unverified Plato.
239 (return)
[ Although it is probable
that the patriotism of Aristogiton and Harmodius “the beloved” has been
elevated in after times beyond its real standard, yet Mr. Mitford is not
justified in saying that it was private revenge, and not any political
motive, that induced them to conspire the death of Hippias and Hipparchus.
Had it been so, why strike at Hippias at all?—why attempt to make
him the first and principal victim?—why assail Hipparchus (against
whom only they had a private revenge) suddenly, by accident, and from the
impulse of the moment, after the failure of their design on the tyrant
himself, with whom they had no quarrel? It is most probable that, as in
other attempts at revolution, that of Masaniello—that of Rienzi—public
patriotism was not created—it was stimulated and made passion by
private resentment.
239 (return)
[ While it’s likely that the patriotism of Aristogiton and Harmodius “the beloved” has been romanticized over time, Mr. Mitford is not correct in claiming that their conspiracy to kill Hippias and Hipparchus was driven solely by personal revenge rather than political motives. If that were the case, why would they target Hippias at all?—why make him their primary victim?—why attack Hipparchus (against whom they only had a personal grudge) unexpectedly and impulsively after failing to kill the tyrant himself, with whom they had no conflict? It’s very likely that, similar to other revolutionary attempts, like those of Masaniello and Rienzi, public patriotism wasn’t created from scratch—it was fueled and intensified by personal anger.
240 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford has most
curiously translated this passage thus: “Aristogiton escaped the attending
guards, but, being taken by the people (!!!) was not mildly treated. So
Thucydides has expressed himself.” Now Thucydides says quite the reverse:
he says that, owing to the crowd of the people, the guard could not at
first seize him. How did Mr. Mitford make this strange blunder? The most
charitable supposition is, that, not reading the Greek, he was misled by
an error of punctuation in the Latin version.
240 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford has quite strangely translated this passage like this: “Aristogiton got away from the guards, but when caught by the people (!!!) he was not treated kindly. So Thucydides said.” Yet Thucydides actually states the opposite: he says that, because of the crowd, the guards couldn't grab him at first. How did Mr. Mitford make this odd mistake? The most generous explanation is that he didn’t read the Greek and was misled by a punctuation error in the Latin version.
241 (return)
[ “Qui cum per tormenta
conscios caedis nominare cogeretur,” etc. (Justin., lib. ii., chap. ix.)
This author differs from the elder writers as to the precise cause of the
conspiracy.
241 (return)
[ “When he was forced to name those aware of the murder under torture,” etc. (Justin., book ii., chapter ix.) This author has a different take from the earlier writers regarding the exact reason for the conspiracy.
242 (return)
[ Herodotus says they were
both Gephyraeans by descent; a race, according to him, originally
Phoenician.—Herod. b. v., c. 57.
242 (return)
[ Herodotus states they were both descended from the Gephyraeans, a group he describes as originally Phoenician.—Herod. b. v., c. 57.
243 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford too hastily and
broadly asserts the whole story of Leaena to be a fable: if, as we may
gather from Pausanias, the statue of the lioness existed in his time, we
may pause before we deny all authenticity to a tradition far from
inconsonant with the manners of the time or the heroism of the sex.
243 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford too quickly and broadly claims that the entire story of Leaena is a myth: if, as we can gather from Pausanias, the statue of the lioness was present in his time, we should hesitate before completely dismissing the authenticity of a tradition that aligns well with the customs of that era and the bravery of women.
245 (return)
[ Herodotus, b. vi., c. 103.
In all probability, the same jealousy that murdered the father dismissed
the son. Hippias was far too acute and too fearful not to perceive the
rising talents and daring temper of Miltiades. By-the-way, will it be
believed that Mitford, in is anxiety to prove Hippias and Hipparchus the
most admirable persons possible, not only veils the unnatural passions of
the last, but is utterly silent about the murder of Cimon, which is
ascribed to the sons of Pisistratus by Herodotus, in the strongest and
gravest terms.—Mr. Thirlwall (Hist. of Greece, vol. ii., p. 223)
erroneously attributes the assassination of Cimon to Pisistratus himself.
245 (return)
[ Herodotus, b. vi., c. 103. In all likelihood, the same jealousy that killed the father also got rid of the son. Hippias was too sharp and too scared not to notice the rising talents and bold nature of Miltiades. By the way, can it be believed that Mitford, in his eagerness to depict Hippias and Hipparchus as the most admirable people possible, not only hides the unnatural desires of the latter but also remains completely silent about the murder of Cimon, which is blamed on the sons of Pisistratus by Herodotus in the strongest and most serious terms. —Mr. Thirlwall (Hist. of Greece, vol. ii., p. 223) mistakenly attributes the assassination of Cimon to Pisistratus himself.
246 (return)
[ Suidas. Laertius iv., 13,
etc. Others, as Ammonius and Simplicius ad Aristotelem, derive the name of
Cynics given to these philosophers from the ridicule attached to their
manners.
246 (return)
[ Suidas. Laertius iv., 13, etc. Others, like Ammonius and Simplicius commenting on Aristotle, suggest that the name "Cynics" for these philosophers comes from the mockery associated with their behavior.
247 (return)
[ Whose ardour appears to
have been soon damped. They lost but forty men, and then retired at once
to Thessaly. This reminds us of the wars between the Italian republics, in
which the loss of a single horseman was considered no trifling misfortune.
The value of the steed and the rank of the horseman (always above the
vulgar) made the cavalry of Greece easily discouraged by what appears to
us an inconsiderable slaughter.
247 (return)
[ Their enthusiasm seems to have faded quickly. They only lost forty men and immediately retreated to Thessaly. This brings to mind the wars between the Italian city-states, where losing a single knight was seen as a significant setback. The worth of the horse and the status of the knight (always above the common people) made the cavalry in Greece easily disheartened by what seems like a minor loss to us.
249 (return)
[ Wachsm, l. i., p. 273.
Others contend for a later date to this most important change; but, on the
whole, it seems a necessary consequence of the innovations of Clisthenes,
which were all modelled upon the one great system of breaking down the
influence of the aristocracy. In the speech of Otanes (Herod., lib. iii.,
c. 80), it is curious to observe how much the vote by lot was identified
with a republican form of government.
249 (return)
[ Wachsm, l. i., p. 273. Others argue for a later date for this significant change; however, overall, it appears to be a necessary result of the reforms by Clisthenes, which were all designed to diminish the power of the aristocracy. In Otanes' speech (Herod., lib. iii., c. 80), it's interesting to see how closely the practice of voting by lot was associated with a republican government.
250 (return)
[ See Sharon Turner, vol. i.,
book i.
250 (return)
[ See Sharon Turner, vol. 1, book 1.
252 (return)
[ Ctesias. Mr. Thirlwall, in
my judgment, very properly contents himself with recording the ultimate
destination of Croesus as we find it in Ctesias, to the rejection of the
beautiful romance of Herodotus. Justin observes that Croesus was so
beloved among the Grecian cities, that, had Cyrus exercised any cruelty
against him, the Persian hero would have drawn upon himself a war with
Greece.
252 (return)
[ Ctesias. Mr. Thirlwall, in my opinion, rightly focuses on the final fate of Croesus as presented by Ctesias, rather than the enchanting story from Herodotus. Justin notes that Croesus was so cherished by the Greek cities that if Cyrus had shown any cruelty toward him, the Persian leader would have provoked a war with Greece.
253 (return)
[ After his fall, Croesus is
said by Herodotus to have reproached the Pythian with those treacherous
oracles that conduced to the loss of his throne, and to have demanded if
the gods of Greece were usually delusive and ungrateful. True to that dark
article of Grecian faith which punished remote generations for ancestral
crimes, the Pythian replied, that Croesus had been fated to expiate in his
own person the crimes of Gyges, the murderer of his master;—that,
for the rest, the declarations of the oracle had been verified; the mighty
empire, denounced by the divine voice, had been destroyed, for it was his
own, and the mule, Cyrus, was presiding over the Lydian realm: a mule
might the Persian hero justly be entitled, since his parents were of
different ranks and nations. His father a low-born Persian—his
mother a Median princess. Herodotus assures us that Croesus was content
with the explanation—if so, the god of song was more fortunate than
the earthly poets he inspires, who have indeed often, imitating his
example, sacrificed their friends to a play upon words, without being so
easily able to satisfy their victims.
253 (return)
[ After his downfall, Herodotus reports that Croesus confronted the Pythian for those deceitful oracles that led to the loss of his throne, questioning whether the gods of Greece were typically misleading and ungrateful. Staying true to the grim belief of the Greeks that punished future generations for their ancestors' wrongdoings, the Pythian responded that Croesus was destined to atone for the crimes of Gyges, the murderer of his master;—that, in any case, the oracle’s predictions had come true; the great empire, proclaimed by the divine voice, had been destroyed, as it was his own, and the mule, Cyrus, was now ruling over the Lydian territory: understandably, the Persian hero could be called a mule, since his parents came from different classes and nations. His father was a low-born Persian—his mother was a Median princess. Herodotus tells us that Croesus accepted the explanation—if that’s the case, the god of song was luckier than the earthly poets he inspires, who often, following his example, have sacrificed their friends for a clever turn of phrase, without being able to satisfy their victims so easily.
255 (return)
[ If colonists they can
properly be called—they retained their connexion with Athens, and
all their rights of franchise.
255 (return)
[ If they can truly be called colonists—they kept their connection with Athens and all their voting rights.
257 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford, constantly
endeavouring to pervert the simple honesty of Herodotus to a sanction of
despotic governments, carefully slurs over this remarkable passage.
257 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford, always trying to twist the straightforward honesty of Herodotus into a justification for authoritarian regimes, deliberately overlooks this significant passage.
259 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford, always unduly
partial to the Spartan policy, styles Cleomenes “a man violent in his
temper, but of considerable abilities.” There is no evidence of his
abilities. His restlessness and ferocity made him assume a prominent part
which he was never adequate to fulfil: he was, at best, a cunning madman.
259 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford, who has always been overly supportive of the Spartan approach, calls Cleomenes “a man with a hot temper, but considerable skills.” There is no proof of his skills. His impatience and aggression led him to take on a significant role that he could never really handle: he was, at best, a clever lunatic.
260 (return)
[ Why, if discovered so long
since by Cleomenes, were they concealed till now? The Spartan prince,
afterward detected in bribing the oracle itself, perhaps forged these
oracular predictions.
260 (return)
[ Why have they been hidden until now if Cleomenes discovered them so long ago? The Spartan prince, who was later caught trying to bribe the oracle, might have faked these prophetic claims.
262 (return)
[ What is the language of Mr.
Mitford at this treason? “We have seen,” says that historian, “the
democracy of Athens itself setting the example (among the states of old
Greece) of soliciting Persian protection. Will, then, the liberal spirit
of patriotism and equal government justify the prejudices of Athenian
faction (!!!) and doom Hippias to peculiar execration, because, at length,
he also, with many of his fellow-citizens, despairing of other means for
ever returning to their native country, applied to Artaphernes at Sardis?”
It is difficult to know which to admire most, the stupidity or dishonesty
of this passage. The Athenian democracy applied to Persia for relief
against the unjust invasion of their city and liberties by a foreign
force; Hippias applied to Persia, not only to interfere in the domestic
affairs of a free state, but to reduce that state, his native city, to the
subjection of the satrap. Is there any parallel between these cases? If
not, what dulness in instituting it! But the dishonesty is equal to the
dulness. Herodotus, the only author Mr. Mitford here follows, expressly
declares (I. v., c. 96) that Hippias sought to induce Artaphernes to
subject Athens to the sway of the satrap and his master, Darius; yet Mr.
Mitford says not a syllable of this, leaving his reader to suppose that
Hippias merely sought to be restored to his country through the
intercession of the satrap.
262 (return)
[ What does Mr. Mitford mean by this betrayal? “We have seen,” says that historian, “the democracy of Athens itself setting the example (among the states of old Greece) of soliciting Persian protection. Will, then, the liberal spirit of patriotism and equal government justify the prejudices of Athenian factions (!!!) and condemn Hippias to peculiar blame, because, in the end, he also, along with many of his fellow citizens, in despair of ever returning to their homeland, appealed to Artaphernes in Sardis?” It’s hard to say which is more impressive, the ignorance or the dishonesty of this statement. The Athenian democracy sought Persian help against the unjust invasion of their city and freedoms by a foreign force; Hippias appealed to Persia, not only to involve itself in the internal issues of a free state, but to bring that state, his hometown, under the control of the satrap. Is there any comparison between these situations? If not, what foolishness in making it! But the dishonesty is as bad as the foolishness. Herodotus, the only author Mr. Mitford relies on here, clearly states (I. v., c. 96) that Hippias tried to persuade Artaphernes to bring Athens under the control of the satrap and his master, Darius; yet Mr. Mitford doesn’t mention this at all, leaving his readers to think that Hippias only sought to return to his country through the satrap's help.
264 (return)
[ Aulus Gellius, who relates
this anecdote with more detail than Herodotus, asserts that the slave
himself was ignorant of the characters written on his scull, that
Histiaeus selected a domestic who had a disease in his eyes—shaved
him, punctured the skin, and sending him to Miletus when the hair was
grown, assured the credulous patient that Aristagoras would complete the
cure by shaving him a second time. According to this story we must rather
admire the simplicity of the slave than the ingenuity of Histiaeus.
264 (return)
[ Aulus Gellius, who shares this story in more detail than Herodotus, claims that the slave himself didn’t know what was written on his scalp. Histiaeus chose a servant who had eye problems—he shaved him, made a small cut in his skin, and after the hair grew back, sent him to Miletus, telling the gullible servant that Aristagoras would finish the treatment by shaving him again. Based on this account, we should admire the naivety of the slave more than the cleverness of Histiaeus.
265 (return)
[ Rather a hyperbolical
expression—the total number of free Athenians did not exceed twenty
thousand.
265 (return)
[ Quite an exaggerated statement—the total number of free Athenians was no more than twenty thousand.
266 (return)
[ The Paeonians.
266 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ The Paeonians.
267 (return)
[ Hecataeus, the historian of
Miletus, opposed the retreat to Myrcinus, advising his countrymen rather
to fortify themselves in the Isle of Leros, and await the occasion to
return to Miletus. This early writer seems to have been one of those
sagacious men who rarely obtain their proper influence in public affairs,
because they address the reason in opposition to the passions of those
they desire to lead. Unsuccessful in this proposition, Hecataeus had
equally failed on two former occasions;—first, when he attempted to
dissuade the Milesians from the revolt of Aristagoras: secondly, when,
finding them bent upon it, he advised them to appropriate the sacred
treasures in the temple at Branchidae to the maintenance of a naval force.
On each occasion his advice failed precisely because given without
prejudice or passion. The successful adviser must appear to sympathize
even with the errors of his audience.
267 (return)
[ Hecataeus, the historian from Miletus, was against the retreat to Myrcinus, urging his fellow citizens instead to build defenses on the Isle of Leros and wait for a chance to return to Miletus. This early writer seemed to be one of those insightful individuals who often struggle to gain influence in public matters because they rely on reason rather than the emotions of those they wish to guide. After failing to sway opinions this time, Hecataeus had also been unsuccessful in two previous attempts: first, when he tried to talk the Milesians out of supporting Aristagoras's revolt; and second, when he found them determined to proceed and suggested they use the sacred treasures from the temple at Branchidae to fund a naval force. Each time his advice was rejected for being too rational and unemotional. A successful advisor must seem to relate even to the mistakes of their audience.
268 (return)
[ The humane Darius—whose
virtues were his own, his faults of his station—treated the son of
Miltiades with kindness and respect, married him to a Persian woman, and
endowed him with an estate. It was the habitual policy of that great king
to attach to his dominions the valour and the intellect of the Greeks.
268 (return)
[ The compassionate Darius—whose strengths were his own, and whose weaknesses stemmed from his position—treated the son of Miltiades with kindness and respect, married him to a Persian woman, and gave him an estate. It was the regular strategy of that great king to incorporate the courage and intelligence of the Greeks into his realms.
269 (return)
[ Pausanias says, that
Talthybius afterward razed the house of Miltiades, because that chief
instigated the Athenians to the execution of the Persian envoys.
269 (return)
[ Pausanias says that Talthybius later destroyed Miltiades' house because Miltiades encouraged the Athenians to execute the Persian envoys.
270 (return)
[ Demaratus had not only
prevented the marriage of Leotychides with a maiden named Percalos, but,
by a mixture of violence and artifice, married her himself. Thus, even
among the sober and unloving Spartans, woman could still be the author of
revolutions.
270 (return)
[ Demaratus not only stopped Leotychides from marrying a young woman named Percalos, but he also, through a mix of force and cleverness, married her himself. So, even among the serious and unromantic Spartans, women could still inspire change.
271 (return)
[ The national pride of the
Spartans would not, however, allow that their king was the object of the
anger of the gods, and ascribing his excesses to his madness, accounted
for the last by a habit of excessive drinking which he had acquired from
the Scythians
271 (return)
[ The national pride of the Spartans wouldn’t let them believe that their king was the target of the gods' wrath, and attributing his actions to his insanity, they explained his recent behavior as a result of a drinking habit he had picked up from the Scythians.
275 (return)
[ In his attack upon
Herodotus, Plutarch asserts that the Spartans did make numerous military
excursions at the beginning of the month; if this be true, so far from
excusing the Spartans, it only corroborates the natural suspicion that
they acted in accordance, not with superstition, but with their usual
calculating and selfish policy —ever as slow to act in the defence
of other states as prompt to assert the independence of their own.
275 (return)
[ In his criticism of Herodotus, Plutarch claims that the Spartans did carry out many military campaigns at the start of the month; if this is true, it doesn’t excuse the Spartans at all. Instead, it supports the common belief that they acted not out of superstition, but out of their typical calculating and self-serving strategy—always quick to defend their own independence while being slow to support other states.
277 (return)
[ The exact number of the
Athenians is certainly doubtful. Herodotus does not specify it. Justin
estimates the number of citizens at ten thousand, besides a thousand
Plataeans: Nepos at ten thousand in all; Pausanias at nine thousand. But
this total, furnished by authorities so equivocal, seems incredibly small.
The free population could have been little short of twenty thousand. We
must add the numbers, already great, of the resident aliens and the
slaves, who, as Pausanias tells us, were then for the first time admitted
to military service. On the other hand it is evident, from the speech of
Miltiades to Callimachus, and the supposed treachery of the Alcmaeonidae,
that some, nor an inconsiderable, force, was left in reserve at Athens for
the protection of the city. Let us suppose, however, that two thirds of
the Athenian citizens of military age, viz., between the ages of twenty
and sixty, marched to Marathon (and this was but the common proportion on
common occasions), the total force, with the slaves, the settlers, and the
Plataean auxiliaries, could not amount to less than fifteen or sixteen
thousand. But whatever the precise number of the heroes of Marathon, we
have ample testimony for the general fact that it was so trifling when
compared with the Persian armament, as almost to justify the exaggeration
of later writers.
277 (return)
[ The exact number of Athenians is definitely uncertain. Herodotus doesn’t specify it. Justin estimates the number of citizens at ten thousand, plus a thousand Plataeans; Nepos at ten thousand total; Pausanias at nine thousand. However, this total, provided by such dubious sources, seems incredibly low. The free population might have been close to twenty thousand. We must also consider the already significant numbers of resident aliens and slaves, who, as Pausanias tells us, were allowed to serve in the military for the first time. On the other hand, it’s clear from Miltiades’ speech to Callimachus and the alleged betrayal of the Alcmaeonidae that some, likely substantial, force was kept in reserve in Athens for the city's protection. Let’s assume that two-thirds of Athenian citizens of military age, between twenty and sixty years old, marched to Marathon (which was the usual proportion in typical situations); the total force, including slaves, settlers, and Plataean allies, likely amounted to at least fifteen or sixteen thousand. But regardless of the exact number of the heroes of Marathon, we have plenty of evidence to suggest that it was so small compared to the Persian forces that it almost justifies the exaggerations of later writers.
278 (return)
[ Plut. in Vit. Aris.
Aristid., pro Quatuor Vias, vol. ii., p. 222, edit. Dindorf.
278 (return)
[ Plut. in Vit. Aris. Aristid., pro Quatuor Vias, vol. ii., p. 222, edit. Dindorf.
279 (return)
[ In his graceful work on
Athens and Attica, Mr. Wordsworth has well observed the peculiar propriety
of this reference to the examples of Harmodius and Aristogiton, as
addressed to Callimachus. They were from the same borough (aphidnae) as
the polemarch himself.
279 (return)
In his elegant work on Athens and Attica, Mr. Wordsworth insightfully points out the specific relevance of referencing Harmodius and Aristogiton in relation to Callimachus. They were from the same borough (Aphidnae) as the polemarch himself.
280 (return)
[ The goddess of Athens was
supposed to have invented a peculiar trumpet used by her favoured
votaries.
280 (return)
[ The goddess of Athens was believed to have created a unique trumpet for her favorite worshippers.
281 (return)
[ To raise the standard was
the sign of battle.—Suidas, Thucyd. Schol., c. 1. On the Athenian
standard was depicted the owl of Minerva.—Plut. in Vit. Lysand.
281 (return)
[ Raising the standard was the signal for battle.—Suidas, Thucyd. Schol., c. 1. The Athenian standard featured the owl of Minerva.—Plut. in Vit. Lysand.
282
[ Aeschyl. Persae.
282
[ Aeschyl. Persae.
283 (return)
[ Ibid.
283 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Same source.
286 (return)
[ Roos hespera. Aristoph.,
Vesp 1080.
286 (return)
[ Roos hespera. Aristoph.,
Vesp 1080.
288 (return)
[ According, however, to
Suidas, he escaped and died at Lemnos.
288 (return)
[ According to Suidas, though, he managed to escape and died in Lemnos.
289 (return)
[ This incident confirms the
expressed fear of Miltiades, that delay in giving battle might produce
division and treachery among some of the Athenians. Doubtless his speech
referred to some particular faction or individuals.
289 (return)
[ This incident confirms Miltiades' concern that waiting to fight could lead to division and betrayal among some of the Athenians. It's clear his speech was aimed at a specific group or individuals.
291 (return)
[ These apparitions, recorded
by Pausanias, l. i., c. 33, are still believed in by the peasantry.
291 (return)
[ These sightings, noted by Pausanias, l. i., c. 33, are still believed in by the local farmers.
1 (return)
[ “Cum consuetudine ad imperii
cupiditatem trahi videretur.”—Nepos in Vit. Milt., cap. 8.
1 (return)
[ “It seemed that he was drawn by the habit of a desire for power.”—Nepos in Vit. Milt., cap. 8.
5 (return)
[ Nepos says the fine was
estimated at the cost of the navy he had conducted to Paros; but Boeckh
rightly observes, that it is an ignorant assertion of that author that the
fine was intended for a compensation, being the usual mode of assessing
the offence.
5 (return)
[ Nepos states that the fine was estimated based on the expenses of the navy he led to Paros; however, Boeckh rightly points out that this claim by the author is misguided, as the fine was actually meant to reflect the standard way of evaluating the offense.
The case is simply this—Miltiades was accused—whether justly or unjustly no matter—it was clearly as impossible not to receive the accusation and to try the cause, as it would be for an English court of justice to refuse to admit a criminal action against Lord Grey or the Duke of Wellington. Was Miltiades guilty or not? This we cannot tell. We know that he was tried according to the law, and that the Athenians thought him guilty, for they condemned him. So far this is not ingratitude—it is the course of law. A man is tried and found guilty—if past services and renown were to save the great from punishment when convicted of a state offence, society would perhaps be disorganized, and certainly a free state would cease to exist. The question therefore shrinks to this—was it or was it not ungrateful in the people to relax the penalty of death, legally incurred, and commute it to a heavy fine? I fear we shall find few instances of greater clemency in monarchies, however mild. Miltiades unhappily died. But nature slew him, not the Athenian people. And it cannot be said with greater justice of the Athenians, than of a people no less illustrious, and who are now their judges, that it was their custom “de tuer en amiral pour encourager les autres.”
The situation is straightforward—Miltiades was accused—whether justly or unjustly doesn’t matter—it was clearly impossible not to accept the accusation and to put the case to trial, just as it would be for an English court to refuse to hear a criminal case against Lord Grey or the Duke of Wellington. Was Miltiades guilty or not? We can't say for sure. We know he was tried according to the law, and the Athenians found him guilty because they condemned him. This isn't ingratitude—it’s how the law works. A man is tried and found guilty—if past services and fame could spare the powerful from punishment when they commit a serious crime, society would likely fall apart, and a free state would no longer exist. The question then becomes—was it or was it not ungrateful for the people to lessen the legally imposed penalty of death and change it to a hefty fine? I fear we won’t find many examples of greater mercy in monarchies, no matter how lenient. Miltiades unfortunately died. But nature caused his death, not the Athenian people. It can be said with equal fairness about the Athenians, as well as a no less distinguished people who are now their judges, that it was their custom “to kill an admiral to encourage the others.”
6 (return)
[ The taste of a people, which
is to art what public opinion is to legislation, is formed, like public
opinion, by habitual social intercourse and collision. The more men are
brought together to converse and discuss, the more the principles of a
general national taste will become both diffused and refined. Less to
their climate, to their scenery, to their own beauty of form, than to
their social habits and preference of the public to the domestic life, did
the Athenians, and the Grecian republics generally, owe that wonderful
susceptibility to the beautiful and harmonious, which distinguishes them
above all nations ancient or modern. Solitude may exalt the genius of a
man, but communion alone can refine the taste of a people.
6 (return)
[ The taste of a society, which is to art what public opinion is to lawmaking, is shaped, like public opinion, by regular social interactions and debates. The more people come together to talk and discuss, the more the principles of a shared national taste will spread and become refined. It was less due to their climate, scenery, or their own beauty that the Athenians and other Greek republics developed their remarkable sensitivity to beauty and harmony, which sets them apart from all ancient and modern nations. Solitude may enhance an individual's genius, but only social interaction can elevate the taste of a community.
7 (return)
[ It seems probable that the
principal Bacchic festival was originally held at the time of the vintage—condita
post frumenta. But from the earliest known period in Attica, all the
triple Dionysia were celebrated during the winter and the spring.
7 (return)
[ It seems likely that the main Bacchic festival was initially celebrated during the harvest season—condita post frumenta. However, from the earliest recorded times in Attica, all three Dionysia festivals took place in the winter and spring.
8 (return)
[ Egyptian, according to
Herodotus, who asserts, that Melampus first introduced the Phallic symbol
among the Greeks, though he never sufficiently explained its mysterious
significations, which various sages since his time had, however,
satisfactorily interpreted. It is just to the Greeks to add, that this
importation, with the other rites of Bacchus, was considered at utter
variance with their usual habits and manners.
8 (return)
According to Herodotus, the Egyptians say that Melampus was the first to bring the Phallic symbol to the Greeks, although he never clearly explained its mysterious meanings, which various thinkers have since interpreted satisfactorily. It's fair to say that the Greeks regarded this introduction, along with the other rituals of Bacchus, as completely out of sync with their typical customs and behavior.
9 (return)
[ Herodotus asserts that Arion
first named, invented, and taught the dithyramb at Corinth; but, as
Bentley triumphantly observes, Athenaeus has preserved to us the very
verses of Archilochus, his predecessor by a century, in which the song of
the dithyramb is named.
9 (return)
[ Herodotus claims that Arion was the first to name, invent, and teach the dithyramb in Corinth; however, as Bentley proudly points out, Athenaeus has kept for us the exact verses of Archilochus, who came a century before, in which the song of the dithyramb is mentioned.
10 (return)
[ In these remarks upon the
origin of the drama, it would belong less to history than to scholastic
dissertation, to enter into all the disputed and disputable points. I do
not, therefore, pause with every step to discuss the questions contested
by antiquarians—such as, whether the word “tragedy,” in its
primitive and homely sense, together with the prize of the goat, was or
was not known in Attica prior to Thespis (it seems to me that the least
successful part of Bentley’s immortal work is that which attempts to
enforce the latter proposition); still less do I think a grave answer due
to those who, in direct opposition to authorities headed by the grave and
searching Aristotle, contend that the exhibitions of Thespis were of a
serious and elevated character. The historian must himself weigh the
evidences on which he builds his conclusions; and come to those
conclusions, especially in disputes which bring to unimportant and
detached inquiries the most costly expenditure of learning, without
fatiguing the reader with a repetition of all the arguments which he
accepts or rejects. For those who incline to go more deeply into subjects
connected with the early Athenian drama, works by English and German
authors, too celebrated to enumerate, will be found in abundance. But even
the most careless general reader will do well to delight himself with that
dissertation of Bentley on Phalaris, so familiar to students, and which,
despite some few intemperate and bold assumptions, will always remain one
of the most colossal monuments of argument and erudition.
10 (return)
[ In these comments about the origins of drama, it would be less about history and more about academic debate to go into all the contested points. Therefore, I won’t stop at each step to discuss the arguments argued by historians—like whether the word “tragedy,” in its original and simple sense, along with the goat prize, was known in Attica before Thespis (it seems to me that the least convincing part of Bentley’s timeless work is that which tries to prove this latter point); even less do I think it's necessary to respond seriously to those who, going against authorities like the serious and insightful Aristotle, argue that Thespis’ performances were of a serious and elevated nature. The historian must assess the evidence upon which they base their conclusions and arrive at those conclusions, especially in disputes that apply excessive scholarly effort to trivial and separate inquiries, without tiring the reader with a repetition of all the arguments they accept or reject. For those interested in diving deeper into topics related to early Athenian drama, there are plenty of works by renowned English and German authors to explore. But even the most casual reader would benefit from enjoying Bentley's dissertation on Phalaris, which is well-known among students and, despite a few rash and bold claims, will always stand as one of the greatest achievements of argumentation and scholarship.
11 (return)
[ Aeschylus was a Pythagorean.
“Veniat Aeschylus, sed etiam Pythagoreus.”—Cic. Tusc. Dis., b. ii.,
9.
11 (return)
[ Aeschylus was a follower of Pythagoras.
“Let Aeschylus come, but also as a Pythagorean.”—Cic. Tusc. Dis., b. ii.,
9.
12 (return)
[ Out of fifty plays,
thirty-two were satyrical.—Suidas in Prat.
12 (return)
[ Out of fifty plays, thirty-two were comedies. —Suidas in Prat.
13 (return)
[ The Tetralogy was the name
given to the fourfold exhibition of the three tragedies, or trilogy, and
the Satyric Drama.
13 (return)
[ The Tetralogy was the term used for the four-part presentation of the three tragedies, also known as a trilogy, along with the Satyric Drama.
14 (return)
[ Yet in Aeschylus there are
sometimes more than two speaking actors on the stage,—as at one time
in the Choephori, Clytemnestra, Orestes, Electra (to say nothing of
Pylades, who is silent), and again in the same play, Orestes, Pylades, and
Clytemnestra, also in the Eumenides, Apollo, Minerva, Orestes. It is truly
observed, however, that these plays were written after Sophocles had
introduced the third actor. [Footnote The Orestean tetralogy was exhibited
B. C. 455, only two years before the death of Aeschylus, and ten years
after Sophocles had gained his first prize.: Any number of mutes might be
admitted, not only as guards, etc., but even as more important personages.
Thus, in the Prometheus, the very opening of the play exhibits to us the
demons of Strength and Force, the god Vulcan, and Prometheus himself; but
the dialogue is confined to Strength and Vulcan.
14 (return)
[ In Aeschylus’s plays, there are sometimes more than two speaking actors on stage—as seen in the Choephori, where Clytemnestra, Orestes, and Electra take part (not to mention Pylades, who is silent). In the same play, we also see Orestes, Pylades, and Clytemnestra, and in the Eumenides, there are Apollo, Minerva, and Orestes. It’s worth noting that these plays were written after Sophocles introduced the third actor. [Footnote The Orestean tetralogy was performed in B.C. 455, just two years before Aeschylus’s death, and ten years after Sophocles won his first prize.: Various silent characters can be included, not only as guards and so on but even as more significant figures. For instance, in the Prometheus, the play begins with the demons of Strength and Force, the god Vulcan, and Prometheus himself; however, the dialogue is limited to Strength and Vulcan.
15 (return)
[ The celebrated temple of
Bacchus; built after the wooden theatre had given way beneath the
multitude assembled to witness a contest between Pratinas and Aeschylus.
15 (return)
[ The famous temple of Bacchus; built after the wooden theater collapsed under the crowd gathered to watch a competition between Pratinas and Aeschylus.
16 (return)
[ 1st. The rural Dionysia,
held in the country districts throughout Attica about the beginning of
January. 2d. The Lenaean, or Anthesterial, Dionysia, in the end of
February and beginning of March, in which principally occurred the comic
contests; and the grand Dionysis of the city, referred to in the text.
Afterward dramatic performances were exhibited also, in August, during the
Panathenaea.
16 (return)
[ 1st. The rural Dionysia, held in the countryside of Attica around early January. 2nd. The Lenaean, or Anthesterial, Dionysia, at the end of February and the start of March, which mainly featured comic competitions; and the grand Dionysia of the city, mentioned in the text. Later, dramatic performances were also shown in August during the Panathenaea.
17 (return)
[ That is, when three actors
became admitted on the stage.
17 (return)
[ That is, when three actors were let on stage.
18 (return)
[ For it is sufficiently clear
that women were admitted to the tragic performances, though the arguments
against their presence in comic plays preponderate. This admitted, the
manners of the Greeks may be sufficient to prove that, as in the arena of
the Roman games, they were divided from the men; as, indeed, is indirectly
intimated in a passage of the Gorgias of Plato.
18 (return)
[ It's pretty clear that women were allowed at the tragic performances, although there are more arguments against them being present in comic plays. With that established, the customs of the Greeks suggest that, similar to the Roman games, they were separated from the men; as is indirectly hinted at in a passage from Plato's Gorgias.
19 (return)
[ Schlegel says truly and
eloquently of the chorus—“that it was the idealized spectator”—“reverberating
to the actual spectator a musical and lyrical expression of his own
emotions.”
19 (return)
[ Schlegel accurately and eloquently describes the chorus as “the idealized audience”—“reflecting to the actual audience a musical and lyrical expression of their own emotions.”
20 (return)
[ In this speech he
enumerates, among other benefits, that of Numbers, “the prince of wise
inventions”—one of the passages in which Aeschylus is supposed to
betray his Pythagorean doctrines.
20 (return)
[ In this speech, he lists several advantages, including Numbers, “the king of smart inventions”—one of the parts where Aeschylus is thought to reveal his Pythagorean beliefs.
21 (return)
[ It is greatly disputed
whether Io was represented on the stage as transformed into the actual
shape of a heifer, or merely accursed with a visionary phrensy, in which
she believes in the transformation. It is with great reluctance that I own
it seems to me not possible to explain away certain expressions without
supposing that Io appeared on the stage at least partially transformed.
21 (return)
[ There's a lot of debate about whether Io was actually shown on stage as a heifer or if she was just cursed with a delusion where she thinks she has transformed. I reluctantly admit that it seems to me impossible to dismiss certain expressions without assuming that Io appeared on stage at least somewhat transformed.
22 (return)
[ Vit. Aesch.
22 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Vit. Aesch.
23 (return)
[ It is the orthodox custom of
translators to render the dialogue of the Greek plays in blank verse; but
in this instance the whole animation and rapidity of the original would be
utterly lost in the stiff construction and protracted rhythm of that
metre.
23 (return)
[ It's standard practice for translators to present the dialogue of Greek plays in blank verse; however, in this case, the energy and quick pace of the original would be completely lost in the rigid structure and extended rhythm of that meter.
25 (return)
[ To make the sense of this
detached passage more complete, and conclude the intelligence which the
queen means to convey, the concluding line in the text is borrowed from
the next speech of Clytemnestra—following immediately after a brief
and exclamatory interruption of the chorus.
25 (return)
[ To make the meaning of this disconnected passage clearer and to wrap up the message the queen intends to convey, the final line in the text is taken from Clytemnestra's next speech—right after a short and emotional interruption from the chorus.
26 (return)
[ i. e. Menelaus, made by
grief like the ghost of his former self.
26 (return)
[ i. e. Menelaus, transformed by sorrow into just a shadow of his former self.]
27 (return)
[ The words in italics attempt
to convey paraphrastically a new construction of a sentence which has
puzzled the commentators, and met with many and contradictory
interpretations. The original literally is—“I pity the last the
most.” Now, at first it is difficult to conjecture why those whose
adversity is over, “blotted out with the moistened sponge,” should be the
most deserving of compassion. But it seems to me that Cassandra applies
the sentiments to herself—she pities those whose career of grief is
over, because it is her own lot which she commiserates, and by reference
to which she individualizes a general reflection.
27 (return)
[ The words in italics try to express a new way of constructing a sentence that has confused commentators and been interpreted in many contradictory ways. The original literally reads—“I feel the most pity for the last.” At first, it’s hard to understand why those whose hardships are over, “erased with the wet sponge,” should deserve the most sympathy. But it seems to me that Cassandra is applying these feelings to herself—she feels sorry for those whose suffering has ended, because she is mourning her own situation, and through this reference, she personalizes a broader reflection.
28 (return)
[ Perhaps his mere diction
would find a less feeble resemblance in passages of Shelley, especially in
the Prometheus of that poet, than in any other poetry existent. But his
diction alone. His power is in concentration—the quality of Shelley
is diffuseness. The interest excited by Aeschylus, even to those who can
no longer sympathize with the ancient associations, is startling,
terrible, and intense—that excited by Shelley is lukewarm and
tedious. The intellectuality of Shelley destroyed, that of Aeschylus only
increased, his command over the passions.
28 (return)
[ Maybe his choice of words would have a stronger connection to some parts of Shelley’s work, particularly in the Prometheus, than to any other poetry out there. But it’s just his way of speaking. His strength lies in his focus—whereas Shelley tends to be more scattered. The emotions stirred by Aeschylus, even for those who can’t relate to the old associations anymore, are shocking, frightening, and intense—while those stirred by Shelley are just mild and boring. Shelley's intellectuality fades, but Aeschylus's only enhances his ability to tap into people’s feelings.
29 (return)
[ In the comedy of “The
Frogs,” Aristophanes makes it the boast of Aeschylus, that he never drew a
single woman influenced by love. Spanheim is surprised that Aristophanes
should ascribe such a boast to the author of the “Agamemnon.” But the love
of Clytemnestra for Aegisthus is never drawn—never delineated. It is
merely suggested and hinted at—a sentiment lying dark and concealed
behind the motives to the murder of Agamemnon ostensibly brought forward,
viz., revenge for the sacrifice of Iphigenia, and jealousy of Cassandra.
29 (return)
[ In the comedy "The Frogs," Aristophanes proudly claims that Aeschylus never portrayed a single woman motivated by love. Spanheim is surprised that Aristophanes would credit such a claim to the author of "Agamemnon." However, Clytemnestra's love for Aegisthus is never depicted—it's only suggested and hinted at, lying dark and hidden behind her apparent motives for murdering Agamemnon: revenge for the sacrifice of Iphigenia and jealousy of Cassandra. ]
31 (return)
[ I reject the traditions
which make Aristides and Themistocles rivals as boys, because chronology
itself refutes them. Aristides must have been of mature age at the battle
of Marathon, if he was the friend and follower of Clisthenes, one of the
ten generals in the action, and archon in the following year. But both
Plutarch and Justin assure us that Themistocles was very young at the
battle of Marathon, and this assurance is corroborated by other facts
connected with his biography. He died at the age of sixty-five, but he
lived to see the siege of Cyprus by Cimon. This happened B. C. 449. If,
then, we refer his death to that year, he was born 514 B. C., and
therefore was about twenty-four at the battle of Marathon.
31 (return)
[ I reject the idea that Aristides and Themistocles were rivals as boys because the timeline disproves it. Aristides must have been an adult during the battle of Marathon since he was a friend and follower of Clisthenes, one of the ten generals in that battle, and archon the following year. However, both Plutarch and Justin confirm that Themistocles was very young at the battle of Marathon, and this is supported by other facts about his life. He died at sixty-five but lived to see Cimon's siege of Cyprus, which occurred in 449 B.C. If we date his death to that year, he would have been born in 514 B.C., making him about twenty-four during the battle of Marathon.
32 (return)
[ Plut. in Vit. Them.
Heraclides et Idomeneus ap. Athen., lib. 12.
32 (return)
[ Plutarch, in the Life of Theseus.
Heraclides and Idomeneus in Athens, book 12.
33 (return)
[ See Dodwell’s “Tour through
Greece,” Gell’s “Itinerary.”
33 (return)
[ See Dodwell’s “Tour through Greece,” Gell’s “Itinerary.”
34 (return)
[ “Called by some Laurion
Oros, or Mount Laurion.” Gell’s Itinerary.
34 (return)
[ “Referred to by some as Laurion Oros or Mount Laurion.” Gell’s Itinerary.
35 (return)
[ Boeckh’s Dissert. on the
Silver Mines of Laurium.
35 (return)
[ Boeckh’s Dissertation on the Silver Mines of Laurium.
36 (return)
[ Boeckh’s Dissert. on the
Silver Mines of Laurium.
36 (return)
[ Boeckh’s Dissertation on the Silver Mines of Laurium.
37 (return)
[ On this point, see Boeckh.
Dissert. on the Silver Mines of Laurion, in reference to the account of
Diodorus.
37 (return)
[ For more information on this, refer to Boeckh.
Dissertation on the Silver Mines of Laurion, in relation to Diodorus's account.
38 (return)
[ If we except the death of
his brother, in the Cambyses of Ctesias, we find none of the crimes of the
Cambyses of Herodotus—and even that fratricide loses its harsher
aspect in the account of Ctesias, and Cambyses is represented as betrayed
into the crime by a sincere belief in his brother’s treason.
38 (return)
[ Aside from the death of his brother in Ctesias's Cambyses, there are no of the crimes found in Herodotus's Cambyses—and even that act of killing his brother seems less severe in Ctesias's version, where Cambyses is shown as being misled into the act by genuinely believing in his brother's betrayal.
39 (return)
[ The account of this
conspiracy in Ctesias seems more improbable than that afforded to us by
Herodotus. But in both the most extraordinary features of the plot are the
same, viz., the striking likeness between the impostor and the dead
prince, and the complete success which, for a time, attended the fraud. In
both narrations, too, we can perceive, behind the main personages
ostensibly brought forward, the outline of a profound device of the magi
to win back from the Persian conquerors, and to secure to a Mede, the
empire of the East.
39 (return)
[ The story of this conspiracy told by Ctesias seems less believable than the one we get from Herodotus. However, in both accounts, the most remarkable elements of the plot are the same: the striking resemblance between the impostor and the deceased prince, and the complete success of the deception for a time. In both narratives, we can also see, behind the main characters presented, the outline of a clever scheme by the magi to reclaim the empire of the East from the Persian conquerors and secure it for a Mede.
40 (return)
[ Herodotus says it was
resolved that the king could only marry into the family of one of the
conspirators; but Darius married two daughters and one grand-daughter of
Cyrus. It is more consonant with eastern manners to suppose that it was
arranged that the king should give his own daughters in marriage to
members of these six houses. It would have been scarcely possible to claim
the monopoly of the royal seraglio, whether its tenants were wives or
concubines, and in all probability the king’s choice was only limited (nor
that very rigidly) to the family of Cyrus, and the numerous and privileged
race of the Achaemenids.
40 (return)
[ Herodotus states that it was decided the king could only marry someone from one of the conspirator's families; however, Darius ended up marrying two daughters and one granddaughter of Cyrus. It makes more sense, given eastern customs, to think that it was agreed the king would give his own daughters in marriage to members of these six families. It would have been nearly impossible to claim exclusive rights to the royal harem, whether they were wives or concubines, and it's likely the king's choices were only somewhat restricted to the family of Cyrus and the many privileged members of the Achaemenid line.
41 (return)
[ Besides the regular
subsidies, we gather from Herodotus, I. c. 92, that the general population
was obliged to find subsistence for the king and his armies. Babylon
raised a supply for four months, the resources of that satrapy being
adequate to a third part of Asia.
41 (return)
Besides the usual subsidies, we learn from Herodotus, I. c. 92, that the general population had to provide for the king and his armies. Babylon managed to supply resources for four months, with that region being able to support a third of Asia.
42 (return)
[ That comparatively small and
frontier part of India known to Darius.
42 (return)
[ That relatively small and remote area of India recognized by Darius.
43 (return)
[ Forming a revenue of more
than 100,000l. sterling.—Heeren’s Persians, chap. ii.
43 (return)
[ Generating a revenue of over £100,000. —Heeren’s Persians, chap. ii.
44 (return)
[ Such are the expressions of
Herodotus. His testimony is corroborated by the anecdotes in his own
history, and, indeed, by all other ancient authorities.
44 (return)
[ These are the statements of Herodotus. His accounts are supported by the stories in his own history, and, in fact, by all other ancient sources.
45 (return)
[ Dinon. (Apud Athen., lib.
xiii.) observes, that the Persian queen tolerated the multitude of
concubines common to the royal seraglio, because they worshipped her, like
a divinity.
45 (return)
[ Dinon. (Quoted in Athen., book xiii.) notes that the Persian queen accepted the many concubines typical of the royal harem because they revered her as if she were a goddess.
46 (return)
[ See, in addition to more
familiar authorities, the curious remarks and anecdotes relative to the
luxury of the Persian kings, in the citations from Dinon, Heraclides,
Agathocles, and Chares of Mitylene, scattered throughout Athenaeus, lib.
xii., xiii., xiv.; but especially lib. xii.
46 (return)
[ Aside from the well-known sources, check out the interesting comments and stories about the opulence of the Persian kings found in the references from Dinon, Heraclides, Agathocles, and Chares of Mitylene, spread throughout Athenaeus, books xii., xiii., xiv.; but particularly book xii.
47 (return)
[ Strabo, lib. xv, Herod.,
lib. i., c. cxxxi., etc.
47 (return)
[ Strabo, book 15, Herodotus, book 1, chapter 131, etc.
48 (return)
[ Among innumerable instances
of the disdain of human life contracted after their conquest by those very
Persians who, in their mountain obscurity, would neither permit their
sovereign to put any one to death for a single offence, nor the master of
a household to exercise undue severity to a member of his family (Herod.,
lib. i., c. cxxxvii.), is one recorded by Herodotus, and in the main
corroborated by Justin. Darius is at the siege of Babylon; Zopyrus, one of
the seven conspirators against the magian, maims himself and enters
Babylon as a deserter, having previously concerted with Darius that a
thousand men, whose loss he could best spare, should be sent one day to
the gate of Semiramis, and two thousand, another day, to the gates of
Ninus, and four thousand, a third day, to the Chaldaean gates. All these
detachments Zopyrus, at the head of the Babylonians, deliberately
butchered. The confidence of the Babylonians thus obtained, Zopyrus was
enabled to betray the city to the king. This cold-blooded and treacherous
immolation of seven thousand subjects was considered by the humane Darius
and the Persians generally a proof of the most illustrious virtue in
Zopyrus, who received for it the reward of the satrapy of Babylon. The
narrative is so circumstantial as to bear internal evidence of its general
truth. In fact, a Persian would care no more for the lives of seven
thousand Medes than a Spartan would care for the lives of suspected
Helots.
48 (return)
[ Among countless examples of the disregard for human life that emerged after their conquest by the Persians, who, in their remote mountains, would not allow their ruler to execute anyone for a single offense, nor would they permit a household master to be excessively harsh with a family member (Herod., lib. i., c. cxxxvii.), one notable instance recorded by Herodotus, and largely supported by Justin, is as follows. Darius was besieging Babylon when Zopyrus, one of the seven conspirators against the magian, injured himself and entered Babylon pretending to be a deserter. He had previously agreed with Darius to send a thousand men, whose loss he could afford, to the gate of Semiramis on one day, two thousand to the gates of Ninus on another day, and four thousand, on a third day, to the Chaldaean gates. Zopyrus, leading the Babylonians, intentionally slaughtered all these detachments. With the trust of the Babylonians gained, Zopyrus was able to betray the city to the king. This cold-blooded betrayal resulting in the deaths of seven thousand subjects was seen by the compassionate Darius and the Persians in general as a demonstration of exceptional virtue in Zopyrus, who was rewarded with the position of satrap of Babylon. The account is detailed enough to suggest its overall truth. Indeed, a Persian would regard the lives of seven thousand Medes with the same indifference that a Spartan would show towards the lives of suspected Helots.
49 (return)
[ Herodot., lib. i., c.
cxxxiv. The Pasargadae, whom the ancient writers evidently and often
confound with the whole Persian population, retained the old education and
severe discipline for their youth, long after the old virtues had died
away. (See Strabo, xv., Herod., lib. i., and the rhetorical romance of
Xenophon.) But laws and customs, from which the animating spirit of
national opinion and sentiment has passed, are but the cenotaphs of dead
forms embalmed in vain.
49 (return)
[Herodotus, Book I, Chapter 134. The Pasargadae, whom ancient writers often mixed up with the entire Persian population, kept the old education and strict discipline for their youth long after the traditional values had faded away. (See Strabo, Book XV, Herodotus, Book I, and the rhetorical romance by Xenophon.) However, laws and customs that no longer carry the vibrant spirit of national opinion and sentiment are just empty memorials of outdated traditions preserved uselessly.]
50 (return)
[ Ctesias, 20.
50 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Ctesias, 20.
52 (return)
[ Juvenal, Richardson, etc.
The preparations at Mount Athos commenced three years before Xerxes
arrived at Sardis. (Compare Herod., l. vii. 21, with 33, 37.)
52 (return)
[ Juvenal, Richardson, etc.
The preparations at Mount Athos started three years before Xerxes reached Sardis. (See Herod., l. vii. 21, with 33, 37.)
53 (return)
[ Differently computed;
according to Montfaucon, the sum total may be estimated at thirty-two
millions of Louis d’ors.
53 (return)
[ Calculated differently; according to Montfaucon, the total can be estimated at thirty-two million Louis d’or.
54 (return)
[ It must be confessed that
the tears of Xerxes were a little misplaced. He wept that men could not
live a hundred years, at the very moment when he meditated destroying a
tolerable portion of them as soon as he possibly could.—Senec. de
Brev. Vit., c. 17.
54 (return)
[ It has to be said that Xerxes' tears were somewhat misguided. He cried because people couldn't live for a hundred years, at the very moment he was planning to wipe out a significant number of them as soon as he could. —Senec. de Brev. Vit., c. 17.
55 (return)
[ Common also to the ancient
Germans.
55 (return)
[ Also common among the ancient Germans.
56 (return)
[ For this reason—whoever
died, whether by disease or battle, had his place immediately supplied.
Thus their number was invariably the same.
56 (return)
[ For this reason—anyone who died, whether from illness or in battle, was quickly replaced. So their numbers always stayed the same.
57 (return)
[ Diod. Sic.
57 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Diod. Sic.
62 (return)
[ Anaxandrides, king of
Sparta, and father of Cleomenes and Leonidas, had married his niece: she
was barren. The Ephors persuaded him to take another wife; he did so, and
by the second wife. Cleomenes was born. Almost at the same time, the first
wife, hitherto barren, proved with child. And as she continued the
conjugal connexion, in process of time three sons were born; of these
Leonidas was the second. But Cleomenes, though the offspring of the second
wife, came into the world before the children by the first wife and
therefore had the prior right to the throne.
62 (return)
[ Anaxandrides, the king of Sparta and father of Cleomenes and Leonidas, married his niece, but she couldn't have children. The Ephors advised him to marry another woman; he did, and with his second wife, Cleomenes was born. Not long after, the first wife, who had been barren, became pregnant. Over time, as they continued their marriage, three sons were born to her, with Leonidas being the second. However, since Cleomenes was born first, even though he was the son of the second wife, he had the right to the throne before the children of the first wife.
63 (return)
[ It is impossible by any
calculations to render this amount more credible to modern skepticism. It
is extremely likely that Herodotus is mistaken in his calculation; but who
shall correct him?
63 (return)
[ There's no way through any calculations to make this amount seem more believable to today's skepticism. It's highly likely that Herodotus got his calculations wrong; but who can set him right?
64 (return)
[ The Cissii, or Cissians,
inhabited the then fertile province of Susiana, in which was situated the
capital of Susa. They resembled the Persians in dress and manners.
64 (return)
[ The Cissii, or Cissians, lived in the fertile region of Susiana, where the capital city of Susa was located. They dressed and behaved similarly to the Persians.
65 (return)
[ So Herodotus (lib. vii., c.
218); but, as it was summer, the noise was probably made rather by the
boughs that obstructed the path of the barbarians, than by leaves on the
ground.
65 (return)
[ So Herodotus (lib. vii., c. 218); however, since it was summer, the noise was likely caused more by the branches blocking the path of the barbarians than by the leaves on the ground.
66
[ Diod. Sic., xi., viii.
66
[ Diod. Sic., xi., viii.
67 (return)
[ Justin, ii., ix.
67 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Justin, ii., ix.
68 (return)
[ Another Spartan, who had
been sent into Thessaly, and was therefore absent from the slaughter of
Thermopylae, destroyed himself.
68 (return)
[ Another Spartan, who had been sent to Thessaly and was away from the slaughter at Thermopylae, took his own life.
69 (return)
[ The cross was the usual
punishment in Persia for offences against the king’s majesty or rights.
Perhaps, therefore, Xerxes, by the outrage, only desired to signify that
he considered the Spartan as a rebel.
69 (return)
[ The cross was the typical punishment in Persia for offenses against the king’s authority or rights. So, Xerxes, through this act, likely wanted to show that he viewed the Spartan as a traitor.
70 (return)
[ “Thus fought the Greeks at
Thermopylae,” are the simple expressions of Herodotus, lib. vii., c. 234.
70 (return)
[ “This is how the Greeks battled at Thermopylae,” are the straightforward words of Herodotus, lib. vii., c. 234.
71 (return)
[ Thus the command of the
Athenian forces was at one time likely to fall upon Epicydes, a man whose
superior eloquence had gained an ascendency with the people, which was
neither due to his integrity nor to his military skill. Themistocles is
said to have bribed him to forego his pretensions. Themistocles could be
as severe as crafty when occasion demanded: he put to death an interpreter
who accompanied the Persian envoys, probably to the congress at the
Isthmus [Footnote Plutarch implies that these envoys came to Athens, but
Xerxes sent none to that city.:, for debasing the language of free Greeks
to express the demands of the barbarian enemy.
71 (return)
[ At one point, the leadership of the Athenian forces was likely to be handed over to Epicydes, a man whose impressive speaking skills had earned him influence with the people, which was not a result of his honesty or military abilities. Themistocles is said to have bribed him to abandon his ambitions. Themistocles could be both harsh and cunning when necessary: he executed an interpreter who was with the Persian envoys, probably at the congress at the Isthmus, for lowering the language of free Greeks to communicate the demands of the barbarian enemy.
72 (return)
[ Plutarch rejects this story,
very circumstantially told by Herodotus, without adducing a single
satisfactory argument for the rejection. The skepticism of Plutarch is
more frivolous even than his credulity.
72 (return)
[ Plutarch dismisses this story, which is quite thoroughly recounted by Herodotus, without providing a single convincing reason for his dismissal. Plutarch's skepticism is even more trivial than his belief.
73 (return)
[ Demost., Philip. 3. See also
Aeschines contra Ctesiphon.
73 (return)
[ Demosthenes, Philip. 3. See also Aeschines against Ctesiphon.
74 (return)
[ I have said that it might be
doubted whether the death of Leonidas was as serviceable to Greece as his
life might have been; its immediate consequences were certainly
discouraging. If his valour was an example, his defeat was a warning.
74 (return)
[ I have mentioned that some might question whether Leonidas's death was as beneficial to Greece as his life could have been; the immediate effects were definitely disheartening. If his bravery served as a model, his defeat acted as a caution.
75 (return)
[ There were [Footnote three
hundred, for the sake of round numbers—but one of the three hundred—perhaps
two—survived the general massacre.: three hundred Spartans and four
hundred Thespians; supposing that (as it has been asserted) the eighty
warriors of Mycenae also remained with Leonidas, and that one hundred, or
a fourth of the Thebans fell ere their submission was received, this makes
a total of eight hundred and eighty. If we take now what at Plataea was
the actual ratio of the helots as compared with the Spartans, i. e, seven
to one, we shall add two thousand one hundred helots, which make two
thousand nine hundred and ninety; to which must be added such of the
Greeks as fell in the attacks prior to the slaughter of Thermopylae; so
that, in order to make out the total of the slain given by Herodotus, more
than eleven hundred must have perished before the last action, in which
Leonidas fell.
75 (return)
[ There were [Footnote three hundred, for the sake of round numbers—but one of the three hundred—maybe two—survived the general massacre: three hundred Spartans and four hundred Thespians; assuming that (as has been claimed) the eighty warriors of Mycenae also stayed with Leonidas, and that one hundred, or a fourth of the Thebans, died before their surrender was accepted, this adds up to a total of eight hundred and eighty. If we now consider the actual ratio of the helots compared to the Spartans at Plataea, which is seven to one, we should include two thousand one hundred helots, bringing the total to two thousand nine hundred and ninety; to this, we must add any Greeks who fell during the attacks before the massacre at Thermopylae; therefore, to account for the total of the dead mentioned by Herodotus, more than eleven hundred must have died before the final confrontation, in which Leonidas was killed.
77 (return)
[ Ibid.
77 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[Same source.
78 (return)
[ It is differently stated; by
Aeschylus and Nepos at three hundred, by Thucydides at four hundred.
78 (return)
[ It's stated differently; Aeschylus and Nepos say three hundred, while Thucydides mentions four hundred.
80 (return)
[ Here we see additional
reason for admiring the sagacity of Themistocles.
80 (return)
[ Here we find more reasons to appreciate the wisdom of Themistocles.
82 (return)
[ The tutor of his children,
Sicinnus, who had experience of the Eastern manners, and spoke the Persian
language.
82 (return)
[ The children's tutor, Sicinnus, was familiar with Eastern customs and spoke Persian.
83 (return)
[ The number of the Persian
galleys, at the lowest computation, was a thousand [Footnote Nepos,
Herodotus, and Isocrates compute the total at about twelve hundred; the
estimate of one thousand is taken from a dubious and disputed passage in
Aeschylus, which may be so construed as to signify one thousand, including
two hundred and seven vessels, or besides two hundred and seven vessels;
viz., twelve hundred and seven in all, which is the precise number given
by Herodotus. Ctesias says there were more than one thousand.:; that of
the Greeks, as we have seen, three hundred and eighty. But the Persians
were infinitely more numerously manned, having on board of each vessel
thirty men-at-arms, in addition to the usual number of two hundred.
Plutarch seems to state the whole number in each Athenian vessel to be
fourteen heavy armed and four bowmen. But this would make the whole
Athenian force only three thousand two hundred and forty men, including
the bowmen, who were probably not Athenian citizens. It must therefore be
supposed, with Mr. Thirlwall, that the eighteen men thus specified were an
addition to the ordinary company.
83 (return)
[ The number of Persian galleys was at least a thousand. [Footnote Nepos, Herodotus, and Isocrates estimate the total at about twelve hundred; the estimate of one thousand comes from a questionable and contested passage in Aeschylus, which could suggest one thousand, including two hundred and seven vessels, or excluding two hundred and seven vessels; that is, twelve hundred and seven in total, which is the exact number given by Herodotus. Ctesias claims there were more than a thousand. Meanwhile, the Greek ships numbered, as we have noted, three hundred and eighty. However, the Persians were vastly outnumbered when it came to crew, having thirty soldiers on each ship, in addition to the usual two hundred. Plutarch seems to indicate that each Athenian ship had fourteen heavily-armed soldiers and four archers. But if that were the case, the total Athenian force would only amount to three thousand two hundred and forty men, including the archers, who were likely not Athenian citizens. Therefore, it must be assumed, as Mr. Thirlwall suggests, that the eighteen men mentioned were in addition to the regular crew.
84 (return)
[ Aeschylus. Persae. 397.
84 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Aeschylus. Persae. 397.
85 (return)
[ The Persian admiral at
Salamis is asserted by Ctesias to have been Onaphas, father-in-law to
Xerxes. According to Herodotus, it was Ariabignes, the king’s brother, who
seems the same as Artabazanes, with whom he had disputed the throne.—Comp.
Herod., lib. vii., c. 2, and lib. viii., c. 89.
85 (return)
[ Ctesias claims that the Persian admiral at Salamis was Onaphas, who was Xerxes' father-in-law. On the other hand, Herodotus states that it was Ariabignes, the king's brother, who appears to be the same person as Artabazanes, with whom he had a dispute over the throne.—Comp. Herod., lib. vii., c. 2, and lib. viii., c. 89.
87 (return)
[ Plut. in vit. Them. The
Ariamenes of Plutarch is the Ariabignes of Herodotus.
87 (return)
[ Plut. in vit. Them. The Ariamenes of Plutarch is the Ariabignes of Herodotus.
88 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford, neglecting to
observe this error of Xerxes, especially noted by Herodotus, merely
observes—“According to Herodotus, though in this instance we may
have difficulty to give him entire credit, Xerxes, from the shore where he
sat, saw, admired, and applauded the exploit.” From this passage one would
suppose that Xerxes knew it was a friend who had been attacked, and then,
indeed, we could not have credited the account; but if he and those about
him supposed it, as Herodotus states, a foe, what is there incredible?
This is one instance in ten thousand more important ones, of Mr. Mitford’s
habit of arguing upon one sentence by omitting those that follow and
precede it.
88 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford, failing to notice this mistake of Xerxes, specifically pointed out by Herodotus, simply states—“According to Herodotus, although we might find it hard to fully believe him in this case, Xerxes, from the shore where he sat, saw, admired, and praised the action.” From this part, one might think that Xerxes realized it was a friend who had been attacked, and then we could not trust the account; however, if he and those around him believed, as Herodotus claims, it was an enemy, what is so unbelievable about that? This is just one example among many of Mr. Mitford’s tendency to argue based on one sentence while ignoring the ones that come before and after.
89 (return)
[ Diod., lib xi., c. 5.
Herod., lib. viii., c. 110. Nepos, et Plut, in vit. Them.
89 (return)
[ Diod., book 11, chapter 5. Herod., book 8, chapter 110. Nepos and Plutarch, in the life of Themistocles.
91 (return)
[ Ibid. These anecdotes have
the stamp of authenticity.
91 (return)
[ Same source. These stories feel genuine.
92 (return)
[ Herod., lib. viii., c. 125.
See Wesseling’s Comment on Timodemus. Plutarch tells the same anecdote,
but makes the baffled rebuker of Themistocles a citizen of Seriphus, an
island in which, according to Aelian, the frogs never croaked; the men
seem to have made up for the silence of the frogs!
92 (return)
[ Herodotus, book VIII, chapter 125. See Wesseling’s commentary on Timodemus. Plutarch shares the same story but says that the confused critic of Themistocles was a citizen of Seriphus, an island where, according to Aelian, the frogs never croaked; the people there apparently compensated for the frogs' silence!
95 (return)
[ Ibid.
95 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Same source.
96 (return)
[ The custom of lapidation was
common to the earlier ages; it had a kind of sanction, too, in particular
offences; and no crime could be considered by a brave and inflamed people
equal to that of advice against their honour and their liberties.
96 (return)
[ The practice of stoning was common in earlier times; it even had some level of approval for certain offenses; and no crime could be seen by a passionate and bold people as worse than advising against their honor and freedoms.
97 (return)
[ See Herod., lib. ix., c. 10.
Also Mr. Clinton on the Kings of Sparta. Fast. Hell., vol. ii., p. 187.
97 (return)
[ See Herodotus, book 9, chapter 10. Also Mr. Clinton on the Kings of Sparta. Fast. Hell., vol. 2, p. 187.
98 (return)
[ See Herod., lib, vi., c. 58.
After the burial of a Spartan king, ten days were devoted to mourning; nor
was any public business transacted in that interval.
98 (return)
[ See Herod., lib, vi., c. 58. After a Spartan king was buried, there was a ten-day period of mourning, and no public business was conducted during that time.
99 (return)
[ “According to Aristides’
decree,” says Plutarch, “the Athenian envoys were Aristides, Xanthippus,
Myronides, and Cimon.”
99 (return)
[ “As per Aristides’ decree,” Plutarch states, “the Athenian representatives were Aristides, Xanthippus, Myronides, and Cimon.”
100 (return)
[ Herodotus speaks of the
devastation and ruin as complete. But how many ages did the monuments of
Pisistratus survive the ravage of the Persian sword!
100 (return)
[ Herodotus describes the destruction and devastation as total. But how many years did the monuments of Pisistratus endure after the destruction caused by the Persian army!
102 (return)
[ This, among a thousand
anecdotes, proves how salutary and inevitable was the popular distrust of
the aristocracy. When we read of the process of bribing the principal men,
and of the conspiracy entered into by others, we must treat with contempt
those accusations of the jealousy of the Grecian people towards their
superiors which form the staple declamations of commonplace historians.
102 (return)
[ This, along with countless stories, shows how beneficial and unavoidable the public's distrust of the aristocracy was. When we read about the bribery of important figures and the conspiracies involving others, we should dismiss the claims of jealousy from the Greek people towards their elites, which are often repeated by ordinary historians.
103 (return)
[ Gargaphia is one mile and
a half from the town of Plataea. Gell’s Itin. 112.
103 (return)
[ Gargaphia is one and a half miles from the town of Plataea. Gell’s Itin. 112.
105 (return)
[ A strange fall from the
ancient splendour of Mycenae, to furnish only four hundred men, conjointly
with Tiryns, to the cause of Greece!
105 (return)
[ It's a strange decline from the ancient glory of Mycenae to provide just four hundred men, along with Tiryns, for the cause of Greece!
108 (return)
[ This account, by
Herodotus, of the contrast between the Spartan and the Athenian leaders,
which is amply supported elsewhere, is, as I have before hinted, a proof
of the little effect upon Spartan emulation produced by the martyrdom of
Leonidas. Undoubtedly the Spartans were more terrified by the slaughter of
Thermopylae than fired by the desire of revenge.
108 (return)
[ This account by Herodotus contrasts Spartan and Athenian leaders and is well-supported elsewhere. As I've mentioned before, it shows how little influence Leonidas's martyrdom had on Spartan motivation. Clearly, the Spartans were more scared by the massacre at Thermopylae than driven by a thirst for revenge.
109 (return)
[ “Here seem to be several
islands, formed by a sluggish stream in a flat meadow. (Oeroe?) must have
been of that description.— “Gell’s Itin, 109.
109 (return)
[ “It looks like there are several islands created by a slow-moving stream in a flat meadow. (Oeroe?) must have been like that.— “Gell’s Itin, 109.
114 (return)
[ The Tegeans had already
seized the tent of Mardonius, possessing themselves especially of a
curious brazen manger, from which the Persian’s horse was fed, and
afterward dedicated to the Alean Minerva.
114 (return)
[ The Tegeans had already taken over Mardonius' tent, especially getting hold of an interesting bronze manger that was used to feed the Persian's horse, which they later dedicated to the Alean Minerva.
115 (return)
[ I adopt the reading of
Valcknaer, “tous hippeas.” The Spartan knights, in number three hundred,
had nothing to do with the cavalry, but fought on foot or on horseback, as
required. (Dionys. Hal., xi., 13.) They formed the royal bodyguard.
115 (return)
[ I agree with Valcknaer's interpretation, “all the knights.” The Spartan knights, numbering three hundred, were not part of the cavalry; they fought either on foot or horseback as needed. (Dionys. Hal., xi., 13.) They served as the royal bodyguard.
116 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford attributes his
absence from the scene to some jealousy of the honours he received at
Sparta, and the vain glory with which he bore them. But the vague
observations in the authors he refers to by no means bear out this
conjecture, nor does it seem probable that the jealousy was either general
or keen enough to effect so severe a loss to the public cause. Menaced
with grave and imminent peril, it was not while the Athenians were still
in the camp that they would have conceived all the petty envies of the
forum. The jealousies Themistocles excited were of much later date. It is
probable that at this period he was intrusted with the very important
charge of watching over and keeping together that considerable but
scattered part of the Athenian population which was not engaged either at
Mycale or Plataea.
116 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford claims that his absence from the situation was due to some jealousy over the honors he received at Sparta and the pride with which he handled them. However, the vague comments in the sources he references don’t support this theory, nor does it seem likely that the jealousy was either widespread or intense enough to cause such a significant loss to the public cause. Facing serious and imminent danger, it’s unlikely that the Athenians would have felt all those petty resentments while still in the camp. The rivalries Themistocles stirred up came much later. It's likely that during this time he was given the crucial task of overseeing and unifying the large but scattered Athenian population that wasn’t involved in either Mycale or Plataea.
119 (return)
[ Diod. Sic., lib. xi.;
Thucyd., lib. i., c. 90.
119 (return)
[ Diod. Sic., book 11; Thucyd., book 1, chapter 90.
121 (return)
[ Diodorus (lib. xi.) tells
us that the Spartan ambassadors, indulging in threatening and violent
language at perceiving the walls so far advanced, were arrested by the
Athenians, who declared they would only release them on receiving hack
safe and uninjured their own ambassadors.
121 (return)
[ Diodorus (lib. xi.) tells us that the Spartan ambassadors, using aggressive and threatening language upon seeing the walls so well-built, were captured by the Athenians, who declared they would only let them go if they got their own ambassadors back safe and unharmed.
124 (return)
[ Schol. ad Thucyd., lib.
i., c. 93. See Clinton, Fasti Hell., vol. i., Introduction, p. 13 and 14.
Mr. Thirlwall, vol. ii., p. 401, disputes the date for the archonship of
Themistocles given by Mr. Clinton and confirmed by the scholiast on
Thucydides. He adopts (page 366) the date which M. Boeckh founds upon
Philochorus, viz., B. C. 493. But the Themistocles who was archon in that
year is evidently another person from the Themistocles of Salamis; for in
493 that hero was about twenty-one, an age at which the bastard of Neocles
might be driving courtesans in a chariot (as is recorded in Athenaeus),
but was certainly not archon of Athens. As for M. Boeckh’s proposed
emendation, quoted so respectfully by Mr. Thirlwall, by which we are to
read Hybrilidon for Kebridos, it is an assumption so purely fanciful as to
require no argument for refusing it belief. Mr. Clinton’s date for the
archonship of the great Themistocles is the one most supported by internal
evidence—1st, by the blanks of the years 481-482 in the list of
archons; 2dly, by the age, the position, and repute of Themistocles in B.
C. 481, two years after the ostracism of his rival Aristides. If it were
reduced to a mere contest of probabilities between Mr. Clinton on one side
and Mr. Boeckh and Mr. Thirlwall on the other, which is the more likely,
that Themistocles should have been chief archon of Athens at twenty-one or
at thirty-three—before the battle of Marathon or after his triumph
over Aristides? In fact, a schoolboy knows that at twenty-one (and
Themistocles was certainly not older in 493) no Athenian could have been
archon. In all probability Kebridos is the right reading in Philochorus,
and furnishes us with the name of the archon in B. C. 487 or 486, which
years have hitherto been chronological blanks, so far as the Athenian
archons are concerned.
124 (return)
[ Schol. ad Thucyd., lib. i., c. 93. See Clinton, Fasti Hell., vol. i., Introduction, p. 13 and 14. Mr. Thirlwall, vol. ii., p. 401, disputes the date for the archonship of Themistocles given by Mr. Clinton and confirmed by the scholiast on Thucydides. He adopts (page 366) the date that M. Boeckh based on Philochorus, namely, B.C. 493. However, the Themistocles who was archon that year is clearly a different person from the Themistocles of Salamis; in 493, that hero was about twenty-one, an age at which the illegitimate son of Neocles might be driving courtesans in a chariot (as noted in Athenaeus), but he certainly was not archon of Athens. Regarding M. Boeckh’s suggested correction, which Mr. Thirlwall cites with such respect, proposing we read Hybrilidon instead of Kebridos, this is a purely fanciful assumption and requires no further argument to dismiss it. Mr. Clinton’s date for the archonship of the great Themistocles is the one most supported by internal evidence—first, the gaps of the years 481-482 in the list of archons; second, the age, position, and reputation of Themistocles in B.C. 481, two years after the ostracism of his rival Aristides. If it came down to a matter of probabilities between Mr. Clinton on one side and Mr. Boeckh and Mr. Thirlwall on the other, which is more likely, that Themistocles should have been chief archon of Athens at twenty-one or at thirty-three—before the battle of Marathon or after his victory over Aristides? In fact, even a schoolboy knows that at twenty-one (and Themistocles was certainly not older in 493) no Athenian could have been archon. Most likely Kebridos is the correct reading in Philochorus, providing us with the name of the archon in B.C. 487 or 486, which years have previously been chronological gaps regarding Athenian archons.
126 (return)
[ Diod., lib. xi.
126 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Diod., book 11.
127 (return)
[ Diod., lib. xi.
127 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Diod., book 11.
128 (return)
[ Diod., lib. xi. The reader
will perceive that I do not agree with Mr. Thirlwall and some other
scholars, for whose general opinion I have the highest respect, in
rejecting altogether, and with contempt, the account of Diodorus as to the
precautions of Themistocles. It seems to me highly probable that the main
features of the story are presented to us faithfully; 1st, that it was not
deemed expedient to detail to the popular assembly all the objects and
motives of the proposed construction of the new port; and, 2dly, that
Themistocles did not neglect to send ambassadors to Sparta, though
certainly not with the intention of dealing more frankly with the Spartans
than he had done with the Athenians.
128 (return)
[ Diod., lib. xi. You’ll notice that I don’t agree with Mr. Thirlwall and some other scholars, whose opinions I greatly respect, in completely dismissing Diodorus's account of Themistocles's precautions. I find it very likely that the main aspects of the story are presented to us accurately; first, that it wasn’t considered wise to share all the objectives and reasons behind the construction of the new port with the public assembly; and secondly, that Themistocles didn’t fail to send envoys to Sparta, although certainly not with the intention of being more open with the Spartans than he had been with the Athenians.
129 (return)
[ Thucyd., lib. i.
129 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Thucyd., book i.
130 (return)
[ Aristot. Pol., lib. ii.
Aristotle deems the speculations of the philosophical architect worthy of
a severe and searching criticism.
130 (return)
[ Aristot. Pol., lib. ii.
Aristotle believes that the ideas of the philosophical architect deserve tough and thorough criticism.
131 (return)
[ Of all the temples, those
of Minerva and Jupiter were the most remarkable in the time of Pausanias.
There were then two market-places. See Pausanias, lib. i., c. i.
131 (return)
[ Among all the temples, the ones dedicated to Minerva and Jupiter were the most impressive during Pausanias's time. At that point, there were two marketplaces. See Pausanias, lib. i., c. i.
132 (return)
[ Yet at this time the
Amphictyonic Council was so feeble that, had the Spartans succeeded, they
would have made but a hollow acquisition of authority; unless, indeed,
with the project of gaining a majority of votes, they united another for
reforming or reinvigorating the institution.
132 (return)
[ At this time, the Amphictyonic Council was so weak that if the Spartans had succeeded, they would have gained only a superficial authority, unless they sought to unite others to reform or strengthen the institution in order to achieve a majority of votes.
138 (return)
[ Ibid.
138 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[Same source.
139 (return)
[ Thucyd., lib. i.
139 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Thucyd., book 1.
140 (return)
[ Plut. in vit. Cimon.
Before this period, Cimon, though rising into celebrity, could scarcely
have been an adequate rival to Themistocles.
140 (return)
[ Plut. in vit. Cimon. Before this time, Cimon, while gaining fame, was hardly a serious competitor to Themistocles.
142 (return)
[ According to Diodorus,
Cimon early in life made a very wealthy marriage; Themistocles recommended
him to a rich father-in-law, in a witticism, which, with a slight
variation, Plutarch has also recorded, though he does not give its
application to Cimon.
142 (return)
[ According to Diodorus, Cimon got married to a very wealthy woman early in his life; Themistocles suggested him to a rich father-in-law with a joke, which, with a slight twist, Plutarch has also noted, although he doesn't connect it to Cimon.
144 (return)
[ Thucyd., lib. i.
144 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Thucydides, book 1. ]
145 (return)
[ Ibid., lib. i. Plut. in
vit. Cim. Diod. Sic., lib. xi.
145 (return)
[ Ibid., book i. Plut. in
life of Cim. Diod. Sic., book xi.
146 (return)
[ See Clinton, Fast. Hell.,
vol. ii., p. 34, in comment upon Bentley.
146 (return)
[ See Clinton, Fast. Hell., vol. ii., p. 34, in comment on Bentley.
147 (return)
[ Athenaeus, lib. xii.
147 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Athenaeus, book 12.
150 (return)
[ About twenty-three English
acres. This was by no means a despicable estate in the confined soil of
Attica.
150 (return)
[ About twenty-three acres. This was by no means a small estate in the limited land of Attica.
152 (return)
[ Produced equally by the
anti-popular party on popular pretexts. It was under the sanction of Mr.
Pitt that the prostitution of charity to the able-bodied was effected in
England.
152 (return)
[ Produced equally by the anti-popular party using popular excuses. It was with Mr. Pitt's approval that the misuse of charity for the able-bodied was carried out in England.
154 (return)
[ His father’s brother,
Cleomenes, died raving mad, as we have already seen. There was therefore
insanity in the family.
154 (return)
[ His father’s brother, Cleomenes, died insane, as we have already seen. There was therefore a history of mental illness in the family.
155 (return)
[ Plut. in vit. Cim.
Pausanias, lib. iii., c. 17.
155 (return)
[ Plut. in vit. Cim. Pausanias, lib. iii., c. 17.
159 (return)
[ Thucyd., lib. i.
159 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Thucyd., book 1.
160 (return)
[ Plato, leg. vi.
160 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Plato, leg. vi.
162 (return)
[ Pausanias observes that
his renowned namesake was the only suppliant taking refuge at the
sanctuary of Minerva Chalcioecus who did not obtain the divine protection,
and this because he could never purify himself of the murder of Cleonice.
162 (return)
[ Pausanias notes that his famous namesake was the only person seeking refuge at the sanctuary of Minerva Chalcioecus who did not receive divine protection, and this was because he could never cleanse himself of the murder of Cleonice.
166 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford, while
doubting the fact, attempts, with his usual disingenuousness, to raise
upon the very fact that he doubts, reproaches against the horrors of
democratical despotism. A strange practice for an historian to allow the
premises to be false, and then to argue upon them as true!
166 (return)
[ Mr. Mitford, while questioning the truth, tries, with his typical dishonesty, to use what he doubts as a basis for criticizing the horrors of democratic tyranny. It's a bizarre approach for a historian to accept false premises and then argue as if they are true!
167 (return)
[ The brief letter to
Artaxerxes, given by Thucydides (lib i., 137), is as evidently the
composition of Thucydides himself as is the celebrated oration which he
puts into the mouth of Pericles. Each has the hard, rigid, and grasping
style so peculiar to the historian, and to which no other Greek writer
bears the slightest resemblance. But the matter may be more genuine than
the diction.
167 (return)
[ The short letter to
Artaxerxes, provided by Thucydides (lib i., 137), is clearly written by Thucydides himself, just like the famous speech he attributes to Pericles. Both have the tough, rigid, and intense style that is unique to the historian and that no other Greek writer resembles at all. However, the content might be more authentic than the language used.
168 (return)
[ At the time of his arrival
in Asia, Xerxes seems to have been still living. But he appeared at Susa
during the short interval between the death of Xerxes and the formal
accession of his son, when, by a sanguinary revolution, yet to be
narrated, Artabanus was raised to the head of the Persian empire: ere the
year expired Artaxerxes was on the throne.
168 (return)
[ When he first arrived in Asia, Xerxes was still alive. However, he showed up in Susa during the brief period between Xerxes' death and his son’s official rise to power. At that time, Artabanus took control of the Persian empire through a bloody revolution that we’ll discuss later. By the end of the year, Artaxerxes had taken the throne.
169 (return)
[ I relate this latter
account of the death of Themistocles, not only because Thucydides (though
preferring the former) does not disdain to cite it, but also because it is
evident, from the speech of Nicias, in the Knights of Aristophanes, i. 83,
84, that in the time of Pericles it was popularly believed by the
Athenians that Themistocles died by poison; and from motives that rendered
allusion to his death a popular claptrap. It is also clear that the death
of Themistocles appears to have reconciled him at once to the Athenians.
The previous suspicions of his fidelity to Greece do not seem to have been
kept alive even by the virulence of party; and it is natural to suppose
that it must have been some act of his own, real or imagined, which tended
to disprove the plausible accusations against him, and revive the general
enthusiasm in his favour. What could that act have been but the last of
his life, which, in the lines of Aristophanes referred to above, is cited
as the ideal of a glorious death! But if he died by poison, the draught
was not bullock’s blood—the deadly nature of which was one of the
vulgar fables of the ancients. In some parts of the continent it is, in
this day, even used as medicine.
169 (return)
[ I'm sharing this later story about the death of Themistocles, not just because Thucydides (who prefers the earlier version) mentions it, but also because it's clear from Nicias's speech in the Knights of Aristophanes, i. 83, 84, that during Pericles' time, many Athenians believed that Themistocles died from poison. This belief was partly influenced by motives that turned his death into a popular talking point. Moreover, it seems that Themistocles' death quickly reconciled him with the Athenians. The previous doubts about his loyalty to Greece don’t seem to have been kept alive, even with the intense party rivalries. It's reasonable to assume there must have been some action of his, whether real or imagined, that helped to counter the damaging accusations against him and reignited public support for him. What could that action have been other than the very end of his life, which, in the referenced lines of Aristophanes, is presented as the model of a glorious death! However, if he did die from poison, it wasn't from bullock's blood—the poisonous nature of which was one of the many myths of the ancients. Even today, in some parts of the continent, it’s still used as medicine.
172 (return)
[ Thucyd., lib. i.
172 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Thucyd., book 1.
173 (return)
[ Diod., lib. xi.
173 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Diod., book 11.
175 (return)
[ Diod. (lib. xi.) reckons
the number of prisoners at twenty thousand! These exaggerations sink glory
into burlesque.
175 (return)
[ Diod. (lib. xi.) claims there were twenty thousand prisoners! These exaggerations turn glory into a joke.
176 (return)
[ The Cyaneae. Plin. vi., c.
12. Herod. iv., c. 85, etc. etc.
176 (return)
[ The Cyaneae. Plin. vi., c. 12. Herod. iv., c. 85, etc. etc.
177 (return)
[ Thucyd., lib.., 99.
177 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Thucyd., book.., 99.
179 (return)
[ For the siege of Thasos
lasted three years; in the second year we find Cimon marching to the
relief of the Spartans; in fact, the siege of Thasos was not of sufficient
importance to justify Cimon in a very prolonged absence from Athens.
179 (return)
[ The siege of Thasos lasted three years; in the second year, Cimon set out to help the Spartans. In reality, the siege of Thasos wasn't significant enough to make Cimon's long absence from Athens justifiable.
182 (return)
[ Those historians who
presume upon the slovenly sentences of Plutarch, that Pericles made “an
instrument” of Ephialtes in assaults on the Areopagus, seem strangely to
mistake both the character of Pericles, which was dictatorial, not crafty,
and the position of Ephialtes, who at that time was the leader of his
party, and far more influential than Pericles himself. Plato (ap. Plut. in
vit. Peric.) rightly considers Ephialtes the true overthrower of the
Areopagus; and although Pericles assisted him (Aristot., l. ii., c. 9), it
was against Ephialtes as the chief, not “the instrument,” that the wrath
of the aristocracy was directed.
182 (return)
[ Historians who rely on Plutarch's messy writing about Pericles using Ephialtes as a tool against the Areopagus seem to misunderstand both Pericles' character, which was authoritarian rather than manipulative, and Ephialtes' role as the leader of his party, who was much more powerful than Pericles at that time. Plato (ap. Plut. in vit. Peric.) correctly sees Ephialtes as the true challenger of the Areopagus; and while Pericles did support him (Aristot., l. ii., c. 9), it was Ephialtes, as the leader, who drew the anger of the aristocracy, not “the tool.”
183 (return)
[ See Demosth. adv.
Aristocr., p. 642. ed. Reisk. Herman ap. Heidelb. Jahrb., 1830, No. 44.
Forckhammer de Areopago, etc. against Boeckh. I cannot agree with those
who attach so much importance to Aeschylus, in the tragedy of “The
Furies,” as an authority in favour of the opinion that the innovations of
Ephialtes deprived the Areopagus of jurisdiction in cases of homicide. It
is true that the play turns upon the origin of the tribunal—it is
true that it celebrates its immemorial right of adjudication of murder,
and that Minerva declares this court of judges shall remain for ever. But
would this prophecy be risked at the very time when this court was about
to be abolished? In the same speech of Minerva, far more direct allusion
is made to the police of the court in the fear and reverence due to it;
and strong exhortations follow, not to venerate anarchy or tyranny, or
banish “all fear from the city,” which apply much more forcibly to the
council than to the court of the Areopagus.
183 (return)
[ See Demosth. adv. Aristocr., p. 642. ed. Reisk. Herman ap. Heidelb. Jahrb., 1830, No. 44. Forckhammer de Areopago, etc. against Boeckh. I cannot agree with those who place so much importance on Aeschylus in the tragedy of "The Furies" as proof that the reforms by Ephialtes took away the Areopagus's authority in murder cases. It's true that the play focuses on the origin of the tribunal—it's true that it honors its longstanding right to judge murder cases, and that Minerva states this court of judges will last forever. But would such a prophecy be made just as this court was about to be abolished? In the same speech by Minerva, there is a much clearer reference to the court's authority, highlighting the fear and respect it commands; strong warnings follow against glorifying chaos or tyranny, or eliminating “all fear from the city,” which applies much more strongly to the council than to the Areopagus court.
184 (return)
[ That the Areopagus did,
prior to the decree of Ephialtes, possess a power over the finances,
appears from a passage in Aristotle (ap. Plut. in vit. Them.), in which it
is said that, in the expedition to Salamis, the Areopagus awarded to each
man eight drachmae.
184 (return)
[ It seems that the Areopagus had financial authority before Ephialtes' decree, as indicated in a passage from Aristotle (quoted by Plutarch in the life of Themistocles), which states that during the expedition to Salamis, the Areopagus allocated eight drachmae to each person.
185 (return)
[ Plutarch attributes his
ostracism to the resentment of the Athenians on his return from Ithome;
but this is erroneous. He was not ostracised till two years after his
return.
185 (return)
[ Plutarch claims that he was ostracized due to the anger of the Athenians upon his return from Ithome; however, this is incorrect. He wasn't ostracized until two years after he came back.
186 (return)
[ Mikaeas epilabomenoi
prophaseos.—Plut. in vit. Cim. 17.
186 (return)
[ Taking hold of Mikaeas
statement.—Plut. in vit. Cim. 17.
187 (return)
[ Neither Aristotle (Polit.,
lib. v., c. 10), nor Justin, nor Ctesias nor Moderns speak of the assassin
as kinsman to Xerxes. In Plutarch (Vit. Them.) he is Artabanus the
Chiliarch.
187 (return)
[ Neither Aristotle (Polit., lib. v., c. 10), nor Justin, nor Ctesias, nor modern writers mention the assassin as related to Xerxes. In Plutarch (Vit. Them.), he is referred to as Artabanus the Chiliarch.
188 (return)
[ Ctesias, 30; Diod, 11;
Justin, lib. iii., c. 1. According to Aristotle, Artabanus, as captain of
the king’s guard, received an order to make away with Darius, neglected
the command, and murdered Xerxes from fears for his own safety.
188 (return)
[ Ctesias, 30; Diod, 11; Justin, lib. iii., c. 1. According to Aristotle, Artabanus, the captain of the king’s guard, was ordered to kill Darius but ignored the order and instead killed Xerxes out of fear for his own safety.
189 (return)
[ Thucyd., lib. i., 107. The
three towns of Doris were, according to Thucydides, Baeum, Cytenium, and
Erineus. The scholiast on Pindar (Pyth. i., 121) speaks of six towns.
189 (return)
[ Thucyd., book i., 107. According to Thucydides, the three towns of Doris were Baeum, Cytenium, and Erineus. The commentator on Pindar (Pyth. i., 121) mentions six towns.
190 (return)
[ Thucyd., lib. i.
190 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Thucydides, book 1.
191 (return)
[ Thucydides, in mentioning
these operations of the Athenians, and the consequent fears of the
Spartans, proves to what a length hostilities had gone, though war was not
openly declared.
191 (return)
[ Thucydides, when talking about these actions of the Athenians and the resulting fears of the Spartans, shows how far hostilities had escalated, even though war was not officially declared.
193 (return)
[ Thucyd., lib, i.
193 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Thucyd., book 1.
194 (return)
[ Diod., lib. xi.
194 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Diod., book 11.
195 (return)
[ Certain German historians,
Mueller among others, have built enormous conclusions upon the smallest
data, when they suppose Cimon was implicated in this conspiracy. Meirs
(Historia Juris de bonis Damnatis, p. 4, note 11) is singularly
unsuccessful in connecting the supposed fine of fifty talents incurred by
Cimon with the civil commotions of this period. In fact, that Cimon was
ever fined at all is very improbable; the supposition rests upon most
equivocal ground: if adopted, it is more likely, perhaps, that the fine
was inflicted after his return from Thasos, when he was accused of
neglecting the honour of the Athenian arms, and being seduced by
Macedonian gold (a charge precisely of a nature for which a fine would
have been incurred). But the whole tale of this imaginary fine, founded
upon a sentence in Demosthenes, who, like many orators, was by no means
minutely accurate in historical facts, is possibly nothing more than a
confused repetition of the old story of the fine of fifty talents (the
same amount) imposed upon Miltiades, and really paid by Cimon. This is
doubly, and, indeed, indisputably clear, if we accept Becker’s reading of
Parion for patrion in the sentence of Demosthenes referred to.
195 (return)
[ Some German historians, like Mueller, have drawn huge conclusions from very little evidence when they suggest Cimon was involved in this conspiracy. Meirs (Historia Juris de bonis Damnatis, p. 4, note 11) fails to convincingly connect Cimon’s supposed fine of fifty talents to the civil unrest of this period. In fact, it's very unlikely that Cimon was ever fined at all; this assumption is based on shaky evidence. If it were true, it’s more probable that the fine was imposed after his return from Thasos, when he was accused of neglecting the honor of the Athenian military and being tempted by Macedonian wealth (a charge that would warrant a fine). However, the entire story of this imagined fine, stemming from a statement by Demosthenes, who, like many orators, wasn’t very precise with historical facts, might simply be a confused retelling of the old tale of the fifty-talent fine (the same amount) imposed on Miltiades, which was actually paid by Cimon. This is even clearer if we accept Becker’s interpretation of Parion for patrion in the mentioned sentence by Demosthenes.
196 (return)
[ If we can attach any
credit to the Oration on Peace ascribed to Andocides, Cimon was residing
on his patrimonial estates in the Chersonese at the time of his recall. As
Athens retained its right to the sovereignty of this colony, and as it was
a most important position as respected the recent Athenian conquests under
Cimon himself, the assertion, if true, will show that Cimon’s ostracism
was attended with no undue persecution. Had the government seriously
suspected him of any guilty connivance with the oligarchic conspirators,
it could scarcely have permitted him to remain in a colony, the localities
of which were peculiarly favourable to any treasonable designs he might
have formed.
196 (return)
[ If we can give any credibility to the Oration on Peace attributed to Andocides, Cimon was staying on his family estate in the Chersonese when he was recalled. Since Athens still held sovereignty over this colony and it was a key location regarding the recent Athenian victories led by Cimon himself, this claim, if accurate, suggests that Cimon’s ostracism wasn’t driven by any unwarranted persecution. If the government had genuinely suspected him of colluding with the oligarchic conspirators, it’s hard to believe they would have allowed him to remain in a colony that was particularly suitable for any treasonous plans he might have had.
197 (return)
[ In the recall of Cimon,
Plutarch tells us, some historians asserted that it was arranged between
the two parties that the administration of the state should be divided;
that Cimon should be invested with the foreign command of Cyprus, and
Pericles remain the head of the domestic government. But it was not until
the sixth year after his recall (viz., in the archonship of Euthydemus,
see Diodorus xii.) that Cimon went to Cyprus; and before that event
Pericles himself was absent on foreign expeditions.
197 (return)
[ When Cimon was recalled, Plutarch tells us that some historians claimed there was an agreement between the two factions to divide the control of the state; Cimon would take on the foreign leadership of Cyprus, while Pericles would stay as the head of the local government. However, it wasn’t until the sixth year after Cimon’s recall (specifically during Euthydemus's term as archon, see Diodorus xii.) that Cimon actually went to Cyprus; and prior to that, Pericles himself had been away on foreign missions.
198 (return)
[ Plutarch, by a confusion
of dates, blends this short armistice with the five years’ truce some time
afterward concluded. Mitford and others have followed him in his error.
That the recall of Cimon was followed by no peace, not only with the
Spartans, but the Peloponnesians generally, is evident from the incursions
of Tolmides presently to be related.
198 (return)
[ Plutarch, due to a mix-up with dates, merges this brief truce with the five-year peace agreement that was made later. Mitford and others have also made this mistake. It's clear that Cimon's recall did not lead to peace, not just with the Spartans, but with the Peloponnesians in general, as evidenced by the raids carried out by Tolmides that will be discussed shortly.
199 (return)
[ Diod lib. xi.
199 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Diod lib. xi.
200 (return)
[ See Mueller’s Dorians, and
the authorities he quotes. Vol. i., b. I.
200 (return)
[ See Mueller’s Dorians, and the sources he cites. Vol. i., b. I.
203 (return)
[ There was a democratic
party in Thessaly always favourable to Athens. See Thucyd., iv., c. 88.
203 (return)
[ There was a democratic party in Thessaly that always supported Athens. See Thucyd., iv., c. 88.
204 (return)
[ Now Lepanto.
204 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Now Lepanto.
208 (return)
[ Diod., lib. xi. Plut. in
vit. Cim. Heeren, Manual of Ancient History; but Mr. Mitford and Mr.
Thirlwall properly reject this spurious treaty.
208 (return)
[ Diod., lib. xi. Plut. in vit. Cim. Heeren, Manual of Ancient History; however, Mr. Mitford and Mr. Thirlwall correctly dismiss this fake treaty.
209 (return)
[ Plut. in Cim.
209 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Plut. in Cim.
210 (return)
[ The Clouds.
210 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ The Clouds.
211 (return)
[ Isoc. Areop., 38.
211 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Isoc. Areop., 38.
213 (return)
[ Thucyd., lib. ii., 16;
Isoc. Areopag., e. xx., p. 234.
213 (return)
[ Thucyd., book ii., 16; Isocrates, Areopag., section xx., p. 234.
214 (return)
[ If we believe with
Plutarch that wives accompanied their husbands to the house of Aspasia
(and it was certainly a popular charge against Pericles that Aspasia
served to corrupt the Athenian matrons), they could not have been so
jealously confined as writers, judging from passages in the Greek writers
that describe not what women were, but what women ought to be, desire us
to imagine. And it may be also observed, that the popular anecdotes
represent Elpinice as a female intriguante, busying herself in politics,
and mediating between Cimon and Pericles; anecdotes, whether or not they
be strictly faithful, that at least tend to illustrate the state of
society.
214 (return)
[ If we take Plutarch at his word that wives went with their husbands to Aspasia's home (and it was definitely a common accusation against Pericles that Aspasia corrupted Athenian women), they couldn’t have been as tightly restricted as some writers suggest based on descriptions of what women should be like rather than what they actually were. Additionally, it’s worth noting that popular stories portray Elpinice as a woman involved in politics, playing a role in mediating between Cimon and Pericles; these anecdotes, whether entirely accurate or not, help illustrate the societal context of the time.]
215 (return)
[ As I propose, in a
subsequent part of this work, to enter at considerable length into the
social life and habits of the Athenians, I shall have full opportunity for
a more detailed account of these singular heroines of Alciphron and the
later comedians.
215 (return)
[ Since I plan to discuss in depth the social life and habits of the Athenians later in this work, I will have plenty of chances to give a more detailed account of these remarkable heroines from Alciphron and the later comedians.
216 (return)
[ It was about five years
after the death of Cimon that Pericles obtained that supreme power which
resembled a tyranny, but was only the expression and concentration of the
democratic will.
216 (return)
[ It was roughly five years after Cimon's death that Pericles gained the ultimate power that seemed like a tyranny, but was actually just the embodiment and focus of the democratic will.
219 (return)
[ For the transfer itself
there were excuses yet more plausible than that assigned by Justin. First,
in the year following the breach between the Spartans and Athenians (B. C.
460), probably the same year in which the transfer was effected, the
Athenians were again at war with the great king in Egypt; and there was
therefore a show of justice in the argument noticed by Boeckh (though in
the source whence he derives it the argument applies to the earlier time
of Aristides), that the transfer provided a place of greater security
against the barbarians. Secondly, Delos itself was already and had long
been under Athenian influence. Pisistratus had made a purification of the
island [Footnote Herod., lib. i., c. 64:, Delian soothsayers had predicted
to Athens the sovereignty of the seas [Footnote Semius Delius, ap. Athen.,
viii.:, and the Athenians seem to have arrogated a right of interference
with the temple. The transfer was probably, therefore, in appearance,
little more than a transfer from a place under the power of Athens to
Athens itself. Thirdly, it seems that when the question was first
agitated, during the life of Aristides, it was at the desire of one of the
allies themselves (the Samians). [Footnote Plut. in vit. Aristid. Boeckh
(vol. i., 135, translation) has no warrant for supposing that Pericles
influenced the Samians in the expression of this wish, because Plutarch
refers the story to the time of Aristides, during whose life Pericles
possessed no influence in public affairs.:
219 (return)
[ For the transfer itself, there were excuses even more believable than the one given by Justin. First, in the year following the conflict between the Spartans and Athenians (B.C. 460), likely the same year the transfer happened, the Athenians were once again at war with the great king in Egypt; thus, there was a sense of justice in the argument noted by Boeckh (though in the source he cites, it applies to the earlier time of Aristides), that the transfer offered a more secure place against the barbarians. Secondly, Delos was already, and had been for a long time, under Athenian influence. Pisistratus had purified the island [Footnote Herod., lib. i., c. 64:] and Delian soothsayers had foretold Athens' dominance over the seas [Footnote Semius Delius, ap. Athen., viii:], and the Athenians seemed to have claimed a right to interfere with the temple. The transfer was likely, therefore, merely a shift from a location under Athenian control to Athens itself. Thirdly, it appears that when the issue was first raised, during Aristides' lifetime, it was at the request of one of the allies (the Samians). [Footnote Plut. in vit. Aristid. Boeckh (vol. i., 135, translation) has no basis for suggesting that Pericles influenced the Samians in expressing this wish, because Plutarch dates the story to the time of Aristides, during which Pericles had no sway in public affairs.:
220 (return)
[ The assertion of Diodorus
(lib. xii., 38), that to Pericles was confided the superintendence and
management of the treasure, is corroborated by the anecdotes in Plutarch
and elsewhere, which represent Pericles as the principal administrator of
the funds.
220 (return)
[ Diodorus's claim (lib. xii., 38) that Pericles was in charge of overseeing and managing the treasure is supported by stories in Plutarch and other sources, which depict Pericles as the main manager of the funds. ]
221 (return)
[ The political nature and
bias of the Heliaea is apparent in the very oath, preserved in Demost.
con. Tim., p. 746, ed. Reiske. In this the heliast is sworn never to vote
for the establishment of tyranny or oligarchy in Athens, and never to
listen to any proposition tending to destroy the democratic constitution.
That is, a man entered upon a judicial tribunal by taking a political
oath!
221 (return)
[ The political nature and bias of the Heliaea is clear from the oath, preserved in Demost. con. Tim., p. 746, ed. Reiske. In this oath, the heliast pledges never to vote for the establishment of tyranny or oligarchy in Athens, and never to consider any proposal that would undermine the democratic constitution. In other words, a person joined a judicial tribunal by taking a political oath!
222 (return)
[ These courts have been
likened to modern juries; but they were very little bound by the forms and
precedents which shackled the latter. What a jury, even nowadays, a jury
of only twelve persons, would be if left entirely to impulse and party
feeling, any lawyer will readily conceive. How much more capricious,
uncertain, and prejudiced a jury of five hundred, and, in some instances,
of one thousand or fifteen hundred! [Footnote By the junction of two or
more divisions, as in cases of Eisangelia. Poll. viii., 53 and 123; also
Tittman.:
222 (return)
[ These courts have been compared to modern juries; however, they were far less restricted by the rules and precedents that bound the latter. Any lawyer can easily imagine what a jury—composed of just twelve people—would be like if guided only by impulse and party loyalty. Just think how much more unpredictable, erratic, and biased a jury of five hundred, and in some cases even one thousand or fifteen hundred, would be! [Footnote By the junction of two or more divisions, as in cases of Eisangelia. Poll. viii., 53 and 123; also Tittman.:
223 (return)
[ “Designed by our
ancestors,” says Aristotle (Pol., lib. viii, c. 3) not, as many now
consider it, merely for delight, but for discipline that so the mind might
be taught not only how honourably to pursue business, but how creditably
to enjoy leisure; for such enjoyment is, after all, the end of business
and the boundary of active life.
223 (return)
[ “Created by our ancestors,” says Aristotle (Pol., lib. viii, c. 3) not, as many think today, just for pleasure, but for training so that the mind could be taught not only how to pursue work honorably but also how to enjoy leisure responsibly; because, in the end, such enjoyment is the purpose of work and the limit of an active life.
224 (return)
[ See Aristot. (Pol., lib.
viii., c. 6.)
224 (return)
[ See Aristotle. (Politics, Book VIII, Chapter 6.)
225 (return)
[ An anecdote in Gellius,
lib. xv., c. 17, refers the date of the disuse of this instrument to the
age of Pericles and during the boyhood of Alcibiades.
225 (return)
[ An anecdote in Gellius, lib. xv., c. 17, mentions that the use of this instrument fell out of favor during the time of Pericles and while Alcibiades was still a boy.
226 (return)
[ Drawing was subsequently
studied as a branch of education essential to many of the common
occupations of life.
226 (return)
[ Drawing was later recognized as an important part of education that is crucial for many everyday jobs.
227 (return)
[ Suid.
227 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Suid.
229 (return)
[ Pausan., ii., c. 3: Cic.
de Orat., ii., c. 53; Aulus Gellius, xv., c. 23.
229 (return)
[ Pausan., ii., c. 3: Cic. de Orat., ii., c. 53; Aulus Gellius, xv., c. 23.
231 (return)
[ A brilliant writer in the
Edinburgh Review (Mr. Macauley) would account for the use of dialogue in
Herodotus by the childish simplicity common to an early and artless age—as
the boor always unconsciously resorts to the dramatic form of narration,
and relates his story by a series of “says he’s” and “says I’s.” But does
not Mr. Macauley, in common with many others, insist far too much on the
artlessness of the age and the unstudied simplicity of the writer? Though
history itself was young, art was already at its zenith. It was the age of
Sophocles, Phidias, and Pericles. It was from the Athenians, in their most
polished period, that Herodotus received the most rapturous applause. Do
not all accounts of Herodotus, as a writer, assure us that he spent the
greater part of a long life in composing, polishing, and perfecting his
history; and is it not more in conformity with the characteristic spirit
of the times, and the masterly effects which Herodotus produces, to
conclude, that what we suppose to be artlessness was, in reality, the
premeditated elaboration of art?
231 (return)
[ A brilliant writer in the
Edinburgh Review (Mr. Macauley) would explain the use of dialogue in
Herodotus by pointing out the childlike simplicity typical of an early and
unrefined era—similar to how a simple person naturally uses a dramatic
style of storytelling, recounting their tale with a series of “he said”
and “I said.” But doesn’t Mr. Macauley, like many others, place too much
emphasis on the naïveté of the period and the unstudied straightforwardness
of the writer? Although history itself was in its infancy, art was already
thriving. It was the era of Sophocles, Phidias, and Pericles. Herodotus
received his most enthusiastic praise from the Athenians, during their
most refined period. Don’t all descriptions of Herodotus as a writer tell
us that he spent the majority of a long life writing, refining, and perfecting
his history? Isn’t it more in line with the spirit of the times and the
masterful effects that Herodotus achieves to conclude that what we think
of as simplicity was actually a careful and skilled arrangement of art?
233 (return)
[ Herod., vii., 100.
233 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Herod., vii., 100.
234 (return)
[ About twenty-nine years
younger.—Fast. Hell., vol. ii., p. 7.
234 (return)
[ About twenty-nine years younger.—Fast. Hell., vol. ii., p. 7.
235 (return)
[ Cic. Acad. Quaest., 4,
Abbe de Canaye, Mem. de l’Acad. d’l* *crip., tom. x. etc. (*illegible
letters)
235 (return)
[ Cic. Acad. Quaest., 4, Abbe de Canaye, Mem. de l’Acad. d’l* *crip., tom. x. etc. (*illegible letters)
236 (return)
[ Diog. Laert., cap. 6. Cic.
Acad. Quaest. 4, etc.
236 (return)
[ Diog. Laert., ch. 6. Cic. Acad. Questions 4, etc.
237 (return)
[ Arist. Metap. Diog. Laert.
Cic. Quaest. 4. etc.
237 (return)
[ Arist. Metap. Diog. Laert. Cic. Quaest. 4. etc.
238 (return)
[ It must ever remain a
disputable matter how far the Ionian Pythagoras was influenced by
affection for Dorian policy and customs, and how far he designed to create
a state upon the old Dorian model. On the one hand, it is certain that he
paid especial attention to the rites and institutions most connected with
the Dorian deity, Apollo— that, according to his followers, it was
from that god that he derived his birth, a fiction that might be
interpreted into a Dorian origin; he selected Croton as his residence,
because it was under the protection of “his household god;” his doctrines
are said to have been delivered in the Dorian dialect; and much of his
educational discipline, much of his political system, bear an evident
affinity to the old Cretan and Spartan institutions. But, on the other
hand, it is probable, that Pythagoras favoured the god of Delphi, partly
from the close connexion which many of his symbols bore to the
metaphysical speculations the philosopher had learned to cultivate in the
schools of oriental mysticism, and partly from the fact that Apollo was
the patron of the medical art, in which Pythagoras was an eminent
professor. And in studying the institutions of Crete and Sparta, he might
rather have designed to strengthen by examples the system he had already
adopted, than have taken from those Dorian cities the primitive and
guiding notions of the constitution he afterward established. And in this
Pythagoras might have resembled most reformers, not only of his own, but
of all ages, who desire to go back to the earliest principles of the past
as the sources of experience to the future. In the Dorian institutions was
preserved the original character of the Hellenic nation; and Pythagoras,
perhaps, valued or consulted them less because they were Dorian than
because they were ancient. It seems, however, pretty clear, that in the
character of his laws he sought to conform to the spirit and mode of
legislation already familiar in Italy, since Charondas and Zaleucus, who
flourished before him, are ranked by Diodorus and others among his
disciples.
238 (return)
[ It's always up for debate how much the Ionian Pythagoras was influenced by his admiration for Dorian politics and customs, and how much he intended to create a state based on the old Dorian model. On one hand, it's clear that he paid special attention to the rituals and institutions most connected with the Dorian god, Apollo— and that, according to his followers, he claimed to have been born from that god, a story that could suggest a Dorian origin; he chose Croton as his home because it was under the protection of “his household god;” his teachings are said to have been presented in the Dorian dialect; and much of his educational methods and political system show a clear similarity to the traditional Cretan and Spartan institutions. On the other hand, it's likely that Pythagoras favored the god of Delphi, partly because many of his symbols related to the metaphysical ideas he learned from Eastern mysticism, and partly because Apollo was the patron of medicine, in which Pythagoras was a notable expert. When studying the institutions of Crete and Sparta, he may have aimed to reinforce the system he had already adopted using examples from these places, rather than taking the basic principles of governance from those Dorian cities to establish his own system. In this, Pythagoras might have been like most reformers, not only of his time but of all times, who want to return to the foundational principles of the past as lessons for the future. Dorian institutions preserved the original essence of the Hellenic nation, and Pythagoras likely valued or consulted them not just because they were Dorian, but because they were ancient. However, it seems clear that in shaping his laws, he sought to align with the spirit and style of legislation already known in Italy, as Charondas and Zaleucus, who came before him, are considered by Diodorus and others to be his followers.
239 (return)
[ Livy dates it in the reign
of Servius Tullus.
239 (return)
[ Livy places it during the rule of Servius Tullus.
240 (return)
[ Strabo.
240 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Strabo.
241 (return)
[ Iamblichus, c. viii., ix.
See also Plato de Repub., lib. x.
241 (return)
[ Iamblichus, c. viii., ix. See also Plato de Repub., lib. x.
242 (return)
[ That the Achaean
governments were democracies appears sufficiently evident; nor is this at
variance with the remark of Xenophon, that timocracies were “according to
the laws of the Achaeans;” since timocracies were but modified
democracies.
242 (return)
[ It's clear that the Achaean governments were democracies, and this doesn't conflict with what Xenophon said about timocracies being "according to the laws of the Achaeans," since timocracies were just a form of modified democracies.
243 (return)
[ The Pythagoreans assembled
at the house of Milo, the wrestler, who was an eminent general, and the
most illustrious of the disciples were stoned to death, the house being
fired. Lapidation was essentially the capital punishment of mobs—the
mode of inflicting death that invariably stamps the offender as an enemy
to the populace.
243 (return)
[ The Pythagoreans gathered at the home of Milo, the wrestler, who was a well-known general, and the most distinguished of the followers were stoned to death, with the house being set on fire. Stoning was basically the mob’s version of capital punishment—the method of execution that always marks the person as an enemy of the people.
246 (return)
[ Plut. in vit. Them. The
Sophists were not, therefore, as is commonly asserted, the first who
brought philosophy to bear upon politics.
246 (return)
[ Plut. in vit. Them. The sophists weren't, as is often claimed, the first to apply philosophy to politics.
247 (return)
[ See, for evidence of the
great gifts and real philosophy of Anaxagoras, Brucker de Sect. Ion., xix.
247 (return)
[ Check out Brucker de Sect. Ion., xix for proof of Anaxagoras's remarkable gifts and true philosophy.
249 (return)
[ Archelaus began to teach
during the interval between the first and second visit of Anaxagoras. See
Fast. Hell., vol. ii., B. C. 450.
249 (return)
[ Archelaus started teaching during the time between Anaxagoras's first and second visit. See Fast. Hell., vol. ii., B. C. 450.
250 (return)
[ See the evidence of this
in the Clouds of Aristophanes.
250 (return)
[ Check out the evidence of this in the Clouds by Aristophanes.
252 (return)
[ See Thucyd., lib. v., c.
18, in which the articles of peace state that the temple and fane of
Delphi should be independent, and that the citizens should settle their
own taxes, receive their own revenues, and manage their own affairs as a
sovereign nation (autoteleis kai autodikois [Footnote consult on these
words Arnold’s Thucydides, vol. ii., p. 256, note 4:), according to the
ancient laws of their country.
252 (return)
[ See Thucyd., lib. v., c. 18, where the peace agreements declare that the temple and sanctuary of Delphi should be autonomous, and that the citizens should determine their own taxes, collect their own revenues, and run their own affairs as an independent nation (autoteleis kai autodikois [Footnote consult on these words Arnold’s Thucydides, vol. ii., p. 256, note 4:), following the ancient laws of their land.
253 (return)
[ Mueller’s Dorians, vol.
ii., p. 422. Athen., iv.
253 (return)
[ Mueller’s Dorians, vol. ii., p. 422. Athen., iv.
254 (return)
[ A short change of
administration, perhaps, accompanied the defeat of Pericles in the debate
on the Boeotian expedition. He was evidently in power, since he had
managed the public funds during the opposition of Thucydides; but when
beaten, as we should say, “on the Boeotian question,” the victorious party
probably came into office.
254 (return)
[ There was likely a brief shift in leadership following Pericles' defeat in the debate about the Boeotian expedition. He was clearly in charge since he had handled the public finances while Thucydides was in opposition; however, when he lost, as we might say, “on the Boeotian question,” the winning side probably took over the administration.
255 (return)
[ An ambush, according to
Diodorus, lib. xii.
255 (return)
[ An ambush, according to Diodorus, book twelve.
256 (return)
[ Twenty talents, according
to the scholiast of Aristophanes. Suidas states the amount variously at
fifteen and fifty.
256 (return)
[ Twenty talents, according to the commentator of Aristophanes. Suidas cites the amount as either fifteen or fifty.
257 (return)
[ Who fled into Macedonia.—Theopomp.
ap. Strab. The number of Athenian colonists was one thousand, according to
Diodorus—two thousand, according to Theopompus.
257 (return)
[ Who escaped to Macedonia.—Theopomp.
quoted in Strabo. The number of Athenian colonists was one thousand, according to
Diodorus—two thousand, according to Theopompus.
258 (return)
[ Aristoph. Nub., 213.
258 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Aristoph. Nub., 213.
259 (return)
[ Thucyd., i., 111.
259 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Thucydides, i., 111.
260 (return)
[ ibid., i., 115.
260 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ ibid., p. 115.
261 (return)
[ As is evident, among other
proofs, from the story before narrated, of his passing his accounts to the
Athenians with the item of ten talents employed as secret service money.
261 (return)
[ As is clear, among other evidence, from the story previously told, of him submitting his accounts to the Athenians with the entry of ten talents used as secret service funds.
262 (return)
[ The Propylaea alone (not
then built) cost two thousand and twelve talents (Harpocrat. in propylaia
tauta), and some temples cost a thousand talents each. [Footnote Plut. in
vit. Per.: If the speech of Pericles referred to such works as these, the
offer to transfer the account to his own charge was indeed but a figure of
eloquence. But, possibly, the accusation to which this offer was intended
as a reply was applicable only to some individual edifice or some of the
minor works, the cost of which his fortune might have defrayed. We can
scarcely indeed suppose, that if the affected generosity were but a
bombastic flourish, it could have excited any feeling but laughter among
an audience so acute.
262 (return)
[ The Propylaea alone (which wasn’t built yet) cost two thousand and twelve talents (Harpocrat. in propylaia tauta), and some temples cost a thousand talents each. [Footnote Plut. in vit. Per.: If Pericles' speech referred to these kinds of projects, his offer to take over the expenses was really just for show. However, it’s possible that the accusation this offer was responding to only applied to a specific building or some of the smaller projects, which he could have afforded. It’s hard to believe that if the claimed generosity was just a flashy statement, it would have stirred anything but laughter from such a sharp audience.
263 (return)
[ The testimony of
Thucydides (lib. ii., c. 5) alone suffices to destroy all the ridiculous
imputations against the honesty of Pericles which arose from the malice of
contemporaries, and are yet perpetuated only by such writers as cannot
weigh authorities. Thucydides does not only call him incorrupt, but
“clearly or notoriously honest.” [Footnote Chraematon te diaphanos
adorotatos.: Plutarch and Isocrates serve to corroborate this testimony.
263 (return)
[ The account of
Thucydides (book ii, chapter 5) is enough to dispel all the absurd
accusations against the integrity of Pericles that came from the spite of
his contemporaries, and are still perpetuated by writers who lack the ability
to critically assess sources. Thucydides not only describes him as incorruptible, but also as “clearly or notoriously honest.” [Footnote Chraematon te diaphanos
adorotatos.: Plutarch and Isocrates support this account.
266 (return)
[ “The model of this
regulation, by which Athens obtained the most extensive influence, and an
almost absolute dominion over the allies, was possibly found in other
Grecian states which had subject confederates, such as Thebes, Elis, and
Argos. But on account of the remoteness of many countries, it is
impossible that every trifle could have been brought before the court at
Athens; we must therefore suppose that each subject state had an inferior
jurisdiction of its own, and that the supreme jurisdiction alone belonged
to Athens. Can it, indeed, be supposed that persons would have travelled
from Rhodes or Byzantium, for the sake of a lawsuit of fifty or a hundred
drachmas? In private suits a sum of money was probably fixed, above which
the inferior court of the allies had no jurisdiction, while cases relating
to higher sums were referred to Athens. There can be no doubt that public
and penal causes were to a great extent decided in Athens, and the few
definite statements which are extant refer to lawsuits of this nature.”—Boeckh,
Pol. Econ. of Athens, vol. ii., p. 142, 143, translation.
266 (return)
[ “The system of this regulation, through which Athens gained significant influence and near-complete control over its allies, was likely modeled after other Greek states that had subordinate confederates, like Thebes, Elis, and Argos. However, due to the distance of many regions, it’s unlikely that every minor issue could have been brought before the court in Athens; therefore, we must assume that each subordinate state had its own lower court, while only Athens held the highest authority. Could anyone really be expected to travel from Rhodes or Byzantium for a lawsuit involving fifty or a hundred drachmas? There was likely a set amount for private cases, above which the lower courts of the allies had no authority, with higher-value cases being taken to Athens. It’s clear that public and criminal cases were largely decided in Athens, and the few clear references that survive pertain to lawsuits of this kind.”—Boeckh, Pol. Econ. of Athens, vol. ii., p. 142, 143, translation.
267 (return)
[ In calculating the amount
of the treasure when transferred to Athens, Boeckh (Pol. Econ. of Athens,
vol. i., p. 193, translation) is greatly misled by an error of dates. He
assumes that the fund had only existed ten years when brought to Athens:
whereas it had existed about seventeen, viz., from B. C. 477 to B. C. 461,
or rather B. C. 460. And this would give about the amount affirmed by
Diodorus, xii., p. 38 (viz., nearly 8000 talents), though he afterward
raises it to 10,000. But a large portion of it must have been consumed in
war before the transfer. Still Boeckh rates the total of the sum
transferred far too low, when he says it cannot have exceeded 1800
talents. It more probably doubled that sum.
267 (return)
[ When figuring out the treasure amount that was moved to Athens, Boeckh (Pol. Econ. of Athens, vol. i., p. 193, translation) is significantly confused by a mistake in the dates. He thinks the fund had only been around for ten years when it got to Athens, but it had actually been in existence for about seventeen years, from B.C. 477 to B.C. 461, or more accurately, B.C. 460. This would align with the amount reported by Diodorus, xii., p. 38 (about 8000 talents), although he later increases it to 10,000. However, a significant part of it likely went towards war expenses before the transfer. Nonetheless, Boeckh undervalues the total amount transferred when he claims it couldn't have been more than 1800 talents. It's more likely that it was double that amount.
269 (return)
[ Vesp. Aristoph. 795.
269 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Vesp. Aristoph. 795.
270 (return)
[ Knight’s Prolegomena to
Homer; see also Boeckh (translation), vol. i., p. 25.
270 (return)
[ Knight’s Prolegomena to Homer; see also Boeckh (translation), vol. i., p. 25.
272 (return)
[ Thucyd., iv., 57.
272 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Thucyd., iv., 57.
273 (return)
[ See Chandler’s Inscript.
273 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ See Chandler’s Inscription.
274 (return)
[ In the time of Alcibiades
the tribute was raised to one thousand three hundred talents, and even
this must have been most unequally assessed, if it were really the
pecuniary hardship the allies insisted upon and complained of. But the
resistance made to imposts upon matters of feeling or principle in our own
country, as, at this day, in the case of church-rates, may show the real
nature of the grievance. It was not the amount paid, but partly the
degradation of paying it, and partly, perhaps, resentment in many places
at some unfair assessment. Discontent exaggerates every burden, and a
feather is as heavy as a mountain when laid on unwilling shoulders. When
the new arrangement was made by Alcibiades or the later demagogues,
Andocides asserts that some of the allies left their native countries and
emigrated to Thurii. But how many Englishmen have emigrated to America
from objections to a peculiar law or a peculiar impost, which state policy
still vindicates, or state necessity still maintains! The Irish Catholic
peasant, in reality, would not, perhaps, be much better off, in a
pecuniary point of view, if the tithes were transferred to the rental of
the landlord, yet Irish Catholics have emigrated in hundreds from the
oppression, real or imaginary, of Protestant tithe-owners. Whether in
ancient times or modern, it is not the amount of taxation that makes the
grievance. People will pay a pound for what they like, and grudge a
farthing for what they hate. I have myself known men quit England because
of the stamp duty on newspapers!
274 (return)
[ In Alcibiades' time, the tribute was increased to one thousand three hundred talents, and this must have been assessed very unevenly, especially if the financial burden was what the allies claimed to be suffering from. The resistance against taxes based on feelings or principles in our own country, as seen today with church rates, illustrates the true nature of the complaint. It wasn't just about the amount paid; it was also about the humiliation of paying it and possibly the resentment toward unfair assessments. Discontent tends to amplify every burden, and a feather can feel as heavy as a mountain when placed on unwilling shoulders. When the new system was set up by Alcibiades or the later demagogues, Andocides claims that some allies left their home countries and moved to Thurii. But consider how many English people have moved to America over objections to certain laws or taxes that the government still defends or feels it needs to uphold! The Irish Catholic peasant, in reality, wouldn’t be much better off financially if tithes were switched to the landlord's rent, yet hundreds of Irish Catholics have left because of the burden, whether real or imagined, imposed by Protestant tithe-owners. Whether in ancient times or now, it's not just the amount of tax that causes the grievance. People will happily pay a pound for what they like but begrudge a farthing for what they dislike. I've even known people to leave England because of the stamp duty on newspapers!
275 (return)
[ Thucyd., lib. i., c. 75;
Bloomfield’s translation.
275 (return)
[ Thucydides, Book 1, Chapter 75; Bloomfield’s translation.
276 (return)
[ A sentiment thus implied
by the Athenian ambassadors: “We are not the first who began the custom
which has ever been an established one, that the weaker should be kept
under by the stronger.” The Athenians had, however, an excuse more
powerful than that of the ancient Rob Roys. It was the general opinion of
the time that the revolt of dependant allies might be fairly punished by
one that could punish them—(so the Corinthians take care to
observe). And it does not appear that the Athenian empire at this period
was more harsh than that of other states to their dependants. The Athenian
ambassadors (Thucyd., i., 78) not only quote the far more galling
oppressions the Ionians and the isles had undergone from the Mede, but
hint that the Spartans had been found much harder masters than the
Athenians.
276 (return)
[ The Athenian ambassadors implied a sentiment: “We aren’t the first to start the established practice that the stronger should control the weaker.” However, the Athenians had a stronger justification than the ancient Rob Roys. At that time, it was generally believed that the rebellion of subordinate allies could rightly be punished by those who had the power to do so—(as the Corinthians are careful to note). Furthermore, it seems that the Athenian empire during this period was not any harsher than other states towards their subordinates. The Athenian ambassadors (Thucyd., i., 78) not only reference the much more severe oppressions that the Ionians and the islands experienced under the Mede, but also suggest that the Spartans had been much tougher rulers than the Athenians.
277 (return)
[ Only twelve drachma each
yearly: the total, therefore, is calculated by the inestimable learning of
Boeckh not to have exceeded twenty-one talents.
277 (return)
[ Only twelve drachmas each year: the total, therefore, is estimated by the invaluable scholarship of Boeckh to be no more than twenty-one talents.
278 (return)
[ Total estimated at
thirty-three talents.
278 (return)
[ Total estimated at thirty-three talents.
279 (return)
[ The state itself
contributed largely to the plays, and the lessee of the theatre was also
bound to provide for several expenses, in consideration of which he
received the entrance money.
279 (return)
[ The government itself played a big role in the productions, and the theater's leaseholder was also responsible for various expenses, for which they collected the ticket fees.
280 (return)
[ On the authority of Pseud.
Arist. Oecon., 2-4.
280 (return)
[ According to Pseud. Arist. Oecon., 2-4.
281 (return)
[ In the expedition against
Sicily the state supplied the vessel and paid the crew. The trierarchs
equipped the ship and gave voluntary contributions besides.—Thucyd.,
vi., 31.
281 (return)
[ In the campaign against Sicily, the government provided the ship and covered the crew's wages. The trierarchs outfitted the vessel and made additional voluntary contributions.—Thucyd., vi., 31.
282 (return)
[ Liturgies, with most of
the Athenian laws that seemed to harass the rich personally, enhanced
their station and authority politically. It is clear that wherever wealth
is made most obviously available to the state, there it will be most
universally respected. Thus is it ever in commercial countries. In
Carthage of old, where, according to Aristotle, wealth was considered
virtue, and in England at this day, where wealth, if not virtue, is
certainly respectability,
282 (return)
[ Liturgies, along with many Athenian laws that seemed to target the wealthy personally, actually boosted their social standing and political power. It's clear that in places where wealth is seen as contributing significantly to the state, it gains widespread respect. This is always the case in commercial nations. In ancient Carthage, where, according to Aristotle, wealth was viewed as a virtue, and in present-day England, where wealth, if not a virtue, definitely brings respectability,
283 (return)
[ And so well aware of the
uncertain and artificial tenure of the Athenian power were the Greek
statesmen, that we find it among the arguments with which the Corinthian
some time after supported the Peloponnesian war, “that the Athenians, if
they lost one sea-fight, would be utterly subdued;”—nor, even
without such a mischance, could the flames of a war be kindled, but what
the obvious expedient [Footnote Thucyd., lib. i., c. 121. As the
Corinthians indeed suggested, Thucyd., lib. i., c. 122: of the enemy would
be to excite the Athenian allies to revolt, and the stoppage or diminution
of the tribute would be the necessary consequence.
283 (return)
[ The Greek statesmen were very aware of the unstable and artificial nature of Athenian power, to the point that one of the Corinthians later argued in support of the Peloponnesian war that “if the Athenians lost a single naval battle, they would be completely defeated;”—and even without such a mishap, any outbreak of war would clearly lead to the common solution suggested by the Corinthians: to encourage the Athenian allies to rebel, which would inevitably result in a reduction or halt of their tribute.
284 (return)
[ If the courts of law among
the allies were not removed to Athens till after the truce with
Peloponnesus, and indeed till after the ostracism of Thucydides, the rival
of Pericles, the value of the judicial fees did not, of course, make one
of the considerations for peace; but there would then have been the
mightier consideration of the design of that transfer which peace only
could effect.
284 (return)
[ If the courts of law among the allies weren’t moved to Athens until after the truce with Peloponnesus, and actually until after the ostracism of Thucydides, who rivaled Pericles, the value of the judicial fees obviously wasn’t one of the reasons for peace; however, there would have been the much more significant reason of the purpose behind that transfer which only peace could bring about.
286 (return)
[ “As a vain woman decked
out with jewels,” was the sarcastic reproach of the allies.—Plut. in
vit. Per.
286 (return)
[ “Like a vain woman all dressed up in jewels,” was the sarcastic criticism from the allies.—Plut. in vit. Per.
287 (return)
[ The Propylaea was built
under the direction of Mnesicles. It was begun 437 B. C., in the
archonship of Euthymenes, three years after the Samian war, and completed
in five years. Harpocrat. in propylaia tauta.
287 (return)
[ The Propylaea was constructed under the guidance of Mnesicles. Its construction started in 437 B.C., during the archonship of Euthymenes, three years after the Samian War, and it was finished within five years. Harpocrat. in propylaia tauta.
289 (return)
[ See Arnold’s Thucydides,
ii., 13, note 12.
289 (return)
[ See Arnold’s Thucydides, ii., 13, note 12.
290 (return)
[ “Their bodies, too, they
employ for the state as if they were any one’s else but their own; but
with minds completely their own, they are ever ready to render it
service.”—Thucyd., i., 70, Bloomfield’s translation.
290 (return)
[ “They use their own bodies for the state as if they didn’t belong to them at all; but with their own thoughts, they are always willing to serve it.”—Thucyd., i., 70, Bloomfield’s translation.
291 (return)
[ With us, Juries as well as
judges are paid, and, in ordinary cases, at as low a rate as the Athenian
dicasts (the different value of money being considered), viz., common
jurymen one shilling for each trial, and, in the sheriffs’ court,
fourpence. What was so pernicious in Athens is perfectly harmless in
England; it was the large member of the dicasts which made the mischief,
and not the system of payment itself, as unreflecting writers have so
often asserted.
291 (return)
[ Here, both juries and judges are paid, typically at rates similar to those of Athenian jurors (taking into account the different value of money), for example, regular jurors earn one shilling for each trial, and in the sheriff's court, fourpence. What was harmful in Athens is completely harmless in England; it was the large number of jurors that caused the problems, not the payment system itself, as thoughtless writers have often claimed. ]
292 (return)
[ See Book IV., Chapter V.
VII. of this volume.
292 (return)
[ See Book IV., Chapter V. VII. of this volume.
293 (return)
[ At first the payment of
the dicasts was one obolus.—(Aristoph. Nubes, 861.) Afterward, under
Cleon, it seems to have been increased to three; it is doubtful whether it
was in the interval ever two obols. Constant mistakes are made between the
pay, and even the constitution, of the ecclesiasts and the dicasts. But
the reader must carefully remember that the former were the popular
legislators, the latter, the popular judges or jurors—their
functions were a mixture of both.
293 (return)
[ Initially, the payment for the dicasts was one obol.—(Aristoph. Nubes, 861.) Later, during Cleon's time, it seems to have increased to three; it's unclear if it was ever two obols at any point in between. There are frequent confusions between the pay, and even the structure, of the ecclesiasts and the dicasts. However, readers need to clearly understand that the former were the public legislators, while the latter were the public judges or jurors—their roles combined elements of both.
294 (return)
[ Misthos ekklaesiastikos—the
pay of the ecclesiasts, or popular assembly.
294 (return)
[ Misthos ekklaesiastikos—the pay for the church officials or local assembly.
295 (return)
[ We know not how far the
paying of the ecclesiasts was the work of Pericles: if it were, it must
have been at, or after, the time we now enter upon, as, according to
Aristophanes (Eccles., 302), the people were not paid during the power of
Myronides, who flourished, and must have fallen with Thucydides, the
defeated rival of Pericles.
295 (return)
[ We don’t know how much of the payment to the church officials was Pericles’ doing: if it was, it would have happened at, or after, the time we’re discussing now, since, according to Aristophanes (Eccles., 302), the people weren't paid during Myronides' time, who was active and must have fallen alongside Thucydides, Pericles’ defeated rival.
296 (return)
[ The Athenians could extend
their munificence even to foreigners, as their splendid gift, said to have
been conferred on Herodotus, and the sum of ten thousand drachmas, which
Isocrates declares them to have bestowed on Pindar. [Footnote Isoc. de
Antidosi.:
296 (return)
[ The Athenians were generous even to outsiders, as shown by their impressive gift, reportedly given to Herodotus, and the amount of ten thousand drachmas that Isocrates claims they granted to Pindar. [Footnote Isoc. de Antidosi.:
297 (return)
[ The pay of the dicast and
the ecclesiast was, as we have just seen, first one, then three obols; and
the money paid to the infirm was never less than one, nor more than two
obols a day. The common sailors, in time of peace, received four obols a
day. Neither an ecclesiast nor a dicast was, therefore, paid so much as a
common sailor.
297 (return)
[ The salary for the dicast and the ecclesiast was, as we just discussed, initially one obol and then increased to three obols; and the money given to the sick was always at least one obol, but never more than two obols a day. Common sailors, during peacetime, earned four obols a day. So, neither an ecclesiast nor a dicast was paid as much as a common sailor.
298 (return)
[ Such as the Panathenaea
and Hieromeniae.
298 (return)
[ Like the Panathenaea and Hieromeniae.
299 (return)
[ From klaeroi, lots. The
estates and settlements of a cleruchia were divided among a certain number
of citizens by lot.
299 (return)
[ From klaeroi, lots. The estates and settlements of a cleruchia were distributed among a specific number of citizens by drawing lots.
300 (return)
[ The state only provided
the settlers with arms, and defrayed the expenses of their journey. See
Boeckh, Pol. Econ. of Athens, vol. ii., p. 170 (translation).
300 (return)
[ The government only supplied the settlers with weapons and covered the costs of their trip. See Boeckh, Pol. Econ. of Athens, vol. ii., p. 170 (translation).
302 (return)
[ These institutions
differed, therefore, from colonies principally in this: the mother country
retained a firm hold over the cleruchi—could recall them or reclaim
their possessions, as a penalty of revolt: the cleruchi retained all the
rights, and were subject to most of the conditions, of citizens. [Footnote
Except, for instance, the liturgies.: Lands were given without the
necessity of quitting Athens—departure thence was voluntary,
although it was the ordinary choice. But whether the cleruchi remained at
home or repaired to their settlement, they were equally attached to
Athenian interests. From their small number, and the enforced and
unpopular nature of their tenure, their property, unlike that of ordinary
colonists, depended on the power and safety of the parent state: they were
not so much transplanted shoots as extended branches of one tree, taking
their very life from the same stem. In modern times, Ireland suggests a
parallel to the old cleruchiae—in the gift of lands to English
adventurers—in the long and intimate connexion which subsisted
between the manners, habits, and political feeling of the English settlers
and the parent state—in the separation between the settlers and the
natives; and in the temporary power and subsequent feebleness which
resulted to the home government from the adoption of a system which
garrisoned the land, but exasperated the inhabitants.
302 (return)
[ These institutions
were different from colonies mainly in one way: the mother country
had a strong grip on the cleruchi—they could call them back or take
back their properties if they revolted. The cleruchi kept all their
rights and had to follow most of the rules that citizens did. [Footnote
Except, for example, the liturgies.: Lands were given without
needing to leave Athens—leaving was up to them, although it was
usually the common choice. Whether the cleruchi stayed at home or went
to their settlement, they were deeply connected to Athenian interests.
Because there were so few of them and their hold on property was enforced
and unpopular, their property relied more on the strength and security
of the parent state than that of typical colonists: they were less like
transplanted shoots and more like extended branches of one tree, drawing
their very life from the same trunk. In modern times, Ireland mirrors
the old cleruchiae—through the granting of lands to English adventurers—the
close and enduring link between the customs, habits, and political feelings
of the English settlers and the mother country—the divide between the
settlers and the natives; and in the short-lived power and later weakness
experienced by the home government due to a system that occupied the land
but angered the local population.
303 (return)
[ Nor were even these
composed solely of Athenians, but of mixed and various races. The colony
to Amphipolis (B. C. 465) is the first recorded colony of the Athenians
after the great Ionic migrations.
303 (return)
[ These weren't just made up of Athenians; they included a mix of different races as well. The colony at Amphipolis (B.C. 465) is the first documented colony established by the Athenians following the major Ionic migrations.
304 (return)
[ In the year in which the
colony of Thurium or Thurii was founded, the age of Lysias was fifteen,
that of Herodotus forty-one.
304 (return)
[ In the year that the colony of Thurium, or Thurii, was founded, Lysias was fifteen years old, and Herodotus was forty-one.
305 (return)
[ Plut. in vit. Per. Schol.
Aristoph. Av., 521.
305 (return)
[ Plut. in vit. Per. Schol. Aristoph. Av., 521.
306 (return)
[ Viz., Callias, Lysippus,
and Cratinus. See Athenaeus, lib. viii., p. 344. The worthy man seems to
have had the amiable infirmities of a bon vivant.
306 (return)
[That is, Callias, Lysippus, and Cratinus. See Athenaeus, book viii, p. 344. The respectable man appears to have had the charming quirks of a food and drink lover.
308 (return)
[ Historians, following the
received text in Plutarch, have retailed the incredible story that the
rejected claimants were sold for slaves; but when we consider the
extraordinary agitation it must have caused to carry such a sentence
against so many persons, amounting to a fourth part of the free population—when
we remember the numerous connexions, extending throughout at least four
times their own number, which five thousand persons living long
undisturbed and unsuspected as free citizens must have formed, it is
impossible to conceive that such rigour could even have been attempted
without creating revolution, sedition, or formidable resistance. Yet this
measure, most important if attended with such results—most
miraculous if not—is passed over in total silence by Thucydides and
by every other competent authority. A luminous emendation by Mr. Clinton
(Fast. Hell., vol. ii., second edition, p. 52 and 390, note p) restores
the proper meaning. Instead of heprataesan, he proposes apaelathaesan—the
authorities from Lysias quoted by Mr. Clinton (p. 390) seem to decide the
matter. “These five thousand disfranchised citizens, in B. C. 544, partly
supplied the colony to Thurium in the following year, and partly
contributed to augment the number of the Metoeci.”
308 (return)
[ Historians, relying on the text from Plutarch, have repeated the unbelievable story that the rejected claimants were sold into slavery; however, when we think about the huge uproar it would have sparked to pass such a sentence against so many people—about a quarter of the free population—we have to consider the many connections these five thousand people must have had, which likely extended to at least four times their number, as they lived peacefully and undetected as free citizens. It’s hard to believe that such harsh action could have even been attempted without causing a revolution, rebellion, or significant resistance. Yet, this critical action—if it resulted in such outcomes, it’s extraordinary, and if not, even more so—is completely ignored by Thucydides and every other credible source. A brilliant correction by Mr. Clinton (Fast. Hell., vol. ii., second edition, p. 52 and 390, note p) clarifies the correct meaning. Instead of heprataesan, he suggests apaelathaesan—the references from Lysias quoted by Mr. Clinton (p. 390) seem to confirm this. “These five thousand disenfranchised citizens, in B.C. 544, partially formed the colony at Thurium the following year, and partly helped increase the number of the Metoeci.”
309 (return)
[ Fourteen thousand two
hundred and forty, according to Philochorus. By the term “free citizens”
is to be understood those male Athenians above twenty—that is, those
entitled to vote in the public assembly. According to Mr. Clinton’s
computation, the women and children being added, the fourteen thousand two
hundred and forty will amount to about fifty-eight thousand six hundred
and forty, as the total of the free population.
309 (return)
[ Fourteen thousand two hundred forty, based on Philochorus. By “free citizens,” we mean male Athenians over twenty—those who are allowed to vote in the public assembly. According to Mr. Clinton's calculations, when you include women and children, the fourteen thousand two hundred forty sums up to about fifty-eight thousand six hundred forty as the total free population.
311 (return)
[ See the speech of the
Corinthians.—Thucyd., lib. i., 70.
311 (return)
[ See the speech of the Corinthians.—Thucyd., lib. i., 70.
312 (return)
[ Who was this Thucydides?
The rival of Pericles had been exiled less than ten years before [Footnote
in fact, about four years ago; viz., B. C. 444:; and it is difficult to
suppose that he could have been recalled before the expiration of he
sentence, and appointed to command, at the very period when the power and
influence of Pericles were at their height. Thucydides, the historian, was
about thirty-one, an age at which so high a command would scarcely, at
that period, have been bestowed upon any citizen, even in Athens, where
men mixed in public affairs earlier than in other Hellenic states
[Footnote Thucydides himself (lib. v., 43) speaks of Alcibiades as a mere
youth (at least one who would have been so considered in any other state),
at a time when he could not have been much less, and was probably rather
more than thirty:; besides, had Thucydides been present, would he have
given us no more ample details of an event so important? There were
several who bore this name. The scholiast on Aristophanes (Acharn., v.,
703) says there were four, whom he distinguishes thus—1st, the
historian; 2d, the Gargettian; 3d, the Thessalian; 4th, the son of
Melesias. The scholiast on the Vespae (v., 991) enumerates the same, and
calls them all Athenians. The son of Melesias is usually supposed the
opponent of Pericles—he is so called by Androtion. Theopompus,
however, says that it was the son of Pantanus. Marcellinus (in vit.
Thucyd., p. xi.) speaks of many of the name, and also selects four for
special notice. 1st, the historian; 2d, the son of Melesias; 3d, a
Pharsalian; 4th, a poet of the ward of Acherdus, mentioned by Androtion,
and called the son of Ariston. Two of this name, the historian and the son
of Melesias, are well known to us; but, for the reasons I have mentioned,
it is more probable that one of the others was general in the Samian war.
A third Thucydides (the Thessalian or Pharsalian) is mentioned by the
historian himself (viii., 92). I take the Gargettian (perhaps the son of
Pantanus named by Theopompus) to have been the commander in the
expedition.
312 (return)
[ Who was this Thucydides? The rival of Pericles had been exiled less than ten years before [Footnote in fact, about four years ago; i.e., B.C. 444; and it’s hard to imagine that he could have been recalled before his sentence was up and appointed to command right when Pericles was at the peak of his power and influence. Thucydides, the historian, was about thirty-one, an age at which such a high command would hardly have been given to any citizen, even in Athens, where people got involved in public affairs earlier than in other Greek states [Footnote Thucydides himself (lib. v., 43) refers to Alcibiades as just a youth (or at least someone who would have been seen that way in any other state), at a time when he couldn’t have been much younger, and was probably just over thirty; besides, if Thucydides had been there, wouldn’t he have provided more details about such an important event? There were several people with this name. The scholiast on Aristophanes (Acharn., v., 703) says there were four, distinguishing them as follows—1st, the historian; 2nd, the Gargettian; 3rd, the Thessalian; 4th, the son of Melesias. The scholiast on the Vespae (v., 991) lists the same names and identifies them all as Athenians. The son of Melesias is usually thought to be Pericles’ opponent—he is referred to as such by Androtion. However, Theopompus claims it was the son of Pantanus. Marcellinus (in vit. Thucyd., p. xi.) mentions many with the same name and also highlights four for special attention: 1st, the historian; 2nd, the son of Melesias; 3rd, a Pharsalian; 4th, a poet from the ward of Acherdus, mentioned by Androtion and referred to as the son of Ariston. Two of these— the historian and the son of Melesias—are well known to us; however, for the reasons I’ve mentioned, it’s more likely that one of the others was the general in the Samian war. A third Thucydides (the Thessalian or Pharsalian) is mentioned by the historian himself (viii., 92). I believe that the Gargettian (possibly the son of Pantanus mentioned by Theopompus) was the commander of the expedition.
315 (return)
[ At this period the
Athenians made war with a forbearance not common in later ages. When
Timotheus besieged Samos, he maintained his armament solely on the hostile
country, while a siege of nine months cost Athens so considerable a sum.
315 (return)
[ During this time, the Athenians waged war with a level of restraint not often seen in later periods. When Timotheus laid siege to Samos, he financed his military operations entirely from the enemy territory, even though the nine-month siege cost Athens a significant amount.
The contribution levied on the Samians was two hundred talents, proportioned, according to Diodorus, to the full cost of the expedition. But as Boeckh (Pol. Econ. of Athens, vol. i., p. 386, trans.) well observes, “This was a very lenient reckoning; a nine months’ siege by land and sea, in which one hundred and ninety-nine triremes [Footnote Boeckh states the number of triremes at one hundred and ninety-nine, but, in fact, there were two hundred and fifteen vessels employed, since we ought not to omit the sixteen stationed on the Carian coast, or despatched to Lesbos and Chios for supplies: were employed, or, at any rate, a large part of this number, for a considerable time, must evidently have caused a greater expense, and the statement, therefore, of Isocrates and Nepos, that twelve hundred talents were expended on it, appears to be by no means exaggerated.”
The fee imposed on the Samians was two hundred talents, which, according to Diodorus, was based on the total cost of the expedition. However, as Boeckh (Pol. Econ. of Athens, vol. i., p. 386, trans.) rightly points out, “This was a very lenient estimate; a nine-month siege by land and sea, involving one hundred and ninety-nine triremes [Footnote Boeckh states the number of triremes at one hundred and ninety-nine, but, in fact, there were two hundred and fifteen vessels involved, since we should also consider the sixteen stationed on the Carian coast or sent to Lesbos and Chios for supplies: were used, or, at least, a large part of this number, for a significant time, must have incurred a greater cost, and thus, the claim from Isocrates and Nepos that twelve hundred talents were spent on it seems far from exaggerated.”
317 (return)
[ It was on Byzantium that
they depended for the corn they imported from the shores of the Euxine.
317 (return)
[ They relied on Byzantium for the grain they imported from the shores of the Black Sea.
318 (return)
[ The practice of funeral
orations was probably of very ancient origin among the Greeks: but the law
which ordained them at Athens is referred by the scholiast on Thucydides
(lib. ii., 35) to Solon; while Diodorus, on the other hand, informs us it
was not passed till after the battle of Plataea. It appears most probable
that it was a usage of the heroic times, which became obsolete while the
little feuds among the Greek states remained trivial and unimportant; but,
after the Persian invasion, it was solemnly revived, from the magnitude of
the wars which Greece had undergone, and the dignity and holiness of the
cause in which the defenders of their country had fallen.
318 (return)
[ The practice of giving funeral orations likely dates back to ancient times among the Greeks. However, the law that established this practice in Athens is attributed by the scholiast on Thucydides (lib. ii., 35) to Solon. On the other hand, Diodorus states that it wasn’t enacted until after the battle of Plataea. It seems most likely that this was a custom from heroic times that became outdated when the petty conflicts among the Greek states were relatively insignificant. However, after the Persian invasion, it was formally revived due to the scale of the wars Greece had faced and the dignity and honor of the cause for which the defenders of their country had died.
319 (return)
[ Ouk an muraisi graus eous
aegeitheo.
319 (return)
[ You cannot mourn the chaos you create.
This seems the only natural interpretation of the line, in which, from not having the context, we lose whatever wit the sentence may have possessed—and witty we must suppose it was, since Plutarch evidently thinks it a capital joke. In corroboration of this interpretation of an allusion which has a little perplexed the commentators, we may observe, that ten years before, Pericles had judged a sarcasm upon the age of Elpinice the best way to silence her importunities. The anecdote is twice told by Plutarch, in vit. Cim., c. 14, and in vit. Per., c. 10.
This seems to be the only logical way to interpret the line, in which, without the context, we lose any humor the sentence might have had—and it must have been humorous, since Plutarch clearly finds it a great joke. To support this interpretation of a reference that has somewhat confused the commentators, we can point out that ten years earlier, Pericles considered making a sarcastic remark about Elpinice's age the best way to shut down her nagging. Plutarch tells this story twice, in vit. Cim., c. 14, and in vit. Per., c. 10.
320 (return)
[ Aristot., Poet. iv.
320 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[Aristotle, Poetics IV.
321 (return)
[ “As he was removed from
Cos in infancy, the name of his adopted country prevailed over that of the
country of his birth, and Epicharmus is called of Syracuse, though born at
Cos, as Apollonius is called the Rhodian, though born at Alexandria.”—Fast.
Hell., vol. ii., introduction.
321 (return)
[ “Since he was taken from Cos when he was a baby, the name of the country that raised him became more important than his birthplace, so Epicharmus is referred to as from Syracuse, even though he was born in Cos, just like Apollonius is known as the Rhodian, even though he was born in Alexandria.”—Fast. Hell., vol. ii., introduction.
322 (return)
[ Moliere.
322 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Molière.
323 (return)
[ Laertius, viii. For it is
evident that Epicharmus the philosopher was no other than Epicharmus the
philosophical poet—the delight of Plato, who was himself half a
Pythagorean.—See Bentley, Diss. Phal., p. 201; Laertius, viii., 78;
Fynes Clinton, Fast. Hell., vol. ii., introduction, p. 36 (note g).
323 (return)
[Laertius, viii. It’s clear that Epicharmus the philosopher was actually Epicharmus the philosophical poet—the favorite of Plato, who himself was somewhat Pythagorean.—See Bentley, Diss. Phal., p. 201; Laertius, viii., 78; Fynes Clinton, Fast. Hell., vol. ii., introduction, p. 36 (note g).
324 (return)
[ A few of his plays were
apparently not mythological, but they were only exceptions from the
general rule, and might have been written after the less refining comedies
of Magnes at Athens.
324 (return)
[ Some of his plays weren't really about myths, but those were just exceptions to the overall trend and might have been written after the simpler comedies of Magnes in Athens.
326 (return)
[ In Syracuse, however, the
republic existed when Epicharmus first exhibited his comedies. His genius
was therefore formed by a republic, though afterward fostered by a
tyranny.
326 (return)
[ In Syracuse, however, the republic was in place when Epicharmus first performed his comedies. His talent was shaped by a republic, although it was later supported by a tyranny.
327 (return)
[ For Crates acted in the
plays of Cratinus before he turned author. (See above.) Now the first play
of Crates dates two years before the first recorded play (the Archilochi)
of Cratinus; consequently Cratinus must have been celebrated long previous
to the exhibition of the Archilochi—indeed, his earlier plays
appear, according to Aristophanes, to have been the most successful, until
the old gentleman, by a last vigorous effort, beat the favourite play of
Aristophanes himself.
327 (return)
[ Crates acted in Cratinus's plays before he became a playwright himself. (See above.) The first play by Crates was released two years before Cratinus's first recorded play, the Archilochi; therefore, Cratinus must have been well-known long before the Archilochi was performed—actually, his earlier plays seem to have been the most successful, according to Aristophanes, until the old gentleman made one last strong attempt and outdid Aristophanes's favorite play.
328 (return)
[ That the magistrature did
not at first authorize comedy seems a proof that it was not at the
commencement considered, like tragedy, of a religious character. And,
indeed, though modern critics constantly urge upon us its connexion with
religion, I doubt whether at any time the populace thought more of its
holier attributes and associations than the Neapolitans of to-day are
impressed with the sanctity of the carnival when they are throwing
sugarplums at each other.
328 (return)
[ The fact that the authorities didn't initially approve comedy suggests it wasn't seen, like tragedy, as something religious. In fact, even though modern critics often emphasize its link to religion, I wonder if the general public ever considered its sacred qualities more than today’s Neapolitans perceive the holiness of the carnival while they’re tossing candy at each other.
329 (return)
[ In the interval, however,
the poets seem to have sought to elude the law, since the names of two
plays (the Satyroi and the Koleophoroi) are recorded during this period—plays
which probably approached comedy without answering to its legal
definition. It might be that the difficulty rigidly to enforce the law
against the spirit of the times and the inclination of the people was one
of the causes that led to the repeal of the prohibition.
329 (return)
[ In the meantime, it seems that the poets tried to bypass the law, as the names of two plays (the Satyroi and the Koleophoroi) are noted from this period—plays that likely leaned toward comedy without fitting its legal definition. It’s possible that the challenge of strictly enforcing the law against the prevailing culture and the people's preferences was one of the reasons that led to the repeal of the ban.
330 (return)
[ Since that siege lasted
nine months of the year in which the decree was made.
330 (return)
[ Since that siege lasted nine months out of the year when the decree was issued.
331 (return)
[ Aristophanes thus
vigorously describes the applauses that attended the earlier productions
of Cratinus. I quote from the masterly translation of Mr. Mitchell.
331 (return)
[ Aristophanes vividly captures the applause that greeted the earlier works of Cratinus. I'm quoting from Mr. Mitchell's brilliant translation.
“Who Cratinus may forget, or the storm of whim and wit,
Which shook theatres under his guiding;
When Panegyric’s song poured her flood of praise along,
Who but he on the top wave was riding?”
* * * * * * *
“His step was as the tread of a flood that leaves its bed,
And his march it was rude desolation,” etc.
Mitchell’s Aristoph., The Knights, p. 204.
“Who can forget Cratinus or the whirlwind of his humor and cleverness that shook the theaters under his direction? When the celebration's song flooded in with its praise, who else was riding the crest of that wave?”
* * * * * * *
“His step was like the march of a flood that has left its banks, and his march brought nothing but chaos,” etc.
Mitchell’s Aristoph., The Knights, p. 204.The man who wrote thus must have felt betimes—when, as a boy, he first heard the roar of the audience—what it is to rule the humours of eighteen thousand spectators!
The guy who wrote this must have realized early on—when, as a kid, he first heard the crowd roar—what it's like to have control over the emotions of eighteen thousand spectators!
332 (return)
[ De l’esprit, passim.
332 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ On the mind, variously.
334 (return)
[ The oracle that awarded to
Socrates the superlative degree of wisdom, gave to Sophocles the positive,
and to Euripides the comparative degree,
334 (return)
[ The oracle that declared Socrates the wisest, gave Sophocles a basic level of wisdom, and granted Euripides a middle level.
Sophos Sophoclaes; sophoteros d’Euripoeaes;
‘Andron de panton Sokrataes sophotatos.
Sophocles is wiser than Euripides;
'And Socrates is the wisest of all.Sophocles is wise—Euripides wiser—but wisest of all men is Socrates.
Sophocles is wise—Euripides is even wiser—but the wisest of all is Socrates.
335 (return)
[ The Oresteia.
335 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ The Oresteia.
336 (return)
[ For out of seventy plays
by Aeschylus only thirteen were successful; he had exhibited fifteen years
before he obtained his first prize; and the very law passed in honour of
his memory, that a chorus should be permitted to any poet who chose to
re-exhibit his dramas, seems to indicate that a little encouragement of
such exhibition was requisite. This is still more evident if we believe,
with Quintilian, that the poets who exhibited were permitted to correct
and polish up the dramas, to meet the modern taste, and play the Cibber to
the Athenian Shakspeare.
336 (return)
[ Out of seventy plays by Aeschylus, only thirteen were well-received; he had been performing for fifteen years before he won his first prize. The law that was enacted in his honor—allowing any poet to re-showcase his works—suggests that some encouragement for such performances was needed. This is even clearer if we accept Quintilian's view that the poets were allowed to revise and refine their plays to align with contemporary tastes, playing the role of Cibber to the Athenian Shakespeare.
337 (return)
[ Athenaeus, lib. xiii., p.
603, 604.
337 (return)
[ Athenaeus, book xiii., pages 603, 604.
338 (return)
[ He is reported, indeed, to
have said that he rejoiced in the old age which delivered him from a
severe and importunate taskmaster. —Athen., lib. 12, p. 510. But the
poet, nevertheless, appears to have retained his amorous propensities, at
least, to the last.—See Athenaeus, lib. 13, p. 523.
338 (return)
[ He is said to have expressed joy in reaching old age, as it freed him from a demanding and relentless taskmaster. —Athen., lib. 12, p. 510. However, the poet seems to have kept his romantic tendencies, at least until the end. —See Athenaeus, lib. 13, p. 523.
339 (return)
[ He does indeed charge
Sophocles with avarice, but he atones for it very handsomely in the
“Frogs.”
339 (return)
[ He really does accuse Sophocles of being greedy, but he makes up for it nicely in the “Frogs.”
340 (return)
[ M. Schlegel is pleased to
indulge in one of his most declamatory rhapsodies upon the life, “so dear
to the gods,” of this “pious and holy poet.” But Sophocles, in private
life, was a profligate, and in public life a shuffler and a trimmer, if
not absolutely a renegade. It was, perhaps, the very laxity of his
principles which made him thought so agreeable a fellow. At least, such is
no uncommon cause of personal popularity nowadays. People lose much of
their anger and envy of genius when it throws them down a bundle or two of
human foibles by which they can climb up to its level.
340 (return)
[ M. Schlegel is happy to indulge in one of his most expressive rants about the life, “so dear to the gods,” of this “devout and holy poet.” But Sophocles, in private life, was irresponsible, and in public, he was indecisive and opportunistic, if not downright a turncoat. It was probably the very looseness of his principles that made him seem like such a likable guy. At least, that’s a pretty common reason for personal popularity these days. People tend to let go of a lot of their anger and jealousy towards genius when it reveals a few of its human flaws that they can use to elevate themselves to its level.
341 (return)
[ It is said, indeed, that
the appointment was the reward of a successful tragedy; it was more likely
due to his birth, fortune, and personal popularity.
341 (return)
[ It's actually said that the appointment was a reward for a successful play; however, it was probably more because of his background, wealth, and personal charm.
342 (return)
[ It seems, however, that
Pericles thought very meanly of his warlike capacities.—See
Athenaeus, lib. 13, p. 604.
342 (return)
[ It seems, however, that Pericles had a low opinion of his own military abilities.—See Athenaeus, lib. 13, p. 604.
344 (return)
[ When Sophocles (Athenaeus,
i., p. 22) said that Aeschylus composed befittingly, but without knowing
it, his saying evinced the study his compositions had cost himself.
344 (return)
[ When Sophocles (Athenaeus, i., p. 22) said that Aeschylus wrote appropriately, but without realizing it, his comment revealed the effort that had gone into his own works.
345 (return)
[ “The chorus should be
considered as one of the persons in the drama, should be a part of the
whole, and a sharer in the action, not as in Euripides, but as in
Sophocles.”—Aristot. de Poet., Twining’s translation. But even in
Sophocles, at least in such of his plays as are left to us, the chorus
rarely, if ever, is a sharer in the outward and positive action of the
piece; it rather carries on and expresses the progress of the emotions
that spring out of the action.
345 (return)
[ "The chorus should be seen as one of the characters in the play, part of the whole, and involved in the action, not like in Euripides, but more like in Sophocles." —Aristot. de Poet., Twining’s translation. However, even in Sophocles, at least in the plays that we still have, the chorus rarely, if ever, participates directly in the main action; instead, it conveys and reflects the emotional journey that arises from the action.
346 (return)
[ —akno toi pros s’
aposkopois’ anax.—Oedip. Tyr., 711.
346 (return)
[ —you know your way to the shadowy ones, my lord.—Oedip. Tyr., 711.
This line shows how much of emotion the actor could express in spite of the mask.
This line demonstrates how much emotion the actor could convey despite wearing the mask.
347 (return)
[ “Of all discoveries, the
best is that which arises from the action itself, and in which a striking
effect is produced by probable incidents. Such is that in the Oedipus of
Sophocles.”—Aristot. de Poet., Twining’s translation.
347 (return)
[ “Of all discoveries, the best is the one that comes from the action itself, where a remarkable outcome is created by likely events. This is what happens in the Oedipus by Sophocles.”—Aristot. de Poet., Twining’s translation.
348 (return)
[ But the spot consecrated
to those deities which men “tremble to name,” presents all the features of
outward loveliness that contrast and refine, as it were, the metaphysical
terror of the associations. And the beautiful description of Coloneus
itself, which is the passage that Sophocles is said to have read to his
judges, before whom he was accused of dotage, seems to paint a home more
fit for the graces than the furies. The chorus inform the stranger that he
has come to “the white Coloneus;”
348 (return)
[ But the place dedicated to those deities that people “dare not name” has all the beautiful features that highlight and refine, in a way, the deep fear that comes from the associations. And the lovely description of Coloneus itself, which is the passage that Sophocles is said to have read to his judges when he was accused of being senile, seems to portray a place more suited for the graces than the furies. The chorus tells the stranger that he has arrived at “the white Coloneus;”
“Where ever and aye, through the greenest vale
Gush the wailing notes of the nightingale
From her home where the dark-hued ivy weaves
With the grove of the god a night of leaves;
And the vines blossom out from the lonely glade,
And the suns of the summer are dim in the shade,
And the storms of the winter have never a breeze,
That can shiver a leaf from the charmed trees;
For there, oh ever there,
With that fair mountain throng,
Who his sweet nurses were, [Footnote the nymphs of Nisa:
Wild Bacchus holds his court, the conscious woods among!
Daintily, ever there,
Crown of the mighty goddesses of old,
Clustering Narcissus with his glorious hues
Springs from his bath of heaven’s delicious dews,
And the gay crocus sheds his rays of gold.
And wandering there for ever
The fountains are at play,
And Cephisus feeds his river
From their sweet urns, day by day.
The river knows no dearth;
Adown the vale the lapsing waters glide,
And the pure rain of that pellucid tide
Calls the rife beauty from the heart of earth.
While by the banks the muses’ choral train
Are duly heard—and there, Love checks her golden rein.”
“Wherever and always, through the greenest valley,
Gush the wailing notes of the nightingale
From her home where the dark-hued ivy weaves
With the grove of the god in a night of leaves;
And the vines bloom out from the lonely glade,
And the summer suns are dim in the shade,
And the winter storms never have a breeze
That can shake a leaf from the enchanted trees;
For there, oh always there,
With that fair mountain crowd,
Who his sweet nurses were, [Footnote the nymphs of Nisa:
Wild Bacchus holds his court among the aware woods!
Delicately, always there,
Crown of the mighty goddesses of old,
Clusters of Narcissus with his glorious hues
Springs from his bath of heaven’s delicious dews,
And the cheerful crocus sheds his rays of gold.
And wandering there forever
The fountains are at play,
And Cephisus feeds his river
From their sweet urns, day by day.
The river knows no shortage;
Down the valley the flowing waters glide,
And the pure rain of that clear tide
Calls the abundant beauty from the heart of earth.
While by the banks the muses’ choral train
Are duly heard—and there, Love checks her golden reins.”
349 (return)
[ Geronta dorthoun,
phlauron, os neos pesae. Oedip. Col., 396.
349 (return)
[ Geronta dorthoun, phlauron, os neos pesae. Oedip. Col., 396.
Thus, though his daughter had only grown up from childhood to early womanhood, Oedipus has passed from youth to age since the date of the Oedipus Tyrannus.
Thus, even though his daughter has only transitioned from childhood to early adulthood, Oedipus has moved from youth to old age since the time of the Oedipus Tyrannus.
350 (return)
[ See his
self-justification, 960-1000.
350 (return)
[ Check out his self-justification, 960-1000.
351 (return)
[ As each poet had but three
actors allowed him, the song of the chorus probably gave time for the
representative of Theseus to change his dress, and reappear as Polynices.
351 (return)
[ Since each poet was allowed only three actors, the chorus's song likely provided time for the actor playing Theseus to change costumes and return as Polynices.
352 (return)
[ The imagery in the last
two lines has been amplified from the original in order to bring before
the reader what the representation would have brought before the
spectator.
352 (return)
[ The imagery in the last two lines has been enhanced from the original to fully convey to the reader what the representation would have shown the viewer.
353 (return)
[ Mercury.
353 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Mercury.
354 (return)
[ Proserpine.
354 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[Proserpine.
355 (return)
[ Autonamos.—Antig.,
821.
355 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Autonamos.—Antig., 821.
356 (return)
[ Ou toi synechthein, alla
symphilein ephun. Antig., 523.
356 (return)
[ Or you to keep together, but to cooperate you were born. Antig., 523.
357 (return)
[ Ceres.
357 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Ceres.
358 (return)
[ Hyper dilophon petras—viz.,
Parnassus. The Bacchanalian light on the double crest of Parnassus, which
announced the god, is a favourite allusion with the Greek poets.
358 (return)
[ Hyper dilophon petras—specifically, Parnassus. The Bacchanalian glow on the twin peaks of Parnassus, signaling the god, is a common reference among Greek poets.
359 (return)
[ His mother, Semele.
359 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ His mom, Semele.
360 (return)
[ Aristotle finds fault with
the incident of the son attempting to strike his father, as being
shocking, yet not tragic—that is, the violent action is episodical,
since it is not carried into effect; yet, if we might connect the plot of
the “Antigone” with the former plays of either “Oedipus,” there is
something of retribution in the attempted parricide when we remember the
hypocritical and cruel severity of Creon to the involuntary parricide of
Oedipus. The whole description of the son in that living tomb, glaring on
his father with his drawn sword, the dead form of his betrothed, with the
subsequent picture of the lovers joined in death, constitutes one of the
most masterly combinations of pathos and terror in ancient or modern
poetry.
360 (return)
[ Aristotle criticizes the situation where a son tries to attack his father, calling it shocking but not tragic—since the act of violence is just a moment and doesn't actually happen; however, if we link the plot of “Antigone” with the earlier stories of “Oedipus,” there is a sense of retribution in the attempted parricide, considering the hypocritical and harsh treatment Creon gives to Oedipus for his unintentional act. The entire scene of the son in that living tomb, glaring at his father with a drawn sword, the lifeless body of his fiancée, along with the subsequent image of the lovers united in death, forms one of the most skillful blends of emotion and fear in both ancient and modern poetry.
361 (return)
[ This is not the only
passage in which Sophocles expresses feminine wo by silence. In the
Trachiniae, Deianira vanishes in the same dumb abruptness when she hears
from her son the effect of the centaur’s gift upon her husband.
361 (return)
[ This isn't the only instance where Sophocles shows women's suffering through silence. In the Trachiniae, Deianira also disappears just as abruptly when she learns from her son about the impact of the centaur's gift on her husband.
362 (return)
[ According to that most
profound maxim of Aristotle, that in tragedy a very bad man should never
be selected as the object of chastisement, since his fate is not
calculated to excite our sympathies.
362 (return)
[ According to Aristotle's important principle, a very bad person should never be chosen as the target of punishment in a tragedy, as their outcome is unlikely to evoke our sympathy.
363 (return)
[ Electra, I. 250-300.
363 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Electra, I. 250-300.
364 (return)
[ When (line 614)
Clytemnestra reproaches Electra for using insulting epithets to a mother—and
“Electra, too, at such a time of life”—I am surprised that some of
the critics should deem it doubtful whether Clytemnestra meant to allude
to her being too young or too mature for such unfilial vehemence. Not only
does the age of Orestes, so much the junior to Electra, prove the latter
signification to be the indisputable one, but the very words of Electra
herself to her younger sister, Chrysothemis, when she tells her that she
is “growing old, unwedded.”
364 (return)
[ When (line 614) Clytemnestra calls out Electra for using disrespectful language towards a mother—and “Electra, too, at such a time of life”—I’m surprised that some critics think it’s unclear whether Clytemnestra was referring to her being too young or too mature for such disrespectful passion. The age of Orestes, who is much younger than Electra, clearly supports the idea that she’s implying the latter meaning is correct. Additionally, Electra's own words to her younger sister, Chrysothemis, when she says that she is “growing old, unwedded,” reinforce this point.
Estos’onde tou chronou
alektra gaearskousan anumegaia te.
Estos’onde tou chronou alektra gaearskousan anumegaia te.
Brunck has a judicious note on Electra’s age, line 614.
Brunck has a thoughtful note on Electra's age, line 614.
367 (return)
[ Sophocles skilfully avoids
treading the ground consecrated to Aeschylus. He does not bring the murder
before us with the struggles and resolve of Orestes.
367 (return)
[ Sophocles skillfully avoids stepping into the territory that Aeschylus has established. He doesn't present the murder with the same struggles and determination of Orestes.
368 (return)
[ This is very
characteristic of Sophocles; he is especially fond of employing what may
be called “a crisis in life” as a source of immediate interest to the
audience. So in the “Oedipus at Coloneus,” Oedipus no sooner finds he is
in the grove of the Furies than he knows his hour is approaching; so,
also, in the “Ajax,” the Nuncius announces from the soothsayer, that if
Ajax can survive the one day which makes the crisis of his life, the anger
of the goddess will cease. This characteristic of the peculiar style of
Sophocles might be considered as one of the proofs (were any wanting) of
the authenticity of the “Trachiniae.”
368 (return)
[ This is very typical of Sophocles; he really likes to use what can be described as “a life crisis” to grab the audience’s attention. In “Oedipus at Coloneus,” as soon as Oedipus realizes he’s in the grove of the Furies, he knows his time is running out; similarly, in “Ajax,” the Messenger reports from the oracle that if Ajax can get through the one day that marks the crisis of his life, the goddess's anger will go away. This feature of Sophocles' unique style could be seen as further evidence (if any were needed) of the authenticity of the “Trachiniae.”
369 (return)
[ M. Schlegel rather
wantonly accuses Deianira of “levity”—all her motives, on the
contrary, are pure and high, though tender and affectionate.
369 (return)
[ M. Schlegel somewhat unfairly accuses Deianira of being “lighthearted”—her true motives, in fact, are noble and profound, even though they are also gentle and loving.
370 (return)
[ Observe the violation of
the unity which Sophocles, the most artistical of all the Greek
tragedians, does not hesitate to commit whenever he thinks it necessary.
Hyllus, at the beginning of the play, went to Cenaeum; he has been already
there and back—viz., a distance from Mount Oeta to a promontory in
Euboea, during the time about seven hundred and thirty lines have taken up
in recital! Nor is this all: just before the last chorus—only about
one hundred lines back—Lichas set out to Cenaeum; and yet sufficient
time is supposed to have elapsed for him to have arrived there—been
present at a sacrifice—been killed by Hercules—and after all
this, for Hyllus, who tells the tale, to have performed the journey back
to Trachin.
370 (return)
[ Notice the breakdown of unity that Sophocles, the most artistic of all the Greek tragedians, doesn’t hesitate to commit whenever he finds it necessary. Hyllus starts the play having just gone to Cenaeum; he has already traveled there and back—specifically, a distance from Mount Oeta to a promontory in Euboea—while about seven hundred and thirty lines have been spoken! And that's not all: just before the final chorus—only about one hundred lines back—Lichas has set out for Cenaeum; and yet it’s assumed that enough time has passed for him to get there, be part of a sacrifice, be killed by Hercules, and then for Hyllus, who recounts the story, to have made the journey back to Trachin.
371 (return)
[ Even Ulysses, the
successful rival of Ajax, exhibits a reluctance to face the madman which
is not without humour.
371 (return)
[ Even Ulysses, the successful competitor of Ajax, shows an unwillingness to confront the madman that is quite humorous.
372 (return)
[ Potter says, in common
with some other authorities, that “we may be assured that the political
enmity of the Athenians to the Spartans and Argives was the cause of this
odious representation of Menelaus and Agamemnon.” But the Athenians had,
at that time, no political enmity with the Argives, who were notoriously
jealous of the Spartans; and as for the Spartans, Agamemnon and Menelaus
were not their heroes and countrymen. On the contrary, it was the thrones
of Menelaus and Agamemnon which the Spartans overthrew. The royal brothers
were probably sacrificed by the poet, not the patriot. The dramatic
effects required that they should be made the foils to the manly fervour
of Teucer and the calm magnanimity of Ulysses.
372 (return)
[ Potter says, along with some other sources, that “we can be sure that the Athenians’ political rivalry with the Spartans and Argives led to this negative depiction of Menelaus and Agamemnon.” However, at that time, the Athenians had no political conflict with the Argives, who were famously envious of the Spartans; as for the Spartans, Agamemnon and Menelaus were not their heroes or fellow countrymen. In fact, it was the thrones of Menelaus and Agamemnon that the Spartans destroyed. The royal brothers were likely sacrificed by the poet, not the patriot. The dramatic effects required that they be contrasted with the manly passion of Teucer and the calm nobility of Ulysses.
373 (return)
[ That the catastrophe
should be unhappy! Aristot., Poet., xiii.
373 (return)
[ It’s unfortunate that the disaster is sad! Aristot., Poet., xiii.
In the same chapter Aristotle properly places in the second rank of fable those tragedies which attempt the trite and puerile moral of punishing the bad and rewarding the good.
In the same chapter, Aristotle correctly ranks the tragedies that focus on the clichéd and simplistic moral of punishing the bad and rewarding the good as second-rate.
374 (return)
[ When Aristophanes (in the
character of Aeschylus) ridicules Euripides for the vulgarity of deriving
pathos from the rags, etc., of his heroes, he ought not to have omitted
all censure of the rags and sores of the favourite hero of Sophocles. And
if the Telephus of the first is represented as a beggar, so also is the
Oedipus at Coloneus of the latter. Euripides has great faults, but he has
been unfairly treated both by ancient and modern hypercriticism.
374 (return)
[ When Aristophanes (through the character of Aeschylus) mocks Euripides for the tackiness of pulling emotional weight from the rags, etc., of his heroes, he shouldn't have ignored the rags and wounds of Sophocles' favorite hero. Just like Telephus in the first case is shown as a beggar, Oedipus at Coloneus in the latter is too. Euripides has significant flaws, but he's been treated unfairly by both ancient and modern critics.
375 (return)
[ The single effects, not
the plots.
375 (return)
[ The individual effects, not the storylines.
376 (return)
[ “Polus, celebrated,” says
Gellius, “throughout all Greece, a scientific actor of the noblest
tragedies.” Gellius relates of him an anecdote, that when acting the
Electra of Sophocles, in that scene where she is represented with the urn
supposed to contain her brother’s remains, he brought on the stage the urn
and the relics of his own son, so that his lamentations were those of real
emotion. Poles acted the hero in the plays of Oedipus Tyrannus and Oedipus
at Coloneus.—Arrian. ap. Stob., xcvii., 28. The actors were no less
important personages on the ancient than they are on the modern stage.
Aristotle laments that good poets were betrayed into episodes, or
unnecessarily prolonging and adorning parts not wanted in the plot, so as
to suit the rival performers.—Arist. de Poet., ix. Precisely what is
complained of in the present day. The Attic performers were the best in
Greece—all the other states were anxious to engage them, but they
were liable to severe penalties if they were absent at the time of the
Athenian festivals. (Plut. in Alex.) They were very highly remunerated.
Polus could earn no less than a talent in two days (Plut. in Rhet. vit.),
a much larger sum (considering the relative values of money) than any
English actor could now obtain for a proportionate period of service.
Though in the time of Aristotle actors as a body were not highly
respectable, there was nothing highly derogatory in the profession itself.
The high birth of Sophocles and Aeschylus did not prevent their performing
in their own plays. Actors often took a prominent part in public affairs;
and Aristodemus, the player, was sent ambassador to King Philip. So great,
indeed, was the importance attached to this actor, that the state took on
itself to send ambassadors in his behalf to all the cities in which he had
engagements.—Aeschin. de Fals. Legat., p. 30-203, ed. Reiske.
376 (return)
[ “Polus, renowned,” says Gellius, “throughout all of Greece, a skilled actor of the greatest tragedies.” Gellius shares a story about him that when he performed in Sophocles’ Electra, during the scene where she holds the urn believed to contain her brother's remains, he brought on stage the urn and the ashes of his own son, making his sorrow feel genuine. Polus also played the lead in the Oedipus Tyrannus and Oedipus at Coloneus.—Arrian. ap. Stob., xcvii., 28. Actors were just as significant in ancient times as they are today. Aristotle laments that talented poets were led into unnecessary side stories or extended parts that didn't fit the plot, just to please competing performers.—Arist. de Poet., ix. This is exactly what people complain about now. The Attic actors were the best in Greece; other states were eager to hire them, but they faced heavy penalties for being absent during Athenian festivals. (Plut. in Alex.) They were very well compensated. Polus could earn as much as a talent in two days (Plut. in Rhet. vit.), a significantly larger sum (considering the relative values of money) than any English actor could earn for a similar time of work today. Although during Aristotle's time actors as a whole weren’t particularly respected, there was nothing shameful about the profession itself. The noble lineage of Sophocles and Aeschylus didn’t stop them from performing in their own plays. Actors often played major roles in public affairs; for example, Aristodemus the actor was sent as an ambassador to King Philip. The significance of this actor was so great that the state sent ambassadors on his behalf to all the cities where he had performances.—Aeschin. de Fals. Legat., p. 30-203, ed. Reiske.
377 (return)
[ The Minerva Promachus. Hae
megalae Athaena.
377 (return)
[ The Minerva Promachus. The great goddess Athena.
380 (return)
[ Oedip. Colon., 691.
380 (__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__)
[ Oedipus at Colonnus, 691.
Download ePUB
If you like this ebook, consider a donation!