Introduction

"Until philosophers are kings, and the princes of this world have the spirit and power of philosophy, and political greatness and wisdom meet in one, cities will never cease from ill—no, nor the human race, as I believe—and then only will our state have a possibility of life, and see the light of day." "The truth is, that the state in which the rulers are most reluctant to govern is best and most quietly governed, and the state in which they are most willing is the worst."

Thus writes Plato in his Republic, laying down the conditions, which even to him appear impossible, under which a state may be wisely governed. The ruler must be a philosopher as well as a king; and he must govern unwillingly, because he loves philosophy better than dominion. Once in the history of the world these conditions were fulfilled: in Marcus Aurelius we find the philosopher king, the ruler who preferred the solitude of the student to the splendour of the palace, the soldier who loved the arts of peace better than the glory of war. It is with no small interest that we turn to the records of history to see what was the outward life led by this king; but even more willingly do we open the precious record of his own thoughts, which reveal to us the inner life of the philosopher.

Marcus Aurelius Antoninus was the adopted son of the Emperor Antoninus Pius, who died in 161 A.D. He had been brought up with the utmost care by his adoptive father, and received the best instruction in poetry and rhetoric, at that time the staples of a liberal education. But his favourite study was philosophy, and when only eleven years old he assumed the philosophers' simple dress, adopted their mode of life; and finding that his inclination was chiefly towards Stoicism, he attached himself to this—the strictest of the philosophic schools. A discipline of monastic severity, that bade its followers disregard all bodily comfort, all that is commonly called pleasure, and care for naught but virtue, was indeed a strange training for one destined for the imperial purple, and it hardly appeared to be a fitting preparation for the cares of what was then the one great Empire of the world. True, the Stoics loved to call themselves citizens of the world, and to inculcate that cosmopolitanism that is broader and nobler than mere patriotism; but while they maintained in theory that the wise man should take part in politics, in practice there was always something in the existing state of things which made his doing so unadvisable. But Marcus Aurelius could not choose his own lot. Destined for the throne already by the Emperor Hadrian, associated in the empire even in his adoptive father's lifetime, he could but accept his lot, and in striving to practise the noble principles he had learnt, pay to his Stoic teachers the truest tribute.

His was a troubled reign. The Roman Empire, which in the vigorous days of the Republic had been gradually but surely extending its boundaries, had been consolidated, and newly administered by Julius Cæsar and Augustus. On the death of the latter it extended from the Atlantic on the west to the Armenian mountains and Arabian deserts on the east. On the south the African deserts had alone stopped the conquering arms, while on the north a line of natural boundaries was traced by the English Channel, Rhine, Danube, Black Sea, and Mount Caucasus. Warned by the ill-success that attended the later campaigns of his generals on the Lower Rhine, Augustus had cautioned his successors to aim at preserving rather than increasing their dominions. Thus it came about, that between the years 14 and 161 A.D., when Marcus Aurelius succeeded to the throne, only two fresh conquests had been made; Britain, a source of more trouble than profit to the empire, and Dacia, conquered by Trajan in 106 A.D.

Natural boundaries and Roman legions kept peace and security for many years within the circle of Roman dominion. But there were two weak points on these borders. On the north the hardy German tribes on the Danube and Upper Rhine, themselves hard pressed by Slavonian intruders from Russia, threatened to invade the Roman dominion; on the east the "insolent Parthian," long the terror of the Roman arms, was a constant source of trouble and danger. The peace-loving Marcus Aurelius was obliged to cope with both these enemies. The arms, or rather the army, of the insolent and profligate Lucius Verus for a time subdued the Parthians, but no lasting peace was destined Marcus Aurelius. He himself conducted the campaigns on the Danube, and again and again beat back the northern enemy in wars, of which the chief interest to us now consists in the scant notes in the Meditations—"this among the Quadi," "this at Carmuntum," showing how these precious records of a pure and serene soul were composed amid the storms of battle and the elation of victory. Nor were his troubles confined to foreign wars. The plague, imported from the East, ravaged Italy, though it did the state good service in carrying off Lucius Verus, Marcus's adoptive brother, whom, in obedience to the wishes of Antoninus, he had associated with himself in the empire. There were famines too in the land, with which the Emperor tried to cope by schemes of carefully-organised charity. And, lastly, Avidius Cassius, one of his most trusted and ablest generals, revolted in Syria, and tried to obtain for himself the empire, deeming it an easy matter to overcome a master who was so full of generosity and compassion that he could only inspire contempt in the mind of the unphilosophic soldier. The revolt was soon put down, but the leader was killed by one of his own officers. The Emperor expressed only his regret that he should have been thus deprived of the luxury of forgiveness, and he carefully destroyed all documents that could implicate any others in the revolt. Thus in all the trials of his life his philosophy inspired noble action, and he might worthily be added to the short list of those whom the Stoics acknowledged as really good and great.

Amid these records of gentleness and forbearance it seems strange to read that Marcus Aurelius permitted a cruel persecution of the Christians. Among the victims of this reign were Justin Martyr and Polycarp, and numbers suffered in a general persecution of the churches at Lyons and Vienne. It must not, however, be forgotten that the persecution was political rather than religious. Of the true teaching of Christianity Marcus Aurelius knew little and cared less; but its followers, in refusing to acknowledge a religion which included the Emperors among its deities, became rebels against the existing order of things, and therein culpable. Of the old sincere belief in the gods of Rome but little could survive in a state where the vote of the Senate had the power to add a new divinity to the already bewildering list. So much the more important were the outward forms, now that the actual belief was gone, and the bond between Church and State grew even closer, now that the Church could no longer stand alone. Of the various systems of philosophy at that time fashionable at Rome, all but the Epicurean could readily embody the creed of the old religion, and by treating the names of gods and heroes as mere symbols, they contrived to combine outward conformity with inner enlightenment. Not so the Christians. In their eyes the whole system of idolatry was accursed. A silent protest was insufficient. It was not enough to refrain from sacrifice themselves; in public and in private, in season and out of season, they exhorted others to do the like; not content with leaving the statues of the gods unhonoured, they would throw them from their pedestals, or insult them in the presence of the faithful. What wonder that the Romans looked on them with suspicion and hatred, and added to their real offences the pretended ones of eating human flesh and indulging in all manner of immorality. In our own more enlightened day we know what strange reports gather round any sect or school that happens to be unfashionable or unpopular. What wonder, then, that the secret meetings of the Christians should have given rise to strange rumours, and that the persecutions "were the expression of a feeling with which a modern state might regard a set of men who were at once Mormons and Nihilists."¹ Add to this that the Christians often actually provoked persecution, and we cease to wonder, though we cannot but regret, that Marcus Aurelius, in simply allowing the law to take its course, should have failed to give an example of that perfect toleration to which Christianity itself has never yet attained. Let us be content to call him, with Farrar, "the noblest of Pagan Emperors," and sorrowfully acknowledge that we must seek in vain for a Christian monarch to place beside him. Wars and troubles attended Marcus Aurelius to the very end of his days. In 177 A.D. fresh wars called him to the north. A presentiment seemed to tell his friends at Rome that they should not see him again, and they begged him to address them his farewell admonitions. There is nothing more striking in the whole of Aurelius' career than this picture of the great general discoursing for three days before his departure for the wars on the deep questions of philosophy. This was indeed the last time he was seen at Rome. Worn out by anxiety and fatigue, after once more winning victory for the Roman arms, he died, in Pannonia, on March 17th, 180 A.D., mourned with a note of such true sorrow as never before or again was raised at the death of an Emperor.

It is time to inquire into the nature of that philosophy which was capable of exercising an influence so distinctly practical; yet, when we consider its teaching as laid down by its founders, its distinct materialism and impracticable ethics afford little suggestion of such fruits as it was destined to bear in the Roman world. The Stoic school was founded by Zeno at Athens about 290 B.C. At this time Greek philosophy, which, under Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, had lived through a short period of idealism, was returning to its naturally materialistic groove, and the founders of new systems looked back to the pre-Socratic physicists for some theory of the universe on which they might base their own. Metaphysical speculation had ceased to charm; it was practical ethics, a rule of life and conduct, that philosophy now desired to supply; and though these later schools based ethics on natural science, they were content to go back to the investigators of old for a system, instead of devoting themselves on their own account to scientific research. The two most important schools at this epoch were the Stoic and Epicurean; and while the latter sought in the atomic theory of Democritus an explanation of the universe, the former reverted to the "perpetual flux," the eternal, ever-changing fire of Heraclitus.

Before there was a heaven or earth there was a primitive fiery ether. This changes into all the other elements, and yet in its nature ever retains the fiery substratum. First this fiery ether transforms itself into a mass of vapour, then into a watery fluid. Out of this are developed the four elements as we know them: water, and solid earth, and atmospheric air, and lastly consuming, destructive fire, which is distinct from the everlasting ether. Fire and air are active elements; water and earth, passive. The creation begins to assume its present form with earth; dry earth, by reason of its weight, takes up a position at the centre of the universe, around it gather the waters, above both is the expanse of air, while fire and ether complete the whole, ever circling round the other elements which are at rest. The stars are fiery masses firmly embedded in ether, and nourished by the exhalations of terrestrial vapours. But they are also living beings, since they are formed out of living, animating fire, and they may thus be regarded as inferior or visible gods. "The sun and the celestial deities, too, have their business assigned," says Marcus Aurelius.

The world is faultless, say the Stoics, and must therefore have been produced by an intelligent artificer. Hence the highest reason is immanent in the world, and must be regarded as self-conscious and personal. For has it not created man, who is self-conscious and personal, and can the created be greater than the creator? And yet, paradoxical as it may seem, the Stoic god is not a person, but is the fiery ether that pervades all things. This fiery substratum of all matter is its soul; the soul of the universe, which holds together all things in one fixed law, is God himself. In one aspect the Deity is but a fiery air-current; in another he is Zeus, the intelligent, almost personal lord of the universe. Both these aspects may be found in Marcus Aurelius; but in him the simpler ethical teaching, the gentle exhortation to a virtuous life, predominate over subtle speculation on the origin of things, and he speaks of God in language that suggests vividly to us the omnipotent, Deity of Monotheism.

The Stoics traced back all things to formless matter and the informing, animating ether. Matter was in its nature eternal, since the underlying fire was imperishable; but all things were being gradually consumed, and at the end of a fixed period there would be a general conflagration, when all things should be reabsorbed into the Deity. Then once more they would be developed afresh, and another cycle begin.

"The world's great age begins anew,
The golden days return,
The earth doth like a snake renew
Her winter weeds outworn,"

sings Shelley, but the Stoics expected no "brighter Hellas," or "fairer Tempes." The new things should be but as the old; in the new cycle there should be another Socrates, destined to marry another Xanthippe, and meet with the same rough treatment at her hands, and finally to be accused by Anytus and Meletus, and once more utter his glorious defence, and drain the cup of hemlock among his sorrowing disciples.

Some such scheme of the universe was certainly accepted by all the Stoics, but the later teachers, at any rate, attached little importance to it, except in as far as it demonstrated man's intimate connection with the Deity and his fellow-men. They believed that the soul was material, and extended in space. It is the fiery current that is diffused through the body, and holds it together. They regarded it as the guiding or dominant principle, the indestructible divine spark. It is this, the reasoning element, which establishes the relationship between God, the universal reason, and man, to whose lot has fallen a minute share of it; while the brotherhood of Man is maintained in virtue of a kinship, not of flesh and blood, but of mind and reason. "Though we are not just of the same flesh and blood, yet our minds are nearly related." (Marcus Aurelius, Med. ii. 1.)

Did the Stoics believe in a life after death? It is not easy to decide. They did not, like the Epicureans, fiercely deny it, maintaining that annihilation alone could remove the terrors of death. Undoubtedly the individual soul must at last be absorbed into the universal soul; but whether this happened at once, or not until the next conflagration, was a point on which authorities were not agreed. In any case, the soul must return to the Deity whence it sprang. This relation to the Deity was the fundamental point of Stoic ethics. It follows from the kinship that man's true good must lie in conformity with the Deity. But God and reason are identical. Therefore, life in accordance with reason must be best suited to the constitution of the soul. And such a life must be in accordance with virtue. Hence this is the highest good, and happiness consists in virtue.

Thus the Stoics arrive at their main thesis. Virtue alone is admirable, virtue is absolutely self-sufficient; the good man needs no help from circumstances, neither sickness nor adversity can harm him; he is a king, a god among men. All so-called good, if it be not moral good, is included in the class of "things intermediate," neither good nor bad. Such absolute claims for virtue had never before been made by any school. Aristotle had stipulated for sufficient external advantages to enable a man to devote himself without further care to the life of thought and virtue. The Stoics would permit of no such compromise. Virtue, and virtue only, was what they demanded. The virtuous man might be a slave, a victim to disease, to poverty, might be deprived of all he loved, yet he would remain solely and absolutely happy. Virtue was one and indivisible. Whoever was not virtuous was vicious; there was no middle course. Here was a point in their doctrine which could hardly be made to square with fact. We know too well that men are not divided into virtuous and vicious, but all possess some share of good and evil, and that most men desire what is right, and fail, when they do, from weakness rather than viciousness. The Stoics, who demanded absolute virtue and disregard of externals, had to confess that the wise men were few and the foolish legion; nay, when hard pressed to name their wise men, they would give a remarkable list—Hercules, Odysseus, Socrates, the Cynics Antisthenes and Diogenes; and in the later days of the school, Cato the younger, the only Stoic among the number.

Such a list alone appears to us sufficient condemnation of Stoicism in its earlier forms. Had no further advance been made, Stoicism would be of small interest to us now, but happily it was destined, as Capes remarks in his little handbook on Stoicism, to be "tempered by concessions to common sense." The paradoxes about the wise man had been borrowed from Cynicism, which was regarded by the Stoics as "a counsel of perfection." Diogenes in his tub, bidding Alexander stand out of his sunshine, might excite surprise and wonder; but a movement that should lead a whole community to abandon civilisation and resort to life in tubs would be distinctly retrogressive. In later times Christian hermits have at best saved their own souls, and the exhortations delivered by St. Simeon Stylites from the top of his pillar cannot have influenced the gaping multitude as much as a noble life led in their midst. Without the practical element there would have been no life in Christianity, and Stoicism similarly had to descend from its pedestal, and walk among men.

First of all, the theory of absolute good and evil had to be modified. Virtue was still the only real good, and vice the only real evil; but besides these they now admitted a class of "things to be preferred," and another of "things to be avoided." Among the former might be included health, good repute, and other advantages which had formerly been summarily disposed of as "indifferent." Again, while the impossible wise man still remained the ideal of Stoicism, it was admitted that there might be good men with lofty aims and blameless lives who should yet dwell among men as their fellows. In short, the wide gap between the sage and the fool was now filled up, and as a result the Stoic system was able to find a place for real, existing human beings.

These more practical developments were coincident with its introduction into the Roman world. The Romans were nothing if not practical. A nation of soldiers and lawyers, they had borrowed from Greece her culture, and adapted it to their own needs. So too they borrowed their philosophy. When "conquered Greece led her barbarous conqueror captive," a few of the nobler minds at Rome discovered that there was something at Athens worth carrying off besides the statues. Some would spend a year or two at Athens studying philosophy; others induced the greatest teachers themselves to bring their doctrines to Rome; and in the first century B.C. all the Greek systems were represented in the capital of the world. Among them all Stoicism found most adherents. Its teachings of simplicity, resignation, and calm in the midst of disturbance, found willing listeners among the earnest Republicans, who saw their hopes of liberty gradually fading before the approaching monarchy. Its doctrine that suicide was admissible, even admirable, when circumstances made it no longer possible "to take arms against a sea of troubles," pointed to a mode of escape from the tyranny they could not avert. Thus Cato sought death at his own hands when the Republic perished, and it was Stoic teaching that forbade Brutus and Cassius, though not Stoics themselves, to survive the battle of Philippi.

In the early days of the empire, when corruption and license were at their height, the court evinced deep hatred against the philosophers, more especially the Stoics. The outspoken manner in which they chastised the wickedness of the time may have led to their unpopularity; in any case, there were several decrees of banishment against them, and among the victims at one time was—

"That halting slave, who in Nicopolis
Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son
Cleared Rome of what most shamed him."

Well might the name of Epictetus be counted among those who cheer the soul in evil days, for where can sweeter resignation or truer piety be found than in such words as these—"Dare to look up to God and say, Deal with me for the future as thou wilt, I am of the same mind as thou art; I am thine: I refuse nothing that pleases thee: lead me where thou wilt: clothe me in any dress thou choosest: is it thy will that I should hold the office of a magistrate, that I should be in the condition of a private man, stay here or be an exile, be poor, be rich? I will make thy defence to men in behalf of all these conditions." These were not empty words, for they found their illustration in the life of the speaker.

In the lame slave Stoic ethics rose to its noblest heights; but it was left to the imperial philosopher, by broadening and humanising its teaching, to give to the world in his Meditations "the gospel of those who do not believe in the supernatural."

These Meditations were not written as a whole—probably they were never intended for publication; they are simply the Emperor's commonplace book, where he entered his reflections, often quite unconnected, on the things of time and eternity. By this means he seems to have adopted his own counsel of withdrawing into his own mind, there to seek calm and quiet. It is noteworthy that in Marcus Aurelius the claims of natural affection are never regarded. Book I. is entirely devoted to recording his obligation to his parents, friends, and teachers for the benefit of good training or example. For all those helps and advantages which can be traced to none of these, he simply thanks "the gods," without further discussion or inquiry into their nature. The same loving disposition gives life to the Stoic doctrine of the citizenship of the world. Marcus Aurelius truly finds himself akin to all mankind. "Mankind are under one common law; and if so, they must be fellow-citizens, and belong to the same body politic. From whence it will follow that the whole world is but one commonwealth" (Med. iv. 4). "Now a social temper is that which man was principally designed for" (vii. 55). This brotherhood of man will lead us to strive for the common good, and reckon nothing else our own advantage. "That which is not for the interest of the whole swarm is not for the interest of a single bee" (vi. 54). It will lead us also to pity and forgive our enemies. "And since it has fallen to my share to understand the natural beauty of a good action and the deformity of an ill one; since I am satisfied the person disobliging is of kin to me, and though we are not just of the same flesh and blood, yet our minds are nearly related, being both extracted from the Deity, I am convinced that no man can do a real injury, because no man can force me to misbehave myself; nor can I find it in my heart to hate or be angry with one of my own nature and family. For we are all made for mutual assistance, as the feet, the hands, and the eyelids; as the rows of the upper and under teeth" (ii. 1). Marcus Aurelius loves to dwell on the instability and insignificance of all things. "The vast continents of Europe and Asia are but corners of the creation; the ocean is but a drop, and Mount Athos but a grain in respect of the universe, and the present instant of time but a point to the extent of eternity. These things have all of them little, changeable, and transitory beings" (vi. 36). We should accustom ourselves to watch the eternal course of destruction, and realise that the universe itself sustains no harm. The death of one thing is the birth of another. "The universal nature works the universal matter like wax. Now, for the purpose, it is a horse; soon after you will have it melted down and run it into the figure of a tree; then a man, then something else. And it is but a little while that it is fixed in one species. Now a trunk feels no more pain by being knocked in pieces than when it was first put together" (vii. 23). "Death and generation are both mysteries of nature, and somewhat resemble each other; for the first does but dissolve those elements the latter had combined" (iv. 5). Amid all this change the only true good is philosophy, which teaches us to keep our guiding principles pure and untainted by bodily impressions. "Toss me into what climate or state you please. For all that, I will keep my divine part content if it but exist and act in accordance with its nature" (viii. 45). Nothing external can influence us, unless we pronounce it good or evil. This is in accordance with the Stoic doctrine, that all sensations make a material impression on the soul; but it is left to the reasoning or guiding principle to decide whether they are true or false, good or evil. "Hold in honour your opinionative faculty, for this alone is able to prevent any opinion from originating in your guiding principle that is contrary to nature or the proper constitution of a rational creature" (iii. 9). "Do not suppose you are hurt, and your complaint ceases; cease your complaint, and you are not hurt" (iv. 7), writes the Emperor, using, as he so often does, an obscure dogma to point a practical moral

Such practical teaching abounds in Marcus Aurelius; but he rises to higher flights. How gladly he quotes Antisthenes's comment on the kingly prerogative. "It is a royal thing to be ill spoken of for good deeds" (vii. 36). How well he satirises the craving for gratitude, so aptly defined by a French writer as the 'usury' we exact for our good deeds. "Some men, when they do you a kindness, at once demand the payment of gratitude from you; others are more modest than this. However, they remember the favour, and look upon you as their debtor in a manner. A third sort shall scarce know what they have done. These are much like a vine, which is satisfied by being fruitful in its kind, and bears a bunch of grapes without expecting any thanks for it. A fleet horse or greyhound do not make a noise when they have done well, nor a bee neither when she has made a little honey. And thus a man that has done a kindness never proclaims it, but does another as soon as he can, just like a vine that bears again the next season. Now we should imitate those who are so obliging as hardly to reflect on their beneficence" (v. 6). And how scathing is this criticism of the affectation of virtue! "How fulsome and hollow does that man look that cries—'I am resolved to deal straightforwardly with you.' Hark you, friend, what need of all this flourish? Let your actions speak; your face ought to vouch for your speech. I would have virtue look out of the eye, no less apparently than love does in the sight of the beloved. I would have honesty and sincerity so incorporated with the constitution that it should be discoverable by the senses" (xi. 15).

Here is another gem that sparkles with especial brightness—"The best way of revenge is not to imitate the injury" (vi. 6).

Very noble is this conception of the true function of prayer—"This man ... invokes the gods to set him free from some trouble; let it be your petition that your mind may never put you upon such a wish. A third is very devout to prevent the loss of his son. But I would have you pray rather against the fear of losing him. Let this be the rule for your devotions " (ix. 40). To quote from the Meditations is a tempting task, but they lie before the reader, and he can make his own choice. We must however briefly inquire how Marcus Aurelius treats those great questions to which each system must find some answer, or else abandon its claims to be a guide through life. The origin of evil is a difficulty that every system has had to meet. It is the first and most obvious argument against the existence of an All-wise Providence. The Stoics boldly faced the difficulty, and denied the facts. The world is perfect, they said; all that seems evil is required for the general good. On this point Marcus Aurelius is perfectly orthodox, but he condemns too curious inquiry. "Does your cucumber taste bitter?—let it alone. Are there brambles in your way?—avoid them then. Thus far you are well. But, then, do not ask, 'What does the world with such things as this?' for a natural philosopher would laugh at you. This expostulation is just as wise as it would be to find fault with a carpenter for having sawdust, or a tailor shreds, in his shop." Epictetus had said: "As a mark is not set up for the purpose of missing it, so neither does the nature of evil exist in the universe;" that is, there is no absolute evil, it is all subordinated to good. So too Marcus Aurelius: "Wickedness generally does no harm to the universe; so too in particular subjects it does no harm to anyone" (viii. 55). At times he points not to the universal law, which he regards as the providence of the universe, but to the existence of gods, who must direct all things for the best. But he never asserts this with any certainty. The alternative is between gods and atoms, between providence and chance; and though Marcus Aurelius pronounces for the former, he desires to show that even under the latter a man may be content. As to the future life, he never speaks with any certainty. The guiding principle of the soul can never perish, since it is a part of the Deity; but whether there is a future self-conscious existence is a question he scarcely touches on. This life is all that concerns us. "Though you were destined to live three thousand, or, if you please, thirty thousand years, yet remember that no man can lose any other life than that which he lives now, neither is he possessed of any other than that which he loses" (ii. 14).

The Stoic Emperor cannot say with our modern poet—

"What is our failure here but a triumph's evidence
For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonised?
Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence?
Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony might be prized?"

but he draws a noble moral from the transitoriness of our being. Not "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die," is the teachings of the Meditations, but rather, "Let us use this life well, since we have no other." The consolation for death must be sought in the consciousness of duty done. If we have lived well, we should be content to die, no matter whether our years be many or few. Epicurus bade his followers depart from life as a guest from a banquet satisfied with his entertainment; the Stoics, in sterner language, bid us leave the stage as an actor who has performed his part. "Hark ye, friend; you have been a burgher of this great city. What matter whether you have lived in it but five years or three? If you have observed the laws of the corporation, the length or shortness of the time makes no difference. Where is the hardship, then, if Nature, that planted you here, orders your removal? You cannot say you are sent off by a tyrant or an unjust judge. No; you quit the stage as fairly as a player does that has his discharge from the master of the revels. But I have only gone through three acts, and not held out till the end of the fifth, you say. Well, but in life three acts make the play entire. He that ordered the first scene now gives the sign for shutting up the last. You are neither accountable for one nor the other. Therefore, retire well-satisfied, for he by whom you are dismissed is satisfied also " (xii. 36).

The lovers of Marcus Aurelius have been many, and of every shade of opinion. Long quotes from the preface to Pierron's translation—"A man illustrious in the church, the Cardinal Francis Barberini the elder, nephew of Pope Urban VIII., occupied the last years of his life in translating into his native language the thoughts of the Roman Emperor, in order to diffuse among the faithful the fertilising and vivifying seeds. He dedicated this translation to his soul, in order to make it, as he says, redder than his purple at the sight of the virtues of this Gentile." Montesquieu says of Marcus Aurelius: " On sent en soi-même un plaisir secret lorsqu' on parle de cet empereur; on ne peut lire sa vie sans une espèce d' attendrissement... Tel est l' effet qu'il produit qu'on a une meilleure opinion de soi-même parce qu' on a une meilleure opinion des hommes."

Matthew Arnold, in his Essays in Criticism, points out with his usual clearness the reason of this popularity—"It is remarkable how little of a merely local or temporary character, how little of those scorice which a reader has to clear away before he gets to the precious ore, how little that even admits of doubt and question, the morality of Marcus Aurelius exhibits." " In general the action Marcus Aurelius prescribes is action which every sound nature must recognise as right, and the motives he assigns are motives which every clear reason must recognise as valid. And so he remains the special friend and comforter of all clear-headed and scrupulous, yet pure and upward-striving souls, in those ages most especially which walk by sight and not by faith, and yet have no open vision. He cannot give such souls, perhaps, all they yearn for, but he gives them much, and what he gives them they can receive."

Perhaps there never was an age that more needed such teaching than our own. On one hand, sectarian hatred and dogmatism almost obscure the great truths common to all mankind; on the other, merciless and destructive criticism, in undermining much that used to be generally accepted, seems at times to threaten even the foundations of truth. Here we may turn, as Renan bids us, to the 'absolute religion' of the Meditations—"La religion de Marc Aurèle est la religion absolue, celle qui résulte du simple fait d'une haute conscience morale placée en face de l'univers. Elle n'est d'aucune race ni d'aucun pays. Aucune révolution, aucune changement, aucune découverte, ne pourront la changer."

The Meditations are chiefly known to English readers in Long's translation, a most scholarly work, and remarkable for its perfect fidelity to the original. Its one defect is a certain lack of vigour, though it must be confessed that the original too is defective in point of style and finish. Before this appeared, the best-known translation was Jeremy Collier's, a book with a charm all its own, in fact, a version far more spirited than the original. Greek scholars must always delight in Long's perfect accuracy, but Collier's work has a value of its own. "Jeremy Collier, too," observes Matthew Arnold, "like Mr. Long, regarded in Marcus Aurelius the living moralist, and not the dead classic; and his warmth of feeling gave to his style an impetuosity and rhythm, which, from Mr. Long's style (I do not blame him on that account) are absent." Long had found fault with Collier's translation as "coarse and vulgar." Mr. Arnold objects;—"Jeremy Collier's real defect as a translator is not his coarseness and vulgarity, but his imperfect acquaintance with Greek."

An attempt is here made to offer to the reader a corrected, though I dare not say a correct, version of Collier's translation. The general scheme of his work has been left unaltered, but gross errors have been corrected, and modern expressions substituted for others that have grown obsolete. In a few cases, where the translator seemed to have entirely misapprehended the meaning, short passages have been re-written. In this work Long's translation and a German version by Cless have afforded me invaluable help, and in some cases I have made use of a very charming, though antiquated, seventeenth century translation by Meric Casaubon. In revising Book IV., I have used Crossley's most helpful Notes. My warm thanks are due to Mr. R. D. Hicks and Mr. E. V. Arnold of Trinity College, Cambridge, and to Mr. R. Garnett of the British Museum, for valuable help in this work and in the correction of proofs.