Ancient Rome and Modern America; A Comparative Study of Morals and Manners E-Book
Guglielmo Ferrero
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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Ancient Rome and Modern America; A Comparative Study of Morals and Manners," Guglielmo Ferrero undertakes a profound exploration of the cultural and ethical parallels between two seemingly disparate societies. Employing a meticulous comparative methodology, Ferrero delves into themes such as civic virtue, the complexities of governance, and the evolution of social mores, illuminating how ancient Roman attitudes resonate within contemporary American society. His literary style is characterized by its analytical rigor and eloquent prose, making complex ideas accessible to both scholars and general readers alike. This work not only reflects historical realities but also prompts critical reflections on the evolution of morals across time, ultimately challenging the reader to consider the cyclical nature of human behavior. Guglielmo Ferrero, a prominent Italian historian and essayist, was deeply influenced by the cultural shift of his time and his scholarly background in both classical studies and social philosophy. His lived experiences during periods of significant social change, particularly in Europe, fueled his interest in drawing parallels between historical civilizations and modern contexts. This observational lens underscores his commitment to understanding the permanence of certain human conditions across epochs, leading him to write this captivating comparative study. Readers seeking to engage with rich historical narratives that illuminate contemporary issues will find Ferrero's work both enlightening and prescient. "Ancient Rome and Modern America" not only offers an academic investigation but also serves as a mirror, reflecting the enduring complexities of moral and social behavior that continue to shape societies today. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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Ancient Rome and Modern America; A Comparative Study of Morals and Manners
Table of Contents
ANCIENT ROME AND MODERN AMERICA
Part IWhat Is Progress?
WHAT IS PROGRESS?
The object of the essays collected in this volume, with the exception of three which recount three curious episodes in Roman history, is the investigation of the most important differences between the ancient world and the modern, between Europe and America; in what way and in what particulars the civilisations of the ancients and of Europe have been modified respectively by the course of centuries and by the passage of the Atlantic. The essays were printed in the first instance in a monthly publication—Hearst’s Magazine—for the perusal of the multitude of hasty readers who are content to skip from argument to argument, and they are now republished in book form for the benefit of those readers who may care to dwell on each argument with greater deliberation. This volume may be considered as the bridge which connects the Greatness and Decline of Rome with a third work which, under the title of Between the Old World and the New, will be published shortly in New York and London.
A comparison between the ancient world and the modern, between Europe and America, suggested to a writer of ancient history by two long tours in the New World—such is the subject of this volume; and such is the subject of the further book which at an early date will again take up a number of the matters outlined in these papers and will submit these to more exhaustive consideration. But neither in this volume nor in its successor must the reader expect the comparison to resolve itself into a definite judgment; and if he imagines that he has discovered such a verdict, he may rest assured that he is mistaken. This book, and the other which will follow it, have been written with the express purpose of emphasising how vain it is to spend our time, as we do, passing judgment on the progress or decadence of the times, of nations, and of civilisations; of showing how easy it is to reverse all the reasonings by which, impelled by passions, interests, prejudices, or illusions, we strive now to exalt, now to abase ourselves by comparison with the ancients and by contrasting the inhabitants of one continent with those of another; of indicating what an easy and sure target irony and dialectic have in all the doctrines, opinions, and beliefs with which man endeavours to establish his by-no-means sure judgments—all the doctrines, including that of progress, at least in the sense in which progress is generally understood.
Including that of progress? the American reader will exclaim, with some misgiving. But are we not living in the age of progress? Can that idea of progress which every morning rises with the sun and sheds new splendour on the two worlds on either side of the Atlantic, and with the sun arouses them to their accustomed tasks—can it be that this idea is but an illusion? No. The author of these two books has not so much confidence in his own wisdom as to try to discover whether man is really progressing or not; whether he is moving down the valley of the centuries towards a fixed goal, or towards an illusion which retreats with each step he takes in its direction. There is one point only which the author proposes to make clear. There are at the present day, on the one hand, those who despise the present and worship the past, extol Europe and depreciate America; on the other hand, those who declare that they would not give one hour of the marvellous present in which they live for all the centuries of the past, and who rate America far more highly than they do Europe. The author sets out to show that the reason why the eternal disputes between the partisans of these divergent views are so inconclusive, is that in this discussion, as in so many others, each side postulates two different definitions of progress, and in their discussions of the past and of the present, of Europe and of America, they start from this dual definition as if it were single and agreed. The result is that they cannot understand and never will understand, if they discuss for a thousand years, each other’s point of view.
The worshippers of the present and the admirers of America argue, more or less consciously, from a definition of progress which would identify it with the increase of the power and speed of machines, of riches, and of our control over nature, however much that control may involve the frenzied squandering of the resources of the earth, which, while immense, are not inexhaustible. And their arguments are sound in their application to the present age, and also to America, if we grant that their definition of progress is the true one. For though steam- and electricity-driven machinery claims Europe as its birthplace, it has reached maturity and has accomplished and is accomplishing its most extraordinary feats in America, where, so to speak, it found virgin soil to exploit. But the opposite school indignantly denies that men are wasting their time and contributing nothing to the improvement and progress of the world, when they strive to embellish it or to instruct it, to soothe and to restrain its unbridled passions. In their view, the masterpieces of art, the great religions, the discoveries of science, the speculations of philosophy, the reform of laws, customs, and constitutions, are milestones along the road to progress. According to these, our age, intent only on making money, ought to be ashamed when it compares itself with the past. Machines are the barbarians of modern times, which have destroyed the fairest works of ancient civilisations. History will show the discovery of America to have been little less than a calamity.
So two persons who, starting from these two definitions of progress, set to work to judge the past and the present, Europe and America, will never succeed in understanding each other, any more than two persons who, wishing to measure a thing together, adopt two different measures. And the discussion will be the more vain and confused, the less clearly and precisely the thought of each disputant apprehends the primary definition of progress, which does duty as a measure for each. Indeed, this unfortunate state of affairs is commoner than is generally supposed at the present day, with the need for hurry which pursues us in every act and at every moment, and with the great whirl of ideas and words which eddies around us. To decide, then, whether our times are or are not greater than those of the ancients, whether America is superior to Europe or Europe to America, we must discover which of these two definitions is the true one. But is it possible to prove that one of these definitions of progress is true and the other false? How many to-day would dare to deny that man made the world progress when, by the use of fire, he launched on the path of victory the locomotive across the earth and the steamer across the ocean? Or when he captured and led through threads of copper the invisible force of electricity adrift in the universe? Or when he embellished the world with arts, and enlightened it with studies, and tempered the innate ferocity of human nature with laws, religion, and customs? It is clear that neither of these two definitions will succeed in putting the other out of court, until men are willing either to superhumanise themselves completely, renouncing material goods in favour of spiritual joys, or, sacrificing the latter to the former, to bestialise themselves. So long as men with few exceptions continue to desire riches and the control of nature, as well as beauty, wisdom, and justice, both these definitions of progress will be partially true. Each will present to us one aspect of progress. It will be impossible, if we adopt only one of the two, to decide whether we are progressive or decadent, whether America is worth more or less than Europe. Every epoch and people will seem at one time and another to be progressive or decadent, to be superior or inferior, according as the one or the other definition is the basis of judgment.
“But,” the reader will say, “why not then combine the two definitions in one? Why not say that progress is the increase of all the good things which man desires: of riches, of wisdom, of power, of beauty, of justice?” But in order to make of these two definitions a single complete and coherent definition, we should have to be certain that it is possible by a single effort to increase all the good things of life. Is it possible, and to what extent is it possible? That is a second grave question which this book and its successor endeavour to answer.
Many and various matters relating to Europe and America are discussed in this book. Still more various and diverse are the discussions in Between the Old World and the New, which presents a series of dialogues occupying the leisure hours of a two weeks’ voyage, in the course of which persons of different degrees of culture and diverse casts of thought discuss Hamlet and progress, machinery and Homer, the Copernican system and riches, science and Vedanta philosophy, Kant and love, Europe and America, Christian Science and sexual morality. These matters are discussed fitfully with mad rushes zigzag over the universe; and the fits and rushes have somewhat dismayed certain critics on this side of the Atlantic. “What a jumble!” they cry. “What an encyclopædia, what an enormity it is! What can Homer and machinery, Hamlet and America, Copernicus and emigration have in common?”
In short, the perusal of Between the Old World and the New in the original Italian has produced upon more than one critic the same effect as if he had come back to his house to find all his belongings, his letters, his furniture, his clothes, shifted and turned upside down. “What demon has been at work here?” he cries in dismay. Such critics are not altogether wrong from their point of view. Nevertheless, this demon, which is always urging man to turn his home upside down in the hopes of arranging it better, no adjuration will succeed in exorcising from our epoch. I hope that, when presented in the form of a book, these dialogues will produce a less alarming impression on America. Accustomed as she is to seeing such demons raging in her house, she should not permit herself to be prevented from taking breath in the satisfaction of having done well, by the ambition to do better. To be sure, between the so-called Homeric question and steam-engines, between the discovery of America and the tendencies of philosophy, between the troubles which torment us in private life and the French Revolution, between transatlantic emigration and the architecture of New York, there is a connection. It is a profound, an organic, a vital connection; for, in the last four centuries, little by little, almost imperceptibly at first, then with a speed which increased gradually up to the French Revolution, finally, at headlong speed from the Revolution to the present day, the world has changed in every part, in form, spirit, and order. And it has changed in form, order, and spirit, because it has changed the order of its demands upon man. In compensation for the liberty granted him in everything else, it has demanded of him a rapidity, a punctuality, an intensity, and a passivity of obedience in his work, such as no other epoch has ever dreamed of being able to exact from lazy human nature.
From the French Revolution onwards, throughout Europe and throughout America, the political parties, the social classes, and institutions, and the philosophical doctrines which supported the principle of authority, little by little, but everywhere and unintermittently, have given way before the onslaught of the parties, the classes, and the doctrines which support the principle of liberty. The former have been forced sooner or later to allow the right of free criticism and discussion to oust the ancient duty of tacit obedience in the state, in religion, in the school, and ultimately in the family. Poets and philosophers have extolled the liberation of man from ancient servitudes as the most glorious victory man can vaunt. A victory, certainly; but over whom? Over himself, as it seems; since the limits, within which man was content to rest confined until the French Revolution, he himself had erected and invested with sacred terrors. It is clear that the slave, the tyrant, and the liberator were one and the same person. Moreover, one may well think that, in gaining his liberty, man has not been born again to a new destiny nor has he regenerated his own nature; rather has he learned to employ his own energies in a different way. Man had lived for centuries within strict limits, which confined in a narrow compass his curiosity, ambition, energy, and pride. But within those limits he had lived with greater comfort and less anxiety than we are living, without racking his brains to invent or to understand something new every day, not spurred on every hour to produce at greater speed and in greater abundance, not exasperated by the multitude of his needs nor agitated from morning to night by the pursuit of the means to satisfy them. But after the discovery of America and the first great astronomical discoveries which shed glory on the beginning of the sixteenth century, there arose in man the first sparks of ambition to seek new ways in the world outside the ancient limits. The philosophies of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and still more the first discoveries of science, lent boldness to these ambitions. One day men realised that Prometheus, that clumsy thief, had stolen from the gods only a tiny spark of the fire. They planned a second robbery, discovered coal and electricity, and invented the steam-engine. And behold! the French Revolution, which confounded and upset, from one end of Europe to the other, boundaries, laws, institutions, and traditions—ideal and material limits. Then at last man realised that he could conquer and exploit the whole earth with iron and fire. At the same time as liberty, a new, untiring, formidable eagerness invaded the two worlds. All the limits which, for so many centuries, had confined in a narrow circle the energy and aspirations of even the most highly venerated of men fell one after the other to the ground. They fell, because the human mind could not have launched out into the unknown to essay so many new marvels if those ancient limits which imprisoned it had remained standing. The multitude would not have bowed their necks to the hard discipline of their new work, if in compensation they had not been liberated from other, more ancient, disciplinary restrictions.
In short, the great era of iron and fire began, in which the principle of liberty was destined to assault the principle of authority in its last entrenchments, and to drive it right away to the farthest frontiers of political, moral, and intellectual anarchy. But for this very reason the era of iron and fire has seen the gradual confusion and reduction to wavering uncertainty of all the criteria which served to distinguish the beautiful from the ugly, the true from the false, good from evil. These criteria have become confused because they are and can be nothing else but limits; limits which are precise and sure so long as they are restricted, but become feeble the more they are enlarged. But how can a century, which has made itself so powerful by dint of overturning the ancient limits on every hand, be expected to respect these limits in the spiritual world? As a result we find a civilisation which has built railways, studded the Atlantic with steamers, exploited America, and multiplied the world’s riches a hundredfold in fifty years,—we find it obsessed by grotesque doubts and eccentric uncertainties with regard to the Iliad and the Odyssey, in which generation after generation, accustomed to respect amongst other limits those imposed by literary traditions, had unhesitatingly agreed to recognise two masterpieces composed by a poet of genius. So we see the epoch which has overturned and destroyed so many thrones and altars and made Reason and Science march in triumph through the smoking ruins of a score of revolutions,—we see it obsessed on a sudden by a thousand scruples, halt, ask itself what is truth, whether it exists, and if it can be recognised. We see it rack its brains to decide whether what we know is a real and objective something or only a creation of our fancy. All these scruples and doubts are, as it were, the brow of a slope down which our epoch slides at headlong speed towards the abyss of nothingness. And in the century which has given man liberty, the certainty of food, comfort in abundance, and so many guarantees against the oppression of individuals and authorities as were known to no previous century; in the century which, by overthrowing so many limits, has banished from our midst so many reasons for hatred and war, do we not hear a thousand voices on every side cursing man for a miserable slave and accusing the times of being corrupt; crying that conditions must be purified with fire and sword, according to some, with war, according to others, with revolution? Having once transgressed the limits, man has become insatiable. The more he possesses, the more he wants. He no longer acknowledges any restraint in his desires.
The quantity which vanquishes quality, the liberty which vanquishes authority, the desires which blaze out anew each time they are satisfied—these are the forces and the phenomena which shape and fashion our civilisation. For this reason we can, it is true, accumulate vast hordes of wealth and conquer the earth with iron and fire. But we must resign ourselves to living in a new Tower of Babel, in the midst of a confusion of tongues. The æsthetic, intellectual, and moral confusion of our times is the price nature exacts for the treasures which she is obliged to resign into our power. This book and its successor have been written with the object of throwing light on the obscure but vital bond which links together in a living unity the most diverse phenomena of contemporary life. They have not been written, as some have thought, with the view of comparing the ancient and the modern civilisations, Europe and America, to the detriment of the one or of the other; much less with the view of denouncing the régime of liberty, on the ground that it corrupts the world, and of demanding that it be suppressed. To find fault with the tendency of a civilisation, one must postulate the fact that history has gone wrong. And what criterion, what standard is there which justifies a man in declaring to successive generations that they ought to have held different objects in view, and adopted other means to attain them?
No: the author’s only object has been to sound the depths of life, in the hope of tracing that unity from which flow forth and into which flow back again so many apparently diverse phenomena; that unity in which alone thought can find some respite from its weary search after the secret of its own being and of that of things in general. Without a doubt each one of us attains only provisional success in his search for this unity; but is not every work of man only provisional, and what are we but beings destined to live only for an instant? Therefore, I have endeavoured in this book to reveal, by way of an analytical and rational exposition, set out in the simplest and plainest terms, the vital bond of this unity. But, inasmuch as a unity is a synthesis, and analysis necessarily modifies and disfigures while trying to explain, I have availed myself in my other work of what is perhaps the most effective method of representing the phenomena of life in their synthesis: I mean, art. For this reason I have written a dialogue, in which I have made my characters begin by wandering haphazard over a wide field and jumping, apparently at random, from one to another of a series of widely different topics. But at the end the various topics are gathered into a united whole, showing the bond which unites them, in the speeches of the most acute and intelligent of the passengers; especially in that speech which coincides with the entry of the ship from the open Atlantic, the free high-road of the new world, into the Mediterranean, the confined arena of ancient civilisation. Livre désordonné et pourtant bien ordonné is the verdict of a French critic, André Maurel. How glad I should be if all my readers subscribed to this verdict! In truth, this tragic conflict of the two worlds, of the two civilisations, of man with himself, for licence to dispense with the limits of which he, in fact, has need if he is to enjoy the most exquisite fruits of life, is a picture so vast as to overtax the resources of the painter. But the painter has worked at his canvas with so much ardour and passion that he hopes to find on the other side of the Atlantic, as on this, readers willing to view the defects in his work with the intelligent indulgence of which really cultured men are always so liberal; readers prompt to feel some quickening in response to the few sparks of beauty and of truth which the author may have succeeded in infusing into his work. It is a small thing, no doubt. But do not even the tiny rivulets which flow through the valleys unite to form the mighty rivers in the plain?
Part IIAncient History and the Modern World
IANCIENT SOCIAL SYSTEMS AND CONTEMPORARY AMERICA
At the end of the year 1906, while sojourning in Paris, where I had been giving at the Collège de France a course of lectures on Roman history, I received an invitation from Emilio Mitré, the son of the famous Argentine general, to undertake a long expedition to South America. This invitation evoked general surprise. What, my friends asked, was I, the historian of the ancient world, going to do in the newest of new worlds, in ultra-modern countries, in countries without a past and caring only for the future, where industry and agriculture fill the place which for the ancients was occupied by war? Why, if I was willing to leave my studies and my books for one moment, did I not repair to Egypt or the East, the scene of so much of the history which I had recounted, where the Romans have left so many traces of the world which has passed away, and where so many important excavations, tending to enrich history with new documentary evidence, are in progress?
I answered my questioners by pointing out that I was not a bookworm, whose interest was confined to ancient books and archæological parchments; that life in all its aspects interested me, and that I was, therefore, curious, after devoting so much attention to ancient peoples, to study awhile the most modern of nations, the newest comers in the history of our civilisation. Did my friends suppose that, because I had written a history of Rome, I had pledged myself never again to direct my gaze to modern life? But, though I explained the reason for my voyage in this way, I, no less than my friendly objectors, was convinced at that time that my travels in America would be only a parenthesis in my intellectual life. In other words, I thought that I was going to America in search of an intellectual diversion, hoping for some relaxation for my mind, obsessed for the last ten years by ancient history, in bringing it to bear on an entirely different world. That this diversion would be useful to me, I had no doubt; but not because America might help me to a better understanding of ancient Rome, but because to change every now and again the subject-matter of my studies and to enrich my mind with new impressions always seemed to me one of the most profitable intellectual exercises, especially for a historian to whom a wide experience of human nature is a necessity. To-day, after having made not one, but two journeys to America, after having seen not only the two largest and most flourishing states of South America, but also that North America which, more than all the other states of the New World, represents in the eyes of contemporaries the more modern part of our civilisation, the reign of machinery, the empire of business, the rule of money, I am no longer of this opinion. It is my present belief that a journey in the New World is of supreme benefit intellectually to a historian of the ancient world; and that, in order to understand the life and history of Greek or Roman society, it is perhaps just as important to visit the countries of America as Asia Minor or Northern Africa. That is what I said on one of the last days of my stay in the United States to a genial professor of ancient history connected with Cornell University, with whom I was discussing the most famous schools of the present day for the pursuit of historical studies, and the methods adopted in these schools. “Many of you Americans,” I said, “go to European universities to study ancient history. It seems to me that you might well invite many European professors to come and go through a finishing course in America, studying not only in libraries but in the live world, and observing what happens in American society. Nobody is in a better position than are you to understand ancient society.” My remark may seem at first sight a paradox. But it is no paradox, if one goes to the root of the problem. For what we, men of the twentieth century, call ancient civilisations, were really, when they flourished, new and young civilisations, with but few centuries of history behind them; and so are the American civilisations of the present day. For this reason, we find in ancient civilisations, on however much reduced a scale, many phenomena which are now peculiar to American social systems; while we should look for them in vain in European civilisation, which has more right to call itself ancient civilisation than have the civilisations of Greece and of Rome. This I propose briefly to prove.
One of the social phenomena which are most characteristic of North America, but which would be looked for in vain in Europe, is the munificence of the donations of wealthy men to the public. Families of great wealth in America nowadays feel it incumbent on them, as a social duty, to spend a part of their substance on the people; to encourage education and culture, to bestow benefactions, to help the more needy classes, and to assist with their purses the public authorities in the execution of their functions. In Europe, the case is different. Large fortunes may be numerous, but they are kept more in the background than in America. Rich men are much more selfish in the enjoyment of their riches. Even the richest are, as a rule, content to leave some small sum in their wills to the poor, or to some educational institution. But donations in excess of four thousand pounds are rare, and make a great stir. It is for this reason that certain sections of society in Europe accuse the upper classes of selfishness and hold up before them American generosity as an example to follow. But this censure is exaggerated, for the times and the social conditions are different in Europe. The history of the ancient world shows that this generosity on the part of the rich is a phenomenon peculiar to a certain stage in the development of society, which recurs in all flourishing and prosperous, but as yet not very ancient, societies. In these, some of the public functions are assumed by the rich, because the State has not yet had the time to bring them under its control and to direct them according to laws by it established. If the millionaires of America have, as a matter of fact, but few imitators in Europe, they can boast numberless forerunners in the histories of Greece and Rome. In Athens to begin with, and, later, in the Roman Empire, to mention only the most famous states of the ancient world, education, charity, public amusements, even public works, such as roads, theatres, and temples, were always in part left by the State to the generosity of wealthy individuals, who felt it their duty to contribute out of their means to the public welfare.
Amongst the inscriptions which have reached us from the Roman world, and which have been collected in the Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, we find a considerable number referring to these donations. In all the provinces of the vast Empire, in all the cities great and small, stories have been found recounting, often in forcible terms, the donation by some citizen, during his life or at his death, of a certain sum to the city, it might be to construct or repair an edifice, it might be to distribute grain to the people in time of dearth, or to give bounties of oil on festive occasions, or to assure to the people the enjoyment of certain periodical spectacles, or to supplement the finances of the city, which had been thrown into disorder by excessive expenditure, or which were not equal to all the calls made upon them. Every city, then, had her own millionaire benefactors, her little Carnegies, her Huntingtons, Morgans, and Rockefellers in miniature, whose generosity was necessary to the public good, and to whom were raised in gratitude monuments, many of which have come down to our time.
The Roman Emperor himself was, at first at any rate, only the most generous and the best known of these rich donors: a kind of Carnegie, Morgan, and Rockefeller of the Empire. Suetonius, for instance, tells us what sums Augustus spent in the course of his life, out of his private patrimony, on public objects. Augustus himself, in the famous Monumentum Ancyranum, the great inscription found in Asia, in which he gives a clear résumé of the story of his life, enumerates many of the gifts which he made to the public out of his own pocket. On several occasions, he simply liquidated the deficit in the Empire’s budget out of his private purse. At another time, he repaired at his own expense the roads of Italy which after the civil wars had through neglect fallen into disrepair. On countless occasions, he spent money for public works, for the relief of famine, for popular amusements, for all the forms of beneficence then customary, without paying any regard to the serious inroads he was making on the fortune which he would have to leave to his own heirs. This is exactly what many wealthy men are doing to-day in the New World. It would be in accord with the facts to say that those striking largesses were one of the means by which imperial authority was gradually concentrated at the heart of the Roman State, and surrounded itself with so much gratitude, so many interests, and so many hopes as to be able definitely to secure the principal position amongst all the organs of the State.
But if the Emperor was the most generous of the public benefactors, he was not the only one. The chief men throughout the Empire followed his example, some of them on so elaborate a scale as to challenge comparison with the most munificent American millionaires, when account is taken of the difference in the standards of riches in the respective epochs. The best-known figure among these donors is Herodes Atticus, an immensely rich Athenian of the second century A.D. What was his origin, and whence he got his money, we do not know. Probably he belonged to one of those families which had accumulated immense property in the provinces, during the first century of the Christian era, a century of rapidly acquired and great fortunes. This much is certain, that he applied himself to study, and became what was then called a rhetor, corresponding more or less closely to what we term a professor of literature, not however with a view to earning a livelihood, but with the object of cultivating his own and other people’s minds. Highly cultured, erudite, and at the same time one of the richest men in the Empire, Herodes was a great friend of Antoninus Pius and of Marcus Aurelius. But, great as was his reputation for wisdom and literary taste, and notwithstanding the enhancement of his prestige through the friendships of the two celebrated emperors, he left a name in the social history of the Roman world more particularly because of the vast sums he gave away all over the Empire. At Athens, he repaired in a splendid way the most ancient and famous buildings of that celebrated city. He presented, repaired, and maintained theatres, aqueducts, temples, and stadia in the cities of Greece and Italy.
For the rest, several of the most highly admired buildings and most imposing ruins in Rome are actually gifts made to the public by ancient citizens. Out of them all, I may cite the Pantheon, that marvellous Pantheon, which we all still admire in the heart of Rome, the monument which stands deathless while the stream of ages flows by. This was constructed by Agrippa, the friend of Augustus, at his own expense, and can be compared in this respect to Carnegie Hall in New York. Agrippa built the Pantheon from the same notions of civic zeal that impelled Carnegie to endow New York with his great Hall. And the two monuments, built by the personal munificence of two ultra-wealthy citizens, with an interval of twenty centuries between them, express the same desire to extend to the whole people a share in the enjoyment of the donor’s private fortune.
Naturally, my earliest studies in Roman history led me to fix my attention on this bountiful munificence on the part of private persons in the ancient world, by which the rich, either spontaneously or at the call of public opinion, took upon themselves a share of the public burdens. But I had not fully grasped the meaning of this system, until I visited America, and saw the colleges, schools, and hospitals founded and subsidised, the museums and universities endowed, and all the other public institutions aided with millions of dollars by the rich business men and bankers of America. For Europeans, living on a continent where nowadays the State has almost monopolised these functions and exercises them zealously, seeming to resent the interference of private persons, it is difficult to picture correctly a social system in which private generosity is at once possible and necessary, the advantages by which such generosity is accompanied, and the manner in which it is exercised.
The munificence of the wealthy citizens is only a special instance of a more general and more extensive phenomenon in which America approaches more nearly to the ancient world than Europe; I mean, in that her society is less essentially bureaucratic. In the ancient world, there was no bureaucratic organisation in any of the Greco-Asiatic monarchies founded by Alexander or in the latest period of the Roman Empire which could be considered to resemble even remotely, on a smaller scale and merely in broad outlines, that which flourishes in the Europe of to-day. Now, in the most splendid moments of Greek and Roman history, we find states in which all the public functions, even the executive ones, were elective; so that they all changed periodically according to the whims of an electoral body. The need for technical training and professional education for the exercise of certain executive functions was so little recognised that even the command of the military forces and the chief magistracy were filled by public election. A general became a general, not in the course of his professional career, but at the will of the people, assembled in the comitia; and with generals chosen in this way, Rome conquered the world. It is impossible to imagine a social constitution in more striking contradiction to the social constitution of contemporary Europe, which entrusts all the executive functions to a bureaucracy professionally trained, formed into a rigid hierarchy, and dependent on the State, over which the people have practically no power. Men in Europe become generals or judges because they have studied the art of war or law in special schools, not because the majority of an electoral body have thought it opportune to entrust the office to an individual who has been clever enough to appeal to them more strongly than do his rivals.
This difference was and is one of the greatest difficulties met with by European historians in the study of the ancient world. I am of opinion, for example, that this is one of the weakest points in Mommsen’s history. Accustomed to see bureaucratic states at work, European historians find it difficult to imagine how those states can have prospered in which the magistrates changed periodically, sometimes every year, and in which there was no professional division between the different functions. Instinctively, they tend also to paint the ancient state in the colours of the European state, attributing to it the same virtues and the same defects, and, therefore, representing its weaknesses as well as its merits in a false light. For an American, on the other hand, especially for a North American, the difficulty of understanding the ancient states is much less formidable. Certainly the principle of professional specialisation is much more highly developed in modern American society than it was in the ancient societies. Modern civilisation is nowadays too complex and too technical to admit of the principle of popular election being applied indiscriminately, as at Athens or Rome, to all the public offices. What sensible man would consent to-day, even in the purest of democracies, to the election of the admirals, for instance, by universal suffrage? Nevertheless, in the American confederation many of the public offices, which are now entrusted in Europe to the professional bureaucracy, are elective. And this fact by itself is enough to represent a distinct rapprochement between American society and ancient society.
For this reason, an inhabitant of New York can more easily than an inhabitant of London or Paris picture to himself certain aspects of the life of the Athens or Rome of ancient days; especially the continual and frequent succession of elections, and the complete change of interests and of directing forces involved in the change of the magistrates in office. It is true that we in Europe have periodical elections, as in America. Periodically, in the Old, as in the New World, the people assemble to exercise their sovereign right by means of the ballot. But if, regarded superficially, the act and the procedure are identical, their value and importance are different. The populace in the old states of Europe elect only consultative and legislative bodies, while the executive power remains to a great extent independent of the people, residing in a professional bureaucracy whose members cannot be changed from day to day.
In America, on the contrary, as in ancient Athens and Rome, many of the magistrates who hold in their hands and exercise directly governing powers are periodically changed at the will of the people, which, therefore, moulds more directly the government and its different organs and more directly inspires and controls its particular functions, just as it used to control them in the ancient states.
