INTRODUCTION

MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS was born on April 26, A.D. 121. His real name was M. Annius Verus, and he was sprung of a noble family which claimed descent from Numa, second King of Rome. Thus the most religious of emperors came of the blood of the most pious of early kings. His father, Annius Verus, had held high office in Rome, and his grandfather, of the same name, had been thrice Consul. Both his parents died young, but Marcus held them in loving remembrance. On his father’s death Marcus was adopted by his grandfather, the consular Annius Verus, and there was deep love between these two. On the very first page of his book Marcus gratefully declares how of his grandfather he had learned to be gentle and meek, and to refrain from all anger and passion. The Emperor Hadrian divined the fine character of the lad, whom he used to call not Verus but Verissimus, more Truthful than his own name. He advanced Marcus to equestrian rank when six years of age, and at the age of eight made him a member of the ancient Salian priesthood. The boy’s aunt, Annia Galeria Faustina, was married to Antoninus Pius, afterwards emperor. Hence it came about that Antoninus, having no son, adopted Marcus, changing his name to that which he is known by, and betrothed him to his daughter Faustina. His education was conducted with all care. The ablest teachers were engaged for him, and he was trained in the strict doctrine of the Stoic philosophy, which was his great delight. He was taught to dress plainly and to live simply, to avoid all softness and luxury.
His body was trained to hardihood by wrestling, hunting, and outdoor games; and though his constitution was weak, he showed great personal courage to encounter the fiercest boars. At the same time he was kept from the extravagancies of his day. The great excitement in Rome was the strife of the Factions, as they were called, in the circus. The racing drivers used to adopt one of four colours—red, blue, white, or green—and their partisans showed an eagerness in supporting them which nothing could surpass. Riot and corruption went in the train of the racing chariots; and from all these things Marcus held severely aloof.

In 140 Marcus was raised to the consulship, and in 145 his betrothal was
consummated by marriage. Two years later Faustina brought him a daughter; and
soon after the tribunate and other imperial honours were conferred upon him.

Antoninus Pius died in 161, and Marcus assumed the imperial state. He at once
associated with himself L. Ceionius Commodus, whom Antoninus had adopted as a
younger son at the same time with Marcus, giving him the name of Lucius
Aurelius Verus. Henceforth the two are colleagues in the empire, the junior
being trained as it were to succeed. No sooner was Marcus settled upon the
throne than wars broke out on all sides. In the east, Vologeses III. of Parthia
began a long-meditated revolt by destroying a whole Roman Legion and invading
Syria (162). Verus was sent off in hot haste to quell this rising; and he
fulfilled his trust by plunging into drunkenness and debauchery, while the war
was left to his officers. Soon after Marcus had to face a more serious danger
at home in the coalition of several powerful tribes on the northern frontier.
Chief among those were the Marcomanni or Marchmen, the Quadi (mentioned in this
book), the Sarmatians, the Catti, the Jazyges. In Rome itself there was
pestilence and starvation, the one brought from the east by Verus’s legions,
the other caused by floods which had destroyed vast quantities of grain. After
all had been done possible to allay famine and to supply pressing
needs—Marcus being forced even to sell the imperial jewels to find
money—both emperors set forth to a struggle which was to continue more or
less during the rest of Marcus’s reign. During these wars, in 169, Verus died.
We have no means of following the campaigns in detail; but thus much is
certain, that in the end the Romans succeeded in crushing the barbarian tribes,
and effecting a settlement which made the empire more secure. Marcus was
himself commander-in-chief, and victory was due no less to his own ability than
to his wisdom in choice of lieutenants, shown conspicuously in the case of
Pertinax. There were several important battles fought in these campaigns; and
one of them has become celebrated for the legend of the Thundering Legion. In a
battle against the Quadi in 174, the day seemed to be going in favour of the
foe, when on a sudden arose a great storm of thunder and rain the lightning
struck the barbarians with terror, and they turned to rout. In later days this
storm was said to have been sent in answer to the prayers of a legion which
contained many Christians, and the name Thundering Legion should be given to it
on this account. The title of Thundering Legion is known at an earlier date, so
this part of the story at least cannot be true; but the aid of the storm is
acknowledged by one of the scenes carved on Antonine’s Column at Rome, which
commemorates these wars.

The settlement made after these troubles might have been more satisfactory but
for an unexpected rising in the east. Avidius Cassius, an able captain who had
won renown in the Parthian wars, was at this time chief governor of the eastern
provinces. By whatever means induced, he had conceived the project of
proclaiming himself emperor as soon as Marcus, who was then in feeble health,
should die; and a report having been conveyed to him that Marcus was dead,
Cassius did as he had planned. Marcus, on hearing the news, immediately patched
up a peace and returned home to meet this new peril. The emperors great grief
was that he must needs engage in the horrors of civil strife. He praised the
qualities of Cassius, and expressed a heartfelt wish that Cassius might not be
driven to do himself a hurt before he should have the opportunity to grant a
free pardon. But before he could come to the east news had come to Cassius that
the emperor still lived; his followers fell away from him, and he was
assassinated. Marcus now went to the east, and while there the murderers
brought the head of Cassius to him; but the emperor indignantly refused their
gift, nor would he admit the men to his presence.

On this journey his wife, Faustina, died. At his return the emperor celebrated
a triumph (176). Immediately afterwards he repaired to Germany, and took up
once more the burden of war. His operations were followed by complete success;
but the troubles of late years had been too much for his constitution, at no
time robust, and on March 17, 180, he died in Pannonia.

The good emperor was not spared domestic troubles. Faustina had borne him
several children, of whom he was passionately fond. Their innocent faces may
still be seen in many a sculpture gallery, recalling with odd effect the dreamy
countenance of their father. But they died one by one, and when Marcus came to
his own end only one of his sons still lived—the weak and worthless
Commodus. On his father’s death Commodus, who succeeded him, undid the work of
many campaigns by a hasty and unwise peace; and his reign of twelve years
proved him to be a ferocious and bloodthirsty tyrant. Scandal has made free
with the name of Faustina herself, who is accused not only of unfaithfulness,
but of intriguing with Cassius and egging him on to his fatal rebellion, it
must be admitted that these charges rest on no sure evidence; and the emperor,
at all events, loved her dearly, nor ever felt the slightest qualm of
suspicion.

As a soldier we have seen that Marcus was both capable and successful; as an
administrator he was prudent and conscientious. Although steeped in the
teachings of philosophy, he did not attempt to remodel the world on any
preconceived plan. He trod the path beaten by his predecessors, seeking only to
do his duty as well as he could, and to keep out corruption. He did some unwise
things, it is true. To create a compeer in empire, as he did with Verus, was a
dangerous innovation which could only succeed if one of the two effaced
himself; and under Diocletian this very precedent caused the Roman Empire to
split into halves. He erred in his civil administration by too much
centralising. But the strong point of his reign was the administration of
justice. Marcus sought by-laws to protect the weak, to make the lot of the
slaves less hard, to stand in place of father to the fatherless. Charitable
foundations were endowed for rearing and educating poor children. The provinces
were protected against oppression, and public help was given to cities or
districts which might be visited by calamity. The great blot on his name, and
one hard indeed to explain, is his treatment of the Christians. In his reign
Justin at Rome became a martyr to his faith, and Polycarp at Smyrna, and we
know of many outbreaks of fanaticism in the provinces which caused the death of
the faithful. It is no excuse to plead that he knew nothing about the
atrocities done in his name: it was his duty to know, and if he did not he
would have been the first to confess that he had failed in his duty. But from
his own tone in speaking of the Christians it is clear he knew them only from
calumny; and we hear of no measures taken even to secure that they should have
a fair hearing. In this respect Trajan was better than he.

To a thoughtful mind such a religion as that of Rome would give small
satisfaction. Its legends were often childish or impossible; its teaching had
little to do with morality. The Roman religion was in fact of the nature of a
bargain: men paid certain sacrifices and rites, and the gods granted their
favour, irrespective of right or wrong. In this case all devout souls were
thrown back upon philosophy, as they had been, though to a less extent, in
Greece. There were under the early empire two rival schools which practically
divided the field between them, Stoicism and Epicureanism. The ideal set before
each was nominally much the same. The Stoics aspired to
ἁπάθεια, the repression of all emotion,
and the Epicureans to ἀταραξία,
freedom from all disturbance; yet in the upshot the one has become a synonym of
stubborn endurance, the other for unbridled licence. With Epicureanism we have
nothing to do now; but it will be worth while to sketch the history and tenets
of the Stoic sect.

Zeno, the founder of Stoicism, was born in Cyprus at some date unknown, but his
life may be said roughly to be between the years 350 and 250 B.C. Cyprus has
been from time immemorial a meeting-place of the East and West, and although we
cannot grant any importance to a possible strain of Phœnician blood in him
(for the Phoenicians were no philosophers), yet it is quite likely that through
Asia Minor he may have come in touch with the Far East. He studied under the
cynic Crates, but he did not neglect other philosophical systems. After many
years’ study he opened his own school in a colonnade in Athens called the
Painted Porch, or Stoa, which gave the Stoics their name. Next to Zeno, the
School of the Porch owes most to Chrysippus (280—207 b.c.), who organised
Stoicism into a system. Of him it was said,

‘But for Chrysippus, there had been no Porch.’

The Stoics regarded speculation as a means to an end and that end was, as Zeno
put it, to live consistently
(ὁμολογουμένος
ζῆν), or as it was later explained, to live in conformity with
nature
(ὁμολογουμένος
τῇ φύσει ζῆν). This
conforming of the life to nature was the Stoic idea of Virtue. This dictum
might easily be taken to mean that virtue consists in yielding to each natural
impulse; but that was very far from the Stoic meaning. In order to live in
accord with nature, it is necessary to know what nature is; and to this end a
threefold division of philosophy is made—into Physics, dealing
with the universe and its laws, the problems of divine government and
teleology; Logic, which trains the mind to discern true from false; and
Ethics, which applies the knowledge thus gained and tested to practical
life.

The Stoic system of physics was materialism with an infusion of pantheism. In
contradiction to Plato’s view that the Ideas, or Prototypes, of phenomena alone
really exist, the Stoics held that material objects alone existed; but immanent
in the material universe was a spiritual force which acted through them,
manifesting itself under many forms, as fire, æther, spirit, soul, reason, the
ruling principle.

The universe, then, is God, of whom the popular gods are manifestations; while
legends and myths are allegorical. The soul of man is thus an emanation from
the godhead, into whom it will eventually be re-absorbed. The divine ruling
principle makes all things work together for good, but for the good of the
whole. The highest good of man is consciously to work with God for the common
good, and this is the sense in which the Stoic tried to live in accord with
nature. In the individual it is virtue alone which enables him to do this; as
Providence rules the universe, so virtue in the soul must rule man.

In Logic, the Stoic system is noteworthy for their theory as to the test of
truth, the Criterion. They compared the new-born soul to a sheet of
paper ready for writing. Upon this the senses write their impressions
(φαντασίαι), and by experience of
a number of these the soul unconsciously conceives general notions
(κοιναὶ
ἔννοιαι) or anticipations
(προλήψεις). When the impression
was such as to be irresistible it was called
(καταληπτικὴ
φαντασία) one that holds fast, or as
they explained it, one proceeding from truth. Ideas and inferences artificially
produced by deduction or the like were tested by this ‘holding perception.’ Of
the Ethical application I have already spoken. The highest good was the
virtuous life. Virtue alone is happiness, and vice is unhappiness. Carrying
this theory to its extreme, the Stoic said that there could be no gradations
between virtue and vice, though of course each has its special manifestations.
Moreover, nothing is good but virtue, and nothing but vice is bad. Those
outside things which are commonly called good or bad, such as health and
sickness, wealth and poverty, pleasure and pain, are to him indifferent
(ἀδιάφορα). All these things are
merely the sphere in which virtue may act. The ideal Wise Man is sufficient
unto himself in all things
(αὐταρκής); and knowing these truths,
he will be happy even when stretched upon the rack. It is probable that no
Stoic claimed for himself that he was this Wise Man, but that each strove after
it as an ideal much as the Christian strives after a likeness to Christ. The
exaggeration in this statement was, however, so obvious, that the later Stoics
were driven to make a further subdivision of things indifferent into what is
preferable (προηγμένα) and what
is undesirable
(ἀποπροηγμένα).
They also held that for him who had not attained to the perfect wisdom, certain
actions were proper. (καθήκοντα)
These were neither virtuous nor vicious, but, like the indifferent things, held
a middle place.

Two points in the Stoic system deserve special mention. One is a careful
distinction between things which are in our power and things which are not.
Desire and dislike, opinion and affection, are within the power of the will;
whereas health, wealth, honour, and other such are generally not so. The Stoic
was called upon to control his desires and affections, and to guide his
opinion; to bring his whole being under the sway of the will or leading
principle, just as the universe is guided and governed by divine Providence.
This is a special application of the favourite Greek virtue of moderation
(σωφροσύνη), and has also its
parallel in Christian ethics. The second point is a strong insistence on the
unity of the universe, and on man’s duty as part of a great whole. Public
spirit was the most splendid political virtue of the ancient world, and it is
here made cosmopolitan. It is again instructive to note that Christian sages
insisted on the same thing. Christians are taught that they are members of a
worldwide brotherhood, where is neither Greek nor Hebrew, bond nor free and
that they live their lives as fellow-workers with God.

Such is the system which underlies the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. Some
knowledge of it is necessary to the right understanding of the book, but for us
the chief interest lies elsewhere. We do not come to Marcus Aurelius for a
treatise on Stoicism. He is no head of a school to lay down a body of doctrine
for students; he does not even contemplate that others should read what he
writes. His philosophy is not an eager intellectual inquiry, but more what we
should call religious feeling. The uncompromising stiffness of Zeno or
Chrysippus is softened and transformed by passing through a nature reverent and
tolerant, gentle and free from guile; the grim resignation which made life
possible to the Stoic sage becomes in him almost a mood of aspiration. His book
records the innermost thoughts of his heart, set down to ease it, with such
moral maxims and reflections as may help him to bear the burden of duty and the
countless annoyances of a busy life.

It is instructive to compare the Meditations with another famous book, the
Imitation of Christ. There is the same ideal of self-control in both. It should
be a man’s task, says the Imitation, ‘to overcome himself, and every day to be
stronger than himself.’ ‘In withstanding of the passions standeth very peace of
heart.’ ‘Let us set the axe to the root, that we being purged of our passions
may have a peaceable mind.’ To this end there must be continual
self-examination. ‘If thou may not continually gather thyself together, namely
sometimes do it, at least once a day, the morning or the evening. In the
morning purpose, in the evening discuss the manner, what thou hast been this
day, in word, work, and thought.’ But while the Roman’s temper is a modest
self-reliance, the Christian aims at a more passive mood, humbleness and
meekness, and reliance on the presence and personal friendship of God. The
Roman scrutinises his faults with severity, but without the self-contempt which
makes the Christian ‘vile in his own sight.’ The Christian, like the Roman,
bids ‘study to withdraw thine heart from the love of things visible’; but it is
not the busy life of duty he has in mind so much as the contempt of all worldly
things, and the ‘cutting away of all lower delectations.’ Both rate men’s
praise or blame at their real worthlessness; ‘Let not thy peace,’ says the
Christian, ‘be in the mouths of men.’ But it is to God’s censure the Christian
appeals, the Roman to his own soul. The petty annoyances of injustice or
unkindness are looked on by each with the same magnanimity. ‘Why doth a little
thing said or done against thee make thee sorry? It is no new thing; it is not
the first, nor shall it be the last, if thou live long. At best suffer
patiently, if thou canst not suffer joyously.’ The Christian should sorrow more
for other men’s malice than for our own wrongs; but the Roman is inclined to
wash his hands of the offender. ‘Study to be patient in suffering and bearing
other men’s defaults and all manner infirmities,’ says the Christian; but the
Roman would never have thought to add, ‘If all men were perfect, what had we
then to suffer of other men for God?’ The virtue of suffering in itself is an
idea which does not meet us in the Meditations. Both alike realise that man is
one of a great community. ‘No man is sufficient to himself,’ says the
Christian; ‘we must bear together, help together, comfort together.’ But while
he sees a chief importance in zeal, in exalted emotion that is, and avoidance
of lukewarmness, the Roman thought mainly of the duty to be done as well as
might be, and less of the feeling which should go with the doing of it. To the
saint as to the emperor, the world is a poor thing at best. ‘Verily it is a
misery to live upon the earth,’ says the Christian; few and evil are the days
of man’s life, which passeth away suddenly as a shadow.

But there is one great difference between the two books we are considering. The
Imitation is addressed to others, the Meditations by the writer
to himself. We learn nothing from the Imitation of the author’s own
life, except in so far as he may be assumed to have practised his own
preachings; the Meditations reflect mood by mood the mind of him who
wrote them. In their intimacy and frankness lies their great charm. These notes
are not sermons; they are not even confessions. There is always an air of
self-consciousness in confessions; in such revelations there is always a danger
of unctuousness or of vulgarity for the best of men. St. Augus-tine is not
always clear of offence, and John Bunyan himself exaggerates venial
peccadilloes into heinous sins. But Marcus Aurelius is neither vulgar nor
unctuous; he extenuates nothing, but nothing sets down in malice. He never
poses before an audience; he may not be profound, he is always sincere. And it
is a lofty and serene soul which is here disclosed before us. Vulgar vices seem
to have no temptation for him; this is not one tied and bound with chains which
he strives to break. The faults he detects in himself are often such as most
men would have no eyes to see. To serve the divine spirit which is implanted
within him, a man must ‘keep himself pure from all violent passion and evil
affection, from all rashness and vanity, and from all manner of discontent,
either in regard of the gods or men’: or, as he says elsewhere, ‘unspotted by
pleasure, undaunted by pain.’ Unwavering courtesy and consideration are his
aims. ‘Whatsoever any man either doth or saith, thou must be good;’ ‘doth any
man offend? It is against himself that he doth offend: why should it trouble
thee?’ The offender needs pity, not wrath; those who must needs be corrected,
should be treated with tact and gentleness; and one must be always ready to
learn better. ‘The best kind of revenge is, not to become like unto them.’
There are so many hints of offence forgiven, that we may believe the notes
followed sharp on the facts. Perhaps he has fallen short of his aim, and thus
seeks to call his principles to mind, and to strengthen himself for the future.
That these sayings are not mere talk is plain from the story of Avidius
Cassius, who would have usurped his imperial throne. Thus the emperor
faithfully carries out his own principle, that evil must be overcome with good.
For each fault in others, Nature (says he) has given us a counteracting virtue;
‘as, for example, against the unthankful, it hath given goodness and meekness,
as an antidote.’

One so gentle towards a foe was sure to be a good friend; and indeed his pages
are full of generous gratitude to those who had served him. In his First Book
he sets down to account all the debts due to his kinsfolk and teachers. To his
grandfather he owed his own gentle spirit, to his father shamefastness and
courage; he learnt of his mother to be religious and bountiful and
single-minded. Rusticus did not work in vain, if he showed his pupil that his
life needed amending. Apollonius taught him simplicity, reasonableness,
gratitude, a love of true liberty. So the list runs on; every one he had
dealings with seems to have given him something good, a sure proof of the
goodness of his nature, which thought no evil.

If his was that honest and true heart which is the Christian ideal, this is the
more wonderful in that he lacked the faith which makes Christians strong. He
could say, it is true, ‘either there is a God, and then all is well; or if all
things go by chance and fortune, yet mayest thou use thine own providence in
those things that concern thee properly; and then art thou well.’ Or again, ‘We
must needs grant that there is a nature that doth govern the universe.’ But his
own part in the scheme of things is so small, that he does not hope for any
personal happiness beyond what a serene soul may win in this mortal life. ‘O my
soul, the time I trust will be, when thou shalt be good, simple, more open and
visible, than that body by which it is enclosed;’ but this is said of the calm
contentment with human lot which he hopes to attain, not of a time when the
trammels of the body shall be cast off. For the rest, the world and its fame
and wealth, ‘all is vanity.’ The gods may perhaps have a particular care for
him, but their especial care is for the universe at large: thus much should
suffice. His gods are better than the Stoic gods, who sit aloof from all human
things, untroubled and uncaring, but his personal hope is hardly stronger. On
this point he says little, though there are many allusions to death as the
natural end; doubtless he expected his soul one day to be absorbed into the
universal soul, since nothing comes out of nothing, and nothing can be
annihilated. His mood is one of strenuous weariness; he does his duty as a good
soldier, waiting for the sound of the trumpet which shall sound the retreat; he
has not that cheerful confidence which led Socrates through a life no less
noble, to a death which was to bring him into the company of gods he had
worshipped and men whom he had revered.

But although Marcus Aurelius may have held intellectually that his soul was
destined to be absorbed, and to lose consciousness of itself, there were times
when he felt, as all who hold it must sometimes feel, how unsatisfying is such
a creed. Then he gropes blindly after something less empty and vain. ‘Thou hast
taken ship,’ he says, ‘thou hast sailed, thou art come to land, go out, if to
another life, there also shalt thou find gods, who are everywhere.’ There is
more in this than the assumption of a rival theory for argument’s sake. If
worldly things ‘be but as a dream, the thought is not far off that there may be
an awakening to what is real. When he speaks of death as a necessary change,
and points out that nothing useful and profitable can be brought about without
change, did he perhaps think of the change in a corn of wheat, which is not
quickened except it die? Nature’s marvellous power of recreating out of
Corruption is surely not confined to bodily things. Many of his thoughts sound
like far-off echoes of St. Paul; and it is strange indeed that this most
Christian of emperors has nothing good to say of the Christians. To him they
are only sectaries ‘violently and passionately set upon opposition.

Profound as philosophy these Meditations certainly are not; but Marcus
Aurelius was too sincere not to see the essence of such things as came within
his experience. Ancient religions were for the most part concerned with outward
things. Do the necessary rites, and you propitiate the gods; and these rites
were often trivial, sometimes violated right feeling or even morality. Even
when the gods stood on the side of righteousness, they were concerned with the
act more than with the intent. But Marcus Aurelius knows that what the heart is
full of, the man will do. ‘Such as thy thoughts and ordinary cogitations are,’
he says, ‘such will thy mind be in time.’ And every page of the book shows us
that he knew thought was sure to issue in act. He drills his soul, as it were,
in right principles, that when the time comes, it may be guided by them. To
wait until the emergency is to be too late.

He sees also the true essence of happiness. ‘If happiness did consist in
pleasure, how came notorious robbers, impure abominable livers, parricides, and
tyrants, in so large a measure to have their part of pleasures?’ He who had all
the world’s pleasures at command can write thus ‘A happy lot and portion is,
good inclinations of the soul, good desires, good actions.’

By the irony of fate this man, so gentle and good, so desirous of quiet joys
and a mind free from care, was set at the head of the Roman Empire when great
dangers threatened from east and west. For several years he himself commanded
his armies in chief. In camp before the Quadi he dates the first book of his
Meditations, and shows how he could retire within himself amid the
coarse clangour of arms. The pomps and glories which he despised were all his;
what to most men is an ambition or a dream, to him was a round of weary tasks
which nothing but the stern sense of duty could carry him through. And he did
his work well. His wars were slow and tedious, but successful. With a
statesman’s wisdom he foresaw the danger to Rome of the barbarian hordes from
the north, and took measures to meet it. As it was, his settlement gave two
centuries of respite to the Roman Empire; had he fulfilled the plan of pushing
the imperial frontiers to the Elbe, which seems to have been in his mind, much
more might have been accomplished. But death cut short his designs.

Truly a rare opportunity was given to Marcus Aurelius of showing what the mind
can do in despite of circumstances. Most peaceful of warriors, a magnificent
monarch whose ideal was quiet happiness in home life, bent to obscurity yet
born to greatness, the loving father of children who died young or turned out
hateful, his life was one paradox. That nothing might lack, it was in camp
before the face of the enemy that he passed away and went to his own place.

The following is a list of the chief English translations of Marcus Aurelius:
(1) By Meric Casaubon, 1634; (2) Jeremy Collier, 1701; (3) James Thomson, 1747;
(4) R. Graves, 1792; (5) H. McCormac, 1844; (6) George Long, 1862; (7) G. H.
Rendall, 1898; and (8) J. Jackson, 1906. Renan’s
“Marc-Aurèle”—in his “History of the Origins of
Christianity,” which appeared in 1882—is the most vital and
original book to be had relating to the time of Marcus Aurelius. Pater’s
“Marius the Epicurean” forms another outside commentary, which is
of service in the imaginative attempt to create again the period.