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KCHTUCKYW\l.sapart of Vtrgmia unttl_11dmtU~d 115 a
Srlparall! statli!' m 1791 jsu Plate 6.f). Wt.st Yt"9Lnlll dtd ru>t t.ttst
TENNE.SS£I was apart of North Carolina until admitted
as a .statli!' m 1796- (Ju Plat~t84).
for tt"' W•st.rrn Land claims of South Carolina
and Gtor91a,su Plates 88-89
Summer, 1985
�Editor:
J. Walter Sterling
Managing Editor:
Maria Coughlin
Poetry Editor:
Richard Freis
Editorial Board:
Eva Brann
S. Richard Freis,
Alumni representative
Joe Sachs
Cary Stickney
Curtis A. Wilson
Unsolicited articles, stories, and poems
are welcome, but should be accompanied by a stamped, self-addressed
envelope in each instance. Re~soned
comments are also welcome.
The St. John's Review (formerly The College) is published by the Office of the
Dean, St. John's College, Annapolis,
Maryland 21404. William Dyal, President, Thomas Slakey, Dean. Published
thrice yearly, in the winter, spring, and
summer. For those not on the distribution list, subscriptions: $12.00 yearly,
$24.00 for two years, or $36.00 for three
years, payable in advance. Address all
correspondence to The St. John's Review,
St.· John's College, Annapolis,
Maryland 21404.
Volume XXXVI, Number 3
Summer, 1985
© 1986 St. John's College; All rights
reserved. Reproduction in whOle or in
part without permission is prohibited.
ISSN 0277-4720
Composition: Best Impressions, Inc.
Printing: St. fohn's College Press
Cover: The United States, 1783-1802.
��THE
ST.
JoHN's REVIEW
Summer 1985
Publius 1804
A Play in Two Acts
John Alvis
Act I
Scene 1
The morning of June 18, 1804. Vice-President Aaron Burr's private
study in his townhouse in New York City. The furnishing of the library
is a matter of indifference as long as there are many books precisely
arranged. A crystal vase containing a single red rose is set on a small
commode and at stage center on the wall a large framed picture which
will be identified as a portrait of Burr's daughter, Theodosia, and her
husband, Charles Alston.
At rise enter from right accompanied by a seroant-woman William
P. Van Ness, middle-aged, rather formally dressed in the style of the
times, fanning himself with his top hat. Throughout the scene Van
Ness is obviously agitated.
Van Ness. [hands hat to servant-woman] Or rather, infernally hot
I should I say, Mrs. Mulroy. The Vice-President expects me?
Seroant-Wdman. Yes, sir. Colonel Burr instructed me to see you
into the library. The Vice-President should be down directly.
Van Ness. Thank you, Mrs. Mulroy. Thafs very fine. [Turns
to look at the portrait]
Servant-Woman. Might I bring you a cup of coffee, Mr. Van
Ness? Or tea?
Van Ness. [somewhat absently] Er, yes, that would be quite acceptable.
Servant-Woman. Which?
Van Ness. [turns to her abruptly] Beg pardon? Oh, ah, coffee
. . . no . . . tea, excuse me.
Servant-Woman. Tea, Mr. Van Ness?
Van Ness. Yes, thank you ... Er, Mrs. Mulroy? I wonder, if
the Colonel is indisposed, perhaps I should postpone my
call ...
Enter Burr in a dressing gown, lightly powdered hair clubbed and
bound with a black band. He carries a small volume in his left hand,
his index finger inserted to mark the place. Burr's movements are slow,
dignified, and somewhat feline; his characteristic gesture is to close
both eyes and to press the lids with thumb and second finger of his
right hand. The movement is expressive of prodigious world-weariness
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
and ennui. Yet combined with this prevailing impression of languor
are movements of extraordinary alertness and decisiveness as indicative of substantial resources of energy and will.
Burr. [extending his hand to Van Ness] Never postpone, my dear
William. [mock sententiouslyl''Night cometh and then no man
can work."
Van Ness. [takes Burr's offered hand] Mr. Vice-President ...
Burr. William, we needn't bore each other with ceremony;
we're not in Washington, thank God. This nation should shut
down at the beginning of June. The Virginia river-bottoms
in summer are no fit habitation for civilized men, nor even
for Southerners, I should think, though they seem somehow
to have inured themselves to it;
Van Ness. I trust the salubrious sea breezes of the Battery have
begun to clear· your brain of the marshy miasmas. You appear to enjoy better health, sir, than the last time we met.
Burr. ['m indifferent refreshed, thank you, William. I think I'd
be recovered altogether could I clear my head of the latest fulminations of that fool Jefferson. Our President resents imputations of inconsistency as an old maid aspersions upon the
cleanliness of her linen. Now he iS claiming that his defense
of "the great principle of freedom of the press" never comprehended what he is now pleased to call"license" -to wit,
the recent critiCisms of Mr, Jefferson's rougher tactics by one
... ah-Crosby?
Van Ness. CroswelL
Burr. Croswell, yes. Upstate smalltown newspaper. You
defended him, did you not?
Van Ness. I was one of his attorneys. Along with Hamilton.
Burr. Hamilton, of course. One of Hamilton's few defeats.
Van Ness. Yet he was brilliant in the summing up.
Burr. Is he not always?
Van Ness. In a good cause or a bad.
Burr. So I have reason, sadly, to agree.
Van Ness. I trust I shall not now be the cause of yet more sadness for you but , . .
Burr. [seats himself carefully and motions to Van Ness to take a
chair] I seem to have lived the better part of my life within
earshot of Hamilton's lurid eloquence. What does Milton say?
1
�''his tongue/Dropped manna, and could make the worse appear/ The better reason."
Van Ness. Yes, well, his tongue may have dropped you, sir,
right out of the governor's race.
Burr. Ah, William, such is my fate. We must not kick against
the pricks. Speaking of which ... dear Mr. Jefferson has
cooled toward me of late. I seem not so worthy now of his
tender solicitations as some years hence when I could afford
him my votes. In fact, I have concluded that His Sapience of
Monticello has now determined to drive me out of his political party. He never believed I was truly a republican and in
that one judgment almost alone, my estimable William, he
is correct.
Van Ness. [bitterly] You could have had the Presidency ...
Burr. Ah, William . . .
Van Ness. You could have had it, sir. Nay, but it cannot be
denied! That smooth fellow Bayard. He all but begged you
to offer him the bribe that would have opened the door.
Burr. Yes. And I think of all the good reasons Mr. Jefferson
has to dislike me, that, above anything, festers on the rind
of his dear, compendious conscience. That I should decline
what he could not, for the life of him, could not for all his
protestations of Olympian toploftiness.
Van Ness. And what did he use to buy Bayard's machination?
Burr. I must say I never cared to seek the bottom of that mystery. There are too many plausible bribes that would have
served. Though I should not be surprised to learn that Thomas
Jefferson became third President of these benighted states at
the cost of no more than a promise to keep certain Federalists
in the posts they had gotten themselves well accustomed to
under Washington and Adams.
VanNess. And that was toomuchforyou to pay? You to whom
the same bid was first made?
Burr. Bayard had a kind of unctuous effluvia to him ...
Van Ness. [sadly and wistfully} That odor was the fleeting aroma of a power more lasting, I fear, than ariy, my good patron, you now may ever hope to know.
Burr. Besides, the man intruded with his schemes at the most
inopportune moment for political brokering.
Van Ness. "Politics acknowledges no sabbath," you yourself
have said it, I seem to recall.
B,urr. [ignoring Van Ness and absorbed in recollection] Th~ most
inopportune moment. Just as I was immersed in wedding arrangements for my thrice-blessed Theodosia-the best daughter nature ever provided. We were deliberating, she and I,
upon the date when I should join her and her new husband
on their return from England. We had just set on a time in
May when the flora of South Carolina should have come fully
forth in all its savage abundance and so should have assuaged
somewhat the pains of returning from civilization to these uncouth shores. Just at such a moment of paterfarnilial rapture
a distinct forerunner of said James Bayard crept into my nostrils followed presently by the quintessence itself, the senior
Senator from Delaware, who, with something less of c~re
mony than was found requisite by Satan in proposing mischief to our first parents, commenced plying me with his
assurances of esteem mingled with threats of my public
extinction if I could not bring myself to feel, or at least profess,
an equivalent esteem for himself-or his party, I forget which.
In any event the bumptious indecorousness of his manner
of address so put me out of any hope of a conformable temper that I am bound to say I did not much attend the particulars of his proposal and, thus transported beyond indignation,
I thrust him out of doors.
2
Van Ness. And yourself out of the Presidency.
Burr. Thereby propelling myself into that ungainly super£!
the office of the Vice-President of these United States
office which one might have thought Hamlet had some
occupied from the melancholy of his dry complaint, "
the air promise-crammed.'' [one voracious ingestion of a gt
air]
Van Ness. And only your poor pride prevented the full f,
Burr. [softly} Not only my poor pride.
Van Ness. Pardon?
Burr. [quite softly} Not only my poor pride.
Van Ness. [also abruptly lowering his voice] To be sure, not
that. There was indeed, Hamilton.
Burr. There is always, to be sure, Hamilton.
Van Ness. He could have brought around Bayard, and al
Federalist minions.
Burr. "Thou sayest it."
Van Ness. You, my best of captains, know it to be so.
Burr. [once more rapt in meditation] As I know the abscest
der my tongue, I know it, William. Once, just once, I i
known the sweet relish of triumph over that man. It
almost the first time I collided with him. At the very 01
of the Revolution, Howe's first campaign against Wasl
ton-the summer of '76 on Long Island. Howe had jus
us up pretty badly on Brooklyn Heights and we were tr
to join the main body of the army where Washington
stayed, in upper Manhattan. I was riding towards Wasl
ton's headquarters when I came upon a little fort cram
with confused, fear-bedazed rebels. They were milling a
a great stout fellow, General Knox, who kept swiping a
forehead and looking stupidly at everything and nothing
a steer who's just been polled between the eyes.
Van Ness. Henry Knox. Hamilton propped him up as VI
ington's Secretary of War.
Burr. [busies himself with the fire, speaking with his back to
Ness] The same. This time he was propped against or
Hamilton's beloved cannons. Hamilton had been p1
charge of three little brass fieldpieces that looked hardly
ger than a child's toy guns. When I rode up Hamilton
actually brushing the mud off the carriage as if he were a
to go on parade. Always a cool little fellow except whe
is embarrassed, then he turns the color of a rooster's c
and trembles all over. [The housekeeper enters tentatively]
Mrs. Mulroy?
Housekeeper. Beg your pardon, sir. There's a lady to see)
She would not send her name.
Burr. Do you not know the lady, Mrs. Mulroy?
Housekeeper. No sir. But if you please, sir, I believe it is the J
you were showing out when I came in yesterday morn
Burr. [turns back to the fire scuttle and rakes the coals} Ah,
Please tell the Countess I am momentarily detained. s~
her some of your justly famed coffee, perhaps?
Housekeeper. Yes, sir. [exit]
Burr. [straightening up, turning to Van Ness, and, after the ch1
teristic gesture of pressing the eyes} But presently young Ha
ton had sufficient cause for embarrassment. He found hin
caught between his prudence and his vanity and both C<
not be served.
Van Ness. [sniffs his pouncet box] Knowing the man's bot
less vanity and his small prudence, I cannot think it a do·
ful contest.
Burr. But the circumstances enforced prudence, for hear: K
was unwilling or incapable of movement and what he ,
these men had taken for a refuge was in truth their prh~
SUMMER
1~
�or their grave. The British were strong and near, Knox was
cut off from help. Yet I could not make the fellow see the
danger that was only too evident to everyone else. It was evident to Hamilton once I pointed out the dust from Howe's
columns and the distance up to Washington on Harlem
Heights. Hamilton wavered, but at the same time he would
not second me because he was obviously furious that he had
fallen into a trap and that I was putting him in the position
of having to give over a chance to show his bravery. So just
like the fool Knox, Hamilton stared on the ground and stayed
by his little guns.
Van Ness. A delicate bit of an impasse I should think.
Burr. Resolved only by the most desperate insubordination
which, in a better army, would have gotten me summarily
shot. I jumped ship, so to speak, and a battalion of Continentals jumped with me. I appealed over the head of the General to the troops themselves. Pretty much as that cheeky fellow
Genet recently attempted to appeal over Washington to the
people. As soon as I had informed the men of the death by
hanging that I suspected was the imminent fate of every one
of us, they boiled out of the gate and started up the back roads
to safety. Hamilton and Knox had no choice but to follow.
But Hamilton came near to a youthful demise by apoplexy.
He resented my oratorical success. He was mortified to find
himself hurried along like a cigar butt by a broom. And worst
of everything, he was thrust out of the fort so precipitously
that he lost baggage and one of his revered cannon!
Van Ness. [laughing} Aye, and he's beeri seeking it ever since.
The least commotion imaginable and he was certain to offer
his services as a Major-General. Washington must have sickened over the ridiculousness of his promptness to declare war
on his fellow citizens. Such a pother over a few amateur distillers in the western counties of Pennsylvania!
Burr. [after a pause] Yes. But bating the one time just told, I
cannot say that Hamilton has permitted me to catch him again
thus unprepared.
Van Ness. [quite softly] I think you may now have your chance.
Burr. [not hearing Van Ness's last remark because absorbed in his
recollections} No, I cannot say that General Hamilton has
allowed me the initiative on many occasions since. [Burr ex-
tracts the single rose from the vase and, as he paces back and forth
and narrates his encounters with the rival, he detaches petals for
each item of the narration} First, there was his levering Washington against me. Once Hamilton had intrigued himself onto
the personal staff of the great man, he lost no opportunity
to malign me to Washington's avid, and I must say capacious,
ears. Having convinced our American Caesar that Burr was
insubordinate (which I was) and not to be trusted (untrue but
plausible), I never was from that moment permitted a command suited to my proven abilities. Not though I yearned for
action as the foal yearns for the teat. You might think a
grandee such as Washington could forget over the years. Not
the Virginia squire! When Hamilton maneuvered Adams into
appointing him major general during the tense time with
France, I then asked for the modest recognition of the rank
of Brigadier. Eventually, after some shuffling, Adams had to
confess that he was set upon by the superannuated Washington-prompted by whom I leave to your capacity for
inference-and forced to countermand a commission already
signed! No one dared to gainsay Washington. And Washington dared not pass water without the approbation of his Treasurer and party-head.
Van Ness. [attempts to rise} And Hamilton to this day continues
to malign ...
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Burr. [playfully pokes Van Ness with the rose, forcing him back upon
the settee} There! Did I tell you of the business of the archives?
Van Ness. [somewhat impatient} No, or yes, your memoir of the
revolution . . .
Burr. [brandishing the rose aloft in mock triumph! My expose, my
literary coup d'etat, my thunderclap of divine justice-slow-togather-yet-terrible-in retribution. You know, William, I have
always detested the mechanical toil of scribbling at a desk,
but that particular endeavor savored a piquancy altogether
invigorating. I should have been famed at the very least the
Voltaire of the young republic. The truth about the conduct
of our War of Revolution, think of it, William! Should I have
entitled it The, ah, Pumpkinification of Washington? His head
resembled a pumpkin, you know. Did you ever see him near
at hand? No? Well, I did, and his-ah-southern colonies
resembled two pumpkins set side by side.
Van Ness. [a nod of barely suppressed exasperation} Mr. Vi~e
President.
The Housekeeper abruptly opens the door without knocking and sticks
in her head obviously upset. One hears behind her out in the hall
a tense, feminine voice, "Tell him! Not another minute!"
Housekeeper. [half in the door] I'm sorry sir, the lady here [from
the hall, "Tell him now!" at which the Housekeeper befuddled
steps into the room closing the door behind her and holding the knob
as though she fears the woman in the hall will try to force her way
in] She is really most insistent . . .
Burr. So it appears. Yet milady must learn patience. Detain
her just for awhile longer, could you Mrs. Mulroy?
Housekeeper. [sighs hugely and plaintively] I'll try sir. [As she opens
the door the voice from beyond rises peremptorily, "Well." The
Housekeeper closes the door firmly behind her]
Burr. Ah, yes. My literary career was subjected to the a abhorred shears" by Washington's Secretary of State, Mr. Jefferson again, who suddenly one April informed me that he had
been instructed to close the archives to my researches. Only
the then-as-eve:t:-timid-yet-malignant-Virginia gentleman intimated that Washington was acting under vehement Hamiltonian advice. So [detaches a few more petals] the world was
deprived the only honest account of American origins it
should ever have received.
Van Ness. Sir.
Burr. [oblivious or indifferent} Then there was the more narrowly
political combats. First my little ambush of Hamilton's fatherin-law. The Albany patroon underrated my influence in the
city but he paid for his confidence with his senate seat. Hamilton took such offense one would think he considered the seat
a family fief. Oh, but I paid, William, for that little surprise.
First payment Hamilton exacted by turning enough opinion
against me to scuttle my bid for the vice-presidency in
Washington's second term. My second payment was in the
form of the Ambassadorship to France, which Hamilton had
Washington deny me upon the return of Hamilton's friend
Gouverneur Morris. Then in '96 he imposed a double charge.
He saw to it that I was defeated when New York chose its
senator and he sapped off enough support to cost me the vicepresidency again. Is it not droll, William, that I come by that
office only now when to have achieved it means having failed
to come at the real prize? The gods are indeed ironic in their
givings.
Van Ness. [quickly} To teach us to seize for ourselves.
Burr. [appraises Van Ness] I think you are in the way of becoming an avowed Burrite. A follower of the ''embryoCaesar," the "Cateline of midnight conclave." Those, I'm
3
�told, are epithets coined by Hamilton himself in reference to
the poor present object of your regard.
Van Ness. [annoyed] Will you hear me, sir?
Burr. [still intent on his own course of thought] And yet Jefferson
told me Hamilton once proclaimed that Julius Caesar was the
greatest man who ever lived. What do you make of that, William? [Van Ness shrugs and turns his head away] Perhaps the
venom is in the "embryo." [Mock indignation] That my stature is something diminutive does he mock me with ''embryo,
embryo''? Yet surely the man himself cannot overtop me by
more than a finger's breadth. In minutes only Hamilton and
I stand shorter than our partners. Although, William, you can
attest that between us we attract all the loveliest of the sex.
[Van Ness gestures off-handedly in a mild disgust] No? Well,
perhaps you must judge of that for yourself. So, anyway,
where was I? Oh, yes, vice-presidency blocked, ambassador's
post reneged, vice-presidency blocked again, of senate seat
despoiled [plucks rapidly one, two, three, four petals] and then,
William, and then the unkindest cut of all, to pluck out of
my hands the reins of the Great Republic. To block me from
the Presidency even at the eXpense of installing thereby his
self-avowed enemy Thomas Jefferson, southerner, slaveowner, Francophile, and foe of Hamilton's dear Federalist
party and, unless trustworthy report fails me, a personal
calumniator of Hamilton himself. And worst of aU, to a man
of Hamilton's tastes, a physical coward who took to his heels
when he was governor of Virginia, who ran from the mere
rumor of the approach of British troops. How William, how
could General Hamilton so have treated his fellow New Yorker
and brother at the bar?
Van Ness. Hamilton is reported to have said that of the two
devils he preferred the one who bespoke principles.
Burr. [scornfully] A thin pretense that. For a gentleman, William, only one principle Can be acknowledged: self-respect.
Hamilton has sufficient experience to know I honor that single maxim and have not, nor shall not, fail in it.
Van Ness. But what you think of as self-respect Hamilton calls
ambition.
Burr. [simply] Then he lacks discernment. [At this Van Ness
shrugs urbanely] Eh bien. [Burr regards the rose now stripped down
to a single petal] And do you know, I believe Hamilton may
have reason to credit me with once having saved his life?
Van Ness. If you refer to the "lethal" James Monroe, perhaps,
sir, you somewhat exaggerate the danger of mortality from
that quarter.
Burr. [laughs rather broadly] Ah, poor Monroe! Yes, perhaps I
do exaggerate. Yet to be sure, stranger things have occurred
in duels. What with the unreliability of these pistols, who
knows but that if he could have brought himself to stand at
the barriers, Monroe just might have hit his man with an errant ball. And Monroe professed himself willing to accept the
interview. Anyway, I took advantage of the hesitancy of both
combatants to patch matters between them.
Van Ness. [indignantly] But he would not have done the same
for you, you may count on it he would not. Indeed, is it not
true that when Hamilton made his brother-in-law call you out
he plotted like_ a common assassin? John Barker Church was
no Monroe, nothing like the butt of a jest, unreliable pistols
or not.
Burr. You hatch a verity, William, I'll attest it. I have still the
hole in my coat to witness that at least Hamilton's brotherin-law can hit a mark.
Van Ness. [Rising again and with bitter emphasis] Then let your
enemy teach Jrou the way to clear your road! Challenge
4
Hamilton!
,
Burr. [mock sententiously] Proverbs has it, "He who too vehe-:
mently bloweth his nose bringeth forth blood." Althoug~
should I ever have sufficient cause I should not be absolutely1
averse to drawing forth somewhat of General Hamilton' si
blood.
'
Van Ness. So there we are!
Burr. There~ are my estimable colleague. I am not yet to the:
point of irrevocable hostilities and shall not come to it so long
as Hamilton comports himself according to the code.
Van Ness. [quite blunt] What code?
Burr. Why, the code of gentlemen, what else? General Hamil-·
ton and I have always endeavored to conduct our mutual
enmity in accord with the self-imposed limits one would expect of men of a certain breeding. Two sanctuaries we preserve·
inviolate to attack: the camp and the hearth. Whatever I have
urged against Hamilton, I have never sought to question his
valor as a soldier and he likewise has respected my courage.
Then, no matter how tense the contest I have never caused!
distrust within his family-though perhaps occasion offered!
opportunity to have done so. Neither can I charge Hamilton!
with making dissension at my table or bed-although it cannot be denied that he has been solicited thereunto by occa-'
sions alarming in their abundance.
Van Ness. [Tense with the effort of restraining himself] Have you
read the clippings I sent you yesterday?
Burr. Other affairs diverted me. Anyway, I knew I could counl
on your visit when I should hear from your own eloquent:
mouth.
Van Ness. [still quite tense] Do you have them by?
Burr. So peremptory, William? Yes, I'm sure I put the papers·
on the desk.
Van Ness. [in his vehemence forgetting deference] Get them ancl
read over the passages I've underscored.
Burr. [still hesitates] But they concern my defeat in the electiori
for governor, did you not indicate as much? The election was'
over two months past. I'm half-reconciled now to what
promises to be my continual fate of placing second.
Van Ness. The matter I refer to still shOuld concern_ you. It won't
die.
Burr. [moving to the desk] Well, I could have made timely use
of the governor's office. [Stops and turns back to Van Ness] You
know Griswold and Pickering came 'round again yesterday
after you had left. I have continued to leave them under the
impression that I might be persuaded to a supreme military
commission if events should ever allow the secession of New
England and New York. Ah, William, does your heart not
jump with the thought that someday we might cut free from
the Virginia planters and their black chattels? Let them gaily
devour each other!
Van Ness. [drily and bitingly] Yes. Well, I do not know that I
would now depend upon leading troops in the field if I were
you.
Burr. [regards Van Ness quizzically for a moment] Oh? Well, yes,
I suppose not being governor I cannot now engage to deliver
the militia. I could hardly do so on my authority as VicePresident of those very United States which we might need
somewhat to disunify.
Van Ness. [ignoring Burr's witticism] Not only that.
Burr. [after a moment] Oh?
Van Ness. Read the clippings.
Burr. [locating his spectacles and putting them on] "Dr. Charles
Cooper"?
Van Ness. [rapping it out as Burr resumes reading] One of Hamil-
SUMMER 1985
�ton's party men. Son-in-law to judge Taylor of Albany. A kind
of a mettlesome young popinjay. But his testimony is firsthand, as you will note.
Burr. First-hand it may be, but even so rather indefinite.
General Hamilton and Judge Kent have declared, in substance, that they looked upon Mr. Burr to be a dangerous
man'' and so you yourself have often said, William [Van Ness
gestures to Burr to read on} "and one who ought not to be
trusted with the reins of government.'' So? Hamilton has ranted on that theme for fifteen years. Am I to embarrass myself
by so belatedly confessing that I cannot take what I am accustomed to deal out in the way of the rhetoric of political
contention? Mmm? [Again Van Ness' gesture indicating that he
should read on. After a few moments Burr stiffens a little as he locates the offending passage] Yes, I suppose this is what you have
in mind ... "still more despicable" ... that does obtrude
a certain odor . . . though one might wish Dr. Cooper had
been educated to a more scrupulous regard for clear grammar: more despicable" ... more despicable than what? Than
the opinion that I am not to be trusted with the reins of
government? Is that itself despicable? I can't say I trust anyone
with the reins of government if I have a choice in the matter.
Van Ness. Mr. Vice-President ...
Burr. I think Dr. Cooper is to be despised for his debauch of our
mother-tongue.
Van Ness. You are pleased to be pleasant. But you must see
the opportunity . . .
If
Burr. [after his characteristic gesture and coldly without the characteristic suave irony] Spell it out, sir.
Van Ness. The very ambiguity is your grievance and, if properly
managed, your good weapon. Cooper's insinuation of some
dark malignity without specifying your crime gives the widest
scope to conjectures damaging to your reputation.
Burr. Such as it is.
Van Ness. [straight-facedlyl Such as it is, having been already
snipped about the edges by jefferson and Hamilton. The VicePresidency of this great nation ought not be subject to a libel
that will not specify its grounds. You must protect the dignity of the office.
Burr. [drily] But of course. Thus the grievance. And now how
shall Cooper's same damnable syntax provide me, as you say,
with a weapon?
Van Ness. It shall be your net to catch General Hamilton.
As Burr is about to reply the door opens suddenly and the Housekeeper wedges herself in it restraining the woman whose voice had
been heard before from the hall. Both women speak at once.
Housekeeper. [quite upset] I'm sorry sir.
Countess. [trying to get past] I shan't be fobbed off!
Burr. [moves quickly to the door, pushes back the two women unceremoniously but not violently and closes the door upon them], In
a moment my dove, in a moment. Take a turn about my
garden. [Burr holds the doorknob for a moment until the noise in
the corridor subsides, then turns back to Van Ness raising his hand
as if to say "What is one to do?" Van Ness has not moved and
refuses to be amused.]
Van Ness. I said Cooper's ambiguity shall be your means to
ensnare Hamilton.
Burr. [his weary gesture] I am certain you will condescend to
a decade. Yet hitherto they have never surfaced in such a
devastatingly public form as to be captured in the cold print
of a newspaper. Public slander justifies recourse to the ultimate means of redress.
Burr. You intrigue me, William.
Van Ness. [quickly and avidly as he strides to the hearth, even
momentarily turning his back upon Burr] Secundus: As Hamilton is ultimately responsible for the ambiguous adjective
despicable-which we agree has given unpardonable license
to ruinous conjecture-so he is subject to ruin himself if he
should try to avoid your vengeance by offering to disown the
harm.
Burr. Produce your exhibit, counsellor.
Van Ness. If he should choose to back down, he cannot, because the ambiguity in the scope of the slander allows for anything and everything he has ever said against you. And that
great world of wrong he cannot disavow. To attempt to do
so would bring upon him not only disgrace but universal
ridicule which for a man of his Caesarian vanity is not to be
imagined. [A pause after which Van Ness turns back to the middle of the room, now facing Burr] Well, sir?
Burr. No, William.
Van Ness. [incredulous] No?
Burr. My good friend, after all you hold me too cheap.
Van Ness. [uncomprehending] Pardon?
Burr. You set more store by my reputation than I do. As my
grandfather loved to say after St. Paul, "our glory is in our
conscience.'' Hamilton cannot harm my repute any more than
he already has. I thank God my happiness does not depend
upon the position I enjoy in the eyes of a few upstate patrons.
Van Ness. You care not for your fame?
Burr. That is yet another -matter. But Hamilton has not
wounded my fame. As we have agreed, the letter from Cooper
specifies no new indignity-certainly nothing that posterity
will take note of. Although I should dearly thank whatever
deities might see fit to remove General Hamilton from this
world, I must have better cause to take that providence upon
myself. Otherwise, William, I could not be pleased with myself. And that, my dear Mr. Van Ness, is the condition most
requisite to my happiness.
Van Ness. [persistent] But, do you know ...
Burr. [somewhat peremptorily] Sir! We must bear our cross until
we have more honorable cause to shift it.
Van Ness. But ...
Burr. [decisively] If you will pardon me.
[Enter Housekeeper]
Housekeeper. !flustered] Oh, sir, I'm sorry. But this lady
insists ... [the Countess Vendimer forces her way in]
Countess. Take yourself away, madame, if you please. I shall
myself announce my business with your master.
Burr. My dear Countess. That is quite all right, Mrs. Mulroy.
I shall see the lady, and I thank you for having detainedah-entertained her, for the time you could bestow. You may
leave us.
Housekeeper. I'm sorry, sir.
Burr. [showing Housekeeper to the door] Don't let it trouble you.
Notfor a thought. [turning back to his guests] Yes. Ah, Mr. Van
Ness, may I present to you my Lady the Countess Vendimer.
My Lady, WilliamP. VanNess, Esquire and Attorney-at-Law,
my sometime partner at the bar and longtime friend.
Van Ness. [eagerly] Primus: the form of the injury gives you
Countess. [after a quick nod and assessment of the embarrassed Van
Ness] If he's a lawyer also I suppose he knows the word as
a cause actionable in honor. Hamilton has, as you say, voiced
similar damaging aspersions against your character for over
well as you do, sir. On my side of the sea the term is breach of
promise, what ye call it here ye may instruct me if it suits ye.
explain.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
5
�Burr. [presenting the Countess with the almost denuded rose, which
she contemptuously brushes aside] I wonder if we might defer
the clarifying of this misunderstanding untilCountess. Until you can think how to murk it up to a umisunderstanding" when plain as day it be no such thing. Oh no,
Mr. First Minister.
Burr. [murmuring correction} Vice-President.
Countess. Let it be whatever it is; you shall not fob me off.
Burr. My dear.
Countess. Nay, but the time for deferring is past. You would
not defer your pleasure; now you shall not defer the banns.
Burr.. [turning to Van Ness] You would oblige me if you could find
it in yourself to forgive this low comedy. [Van Ness extends his palm
in a blase gesture of commiseration] And could you perhaps
bestow the study on us for half a minute?
Countess. Half a minute!
Burr. Please, my dear.
Van Ness. But the matter I've opened to youBurr. Ought not be made public [discreetly but definitely indicating the Countess]; surely you concur.
Van Ness. [after glancing at the Countess] Even soBurr. Please, William, spare us but the quarter of an hour?
Van Ness. [hesitates another moment, then sadly] Very well. [picks
up his hat and looks again at-the Countess, moving slowly towards
door]
Burr. !lifts the stopper of a cut-glass decanter in one hand and in
the other takes up two wine glasses] My Lady, could I offer some
light refreshment?
Van Ness. [has paused with his hand poised above the latch; he
gathers himself and suddenly wheels] Hamilton has said you
deserted your troops in the face of the enemy. [Burr, about
to raise the decanter, sets it down with deliberate care and with the
same painstaking coolness replaces the stopper and the wine goblets]
Burr. [stands erect and with icy enunciation] You had best be most
careful in what you now report, William. [Van Ness looks to
the Countess, whose spiteful hard smile has given way to an expression of alarm fixed upon Burr, who, in turn, takes note of Van
Ness' hesitation} Come now, William, you were not too delicate to blurt it out. You knew what yoti were doing just now.
Before the day is out, my dear lady will have blazoned your
report from Harlem Heights to the Battery. Can we not count
upon your amplification, my dear? Yes, I thought as much.
Well, William, say on. [turning away] You are cutting near the
bone.
Van Ness. [correcting} Hamilton has ,cut near the bone.
Burr. [the gesture of touching the bridge of the nose] Yes. Say on.
Van Ness. [measured} I have good reason to believe that Hamilton said in the presence of Judge Taylor, Chancellor Kent,
Charles Cooper and others that the general opinion of your
action in the war is founded upon a lie. That you were not
taken with a fever after the Battle of Monmouth, as has been
long believed, but that in fact you-lost your nerve. Besides
himself, boasts Hamilton, Washington knew it. And, Hamilton adds byway of circumstantial proof, although Washington was too gracious ever to have spoken of your shame, for
that reason-and no other-he would never consent to use
you again. [a pause of several seconds]
Burr. [after looking a moment upon the low table, stoops and slowly
takes up the rose that he had earlier stripped of most of its petals]
Tant mieux.
Countess. [shaken] Dear God above!
Burr. As General Hamilton on a national occasion is supposed
to have replied to a similar exclamation, "We shall not require
foreign aid."
6
Countess. [regaining her initiative] What about the urgency tha
lies between us, sir.
Burr. [only half-attentive] Who has lain .between us?
Countess. I'll not be dallied with, nor deceived!
Burr. [now completely preoccupied] Yes. To be sure.
Countess. What? Do you choose to outface me, sir? Well, I'l
give you to know that my forebears enjoyed the privilege
of noble birth while yours were still pedagogues in New Jer
sey. [an unsmiling Burr begins moving a reluctantly yieldin;
Countess towards the door] And you must know Mr. Burr I hav1
friends who'll see to it that justice be dOne me.
Burr. [stops abruptly] Mrs. Mulroy!
Housekeeper. [entering almost imrilediatelyl Yes, sir.
Burr. The Lady Vendimer desires to be shown to the door
Countess. !freeing herself from Burr's hand] Desires-? I desir•
what's mine by right. And by God I'll have it!
Burr. [tense] Show her out. [The Housekeeper moves to taketh
arm of the Countess who indignantly draws herself away]
Countess. !fierce but not shrill] But then of what worth is th•
word of a man who runs from danger? [Burr does not ,mak
as though to advance on her, but, as if he had, the Countess, un
assisted by the Housekeeper turns swiftly and exits. The House
keeper looks after her a moment, turns back for an instant to Burr
registering her amazement, then is dismissed by a summary gestuti
from her employer]
Burr. [turns slowly upon Van Ness] You must know of cours4
that now it is superfluous for me to inquire what corrobora
tive testimony you might adduce in substantiation of you
charge. Ten minutes ago the question might have been materi
al. But as it is . . .
Van Ness. Yes!
Burr. "Yes" what?
Van Ness. "As it is-" [extends a palm outward as sufficient am
plification]
Burr. [pensively] Yes ... yes.
Van Ness. Though, if you do enjoy sufficient honor in your con
science, without other consideration, I suppose the infam}
can be borne.
Burr. [simply] It cannot be borne.
Van Ness. Not to speak of the ridicule.
Burr. Enough William. You have sunk the spur as deep as the
rowel.
Van Ness. I am sorry.
Burr. Your hatred of Hamilton much exceeds in vehemence
my own. Why?
Van Ness. [simply] He has all but ruined the friend I would follow through the fire.
Burr. [after a moment, pats Van Ness on the shoulder, turns back
to the small table and again extracts the much-abused rose from its
vase] You have still the pistols I gave you on your birthday last?
Van Ness. [standing quite erect and solemn] I have them still.
Burr. [after a moment] U I should have occasion this afternoon
to send General Hamilton a note of two or three lines, could
you oblige me by presenting it to the gentleman?
Van Ness. [promptly] I should be honored thus to oblige you.
Burr. [again pensive] My thanks. [Burr regards the rose he holds
in his right hand] You know the man has turns within turns.
He may yet elude us.
Van Ness. [quietly lethal] He shall not elude you, sir.
Burr. [quietly, without particular emphasis, and still regarding the
flower] No, he shall not. [after a pause] I'll own that Hamilton
has sustained griefs-public and private-fully as numerous
and as grave as my own. He maintained that he had withdrawn from public life. He seemed to enjoy the private esSUMMER 1985
�tate. Why then could he not suffer his sun quietly to set? Can
you fathom the man~ my friend?
Van Ness. I do not care to try.
Burr. Indeed? Perhaps after all that is best. I could have been
glad had I never found cause to be thus disappointed in the
man. [Burr takes in his fingers the last petals of the rose, detaches
them and allows them to flutter to the floor. He then holds the now
completely bare stem somewhat conspicuously elevated and speaks
in a tone of self-mocking surprise, calling Van Ness' attention to
the naked stem of the rose] Why, he loves me not. Alas! William
he loves me not. [Van Ness faintly smiling, inclines in a slight
and formal bow of silent acknowledgment as the lights dim]
Scene II
Mid-afternoon of June 18, 1804. A large room of Hamilton's recently
completed house which he has named after the estate of his Scottish
ancestors, "The Grange." Two walls are almost covered with shelves
of books. The study is furnished with a small sofa, two arm chairs,
a low table on which are scattered several books and a somewhat
higher marble commode atop which one sees a decanter of whiskey
and crystal tumblers. Also atop the low table several miniature portraits which will be identified as depicting Hamilton's dead son
Philip and Hamilton's Scottish ancestors. At rise Hamilton's wife
Elizabeth is directing offstage instructions concerning preparations
for a party.
Elizabeth. And I want;avory pies, three or four, left out on
the sideboard. Send own to Solomon's for petits four-the
sort with the chocolate. And tell Mrs. Tryamond that she must
make the blancmange herself. I shall be altogether too busy
with other things. [Elizabeth looks about the room, pivoting in
a complete circle while counting on her fingers. In the midst of her
survey of the room, she pulls herself up as her eyes fall on a small
portrait of a young man set out on the lower of the two tables. She
goes to the table, takes up the portrait~ and slumps onto one of the
chairs. As she is called to from offstage, "Ma'am ... Mrs. Hamilton,'' she does not answer immediately but continues to gaze down
at the miniature of her dead son.] Yes. [wearily] Presently. [Still
she makes no move to leave her chair. Enter Hamilton. There should
be immediately apparent from his somewhat diminutive height, manner of dress, hair, walk, and general bearing a marked resemblance
to Burr. His distinguishing marks are red hair, gray-streaked, a correspondingly florid complexion, and inflections of speech more rapid,
less suavely languid, than those heard from Burr.]
Hamilton. [brisk and animated] Verbena and honeysuckle! Let
them be everywhere! Let's see, some verbena on the mantelpiece there and a spray of honeysuckle intermingled-no-!
shall amend my motion. Rather, twine honeysuckle upon all
the interior columns. We shall simulate the sweet melancholy
of Grecian ruins. [Striding rapidly over to the large bay window
he wheels upon the open room.] We'll throw open the windows
at dusk and let the faint breezes stir the candle flames. And
let there be cut flowers everywhere! When my daughter enters
upon society the earth shall send forth its blossoms as the
slopes of Olympus its flora when Hera and Zeus debauch.
Elizabeth [laughing despite herselfl Debauch!
Hamilton. [accepts correction with good grace] Mmm yes. A typical lapse of decorum only to be expected of a Yankee shyster
staggering under his weight of belatedly acquired Homer. Let
us say rather, "when the Ooud-Gatherer" -ah-" gathers the
ox-eyed Hera, his stately consort."
Elizabeth. I hope no young lady who trusts herself to !"Y hospitality shall be here debauched or merely even "gathered."
Hamilton. Not t'OlJe thought for a moment, dearest Elizabeth.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
[gallantly] Unless perhaps above stairs, after the guests have
been shown on their way~ a certain dark beauty, darling of
the Albany patrons, yet disgraced by her marital alliance with
one descendent of Scot brigandsElizabeth. Whom, said descendent of Scottish theivesHamilton._ [hastily correcting} Reivers, border raiders-not the
same at allElizabeth. [insistent] Whom, said scion of border theives has debauched to the extent of eight children and hence shall not
"gather" this night.
Hamilton. Notwithstanding I shall be in expectation ardent.
Elizabeth. And perforce in imagination you must take you your
satisfaction and not else.
Hamilton. [mock lugubriously] Such is my fate.
Elizabeth. And deservedly so.
Hamilton. [neroously taking up a wineglass and running his finger
around the rim] Ah me. [sits next to Elizabeth] And how does
it fare with our eldest daughter today?
Elizabeth. [her sadness comes back by degrees] much the same as
yesterday, and always. Sometimes she speaks so quite to the
point that I think her not much to differ from any eighteenyear-old marriageable girl. They are all so flighty at their most
lucid. But still the difference remains. How was I told old Mrs.
Clinton put it? ''Poor Angelica Hamilton is quite amazingly,
simple?"
Hamilton. "Simple"?
Elizabeth. "Simple."
Hamilton. [patting Elizabeth's hand] Well. We must be patient.
[notes the portrait under her clasped hands] What have you there?
[she lifts her hands and Hamilton takes up the miniature; his face
and entire posture bespeak a sorrow that verges on desolation] Ah,
Philip. The first-born, the hope of the house died with you,
lad. Dear, brave son.
Elizabeth. [flatly] He was brave.
Hamilton. And can it be that it is now over two years? The
wound gapes as though it were yesterday he was taken.
Elizabeth. [again quite flatly] This fall will be the third since he
was shot dead.
Hamilton. For a time you could not look on his picture.
Elizabeth. This spring for the first time I felt I could.
Hamilton. But, Angelica?
Elizabeth. [shrugs] If she had wept each day these two years
perhaps she would not now be as she is. Tears are rational.
Angelica is deranged.
Hamilton. [shocked] Eliza!
Elizabeth. [emphatically but simply] Deranged. I have learned,
Alexander, to call things by the names proper to them. Angelica has lost the use of her reason.
Hamilton. We do not know that her condition is permanent.
Elizabeth. We do not know that it is not.
Hamilton. Then is it not best to continue in the way we have
set out? To arrange for her something as near as may be to
the usual life of a young lady?
Elizabeth. I suppose so. Just so long as we do not indulge a
delusion.
Hamilton. [Soberly] To be sure. [a girl's voice calls from offstage,
Papa, Papa! Hamilton indicates to Elizabeth his concern that she
not display her grief to Angelica] Should I send her to the other
children?
Elizabeth. No, I'm composed. [again the call, "Papa!"]
Hamilton. We're in the parlor, Angelica. [looks once more with
solicitude to Elizabeth]
Enter Angelica Hamilton, a slender girl who, because of her afflic7
�tion~ looks somewhat younger than her age of eighteen. She carries
a keepsake album.
Angelica. Poor Philip Sparrow!
Hamilton. [glances toward Elizabeth and raises his hand in a gesture
of reassurance] Sweet Angelica. Have you come to help us with
your party?
Angelica. [disarmingly] No. [Embarrassed, Hamilton turns away!
Elizabeth. Do you want me to walk with you in the garden~
dear?
Angelica. [ignores Elizabeth's question and stands stack-still, opening her album] Poor Philip Sparrow, the crow has pecked thy
head.
Elizabeth. Angelica.
Angelica. Philip has gone to Cathay.
Elizabeth. Philip has not gone to Cathay, Angelica. Philip is
dead.
Angelica. He has gone to Grandpa
Schuyler~ s.
He took the
sleigh.
Elizabeth. Not to Grandpa Schuyler's, not to China, nor nowhere. Your brother was killed in a duel. He is gone ... dead.
Angelica. [stares at her mother willfully, uncomprehending, echoing her mother's intonation] He is gone ... [consults the album,
then, obstinately] away.
Elizabeth. [simple emphasis] Dead. [Angelica stares at her mother
steadily but blankly!
Hamilton. [abruptly turning back from the mantel] Let be, Eliza.
_Elizabeth. [also without impatience but firmly! She must acknowledge.
Hamilton. She will not~ and cannot. She is not capable. [takes
Angelica by the arm gently] Do you not want to walk in the
garden, Angelica? I shall show you my young gum trees. Do
you want to see the new trees? Thirteen of them I've planted
in honor of the thirteen colonies that became the first thirteen of these United States. Would you like to see them?
Angelica. They are dead.
Hamilton. [laughing! Indeed they are not flourishing. But not
yet dead, my dear.
Angelica. Where have you put my pistols? [Hamilton starts,
looks apprehensively to Elizabeth]
Elizabeth. Ah!
Hamilton. [to steady his wife! Eliza.
Elizabeth. John Church's duelling pistols. Would my brotherin-law had never brought them across the sea. Would he had
never returned from England.
Hamilton. [simply! John Church's pistols are not to blame.
Elizabeth. Aye. Eaker is to blame. To slay a boy not yet twenty
for defending the honesty of his father!
Hamilton. Philip was abusive beyond all need.
Elizabeth. [overriding! Defending his father.
Hamilton. [absolute dejection] Aye. And if one speak of blame,
I sent Phil to his death. He took my part against Eaker in the
first place. Then he obeyed me both when he accepted the
challenge ... and when he withheld fire.
Elizabeth. Withholding fire! There should have been no shots
to withhold.
Hamilton. Well, as for thatElizabeth. [insisting] No. He need not have faced Eaker. [With
vehemence and disgust] Politics!
Angelica. [abruptly sings her version of the verse of an old war song!
"So bring your Bible and shoot your gun."
Hamilton. [corrects] "Drum/' Angelica. [sings]
"We're going to war and when we die
We'll want a man of God nearby,
8
So bring your Bible and follow the drum."
That's the name of the song, Angelica-''The Drum"'" not gun.
Do you understand, my dear? [a pause as Angelica stares un·
comprehendinglyl Well, dear, go on for your walk and alloY\'
your mother and I to plan your party.
Elizabeth. [to Angelica] Go, call in the children to the back
gallery. [she watches Angelica go out, then half-falls into a chair
at center] I don't think that life shall ever be sweet for me again.
Hamilton. I know~ dearest Eliza.
Elizabeth. [wooden inflections] What I cannot tear from my mind
are those last moments.
Hamilton. Try not to think, my dear.
Elizabeth. Do I not try to forget? Yet all the details of his dying
usurp my mind as though they had worked themselves into
the grain. Every instant they lurk just back of my consciousness. Any moment of the day, when there"s a sudden hush
in the house, or maybe between the bites of a meal., or at a
word that calls to mind his way of speaking-anything serves
to bring back the image of his deathbed.
Hamilton. [painfully but with sympathy! Ah, ElizaElizabeth. Philip, I see-ashen, tense with the agony of the
bullet lodged in his spine. You and I lying on either side of
the poor boy, on the same bed, clenching his hands while
death took its time with him. And to the last wracking breath
Philip tried to play the part he thought you required of him.
Why, Alexander?
Hamilton. [puzzled] Why did Philip have to die?
Elizabeth. Philip had to die because you expected him to uphold your name. I ask why you laid a mortal charge upon
your son. Why must he never decline a challenge, yet never
fire upon ills foe?
Hamilton. I did not absolutely require it of Philip. I-I said such
would be my course of conduct.
Elizabeth. To have said so to a boy such as Phil was as much
as to have required it of him.
Hamilton. Aye" I suppose you are right.
Elizabeth. [numbly resigned] WellHamilton. Well, we must try to live for the other children.
Elizabeth. [slumps] Yes, let us then live for the children that remain [pause]. Perhaps at last we shall be free of contention~
free of politics.
Hamilton. So, we may hope.
Elizabeth. You are content to be a private man?
Hamilton. I could be content to live the rest of my life within
these walls. Were it not for my grief for Philip and for your
sadness, I should say I've never before felt such blessed peace
as now. [after a moment} A man does not need to hear his name
in the public cries. [another moment] I do not, I know.
Elizabeth. Angelica sometimes refers to you as "the Ghost."
Because you are so seldom seen. [somewhat bitterly] What with
your staying in the town all the week, and your constant journeys to Albany ... and then a summons to Washington.
Hamilton. [somewhat plaintively] Not Washington so much any
more.
Elizabeth. [agrees flatly} Not so much any more.
Hamilton. [after a pause] Ah, Liza! my lot is a strange one. I've
spent my life defending a Constitution I but half approved
at its conception. I've neglected our own affairs just to give
myself the pains to prop up that flimsy scaffold. And for my
effort I have the unremitting enmity of Jefferson's party, the
resentment of my own Federalist friends-and a son lost.
Elizabeth. The costs have been as great as a cost can possibly
be. [with force] Let us hope you have done with it.
SUMMER 1985
�Hamilton.
I've done with it. [a Maid enters carrying yet another
vase of flowers]
Maid.
Sir, there's Mr. Pendleton to see you.
Hamilton. [looks with slight concern to Elizabeth] You did not forget to send him an invitation?
Elizabeth. I sent it Monday last.
Hamilton. Show Mr. Pendleton in, Mrs. Baines. [Maid goes off
right] [to Elizabeth] Are you more composed now, dear?
Elizabeth. [rising from the sofa]! am. Do you wish me to stay
or do you have business?
Hamilton. I cannot think Pendleton has business. Perhaps he
cannot come tomorrow and brings his good wishes to
Angelica.
Elizabeth. Alexander, he has tried before to enlist you in some
new cause. Do not let yourself be flattered by men who claim
to need you. [she takes his hand]! need you. Much more, and
there's no flattery.
Hamilton. And you shall have me, my dearest Liza. [the Maid
opens door at right, announcing as she does so, "Mr. Nathaniel
Pendleton."] [enter a well-dressed man of about forty, carrying
his gloves]
Pendleton. Mrs. Baines always takes my hat and cane but
returns my gloves. Good morning Mrs. Hamilton, [to Hamilton] General.
Hamilton. Mrs. Baines believes gentlemen should always have
gloves about their person. It's good to see you, Nat. But you
needn't address me as General.
Pendleton. [bluftl Eh? has the Virginia junta demoted you, then?
Hamilton. They would change the past if they could, I'm sure.
No, Eliza has discharged me from the service.
Elizabeth. [drily] The title seems rather inappropriate, does it
not, since the function expired ten years ago?
Pendleton. Aye rna' am. But there's a world of good men who
still consider the rank suits your husband. Right down to the
ground. And if the entire faction of Tammany still must address Aaron Burr by ''Colonel'' tWenty years since that
esteemed gentleman ever bore arms, why I see no reason my
friend should not have his due.
Hamilton. [glances at Elizabeth] Well, Nat, that time has passed.
Pendleton. [glancing down] Seasons return.
Elizabeth. [quickly with even emphasis] Not that season,
Nathaniel.
Hamilton. [uneasily] Yes, well ... it's good you should come,
Nat, at ~ season.
Elizabeth. [somewhat stiffl If you should need to see my husband about some matter of businessi NathanielPendleton. [awkwardly hesitating] Well, Mrs. HamiltonElimbeth. [quickly to Hamilton]! still have to see about the cakes
(Hamilton takes his wife's hand briefly, she holds his gaze for a
moment longer] Nathaniel. [Pendleton bows and Elizabeth goes
off right]
Pendleton. What did Cooper hear from you-(Hamilton looking after Elizabeth hushes Pendleton with a gesture. When he sees
the door firmly closed, he turns to his friend] What could Charles
Cooper have reported your saying against Burr at the Albany meeting last April?
Hamilton. God! How should I know? When did you say?
Pendleton. At Judge Taylor's house, before the gubernatorial
election.
Hamilton. I dare say I haven't the slightest notion, Nat. [turns
to the table and offers the decanter, which Pendleton refuses with
a wave of his hand] Anyway, what does it matter?
Pendleton. I think it
matter because Van Ness has begun
making something o it again.
mfy
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Hamilton. Van Ness is fond of sowing tares.
Pendleton. That he is. And last night at the Tontine Tavern he
was sowing tares by means of Charles Cooper's public letter
to the Albany Register.
Hamilton. Why that fire is two months cold! Wasn't Cooper's
letter publishedPendleton. At the end of April. But Van Ness has rekindled it.
Hamilton. For what particular purpose? [pours himself a glass of
wine, offers to Pendleton]
Pendleton. [waving away the offer of wine] I don't know. That's
what worries me. But he was making much of it with the Tammany crowd. And he swore he would call on Burr today. Try
to think what you told Cooper.
Hamilton. Let me try to recollect. [after a moment] What have
I not said of my rival of fifteen years? I know he has been
a moral reprobate for as long as I have known him. As a fellow attorney I cannot approve his abuse of the profession.
He has turned public offices to hard dealing and downright
fraud. He makes party allegiance in accord with his ambition,
not from principle. He continues to be a threat to this republic. All of this I have maintained day in, day out. Burr knows
and the world knows. I have struck at Burr and he at me over
the course of a career. Does he suddenly grow tender?
Pendleton. [half turns from Hamilton] I think he grows desperate. Jefferson has cast Burr aside. He terms his Vice-President
"a crooked gun." Burr had hoped to rebuild his power upon
the governorship. Now that he has lost that, every way must
seem blocked to him. For a man of his ambition to stand still
is intolerable. Rather than decline, he would choose ~
course, no matter how dangerous or destructive.
Hamilton. Not unlikely, but what course?
Pendleton. [turns back to confront his friend] Would you preserve
this Union?
Hamilton. It's curious you should ask. I was just saying to Eliza
that it appears I've made an unprofitable career of supporting this ramshackle affair called a Union.
Pendleton. How dear is it to you_?
Hamilton. It should be more dear to me had it not fallen into
the hands of atheistic demagogues such as Jefferson and Monroe. They love anything French, and they shall transport to
these shores all the fury and envy let loose by the Revolution
in France. Everything that we gave ourselves to establish shall
be swept away in a tide of democratic passions.
Pendleton. [coming closer to Hamilton and lowering his voice] Every
prop of stability shall indeed be kicked aside if Burr has his
way.
Hamilton. Burr is no democrat. He is nothing by principle but
everything by opportunity and convenience.
Pendleton. Yes! And he is now the first mover in a plan to have
the New England states secede from the Union.
Hamilton. [regards Pendleton for a moment silently] I have heard
some talk to that effect. But what would he personally gain
thereby?
Pendleton. The opportunity of leading.. of founding a new
government with himself at its head and chief military officer
for life. That's his plan. It has become the common talk in
Tammany. If Burr succeeds in splitting this country into two,
the Virginians shall certainly set up the southern states as an
ape of France and they shall make war on the rest.
Hamilton. [sits back roughly upon the sofa] And Europe will pick
our bones.
Pendleton. And Europe will pick our bones. Unless, General
Hamilton, you save us.
Hamilton. I? I've been rejected by my own party. Half the Fed-
9
�eralists blame me for attacking their man Adams. Besides a
few friends, I have now no followers.
Pendleton. [coming up close to Hamilton] The Federalists will
return to you. They will return to a man, and every man of
this nation who loves order will join them. The time
approaches.
Hamilton. What time?
Pendleton. Time of war. Be prepared to lead out an army of
government troops against Burr and his confederates in the
New England states.
Hamilton. Jefferson would never call on me.
Pendleton. He should have to. He will have no choice. You are
the man chosen by Washington to put down the Whiskey Rebellion. And you are the man Adams was obliged to turn tof
against his will, four years ago during the Pennsylvania insurrection. The country looks to you now only in moments
of danger, but in danger no one else will satisfy.
Hamilton. [after a moment's thought] Let Jefferson find a Virginian.
Pendleton. None will do. Besides, if Burr does head the secession he will look to Federalists for his money. He's already
begun to court your friends. Jefferson will see he must have
a Federalist to oppose Burr so that the force shall be clearly
national and not a party affair. Jefferson will recall your assistance in the 1800 election when you pulled Federalist votes
away from Burr. He will call upon you for another such proof
of selfless patriotism.
Hamilton. I doubt.
Pendleton. [quite animated] Yes. And you become again Generalin-Chief. You shall lead troops into battle. [Hamilton has become rapt as Pendleton concludes with his ann raised in a gesture
of signalling a cavalry charge]
Only last evening I was looking at the uniform I
designed for the Inspector General. Complete with plume.
Have you seen it? [pulls the chord by the fireplace] Adams called
for four generals with the Inspector General over them all.
You don't know, Nat, what it took to get me appointed-{the
door opens at right and the Maid enters inquiring "Sir"] Mrs.
Baines, would you just step into my study there and bring
the round box on my desk. Thank you. [Maid goes off right]
Adams wouldn't have it. Pickering reports his having said
to Abigail that I was the most ambitious man in this country
(which may have been true then) and the most "artful"
(which has never been true. Compared to Aaron Burr I am
an ingenue). Anyway, Adam's entire cabinet, all of whom
were in my pocket, all desired that I should have the highest
command after Washington. And then when Washington
himself backed me, Adams gave up. The day I heard
Washington had decided to support me I gave instructions
for the design of the insignia of the Inspector General. [Maid
comes from right carrying a large hatbox} Yes, that's it, Mrs.
Baines. {takes the box and removes the lid} Yes, thank you. [Maid
goes off right} White knee-breeches, white waistcoat with gold
buttons, a blue coat with gold buttons and braid, and a cape
of blue lined in scarlet. All surmounted by [draws out a large,
black cockade. A spectacular blue plume is affixed}. Magnificent,
is it not?
Pendleton. [taking the hat] To be sure. [After turning it about a
little and appreciatively, Pendleton returns the hat to Hamilton,
Hamilton.
who muses· on it}
Hamilton, {runs his finger along the plume} One could lead a
charge of horse into the mouth of hell with a good mount and
such hat.
10
Pendleton. [heartily and lightly] I would follow.
It's strange though. I had the uniforms sent round
to Washington, but what became of them I do not know.
Washington never mentioned my designs. When finally we
went on campaign we marched in old Continental uniforms.
Rather drab old sacks. Much later this was returned to me
with no explanation.
Pendleton. Brilliance of attire is not thought to befit the military of a free republic.
Hamilton. [takes it in] Pity.
Pendleton. And so it is.
Hamilton. [after a moment, walking to window at left] Do you
know, Nat, when I was sixteen and left St. Vincent to sail
to this country, I told my friend I must seek out a war. I was
certain that only a war could give scope to my spirit and bring
me fame. Just now, when I felt my blood run quicker, it occurred to me that that early conviction has never left me. I've
bred children and lost them; I've enjoyed the devotion of the
best of all wives; I've prospered a little; studiedf helped conceive a frame of government and set it going; known some
power, and kept most of my friends. But I've felt the blood
run to my heart only those times when I had a charge of men
in the face of an enemy. It's only then that the stakes are clear
enough and dear enough for simple action. Every other
undertaking is revision, compromise, scaling down, salvaging. This entire republic is a mere dilution of the strong wine
I sought. The people love safety more than hard liberty and
profit more than grandeur. They shall not produce great men,
and, if chance breeds them, there's no place for their ambition. The Presidency is too brief and too weak for great efforts.
Pendleton. I do not ask you to exert yourself for this republic,
such as it is. Act for yourself. Once men are roused, they may
look about.
Hamilton. [after a moment} Mexico.
Pendleton. Mexico! The entire New World! And by sea who
knows how far our hand may reach. There's grandeur!
Hamilton. [turning half away] If we give the world more than
we take.
Pendleton. [pursues until he faces Hamilton again} We give a new
order of human association: a public life fashioned by free
and equal men taking thought together.
Hamilton. [a shallow, brittle laugh] Do you so describe Jefferson's
new party, a demagogue holding sway over mechanics and
backwoodsmen by stirring up their envy of the rich, while
he holds the planters through their fear of their slaves?
Pendleton. {shrngsl Jefferson is an aberration. You will overcome
him once you have put iron once again in your countrymen.
You will overcome him by vote or by force. Did he not, while
Governor of Virginia, run to the woods in fear of British
regulars?
Hamilton. [laughs] Well, Nat, you bring me up to Jerusalem.
But on what foal of an ass do I ride in my triumphal way?
Pendleton. [laughs in his tum] On Burr.
Hamilton. [puzzled but alert] Strange vehicle.
Pendleton. {now serious} At the right moment you will expose
Burr and call for arms against him. But that is why you must
take care now. I feared that you had flushed hlm too early
and that Cooper's gossip was of the plot to secede.
Hamilton. That's impossible because at the time Cooper reports
my attack on Burr I had not heard Burr took an interest in
such a scheme.
Pendleton. Good. But nonetheless do you not see what Burr
now intends against you?
Hamilton.
SUMMER 1985
�Hamilton. Do you mean a challenge?
Pendleton. Precisely. For the sake of disposing of you, the one
man he knows capable of blowing up his design. Be sure of
it, a challenge is forthcoming, and on no account must you
give thought of accepting it.
Hamilton. Indeed I would never think of accepting it.
Pendleton. [in a lower voice] Yet you must not seem to reject it.
Hamilton. [begins to see the dilemma] Ah!
Pendleton. Yes. If you accept there's every probability given
Burr's marksmanship and experience-he hit your brotherin-law John Barker Church?
Hamilton. His coat.
Pendleton. He shall certainly take more careful aim this time
if he's given the chance. I say if you accept, he stands good
chance of ending your life, yet if you should refuse, he calls
into highly public question your courage. Just the wrong time
to have one's reputation impaired, on the eve of a struggle.
At such a crisis reputation is everything. So you cannot accept, yet you must not appear to decline.
Hamilton. [half-jesting] How if I should accept and slay Burr?
Pendleton. John Church tells me though he had you practice
you have never come near mark. Can you contradict Mr.
Church? [Hamilton says nothing] Then my friend, you must
be more effective as a leader than lethal as a marksman.
Hamilton. In any case it does not matter. On better grounds
I would not in any event accept a challenge to a duel.
Pendleton. What? I thought you had in the past.
Hamilton. That was the past. Now I hope I've put away that
pernicious vanity. It does not now sit well with my conscience.
Pendleton. [after a pause, with an effort] Did you not instruct your
son toHamilton. I did. And I consider the death of Philip a reproof
to my worldliness.
Pendleton. Ah my good friend let me put case to you[Elizabeth re-enters somewhat hurriedly from right carrying an
apron in one hand and another vase of cut flowers in the other]
Elizabeth. [as she goes to mantel and sets down the vase] Excuse
me, Alexander. There's a Mr. Van Ness to see you. He looks
rather solemn. [Hamilton and Pendleton start a little and exchange a look that Elizabeth takes note of. She looks from Pendleton to Hamilton] Is not this Van Ness one of the Tammany
men?
Hamilton. [as Pendleton turns away] Yes he is dear. Did he state
his business?
Elizabeth. [regards Hamilton closely] He would not, other than
to say he must see you privately. What business would you
have with a Tammany man?
Hamilton. [abstractedly] Ah it's hard to say. Would you show
him in dear? And ... [turning slightly toward Pendleton] Nat
has expressed his willingness to give me his opinion on
Stower's plan for the carriage house. Could you show him
the ground?
Pendleton. Should I wait for you to conclude with Van Ness?
Hamilton. That would be kind of you, Nathaniel.
Elizabeth. [continues to regard her husband] Alexander, you have
promised this day tp the family.
Hamilton. I shall be only a minute, my dear. [as she hesitates
a moment more] Elizabeth, if you would [Hamilton reaches for
his wife's hand. Elizabeth takes her husband's hand after a moment,
and hesitantly. She holds his gaze for an instant, then goes out right
on Pendleton's arm meeting Hamilton's gaze a final time as she
closes the door. Hamilton walks over to the mantel, extracts a rose
from the vase that Elizabeth has just placed there, and is sniffing
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
the flower as Van Ness enters, walks stiffly to center and fetches
from his coat pocket a folded note.]
Van Ness. [clears his throat} Mr. Hamilton.
Hamilton. [replaces the rose in the vase and turns] Mr. Van Ness.
We have expected you.
_Van Ness.
the room
Hamilton.
Van Ness.
[other than raising his brows and glancing quickly about
Van Ness evinces no surprise] Pardon?
Good day to you, sir.
I'm afraid my business is not agreeable. I have the
honor to bear you a message from Colonel Burr.
Hamilton. [a trace of mock reverence] From the Vice President.
Van Ness. Er-not in his capacity as Vice President, no sir. This
is a matter between gentleman, [amending with unconcealed
irony] in any event, a personal matter.
Hamilton. [bristles] Well, man-to it.
Van Ness. I believe this note sufficiently explains. [Hamilton
takes the note, puts on spectacles and reads]
Hamilton. [careful and formal] You are aware this says you are
to direct my attention to a phrase in a published letter? [Van
Ness produces from another pocket a newspaper clipping]
Van Ness. [handing the clipping to Hamilton] The passage I have
underscored.
Hamilton. [reading aloud] "For really, sir, I could detail to you
a still more despicable opinion which General Hamilton has
expressed of Mr. Burr.'' Is this the passage you are directed
to call to my attention?
Van Ness. It is.
Hamilton. And the Vice President desires I should offer an explanation of it?
Van Ness. Sir, I pray you should not refer to Colonel Burr in
his official capacity. The proceeding we may have occasion
to enter upon, although honorable in the highest degree, may
not be considered by all parties altogether in conformity
with-ah-the law of the land.
Hamilton. [stares for an instant at Van Ness] I see. [glances again
at the note] Mr. Burr has perceived of course that the language
is ambiguous.
Van Ness. I am not at liberty to guess how the Colonel may
regard the grammar of the piece.
Hamilton. But I mean who or what is despised by whom? [offers
the clipping to Van Ness who indignantly looks away]
Van Ness. [refusing to take the clipping] I suppose Colonel Burr
requires of you an explanation of the reference, not a literary
critique, however highly he esteems your literary powers.
Hamilton. [hard] He "requires"?
Van Ness. I believe the note you have in your hand expresses
with tolerable clarity the intents of the gentleman who indited
it.
Hamilton. [reads aloud from the other note} Mr. Burr desires,
[amends with a slight bow to Van Ness] requires ''a prompt and
unqualified acknowledgement or denial of the use of any expressions which would warrant the assertions of Mr.
Cooper." [looks inquiringly of Van Ness who inclines in a slight,
formal bow of assent. Hamilton continues wordlessly to question
Van Ness who at last shows his impatience]
Van Ness. Well, sir?
Hamilton. What" assertions" does he mean? [holds out the letter]
Van Ness. Mr. Hamilton, you are known to be a most imposing courtroom performer. Doubtlessly you have it in your capacity to embarrass me with your dialectical prowess. But
really sir it is most unfair that you should so question me who
am merely the conveyor of the message. Colonel Burr requires
either an acknowledgement or a disavowal.
11
�Hamilton. Burr knows I can scarcely disavow having said things
that bear hard upon him over fifteen years of political rivalry.
[turns from Van Ness, walks to the mantel and creases the note
abstractedly; turns back to face Van Ness] No, I shall not be so
easily trapped. I cannot comply with Mr. Burr's requirement.
Van Ness. [measured] Do you mean you will neither acknowledge nor disavow?
Hamilton. Yes, precisely that. The matter deserves more careful consideration. [Hamilton turns back to the mantel again and
summons a servant by pulling a cord.]
Van Ness. [coolyl In that case, sir, I must bid you a good day
and take my leave.
Hamilton. [as the maid opens the door at right] Good day, Mr. Van
Ness.
Van Ness. [half-turned to go out] Ah, may I ask by what means
will you in due course make your reply?
Hamilton. I shall write by Mr. Nathaniel Pendleton.
Van Ness. [bows] Once more sir, good day.
Hamilton. [bows] Good day. [Van Ness goes off right, the maid
closing the door after him. In a moment Elizabeth returns]
Elizabeth. [closing the door behind her, she stands against it looking
apprehensively at her husband] That was the same man who
came to John Barker Church when Aaron Burr challenged him
to a duel. It came back to me as I was in the kitchen just now.
Hamilton. I-do not recall.
Elizabeth. I do. Van Ness' appearance always signifies Burr's
hand. Alexander, you must tell me what now passes between
you and Burr.
Hamilton. Only another instance of the old struggle.
Elizabeth. What is it now?
Hamilton. The form has not yet become definite, the matter
as always is politics.
Elizabeth. [turns away abruptly] No! I don't want to hear of it.
Not yet again. [turns back to Hamilton] Why can you not leave
Burr alone? Leave him to his small intrigues. Why do you pursue him into every dark comer his designs bring him to? Why
can't you let him be?
Hamilton. [shrugs very slightly] Perhaps we share £he same dark
angel.
Elizabeth. Is the issue-grave?
Hamilton. It could become so. But I shall not let it.
Elizabeth. I must know the details.
Hamilton. [hesitates] AhElizabeth. It is my due! I've borne you seven children, shared
with you the loss of the eldest, helped you (so you've said)
in your successes, taken the disappointments with you ...
[some anger] borne one great disgrace ...
Hamilton. [quickly] In the Albany paper Charles Cooper published a letter to your father in which Cooper makes vague
reference to my having said of Burr something which Cooper
characterized by the word "despicable."
Elizabeth. It sounds so ... yague.
Hamilton. That's where the danger lies.
Elizabeth. What may come of it?
Hamilton. Depending on how the exchange is managed nothing or . . . the last extremity.
Elizabeth. How do you avoid giving further provocation?
Hamilton. I'm not sure.
Elizabeth. Not simply by disavowing Cooper?
Hamilton. Possibly.
Elizabeth. Well, disavow.
Hamilton. I'm not certain that is best.
Elizabeth. [alarmed] "Best"! Best for what? You cannot think
12
of provoking a duel.
Hamilton. It may not be a question of provoking.
Elizabeth. Why then you cannot fhink of anything but of avoiding giving that man an occasion for calling you out. Surely
you conceive no other purpose but preventing such a barbarity.
Hamilton. Of course.
Elizabeth. [misgiving] But you have exchanged challenges
before.
Hamilton. I am not the man I was before. I am sincere in the
religion I profess. I assure you Eliza by the faith we both
revere, I abhor the cruel vanity of men slaying one another
by an absurd and wicked code.
Elizabeth. [baffled] Then, wherein lies the difficulty of abiding
the dictates of God and of your conscience?
Hamilton. Well, perhaps it will not be difficult.
Elizabeth. In any case, you are clear? You see clearly that you
must not accept a challenge?
Hamilton. Yes, I see it clearly. [they continue to mee( each other's
gaze] Is Nat still waiting?
Elizabeth. I believe he is. He said he would wait until you had
finished with Van Ness.
Hamilton. Will you send him to me?
Elizabeth. [hesitates] Will you put off Burr? .
Hamilton. [simple and without hesitation] Yes. May I see Nat
alone? Before~~ he would be embarrassed to go over negotiations.
Elizabeth. [regards her husband carefully for a moment] I shall send
him in. [they touch fingertips briefly and Elizabeth goes off right.
After the door closes upon his wife Hamilton produces the newspaper
clipping from a coat pocket, scans it once again, takes Burr's note
from another pocket, looks from note to clipping, then replaces both
papers and removing the reading spectacles stands for a moment with
head bowed. As Pendleton reenters, Hamilton slowly puts the spectacles in the pocket of his waistcoat.]
Pendleton. [closing the door behind him] Van Ness walked right
past me without seeming to notice I was there. You must have
put a thought in his head. [without replying, Hamilton hands
Pendleton first the note, then the clipping. In taking the clipping
Pendleton merely glances at it appearing to recognize the piece and
returns to a more careful scrutiny of the note, holding out the clipping to Hamilton who pockets it once again.] Acknowledge or
disavow, he says.
Hamilton. Yes, quite clever, don't you think? A perfect
cleftstick.
Pendleton. How do you see it?
Hamilton. If I acknowledge, fhe challenge promptly follows.
On the other hand, Burr knows I cannot disavow for several
reasons. First, on the face of it disavowal appears timorous.
Second, what, in any event, am I to disavow? That I have
brought severe censures against Burr to any number of men
over several years many of which could be termed despicable." That is, if the idea is to supply an adjective for the degree
of villainy charged. But I cannot make such a disavowal
without exposing myself to the charge of misrepresenting
Burr's rharacter in £he first place, or of disloyalty to my friends
and supporters who have acted upon my representations.
Either way, I am destroyed in the trust I have earned with
men of consequence.
Pendleton. It's Cooper's damnable ambiguity that has played
into Burr's hand. I did not think he could have drawn the
noose so tight.
Hamilton. Tight if I stick my neck in it, but! shan't. I shall sim11
SUMMER 1985
�ply refuse Burr's challenge.
Pendleton. Yes, but you must not say so.
Hamilton. Nay, but I shall.
Pendleton. [clearly alarmed] But I thought you understood! You
must not flatly refuse to honor the challenge of a man who
is generally thought of as a gentleman worthy of receiving
and of issuing such challenges.
Hamilton. But I must reject him. Since I hold his code to be
impious if not wicked.
Pendleton. But the code to which you refer is not held to be
wicked by the generality of men, at least not by men of
standing.
Hamilton. Perhaps not, but I cannot see that such a consideration ought to be decisive. My honor is my conscience. I shall
not enter into his code duello.
Pendleton. {turns to the window and after a moment again confronts
Hamilton] You must forgive me, my old friend if I put to you
a question that has puzzled me awhile. This, uh, devout
religiosity that has come upon you in recent years-has it occurred to you that this belated piety has something of awell-of an ad hoc character?
Hamilton. Oaughs ingenuously] Ah N athaniet you are much too
shrewd for me.
Pendleton. [laughs also but with an air of irony] Well, but some
of the more memorable public remarks of your younger days
wereHamilton. As callow and ill-digested as those of any other raw
youth fond of his own intelligence and finding skepticism a
flashy blade with which to astonish his elders.
Pendleton. To be sure. Yet even after you settled into maturity
as a property holder and family head, I cannot say I found
you notable for your devotions.
Hamilton. Well, more's the pity.
Pendleton. But you see, my dear friend, it has seemed so to
most men. Indeed I venture to say that for most of those who
have observed you, it appears that you did not discover you
were pious until-until it became so very clear that your great
opponent Jefferson was a free thinker.
Hamilton. [directly but not angrily] You cannot think it!
Pendleton. Well, I confess some doubt that you know your own
mind. Year before last you inform us that we must proceed
to form in opposition to the Virginia Jacobins a Christian Constitutionalist Party. We should work to propagate New Testament brotherhood and the Federalist construction of the
United States Constitution. The project did not go far despite
your efforts-or, who knows, perhaps because of those efforts. For surely you have been told that your plan was resented by unimpeachably devout men who deemed you to
be setting God's Word in service of party. Not to speak of
an equal number of skeptics and atheists who held the same
opinion but with a different valuation.
Hamilton. And you, Nat, are to be numbered in that faction?
Pendleton. Just now the issue is youh belief, not mine. [Hamilton indicates he will not press] So, t ose who had no cause to
be jealous on behalf of the honor of the Deity nonetheless
resented the alliance just as keenly. They held the importation of religious sentiment to be an imposition and something
of a concession to mechanics and store clerks.
Hamilton. [still in good humor but peremptory] Enough! Upon my
honor, Nat, you could stand in well for a Spanish inquisitor.
How should I reply? My faith I hope is as sincere as I know
how to be. I believe that man is a fallen creature in need of
divine grace. And I hope to be saved by the grace of the Son
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
of God. My political convictions now follow my religion. Assuredly not the other way about. I do not know if my mere
avowal suffices to satisfy your questionPendleton. [meekly] But of course it does.
Hamilton. But let me attest this faith a little by acting under
it. You should do me a great favor by bearing to Mr. Burr the
message that for whatever wrong I may have done him I
repent it, and I shall not enter upon a challenge. Neither shall
I give nor accept a challenge.
Pendleton. Do not ask me to bear such a message. I should not
act the part of your friend if I made that reply!
Hamilton. Why?
Pendleton. It would ruin you as a public figure, and it would
make Burr.
Hamilton. [after a moment] Nonsense, the matter is private.
Pendleton. Burr, or Van Ness on behalf of his chief, will make
itpublic.
---Hamilton. Well, then, publicly I can make known my principles.
Pendleton. They will not be perceived to be the motives that
actually motivated you. Have I not just atte:wpted to tell you
in a kindly way that your professions of faith are not taken
seriously?
Hamilton. [takes fire] Well the world be damned! What other
motive can anyone impute?
Pendleton. [hesitates one instant} Failure of nerve.
Hamilton. [incredulous] "Failure of nerve"! I? I have never
guarded my life!
Pendleton. I know it.
Hamilton. [hotly] And the world knows it. My reputation will
ensure that my true motives are credited.
Pendleton. Men are disposed to believe the worst. They will
believe the lower explanation if you do not confute them by
a deed that cannot be explained away. Reputation is gnawed
away by envy, by fear, even by pity. You keep what you've
earned only by incessantly earning it anew. Otherwise, while
they admit your former bravery, men will shake their heads
and say, ''poor Hamilton, he once gave everything, until middle age taught him to be careful."
Hamilton. {obstinate but subsiding] They cannot say so.
Pendleton. Indeed they shall. They will say you have changed.
Have you not just maintained to me that in respect of the sincerity of your piety you are not the same man the world has
known? Well, the world shall say the same-but in respect
of a former courage now renounced.
Hamilton. [goes to_ small table and regards the miniature portraits
of the lairds] I-may have to accept that consequence.
Pendleton.
Can you?
Hamilton. [after a moment] Have you an alternative to propose?
Pendleton. Temporize.
Hamilton. What do you mean?
Pendleton. Protest the vagueness of the issue as Burr has posed
it. Have me say that you cannot reply to Burr's demand because he has not said how much is comprehended in Cooper's
remarks. Say that when he brings himself to specify, you will
be prompt to acknowledge or to disavow. But that without
his clarifying, you can do neither.
Hamilton. What's to be gained thereby?
Pendleton. At the least, time for careful working. And with time
who knows what may intervene to blow up Burr's project?
Most important, if Burr cannot specifyHamilton. {interjecting] But of course he cannot.
Pendleton. [continues undisturbed in his train of thought] If he can-
13
�not specify and the proceedings stick at that point, you may
ward off his challenge without having to refuse it.
Hamilton. [a shiver of impatience and repugnance] Ugh! I do not
like the shuffling air of it.
Pendleton. You owe yourself some trouble-and for the sake
of your friends. {as Hamilton hesitates, Angelica reenters carrying a wicker basket on her arm and in her other hand the album.
Both men tum to the girl presenting pleasant expressions and she
places the album in Pendleton's hand]
Angelica. [to Pendleton as he takes the album] Write.
Pendleton. {uncomprehending but still smiling] Write what, my
dear girl?
Angelica. [patient and as though lucid] For my fete. Anything.
[offers basket to Hamilton] Peaches. [Hamilton reaches into the
basket and takes a peach without removing his eyes from Angelica]
Philip sent them. [Pendleton turns away, Hamilton passes his
hand over his face but then takes Angelica by the hand] And this
will sustain you as you sail past Madagascar. {reaches into the
basket and presents her father with another peach]
Hamilton. But where am I bound, Angelica?
Angelica. Cathay.
Hamilton. Ah! A year's voyage.
Angelica. I shall await your ship at the Battery.
Hamilton. {tenderly] Where is your mother?
Angelica. You must fetch him back.
Hamilton. Would you ask your mother to fill another basket
with those splendid peaches? For Mr. Pendleton?
Pendleton. [turns back] Why thank you, Angelica. That would
be most kind. [Pendleton moves to take up his gloves as Angelica bows to him and goes off right] Will you at least think over
my advice today?
Hamilton. You know I would do as you wish were I not bound
otherwise by my conscience. I am not free.
Pendleton. True. But you are now claiming a freedom you're
not entitled to. {as Hamilton makes a move to protest] No, hear
this last word. Then, if you are still resolved to deny any
challenge, I shall bear to Burr whatever message you will. Will
you hear me?
Hamilton. Say on.
Pendleton. My devotion to you, my old friend, is the one principle of my life I have never had occasion to question.
Hamilton. I hope I may prove worthy of that trust.
Pendleton. The only condition of that trust is that you do not
repudiate yourself. [at a slight pause from Pendleton, Hamilton makes a gesture indicating that he should continue] As long
as I have known you I have thought of you as representing
the best this nation is capable of producing. In your career
I conceive that I've found a proof of popular government. The
essence of that proof is the demonstration that a man can serve
this people yet remain a gentleman. You have not cheapened
yourself in order to enjoy the favor of crowds, but you have
done good for this country all the same. So you see, there's
something more than personal in my concern for you. You
must defend your reputation as a gentleman as much as your
reputation as a patriot. The honor of a gentleman is only
proved by his willingness to shed his own blood.
Hamilton. {bitingly} Accompanied by the demonstration of a
willingness to break the law and to shed the blood of another.
Pendleton. If you do not offer such a proof, all of your past efforts already attacked by the demagogues will also be doubted
by the better sort of men. They will think that in building a
system to make life secure for tradesmen and mechanics you
in time became more careful of yourself than a man of honor
ought to be. You owe this country a better example, {points
14
to the miniature portraits] you owe it to your fathers. [Hamilton half turns to look down at the portraits and takes one up from
the commode] Will you at least speak with Rufus King? [Hamilton looks up without replying but with interest} Allow me to take
the reply I've suggested and use the time to talk to King. You
esteem Rufus as much as I do. To me he stands for the best
of the men I would have you keep -faith with. Send me with
a temporizing message to Burr and allow me to send Rufus
to you.
Hamilton. [looks down again at the portrait, and then takes up again
the plumed hat] Deliver Burr the message you proposed. [Pendleton bows and goes off right as Hamilton turns away to the window, still with the hat in his hand]
Act II
Scene 1
Burr's townhouse one day later.
At rise Burr and the Countess are seated on a low sofa in the same
drawing room presented earlier. As the Countess holds her hair up
with one hand and adjusts the collar of her bodice with the other, Burr
rises from his place beside her. In his shirtsleeves and waistcoat he
crosses to a chair at left and takes up the frockcoat that has been draped
over the back.
Burr. [putting on the coat] Well, perhaps we might reconsider
the terms of our-ah-mutuality.
Countess. {replacing a pin in her hair] Yes, we were yesterday
both of us perhaps too abrupt.
Burr. But you must understand the manners of this town are
not greatly in advance of the country as a whole. And the
nation has not yet acquired a degree of refinement sufficient
to allow us the liberty of society. Hence my directness with
you which in Paris would not be required.
Countess. Of course my dear {with a certain edge returning] and
hence the vigor of my remonstrations with you-a promptness of resentment which in less provincial circumstances I
should not for the world have thought to exhibit against my
bantam gallant.
Burr. {stares at the woman a moment then acknowledges without
conviction] Mmm, yes. {takes out a long-stemmed pipe and begins
to fill it from a tobacco pouch he takes from the side pocket of the
coat] Now at what point of my narrative did we . , , digress?
Countess. [adjusting herself on the divan] At the altercation between Mr. Hamilton and Mr. James Monroe.
Burr. So it was. Welt the story is further illustrative of the
republican manners to which I just made reference. Mr. Monroe became an actor in the farce when he went with two congressmen to hear Hamilton's explanation of why he was
paying hush money to a scoundrel like James Reynolds. This
Monroe, my nonpareil, is just as cold a cuttle fish as you
should ever have the misfortune to know. I doubt that even
your inexhaustible capacity for stimulation would kindle so
much as a glint in those stony eyes. So you can fancy with
what embarrassment he confronted the realization that the
corruption of office he had hoped to detect was not to be, but,
instead, the unpromising corruption of mere human infidelity in its ageless and humiliating, but politically innocuous,
form of simple adultery.
Countess. {polite snort of bored amusement} Do you have a bit of
tobacco pray?
Burr. Not fine enough for your impeccable nostrils, Madame.
[drawing his pipe] So Mr. Hamilton, the Secretaryofthe Treasury of the United States, made one senator of that Great
SUMMER 1985
�Republic and two members of the House of Representatives
thereof sit down for an hour to read over half a dozen halfilliterate, dull, and redundantly scurrilous love letters which,
supposedly, had passed between Mr. Hamilton and Mrs.
James Reynolds. All to prove that the great Hamilton was no
thief of the United States treasury, but only of another man's
wife! The husband, James, sought to blackmail the adulterer,
Alexander, quite possibly with the collusion, if not indeed at
the instigation, of the loosely-tethered Maria, his wife, if but
in name.
Countess. One should think a challenge might pass between
this-?
Burr. Reynolds.
Countess. Reynolds and Hamilton. But how Monroe?
Burr. Monroe's own meanness let him in for it. He appeared
to accept Hamilton's sordid explanation of his dealings with
Reynolds. Then, years later when the matter becomes public, he spreads it about that he had only left Hamilton with
the impression that his story was believed!
Countess. Mon Dieu!
Burr. At this point Hamilton and his second John Barker
Church meet Monroe and his second preparatory to issuing
the challenge to a duel. But Monroe shifts about, makes some
protestation of his acceptance of Hamilton's account, and the
matter fizzles. But, [holding up one finger] our farce must have
an epilogue.
Countess. Ah, you must let me have it, pet.
Burr. {languidly clasps his hands behind his head] Hamilton then
took it into his head that the public at large must be brought
to admit his honesty in office. And how should the public
be brought to admit it? In no way save by the same disclosures
that convinced-or should have convinced-Monroe and his
congressmen. Nothing would do but that the wide world
should read Maria's love notes to Hamilton and his to her.
Yes! He published them in the only book ever credited to his
sole authorship. Published not only his immorality but his
ridiculously conunon taste-for the Reynolds woman was a
public thoroughfare-and in the process assured the lasting
humiliation of his own wife, a woman as fine as the best ever
bred on these shores.
Countess. He subjects himself and his wife to disgrace only to
prove his honesty in office?
Burr. Just so! She ought never forgive him, but he is clean in
his accounts-or so he had hoped. As a matter of fact, he
damned himself the one way without clearing himself in the
other. Men who only suspected his adultery now had proof,
and men who suspected he profited by his office still continued so to suspect him. But the episode demonstrated how
much Hamilton will pay to safeguard his political fame. And
for that same reason, he dare not deny me satisfaction in the
~instance. [measures the Countess with his spectacles] You
dO-ilOf much care for these lessons in statecraft, do you
milady?
Countess. {settling a pillow languidly] Not much, I confess it. {enter
from right the Housekeeper]
Housekeeper. Mr. Van Ness, sir.
Burr. Show him in. [As Countess makes sure of her buttons and
Burr relights his pipe, Van Ness enters from right, the Housekeeper departing]
Van Ness. [a cursory bow to Countess] Should we converse in
private?
Burr. It cannot be worth the trouble, madame knows enough
of our project to be more dangerous in her conjectures than
in knowledge.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Countess. [evenly] Diminutive bastard!
Burr. [unimpassioned] Whore of Babylon! [as Van Ness looks on
a little startled, Burr and the Countess exchange little bows of mutual acknowledgement]
Van Ness. Very well. Hamilton equivocates.
Burr. In what fashion?
Van Ness. Pendleton has just given me a note in which Hamilton says that without your further specifying the grievances,
he can neither acknowledge nor disavow.
Burr. This is mere paltering.
Van Ness. I should say so.
Burr. I expected better of Hamilton.
Countess. Why? A man who would insult his wife as you just
told me he didBurr. [icily] Moral indignation does not become you, my dear,
you tend to bray. [Countess shows her teeth, but does not otherwise reply] Let me see his note.
Van Ness. [handing the note] Pendleton, of course, will be advising Hamilton.
Burr. [scanning the note] How many others have been informed?
Van Ness. I do not know. From Hamilton I suspect no othersBurr. [perceiving the significance of Van Ness~ intonation and emphasis turns to Countess but still without looking up from the note]
Have you yet had opportunity to inform your acquaintances?
Countess. [wrenches away] Hang yourself.
Burr. [to Van Ness] From observing him could you discern anything further of Hamilton's intent?
Van Ness. I would say he was shaken when he read the note.
Though he recovered his color tolerably well.
Burr. Did he raise the question of the law?
Van Ness. No.
Burr. Did you encounter Mrs. Hamilton?
Van Ness. She saw me come and go.
Burr. But Hamilton did not have her by when you delivered
my message?
Van Ness. She was not present.
Burr. That is good. Although I am still concerned that Hamilton might inform her. He has disappointed me twice now and
I begin to misdoubt his delicacy in points of honor. You recall
Hamilton eventually relented when he might have pressed
Monroe, and in that altercation with Commodore Nicholson
at the time of Jay's treaty he showed himself somewhat too
ready to accept an explanation.
Van Ness. Perhaps so. But what has that to do with his wife?
Burr. You have not heard the story of the Earl of Paulett and
the Duke of Marlborough? [to Countess] This will answer to
your taste for the piquant, rna chere.
Countess. You are as copious as a gazette.
Burr. Your only chronicler of the century. Well. Just after he
returned from his wars in the low countries, Marlborough was
assailed by Poulett for misuse of the Queen's troops. After
a time, challenges were exchanged and the time and place
of the interview were set. Having reconsidered, Paulett found
himself not up to it. Yet, rather than retract, he had recourse
to an expedient employed now and then by peaceable fellows
who would have the world think them brave. He let the affair slip to his wife who saved Paulett by making sure the
authorities knew of the impending interview. Marlborough
was obliged by the Secretary of State to accept a composition.
{relights his pipe] I'm surprised, William, to find you unacquainted with the story.
Van Ness. I should think the more pertinent consideration is
whether Hamilton has heard the story.
Burr. [smiling] I learned it from him. [pats Van Ness on thecuffJ
15
�Anyway, Poulett' s finesse has earned him a certain notoriety and has occasioned an unwritten addition to the code of
the duel.
Van Ness. To wit: a gentleman is and ought to be disgraced
by the intervention of his wife and thus no true man shall
in this particular take his wife into his confidence.
Burr. Precisely. You have a genius for inference.
Van Ness. Hamilton must not be allowed to make his escape
by that door.
Burr. We cannot positively prevent the attempt. But if we are
troubled by a sheriff or a justice you must let it be universally
known that Hamilton applied to his wife rather than to his
nerve.
Van Ness. And certainly I shall.
Burr. [to Countess] And you, my ladyship, shall assist. I know
I can count upon your zeal for propagating. That is to say,
for propagating the truth.
Countess. [petulant] I'll turn it over.
Burr. [irreverent] oTurn over" do you say?
Countess. [angry] I'll think about it.
Burr. Oh, I am certain you can do much better. You perform
prodigies.
Countess. Go to hell.
Burr. "Is Saul too among the prophets:' Alas and alack .
[Burr attempts to kiss the Countess on the cheek but fails as she
averts her head. He takes her hand, kisses it, and shrugs as, after
an instant, she pulls away with unconvincing hauteur]
Burr. [to Van Ness] I shall have to write an answer to Hamilton's note. The object is to bring on the challenge as soon as
may be and cut through these disagreeable delays.
Van Ness. The longer Hamilton delays, the greater the likelihood that someone should intervene on his behali. He knows
that, we know it, and he knows we know it.
Burr. Then this is what we shall say: it is not for me to determine in what precise particulars I have been slandered.
Rather, it is necessary that Hamilton signify clearly whether
or no he takes responsibility for the harm already done me.
If you have occasion for further conversation with Hamilton
you must stress that I judge the harm to be a thing already
inflicted-that will tighten our grip on him.
Countess. Or his upon you.
Burr. [ignoring the woman's remark] And to throw another grapnel on our prize, let us add one line more to the effect that
his letter has furnished me with new reasons for requiring
a definite reply.
Van Ness. Still, now that fright has stirred him, the definite reply may be to disavow. Then you shall see your prize raise
sail on sail and fly away.
Burr. [pauses a few moments to think, idling the time by standing
behind the Countess undoing one of the elaborate curls of her
coiffure] Then we must be sure that a disavowal should inflict
disgrace.
Countess. [pulls away from Burr's irreverent doodling upon her hair
and walks to a mirror at left where she attempts to repair the damage]
You are a cool one, sir. You are bound and determined to ruin
General Hamilton.
Burr. [evenly] No, my dear, he need not suffer ruin. To avoid
ruin lies in his hands [approaches Countess from behind and
fastens one button at the tip of her collar. Van Ness discreetly turns
away] I am only bound to slay him. [Burr's and the Countess'
eyes meet in the mirror, she displaying fright. Van Ness turns back
to face Burr] So William, let us phrase it in such a way that
Hamilton cannot disavow without disavowing everything for
16
which he stands.
Van Ness. He stands for nothing so much as unremitting opposition to Aaron Burr.
Burr. Precisely. And so let us call for nothing less than a disavowal of every attack that has given teeth to that opposition. Here. [taking up paper and dipping a pen] In view of the
impossibility of turning up the particular trash imparted to
Cooper let us pose the question in its most lethal form. [writes]
Yes. !after approving the sketch, hands the paper to Van Ness.
The Countess tries to read just as Van Ness rises]
Van Ness. [reciting as though to test the words by sounding them]
''The question is whether you have authorized my dishonor
by uttering expressions or opinions derogatory to my honor.''
Yes. This is pretty much a summary of Hamilton's career.
Burr. He cannot perceive it otherwise. The world will so perceive it. And he knows his followers will so perceive it: Can
you return in an hour for the full message?
Van Ness. [taking his hat] You must leave him no uncertainty.
You must give him to know that you and every public man
shall consider disavowal under these conditions to be the same
as total remorse and promise of penance.
Burr. That is for you to make clear to him, William. Do you
think you can?
Van Ness. [bows] I shall. [Burr sees Van Ness to the door right.
Turns slowly back to Countess]
Burr. It is possible, my dear, that you have just witnessed the
conception of a new nation.
Countess. Let us hope it is the only conception I've witnessed
today.
Burr. !laughs drily] Why? Caesar must have his heir.
Countess. [raises her hand to ward offJ No, by this hand!
Burr. Not by your hand to be sure. [pours two glasses of wine]
Ah, well, perhaps I may find fruit of my loins elsewhere.
Countess. You are famed for having spawned throughout New
England.
Burr. If half the slanders were true, I should have my army
from my own begetting. But, alas, I need a party all the same.
[handing a glass to the Countess] So Colonel Hamilton's old
party must serve. They have grown tired of his blunders and
now begin to cast their eyes on me. On Washington's birthday last they received my overtures quite warmly. Should you
care to be Queen of New England?
Countess. [snorts] The title would prove the best part of the job
I fear.
Burr. [raises his glass] Nonetheless, I propose the toast I raised
to the Federalists: ''To the Union of all honest men.''
Countess. With honest women?
Burr. And with their loins. [As the lights dim, Burr and the Countess clink glasses]
Scene 2
Early evening of June 19. Hamilton's drawing room as arranged in
Act One Scene 2. The double doors at right are open and as Hamilton enters from right sounds of a party can be heard with notes of
a clavichord in the background. The tall hat box is still seen on the
desk at center.
Hamilton. [speaks over his shoulder as he enters] As soon as Mr.
King has spoken with Angelica, please ask him to step in here.
[closes the double doors muting the festive sounds, notes the hatbox
on the desk and takes out the plumed cockade. After a moment Hamilton replaces the hat without having placed it on his head. He takes
up a pen and a book from the desktop and removing a slip of paper
tipped into the book begins jotting upon the scrap. After a time, as
SUMMER 1985
�Hamilton continues to write, Rufus King enters unannounced.
King, a man of middle height, florid complexion, and slightly balding, wears frockcoat and small clothes and in dress and gestures
bespeaks more weight than either Pendleton or Van Ness]
King. [speaks with a Maine accent and with something of the terseness for which people from that region are known} You are sketching another book?
Hamilton. [setting down the pen} Rufus, welcome. [the two men
clasp hands} Thanks for coming.
King. [points to book and paper still in Hamilton's left hand} You
work even through your daughter's fete?
Hamilton. No. I'm listing those of the Federalist numbers that
were from my hand. I've intended to do so for some time now.
You or Pendleton can check them against John's
recollection-and Madison's, if he still deems himself on
speaking terms with us.
King. [becoming quite grave} If you speak to me as though I might
serve as your executor, I must conclude that the matter is fully
as grave as Nathaniel gave me to believe. You are then pursuing a duel with Aaron Burr?
Hamilton. I'm pursuing every possible alternative to such an
outcome. But his last correspondence leaves me little room
to maneuver.
King. To what point has he brought it?
Hamilton. Pendleton gave you the gist of the first exchange?
King. Burr quotes the fool Cooper against you-you require
a more specific grievance. That's what I have from Nathaniel.
Hamilton. Two hours ago Van Ness delivered Burr's reply. He
refuses to specify but instead stipulates that a disavowal must
cover everything said against him that might impeach his
honor.
King. [without irony] That's everything.
Hamilton. Very near.
King. From that fact Burr gets leverage.
Hamilton. Considerable leverage. The more so in that he knows
I must see it in the same light as he himself.
King. The care with which he selects the occasion and composes his demands argues a premeditated wrath.
Hamilton. Premeditated to the last grimace.
King. Further temporizing would be awkward.
Hamilton. Impossible, I agree.
King. Well then, do you seek my advice?
Hamilton. I always welcome your advice, Rufus. Although I
ask you here principally to beg some favors. [at a sign from
Hamilton both men sit. King on the divan; Hamilton brings over
his desk chair}
King. [not unkindly} Favors first, advice, maybe, thereafter.
Hamilton. Nothing but a national calamity can revive my political credit. You are therefore the proper leader of the Federalist party.
King. What's left of it. And if Burr does not steal it away from
us.
Hamilton. The favor I would ask of you bears upon that danger.
King. Ayeh.
Hamilton. First, how certain are you that Burr plots a secession of New York and the New England states?
King. [growing more animated as he proceeds] As certain as I am
that I sit here. I have it from men of our party that are sympathetic to the idea and want me in. They are fed up with
Jefferson and his Virginia Jacobins. They want to know their
property is secure. They hate the whole breed of slaveholding, France-worshipping, atheistic, democratic flatters that
have destroyed good order in this country. They want to see
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
our party revived in a new nation free from the taint of the
South.
Hamilton. [after a moment laughs} I believe I've just heard a friend
of that cause. You surprise me, Rufus.
King. [uncomfortable} Ah General, I'm splitting my heart on this
rock. I've fought men who've proposed no more than I've
just said. But lately I've found less and less to oppose to the
idea. The thought of giving this Union to Virginia slavers galls
me so sore that I'd sooner see it divided.
Hamilton. Then why have you held yourself out of the _counsels of those who would break off New England?
King. Doubt of success, hatred of Burr. [rising] I tell you sir,
nothing will satisfy that man but the throne of God!
Hamilton. He could defend his new creation though. The one
virtue I would not deny him is courage-at least in his ?Wn
cause.
King. I wouldn't trade a Virginia demagogue for a New York
tyrant. [turning to Hamilton and approaching quite close} But I
would pledge my life's blood to the right man. [Hamilton
receives this silently staring back at King] Yes, you are the man.
You could found a new nation and defend it.
Hamilton. [suddenly rising goes to window at left] You are not
serious.
King. Face me. [Hamilton turns back to King] You can see that
I am serious.
Hamilton. [after a hesitation] I am not your man.
King. You know that you are.
Hamilton. What have I said that would lead you to think I might
join such a purpose?
King. All that Y2!:! have ever said. All that you've done. Hear
me out. My father had six slaves on his estate in Maine. They
were as well-treated as members of the family. But I quarreled with my father from the time I could make a quarrel
arguing that he should set them free. And before my father
was well-buried I had signed the papers and beaten them off
my land. Every slave means two ruined men: himself and his
master. I follow you because you"ve set this country on a
course that will abolish slavery by encouraging free men to
work and to love governing themselves. You found this country on the point of destroying itself by freedom run to wildness and sloth. You and Washington put freedom under law
and gave us order and energy and prosperity. That's why I'm
a Federalist.
Hamilton. The party you so nobly extol is doomed.
King. You can transform a doomed party into a new nation.
A nation all of free men equal under the law. AndHamilton. You're dreaming.
King. And, my dear Hamilton, a nation composed all of freemen will offer other opportunities for men of spirit. It will
be a nation of soldiers-every citizen bred up in arms. We shall
not then be subject to the humiliations lately inflicted by the
powers of Europe. The leaders of a nation under arms could
take their place with the great men of the Old World. They
would figure in every chronicle of the race.
Hamilton. [musing] There would certainly be war. With the
South and with others.
King. And with war, vigor, industry; courage ... glory!
Hamilton. Some grief.
King. Ayeh. But ultimately we liberate the entire New World
from Spain. [after a moment, places his hand on Hamilton's shoulder} And who knows, perhaps we shall liberate the Old World
from itself.
Hamilton. You should awaken yourself my old friend.
17
�King. You should be President-for-Life and Commander-inChief-.-
Hamilton. [about to speak falls silent and turns away] No. [but
without positive conviction]
King. You could be another Caesar. But more magnificent.
Have you not said Caesar was the greatest man who ever
lived?
Hamilton. [continues to gaze out the window] When I said so, I
was-dreaming.
King. [ignoring or oblivious to the qualification] But more magnificent. Caesar destroyed a republic to make an e~pire. You
can bring republican principles to the world. [as Hamilton remains silent and continues to gaze out the window] Give the word
and the best men of New England will put aside Burr and
follow you. Burr shall be crushed forever and aye and Jefferson [laughs capaciously] Jefferson will befoul himself with fright
and flee to Monticello. [Hamilton laughs] Will you say the
word?
Hamilton. [his laughter subsides and he holds King's gaze for two
or three seconds] No. [a small silence follows as neither man averts
his eyes]
King. [keeping himself very still] I've not known you to play a
coy maid scene before. Am I supposed to entreat?
Hamilton. [simply] No.
King. [relaxes with one long restrained sigh] You said you had a
favor to ask me.
Hamilton. I want you to help prevent any scheme to have the
. Northern states secede.
King. !after an instant laughs mirthlessly] Ha! You refuse my
prayer that you lead a secession by asking me now to scotch
the whole affair? Back out on Pickering, Sedgwick and all our
friends?
Hamilton. Secession is treason.
King. uTreason"! To stand apart from Jefferson and his Virginia cabal?
Hamilton. Treason to the work we've taken in hand Rufus. [now
King turns indignantly to stare out the window] I've led out troops
against insurrections against this nation. You and I have
worked in every way to lessen the power of these states.
We've shored up the national government by every device
invention could contrive. Our lives have been given to bringing strength and something like justice out of the small passions of men who think only of their near interests. Secession
means betrayal of all that we have given ourselves for.
King. I did not work for a strong national government so as
to give Jefferson an engine for his demagoguery. He wants
to level everything.
Hamilton. We are agreed that the disease of this nation is
democracy. But the cure is just the opposite of what you have
supposed. The cure is union not secession.
King. How when union only feeds the poWer of Jefferson's
democrats? He has set this nation to worship the evil genius
of Equality. Equality, the arch enemy of the moral world!
Equality that seeks its level by degrading what knowledge and
virtue have elevated! Shall every decent man be ground down
between the unwise principles of the Jeffersons and the no
principles of the Burrs? [the doors open letting in the sounds of
the party as the Maid announces, ''Mr. Pendleton, sir'']
Hamilton. [looks quizically to King who returns the expression]
Please show him in, Mrs. Baines. [the Maid goes off and soon
after returns bringing with her Pendleton dressed much like he was
in the earlier scene and again carrying his gloves which he holds
up to the retreating Mrs. Baines who ignores him closing the dou-
18
ble doors behind her] Good to see you, Nathaniel.
Pendleton. [hand clasps all around] General. Rufus, I thought to
find you here. I'm glad. [Pendleton shows some confusion as
he looks from one to the other, evidently uncertain how far King
has _been taken into Hamilton's confidence.]
Hamilton. We have been discussing the exigency posed by Mr.
Burr.
King. [hurriedly] Do you bring news of a development?
Pendleton. Nothing promising. Burr has sent no further messages and from Van Ness I am told that the last allows no
latitude of interpretation. When I asked Van Ness for a restatement of Burr's latest requirement he said it meant that the
General must disavow having said anything that might impair
Burr's honor.
King. Burr is making certain that no explanation can be offered.
Pendleton. That is obviously his intent. And I should say he
has succeeded. [an awkward silence] You have sounded the
General?
King. Ayeh. He refuses, he saysHamilton. Gentlemen, you meet here by prearrangement do
you not?
Pendleton. No.
{Speaking simultaneously]
King. Of course.
[Pendleton shrugs, turns away]
Hamilton. I'm not your man to lead a secession of New England states. I am your man for preventing such a calamity
as far as it lies with me to prevent it. [turning to Pendleton]
I was just attempting to persuade Rufus to assist in urging
Federalists to repudiate the scheme.
Pendleton. As far as I'm concerned, the idea loses half its attractions if you are not the guiding spirit.
King. I counted on you for better persuasion, Nathaniel. [to
Hamilton] General HamiltonHamilton. [to King] Secession would only open the way to the
intrigues of the European powers. We do not want to be subjects again to the King of England or to the mock republic of
France.
King. We can fight them and Jefferson too. Nay, Jefferson
won't fight.
Hamilton. The constitution we now have is the best cure for
the evils we all fear. A strong President, a responsible and
stable Senate, respect for law-these are cures for envy and
equality. But to have them we must have good Federalists.
We must preserve what is left of the Federalist parly and make
that remnant the guardian of the Constitution.
Pendleton. A remnant, that we are.
King. [bitter] A little bit of leaven for Virginia dough. Is that
what we've come to, General? Is that what you're proposing
we settle for?
Hamilton. The better men are always few, Rufus. Do you think
we would ever capture the hearts of the people?
Pendleton. Remember Dallas' warning: "No party so high it
cannot fall, no party so low it cannot rise.'' Politics is a changeable affair.
Hamilton. Changeable it is. Yet I suspect no party shall come
to power henceforth that is not some version of Jefferson's
party.
King. God what a prospect!
Pendleton. For once I'm glad I'm not young.
King. There's more honor in dying by the wall!
Pendleton. You'll have no chance for such glory, Rufus. The
people of New England itself will not follow us.
King. They would follow Hamilton.
Hamilton. You delude yourself, Rufus. I know better. For-
SUMMER 1985
�tunately the scheme will never find the support it needs to
carry through because it is wrong. But if you would try it,
you must either lead yourself, or place yourself under Burr.
Burr. I cannot lead, and I shall never serve Jefferson's VicePresident.
Hamilton. Not even against Jefferson?
King. !after a moment] Not though it should send to perdition
all of Virginia.
Hnmilton. Then you must go further and break up the scheme.
Pendleton. H we do not nurse the plan along, it dies of itself.
Hamilton. We can't be certain of that. If the plan goes forward,
when it fails it will bring the Federalist party into disgrace.
Moreover, Burr will use the plot to steal the party for himself. If you do not want to raise up Burr you must strangle
his monster in its infancy. Follow me, or follow Burr.
Pendleton. Burr must be destroyed.
King. What would you have me do?
Hamilton. Visit Sedgewick in Boston. I'll write to him also.
Then Bayard in Delaware, eventually you must see Pickering. I'll make sure of Morris and Jay. Nathaniel will help me
in the city. [the same thought seems to strike all three men as they
fall silent. Pendleton turns aside to the window but King continues
to face Hamilton]
King. [in a low voice] That is the favor you said you wanted to
ask? [Hamilton nods] I'll do it. {again a pause] But you must
deal with the Vice-President.
Hamilton. I am thinking how best to do so.
King. Burr has appeared to be dead before and has brought
himself back to life.
Hamilton. Recovery is his genius.
Pendleton. {turns back but stays by window] As with a cat, the
resiliency owes to lack of principle.
King. This time he must stay down. Confound it, Mr. Hamilton! Have you never hit anything with a gun? [both Pendleton and Hamilton laugh]
Hamilton. Perhaps if we trundled up naval guns charged with
grapeshot. [Pendleton laughs again. King does not]
King. {pensively] Still pistol and ball is so unpredictable. There's
always the chance. You must stipulate close range. Ten paces.
Mind you, ten paces.
Hamilton. {calmly] But Rufus, surely Nathaniel told you I am
resolved not to accept a challenge.
King. I trust you will reconsider that hasty and ill-advised
resolve.
Hamilton. Neither is it hasty nor adopted upon anyone's advice. It is my settled determination and taken after much
thought.
King. {abruptly] Then you are reconciled to losing your party
to Burr?
Htimilton. [surprised and hurt} You mean he can take it from me
at gunpoint?
King. I mean that among men whose good opinion is worth
having only two qualities are indispensable: courage and
honor. Once these are questioned men will not undertake any
risks on your behalf. When you can no longer bring men to
take risks for your principles, you no longer lead. If you are
known to have declined a proper challenge you will bring
yourself under question.
Hamilton. [drily] It appears that you and Nathaniel are in
remarkable accord.
Pendleton. {hurriedly] Rufus nor I question your firmness.
Hamilton. [somewhat bitterly] But you are certain other men
shall.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
King. A Jefferson could decline to no man's surprise nor
censure.
Pendleton. [to Hamilton] What do you expect from your countrymen?
Hamilton. If I accepted Burr's challenge, I would not fire at him.
Pendleton. {exasperated] That is self-destruction. {turns in disgust
back to window]
King. [after a moment] This also is a settled resolve?
Hamilton. I have proved it with blood more precious than my
own.
King. {abruptly and decisively] Then will you commit that resolve
to writing? [Pendleton turns back obviously astonished and Hamilton, also surprised, stares for a moment at King]
Hamilton. Of course I would. I would owe it to myself, and
to posterity to correct what, without such explanation, would
seem to endorse lawlessness and impiety.
King. You should see now how to be certain of Burr's destruction.
Pendleton. {as Hamilton takes his own counsel] What do you
mean?
King. {speaking only to Hamilton] Write out a full statement saying that your religious principle does not allow your taking
the life of your adversary. Therefore, although you will face
Burr and hazard his fire ~ will not fire upon him. You must
nevertheless try to slay him. {both Hamilton and Pendleton
express incredulity] No, hear me out! You must try to slay Burr.
If you succeed, destroy the note. If you do not hit him but
survive his fire, then your friends may publish the statement
without your taking a hand in it. It Would ruin Burr and endear you both with those who honor duels and with those
who condemn bloodshed.
Hamilton. Come, Rufus!
King. [brn.shes the interruption aside] If, on the other hand, youdo not survive, the world will condemn Burr. He may even
be charged with murder. Certainly he will be ruined as a public figure.
Pendleton. {speculatively] You would either destroy Burr outright, or destroy him as a public figure.
Hamilton. Gentlemen, am I to understand that my carcass may
be as dear to you as me alive so long as it serves to destroy
Burr?
Pendleton. General!
King. {quietly] That's unfair old friend. I advise you to practice your marksmanship, stipulate close range, and fire first.
It is~ who have boasted of wasting your fire.
Hamilton. "Boasted"!
King. Pride is also a transgression against divine ordinance,
if I remember, as also is wilful self-destruction. You sir, are
resolved upon wrong. I'm only attempting to salvage some
good from the waste you're bent upon.
Hamilton. But Rufus by God! What you propose is dishonorable.
King. If it be dishonorable to save your party and your country.
Hamilton. {appealing] Nathaniel?
Pendleton. [discovers finnness and takes a step. toward Hamilton]
Desperate ills require ~ remedy.
Hamilton. Gentlemen this I shall say only once again. So, as
you are my friends, accept my word, and do not try to sway
me. I shall not fire upon Burr. [a lengthy pause as King bows
his head and Pendleton painstakingly inspects his gloves]
King. {very quietly and hesitantly] Does that mean you refuse
to-face him?
Hamilton. [as King's intent becomes clearer to him] What?
19
�King. [getting through it all at one go] And to write out the
statement?
Hamilton. Will you go so far as to urge me to the course you
characterized as wilful self-destruction?
Pendleton. Not I! For God's sake Rufus! Say you do not.
King. [after allowing a certain time to elapse] No, of course I suggest no such thing. [this said in a monotone]
Pendleton. Do not think it, General. [Hamilton and King are facing each other as the Maid opens one of the double doors and tenta-
tively interrupts]
Milid. Excuse me, sir. Mrs. Hamilton asks should I cutthe cake?
Hamilton. Please go ahead. And tell Mrs. Hamilton! shall be
in directly.
Maid. [departing] Yes, sir.
Pendleton. We had best take our leave, Rufus.
King. [sadly] Ayeh.
Hamilton. [as the two other men come together] My wife already
suspects the reason for your recent visits.
King. I'm sorry.
Hamilton. Any further communications must be shielded from
her.
King.
Is there need of further communication?
Hamilton. Burr's last note must be answered. Will you be able
to leave immediately for Massachusetts to appeal to
Sedgewick?
King. [hesitates] l-am not certain that will be advisable.
Hamilton. How do you mean?
King. [looking away from Hamilton] The two concerns stand or
fall together.
Hamilton. You can be clearer, Rufus.
King. If it becomes public knowledge that you refuse Burr's
challenge, I doubt that other Federalists will follow you and
discard an agreement already in the making.
Hamilton. Why, you must convince them then!
King. [turns to foce Hamilton] I don't think! could. I'm not sure
I could carry conviction.
Hamilton. Ah! Does that mean you could not be altogether convinced yourself? [instead of answering, after a second King turns
away to the low table and idly fingers the miniature portraits. Hamilton turns to Pendleton] And you, Nathaniel?
Pendleton. [mutters as he also bows his head with embarrassment]
I would try to do whatever you ask of me ... but-[trails off
with a gesture of discouragement]
Hamilton. [quietly} So. I see. [goes to the desk and stands with hand
on the desktop and head bent] You must allow me to consider
my decision. [both men now watch Hamilton intently] My decision never to fire upon an opponent~ irrevocable. Still, I may
consent to accept his challenge. If I do, Nathaniel will deliver
my note saying that I cannot respond to Burr's demand for
explanation or disavowal and must therefore stand the consequences. That letter I have already written. [takes a sheet of
paper from a drawer of the desk, creases it and hands it to Pendleton who, without taking his eyes off Hamilton's face, places it in
his inside pocket] You will not deliver that letter unless I signify that you should. We must have no further meetings here
that would alarm my wife.
Pendleton. How then will you signify if you choose to have the
letter delivered?
King. And the other letter? The declaration of your intent to
throw away your fire . . . ?
Pendleton. [a pause] You owe an account to those who have reposed their trust in you. You owe posterity.
King. [as Hamilton still hesitates] If you will not kill Burr, you
must render him powerless.
20
Hami!!ton. [takes iU!I' !l!he q;d!Umed !hat
tlRJ1I£! turns it >n lhiis fltr.nds]
Nathaniiel, ylm must Clome by this house tonight when yw>u
take your evertil!lg walk. If I decide tiD have you deli"'"' th.e
letter invitiflg illomr"s duilleRge, [ siln.atl place this hat m fue
window.
King. [tt!lantlessiyJ Shall the sign further assure <IllS that·ymu lhave
written ·out the -ement? !IKirlg bill11ds .to theilecantenand takes
out its stopperJ
Hamilton. llfliace 191!1![1['.,. and if the wo.rst ;ensues, you will 'lmow
soon enouglk ®£ ffih::e stateme;m.t yeu desire..
King. [suggesliwe !hut not hea"'!)!~lm,dedl Yet Wlith the assU<rance
ofit, I>ihou!.d """'Wmore .... mmrictiio<> to .Sedgewicikill!lld the
others~
Hmnilivn. 1Jljfter .a lime} Very well
King. [.rest.mined but iinlsistent"" he poum :wi11I£ Mo t'hwe :§lssses]
Then, 'iE Nathaniel sees th.e halt he will kn001 illhat llhe ,.tatement has been recorded and is . ~ . availlable?
Hamilton. (taking up &e plumed hN wiJJi his head i!JJ>JwdJ i!fihe sees
this hat, he will know that I've left fue sta~marnHor yamnuse.
King. (handing a glass of wine to Pendletnn, then ilo Hammiilton]
I shall set out tomorrow morning as soon as I"ve beam Jfr.om
you. [all three ponder their glasses a moment]
Hamilton. {looking to King then Pendleton] If the l:lwee ;of us
should meet again, let us hope the occasion be to releb.rate
the perpetuation of the Union.
Pendleton. And indeed we certainly shall meet again.
King. And so I do hope.
Hamilton. [continues to hold his glass without drinking] I wonder
if our old toast is altogether appropriate at this momelll.t.
King. Nothing could be more appropriate.
Hamilton. [after a pause] Then-To the union of all honest men.
King. ''To the union of aU honest men.'' [touches Hamilton"s
glass, Pendleton raises his glass to theirs. The double doors are
opened a crack and the Maid just sticks in her head tentatively]
Maid. [hesitantly] Sir?
Hamilton. Yes, Mrs. Baines. I was coming just now. [a bow to
King and Pendleton] Gentlemen. [Hamilton goes off right, the
Maid stepping aside for him and holding the door. The lights dim
as she closes the double doors and as Pendleton and King turn
toward each other with grave but othewise impassive expressions.
They do not raise their glasses a second time]
Scene 3
Same setting as previous scene, toward dusk of the same day. Angelica's party is breaking up, and one hears from offstage voices of guests
taking their leave. After the voices subside, Hamilton and Angelica
enter from right.
Hamilton. [turning back in the doorway at right as Angelica continues into the room] Mrs. Baines, we shall want lights in a halfhour. [turns back to Angelica and takes both her hands in his] Well,
my Lady, Angelica, was your party a success?
Angelica. Papa, you should have seen my aunt pretend she was
you.
Hamilton. Which of your aunts?
Angelica. Aunt Angelica Church. She made herself swell up
like a bantam rooster and said she were you.
Hamilton. [laughs] I hope then she did justice to my fine comb
[tosses his head] and my brave voice o' the morning. Did she
sing?
Angelica. No, Papa.
Hamilton. Your Aunt can sing with the best of this country.
You should make her sing for you some day.
SUMMER 1985
�Angelica. Will you ask her for me?
Hamilton. [dropping his daughter's hands, searches in his pocket]
Certainly.
.
Angelica. Will you come earlier to my next party?
Hamilton. Yes, Angelica, I most certainly shall be more prompt.
{takes from an inside pocket a ring] I hope you will think of your
father when you wear this dinner ring. [slips the ring an Angelica's finger]
Angelica. {looks briefly at the ring but makes no acknowledgement
of the gift] I do not much admire Charles Lansing.
Hamilton. [abstractedly] He is rather a tepid young man is he
not. {kisses Angelica]
Angelica. He betrayed Philip.
Hamilton. [for an instant Hamilton appears perplexed and pained
by the sudden reference] No, dear. Charles Lansing is several
years younger than your brother. They scarcely knew each
other.
Angelica. [incongruously casual] In any event, you must not fail
me another time. Gentlemen must observe punctuality.
Hamilton. {laughs and takes her hand again] Punctual I shall be.
[Elizabeth enters from right dabbing at her forehead with a handkerchief. After she shuts the double doors behind her she leans her back
against them with a broad gesture indicating both fatigue and relief.
Hamilton and Angelica have turned to face Elizabeth as they continue to hold hands.]
Elizabeth. So here you two have hidden yourselves. I wish I
could have said, ''Stand not upon the order of your going,
but go at once." New York is nothing if it is not verbose.
Hamilton. Poor Eliza. You've been on your feet all day. [indicating the sofa] Light and rest.
Eliznbeth. {taking the place Hamilton has indicated] I'lllight but
it's doubtful I'll rest. I'll hear those two dozen silly girls babbling all night. I shan't sleep. Dearest Angelica, would you
hand me that pillow? {as Angelica brings a throw pillow from
the stuffed armchair] Thanks, child. [settling the pillow behind her
head Elizabeth stretches out full length] Did you enjoy your fete,
Angelica?
Angelica. From David Livingston I received a pack of cards.
Eliznbeth. {to Hamilton] A strange gift. Butthen the Livingston's
enjoy nothing so much as inflicting their eccentricities. May
I see them, Angelica?
Angelica. {dutifully handing over a small packet] I should like to
be allowed to keep Mr. Livingston's gift.
Eliznbeth. [glances casually at the pack of cards, then gives them back
to Angelica] Surely you may, dearest. I would wager that your
brother john will play a hand with you if you ask him kindly.
I left him just now in the front parlor.
Angelica. Papa has promised to come from the beginning of
my next party.
Eliznbeth. {simply] Then you may count upon it. For your father
keeps his promises. [as Angelica continues to stand before her]
Your brother john is in the parlor. [kindly] Angelica, will you
go to the front parlor and play at cards with your brother?
Angelica. {making herself, as she thinks, severe] And your promise,
sir, shall I depend upon it?
Hamilton. [seeing her to the door and kissing her] Aye, my dearest,
you may be sure of me. [as Angelica goes off right, a brief silence falls as Hamilton crosses to the small table and takes up the
glass decanter. Hamilton turns to the low table and pours into one
of the wine glasses] Would you take some sherry, Eliza?
Elizabeth. Thank you, no. Please do take some yourself. [as
Hamilton raises his glass to her in a quiet salute] You may have
a little alarmed your son.
Hamilton. Oh? How should I have done so?
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Eliznbeth. I was speaking with john Church just a while ago.
He was sitting by himself as he does whenever there's a party.
He told me that as he read he sensed someone standing in
the doorway. He said you asked him at last if he wanted to
sleep in your room tonight.
Hamilton. [directly and without particular emphasis] Yes, I should
like him to be with me. I've not had much leisure to visit with
the children lately.
Elizabeth. [holds this reply briefly, then, affectionately} Then we
must have our chat here before bed. Now I think of it, a glass
of wine would suit me. Could you?
Hamilton. [as he crosses back to the low table and fills another glass]
A most excellent and collegial motion. [as Hamilton presents
the glass to his wife she looks past him to the hat on the desk and
while taking the glass with one hand, gestures toward the desk with
the other.]
Elizabeth. {lightly] Do you plan another expedition?
Hamilton. {blank but apprehensive] What?
Elizabeth. [points again to the hat] "Hector's helm," as I recall
you once named it.
Hamilton. {turns to follow her pointing finger] Ah ... I had intended to show it to John Church tonight.
Elizabeth. You will not surprise him with that hat. Oh, he
sniffed it out last fall. He's ridden his pony over half of Harlem
Heights waving that feather. In fact, he gave it such hard use
I will not undertake it on my oath that the plume you see is
the one you had.
Hamilton. {laughs] I had not noticed.
Elizabeth. Yes. It may be that the brave flourish which now surmounts the crown came by way of Louisa Charles, who claims
to have had it from Sanbourne's Haberdashery which, in turn,
may have had it from the cast off finery of some unrecorded
lady given to walking Broadway o' nights.
Hamilton. [coughs urbanely] Under whatever banner, I shall
prevail.
Elizabeth. [after another brief interval] You were closeted so long
with Pendleton and King that guests were asking after you.
Hamilton. I'm sorry. The sad fortunes of the party were our
theme.
Elizabeth. I thought the Federalist Party had been pronounced
dead.
Hamilton. Very nearly so I'm afraid. Yet there is still perhaps
some question concerning the manner in which it will choose
to expire.
Elizabeth. How would you have it die?
Hamilton. I'd have it die in such a way that it might affirm the
first principle of its being: the preservation of the Constitution. If we cannot depend upon appeal to men of property
to maintain our existence against the party of the mob, let us
leave behind a legacy for whomever may choose to oppose
Jefferson and his lovers of democracy. Let them unite behind
the Constitution.
Elizabeth. I can think of more inspiring causes. You must forgive me dear, but if one talks of principle I must confess I
see very little of principle in your Constitution. You might
win my heart with the Declaration-even if Jefferson did draft
it. The Declaration at least says what a human being may
choose to live for and die for. But that ConstitutionHamilton. It too says what a man may live forElizabeth. I don't see it. So many rules for who must do whatbut how people are to live does not seem to be its concern.
You lawyers love procedures.
Hamilton. [rises and walks past Elizabeth to the window1We love
procedures because we know that without them men pretty
21
�much follow the direct way of beasts. The Declaration expresses the conviction that by taking thought together men
may secure justice. The Constitution lays down arrangements
that insure we can come at laws in no other~ than by taking
thought together. [turning back to Elizabeth]at is something
to live for.
-Elizabeth. [unbegrudgingly assenting] It is.
Hamilton. Yet it is hardly a war cry I suppose.
Elizabeth. No.
Hamilton. jefferson will lay it all flat.
Elizabeth. Don't let him.
Hamilton. I wish I knew how to prevent him. He has seized
upon the popular element and run away with it. Every move
is calculated to endear him with the populace. And the popular tide carries away everything. So I said it would be if we
did not provide against itf and so it has happened.
Elizabeth. Some would say there's an iron law that the rich seek
more and the poor seek to plunder their wealthy neighborsf
and that government always legalizes the greed of the one
or the other.
Hamilton. Thae s true enough when a nation does not provide
against its own worst passions. We tried to provide against
our worst instincts. We limited the scope of the wealthy and
we tried to make the kind of Presidency that could maintain
its independence of the many poor. But there's nothing to
prevent aristocratic crowd-pleasers like Jefferson who are willing to sacrifice stability and property for popularity. The question is whether the envy of the poor was only kept in bounds
by Washington and the Federalists. What will be our fate
when theref s only the party of Jefferson, or when every party
seeks only to win the favor of the poor and the middling?
Elizabeth. [gets up and walks over to the desk, looking down at the
military hat] In any event, your countrymen could have had
a man who would not demean the Presidency. After Washington, or at least after Adams. But not even the party you led
would put you forward.
Hamilton. As Washington's Treasurer I gained the policies
necessary to put this nation on honorable footing with the
great powers of the world. But my person for the highest office
was considered too . . . risky.
Elizabeth. Your party, for all its bluster, lacks nerve.
Hamilton. I don't know. Under the circumstances I was a risk.
I was caught between one compromising entanglement and
... [embarrassed] another.
Elizabeth. [also embarrassed by the clumsy euphemism, looks away]
Of course.
Hamilton. You lcuow Eliza, I should be glad to live my life again
with all its half-successes, humiliations, disappointments, and
with all my own stupidities-I would live through it all again,
if only I could take back the harm I did you in those three
months at Philadelphia.
Elizabeth. [bitterly] I've asked you never to speak of it again.
Why do you now?
Hamilton. {with great effort] Adultery is a crime. In my case a
still greater wrong of ingratitude. I ... acknowledge. But I
have prayed often for forgiveness. I hope that I have been
forgiven by God and I would ask you again my dear, that
you ... forgive me.
Elizabeth. [turns her back to Hamilton] This is most painful.
Hamilton. Not more so for you than for me.
Elizabeth. [gathering herself and confronting her husband] Perhaps
I am as vain as you, my dear Alexander. Perhaps I am too
stiff. But one quality I esteem even more than loving compliance is honesty. I cannot say with honesty that I've forgiven
22
you. Because the truth is, as I have told you before, not that
I bear an animus against you, but that forgiveness is beside
the point.
Hamilton. Can you be less yielding than the Lord?
Elizabeth. [touches Hamilton's cheek affectionately] The Deity can
afford bounty in his forgiveness since he cannot be deceived
in our disloyalties.
Hamilton. [bitterly] You said forgiveness is beside the point.
What then is now the point of our marriage?
Elizabeth. You are in some ways still a child, my dear husband.
There are many sufficient reasons for our continuance in marriage. But perhaps the best is that I have more regard for you
than for any man.
Hamilton. How can you say that and not forgive?
Elizabeth. Your infidelity transformed me into a more judicious
admirer. It's because you expect more of yourself-a:nd of
others-than other men do, for that I hold you dearer than
any man, except your son.
Hamilton. Except Philip.
Elizabeth. Except Philip. Who expected as much of himself and
did never fail himself.
Hamilton. Then you do not blame me for Philip's death?
Elizabeth. I cannot say I do not. You made him feel you expected so much of him that he felt obliged to court his death.
But then you also succeeded in teaching him that there are
worse ills than death and a finer thing than life.
[a small rapping at the double doors, then the Housekeeper slicks
her head in]
Housekeeper. Ma'am.
Elizabeth. Yes, Mrs. Baines?
Housekeeper. John Church wants to ask something of you before going to bed.
Elizabeth. Tell John Church he has my permission to spend the
night with his father. Is that not what he wants to ask?
Housekeeper. [has edged into the room] I think so, Ma'am.
Elizabeth. If he should need anything further, tell him I shall
look in on him directly. He should wait in his father's room.
Housekeeper. [going out] Yes'm.
{After the door closes H~illilton crosses to the large window and looks
out for a moment]
Hamilton. [without turning] How have you progressed with the
accounts?
Elizabeth. I was just on the point of finishing when Angelica's
party took me away.
Hamilton. Are we yet solvent?
Elizabeth. For the short run we spend no more than you earn.
But the debts are large. We shall be tolerably easy under them
in about twenty years.
Hamilton. [sarcastically] We are not so well off by far as Jefferson's pamphlet writers profess to think us.
Elizabeth. If you had taken a tenth of what they laid to your
charge you might retire from the bar. I doubt any man has
come away poorer from government service.
Hamilton. When Talleyrand was visiting he re_fused to believe
that a man could retire from office poorer than when he went
in.
Elizabeth. Yes I recall.
Hamilton. [angered] And yet Jefferson can believe the French
will succeed in governing themselves. Talleyrand can be venal
and think himself merely civilized. His countrymen confuse
liberty with doing whatever they like.
Elizabeth. [puzzled by his vehemence] Why do you permit yourself anger over affairs across the sea?
Hamilton. Jefferson dotes on France as he does on any scheme
SUMMER 1985
�that cries out for equality. If he can, he will ally us with France
against England. That would split this nation in two.
Elizabeth. There's talk of splitting off New York and the New
England states from the Virginians. Would it not be possible
for the northern states to ally with England?
Hamilton. I would do anything to prevent that.
Elizabeth. I think I have heard that the powerful men who've
conceived the plan would have for their leader Aaron Burr.
Is it for that reason that you oppose secession?
Hamilton. I would oppose the scheme even if a decent man
had been sought out to lead. If the Archangel Michael undertook to lead, still I should oppose it with my blood.
Elizabeth. Why?
Hamilton. The union of these states under the Constitution
honors human nature. Dissolving that union would show the
world almost a second fall of man.
Elizabeth. You feel morally bound to share a common law with
slaveholders?
Hamilton. [fervent] Yes. Or else there is no hope of ever ending slavery. No, nor any hope for proving that men can rise
above their inclinations so as to govern themselves. If we cannot live with this Constitution we shall declare to our children's children that citizens cannot trust the laws to their own
making because they cannot trust themselves to seek justice
when they have opportunity to satisfy passions. They will
prefer to submit themselves to strong men rather than to trust
one another.
Elizabeth. I see.
Hamilton. [dropping every reserve} Do you see that decent men
should go any length to prevent such a shame upon us?
Elizabeth. [carefully} What do you intend?
Hamilton. Some way must be found to stop Burr.
Elizabeth. [apprehensive] How do you mean, "stop him"?
Hamilton. [becomes aware of Elizabeth's tenseness] What?
Elizabeth. How do you mean to "stop" Aaron Burr?
Hamilton. {evasively as he pretends casually to look over the miniature portraits] Oh, you know, there shall have to be combinations.
Elizabeth. [dubiously} "Combinations"?
Hamilton. Yes, as when we prevented his getting Federalist
votes for the presidency in the last election. Letters will have
to be written. Pressure of one sort or another must be brought
to bear on men who contemplate backing his venture.
Elizabeth. Burr's recent defeats must make him a desperate
man.
Hamilton. Presumably.
Elizabeth. I think most certainly. I would not have you oppose
him personally and openly. Desperate men have to be feared.
He is lethal.
Hamilton. I shall take care how I oppose him.
Elizabeth. [very rapidly} Have you? Why did that man of Burr's
come to the house sullen as thunder? I know Van Ness is a
Tammany hack. Did he bear a threat from the man he serves?
{as Hamilton hesitates} Did he convey a threat from Burr?
Hamilton. Of course not.
Elizabeth. [taking his ann} But he did.
Hamilton. No! [after a hesitation} He attempted to secure my
help. For Burr. He ... thought he could persuade me to support the plan of a New England secession.
Elizabeth. Do not attempt to deceive me! Burr would rather fail
in any project than ask your support. Rather than share glory
with you he would much prefer to fail.
Hamilton. !faltering} No.
Elizabeth. Yes! You are lying. There;,; to be a duel. You think
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
yourself bound in honor to keep it from me. But I read it in
your eyes. I could see it in the faces of your friends and in
that slinking Van Ness. [measured and cold} Do you still deny it?
Hamilton. You are as dear to me as life itself.
Elizabeth. [quite still} Aye. But life to you is not dear. All that
is dear to you is your fame.
-Hamilton. My love.
Elizabeth. [stepping back and away from Hamilton's grasp} No!
More than the religion you claim to have found you love your
fame. More than the law you're sworn to uphold. More than
me you claim to revere. More than this family. More than the
son you have seen slain and a daughter lost. You love your
fame more than all. [Hamilton makes a movement toward Elizabeth who again steps back raising an open hand as if to ward of!J
I don't want you to touch me! [Hamilton drops his hand;; to
his sides] See yourself Alexander. See youself, and do not lie.
[after a moment] Mter all is said, a man does not change. When
first I met you, I thought your eyes looked past me to something just on the edge of sight. You were trying to see your
fame. You still have fame only in your sight. You look past
me. Far past me.
Hamilton. Not just my fame. My country. My honor and the
good of my countrymen are joined.
Elizabeth. Are they?
Hamilton. [simply} Aye.
Elizabeth. Be sure they are one. Once before, you have guarded
your fame without helping your country that I could see.
Though you sacrificed your family.
Hamilton. [altogether shaken} For the humiliation I caused
you ...
Elizabeth. [coldly severe} No! Don't think. I'm not referring to
!!!Y shame. That is nothing. It is now nothing to me at all.
Don't you see I can't be wounded there because there's nothing left to wound? I've come to expect much less from you,
and much more. I don't need your affection, Alexander. I've
come to regard you as I suppose you've always intended to
be regarded-as a man whose life belongs to the wide world,
not to me. I'm used to it now. I" too respect the name you
have sustained. It's all I have.
Hamilton. Is that all you have of me?
Elizabeth. In a narrow world it suffices. It will have to. But when
I said you have sacrificed your family without helping your
country I meant Philip.
Hamilton. [wooden] And so I did. [turns and walks to window]
Elizabeth. You have attempted to conceal your trouble from me
because you thought I would shame you by begging or by
exposing your plans. I shall do neither. [at this Hamilton turns
back to face Elizabeth] But I shall put a demand upon you.
Hamilton. [tenderly} What demand?
Elizabeth. In many ways you have raised my expectations of
human beings. You must now meet these expectations.
Hamilton. How do you mean?
Elizabeth. [abruptly takes up the medallion portrait of Philip and hold;;
it before Hamilton's eyes] You must be worthy of your son. You
must be worthy of Philip. Can you risk your life now having
taken away your first-born and the hope of this house? Your
son sacrificed for your honor no less than everything. I charge
you my husband! I charge you by the blood shed by your son
to be worthy of his sacrifice!
Hamilton. {regarding the portrait with pain, but without turning
away. After a moment his expression of anguish gives way to a slowly
grawing triumph. He lifts his hand to the still upraised hand of
Elizabeth that holds the portrait, and clasping hers gently brings
the medallion clasped between them down to his chest] You may
23
�be sure of me. [Steps to the desk at right and taking up the cockade he looks down at the hat while speaking] I shall take no action
that is not worthy of Philip. [turning full face to Elizabeth and
still holding the hat with a manner sad yet triumphant] I shall act
in a manner worthy of our son. [after a moment in which husband and wife wordlessly confront one another] The letters I mentioned to youElizabeth. [breaking in and brushing the matter aside] I'm mindful
of the letters-Pendleton and King. Is your heart quiet now?
Hamilton. It is quietfor the first time in forty years. Yet it might
rest quieter still if we might say we were as we were before.
[he takes her hand]
Elizabeth. [not unkindly but decisively] That may not be. [slowly
withdrawing her hand] My respect you haveHamilton. Your forgivenessElizabeth. [gravely but not harshly] is irrelevant. May God take
you as I take you. [steps to the door, opens it, and with her hand
on the latch half turns] And may God forgive your inscrutable
soul. [goes off neither in a rush nor slow closing the door quietly
behind.]
[Hamilton stands for a moment facing the closed door. He then looks
down at the hat in his hand, walks to the mirror and pauses as though
he has thought to put on the hat before the glass but has changed his
mind. Instead, he walks to the window, places the hat upon the wide
sill, looks out in the distance for an instant, then sits at the table near
the window and taking up a small extinguisher puts out slowly each
of the three lighted candles. For a brief time the fading twilight from
the window faintly illuminates Hamilton's face as he continues to
gaze into the gathering night. Then the outside light fades completely
and the stage goes dark.]
Epilogue
[As the lights dim upon the seated Hamilton they come up upon Van
Ness standing at far left. He is dressed as he has been throughout
the play except that he now holds a folded umbrella in his left hand.]
Van Ness. [facing the audience but speaking as though he were
delivering a deposition at an inquest] I can only repeat to the jurymen what I have earlier attested. They should discern the ob-
vious intent of Mr. Pendleton [glances toward stage right] to
exonerate his patron at the same time he defames my friend
the Vice-President. As I have testified before, the two principals met at Weehawken, New jersey on the bank of the Hudson River at seven in the morning of July 11, 1804. Nathaniel
Pendleton served as second to Colonel Hamilton, I attended
the Vice-President. Colonel Hamilton prescribed a distance
of ten paces. Having taken their positions the two gentlemen
at the command took aim, and Colonel Hamilton fired first.
His shot missing Mr. Burr, the latter fired and Colonel Hamilton fell. The Vice-President threw down his weapon and attempted to approach the fallen man. But I drew him aside
and opening an umbrella before his face led him away.
I have nothing more to add except to emphasize: the fir&t shot
was fired by Colonel Hamilton.
[As he concludes Van Ness takes one step backwards. The lights go
down on Van Ness and come up on Pendleton standing at far right.
Pendleton is dressed as he had been in Act Two, Scene· Three.]
Pendleton. I also have nothing to add to my earlier testimony.
The gentlemen of the jury have inspected the letter of General
Hamilton's detailing his intentions in respect of Mr. Burr. On
all sides the document is admitted to be genuine. For those
of you who are acquainted with the character of the slain
man-and who is not?-the fact that he so cle~rly stated his
intent suffices to refute any testimony that stipulates a contrary action. Nevertheless, I shall again attest it under oath
that in all the other particulars he recites Mr. William P. Van
Ness recounts accurately the events of the morning of June
11, 1804. Yet in this one capital detail his testimony ought not
be accepted: Mr. Burr fired first and fatally wounded General Hamilton. General Hamilton's pistol discharged as he was
struck, the result of a spasm totally involuntary.
As he lay in the boat bearing him back to the city he warned
me to beware the pistol as it was still cocked. He did not know
it had discharged.
Pendleton takes one step ~qd(ahd the lights dim, then leaves a stage
totally dark.
John Alvis teaches English at the University of Dallas.
24
SUMMER 1985
�Abraham Lincoln's Biblical Liberalism
Larry Arnhart
Two Quakeresses in a railway coach were overhead in a conversation: "I think Jefferson will succeed." "Why does thee think so?"
"Because Jefferson is a praying man." "And so is Abraham a praying man." "Yes, but the Lord will think Abraham is joking."
This in newspapers added the information that Lincoln said it was
the best story about himself he had "ever read in the papers."
--Carl Sandburg, "Lincoln's Laughter--and His Religion" 1
Abraham Lincoln manifests more clearly than any other
American the union of wise statesmanship and Biblical
religion. At the deepest level of American history-and
of the entire history of the modern Western world-there
is a tension between two traditions: Hellenism and Hebraism, Athens and Jerusalem. In early American history,
this tension comes into view in the contrast between the
Biblical piety of the New England Puritans and the classical rationalism of the Revolutionary Founders. In critical respects, John Winthrop and Jonathan Edwards lived
in a world unlike that of Thomas Jefferson and Alexander
Hamilton. But Lincoln lived in both worlds, and thus he
became the fullest expression of the American mind. 2
We must reflect, however, on the difficulties that Biblical religion creates for statesmanship. Two of the most
obvious difficulties are political indifference and political fanaticism. A statesman must fully dedicate himself
to his political community as securing the conditions for
a good human life, and he must inspire a similar dedication among his fellow-citizens. But he must also recognize the sometimes tragic limits up'on what can be
achieved through political action. If he is prudent in his
political judgments, he is guided by some conception of
the highest ends of human action; but he also knows that
when the simply best is unattainable-as it usually isthen he must settle for something less than the best. But
Christianity interferes with this kind of statesmanshipeither by making Christians indifferent to political life or
by malcing them fanatical in their apocalyptic expectations
of politics. 3
Consider the controversy among the early Christians
about the interpretation of the Book of Revelations, particularly chapters 20-21. It is written that Christians will
rule with Christ for a thousand years. Afterwards there
shall be "a new heaven and a new earth"; the "holy city,
new Jerusalem" shall descend from heaven. "And God
shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall
be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither
shall there be any more pain: for the former things are
passed away" (21:4). Many Christians interpreted this as
a prophecy of the founding of the City of God on earth,
and they therefore set out to fulfill this prophecy by establishing a Christian political order that would save
mankind from sin and suffering. But Saint Augustine rejected this as ridiculous. He interpreted the Biblical
prophecy as applying only to the ultimate salvation of
Christians in heaven (City of God 20.7-9). He argued that
throughout the bodily existence of Christians on earth,
they must live under the secular authority of the City of
Man while submitting their souls to the spiritual authority
of the City of God that awaits them after death.
The political history of Christianity has been a continual
battle between these two points of view-the millenarian idealists versus the Augustinian realists.• The established Church in the Middle Ages endorsed the
Augustinian view. But the millenarians were never com-
Prepared for presentation at the 1985 Annual Meetings of the American Political Science Association, New Orleans, Louisiana,
August 29 - September 1.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
25
�pletely defeated. Neither side in this controversy,
however, seemed to promote prudent statesmanship.
The official Church seemed to merely sanctify existing institutions no matter how unjust, while the millenarian
revolutionaries led mass movements that threatened to
destroy all institutions.
This conflict between Biblical realism and Biblical idealism has continued-although often through secular perversions of Biblical religion-in both the theory and
practice of modern politics. We have been torn between
Hobbesian realism and Kantian idealism. We depreciate
politics by claiming that it has no claims on the soul and
that the only purpose for politics is bodily security and
cornlort. Or we transform politics into a salvational activity aimed at abolishing politics itself by abolishing the
human conflicts that have made politics necessary. Thus,
we either drain politics of any moral aspirations, or we
inluse politics with a zealous striving for moral perfection. In neither case do we secure wise statesmanship.
But Lincoln's Biblical statesmanship, I shall argue in this
essay, escapes these difficulties. He imbues American politics with a Biblical moral fervor. Yet he accepts the natural limits of political judgment and political action.
Although he appeals to transcendent standards of moral
excellence, he never expects the earthly politics of human
beings to conform fully to those standards.
Lincoln also shows us that heroic statesmanship can
be combined with religious humility. He is surely an ambitious man, a lover of glory. But he sees that political
glory is transitory. It is not the highest human good in
itself. Although he desires glory, Lincoln is humble insofar as he acts in the service of Divine Providence. Lincoln is not, therefore, a philosophic ruler as described by
Plato or a magnanimous, "great-souled" man as
described by Aristotle and Cicero. For Lincoln the activity of the statesman is good not because it serves the life
of the philosopher and not simply because of the glory
won by the statesman himself. Statesmanship is good because it contributes to the moral improvement of human
beings as dictated by the Creator.
Some recent commentators have interpreted this concern for moral elevation as evidence that Lincoln was a
representative of Calvinist communitarianism in opposition to Lockean individualism. But in fact Lincoln saw
the Lockean tradition of natural rights as fostering the
moral emancipation of human beings in accordance with
Biblical teachings. For this reason Lincoln's political
thought should be identified as Biblical liberalism.
We must not ignore, therefore, the importance of Biblical religion in shaping Lincoln's ultimate motives for political action. But neither must we ignore the obvious fact
that Lincoln's religion was not that of an orthodox
Christian.
1. Biblical deism
Some of those who knew Lincoln insisted that he was
a devout Christian who through prayer and Bible-reading
sought God's personal intervention in his life. But others
26
claimed that he had adopted the deism of Thomas Prune,
and therefore his only religion was the rationalistic, natural religion of the Enlightenment. As is usually the case
in judging a man as complex as Lincoln, there is evidence
for both points of view. If we rely on Lincoln's own
speeches and writings, we see little that could be interpreted as orthodox Christian piety. But we do see invo-,
cations of the Almighty Will that stands behind the laws
of nature. This is the rational Creator as described in Tom
Prune's Age of Reason, which Lincoln read as a young man.
Like Paine, Lincoln saw the laws of God revealed in the
laws of the universe He had created. But unlike Paine,
Lincoln relied on the Bible as the best guide to God. And
it is his reverence for the Bible that has convinced many
people of his deep Christian beliefs. I think it is best therefore to speak of Lincoln as a "Biblical deist." From this
perspective, Lincoln's religion expresses fully the American religious tradition, because it combines the Biblical
piety of the New England Puritans with the natural
religion of the Revolutionary Founders.'
In 1846 it was easy for Lincoln to refute the charge made
by his political opponents that he was "an open scoffer
at Christianity." But he chose his words carefully so that
he could deny being "an open enemy" of Christianity
without affirming that he was an orthodox believer. One
statement, however, is revealing: "That I am not a member of a Christian Church is true; but I have never denied the truth of the Scriptures" (CW 1:382). 6 Of course
to refrain from denying the truth of the Scriptures may
fall short of positively affirming their truth. But considering the evidence of Lincoln's careful reading of the Bible, it is clear that he founded his religion on his own
study of the Bible rather than on any institutional statements of dogma.
According to his wife, "Mr. Lincoln had no faith and
no hope in the usual acst'ptation of those words. He never
joined a Church; but still, as I believe, he was a religious
man by nature .... it was a kind of poetry in his nature,
and he was never a technical Christian.' ' 7 William Herndon used this and other testimony to support his claim
that Lincoln believed in the natural religion of the deistic
tradition. And surely Lincoln would have accepted
Prune's simple creed:
I believe in one God, and no more; and I hope for happiness beyond this life.
I believe in the equality of man; and I believe that religious duties
consist in doing justice, loving mercy, and endeavoring to make our
fellow-creatures happy.
I do not believe in the creed professed ... by any church that I
know of. My own mind is my own church. 8
The human mind is the only true church, Paine insisted,
because it is the immortal part of man through which he
participates in the divine order by studying the rational
laws of nature.' Pagan philosophers might have recognized this as the only proper religion for statesmen. In
Cicero's Republic, Scipio Aemilianus says that the best
SUMMER 1985
�teachers of statesmen are "those who by the investigation of all the things of nature have realized that this
world is ruled by mind. " 10
But the cool rationalism of this natural religion is joined
in Lincoln's thought to a Biblical spirituality. One example of this is in how Lincoln speaks about the religious
foundation of human nature. In his speech to the Temperance Society, Lincoln criticizes the temperance
preachers: they do not understand that to expect to persuade drunkards by deno1,1ncing them is "to expect a
reversal of human nature, which is God's decree, and
never can be reversed" (CW 1:273). That God's moral
laws are manifested in the laws of human nature is part
of Paine's deistic creed. 11 But compare Lincoln's expression of this idea in his speech against the KansasNebraska Act of 1854:
Slavery is founded in the selfishness of man's nature-opposition
to it, in his love of justice . ... Repeal the Missouri Compromiserepeal all compromises-repeal the Declaration of Independencerepeal all past history, you still cannot repeal human nature. It still
will be the abundance of man's heart, that slavery extension is wrong;
and out of the abundance of his heart, his mouth will continue to
speak (CW 2:271).
This kind of Biblical imagery, which permeates Lincoln's
rhetoric, conveys a spiritual fervor in the devotion to
righteousness that transcends Paine's rationalism.
Despite his doubts about many points of Biblical theology, Lincoln did not worship the God of the philosophers
but the God of Abraham and Isaac, a loving God who
offers redemption to all men everywhere.
This God of absolute righteousness and wisdom cannot be confined by human laws. His rule transcends the
rule of any political authority. But for this reason, the worship of this God seems to challenge the moral claims of
every political community.
2. Biblical patriotism
When Jesus separated religion and politics as two
realms, Rousseau complained, he "brought about the end
of the unity of the State, and caused the internal divisions that have never ceased to stir up Christian peoples"
(Social Contract book 4, chapter 8) .12 Rousseau agreed with
Hobbes, therefore, that Christianity subverted politics
when it gave the clergy the power to appeal to standards
beyond the laws of the state. Men can be neither good
human beings nor good citizens when they are torn between their religious duties and their political duties.
"Everything that destroys social unity is worthless. All
institutions that put man in contradiction with himself
are worthless.'' Rousseau's response to this danger is to
have the sovereign establish a ''civil religion'' consisting
of those dogmas essential to social duties.
Ever since the publication in 1967 of Robert Bellah's influential essay on "Civil Religion in America, " 13 many
scholars have regarded Lincoln as one of the principal
contributors to an American civil religion that conforms
to Rousseau's designs. But while the idea of a civil
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
religion is a pagan conception, Lincoln's "political
religion," as he called it in his Young Men's Lyceum
Speech, is grounded in Biblical religion; and therefore
Lincoln and Rousseau are not really talking about the
same thing.
The public dogmas of Rousseau's civil religion ate so
minimal that most people would have no trouble accepting them.
The existence of a powerful, intelligent, beneficent, foresighted, and
providential divinity; the afterlife; the happiness of the just; the
punishment of the wicked; the sanctity of the social contract and the
laws. These are the positive dogmas. As for the negative ones, I limit
them to a single one: intolerance. It belongs to the cults we have excluded.
Rousseau's civil religion would tolerate any religion that
tolerates other religions so long as it does not contradict
the dogmas of the civil religion itself.
The Declaration of Independence seems to assume the
same religious dogmas that RQusseau prescribes. There
are four references to God in that document, two at the
beginning and two at the end. First, there is the appeal
to "the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God," then it
is said that God created men equal and endowed them
with rights. The Declaration concludes by "appealing to
the Supreme Judge of the world fQr the rectitude of our
intentions,'' and ''with a firm reliance on the protection
of Divine Providence." This looks like Rousseau's God" a powerful, intelligent, beneficent, foresighted, and
providential divinity" who judges human conduct and
sanctions the principles of the American regime.
Moreover, it was common for the American Founders
to speak of the need for a civil religion. George Washington, in his Farewell Address, warned:
let us with caution indulge the supposition that morality, can be maintained without religion. Whatever may be conceded to the influence
of refined education on minds of peculiar structure, reason and experience both forbid us to expect that national morality can prevail
in exclusion of religious principle. a
Mason Weems's popular biography used the life of
Washington himself to inculcate the union of religion and
morality that Washington advocated.
Lincoln was deeply influenced by Weems's book. And
in his Lyceum Speech, he promoted "reverence for the
laws" in language that echoed Weems's biography." But
Lincoln's "political religion" differs from the civil religion
of Washington and Weems. 16 While a civil religion makes
religion merely an instrument for the support of a political order, Lincoln's Biblical religion presents the political order as ultimately subordinate to God's order.
Lincoln's Biblical imagery of political rebirth-" a new
birth of freedom" -suggests that political life must be
reformed if it is to even approximate God's standards.
If one compares the Declaration of Independence and the
Gettysburg Address, one sees that Lincoln treats the
sacred principle of human equality not as the secure foun-
27
�dation of the nation but as the high goal towards which
the nation must strive .17 While Uncoln' s political religion
promotes the patriotic loyalty of citizens to a regime dedicated to eternal principles of justice, it does not merely
sanctify existing political institutions. Rather, it demands
that citizens acknowledge and then rectify as best they
can the moral imperfections in their regime.
The differences between civil religion and Biblical
religion can be illustrated by comparing the political
religion of Shakespeare's Henry V and that of Lincoln.
Henry leads his soldiers into what is probably an unjust
war of aggression against France. To justify the unquestioning obedience of his soldiers, Henry declares, "Every subject's duty is the king' s; but every subject's soul
is his own" (Henry V, Arden edition, 4.1.182-184). Henry argues that although men do have souls destined for
an afterlife in which they will be judged by God, the
needs of the soul never dictate any challenge to the
authority of a sovereign ruler. God commands obedience
to rulers, but he does not provide subjects any divine or
natural law for judging their rulers' commands as just
or unjust. Thus, Henry's civil religion puts no limits on
the power of a Machiavellian prince. 18 But Uncoln's political religion appeals to "the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God" as providing standards for judging the
actions of both rulers and ruled. When Lincoln speaks
of Americans as God's ''almost chosen people,'' he warns
them that this carries with it an almost unbearable responsibility to fulfill God's law for mankind (CW 4 :236). "We
are no tyrant," Henry says of himself, "but a Christian
king" (1.2.241). Yet does not Lincoln conform more closely to what we should expect of a Christian statesman?19
Lincoln's political religion eliminates any inclination to
political indifference or complacency. Patriotism becomes
a religious attachment to the laws. But citizens are not
permitted to rest on the assumption that the laws are always just. Rather they must continually strive to bring
the laws into harmony with God's justice. The political
life of the Christian citizen is therefore one of restless activity. Thus, Lincoln channels into politics some of boundless moral energy generated by Biblical religion. The
critics of Christianity say that it makes people apathetic
about the things of earthly life. But Uncoln thinks the Biblical vision of life should inspire human beings to transform the world.
3. Biblical activism
In The Age of Reason Paine scorns the Bible as an obstacle to human enlightenment and scientific progress. "We
can know God only through His works." And "the principles of science lead to this knowledge; for the Creator
of man is the Creator of science, and it is through that
medium that man can see God, as it were, face to face."
So instead of studying the Bible, man should study "the
principles of the creation, as everything of agriculture,
of science and of the mechanical arts.'' 20 But Lincoln believes the Bible endorses this pursuit of scientific and technological progress. For he finds in the Bible an affirmation
28
of man's essence as the perfectible being who through
discoveries and inventions becomes the master of nature.
Lincoln's thinking on this point is clearest in his First
Lecture on Discoveries and Inventions, which was delivered on April6, 1858, before the Young Men's Association of Bloomington. 21 One of the many remarkable
features of this lecture is its impressive display of Biblical knowledge: it contains thirty-four separate references
to the Bible. And intertwined with Biblical exegesis is an
almost scholarly survey of the history of technological
progress. (If Uncoln had not had better things to do, he
could have become a fine college professor.) Uncoln
begins:
All creation is a mine, and every man, a miner.
The whole earth, and all within it, upon it, and round about it, including himself, in his physical, moral, and intellectual nature, and
his susceptibilities, are the infinitely various "leads" from which,
man, from the first, was to dig out his destiny.
In the beginning, the mine was unopened, and the miner stood
naked, and knowledgeless, upon it.
Fishes, birds, beasts, and creeping things, are not miners, but feeders
and lodgers, merely . ...
Man is not the only animal who labors; but he is the only one who
improves his workmanship. This improvement, he effects by Discoveries, and Inventions. His first important discovery was the fact that
he was naked; and his first invention was the fig~leaf apron ... (CW
2:437).
He then devotes his entire lecture to a careful account of
how technological advances have contributed to the evolution of civilization. One good example of how he reads
the Bible comes when he comments on the importance
of iron tools: "How could the 'gopher wood' for the Ark,
have been gotten out without an axe? It seems to me an
axe, or a miracle, was indispensable" (CW 2:438). He concludes his lecture with some remarks on steam-power.
The advantageous use of Steaih-power is, unquestionably, a modern
discovery-.
And yet, as much as two thousand years ago the power of steam
was not only observed, but an ingenious toy was actually made and
put in motion by it, at Alexandria in Egypt.
What appears strange is, that neither the inventor of the toy, nor
any one else, for so long afterwards, should perceive that steam would
move useful machinery as well as a toy.
Because of his Biblical understanding of the human
condition-every man a miner-Lincoln finds it strange
that people in the ancient world did not use their practical knowledge of nature's laws to gain power for the performance of useful work. The ancients scorned manual
labor and technology as ignoble, as distractions from the
truly human pursuit of understanding as an end in itself
rather than as a means to some practical end. But
Christians-particularly those in the medieval
monasteries-saw labor and craftsmanship as service to
the Master Craftsman of the cosmos. 22
Here we see another way in which Lincoln's Biblical
statesmanship departs from the ancient conception of
statesmanship. In the ancient world, the political realm
was restricted to those few people who were free from
SUMMER 1985
�the physical necessities of labor. But like John Locke Lincoln believes that since every human being is in his essence a laborer, each person has an equal right-if not
an equal duty-to labor. The ann of government, therefore, is to secure and promote the laboring activity of men
as they work upon the world for improvement in their
conditions. The ancient denigration of labor reflects an
aristocratic way of life. Lincoin' s elevation of labor reflects
his Biblical liberalism.
4. Biblical liberalism
Since the Bible-or at least the New Testament-does
not prescribe a code of laws for secular life, it leaves
citizens and statesmen free to exercise practical judgment
in deciding what should be done in particular cases. But
the Bible does prescribe a broad moral framework within
which political judgment must be exercised. Moreover,
insofar as this Biblical teaching conforms to the dictates
of nature, as suggested by Saint Paul (Romans 1:18-22),
it does not conflict with-indeed it reinforces-man's
natural sense of right and wrong. This leads us to two
questions. What are the general principles of Lincoln's
Biblical statesmanship? And how does he apply these
principles to concrete cases? In this section, we shall consider the first question.
Lincoln's fundamental principles come into view most
clearly in his arguments against slavery. Often his arguments are legal and historical. Thus, he claims that to up·
hold slavery as just contradicts the principles of the
American Founding as expressed in the Declaration of
Independence, in the Constitution, and in other records
of the views of the Founding Fathers. But he also maintains that these legal norms are grounded in standards
of reason and nature. In understanding why slavery is
unjust, we grasp something about the universal grounds
of all morality. "If slavery is not wrong, nothing is
wrong." (CW 7:281)
When Lincoln appeals to universal standards, he employs three kinds of arguments-Euclidean, Biblical, and
intuitionist. That is to say, he tries to show that any moral
defense of slavery either contradicts itself or contradicts
the Bible or contradicts our natural sense of right and
wrong. Lincoln moves easily from one line of reasoning
to another as though they are perfectly compatible. Many
commentators, however, find his mixture of rhetorical appeals incongruous. For example, in the Gettysburg Address, Lincoln's reference to equality as a ''proposition''suggesting the demonstrative rationality of Euclidean
geometry-seems to undercut the passionate tone of the
speech as conveyed in the Biblical imagery of baptism,
sacrificial death, and rebirth to eternal life. But I believe
that a careful examination of Lincoln's reasoning will
show that his three modes of argument are similar in their
fundamental logic.
Lincoln compares the Declaration of Independence to
Euclid's Elements. Just as Euclid begins with definitions
and axioms that are self-evident and then proves his
propositions as logical implications of these starting-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
points, so Jefferson begins with the self-evident truth of
equality of rights and then deduces from these the requirements of just government. "The principles of Jefferson are the definitions and axioms of free society" (CW
3:375). It is essential for Americans to accept these principles because without them political argument is impossible. Political persuasion is like geometry or any other
form of reasoning in that it depends upon agreement on
first principles. If everything is doubted, then nothing can
be proven. If Americans disagree about the fundamental axioms of the Declaration of Independence, then their
disagreements will be settled not by persuasion but by
force.
But how can we respond to those who deny the ·first
principles? In a certain sense, we cannot prove the truth
of first principles because they are themselves the presuppositions of any proof. If we try to prove first principles,
we end up begging the question by implicitly assuming
them in the very process of proving them. This explains
Lincoln's frustration when he accuses Stephen Douglas
of "a bold denial of the history of the country."
To deny these things is to deny our national axioms, or dogmas, at
least; and it puts an end to all argument. If a man will stand up and
assert, and repeat, and re-assert, that two and two do not make four,
I know nothing in the power of argument that can stop him. I think
I can answer the Judge so long as he sticks to the premises; but when
he flies from them, I can not work an argument into the consistency
of a maternal gag, and actually close his mouth with it (CW2:282-83).
The nice play on words at the end of this passage-"!
can not work an argument into the consistency of a maternal gag" -suggests a way out of our impasse. If we can·
not strictly prove the truth of our premises to those who
deny them, we can at least show that those who deny
them contradict themselves. Of course despite the importance of rational consistency, it lacks "the consistency of
a maternal gag" that would enable us to stop the babbling of those who won't listen to reason.
Even if we cannot make a demonstrative argument for
the truth of first principles, we can make a dialectical argument. 23 To do this, our opponent must say something,
he must assert something, and then we must show that
his assertion contradicts his denial of our first principles.
Moreover, our ultimate aim should be to show that no
rational human being can deny our first principles
without contradicting himself. Plato's Socratic dialogues
provide many examples of this kind of argumentation.
Lincoln employs this technique in arguing for the equality of rights as an axiomatic truth. In a note probably written when he was debating Douglas, Lincoln reasons as
follows:
If A. can prove, however conclusively, that he may, of right, enslave B.-why may not B. snatch the same argument, and prove equally, that he may enslave A?You say A. is white, and B. is black. It is color, then; the lighter,
having the right to enslave the darker? Take care. By this rule, you
are to be slave to the first man you meet, with a fairer skin than your
own.
29
�You do not mean color exactly?-You mean the whites are intellectually the superiors of the blacks, and, therefore have the right to
enslave them? Take care again. By this rule, you are to be slave to
the first man you meet, with an intellect superior to your own.
But, say you, it is a question of interest; and, if you can make it
your interest, you have the right to enslave another. Very well. And
if he can make it his interest, he has the right to enslave you (CW
2:222-23}.
No rational man would argue for his own enslavement.
But any man who argues for the enslavement of others
must appeal to some human difference that could be the
basis for his own enslavement. Therefore, no rational man
can endorse slavery without contradicting himself. Human beings differ in an infinite number of ways-color,
intellect, interests, and so on-but each person believes
that he has a right to liberty simply by virtue of his humanity. But if I affirm that I as a human being have a right
to liberty, then to be consistent I must also affirm that
other human beings have a similar right. In Lincoln's
words: "As I would not be a slave, so I would not be a
master. This expresses my idea of democracy" (CW 2:532).
Geometry teaches us the importance of consistency; and
by adhering to an equally rigorous consistency in our
moral reasoning, we can grasp the first principles of
justice.
In the letter in which Lincoln comments on Jefferson's
Euclidean logic, he writes:
This is a world of compensation; and he who would be no slave,
must consent to have no slave. Those who deny freedom to others,
deserve it not for themselves; and, under a just God, can not long
retain it (CW 3:376).
Notice how easily Lincoln moves from the argument of
logical consistency to the invocation of divine justice. This.
"world of compensations" was created by a God who
is free of contradictions and who punishes those whose
souls are torn by contradictions.
Lincoln relies primarily on three passages from the Bible to support his Biblical argument against slavery. From
the opening chapters of Genesis, he cites two verses. The
first is from the account of creation: "God created man
in his own image " (Genesis 1:27). The second is from
God's condemnation of Adam after his disobedience: "In
the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return
unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust
thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return" (Genesis 3:19).
And finally Lincoln quotes the statement of the Golden
Rule in the Sermon on the Mount: ''Therefore all things
whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye
even so to them: for this is the law and the prophets"
(Matthew 7:12).
In his speech at Lewistown, Illinois, in 1858, Lincoln
quotes from the Declaration of Independence and then
explains: "In their enlightened belief, nothing stamped
with the Divine image and likeness was sent into the
world to be trodden on and degraded, and imbruted by
its fellows" (CW 2:546). In 1864 Lincoln wrote the following response to a delegation of Baptists:
30
I can only thank you for ... adding to the effective and almost unanimous support which the Christian communities are so zealously giving to the country, and to liberty. Indeed it is difficult to conceive
how it could be otherwise with any one professing Christianity, or
even having ordinary perceptions of right and wrong. To read in the
Bible, as the word of God himself, that "In the sweat of thy face shalt
thou eat bread,'' and to preach therefrom that, ''In the sweat of other
mans' faces shalt thou eat bread,'' to my mind can scarcely be reconciled with honest sincerity. When brought to my final reckoning, may
I have to answer for robbing no man of his goods; yet more tolerable even this, than for robbing one of himself, and all that was his.
When, a year or two ago, those professedly holy men of the South,
met in the semblance of prayer and devotion, and, in the name of
Him who said ''As ye would all men should do unto you, doye even
so unto them" appealed to the Christian world to aid them in doing
to a whole race of men, as they would have no man do unto themselves, to my thinking, they contemned and insulted God and His
church far more than did Satan when he tempted the Saviour with
the Kingdoms of the earth. The devil's attempt was no more false,
and far less hypocritical. But let me forbear, remembering it is also
written "Judge not, lest ye be judged" (CW 7:368).
The Golden Rule seems to indicate the fundamental
logic implicit in the other Biblical teachings, which is to
be expected considering the emphasis that Jesus puts
upon it-"for this is the law and the prophets." The
Golden Rule affirms the simple fairness of reciprocitytreat others as you would have them treat you. Any
reasonable person "having ordinary perceptions of right
and wrong" would probably accept this rule. In fact, it
may be one of those few moral principles that would be
endorsed in some manner by every religion and moral
code. But the vagueness of the rule invites criticism. For
instance, George Bernard Shaw insisted, "Do not do unto
others as you would that they should do unto you. Their
tastes may not be the same. " 24 But considered in conjunction with the other Biblical teachings cited by Lincoln, the
Golden Rule can be elaborated in such a way that its inherent persuasiveness becomes clear.
Human beings are needy beings. And the satisfaction
of their needs requires toil-no sweat, no bread. Therefore, every human being-or at least every rational
adult-works for the provisions necessary for his life. He
thereby assumes that it is good for him to have the freedom to provide for his needs and that it would be bad
for someone else to deprive him of this freedom. But on
what grounds could he justify this claim to freedom?
What is there about him that would entitle him to such
freedom? He cannot appeal to any of the various characteristics with respect to which human beings differstrength, color, intelligence, and so on-because then he
would have to give up his freedom to those superior to
him in whatever characteristic he has specified. He must
therefore appeal to the special status that he has simply
as a human being. As the one being "created in the image of God," man has been set apart from the rest of creation. He is the only being capable of becoming a rational
moral agent, but he cannot fulfill that capacity unless he
is free. It is reasonable, therefore, for a man to claim that
as a human being he has a right to freedom, but only if
he understands that consistency dictates that he recognize the same right for all other human beings. To avoid
SUMMER 1985
�contradicting himself, every man must respect the mutuality and equality of the Golden Rule. "In giving freedom
to the slave," Lincoln explains, "we assure freedom to the
free" (CW 5:537).
That all men are created equal is "self-evident," therefore, in the sense that all men are equally men. Moreover,
the rights with which they are endowed can be regarded
as the necessary conditions for human action. To deny
human beings their natural rights is to assert that human
beings should be treated as if they were not human,
which is absurd.
Thus, the injustice of slavery is so clear that anyone
with ''ordinary perceptions of right and wrong'' can see
it. This is Lincoln's intuitionist argument, which reinforces the Biblical and Euclidean arguments. He notes that
even in the south slave-traders are despised: it is considered improper for a gentleman to even shake hands with
them (CW 2:264-65). There is a natural sense of justice
that condemns the enslavement of human beings.
But while insisting that opposition to slavery is grounded in man's natural moral sense, Lincoln concedes that
the promotion of slavery is grounded in another powerful element of human nature-self-interest (CW 2:271).
It is in a man's interest to secure his own freedom while
denying freedom to others. But in doing so, he contradicts
himself. And to hide this contradiction from others-and
perhaps even from himself-he pretends that those human beings he enslaves are not truly human. To show
the falsity of this claim, Lincoln must appeal to the facts
of experience-to our recognition that human beings
differ in degree but not in kind and thus that they are
members of the same species25 (CW 2:264-66). Slavery
arises from unjustified human pride-the pride of the
master that he is superior in his human essence to the
slave. Lincoln ridicules the absurdity of such pride.
Speaking of Douglas, Lincoln observes: "I suppose the
institution of slavery really looks small to him. He is so
put up by nature that a lash upon his back would hurt
him, but a lash upon anyone else's back does not hurt
him" (CW 3:410). Yet even as he condemns the pride of
those who defend slavery, Lincoln must avoid the pride
of self-righteous moralism. "Judge not that ye be not
judged."
To see the injustice of slave labor is to see the justice
of free labor. Lincoln's opposition to slavery was part of
his more general aim to support a system of free labor
that permitted the laborer to improve his condition. In
1861 Lincoln described the Civil War as "a People's contest" devoted to preserving popular government "whose
leading object is, to elevate the condition of men-lo lift
artificial weights from all shoulders-to clear the paths
of laudable pursuit for all-to afford all, an unfettered
start, and a fair chance, in the race of life" (CW 4:438).
Thus, Lincoln interprets equality of rights as the equality of opportunity to get ahead in life. If that's what we
mean by justice, then we need not fear any conflict between justice and self-interest, because it's in the interest
of all to have a chance to improve their conditions and
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
to better themselves. By interpreting equality as the opportunity to get ahead, Lincoln turns an abstract principle into a practical goal to which common people will
want to devote themselves. The chance to get ahead in
life-that's what we call the American Dream. We could
say, then, that Lincoln turns the Civil War into a war for
the American Dream. 26
Abolishing slavery is not sufficient, however, to insure
an equal right for all men to improve their conditions.
To fulfill his Biblical vision of all men as laborers, Lincoln insists there must be no distinction between laboring people and educated people. And here again we see
how Lincoln's Biblical liberalism departs from the
aristocratic assumptions of ancient statesmanship and
philosophy. "The old general rule was that educated people did not perform manual labor. They managed to eat
their bread, leaving the toil of producing it to the uneducated." But this is unacceptable.
Free Labor argues that, as the Author of man makes every individual with one head and one pair of hands, it was probably intended
that heads and hands should cooperate as friends; and that that particular head, should direct and control that particular pair of hands.
As each man has one mouth to be fed, and one pair of hands to furnish food, it was probably intended that that particular pair of hands
should feed that particular mouth-that each head is the natural guardian, director, and protector of the hands and mouth inseparably connected to it; and that being so, every head should be cultivated, and
improved, by whatever will add to its capacity for performing its
charge. In one word Free Labor insists on universal education.
Only by providing universal education for laborers can
we create a community that "will be alike independent
of crowned-kings, money-kings, and land-kings" (CW
3:479-81).
It should be clear by now that those recent commentators who regard Lincoln as an opponent of the Lockean
tradition are mistaken. 27 For Lincoln there was no necessary conflict between the Lockean tradition of individual
rights and the Calvinist tradition of communal virtue. His
Biblical liberalism elevated the right of each man to get
ahead in life into an inspired moral goal that could unite
Americans into one community.
Of course the Lockean pursuit of property can become
debasing. In a speech in 1860, Lincoln explains what he
means by a "free society" in which all have a free chance
in the "race of life." "I take it that it is bestfor all to leave
each man free to acquire property as fast as he can ...
we wish to allow the humblest man an equal chance to
get rich with everybody else." He goes on to describe
how any poor man's son can start as a hired laborer, work
for himself later, and then finally become an employer
of others-''and so it may go on and on in one ceaseless
round so long as man exists on the face of the earth!"
(CW 4:24-25). Is this the eternal promise of free
government-every man restlessly trying to get rich, "on
and on in one ceaseless round"? We might be reminded
of Alexis de Tocqueville's melancholic reflections on the
joyless life of Americans in their insatiable pursuit of
material comforts.
31
�But here is where we must stress the Biblical foundation of Lincoln's liberalism. The only justification for liberal democracy is that it allows the many to share in the
highest things. In practice, this is hard to achieve because
it is so difficult to elevate the desires of the many. If liberal
democracy is to be defensible as a high-minded way of
hfe, 1t must somehow be possible to ennoble common
people so that the pursuit of equality becomes a pursuit
of excellence. Doesn't the Bible-both in the style of its
poetry and in the substance of its teachings-contribute
to that goal by combining perfect plainness with perfect
nobleness and thus inspiring common people to moral
excellence? Lincoln surely thought so.
Lincoln's use of Biblical rhetoric to elevate liberalism
is clearest in his handling of the Civil War. John Stuart
Mill provides some testimony as to his success. Prior to
the Civil War, Mill worried about the degrading effects
of Amencan democracy. For example, in the original1848
edition of his Principles of Political Economy, he said that
in America, "the life of the whole of one sex is devoted
to dollar-hunting, and of the other to breeding dollarhunters." But when he revised this passage in the sixth
edition of 1865, he wrote that economic growth "is not
necessarily destructive of the higher aspirations and the
heroic virtues; as America, in her great civil war, has
proved to the world, both by her conduct as a people and
by numerous splendid individual examples. "28
There is a danger, however, in turning politics into an
expression of heroic spiritedness. The moral passionsparticularly those generated by Biblical religion-can excite a general frenzy that impedes good judgment. But
Lincoln in the Civil War demonstrated that Biblical statesmanship could combine righteous fervor with Machiavellian prudence.
5. Biblical prudence
In The Prince Machiavelli explains that "prudence consists in knowing how to recognize the qualities of inconveniences and to pick the less bad as good." 29 It might
seem shocking for a Biblical statesman to exercise such
prudence, especially when the "inconveniencen is slavery. The abolitionist preachers warned that any moderation in dealing with slavery was an accommodation with
Satan. But the Bible itself is more cautious. Although he
knows that all men are free in Christ, the Christian may
have to compromise with the institution of slavery. (See
Romans 13:1-8, Corinthians 7:20-24, and Ephesians
6:5-9.) Although the emancipation of all would be best,
the Bible counsels patience. The Christian must not expect moral perfection in the earthly politics of the City
of Man. But neither must he hesitate to promote moral
reform whenever it is practicable. This explains Lincoln's
handling of slavery, as indicated in his Peoria speech in
1854 on Douglas's Kansas-Nebraska Act:
Much as I hate slavery, I would consent to the extension of it rather
than see the Union dissolved, just as I would consent to any GREAT
evil, to avoid a GREATER one. But when I go to Union saving, I must
32
believe, at least, that the means I employ has some adaptation to the
end. To my mind, Nebraska has no such adaptation (CW 2:270).
It is reasonable to choose the lesser of evils because the
end does justify the means-but only when the end is
good and the means properly adapted to the end.
What are the practic~l obstacles to abolishing slavery?
In h1s Peona speech, Lmcoln speaks of the racial bigotry
of whites. The "feelings" of "the great mass of white people" would not permit the emancipation of the slaves on
the basis of social and political equality. "Whether this
feeling accords with justice and sound judgment, is not
the sole question, if indeed, it is any part of it. A universal feeling, whether well or ill-founded, can not be safely disregarded." Furthermore, Lincoln does not assume
that whites in the North are morally superior to those in
the South. "They are just what we would be in their situation." "I surely will not blame them for not doing what
I should not know how to do myself" (CW2:255-56). But
while acknowledging those "feelings" of the whites that
support slavery, Lincoln also speaks in this same speech
bf the natural "feeling" that slavery is wrong. The
problem, then, with the issue of slavery is that it creates
a conflict between the selfish feelings of people and their
just feelings (CW 2:264-65, 2:271, 2:281-82). According
to Lincoln's Biblical understanding of human nature, human beings combine good and evil inclinations. So even
as the statesman fosters human goodness, he must
respect the limits set by the evil in human beings. Of
course, this is even more emphatically true for the
democratic statesman whose pursuit of moral ends is constrained by the need for popular consent.
Thomas Aquinas acknowledges such constraints when
he warns that
human law is laid down for the multitude of human beings, thf
majority of whom are not perfect in virtue. Therefore human law doe~
not prohibit ~ the vices from which virtuous men abstain, but onl)
the more senous ones from which it is possible for the majority o:
the multitude to abstain (Summa Theologiae 1-2, 94, 2).
Therefore, "human law cannot punish or prohibit all evil,
for were it to try to do away with all evils it would alsc
do away with many good things" (Summa Theologiae 1-2,
91, 4). Furthermore, Thomas recognizes a tension be·
tween legal duty and natural justice. While claiming thai
an unjust law is not truly a law, he cites Romans 13:1 tc
support his belief that "even a wicked law, insofar as il
keeps something of the appearance [similitudo] of law, or
account of the order of the one in power who made th<
law, is derived from the eternal law.'' Even a wicked Ia;<
may somehow promote the common good (Summa The
ologiae 1-2, 92, 1, ad 4; 93, 3, ad 2). Thomas even advise•
that private individuals should not depose a tyrant if th<
resultant disorder would be a greater evil than the tyrant''
unjust rule (On Kingship, I, 6).
Lincoln made a similar distinction between legal dutie1
and moral judgments. This was evident in his handlin~
of the Emancipation Proclamation. 30 In his letter to A. G
SUMMER
198~
�Hodges in 1864, Lincoln wrote:
I am naturally anti-slavery. If slavery is not wrong, nothing is wrong.
I cannot remember when I did not so think, and feel. And yet I have
never understood that the Presidency conferred upon me an unrestricted right to act officially upon this judgment and feeling (CW7:281).
But Lincoln goes on in this letter to justify the Emancipation Proclamation as a military necessity within his
power as Commander-in-Chief in time of war. The
Proclamation itself, as issued on January 1, 1863, is carefully written in accordance with Lincoln's prudential restraint. Consider, for example, the concluding paragraph:
And upon this act sincerely believed to be an act of justice, warranted by the Constitution, upon military necessity, I invoke the considerate judgment of mankind, and the gracious favor of Almighty
God (CW 630).
Lincoln never doubted the justice of emancipating slaves.
But he refused to act until constitutional legality and practical necessity coincided with justice.
Perhaps the most remarkable martifestation of Biblical
prudence as applied to the question of emancipation is
Lincoln's meeting with a delegation of Chicago Christians on September 13, 1862. Since this meeting has not
received the attention that it deserves, I will quote extensively from the newspaper account found in Basler's Collected Works (5:419-25). 31
Lincoln begins by responding to their memorial recommending emancipation.
The subject presented in the memorial is one upon which I have
thought much for weeks past, and I may even say for months. I am
approached with the most opposite opinions and advice, and that
by religious men, who are equally certain that they represent the Divine will. I am sure that either the one or the other class is mistaken
in that belief, and perhaps in some respects both. I hope it will not
be irreverent for me to say that if it is probable that God would reveal his will to others, on a point so connected with my duty, it might
be supposed he would reveal it directly to me; for, unless I am more
deceived in myself than I often am, it is my earnest desire to know
the will of Providence in this matter. And if I can learn what it is I will
do it! These are not, however, the days of miracles, and I suppose
it will be granted that I am not to expect a direct revelation. I must
study the plain physical facts of the case, ascertain what is possible
and learn what appears to be wise and right. The subject is difficult,
and good men do not agree (CW 5:419-20).
He explains that he does not raise moral objections to
emancipation, such as the danger of bloody slave insurrections in the South. Nor is he any longer bothered by
legal or constitutional objections, because the measure can
be regarded as an exercise of his power as Commanderin-Chief. Consequently he must "view the matter as a
practical war measure, to be decided upon according to
the advantages or disadvantages it may offer to the suppression of the rebellion" (CW 5:421). And from this point
of view, Lincoln raises about a half dozen practical objections to emancipation. I will mention only two. Lincoln worries that a proclamation of emancipation from
him would be absurdly ineffective. "Would my word free
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
the slaves, when I cannot even enforce the Constitution
in the rebel states?" (CW 5:420). He also worries that after a proclamation, the fifty thousand Union soldiers from
the Border Slave States would go over to the rebels. "I
do not think they all would--not so many indeed as a year
ago, or as six months ago--not so many today as yester"
day. Every day increases their Union feeling. They are
also getting their pride enlisted, and want to beat the rebels" (CW 5:423).
The Christian delegates respond.
We observed (taking up the President's ideas in order) that good
men indeed differed in their opinions on this subject; nevertheless
the truth was somewhere, and it was a matter of solemn moment for
him to ascertain it; that we had not been so wanting in respect, alike
to ourselves and to him, as to come a thousand miles to bring merely our opinion to be set over against the opinion of other parties; that
the memorial contained facts, principles, and arguments which appealed to the intelligence of the President and to his faith in Divine
Providence; that he could not deny that the Bible denounced oppression as one of the highest of crimes, and threatened Divine judgments against nations that practice it; ... so that there is the amplest
reason for expecting to avert Divine judgments by putting away the
sin, and for hoping to remedy the national troubles by striking at
their cause.
We observed, further, that we freely admitted the probability, and
even the certainty, that God would reveal the path of duty to the
President as well as to others, provided he sought to learn it in the
appointed way; but, as according to his own remark, Providence
wrought by means and not miraculously, it might be, God would
use the suggestions and arguments of other minds to secure that
result. We felt the deepest personal interest in the matter as of national concern, and would fain aid the thoughts of our President by
communicating the convictions of the Christian community from
which we came, with the ground upon which they were based (CW
5:421-22).
They then answer each of Lincoln's practical objections
to a proclamation of emancipation. So, for example, they
argue that a proclamation would be effective, because as
the Union armies march southward they could enforce
both the Constitution and the proclamation. Moreover,
the proclamation would have the practical effect of inspiring the people in the North to fight for a high principle. It would also stir greater support for the North in
Europe. As to the possibility of the desertion of Border
State soldiers, that danger decreases every day, as even
Lincoln concedes. And even if some of these soldiers are
lost, the increased recruitment in other states prompted
by the proclamation would probably more than compensate for the loss.
After an hour of u earnest and frank discussion," Lincoln concludes:
Do not misunderstand me, because I have mentioned these objections. They indicate the difficulties that have thus far prevented my
action in some such way as you desire. I have not decided against
a proclamation of liberty to the slaves, but hold the matter under advisement. And I can assure you that the subject is on my mind, by
day and night, more than any other. Whatever shall appear to be
God's will I will do. I trust that in the freedom with which I have
canvassed your views, I have not in any respect injured your feelings (CW 5:425).
33
�Lincoln and the Christians agree on the existence of Divine Providence, which determines the cosmic order in
accordance with which human affairs must be judged.
They also agree that Providence favors the abolition of
slavery. But as to when and how that should be done, the
will of Providence has not been clearly expressed. Lincoln has little patience with Christians who offer him contradictory opinions as coming directly from God. God is
not contradictory. And if God wanted to reveal His will
with respect to the Civil War, He surely would speak
directly to the President. So Lincoln is left to decide the
issue as best he can based on his own judgment. But these
Christians from Chicago-a city famous for political
craftiness-do not claim any direct revelation from God.
Although God no longer works through miracles, He
might "use the suggestions and arguments of other
minds" to help the President determine His will. To believe in Divine Providence is to believe that despite differing opinions about great moral issues in politics, the truth
ts somewhere. To find that truth God has given us minds.
And it is our duty to study the "facts, principles, and arguments" that will allow us to determine what is right.
Therefore, no Christian is entitled to speak about God's
will concerning the proclamation if he has not shrewdly
calculated the political gains and losses, because God's
will may depend upon practical contingencies-such as
the popular reaction in the Border States.
Lincoln and these Christians from Chicago are able to
engage in a tough-minded discussion of a practical political problem because of the intellectual foundation
provided by the American Biblical tradition. They can
agree on certain abstract principles of justice. But they
also agree on the need for a practical assessment of probabilities in deciding when and how to put those principles into practice. Most importantly, their belief in
Providence gives them confidence in the rational order
of things and in the capacity of rational men to live in
accordance with that order. And yet because of the limitation of the human mind, the will of Providence must
always remain mysterious in its unfathomable transcendence of human things. So even as men rationally search
for God's will-believing there is a truth somewhere to
be discovered-they must forever remain humble in the
knowledge of their own ignorance.
Christians need such humility to escape the tempting
presumption that their human purposes coincide perfectly with God's. It is especially dangerous for a statesman
to believe-or to persuade others to believe-that he is
God's agent for executing the final judgment and
redemption of mankind. Is there not evidence that Lincoln yielded to this temptation by transforming the Civil
War into a holy war? Did he not speak with the language
of a millenarian prophet who saw the New Jerusalem at
the end of history?
6. Biblical history
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:/ He is tram-
34
piing out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;/ He hatl
loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:/ His truth i:
marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;/ The~
have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps;J I cat
read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps;/ His da~
is marching on.
"
I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel: f ''As y1
deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;/ Let tht
Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,/ Since Goc
is marching on.''
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;/ Ht
is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat:/ Oh, bE
swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!/ Our God h
marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,/ With a glol)
in his bosom that transfigures you and me:/ As he died to make mer
holy, let us die to make men free,/ While God is marching on.n
It is reported that Lincoln wept when he first heard Julia Ward Howe's "Battle Hymn of the Republic," and he
told the singer he had never heard a better song. 33 Is there
anyone among us who is not excited by this song? Isn't
the appeal of this song a disturbing sign of how Biblical
religion fosters political fanaticism? After all, this song
portrays the Civil War as the Apocalypse-the Last Battle in which God destroys the ruling powers of evil and
establishes the messianic rule of the righteous.
Moreover, some of Lincoln's speeches during the war
seem to indicate that he accepted this millenarian view
of history. Consequently, many commentators on Lincoln's political thought-including many who are sympathetic to Lincoln-agree with Edmund Wilson's
conclusion that Lincoln" came to see the conflict in a light
more and more religious, in more and more Scriptural
terms, under a more apocalyptic vision.'' And Wilson observes, "This conception of history as a power which
somehow takes possession of men and works out its intentions through them is most familiar today as one of
the characteristic features of Marxism, in which 'history'
has become the object of a semi-religious cult and has
ended by supplying the stimulus for a fanaticism almost
Mohammedan." 34 But this image of Lincoln as spiritually intoxicated by what he believes to be his messianic role
in history clashes with the prudent sobriety that we have
seen in his discussion with the Christians from Chicago.
Indeed, there is plenty of evidence to suggest that Wilson is wrong in his popular characterization of Lincoln
as a man possessed by his own millenarian view of
history.
For one thing, Wilson has overlooked the connection
between Lincoln's religion and his humor. Consider the
story about Jefferson (Davis) and Abraham (Lincoln),
which appears at the beginning of this paper as an epigram. If God suspects that Abraham is joking, is it because God knows that Abraham sees the absurdity of
men on opposite sides in a war praying to the same God
SUMMER 1985
�for victory? Wouldn't this make Abraham more truly pious than Jefferson? For the truly pious man knows that
God cannot contradict Himself. He knows too that God
has His own purposes that may differ from those of men.
So in seeking God's will, the truly pious man must detach
himself from his own passionate commitments so that he
can look down upon the passing scene of practical affairs.
Similarly, humor allows a man to detach himself from
his situation and thus to gain some relief from anxiety
and care. Lincoln once told a funny story to his Cabinet
but no one laughed. "Gentlemen," he said "why don't
you laugh? If I didn't laugh under the strain that is upon
me day and night, I should go mad. And you need that
medicine as well as I. n 3 s
But if Lincoln had to laugh to maintain his sanity, it
was because he took his role in history seriously. And
it is true, as Wilson says, that Lincoln accepted the Biblical understanding of history as a linear progression unfolding from a beginning towards ever higher levels. Here
is another point on which Lincoln would disagree with
ancient statesmen and political philosophers. The ancient
Greeks and Romans were certainly aware of historical development and historical cycles. But they had no conception of history as a rationally ordered ascent from a
beginning to an end. Apparently this idea arose from Biblical religion. 36
One interpretation of Biblical historicity promotes political indifference: Why should we act if God has already
determined the outcome? Another interpretation promotes political fanaticism: Why should we act with
moderation if we are bringing about the final purpose of
history? But Lincoln rejects both interpretations. He believes that history does conform in some mysterious way
to the will of God. But this is no reason for human passivity, because God works through the deliberations and
actions of men. Nor does this justify fanaticism, because
since no man can claim to know God's will absolutely,
every man must act within the limits of human rationality.
Lincoln agrees with the Christians from Chicago that
we serve the will of God by carefully deciding upon
whatever course of action is reasonably justified by
weighing the relevant ''facts, principles, and arguments.''
But the private deliberation of individuals will be ineffective if the general public cannot be persuaded as well.
Lincoln must therefore appeal to the good judgment of
the people as an expression of God's will.
On his way to his first inauguration, Lincoln delivered
many speeches in which he confessed his dependence
on Providence as manifested in the American people.
I am sure I bring a heart true to the work. For the ability to perform it, I must trust in that Supreme Being who has never forsaken
this favored land, through the instrumentality of this great and in-
telligent people. Without that assistance I shaH surely fail. With it
I cannot fail (CW 4:220-21).
In his First Inaugural Address, he was even more explicit
in identifying the will of God and the will of the people.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Why should there not be a patient confidence in the ultimate justice
of the people? Is there any better, or equal hope, in the world? In
our present differences, is either party without faith of being in the
right? If the Almighty Ruler of nations, with his eternal truth and
justice, be on your side of the North, or on yours of the South, that
truth, and that justice, will surely prevail, by the judgment of this
great tribunal, the American people (CW 4:270).
Of course Lincoln knows that the people do make mistakes, especially when they act without careful deliberation. "My countrymen, one and all," he implores them,
"think calmly and well, upon this whole subject. Nothing valuable can be lost by taking time." But in a certain
sense, Lincoln does believe in the maxim that the voice
of the people is the voice of God. If the Bible supports
the claim of the many to participate in the highest things,
then it is up to the many to verify that claim by showing
that they can govern themselves by deliberating together
as a community.
But any deliberation about practical matters is constrained by the unknowable contingency of history.
Chance is critically important. No human being, therefore, can know the order of history as it is known to God.
In the words of Lincoln's "house divided" speech, we
must first know "where we are, and whither we are tending" before we can judge "what to do, and how to do it"
(2:461). But since we can at best know only the general
tendencies of the near future, we can never know all the
consequences of our actions. Lincoln regarded the Civil
War as an evident example of this since the course of
events in that war conformed to no one's expectations
at the beginning of the war.
Perhaps we should remember Hegel's comment, in the
Preface to The Philosophy of Right, about the owl of Minerva flying only with the falling of dusk. The movements
of history, it seems, are fully comprehensible only when
they are completed. Therefore, those who make history
cannot understand it, and those who understand it cannot make it. When Lincoln looks back at the American
Revolution, he can understand its necessity. ''All this is
not the result of accident. It has a philosophical cause"
(CW 4:168). The "philosophical cause" of the success of
the Revolution was its appeal to the principle of liberty
to all. "No oppressed people will fight, and endure, as our
fathers did, without the promise of something better than
a mere change of masters." But he cannot be as confident that he understands his own historical role in the
Ovil War. "I claim not to have controlled events, but confess plainly that events have controlled me" (CW 7:282).
Since God has created human beings with certain
natural inclinations, Lincoln can try to act in accordance
with the regularities of human nature. But understanding these general tendencies of nature gives him no
knowledge of what exactly will happen in particular
cases. In the electoral campaign of 1864, for instance, Lincoln could not be sure that the voters would re-elect him.
He even had to deny rumors that he was prepared to
launch a coup d'etat if defeated in the election (CW 8:52).
But after the election, he could see it as a demonstration
35
�of an uncertain proposition-that a ''government, not too
strong for the liberties of its people, can be strong enough
to maintain its own existence, in great emergencies. rr
The strife of the election is but human nature practically applied to
the facts of the case. What has occurred in this case, must ever recur
in similar cases. Human nature will not change. In any future great
national trial, compared with the men of this, we shall have as weak,
and as strong; as silly and as wise; as bad and as good. Let us, there~
fore, study the incidents of this, as philosophy to learn wisdom from,
and none of them as wrongs to be revenged (CW 8:100-101).
Lincoln is surely not claiming that from the study of this
one election we can learn to predict exactly the outcome
of any similar election in the future. But we can see in
this election the unchanging regularities of human nature "practically applied to the facts of the case."
Many commentators, however, have concluded that
Lincoln's claim to historical knowledge was not this
modest. Particularly in the Second Inaugural Address,
he seems to assertthat he knows God's purpose for the
war because he knows that God has sent the war as a
punishment for the sin. of slavery. But in fact Lincoln
offers this only as a conjecture-carefully indicated by the
preposition 'if.'
Fondly do we hope-fervently do we pray-that this mighty scourge
of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continues,
until all the wealth piled by the bond-man's two hundred and fifty
years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood
drawn with the lash, shall be paid by another drawn with the sword,
as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the
judgments of the Lord, are true and righteous altogether" (8:333).
He does not know that this is what God wills, but he does
know that if He wills it, it will be just. This passage comes
after Lincoln's account of how the war has failed to conform to anyone's expectations, so that we must conclude:
"The Almighty has His own purposes." Rather than
presuming to know God's purpose for the war, Lincoln
is confessing that neither he nor any other human being
can have such knowledge 37
Not long after delivering the Inaugural, Lincoln wrote
to Thurow Weed:
Every one likes a compliment. Thank you for yours on my little
notification speech, and on the recent Inaugural Address. I expect
the latter to wear as well as-perhaps better than-any thing I have
produced; but I believe it is not immediately popular. Men are not
flattered by being shown that there has been a difference of purpose
between the Almighty and them. To deny it, however, in this case,
is to deny that there is a God governing the world. It is a truth which
I thought needed to be told; and as whatever of humiliation there
is in it, falls directly on myself, I thought others might afford for me
to tell it (CW 8:356).
As in previous cases, we see Lincoln applying the principle of non-contradiction. If God governs the world, and
if He cannot contradict Himself, then there must have
been a "difference of purpose" between God and men
in this war since no man's purpose has been fulfilled.
There could hardly be a clearer denial of Wilson's asser-
36
tion that Lincoln was a fanatic in believing that his political aims were divinely sanctioned. For like Job Lincoln
has questioned God as to the meaning of human suffering. And at last Lincoln has been forced to confess his
own "humiliation" before a mysterious God who "has
His own purposes.''
Lincoln is in a strange position here. On the one hand,
he faces the humiliation of trying to serve a God whose
will is never fully comprehensible to human beings. On
the other hand, he welcomes compliments on his speech,
which he expects "to wear as well as-perhaps better
than-any thing I have produced." In fact, he was so
proud of this speech that he mailed out autographed copies of the eloquent passage quoted above (CW 8:367).
Thus, Lincoln displays the peculiar predicament of the
Biblical statesman-he must combine humility and pride.
7. Biblical heroism
The inscription above the statue in the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D. C., reads:
In this temple as in the hearts of the people for whom he saved
the Union the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever.
Is this the reward that Lincoln sought-to live on in the
memory of his people as a godlike hero whose image
would be enshrined in temples and whose words would
be carved in marble? The ancient Greeks and Romans
would have understood this, since they assumed that
great statesmen would always strive for the secular immortality of political fame. After all, don't the Lincoln
Memorial and all the other manifestations of the Lincoln
myth imitate the ancient procedures for divinizing political heroes? But if Lincoln himself sought this as the
proper reward for his deeds, then we would have to question the Biblical foundation of his statesmanship.
We know that Lincoln was an ambitious man. In the
words of Herndon, "his ambition was a little engine that
knew no rest." 38 In the winter of 1840-41, Lincoln
suffered from melancholia. His close friend Joshua Speed
told Herndon:
He was much depressed. At first he almost contemplated suicide.
In the deepest of his depression he said one day he had done nothing to make any human being remember that he had lived; and that
to connect his name with the events transpiring in his day and generation, and so impress himself upon them as to link his name with
something that would redound to the interest of his fellow-men, was
what he desired to live for. 39
In 1863, after issuing the Emancipation Proclamation Lincoln reminded Speed of the earlier conversation and said,
"I believe that in this measure my fondest hope will be
realized.'' 40
Lincoln spoke candidly about his ambition. But his
pride was combined with humility. In July of 1858, he
prepared himself for possibly losing the Senatorial contest with Douglas. "Even in this view, I am proud, in my
passing speck of time, to contribute an humble mite to
SUMMER 1985
�that glorious consummation, which my own poor eyes
may not last to see" (CW 2:482). (The reference is to the
widow's mites in Mark 12:41-44.) In 1861, on his way to
Washington, Lincoln spoke of the influence of reading
Weems' Life of Washington.
I recollect thinking then, boy-even though I was, that there must have
been something more than common that these men struggled for .
.. that something held out a great promise to all the people of the
world to all time to come ... I shall be most happy indeed if I shall
be an humble instrument in the hands of the Almighty, and of this,
his almost chosen people, for perpetuating the object of that great
struggle (CW 4'236).
The success of a statesman-especially in time of warmay require that his people regard him as godlike. But
while he allows or even contrives his own divinization,
the prudent statesman must not deceive himself into believing what he would have his people believe. Like
Shakespeare's HenryV, he must see his divinity as mere
"ceremony" (Henry V 4.1.235-290). 41
Lincoln's humility was surely related to his melancholic
awareness of the mortality of all human things. He was
surrounded by coffins-his mother (when he was nine
years old), his sister, childhood friends, his father, two
children, and 140,000 soldiers. According to one of his
colleagues at the bar, any literary composition "which
faithfully contrasted the realities of eternity with the unstable and fickle fortunes of time, made a strong impression on his mind. " 42 His favorite poem, which he often
quoted from memory, was William Knox's ''Mortality.''
Developing themes from Job and Ecclesiastes, the poem
concludes:
'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,/ From the blossoms of health, to the paleness of death./ From the gilded saloon,
to the bier and the shroud./ Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be
proud! 43
Death also permeated Lincoln's own poetry (CW 1:378,
1:385).
Gcero quotes Scipio Aemilianus as recommending that
statesmen should be taught to see "the fragility of human things and the fickleness of fortune. " 44 The greatest
statesmen, Cicero suggests, may be those who are
philosophers or at least students of philosophers, because
a contemplative vision of the whole can foster a prudent
respect for the limits of political action. But Lincoln was
neither a philosopher nor the student of a philosopher."
His sense of "the fragility of human things" seems to
arise not from a philosophic understanding of things but
from the Biblical tradition.
But Lincoln combined humility with pride. And in his
proud awareness of his own greatness, he seemed to
resemble Aristotle's "great-souled" man-the man who
knows himself worthy of great things and who seeks
glory as the proper public recognition of his greatness.
Surely Biblical religion cannot sanction this proud assertion of human grandeur.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
In fact, most of the early Christian theologians refused
to recognize magnanimity-" greatness of soul'' -as a virtue.46 Thomas Aquinas, however, sought to justify the
moral claims of the magnanimous man as consistent with
humility before God. In describing magnanimous hope,
Thomas says, "man has hope in himself, yet under God"
(Summa Theologiae 2-2, 128, 1, ad 2). The greatness of the
magnanimous man does not remove him from his subordination "under God." Thomas distinguishes between
the perfections of God and man: God's perfection is absolute, but man's is according to his own nature-that
is to say, in comparison to God, he is imperfect (2-2, 161,
1, ad 4). Thus, Thomas can endorse simultaneously
without contradiction magnanimity and humility. Against
the objection that Aristotle in the Nicomachean Ethics does
not mention humility as a virtue, Thomas replies:
It must be said that the Philosopher intended to treat the virtues according as they are ordered towards the civil life, in which they are
limited to the subjection of one man to another according to the order of the lawr and, therefore, they are held under legal justice. Humility, however, as a special virtue, principally provides for the
subjection of man to God, on whose account one subjects oneself
in humility even to others (2-2, 161, 1, ad 5):
Humility comes not from the relationships among men,
but from the relationship of man to God. Magnanimity
and humility do not conflict, then, since they arise from
two different ways of considering man. Magnanimity expresses man's greatness, which is due to "the gifts of
God''; humility expresses man's weakness, which is due
to his own defects (2-2, 129, 3, ad 4). This explains Saint
John Chrysostom's observation that since the greatsowed man shows his greatness by scorning all creation,
even himself, he is also humble. 47
This formulation may be the best way to account for
the complex character of Lincoln as a Biblical statesman.
He knows that he is a great man. He is the kind of man
who always tries to see things for what they are. And
it is easy for him to see that he towers over everyone else.
But to see things for what they are, he must look up as
well as down. And when he looks up, he sees that as
tall as he is, he still stands "under God." He is a proud
man. But the virtue of pride differs from the vice of vanity. And it wouid be foolishly vain for him-for any manto think that his deeds will escape the decay to which all
human things are prone. He must be properly humble
to be properly proud.
It is fitting, therefore, that Colonel Alexander McClure.
chose to conclude his collection of Lincoln's Yams and Stories with a story under the title "No Cause for Pride."
A member of Congress from Ohio came into Mr. Lincoln's presence
in a state of unutterable intoxication, and sinking into a chair, exclaimed in tones that welled up fuzzy through the gallon· or more
of whiskey that he contained, "Oh, why should (hie) the spirit of
mortal be proud?"
"My dear sir," said the President, regarding him closely, "I see
no reason whatever."4s
37
�NOTES
1. Carl Sandburg, Abraham Lincoln: The Prairie Years and the War Years,
one-volume edition (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1939), 573.
2, Harry Jaffa has described Lincoln's "engrafting of the passion of
revealed religion upon the body of secular political rationalism." Crisis
of the House Divided (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1973), 238.
In distinguishing the Biblical and classical elements of the Western tradition, I have found the following writings most useful: Oswald Spengler, The Dec,line of the West, trans. Charles Francis Atkinson, 2 vols. (New
York: Knopf, 1928); Charles Cochrane, Christianity and Classical Culture
(New York: Oxford University Press, 1957); Hans Jonas, Philosophical
Essays (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall1974), 21-44; Harry V. Jaffa,
Equnlity and Liberty (New York: Oxford University Press, 1965), 209-29;
Leo Strauss, ''Athens and Jerusalem: Some Preliminary Reflections,''
in Studies in Platonic Political Philosophy (Chicago Press, 1983), 147-73;
Matthew Arnold, chap. 4 of Culture and Anarchy, in The Portable Matthew Anwld, ed. Lionel Trilling (New York: Viking Press, Penguin, 1949),
557-73; and Eva Brann, "The Roots of Modernity in Perversions of Christianity," St. John's &view 35 (Spring 1984): 66-69.
3. For elaboration of these points, see Larry Arnhart, "Statesmanship
as Magnanimity: Classical, Christian, and Modern," Polity 16 (Winter
1983): 263-83. On Lincoln, see the last few paragraphs of this article.
4. See Norman Cohn, The Pursuit of the Millennium (New York: Oxford University Press, 1970); Paul Johnson, A History of Christianity (New
York: Atheneum, 1983), 255-64i and Larry Amhart, Political Questions:
Political Philosophy from Plato to Rawls (New York: Macmillan, 1986), chap.
3.
5. Perhaps the three best general introductions to Lincoln's religion
are William J. Wolf, The Religion of Abraham Lincoln (New York: Seabury Press, 1963); David Hein, "Abraham Lincoln's Theological Outlook," in Hans J. Morgenthau and David Hein, Essays on Lincoln's Faith
and Politics, ed: Kenneth W. Thompson (Lanham, Md.: University Press
of America, 1983), 103-205; and Glen E. Thurow, Abraham Lincoln and
American Political Religion (Albany, N.Y.: State University of New York
Press, 1976). The serious flaw in Wolfe's work--as opposed to that of
Hein and Thurow--is that he sometimes gives too much weight to dubious reports about what Lincoln believed.
6. The reference is to Roy A. Basler et al., eds., The Collected Works of
Abraham Lincoln, 8 vols. (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press,
1953), 1:382. All subsequent references to the Collected Works will be indicated in the text in the same manner.
7. Quoted by William Herndon, Herndon's Life of Lincoln (New York:
Da Capo Press, 1983), 359-60.
8. Thomas Paine, The Age of Reason, in Philip S. Foner, ed., The Life
and Major Writings of Thomas Paine (Secaucus, N.J.: Citadel Press, 1948),
464.
9. Ibid, 482, 484, 591-93.
10. Cicero, De Republica 1.56. Compare the influence of Anaxagoras over
Pericles and Socrates. See Plato, Phaedo 96b-100b; and Plutarch's Lives,
trans. John Dryden (New York: Modern Library, 1932), 185-88.
11. See Paine, 595-604.
12. All the quotations from Rousseau are taken from Jean-Jacques Rousseau, On the Social Contract, ed. Roger D. Masters, trans. Judith R.
Masters (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1978), book 4, chapter 8, pp.
124-32.
13. Robert N. Bellah, "Civil Religion in America," in Russell E. Richey
and Donald G. Jones, eds., American Civil Religion (New York: Harper
& Row, 1974), 21-44.
14. George Washington, Farewell Address, in Daniel Boorstin, ed., An
American Primer, 2 vols. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966),
1:202.
15. Compare Mason L. Weems, The Life of Washington, ed. Marcus Cunliffe (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1962), 1-5, 172-86, 215-24;
and CW 1:108-15, 4:235-36. For a brilliant commentary on the Lyceum
speech, see Jaffa, Crisis 182-232.
16. See Jaffa, Crisis 238-42; and Wilson Carey McWilliams, "The Bible
and the American Political Tradition," in Myron}. Aronoff, ed., Religion
and Politics (New Brunswick: Transaction, 1984), 15, 24.
17. See Jaffa, Crisis, 191-92, 227-30; Wolf, Religion, 170-72; Thurow,
American Political Religion, 63-87; and Glen Thurow "The Gettysburg
Address and the Declaration of Independence," in Leo Paul de Alva-
38
rez, ed., Abraham Lincoln, The Gettysburg Address and American Constitutionalism (Irving, Texas: University of Dallas Press, 1976), 55-75.
18. My reading of Henry Vhas been guided by Michael Platt's commentary on the play in his book, Shakespeare's English Prince (Lanham, Md.:
University Press of American, 1985). See also John Alvis, "A Little Touch
of the Night in Harry: The Career of Henry Monmouth," in John Alvis
and Thomas G. West, eds., Shakespeare as Political Thinker (Durham,
N.C.: Carolina Academic Press, 1981), 95-125.
19. Commentators have noticed parallels between Shal<espeare's portrayal of Henry V and Desiderius Erasmus's Education of a Christian Prince
(1540), trans. Lester K. Born (New York: Norton, 1965). If one adjusts
for the differences between a king and a democratic leader, Lincoln
would more fully exemplify Erasmus's Christian prince. Consider Lincoln's comment that he saw in Stephen Douglas' argument for popular sovereignty "a strong resemblance to the old argument for the 'Divine
Right of Kings.' By the latter, the King is to do just as he pleases with
his white subjects, being responsible to God alone. By the former the
white man is to do just as he pleases with his black slaves, being responsible to God alone" (CW 2:278).
20. Paine, Age of Reason, 601-602.
21. This lecture should not be confused with the second lecture as revised and delivered on February 11, 1859. CW 2:437-42, 3:356-63.
Richard N. Current includes only the second lecture in his collection,
The Political Thought of Abraham Lincoln (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill,
1967), 112-21.
22. See Jean Gimpel, The Medieval Machine: The Industrial Revolution in
the Middle Ages (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1976); Lynn
White, Jr., Medieval Religion and Technology (Berkeley: University of
California, 1978)i and Lionel Casson, "Godliness and Work," Science
'812 (September 1981): 36-42. Of course one should also consider Max
Weber's classic, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans.
Talcott Parsons (New York: Scribners, 1958). See also Plutarch's Lives,
376-80.
23. See Aristotle, Topics 100a20-101a16; and Metaphysics
1004b19-1012b33. See also Alan Gewirth, Reason and Morality (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978), 42-47.
24. Quoted by Alan Gewirth, "The Golden Ru1e Rationalized," in Human Rights (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 128. Gewirth's
essay is quite instructive.
25. See Larry Arnhart, "Darwin, Aristotle and the Biology of Human
Rights,'' Social Science Information 23 (June 1984): 493-521. On Lincoln's
possible acceptance of evolutionary biology, see Herndon, Life of Lincoln, 353-54.
26. See G. S. Boritt, Lincoln and the Economics of the American Dream (Memphis: Memphis State University Press, 1978).
27. See, for example, McWilliams, "The Bible in the American Political
Tradition," 30-32, 37.
28. John Stuart Mill, Principles of Political Economy, ed. W. J. Ashley (London: Longmans, 1927), book 4, chap. 6, sec. 2, p. 748.
29. Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince, trans. Leo Pau1 de Alvarez (Irving,
Texas: University of Dallas Press, 1980), chap. 21, p. 135. On Lincoln's
prudential realism, see Hans J. Morgenthau, "The Mind of Abraham
Lincoln," in Morgenthau and Hein, Essays, 1-101.
30. The best study of Lincoln's·prudential calcu1ations in issuing the
Proclamation is George Anastaplo, "Abraham Lincoln's Emancipation
Proclamation,'' in Ronald Collins, ed., Constitutional Government in America (Durham, N.C.: Carolina Academic Press, 1980), 421-46. See also
Anastaplo, "American Constitutionalism and the Virtue of Prudence:
Philadelphia, Paris, Washington, Gettysburg," in de Alvarez, The Gettysburg Address, 77-170.
31. Richard Current reprints Lincoln's comments but not the responses
of the Christian delegates. As a result, Current's editing conveys the
impression that the Christians were naively imprudent in ignoring the
practical problems noted by Lincoln. But a reading of the entire account
suggests to me that Lincoln found the discussion with the Christians
fruitfully challenging. Current, Political Thought of Lincoln, 216-19.
32. Julia Ward Howe, ''The Battle Hymn of the Republic,'' ed. William
G. McLoughlin, in Boorstin, American Primer, 1:380-85. See Edmund
Wilson, Patriotic Gore (New York: Oxford University Press, 1966), 91-98.
33. Should this remind us of John 11:35, which records the one occasion on which Jesus wept? At least we can say that Lincoln grieved as
SUMMER 1985
�much over the deaths of the soldiers as Jesus grieved over the death
of Lazarus. And although Lincoln could not raise the dead to life, he
looked for every opportunity to commute a death sentence.
34. Wilson, Patriotic Gore, 102, 106.
35. Wolfe, The Religion of Abraham Lincoln, 141.
36. See Karl Lowith, Meaning in History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1949).
37. For careful studies of the Second Inaugural that support this conclusion, see Thurow, American Political Religion, 88-108; and Hein, "Theological Outlook," 111-56.
38. Herndon, Life of Lincoln, 304.
39. Ibid., 172.
40. Ibid., 423.
41. Compare Walter Bagehot's distinction between the "dignified parts"
of the English Constitution and the ''efficient parts'' --the monarch being the head of the former and the prime minister the head of the latter. Bagehot, The English Constitution (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University
Press, 1966), 61-86, 150, 235-38, 248-51, 262. Lincoln is one of the best
examples of how American presidents can combine monarchic dignity
and parliamentary efficiency.
42. Quoted by Herndon, Life of Lincoln, 496.
43. Quoted by Stephen B. Oates, With Malice Toward None: The Life of
Abraham Lincoln (New York: Harper & Row, 1977), 95.
44. See Arnhart, "Statesmanship as Magnanimity," 268-71.
45. Harry Jaffa implies that Lincoln was in some manner a Socratic
thinker. See Jaffa, Crisis, 5, 207-25, 232, 260-61, 264-65. For critici$ms
of Jaffa on this point, see Anastaplo, "American Constitutionalism and
the Virtue of Prudence," 165-68. At the least Lincoln learned from
Shakespeare and Emerson the Socratic dictum that men cannot do evil
without suffering evil. See Ralph Waldo Emerson, ''Compensation,''
in Essays and Lectures (New York: Library of America, 1985), pages
285-302.
46. See Rene Antoine Gauthier, Magnanimite (Paris: Libraire Philosophique J. Vrin, 1951).
47. Ibid., 430-31.
48. Colonel Alexander K. McClure, Lincoln's Yams and Stories (Grand
Rapids, Mich.: Bengal Press, 1980), 368.
Larry Arnhart teaches Political Science at Northern lllinois University.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
39
�After Hecuba
I tell you, no female's god gives birth to warriors.
No, men build gods
and afterward women stumble through their rubble.
Choked on smoke, slipping in blood,
we crept forward from the walls
to drag the bodies back.
But on that field, flatter than my breast,
there arose an Anger before me,
and she spat at me-"Why?"
"Why not leave them for the birds, Hecuba?
They should fill the bellies of some beast of the air
for all the good of their ships on water or their horses on earth."
My sisters, did you wonder at my fury
to build a funeral pyre?
From the first tiny flames until the last dusty ash
I will watch the air carry upward all the fuel of my heart.
Fire, scorch bones, blister eyes.
Wind, bear away all shades of what I have loved.
And when the firelight fails, I will still see it where it was.
M. L. Coughlin
40
SUMMER 1985
�America's Rise to a Mature
Party System
Donald V. Weatherman
Our image of the American founders probably differs
little from the image they have enjoyed ever since we won
our independence. Despite the efforts of political historians like Charles Beard, our founding fathers continue to
loom in our political history like a generation of Davids
conquering one giant after another. Gordon A. Wood
captured the feelings most of us have toward the founders: "The awe that we feel when we look back at them
is thus mingled with an accute sense of loss. Somehow
for a brief moment ideas and power, intellectualism and
politics, came together-indeed were one with each
other-in a way never again duplicated in American history."' The greatest tribute to the American foundersgreater than all the monuments in Washington, D.C.,
even greater than the annual Fourth of July orationshas been the strength and endurance of the republic they
founded. Their plan for government has withstood foreign wars, industrialization, massive expansion, and a bit-
ter civil war. Despite these challenges to their handiwork,
the regime they founded appears so secure that it is hard
for us to imagine the novelty and adventure associated
with such a bold experiment. Equally hard for us to
remember is that one of the institutions that has proven
vital to America's political existence was mortal! y feared
and openly condemned by these same founders. ·
Political parties, as the founders understood them, were
considered one of the greatest threats to the young republic. And yet, the founders themselves could not resist the
temptation to organize parties in support of the causes
they held most dear. For this reason, party divisions
started forming early in America's political history. In
time, some of the most ardent opponents of the "spirit
of parties" began to soften their views on the possible
effects of parties on republican government.
The founders' apparent change of heart toward parties
was never complete and far from enthusiastic. For this
reason the establishment of a mature party system did
not occur until our second generation of political leaders
was in control of the national government. The historical factors leading to our first true party system (which
is, unfortunately, usually called the "second American
party system"') have been adequately covered in such
works as Richard Hofstadter' s The Idea of a Party System.
Let us now consider some of the reasons why the founders appear to have had such an ill-conceived notion of
the role political parties could play in the political system they created out of the ruins of the Revolution.
A full understanding of the founders' opposition to parties requires that we first determine what they had in
mind when they referred to "parties." Generally, it appears that three types of parties were recognized by the
founders. The first type, as we learn in Federalist 10, is
indistinguishable from factions. Parties of this description are primarily economic and are "actuated by some
common impulse of passion, or of interest, adverse to the
rights of other citizens, or to the permanent and aggregate
interests of the community." Madison provided further
clarification of these parties when he continued:
But the most common and durable source of factions has
been the various and unequal distribution of property. Those
~ho
hold and those who are without property have ever
*This paper was originally delivered in 1983 at the American Political Science Association Convention in Denver. Mr. Weatherman would like to thank
the Earhart Foundation of Ann Arbor, Michigan, for supporting the research and writing of this paper.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
41
�formed distinct interests in society. Those who are creditors,
and those who are debtors, fall under like discrimination.
A landed interest, a manufacturing interest, a mercantile interest, a moneyed interest, with many lesser interests, grow
up of necessity in civilized nations, and divide them into
different classes, actuated by different sentiments and views.
Madison left no doubt that while economic factors are not
the only source of partisan differences they certainly are
the most ''common and durable.''
George Washington has provided us with our second
view of parties. In his Farewell Address we find a slight
distinction drawn between factions and parties, a distinction that renders neither more desirable. As Washington
saw it, parties ''serve to organize factions to give it an
artificial and extraordinary force; to put in the place of
the delegated will of the Nation, the will of a party; often
a small but artful enterprising minority of the community." He warned against parties generally, but was particularly concerned about parties of a "geographical
discrimination." What economic parties were to Madison, geographical parties were to Washington; the attribute these two types share is that both are products of
selfish concern and serve interests other than the common interest of the community.
The third and last type of party acknowledged by the
founding generation is the philosophical party described
by Jefferson. He believed that these parties develop because of conflicting notions about the extent to which people are capable of self-government. Jefferson explained
to Adams:
at length see that the mass of their fellow citizens with whom
they cannot yet resolve to act as to principles and measures,
think as they think and desire what they desire; that our wish
as well as theirs is that the public efforts may be directed
honestly to the public good, that peace by activated, civil and
religious liberty unassailed, law and order preserved, equality
of rights maintained, and that state of property, equal or unequal, which results to every man from his own industry or
that of his father's. When satisfied of these views it is not
in human nature that they should not approve and support
them. In the meantime let us cherish them with patient affection, let us do them justice, and most than justice, in all
competitions of interest, and we need not doubt that truth,
reason, and their own interest will at length prevail, will
father them into the fold of our country, and will complete
that entire union of opinion which gives to a nation the blessing of harmony and the benefit of all its strength. 4
Jefferson's optimism was stated more clearly by one of
his partisan successors to the White House. In a letter to
Andrew Jackson, James Monroe expressed his belief that
the existence of parties in ancient republics and in England was due to "certain defects of those governments"
and that "we have happily avoided these defects in our
system."' Given the kind of parties Jefferson had in
mind, such optimism was partially warranted. Jefferson
felt that his partisan beliefs were the only ones consistent with the principles set forth in the Declaration of Independence. If the partisan beliefs at that time were based
on such fundamental differences, it would not be unreasonable to expect one of those parties to prevail and,
thus, determine whether or not the principles set forth
in the Declaration were self-evident."
The founders' limited understanding of parties helps
clarify two important points. First, all three of the sources
cited provide an accurate and helpful description of particular types of parties that have historically existed and
do currently exist in the United States. Second, while they
provide an accurate description of certain types of parties, none of them describes what we generally recognize
as political parties. This should not surprise us since the
formal type of grassroots party organization that we are
familiar with was unknown to the founders and everyone else at that time.
The concerns expressed by Madison and Washington
have proven to be well-founded. Harry V. Jaffa equates
the parties or factions in Federalist 10 with what we call
interest groups today. 6 With a few exceptions, these interest groups continue to put their narrow interests before the "permanent and aggregate interest of the
community." Washington's greatest fears about parties
of a "geographical discrimination" could hardly have exceeded the events surrounding the Civil War. As for
Jefferson's statements about philosophical parties, it
would appear that something fairly close to what he
described has appeared, from time to time, in American
politics. America's critical or watershed elections have
usually focused on more fundamental questions than are
generally addressed in American politics. But Jefferson
0
Men have differed in opinion, and been divided into parties
by these opinions, from the first origin of societies, and in
all governments where they have been permitted freely to
think and to speak. The same political parties which now
agitate the United States have existed through all time.
Whether the power of the people or that of the aristoi should
prevail, were questions which kept the States of Greece and
Rome in eternal convulsions, as they now schismatize every
people whose minds and mouths are not shut up by the gag
of a despot. And in fact, the terms of whig and tory belong
to natural as well as to civil history. They devote the temper
and constitution of mind of different individuals. 3
Like Madison and Washington, Jefferson recognized that
parties naturally blossom in free societies; he also concurred with their belief that the naturalness of parties
renders them neither beneficial nor desirable to republican government. However, unlike Madison and Washington, Jefferson did in one of his more optimistic
moments indicate that the United States might be able
to overcome natural and civil history by freeing itself from
partisan differences:
With those, too, not yet rallied to the same point the disposition to do so is gaining strength; facts are piercing through
the veil drawn over them, and our doubting brethren will
42
SUMMER 1985
�did not believe that such a sweeping transformation of
the American electorate would be needed after the '' revolution of 1800."
Lack of foresight is not the only thing that kept Jefferson from being the founder of America's two-party system. Jefferson and most of his followers viewed the
Jeffersonian Republican party as the party to end all parties. What Jefferson and his followers lacked, at least until
the 1920s, was what Richard Hofstadter describes as
"comity." Hofstadter contends:
Comity exists in a society to the degree that those enlisted
in its contending interest have a basic minimal regard for each
other: one party or interest seeks the defeat of an opposing
interest [or party] on matters of policy, but at the same time
seeks to avoid crushing the opposition, denying the legitimacy of its existence or its values, or inflicting upon it extreme
and gratuitous humiliations beyond the substance of the
gains that are being sought/
Few parties have been crushed as swiftly and completely
as were the Federalists. To Jefferson, the Federalists were
as illegitimate as the monocratic values they held.
There was something like Hofstadter's ''comity'' when
Jackson reached the White House. By the 1820s, people
like Martin Van Buren and Thomas Ritchie were fully
aware of the salutary effects political parties could have
on republican government. The alliance forged between
Jackson and the party chieftains of his day, and the
response this drew from Henry Clay and his followers,
gave rise to America's first mature party system.
In Statesmanship and Party Government, Harvey Mansfield, Jr., credits Burke with "introducing parties into the
public constitution. " 8 He contends that parties had existed as part of the private constitution for some time, but
that it would have been totally irresponsible to go "public" with parties because that would have made parties
useful to all, "good men and traitors alike."' Parties were
considered a secret weapon that should be used only in
the most extreme circumstances and, therefore, should
always be publicly decried by the knowledgeable political actors who might find a need for parties at some point
in their political careers. In this sense, parties were an
ultimate political weapon whose potential was recognized
by some politicians, who hoped that they would never
have to resort to their use. Jefferson's involvement with
party politics in the United States appears quite consistent with Burke's belief that one should resort to parties
only as a last resort.
But this attitude did not survive the nineteenth century.
In the United States as in Britain, parties became not only
public, but respectable. Mansfield posits one reason for
the change. "Defining 'party' as a body of men united
on some particular principle, [Burke] made parties available to good men in association against bad men." But
certain sacrifices had to be made to achieve this respectability. Mansfield describes one such sacrifice:
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
A party principle is necessarily attuned to lesser capacities
than is a statesman's principle. Burke conceived the respectability of party because he was willing to accept the less exact principle in exchange for a lessened reliance on statesmen;
for great statesmen are unreliable, at least in the sense that
they are not always available. Burke believed that the regularity of honest men could compensate for their lack of discrimination, and that party government could substitute for
statesmanship .10
Government's inability to rely on great or enlightened
statesmen was noted by Publius as well. Recognition of
this fact is what led him to the "invention of prudence."
This could also explain what the United States did not
turn to a formal party system until the 1820s. If Burke
was correct in his assertion that the only-or primaryjustification for a "respectable party" is the absence of
great statesmen, then the United States clearly did not
need such parties as long as there was a Washington,
Jefferson, or Madison at the helm. Perhaps this is why
Jefferson and Madison looked more favorably toward parties in their later years. Such a change in attitude is especially clear in Madison's works.
Foremost in the minds of the founding generation was
how a popular government could tolerate (or survive)
differences of opinion and still function as a single entity. Only after our institutions of government were wellestablished could politicians look to differences of opinion as something that might be organized to serve as a
positive political force in American politics. Two of the
first and most enduring proposals for using differences
of opinion to serve the interests of government were developed by Andrew Jackson's two vice presidents.
John C. Calhoun's concurrent majority thesis considered using these differences to the advantage of distinct
or fragmented (state) interests; Martin Van Buren's permanent two-party system advocated using these differences to further a national interest or national interests.
The only premise these two proposals shared was that
diverse political opinions could be used to strengthen our
political system. Calhoun's system proposed strength
through greater decentralization of decision making,
while Van Buren's proposed strength through centralization. Calhoun's proposal was designed primarily to
protect economic, regional interests; Van Buren's was
designed to help create, clarify, and perpetuate national
political principles. Van Buren's system was posited on
the belief that the political is superior to the economic;
Calhoun's appears to be based on the reverse assumption. Both are based on assumptions that differ radically
from those of the founders.
Van Buren's recognition of the potential of political parties resulted directly from his ability to expand on the
founders' understanding of parties. Unlike Madison and
Washington, he had no difficulty distinguishing parties
from factions. One of his numerous attacks on the socalled "era of good feeling" pointed out the difference
as he saw it:
43
�In place of two great parties arrayed against each other in
a fair and open contest for the establishment of principles
in the administration of Government which they respectively
believed most conducive to the public interest, the country
was overrun with personal factions. These having few higher
motives for the selection of their candidates or stronger incentives to action than individual preferences or antipathies,
moved the bitter waters of political agitation to their lowest
point. 11
Once he established the line of demarcation between parties and factions, Van Buren's position recalled that expressed by Machiavelli some 300 years earlier. In The
Discourses, Machiavelli argued that few people understand the true nature of parties:
Those who condemned the quarrels between the nobles and
plebs, seem to be cavilling at the very things that were the
primary cause of Rome's retaining her freedom, and they
pay more attention to the noise and clamour resulting from
such commotions than to what resulted from them. . . .
[A]nyone who studies carefully their result, will not find that
they occasioned any banishment or act of violence inimical
to the common good, but that they led to laws and institutions whereby the liberties of the public benefited. (1,4)
Without trying to make more of this analogy than it
deserves, let me make one more comparison. According
to Machiavelli and Van Buren, one of the greatest contributions by parties is their preservation of the public nature of political controversies. Governments that provide
a public arena for opposition to individuals and policies
maintain greater control over such opposition. Public opposition requires that one's claims be backed by evidence;
when such evidence is provided, the party or parties under attack can present evidence in their own defense. An
open exchange of this nature affords government a better opportunity to settle an issue and then to move on
to other matters. Rumors and accusations not made public
have "no need of witnesses or of any other corroboration of the facts." Furthermore, a two-fold educational
advantage comes from public controversies. First, public controversies draw more people into the dispute; second, the larger number of citizens involved is permitted
to consider the evidence of both sides and then to draw
conclusions. There is no better way to educate the general citizenry than to make it a party to the political battles that occur within the state. Another advantage to
which Van Buren alluded is that public controversies tend
to stern from higher motives than do private controversies. This led Van Buren to conclude that the "era of good
feeling" had "moved the bitter waters of political agitation to their lowest point."
Van Buren, like Machiavelli, relied quite heavily on history to support his contention that parties have a salutary effect on republican government. He openly opposed
those who claimed that the party division of the 1790s
was caused by conflicting notions about whether the
United States should have aligned itself more closely with
44
England or France. Van Buren recognized the sharp division on that issue, but argued that to consider this the
source of partisan divisions "is to mistake for the cause
one of its least important effects.' ' 12 He developed his idea
about the source of party differences in this way:
The Administrations of Jefferson and Madison, embracing
a period of sixteen years, from first to last, opposed by the
federal party with a degree of violence unsurpassed in
modern times. From this statement one of two conclusions
must result. Either the conduct of these two parties which
had been kept on foot so long, been sustained with such determined zeal and under such patriotic professions and had
created distinctions that became the badges of familiestransmitted from father to son-was a series of shameless
impostures, covering mere struggles for power and
patronage; or these were differences of opinion and principle between them of the greatest character, to which their
respective devotion and active service could not be relaxed
without safety or abandoned without dishonor .13
To Van Buren, the choice was clear: either one accepted
parties as a healthy and respectable part of America's political machinery or one accus.ed Jefferson and Madison
of being" shameless impostures." Since Jefferson's reputation has probably never exceeded the heights it attained
during the Jacksonian era, Van Buren was confident of
which conclusion the political leaders of his generationand probably the leaders of generations to follow-would
draw. To make this choice clear, Van Buren relied heavily on Jefferson's actions and avoided many of his words.
He cleverly drew on the partisan political history of the
founders to overcome the partisan (actually anti-partisan)
political theories they had espoused. Since Jefferson,
Madison, and Hamilton produced the history upon which
Van Buren rested his case for a permanent party system,
he had at his disposal information that simply was unavailable to the founders. With his Jeffersonian prejudices
intact, Van Buren built a foundation for a new partisan
division based on historical attachments and governmental policies. He began his discussion by echoing Jefferson' s statement on the permanence of party divisions in
Western history, but he quickly translated those natural
parties into American parties and then concentrated his
efforts on the specific policies and programs that had
resulted from those divisionsl4 He glossed over Hamilton's theoretical differences with Jefferson and chose, instead, to focus on the policies that had grown out of
Hamilton's political preferences. Van Buren realized that
party loyalties and antagonisms are easier to maintain if
they are attaclted to specific programs and policies instead
of general theories.
Van Buren's success in building a permanent party system was not based on a rejection of the earlier party theories espoused by Washington, Madison, and Jefferson;
on the contrary, Van Buren was keenly aware of the permanence of the driving passions that produced these
early theories. The future of American parties would be
determined by their ability to maintain a tenuous balance
SUMMER 1985
�between the interests described by Madison and Washington and the ideals described by Jefferson. Van Buren
charted a middle course that could appeal to both the noble and the base and thus provide a common ground for
both the informed leaders our country would continue
to need and their less-informed followers. Statesmen are
able to address the concerns of the entire community
through party principles in a way that they could not with
Madison or Washlngton's parties. At the same time, the
less-informed members of society can recognize the practical effect certain party principles might have in a way
that they probably could not have in Jefferson's parties.
Van Buren certainly realized that party principles are
better understood by people of "lesser capacities" than
are the principles of statesmen. But given the shortage
of statesmen, society as a whole is elevated by these "lesser principles." As the American political system grew increasingly democratic, there was an increasing need for
partisan principles that would help "refine and enlarge
the public's view.''
The founders' partisan oversight, if we can call it that,
was addressed indirectly by Alexis de Tocqueville. In his
discussion of patriotism, he provided at least a partial explanation of the increased need for political parties after
the founding. According to Tocqueville, there are two distinct forms of patriotism: instinctive and reflective. The
former he describes as a "kind of religion: it does not reason, but it acts from the impulse of faith and sentiment."" At the time of the founding, as in a time of war,
such patriotism formed strong bonds between the citizenry and the state. Nevertheless, "like all instinctive passions, this kind of patriotism incites great transient
exertions, but no continuity of effort. " 16 At some point
citizens must make the transition to reflective patriotism
if they are to maintain their attachments to their government. This requires that people "go forward and accelerate the union of private with public interests, since the
period of disinterested patriotism is gone by forever.'' The
transition is especially crucial to republics because while
reflective patriotism is "less generous and less ardent
. . . it is more fruitful and most lasting: it springs from
knowledge; it is nurtured by the law; it grows by the exercise of civil rights; and, in the end, it is confounded with
the personal interest of the citizen. " 17
1
As we have already noted, the hallmark of Van Buren's
party system is the union it forged between the private
interests that sustained the parties of Washington and
Madison and the public interests whlch guided Jefferson's
party. The founders could not have anticipated the necessity for political parties; in the early years of the republic, private and public interests were held together by a
reverence for the authors of America's founding documents and the passions that produce "instinctive patriotism." Political parties filled the vacuum created by the
passing of the founding generation and of the patriotic
passions they inspired.
1. "The Democratization of Mind in the American Revolution," in
Robert W. Horwitz, ed., The Moral Foundation of the American Republic
(University Press of Virginia: 1977).
2. I have explained why this terminology is unfortunate in ''From Fac~
tions to Parties: America's Partisan Education." In Schramm, P., and
Silver T. (eds), Natural Right and Political Right: Essays in Honor of Harry
V. Jaffa. Carolina Academic Press, 1984.
3. Adrienne Koch and William Peden, eds., The Life and Selected Writings of Thomas Jefferson (Random House: 1944), p. 627.
4. James Richardson, ed., A Compilation of the Messages and Papers of
the Presidents, 1789-1908, 12 vols. (Bureau of National Literature and Art:
1909), 1:381-82.
5. John Spencer Bassett, ed., Correspondence of Andrew Jackson, 7 vols.
(Carnegie Institution: 1927), 2:268.
6. "The Nature and Origin of the American Party System" in Equality and Liberty (Oxford University Press: 1965).
7. The Progressive Historians: Turner, Beard, Farrington (New Yqrk: 1968),
p. 454.
8. Harvey Mansfield, Jr., Statesmenship and Party Government (University of Chicago Press: 1965), p. 17.
9. Mansfield, p. 14.
10. Mansfield, pp. 17-18.
11. Martin Van Buren, Inquiry into the Origin and Course of Political Parties in the United States (New York: 1867), pp. 3-4. This point is also noted
by James Ceaser in Presidential Selection (Princeton University Press:
1979), p. 135.
12. Van Buren, Inquiry, p. 270.
13. The Autobiography of Martin Van Buren, ed. John C. Fitzpatrick
(Washington, D.C.: 1920), p. 123.
14. Van Buren, Inquiry, pp. 7-8 .
15. Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America, ed. Phillips Bradley,
2 vols. (Vintage Books: 1945), 1:251.
16. Democracy in America, 1:252.
17. Democracy in America, 1:251-52.
Donald Weatherman teaches Political Science at Arkansas College.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
45
�Penelope's Dream
Navigare necesse est . . .
In the cold olive bed of night
the work of day lies around me,
as if some portion of sunlight were netted there
that in darkness gives up a daily gathered heat.
In imagination I smooth again
the wrinkled surface of my skin,
and resurrect a form of youth memory will be the shuttle of desire.
Each night I lie,
an island in the soft grey sea of sleep,
and count, as waves, the doing and undoing
that run together in a tide.
My wakefulness, a forgotten watchfire, has grown cold,
and still I cannot close my conscious eye.
If I could, all I'd dream would be a vision:
the longed-for draught,
a silence unjoined from solitude,
and a second, more singular journey - begun.
M. L. Coughlin
46
SUMMER 1985
�Housebound or Floating Free:
The American Home in
Huckleberry Finn
Mera
J. Flaumenhaft
Far from home, Huckleberry Finn finds himself in the
house of a family named Grangerford. Among the neatly
stacked books in their parlor is a copy of Pilgrim's Progress,
"about a man that left his family, it didn't say why."
Huck reads "considerable" in it and finds it "interesting but tough." Having escaped from what remains of
his own natural family, and from a well-meaning adoptive family, Huck has attached himself to a fugitive slave
who intends to buy or steal his own family to freedom.
Missing the northern turn, the boy and the slave remain
together in what has become the most famous alternative family in American literature. Huck's experiences
south of Cairo raise the question of what family and civic
arrangements are appropriate to human beings, and especially to human beings in the special circumstances of
Twain's nineteenth century America. These alternatives
help us to reflect on the meaning of the small and temporary community formed by Huck and Jim.
Many of Twain's readers have noted the resemblance
between the Grangerfords' parlor and that of the "House
Beautiful" in Life on the Mississippi. It is clearly the same
room. What differs is the point of view of the describer.
Huck's delighted admiration for the "style" of the "beautiful oilcloth," plaster fruits, and fine pictures is an amusing contrast to Twain's mockery of the vulgar affectations
of a typical well-to-do western family. But there is another
difference between the two passages, one which points
to a much more interesting question raised by the Grangerford episode. The "best dwelling" described in Life
on the Mississippi is located in a river town. The passage
Mera Flaumenhaft is a tutor at St. John's College in Annapolis. She
has published articles about Shakespeare, Machiavelli, Homer and
Euripedes.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
begins by calling the mansion "the home of its wealthiest and most conspicuous citizen" [emphasis added]. The
house is set back in a grassy yard; the paling fence,
painted white, is "in fair repair," and a brick walk leads
from "gate to door." The reader might imagine the "principal citizen" [emphasis added] referred to at the end of
the passage welcoming fellow citizens to his home, walking out the gate to do business in town, and leaving the
town in the luxury steamboat described in the following
paragraphs.
The establishment Huck "runs across" in the dark after a steamboat overturns his raft is markeclly different.
Located a quarter mile of rough ground from the river,
the house sits in an isolated clearing away from any town
and even from other houses. There is no fence, walk, or
yard, and welcoming a visitor requires "unlocking, unbarring, and unbolting.'' Only by relocating the ''House
Beautiful" can Twain in Huckleberry Finn connect this passage with another, not yet related to it in Life on the Mississippi, the description of the Darnell-Watson feud. For
the Grangerfords' feud can only be understood by exploring the implications of their isolated way of life.
While the lengthy, detailed description of the house
marvelously portrays the sensibilities of a boy like Huck,
it is of even greater interest in that it characterizes the
people who live there-not only by what they have in the
house, but by the elaborate, orderly care they take for it.
By dwelling on their dwelling, we become aware that this
private household is the only community in the lives of
its inhabitants. Resembling Homeric Cyclopses, "they
have neither assemblies for council, nor appointed laws,
but they dwell on the peaks of lofty mountains in hollow caves, and each one is lawgiver to his children and
wives.n
The Grangerfords, however, are indoors people, the
products of an economy based on slavery. Huck remarks
47
�on the Colonel's "darkish-paly complexion, not a sign
of red in it anywheres." Freed from the necessity to work,
by themselves or with others, they devote themselves not
to public business, but to family ceremonials, to hunting, and to a peculiar debased form of dueling. Privacy
reigns. As the absolute masters of over a hundred slaves,
they are occupied not in productive work, but in the
forms of their everyday life. This life is static and repetitious in its meticulous routines, and is uninterrupted except by the cyclical feud killings, the round of tribal
parties, and by an occasional visit from a stranger boy
who livens up a midnight snack with his false tales.
The inequality of master and slave is echoed in the
patriarchal arrangements of the Grangerfords. Before we
even hear his name, we realize that the Colonel is running a private military unit:
"Snatch that light away ... take your places."
"All ready."
He refers to his sons, fine men in their thirties, as "boys."
Not free to contract themselves in marriage or occupation, they begin each day with an elaborate ceremonial
in which they pay homage to the patriarchal master of
the house. There is none of the easy affection which Tocqueville notes between most American fathers and the
grown sons who work with them as equal men. Rather,
as Tocqueville says,
When men live more for remembrance of what has been than
for the care of what is, and when they are more given to attend to what their ancestors thought than to think themselves, the father is the natural and necessary tie between
the past and the present . ... In aristocracies, then, the father
is not only the civil head of the family, but the organ of its
traditions, the expounder of its customs, the arbiter of its
manners. He is listened to with deference, he is addressed
with respect, and the love that is felt for him is always tem-
pered with fear. (II. viii)
Colonel Grangerford will pass down to his sons his
house, land, slaves, name, blood and the blood feud that
comes with it. Like all patrilocal aristocratic families, the
Grangerfords look backwards. Their past determines their
present; on Sundays they discuss "preforeordestination." Though Twain may overdo Emmeline, her fixation on death and her family's morbid fixation on her,
ring true. While the sons die off before their fathers in
an ancient feud whose origins they can't remember,
Emmeline's mother spends her days visiting the room
of the daughter who has predeceased her.
Every Grangerford is first of all a Grangerford, tied by
name, looks, and loyalties to his tribal clan. There is little sense of individual identity apart from the home and
inherited name. Family is not a bridge to relations with
others, but an extension of one's self. The feud which
preoccupies them expresses an excessive and inverted
love of one's own. The only social activities we hear of
48
are those extended family "junketings" in which "mostly
kinfolks" come for days at a time to hunt, picnic, and
dance. At such affairs, one imagines, are arranged the
marriages of second and third cousins, unions which
preserve the uworth" of such "tribes" and, above all,
prevent disastrous alliances with the sons of enemy clans
of aristocracy.
The Grangerfords have no public relations, and frequent no public places. We hear of the steamboat
landing-which seems to welcome no one to this backwater settlement-and of the church, the only neutral
meeting place of the hostile clans. There they listen attentively to the sermon-"all about brotherly love." But,
recognizing only blood brothers, they keep their guns
"handy against the wall." In both Huckleberry Finn and
the Darnel-Watson passage in Life on the Mississippi, no
one but the two families seems to be in the church.
Compare this Grangerford Sunday with the St. Petersburg Sunday on which Tom Sawyer loses his pinch bug.
On the latter, the church is full of children fresh from Sunday school, where Tom must introduce himself to the
new judge by his full family name. Older worshippers
are identified by their public position or by family name
and public role: the aged postmaster, the mayor, the
justice of the peace, the widow Douglas-always associated with her palatial "hospitable" mansion, Major
and Mrs. Ward, Lawyer Riverson, young belles, and
clerks, and the Model Boy. St. Petersburg is a community where even the town drunk acquires a sort of civic status. The church is clearly a public meeting place. After
the hymn the minister "turned himself into a bulletin
board and read off notices of meetings and societies
... a queer custom which is still kept up in America."
The prayer which follows is a "good generous" one. Unlike the "ornery" backwoods preaching about brotherly
love, it reaches out to include pleas for
the church; the little children of the church; the other
churches of the village; for the village itself; for the county;
for the State; for the State officers; for the United States; for
the churches of the United States; for the Congress; for the
President; for the officers of the Government; for poor sailors
tossed by stormy seas; for the oppressed millions groaning
under the heel of European monarchies and Oriental
despotisms.
It is to this community of families that Tom makes his tri-
umphal return after lighting out for a boyish adventure.
Twain makes marvelous fun out of the disastrous Sunday school award, the pretenses of the parishioners, the
cadences of the prayer, and the delightful busting up of
the service as all hearts and minds are turned towardsthe pinch bug! But there is no doubt that the members
of the congregation constitute a satisfying community of
fully developed civic beings as well as family members.
The same can be said of the honor-bound First Families
of Virginia in Pudd'nhead Wilson. They show off their
town's new graveyard, jail, town hall, churches, indepen-
SUMMER 1985
�dent fire company, militia company, and "where the
richest man lived" to visiting Italian noblemen. With one
foot tied to their aristocratic Virginia pasts, they eagerly
partake of their democratic Missouri presents and futures,
visiting the homes of Aunt Patsy and the uprooted
Pudd'nhead, even as they duel for their ancient honor.
For all their refinement, then, the housebound Grangerfords seem peculiarly primitive in the light of the new
"sivilization" on the banks of the Mississippi. It is not
just that their carpets and white clothes and plastered,
whitewashed walls cover over the dark savagery of their
ancient feud. It is that their ancient feud-and everything
else in their way of life-harks back to a pre-political condition in which human beings have not yet emerged from
natural family associations to conventional civil law. Not
only do his slaves and his sons remain "boys," but the
undisputed master, as Cyclopean lawgiver to his wife and
children, remains somehow undeveloped. As the only
man among a household of women, boys, and slaves,
he never deals with his equals in a public arena in which
law, and not his own will, regulates relations. Political
life anywhere requires the separation of individual
responsibility and action from blood kinship, and the
agreement to punish wrongs by disinterested communal
authority and law. The first step away from patriarchal
feuds is appropriately an elopement. Lighting out from
their ancestral homes, Harney and Sophia take refuge
across the river, to be married by authorities outside their
families. The children of this union will look like Grangerfords and Shepherdsons, and will probably live in a
town. No longer bound to their paternal origins, they will
turn their attention to the wider community and live by
its laws.
Tocqueville' s observations are again helpful. Free, adult
life in the United States requires that "all classes display
the utmost reliance upon the legislation of their country
and [be] attached to it by a kind of paternal affection"(I.xiv). American patriotism, however, goes beyond
instinctive patriotic feelings which tie men to their birthplace and make them love their country as they "love the
mansion of their fathers." Nurtured by the laws," it encourages citizens to exercise their civil rights" (Lxiv), and
in assemblies to "salute the authorities of the day as the
fathers of their country" (Lxiv). Besides Emmeline's originals in the Grangerford parlor, Huck sees pictures of
Washington and the signers of the Declaration of Independence. It is not clear what place these founding
fathers could hold in the hearts of the "nice family" that
lives there. At any rate, one is not surprised to find that
the "House Beautiful's" chief "slander of the family in
oil" -in big gilt frame-"papa holding a book ('Constitution of the United States')'' -is absent from the House
of Grangerford.
We must return to Pilgrim's Progress, the book in the
parlor. It is about a man that leaves his family. The man
has only one name, the generic name of Christian. Christianity loosens the powerful bonds of blood kinship and
turns man's attention from family and political life to the
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
heavenly city. At the end of the journey all are equalfathers and sons, men and women, aristocrats and com-
moners, freemen and slaves. Universal brotherly love is
promised along with eternal life, liberty and happiness.
The American founding fathers promised much less. In
return for abandoning the unchanging names, property,
privileges, duties, and ceremonies of ancient, ancestral
ties, they offered unlimited mobility, individuality, and
an equal right to this-worldly life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. They guaranteed this right not by relying on the private charity of Bible-reading widows,
sermons about brotherly love, or camp-meeting preachings to the wicked, but by inculcating a respect for public institutions and the secular law, a respect which was
closely bound up with self-interest and self-respect. In
America one could always change one's name, earn one's
place, name that place, or light out for the territory. These
are cures for the evils of the House of Grangerford. But
they bring on their own characteristic American diseases,
ones which Twain goes on to explore as Huck travels
south from the Grangerfords. Excessive and exclusive family ties are replaced by excessive isolated individualism,
and then by a complete lack of individuality which also
threatens viable community life. And America is plagued
with its characteristic outsiders, in the forms of drifters
and slaves. In each incident we are still searching for a
viable combination of free individuality and attachments
to family and civic communities, for an appropriate
American home.
Bricksville, Arkansas, is deep south, far from the
westem river towns of Missouri, and a good distance
from the woodland, backwater compound of the Grangerfords. Its ills are a peculiar combination of American
traits and the special perversions of southern slavery. The
town is too close to the river; its characteristic element
is mud. The traces of family, civic, economic structures
are visible, but, with respect to '' sivilization,'' Bricksville' s
"been there before." Private houses are "old and
shacldy," propped up to avoid flooding; their gardens
are full of weeds, hogs, and trash, and the fences are in
disrepair, with hanging gates, "whitewashed some time
or another, but the Duke said it was in Columbus's time,
like enough." The human inhabitants of this community aren't at home much. They have little to do with
women and children. Their ramshackly gates lead out to
a public space where, again, hogs make themselves at
home. Slavery has arrested the development of these men
as much as it has the master, sons, and slaves of the Grangerfords. No one works. They hang around storefronts,
but their only public business is conducted in grunts
about "borrowing" tobacco. Their names echo the first
names of St. Petersburg children and Grangerford
"boys," but they are not completed by surnames; thus,
they seem, at the same time, characteristically American,
and yet un-American. As Huck remarks in Tom Sawyer,
kings and slaves have only given names. Unarticulated
from each other by home, work, or name, and unconcerned with the past or future, these ragged men loaf
49
�away their present, tormenting stray animals, much as
the patched schoolboys "stir up" ticks and pinch bugs
in Tom Sawyer. When a harmless old drunk bearing only
the muddy last name of Boggs is shot to death, this ''com~
munity" bands together to lynch the murderer. They
"swarm" to his house, terrifying women, children, and
slaves, and threatening to "tromp" everything to
"mush." The loafers described at the beginning of the
chapter are the raw material for the anonymous, inarticulate mob which Twain would later describe as the
"United States of Lyncherdom."
They are faced down by the murderer, Colonel Sherburn, the most isolated individual in Huckleberry Finn. His
well-cared-for house and "twenty-foot yard" are the first
objects of attack; the mob must first "tear down the fence,
tear down the fence." Isolated from the townspeople,
Sherburn greets his neighbors from his roof, looking
down on those who would lynch him. He makes the
longest, most articulate speech in the book. He has lived
in many places, north and south, and is apparently unattached to any human being. Unlike Huck, who also has
no family, he is unmoved by the fear and grief of Boggs'
"sweet and gentle" daughter. Sherburn resembles Grangerford, but this colonel stands alone. For him, armies,
like mobs, are composed of subordinate half-men who
can be scared into courage by their mass and by their
officers. The incident which sets off the Bricksville mob
is an anachronistic parody of an aristocratic duel. Sherburn's name has been insulted, and he punctiliously fulfills all the ceremonies-challenges, time, cocked pistol,
discarded weapon-to avenge his detached and selforiented honor. He would not stoop to the ambushes and
bowie knives of the backwater feud. He is unimaginable
in the democratic militias which extended frontiers
against savage Indians and resisted the civilized armies
of European kings. And he is unassimilable in the
democratic towns for which these militias cleared the
way. In sum, he is as far from legal community as are
his anonymous attackers. Twain returns to the entertainments of the Bricksville loafers twice again before Huck
moves on. The murder of Boggs is reenacted in their
pleasure in the drunk circus clown's danger, and in their
early delight in and later revenge against the perpetrators of the Royal Nonesuch.
The two frauds who suffer their wrath again raise the
question of isolated individualism as an American danger.
Mobility, anonymity, and an uncontrolled desire for quick
riches characterize these homeless drifters. They repeatedly light out from "sivilized" communities which they
"work," but within which they have no sustained working identities. Isolated at first, they form an uneasy association based on self-interest, and are never slow to
cheat each other, as well as their shared dupes. Lacking
true pasts or names, they are self-made men who assimilate themselves into the families of European aristocracy
and American democrats whenever they stand to profit.
But the true "secret of their birth" is that they have no
selves. The two buddies who bellow out a version of the
50
love scene from Romeo and Juliet- Twain won't let us forget Harney and Sophia-have nothing to do with homes
and families, feuding or otherwise. Their handbill for the
Royal Nonesuch "fetches" their dupes in Bricksville, but
it also characterizes the dupers: "LADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED." Though they carry the rags
and pieces of "sivilized" places in their carpetbags and
heads, they are, like Sherburn, totally detached. We last
see them, like him, being attacked by the anonymous
mob which counters their violations of communal law
with equally lawless punishment.
***
What has this tour through river communities, homes,
and families to do with the lovely boy who reads Pilgrim's
Progress and then follows his heart and vows to go to Hell
to save a slave? Only a reader whose own heart is as
"deformed" as Twain elsewhere says Huck's "conscience" is, would fail to become deeply attached to the
kid who humbles himself before Jim, writes poetry for
Emmeline, "cries a little" over Buck Grangerford, and
feels sorry for murderers, for Boggs, and the clown, and
Mary Jane, and Silas Phelps, and even for "them poor
pitiful rascals," the Duke and the King. His liveliness,
intelligence, and, above all, his sympathy for others, are
born of the heart. Twain gives no other indication of their
origins. But Huck is a sprite-an American one to be
sure-and, like all sprites, he does not partake of the lasting attachment that most mortals form. The Prosperos
of this world are always sadder than the Ariels when the
latter light out for freedom. Our attachment to Huck
should not prevent us from recognizing that America has
a tendency to invite and encourage lighting out, and that
lighting out is the source of both strengths and weaknesses in the home of the free.
Huck is a homeless orphan in St. Petersburg. The boy
is taken in by a well-meaning widow in a nice house-in
Tom Sawyer it's the best mansion in town. He's sent to
school and church, and he plays with the children of
respectable families. To his father's horror, he learns to
read and write, and like all nineteenth century American children, to spell. But he declares his independence
from his first to his last paragraphs with the only misspelling in his book-" sivilization." At home he is taught
table manners and prayers, and is always reprimanded
with the full version of his first name, Huckleberry! But
at night, when the restrictive routine gets him down, he
lights out to less confined spaces, not through the gate,
but out the window and off the roof. Though there are
town fathers in this village, the "sivilization" in which
Huck dwells for a time is primarily female. Miss Watson
and the widow of the former justice of the peace offer
a stiff and somewhat dessicated family, a home from
which men no longer go forth to work with other men.
Huck's father is a juicier type, closer to the river. At
the edges of "sivilization," he's attached to no one.
There's only a passing mention of Huck's mother, and
SUMMER 1985
�the paternal ''home'' has been mostly barrels in a muddy
hogyard. Like all the homeless drifters in this book, he
lives, not by working, but by "borrowing off" others.
Pap-his full name is rarely used-disappears on the river
for long stretches, and returns to plague his son for his
independently acquired legacy. He cannot be received at
the widow's, so he hangs around the garden fence and
later climbs in by the shed. A brief attempt to "sivilize"
Pap by removing him from the tan yard to a new judge's
"own house," ends with Pap's lighting out offthe porch
roof in the middle of the night, returning to make a shambles of a beautiful spare room. Later he imprisons Huck
in an abandoned log hut in a thick wood where "there
warn't no houses." There they live the disorganized life
of men without women-no books, study, prayers,
schedules, or neighbors-and no reliable nurture or protection. Housebound again, Huck escapes from the unpredictable rages of Pap, again not through a door or gate,
but by sawing a hole in the house itself.
In the long trip down the river, Huck lives among men.
You can't live on the river unless you have some kind
of solid platform. But the raft wigwam is unattached; it
has no foundations. It houses an easy, free, unregulated
life which is always in flux. As you drift by, no one knows
your name, or your father's. There are no rooted trees,
no adjacent yards, and no fences to admit neighbors or
prevent others from "borrowing." The river washes a
two story house in its flood and Huck and Jim climb in
a second story window to plunder the dirty detritus of
its anonymous former inhabitants. Their possessions are
further increased by the loot taken from the murderous
thieves who are left to die in the well-furnished Walter
Scott.
The prime cigars which Huck takes from the Walter
Scott remind us that life on the raft is not so pure as it
might at first seem. Like native American huckleberry
bushes, which are neither cultivated nor woods-wild, but
which thrive on cleared land where human settlers have
left their mark, Huckleberry Finn lives off the "sivilized"
life from which he continually escapes. His canoes, hats,
melons, cigars, and even his company, are supplied by
settled towns along the river. The "lazying," "borrowing,'' ''smoking'' idyll is the attractive version of the more
disturbing American lives led by the Walter Scott thieves,
the Bricksville tobacco chewers, and the Duke and the
King. Huck, like them, has no settled home.
Huck is a sojourner in various houses for brief periods
in his trip down the river. At Mrs. Loftus', the Grangerfords', the Wilkses' and the Phelpses' he is welcomed,
entertained, and told all about the inhabitants. Aunt
Sally, who at last knows who he is, invites him to remain
permanently grounded in a community of family farms.
This prompts him to light out for good. All his other hosts
never learn his name, which he freely changes for new
acquaintances. They'll never see him again. Huck is a
homeless guest-friend who'll never reciprocate by freely
offering his own hospitality. His own river home is
peculiarly open to visitors. He himself welcomes the Duke
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
and King because they are fugitives from "sivilization,"
and need help. By the time Huck realizes what this
means, his home has become their castle, and the best
he can do is to try to "keep peace in the family." As we
have seen, they "borrow" freely from their oppressed
hosts, and eventually return one of them to his stalj.is as
goods for their own profit. Having no natural or conventional attachments, and no fixed place in a community,
Huck is powerless to defend himself, his home, and his
friend against invaders.
Jim's need for defense raises radical questions about
what kind of home America can be for all the people who
live there. America is born in the declaration that all men
are created equal and that they are endowed with inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. But perhaps there is a tension between the
unequivocal recognition that slavery is an evil, and other
principles of the new nation. Having abandoned public
exhortations to love one's neighbor and to fight for his
soul, and having relinquished the direct formation of
character in its fullest sense as a public goal, America's
social contract seems to have let loose self-interested individualism. In this respect, the masters of huge estates
and homeless drifters like the Duke and King may not
be so different from each other. Southerners already in
the awkward position of depending on slaves, might
justify wrenching black Africans from their homes and
keeping them homeless in the land these masters considered their own. Even a confused belief that enslaved
blacks were less than human, incapable of contract, was
sufficient to deny them the rights declared at America's
foundation. Twain's Pudd'nhead Wilson is as dark a depiction of the consequences of this belief as can be found
in American literature. It is no accident that uprooted
slaves so readily turned to the destination and freedom
promised in Pilgrim's Progress. To those deprived of
names, families, homes, and possessions, the ''home in
that rock" seemed a sure future. Angels in sweet chariots would carry them to the home America promised to
all men but, in practice, did not provide. Twain's story
makes no argument for Jim's rights as an American. His
powerful case against slavery is founded on his depiction of Jim as a full human being who is capable of having home, family, friends and work.
On his own, Huck sleeps in the open. It is Jim, the
domestic slave, who makes their first ~~home/' a cavewith several rooms and a front door-to protect them
from the elements and from other human beings. Their
second house, the raft wigwam, is made and repeatedly
repaired by Jim. It is he who stands watch most often and
who tends the hearthfire during Huck's absences. And,
most tellingly, it is he who grows "homesick" on the
river. For Jim, Huck's judgment that "there warn't no
home like a raft" must be qualified. Attached to his wife
and children, who do not even have the legal status of
family, he looks forward to work among other grown
men, and to keeping the money he will earn by that work.
Though the future for men like Jim is clearly bleak, the
51
�former house slave, ''Miss Watson's big nigger Jim,'' in
seeking freedom seeks the right to own property-a
house for his family-in his own full name. Considering
the numerous snatches of poems, plays, and songs which
echo through this book, it is interesting that Jim never
sings the spirituals which Twain learned in his boyhood,
and loved to sing long after he had left the south. Jim's
"religion" seems relatively uninfluenced by Miss Watson's. For him full adult freedom must mean looking to
the immediate, this-world, future, and freely contracting
for marriage, work, and property of his own earning.
Jim's aspirations, though clearly limited by his education
and the society he lives in, are the clearest indication that
he is, by nature, fully human-more fully human than
many of the "free" men Huck meets on their journey,
and, perhaps, more fully human than Huck himself will
ever be.
Despite the risks Huck takes for Jim, and despite his
genuine chosen friendship and concern for him, his attachment here, too, is passing. Huck fails to comment
on the news of Jim's freedom, and never speaks to him
alone after Tom reveals it. Likewise, he has no response
to Jim's revelation that Pap is dead. The offer of female
"sivilization" is quickly rejected and the last word from
our American sprite is that he will "light out for the territory ahead of the rest." This time he'll go alone, and
we know that Tom's plans for ''a couple of weeks or two''
of "howling adventures amongst the Indians" are unlikely to materialize. America will follow, of course, with
her Declaration of Independence, churches, schools, and
plans for future city halls, roads, and fire departments.
But Huck Finn, the perennial boy among boys, whose
freedom consists.in lighting out through windows and
off roofs, lives always in the present. Always in transit,
never at home, he has no destination. His future offers
only repeated lighting out. Another American future lies
with kids like Tom Sawyer, who hang around the fences
of the little girls they court and eventually marry, who
52
whitewash the fences that separate their own houses from
those of nearby neighbors, and who are expected to grow
up and to go the National Military Academy and the best
law school in the country. And it lies with grown-up men
like Judge Thatcher-and, perhaps, someday, like Jimwho have work of their own and greet their neighbors
through front doors and garden gates.
The picture looks much prettier in Tom Sawyer, the book
for children who'll follow in Tom's footsteps. When
they're older, perhaps, they'll be ready to think about
Huck and what he rejects and embraces. Some readers
think that not only the fence is whitewashed in the earlier book, but also the greed, hypocrisy, and potential violence of the town Huck once considered home. The dark
hints about St. Petersburg are surely more fully developed in Huckleberry Finn, and Tom is, in some ways, the
most disturbing character in the book. But St. Petersburg
with all its warts must be compared to the alternatives
we see. There is little doubt that community life as one
goes down the river gets worse, that Grangerford feuds
and Arkansas towns are more debased than the more
northern town from which Jim runs. Huck's lighting out,
his natural delight in the water and stars, and his unexamined goodness, teach us much about the defects of the
"sivilized" places he moves through. Their slavery is
more than a defect. It is an unacceptable evil, and Twain
has no illusions about the ease with which this evil can
be eradicated. But, as we have seen, Huck's life depends
on the lives of these towns. And, despite the shortcomings which Twain so sharply reveals in the townspeople,
their rootedness and their attachment to homes attached
to other homes, are the only foundations on which viable American communities can be built. If freedom can
mean anything besides continual lighting out, these are
the men and women who will be at home in America.
If not, then Twain's book is very dark indeed, and he has
left us all alone and homeless.
SUMMER 1985
�1784: The Year
St. John's College Was Named
Charlotte Fletcher
In late December 1784, a western shore college was
chartered by the Maryland General Assembly and was
given the name St. John's College. Contemporary records
do not reveal how and why the name was chosen.
If the college was named for a saint, there were three
strong contenders. First was St. John Chrysostom. In 1807
he was a favorite of two of fhe college's early graduates,
John Shaw and Francis Scott Key (class of 1796), who
were young poets with literary ambitions. Chrysostom,
the "golden-mouthed" bishop of Constantinople, was
a muse to John Shaw. "By the blessing of St.
Chrysostom, '' he wrote Francis Scott Key on January 24,
1807, "As I am in great haste, and in no less need for
our Saint's assistance, I hope you have not forgotten our
plans, but will soon be ready in the litany, 0 Sancte
Chrysostome! ora pro nobis. I have examined the college
library and find many valuable books in it. There is an
edition of Chrysostom in twelve volumes, three of whlch
are wanting ... ' ' 1
After 1870, John the Evangelist was generally accepted
as the favored saint. In a dedication speech at the opening of Woodward Hall on June 18, 1900, John Wirt Randall commented that the Evangelist's name was
particularly appropriate for an educational institution because it suggested "more than those of the other
apostles-the relation between a scholar and a teacher."'
Indeed, St. John's College at Cambridge University was
named for the Evangelist. Randall knew this, and also
that a college historian of the 1870s had claimed that certain unnamed 1784 incorporators had attended St. John's
College, Cambridge. For this reason, it was believed, the
Annapolis college had been named "St. John's" after the
Cambridge college.'
In 1894 Bernard Steiner introduced another theory
about the origin of the college's name. He wrote: "Other
authorities say the name (St. John's) was given in comTHE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
pliment to the Masonic fraternity then very strong in Annapolis."' It is true that the seal of St. John's College,
as well as that of Washington College (founded 1782),
bears a masonic symbol. It is also true that the old Masonic lodge of Annapolis warranted by the St. John's
Grand Lodge of Massachusetts in 1750 was a St. John's
lodge. It was a "modern" lodge, i.e., descended from
the Grand Lodge of England (founded 1717). Other
Maryland lodges of the colonial period were chartered
by the Grand Lodge of Pennsylvania and were "ancients," or Ancient York Masons. It was customary to call
all local lodges that were warranted by Grand Lodges by
the generic name St. John's lodges. 5
But if the college was named "in compliment to the Masonic fraternity then very strong in Annapolis,'' as Steiner
suggested, a fhird saint, John the Baptist, could have been
the one honored in the naming of the college. The Masons honored two St. Johns, John the Baptist and John the
Evangelist.
Steiner's reference to an active Masonic fraternity is also
unclear because the old Annapolis St. John's Lodge was
moribund after 1764. 6 Yet many Masons visited Annapolis
in the revolutionary period. They came from the counties of Maryland and other states of the Confederation
to attend the Continental Congress, the General Assembly, and the General Courts. They included officers in
the Maryland Line7 and other distinguished military
figures. Moreover, throughout the state new "ancient"
lodges were being warranted under the Pennsylvania
Grand Lodge, and members of "modern" lodges who
wished to enter into the mysteries of Ancient York
Masonry were being "healed." Two Masons in Kent
County were active in promoting Ancient York Masonry
in Maryland during the 1780s: they were the Rev. William Smith and Peregrine Leatherbury, who had been
among the incorporators of Washington College in 1782. 8
53
�The year before, Smith, the Grand Secretary of the Pennsylvania Grand Lodge, had digested and abridged an Ahiman Rezon, or book of masonic constitutions, for the
Pennsylvania Grand Lodge. Published in 1783, the Ahiman Rezon was a guide to Masons on moral conduct and
discretion and laid out an orderly procedure to be followed at lodge meetings. Repeatedly, it designated the
two St. Johns' days, that of the Baptist on June 24 and
that of the Evangelist on December 27, for special business and festive occasions. 9 However, it offered no information about the Masonic symbols used at the time
on official seals like those of Washington and St. John's
colleges.
Two books on European Masonry of the period,
however, do offer examples of Masonic symbols used as
teaching devices. An old Russian Mason in Tolstoy's War
and Peace described an example to Pierre Bezuhov when
he instructed him in the mysteries of Masonry. The old
man described a mount, raised stone by stone by succeeding generations, on which the temple of wisdom, or Solomon's temple, was erected. 10 This description was an aid
in identifying the device adopted for the St. John's seal
(see Figure 1). The layers of stones in the pile number
seven, the usual number of steps leading up to Solomon's
temple and a number corresponding to the seven Masonic
virtues. On the St. John's seal, a man climbing aloft carries a T-square .11
The second book about European Masonry of this period, Jacques Chailley's Magic Flute: a Masonic Opera, 12 is
replete with illustrations of Masonic devices. Washington College adopted one that shows a shield hung from
a column. The three stars on the shield symbolize the
three Masonic degrees of St. John's Masonry: apprentice,
fellow-craft and master mason. Key-like tools hold
garlands of roses as a drapery above the column to
celebrate the enthusiasm that brought about the founding of the college. A picture in the book13 identified these
tools as the miniature trowels used in Masonic rites to
"seal" the mouths of initiates (Figure 2), i.e., to remind
them of the first Masonic virtue, discretion, or the keeping of secrets.
The date on the Washington College seal-1782commemorates the year that the college was founded,
which was also a year in which two well-established Masonic lodges were flourishing in Kent County .14 If the St.
John's seal had been similarly dated with the year that
it was chartered, its seal might also constitute evidence
of a Masonic fraternity in Annapolis in 1784. But the St.
John's seal is dated 1793, the year that the Board of Visitors and Governors ordered that a seal be designed and
executed to imprint diplomas for the college's first graduates.15 Coincidentally, it also commemorated a significant
date for Annapolis Masonry: in 1793 the Amanda Lodge
No. 12, an "ancient," was founded, creating a brotherhood of Annapolis Masons to help lay the cornerstone
of the new capitol at Washington in November 1793. 16
The Masonic device on the St. John's seal dated 1793,
then, does not refer to a Masonic fraternity in Annapolis
54
in Annapolis in the 1780s and does not substantiate Steiner's theory.
Yet a Masonic enthusiasm had promoted education
throughout Maryland in the 1780s. In 1784 the imminent
creation of a Western Shore college was greeted with fervor by Freemason William Smith in his introduction to
An Account of Washington College. The preamble of the
"Charter of 1782" published therein described an eventual state university comprised of a Western and Eastern
Shore college united under "one supreme legislative and
visitatorial jurisdiction." Smith's uplifting and inspiring
introduction was written in the spirit of the times:
For however flattering it may be to consider the growth of
these rising states as tending to encrease [sic] the wealth and
commerce of the world; they are to be considered in another
more serious view, as ordained to enlarge the sphere of HU-
MANITY. In that view .the great interest of civil LIBERTY,
the parent of every other social blessings, will not be forgotten .. .. We must regard the'great concerns of religion and
another world. We must attend to the rising generation. The
souls of our youth must be nursed up to the love of LlliERTY
and KNOWLEDGE; and their bosoms warmed with a sacred
and enlightened zeal for every thing that can bless or dignify
the species . ... 17
In that spirit-wishing "to attend to the rising generation" and to found a university-a group of gentlemen
met in Annapolis to promote a Western Shore college on
December 3, 1784. They ordered
that the reverend john Carroll, William Smith, D.D. and
Patrick Allison, D.D. together with Richard Sprigg, john
Steret and George Digges Esquires, be a committee to complete the heads of a bill for founding a college on the Western
Shore, and to publish the same immediately, with a proper
preamble for taking in subscriptions ....
Accordingly, by December 16 the text of "A Draught of
a Proposed Act, Submitted to Public Consideration, for
Founding a College on the Western Shore of This State,
and for Constituting the Same, together with Washington College on the Eastern Shore, into One University,
by the Name of The UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND" was
released to the public. 18
One subscription list was actually filled by December
16. Known as the Annapolis list, it bore signatures of
sixty-two subscribers who pledged a total of 2703 pounds.
Those who pledged were planters, legislators, state officials, a barracksman, a silversmith, a carpenter, a clergyman, a tavern-keeper, a barber, a sea captain, and all the
merchants of Annapolis.
The six men ordered "to complete the heads of a bill
for founding a college on the Western Shore" were to
be known as ''subscription agents.'' They were a clergyman and a layman from each of the three major religious
denominations in Maryland, the Roman Catholic, the
Presbyterian and the Protestant Episcopal. Of these men,
only William Smith was from an Eastern Shore county.
SUMMER 1985
�The "Draught" borrowed large portions of the
Washington College charter of 1782 but added a new
preamble and plan for electing members to the Board of
Visitors and Governors. Much else was left out because,
as they explained, it would merely repeat similar articles
in the Charter of 1782."
A letter written by William Smith dated January 16,
1785, told how in early December he had been called "in
Conjunction with two Oergymen of other Denominations
... to draft the University Law which we happily did
Zeal of the Eastern Shore for the Advancement of Learning,
in that the Sum of five thousand pounds which the Act required ... has been nearly doubled in less than One Year,
they trusted that
the Genera1 Assembly will think this College deserving of
their further Attention and favors, and will extend their Views
to the establishing and encouraging of Seminaries of Learning in the State. 25
with great Unanimity.' ' 20
While "happily" drafting the "Proposed Act," the subscription agents expanded paragraph 9 of the Charter of
1782, which read "youth of all religious denominations
shall be freely and liberally admitted ... according to their
merit ... without requiring or enforcing any religious
or civel [sic] test," by adding "without urging their attendance upon any particular worship or service, other
than what they have been educated in, or have the consent and approbation of their parents or guardians to attend." Apparently, the authors of the text that finally
became the "Charter of 1784" intended that students
should enjoy religious liberty and that the college would
nurture students in their own faith, for as John Carroll
said, "It being an intended stipulation that provision be
made, from the College funds, if necessary, to procure
all of them opportunities to frequent their particular forms
of worship. " 21
To the paragraph on civil liberty contained in the
Draught, the Charter of 1784 added an introductory
clause for emphasis, saying the college would be established "upon the following fundamental and inviolable
principles" -and made several other changes as well.
Where the Draught had read "upon the most liberal and
catholic plan," the Charter of 1784 omitted the word
'catholic. ' 2
William Smith explained the necessity for omitting
"and catholic." The word 'catholic,' he wrote, "although
intelligible enough to many, yet-is not approved by
many others, on account of the vulgar application to one
particular church. " 23 He continued to use it in his own
letters, however, in its all-embracing sense. When the
Charter of 1784 was finally enacted, he proudly commented that "Maryland has been among the last of the States
in her Provisions for Learning; but none of them can boast
so noble a Foundation as her University now is." 24
In May 1783, eighteen months before the passage of
the Charter of 1784, William Paca and his council sent a
message to the General Assembly recommending that the
legislature give special attention to two issues as soon as
peace was firmly established: "Trade and Commerce"
first, and then "Matters of so high Concernment as
Religion and Learning."
For the latter they recommended "Public support for
the Ministers of the Gospel," which the Maryland Bill
of Rights allowed, and acknowledging the strong public
encouragement given Washington College, as shown by
the
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
As a matter of fact, the three clergy agents who were
commanded in December 1784 to "complete the heads
of a bill for founding a college on the Western Shore"
had been engaged in "Religion and Learning" all their
lives. All were teachers and educators. John Carroll was
a graduate of St. Orner's College in France and of the
Jesuit academy at Liege, Belgium; he was a priest and a
teacher at the Jesuit college in Bruges until the Jesuit order
in Belgium was suppressed by a papal bull in 1773. In
1784 he was engaged in organizing the American Catholic
Church. Patrick Allison, a graduate and then a teacher
at the College of Philadelphia, came to Maryland in 1764
to become pastor of the Baltimore Presbyterian Church,
where he served for the remainder of his life. And William Smith, a graduate of the University of Aberdeen,
was the young Scotsman whom Benjamin Franklin had
recruited to develop the Philadelphia Academy into a college. He was the teacher of Natl.J!al Philosophy and
Provost of the College of Philadelphia from the time the
College was chartered in 1753 until the revocation of its
charter in 1779. In 1784 he was rector of Chester Parish,
Kent County, and President of Washington College, as
well as a leader in the formation of the new Protestant
Episcopal Church. 26
All three men were polemicists who wrote pamphlets,
letters to the newspapers, and petitions to the Assembly
on behalf of their particular churches, sometimes attacking each other. Though sectarian interests divided them,
the rise of Freemasonry may have created a climate that
allowed them to work in concert for the advancement of
learning. Indeed, John Carroll described a new kind of
religious freedom in America following the Revolution:
in these United States our Religious System has undergone
a revolution if possible, more extraordinary, than our political one. In all of them free toleration is allowed to Christians
of every denomination; and particularly in the States of Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia, a communication of all Civil rights, without distinction or diminution, is
extended to those of our Religion. This is a blessing and advantage, which is our duty to preserve & improve with utmost prudence. 27
Either Freemasonry or the Spirit of '76, or both, created
such a climate. In the fall of 1784, John Carroll replied
to a "Letter to the Roman Catholics of Worcester," which
was published in three different issues of the Maryland
55
�Gazette28 after having been printed as a pamphlet in
Philadelphia the previous winter. The author, Charles
Wharton, Carroll's cousin and ex-jesuit, had recently
joined the Protestant Episcopal Church. In the "Letter"
he explained to his former congregation in Worcester, England, the doctrinal reasons for his leaving the Roman
Church. All three parts are scholarly, referring often to
the church fathers, and especially to St. john Chrysostom,
who he claimed supported his Protestant view of the
Scriptures. Carroll, a convinced Catholic, took the opposite view and refuted this argument in a pamphlet, ''An
Address to Roman Catholics on Wharton. " 29 He quoted
from the volumes of Chrysostom that he found in the
"public library" in Annapolis. 30 Responses from Catholic
readers assured him that he had succeeded in reaffirming their faith. When Wharton published another letter,
"To the Roman Catholics of Maryland,"31 Carroll refused
to reply: "I shall forbear reviving a spirit of controversy,
least it should add fuel to some spark of religious animosity. " 32 Carroll was eager that Catholic youths and teachers
seize the opportunity offered them by the Maryland colleges. 33
Patrick Allison, on the contrary, was far more conten-
tious in 1783 and 1784 because he saw a concerted effort
to set up a new established church in Maryland. Along
with Anabaptists, Methodists, Quakers, and Roman
Catholics, he continued to smart from having been taxed
for the support of the Church of England in Maryland
before 1776. Immediately after Governor Paca's address
in May, 1783, he began writing a series of articles in the
Maryland Journal against the tax proposed to "support the
ministers of the Gospel." Allison thought the tax could
only benefit the new Protestant Episcopal Church, which
had been designated heir to all real property of the old
established Church of England. Moreover, because the
church's membership and property already exceeded that
of the other sects, the tax would extend its influence out
of all proportion to that enjoyed by the others, and, indeed, lead to a new church establishment. He suggested
that to prevent such a development, former Church of
England property be divided among all the sects that had
paid a church tax before the Revolution. 34
The first of Allison's articles (published july 15, 1783)
attacked the clergyman nominated by the Maryland Convention of the Protestant Episcopal Church to become the
first bishop of Maryland, William Smith. Allison used his
rapier pen exuberantly:
Nor is it my wish to disturb the reverend Dr. S. in his retirement from the world and the things of the world, where he
is inhaling copious draughts of sublime contemplation, purifying himself by a course of mental recollection, contrition, and
extraordinary devotion, for the mitred honours to which he
is destined. 3s
Smith took no lasting offence at Allison's attack,
although it may have been one of the factors influencing
the church to reject him as a candidate for bishop. Smith
56
was perhaps toughened by years of controversy endured
in Pennsylvania before he came to Maryland. In 1758 and
1759, while William Paca and Patrick Allison were attending the College of Philadelphia, Provost Smith was jailed
by the Pennsylvania General Assembly on a charge of
libel. However, with the backing of the trustees of the
college, he had continued to conduct classes and to function as Provost while in jail. 36 An appeal to the King freed
him but did not endear him to the Assembly: they already
felt threatened by Smith's efforts to promote the Church
of England in Pennsylvania. Finally, in 1779, when they
revoked the charter of the College of Philadelphia, he was
ousted as both Provost and teacher. He then moved to
Chestertown and started a school. This school merged
with the Kent County School and under his direction
grew in size and importance to the point where its
trustees petitioned the General Assembly of Maryland to
charter it as Washington College. 37
It seems most unlikely, however, that Smith, the Freemason, would have suggested the name "St. john" to
honor a Masonic fraternity in Annapolis at the time when
the "Draught of a Proposed Act" was being written: he
would have been afraid that such a suggestion might destroy the "great Unanimity" that the committee was enjoying. Furthermore, though many Catholics, and notably
john Carroll's brother Daniel, belonged to the Masons,
Carroll would have had a deep personal aversion to them:
they had played an active role in the suppression of the
jesuits in Europe. But while he would not have chosen
to honor the Masons, most likely he would not have objected to naming the college after his patron saint (who
was one of the "johns"). Allison, however, had actually
expressed his personal distaste for Masonry when he
ridiculed Smith's participation in Masonic purification
rites. 38 Moreover, the Presbyterians (like the jews) consider all members of a congregation saints, and they (the
Presbyterians) scarcely ever name their institutions after
any except St. Andrew and St. Giles. These two agents,
then, Carroll and Allison, would certainly not have suggested the name "St. john" to honor the Masons.
On December 24, 1784, ten days after its publication
in Annapolis, the "Draught of a Proposed Act" appeared
in Baltimore's Maryland Journal. Six days later a revised
version that incorporated hitherto unpublished sections
borrowed from the Charter of 1782 was enacted by the
House of Delegates. It included provisions for collecting
revenues through licenses and taxes on the Western
Shore for the support of the college39 and outlined a policy
for the governance of a University of Maryland. Where
blanks had been left in the Draught for insertion of a
name, "St. John's College" now appeared. The naming
action was a fait accompli at the time the bill was introduced, for the Journal of the House reported neither
motions nor discussion regarding the college's name.
Neither the Maryland Gazette, nor the Maryland Journal,
nor the Journals of the Senate and the House of Delegates
for the November 1784 Session of the General Assembly, explains what happened. Some special influence was
SUMMER 1985
�at work in Annapolis during the last week of December
1784.
While Governor Paca spent Christmas at Wye Hall on
the Eastern Shore, the General Assembly convened every day, including Christmas and Sunday, in Annapolis. Two major pieces of legislation that he had
recommended in the message of 1783 were slated to come
up during his absence: one bill embodied the interests
of "Trade and Commerce," and the other, the interests
of ''Religion and Learning.'' Although promotion of the
second, the "University Law" (St. John's College), began early in the session, action on it was delayed until
the report from a conference of Maryland and Virginia
legislators concerned with "Trade and Commerce" was
pushed through the Assembly on December 27.
The Journals of the House and Senate report that General Washington and General Gates arrived in Annapolis on December 22. On the same day the following
Maryland commissioners were appointed by the Assembly to confer with the Virginia delegation: Senators Thomas Stone, Samuel Hughes and Charles Carroll; and
Delegates John Cadwalader, Samuel Chase, John
DeButts, George Digges, Philip Key, Gustavus Scott and
Joseph Dashiell. George Washington-the lone Virginian
after General Gates had fallen ill on arrival-was chosen
to chair the conference.
The Senate and House Journals give the barest facts
about the conference, and the newspapers less. A letter
from George Washington, in Annapolis, to the Marquis
de Lafayette in Paris on December 23, is more forthcoming:
You would scarcely expect to receive a letter from me at this
place. A few hours before I set out for it, I as little expected
to cross the Potomac again this winter, or even to be fifteen
miles from home before the last of April, as I did to make
a visit in an air~ba11oon in France. I am here, however, with
General Gates, at the request of the Assembly of Virginia to
fix matters with the Assembly of this State respecting the extension of the inland navigation of the Potomac, and the communication between it and the western waters; and I hope
a plan which will be agreed upon, to the mutual satisfaction
of both States and to the advantage of the Union at large.
"
On December 22 five days of unremitting labor began
for all the conferees. If there were any parties, balls or
dinners given in honor of Washington between December 22 and 29, 1784, in Annapolis, the Maryland Gazette
failed to report them. On the 28th, Washington wrote
James Madison at the Legislature in Richmond, "It is now
near 12 at Night, and I am writing with an Aching Head,
having been constantly employed in this business since
the 22nd without assistance from my Colleagues, Genl.
Gates having been sick the whole time, and Colo. Blackburn not attending .... "41
The Journals of the House and Senate do reveal one
strange hiatus in these five days of intense legislative effort. On December 27 the commissioners who were
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
preparing a Potomac bill introduced their report in the
House of Delegates and received a first and second reading early in the morning session (only nine dissenting
votes were cast). From the House the bill was taken to
the Senate, where it was read and ordered "to lie on the
table" until the Senate reconvened at five o'clock for a
"post meridiem" meeting: the House followed suit and
also adjourned for a "post meridiem" meeting to begin
a half hour later than the Senate's.
When the Senate reconvened at five o'clock, the
Potomac bill, entitled "An Act for Establishing a Company for Opening and Extending the Navigation on the
River Patowmack," had a second reading; the Senate
then concurred with the action taken by the House and
adjourned, probably no later than six o'clock. The House
had reconvened at five-thirty, and since they had no business to transact-their meeting had apparently been
called so that they would be on hand if needed by the
Senate-had adjourned forthwith.
The Potomac bill thus passed both houses on December 27, 1784, the Festival Day of St. John the Evangelist,
the anniversary celebrated by all Freemasons. On the following day, December 28, the Senate resolved "that an
attested copy of the act . . . be transmitted to Gen.
Washington and Gen. Gates ... signing by the governor will be complied with when he returns to town."
On December 29, the House proceeded to take action
on the second major bill of the session, the "University
Law," which was submitted by gentlemen whose names
were on a list of Annapolis subscribers dated December
16, 1784 requesting that the General Assembly enact legislation to establish a Western Shore college."
Like the "Draught of a Proposed Act," which headed
all the subscription lists, the Charter of 1784 allowed one
vote toward election of a Visitor and Governor to each
subscriber who paid nine pounds or more on any list
totaling one thousand pounds. Other provisos in the
Charter for electing members to the Board of Visitors and
Governors differed in some significant respects from
those in the Draught. Where the Draught specified "person or persons" as sources from whom the agents might
solicit contributions, and who might form a class of subscribers who could elect one board member, the Charter
of 1784 adds ''bodies politic and corporate" ; 43 and where
the Draught said the last seven members elected to the
Board to complete an aggregate of twenty-four "may be
chosen from this or any part of the adjacent states," the
Charter narrows the geographical field to "any part of
this state." In both documents the first seventeen members are required to be residents of the Western Shore 44
These provisos are among the "considerable alterations'' to which William Smith referred in a letter to the
Rev. William White in late December 1784:
Considerable alterations were made in the plan first settled
by Mr. Carroll, Dr. Allison and myself, respecting the nice
provisos amongst different denominations in proportion to
their subscriptions. The paper was printed off before I came
57
�over. But I was told by Carroll of Carrollton, Mr. Sprigg, etc.,
that the alterations were made in concert with Dr. Allison.
I am satisfied, as I hope all our society will be, with the plan
as it now is, and as I would have agreed it should originally
have been, as I know that a few grains of mutual confidence
and benevolence among different denominations of Christians will be better than splitting and torturing a design of
this kind with all the provisos possible . ... Carroll of Carrollton, Mr. Digges, etc. have subscribed liberally, as it is expected the rest of that society will do. 45
During his less than peaceable sojourn among the
Quakers in Pennsylvania, William Smith had very likely
learned to call all denominations ''societies,'' a term used
by some denominations but very seldom used by the
Episcopalians and Catholics to whom he referred in this
letter. For example, the rapidly growing denomination
of Methodists called themselves "members in society"
and their congregations "societies" as late as 1857 46 During Christmas 1784, they were organizing the Methodist
Episcopal Church at a conference in Baltimore, declaring
themselves independent of the British Conference in the
choice of their bishops and superintendents. They were
also laying plans to found a college of their own to educate their youth.
In response to the request of the Annapolis subscribers,
the House of Delegates on December 29, 1784 proceeded
to order a committee of seven men - Samuel Chase,
George Digges, Allen Quynn, Nicholas Carroll, John
Cadwalader, David McMechen and Gustavus Scott- to
prepare and bring in a bill for "Founding a college on
the Western Shore of this State." Chase, Digges, Cadwalader and Scott had been on the committee to confer
with Washington on the Potomac bill; all but Scott and
Cadwalader were signers of the Annapolis subscription
list dated December 16. The very next day they were
ready with the bill.
The Journals reveal no additions or corrections to the
bill as introduced on December 30. The name "St. John's
College" as well as any other changes made in the
Draught must have been agreed on beforehand. The only
recorded discussion or motions on the House floor while
the Act was under consideration came from jealous Baltimore town delegates: they proposed that some of the
proceeds collected in Baltimore from the taxes and
licenses designated for the support of the college be
returned to Baltimore. When the question on the total bill
finally came-no changes had been made in the text introduced by the committee-there were 33 yeas and 18
nays.
The nays came from the counties farthest removed from
Annapolis-Harford, Cecil and Washington Counties; the
Eastern Shore (they already had a college) and southern
Maryland delegates were almost to a man in favor. The
one Baltimore delegate who voted yea was David
McMechen, a Freemason. 47
One year before (December 23, 1783), when Washington had resigned as Commander-in-Chief before the
Continental Congress in Annapolis, the Maryland House
58
of Delegates had sent him the following message:
Having by your conduct in the field gloriously terminated th~
war, you have taught us, by your last circular letter, how t<
value, how to preserve and to improve that liberty for whid
we have been contending. We are convinced that publh
liberty cannot be long preserved, but by wisdom, integrity,
and a strict adherence to public justice and public engage
ments. The justice and these engagements, as far as the in
fluence and example of one state can extend, we an
determined to promote and fulfill; and if the powers giver
to congress by the confederation should be found to be in
competent to the purposes of the union, we doubt not ouJ
constituents will readily consent to enlarge them . ... 48
Proud to have enlarged the powers of the Confederation by the expeditious passage of Washington's Potomac
bill, the Maryland legislators named the Western Shore
college for the day when his bill was enacted, the Feast
Day of the Evangelist. (If the Eastern Shore had not already preempted the name for their college, "Washington" might have been a natural choice for the Western
Shore college.) Not only was it a day that they had ~n
joyed in the company of their former Commander-mChief, but also it was a day that would have had specral
significance for Washington, the Freemason.
George Washington, a private citizen in 1784, would
have observed the Feast Day of the Evangelist. Young
George had been initiated as a Mason in the Lodge ~t
Fredericksburg on November 4, 1752. He attended vanous Masonic functions while Commander-in-Chief of the
Continental Army, notably the celebration of the anniversary of the Evangelist in Christ Church, Philadelphia, on
December 28, 1778, when William Smith preached the
sermon. On December 23, 1783, the brethren in the Alexandria Lodge had sent greetings to him on his return
home, which he had acknowledged on the 28th of December as "Yr. Affect. Bror & obedt Servt" These were
not Christmas greeting that were being exchanged: they
were the customary exchange of greetings between Masons on the anniversary of the Evangelist-December 27.
On June 24, 1784, on the anniversary of St. John the Baptist, another festival day observed by the Mason.s,
Washington was invited to dine with Lodge No. 39 m
Alexandria. He had replied, "I will have the honor of doing it .... "Minutes of Lodge No. 39 for that day record
The Worshipful Master Read to the Lodge a most instructive
lecture on the rise, progress & advantages of Masonry & concluded with a prayer suitable to the occasion. The Master &
Brethren then proceed' d to Jn° Wise's Tavern, where they
Dined & after spending the afternoon in Masonick Festivity,
returned again to the Lodge room. The Worshipful Master
with the unanimous consent of the Brethren, was pleased to
admit his Excellency, Genl Washington as an Honorary Member of Lodge No. 39. 49
Two months after his visit to Annapolis in December
1784, on February 28, 1785, Washington walked in a
SUMMER 1985
�procession of Freemasons at the funeral of his friend William Ramsay.
Moreover, Maryland Masons were particularly in the
habit of observing the St. Johns' days with festivities. According to Schultz, "It will be observed how scrupulously
our Brethren of Maryland in the early times observed the
Saint Johns' days and the custom was continued as we
shall see by the Lodges in the jurisdictions for many
years.''so
It is possible that the Maryland General Assembly
returned for a "post meridiemn meeting on December
27, 1784 for an evening dinner to celebrate the festival
of the Evangelist with Freemason George Washington.
The Journals of the House and Senate show that they did
adjourn and reconvene in the evening, probably for a
joint affair. The House had completed its business for the
day; there was no reason for them to reconvene at fivethirty, one half hour later than the Senate had scheduled
their evening meeting, unless it was to participate in some
sort of event with members of the Senate after the Senate
had concurred with the House's action on the Potomac
bill. The Senate reconvened at five o'clock. An hour
would have given them ample time to read the Act and
concur-no debate or voting was required for this. Their
business could have been finished easily by six o'clock-in
time for a St. John's dinner. The "post meridiem" meeting scheduled by both Houses on December 27, 1784-a
rare event in the recorded history of the two Housesindicates some special circumstance.
Another possibility is that a festive dinner was held during the afternoon recess, although the majority of the
legislators were not Masons. Certainly a number of them
were Masons, and even those who were not Masons accepted Masonic rituals. Masonry provided an accepted
ceremonial in the young republic: for example, Washington, as well as many other prominent men, was buried
with Masonic rites.
Nonetheless, in spite of much interest in Freemasonry
in Annapolis during the 1780s, there was no active Annapolis lodge in 1784. But gentlemen of the town enjoyed
several social and literary clubs, notably the Hominy and
Tuesday Evening Clubs, where subjects of literary and
philosophical interest-and Freemasonry perhaps-were
discussed by "enlightened men." On the other hand, the
counties of the state and Baltimore had only their Masonic lodges for fraternal occasions and for intelligent conversation.
Also, Washington, the Freemason, was aware that a
Western Shore college was being founded as part of a
University of Maryland; he knew that an act for establishing it would be introduced after he left Annapolis. Just
a week later, on January 5, 1785, he wrote Samuel Chase,
a member of both the committee to confer on the Potomac
bill and the committee to present the Charter of 1784 to
the House of Delegates, that
the attention which your assembly is giving to the establishment of public schools, for the encouragement of literature,
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
does them great honor: to accomplish this, ought to be one
of our first endeavours: I know of no object more interesting. We want something to expand the mind, and make us
think with more liberality, and act with sounder policy, than
most of the States do. We should consider that we are not
now in leading strings. It behooves us therefore to look well
to our ways. 5 2
Washington was clearly intrigued with the grander
scheme of which the Western Shore college was a partthe University for "the encouragement of literature"and his letter showed that he must have talked about the
bold scheme with Samuel Chase and perhaps others.
When eleven members were finally elected to the Board
of Visitors and Governors in early 1786 from the various
classes of subscribers, the Board was duly constituted.
Under the date of March 21, 1786 they published the following notice: "The subscribers of St. John's College, by
order of the visitors and governors, are hereby requested
to make their first payment to the subscriber, treasurer
to the college on or before the first day of June next.
(signed) BENJAMIN HARWOOD. " 53 Previous to this, all
notices published by the subscription agents had been
addressed to "subscribers of St. John's or the Western
Shore College." In the notice dated March 21, 1786
"Western Shore College" was omitted, and "St. John's
College" appeared in roman type, alone, for the first
time.
"St. John's College" became the corporate name when
enacted in the Charter of 1784. The tradition promulgated
in 1870 that said that the college was named by its incorporators after an English institution had little basis. If
honoring a noted English college had been the reason for
calling the Annapolis college "St. John's," few of the
Maryland populace would have been pleased, so soon
after the conclusion of a bloody war with Britain.
In 1971, President Richard D. Weigle searched the student rolls at St. John's College, Cambridge (also Oxford)
University to discover which men associated with the
1784 incorporation had actually registered there. Evidently the generally accepted theory that the Annapolis
college had been named after St. John's College, Cambridge (or Oxford), and which went unquestioned for
many years thereafter, reflected the anglophilia of the
1870s rather than the anglophobia of 1784. For no names
of men directly tied with the founding of the Maryland
college were found.
At the same time, The Board of Visitors and Governors
of St. John's College, Annapolis and Santa Fe, were persuaded that prospective students and donors were
repelled by the name "St. John's College," and they considered adopting a secular name instead. 54 As a preliminary step in effecting a change in name, a committee of
the Board sent a questionnaire to all alumni, students and
faculty to gather their reactions. Response from the group
was overwhelmingly in favor of continuing to operate as
"St. John's College," a name now rich with associations
gathered over the years, including the 1937 adoption of
a curriculum nationally known as the St. John's Pro59
�gram. 55 The Board proceeded no further.
In 1786 the name already had strong associations, and
the first Board of Visitors and Governors continued to
use it. They did not revert to "Western Shore College,"
or any other name, although through process of law they
could have. Indeed "St. John's College" proved so acceptable that it prevailed through the first stormy half century of the college's history, and long after participants
in the naming had died. Although no one had bothered
to record the circumstances from living memory, we have
seen that the records show that a remarkable legislative
performance did take place on the Feast Day of St. John
the Evangelist, December 27, 1784, when on behalf of
their good friend, George Washington, Maryland legislators enacted the first piece of cooperative legislation
among the various states in the Confederation following
the definitive "Treaty of Peace." They were naturally
proud of a name that reminded them of that day, and
they adopted it for the new college several days later.
Thus, although no contemporary records state why the
college was called St. John's, one can infer that it was
in honor of the Evangelist, and coincidentally, it was in
compliment to the Masonic fraternity of Annapolis in
1784. Perhaps some few were reminded of the Cambridge
college as well, but no contemporary records suggest this.
It is hard to understand why a cloud of mystery has
ever since enveloped the circumstances of the college's
naming, but if Masons were responsible, one could expect secrecy about their role: discretion, the keeping of
secrets, is the first of the Masonic virtues.
Acknowledgments
I could not have accomplished the necessary research nor have written this paper without help from many quarters. Source material was
obtained in the following collections: EpiscOpal Archives in Austin,
Texas, the Hall of Records, the Maryland State Library and the St. John's
College Archives in Annapolis; the Maryland Historical Society, the
Maryland Diocesan Library and the Maryland Room of the Enoch Pratt
Free Library in Baltimore; and the Manuscript and Rare Book Division
at the Library of Congress. I am grateful to Kathryn Kinzer for many
insights and for all the books she borrowed on interlibrary loan; to Roberta Hankamer, Librarian Grand Lodge of Masons, A.F. & M. Library,
Boston; to Eva Brann, Mary Fletcher, Phebe Jacobsen, Mildred Trivers,
Margaret Ross, Harriet Sheehy and Allison Karslake for reading my
manuscript; to Archivist Miriam Strange for her constant helpfulness;
and to President Richard D. Weigle for granting me two months' leave
from my library duties in the summer of 1977.
REFERENCES
1. Poems by the late Doctor John Shaw, to which is prefixed a Biographical
Sketch of the Author (Philadelphia and Baltimore, 1810), pp. 92-93. A short
essay on the "Eloquence of St. Chrysostom: with a translation of a homily on patience" was published by Shaw in Port Folio, n.s. 3 #2(1807):
pp. 17-19.
2. Memorial Volume: Dedication Ceremonies in Connection with the Formal
Opening of the Henry Williams Woodward Hall at St. John's College, Annapolis,
Md. (Annapoli,, 1900), pp. 30, 31.
3. Bernard Christian Steiner, History of Education in Maryland, Contributions to American Educational History, #19 (Washlngton, D.C., 1894),
p. 103n.
4. Steiner, History of Education in Man;land, p. 103n.
5. Encyclopedia Britannica, 11th ed., s. v. "Freemasonry:" Coil's Masonic Encyclopedia, s.v. "St. John As a Generic Term and As a Lodge Name;"
60
Edward T. Schultz, History of Freemasonn; in Maryland, 4 vols. (Baltimore: Mediary, 1884), 1:389-390.
6. One Hundredth Anniversary, 1848-1948, Annapolis Lodge No. 89, A. F.
and A.M. (Annapolis, n.d.), pp. 12, 13.
7. Generals Otto Holland Williams, John Swan, Mordecai Gist, Major
Archibald Anderson, Capt. Stephen Decatur, Commodore James Nicholson, Col. Nathaniel Ramsey; see Schultz, Freemasonry in Man;land,
1:97-106. (General Lafayette also visited Annapolis many times.)
8. Schultz, Freemasonn; in Maryland, 1:382, 393, 396, 397.
9. William Smith, Ahiman Rezon, Abridged and Digested, As a Help to All
That Are, or Would Be Free and Accepted Masons (Philadelphia, 1783), pp.
62, 65, 66. 67, 80, 82, 83.
10. Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (New York, 1931), pp. 323-336.
11. Motto encircling the St. John's seal: "Est Nulla Via Invia Virtuti"
(No way impassable to courage). There are seven masonic virtues: (1)
discretion, the keeping of secrets; (2) obedience to the higher authorities of the order; (3) morality; (4) love for mankind; (5) courage; (6) liberality, and (7) love of Death. See Tolstoy, War and Peace, p. 331.
12. Jacques Chailley, The Magic Flute, the Masonic Opera: an Interpretation of the Libretto and the Music (New York, 1971), pl. 35, p. 130.
13. Coil's Masonic Encyclopedia, s.v. "St. John."
14. Lodge No. 6 in Georgetown on the Sassafras and Lodge No. 17 at
Chestertown were founded in 1766.
15. St. John's College, Minutes of the Board of Visitors and Governors, July
2, 1793: ''Resolved: that Bishop Carroll, Bishop Claggett, Mr. Nicholas
Carroll, Dr. Scott, Mr. John Thomas, Mr. Jennings and Mr. Hanson,
or any three, be a committee to attend at any time, when requested
by the principal for the purpose of superintending a private examination of such students as shall be candidates for the first degree to be
conferred, at a commen~:ement to take place in November next."
"Resolved: that the said committee be authorized to procure for the
board one common public seal and likewise one privy seal with such
devices and inscriptions as they shall think proper; the particular uses
of the said seals to be hereafter ascertained, fixed and regulated by this
board."
16. One Hundredth Anniversary, pp. 13, 14.
17. William Smith, An Account of Washington College (Philadelphia, 1784),
p. 2. Compare with Pierre Bezuhov's speech to the Petersburg lodge
in 1809 (Tolstoy, War and Peace, p. 405).
18. Maryland Gazette, December 16, 1784.
19. For text of the Washington College charter of 1782 see Smith, Account of Washington College, pp. 5-14. Hereafter Washington College's
charter will be cited as "Charter of 1782;" "Draught of a Proposed Act
... "will be cited as "Draught" or "Proposed Act" (Maryland Gazette,
December 16, 1784), the Act bearing the same name as the "Draught"
will be cited as the "Charter of 1784," or the "University Law" (Laws
of Maryland, Made and Passed at a Session of Assembly Begun and Held at
the City of Annapolis, on Monday the first of November, in the Year of Our
Lord One Thousand Seven Hundred and Eighty-Four [Annapolis, 1785], c.
36).
20. William Smith to William White, January 26, 1785. The Rt. Rev. William White Papers, v. 1, #56, Archives Historical Collection of the Episcopal Church, Austin, Texas.
21. The John Carroll Papers, ed. Thomas O'Brien Hanley, 3 vols. (Notre
Dame, 1976), 1:158.
22. ''Charter of 1782,'' paragraph 9: ... ''and youth of all religious denominations and persuasions, shall be freely and liberally admitted to equal
privileges and advantages of education, and to all the literary honors
of the college, according to their merit, and the standing rules of the
seminary, without requiring or enforcing any religious or civil test whatsoever upon any student, scholar or member of the said college, other
than such oath of fidelity to the state as the laws thereof may require
of the Visitors, Governors, Masters, Professors and Teachers in Schools
and seminaries of learning in general" (Smith, Account of Washington
College, p. 10).
"Draught" "First, That the said intended college shall be founded
and maintained for ever upon the most liberal and catholic plan for the
benefit of the youth of every religious denomination, who shall be freely
admitted to the equal privileges and advantages of education and to
all the literary honours of the college according to their merit, without
requiring or enforcing any religious or civil test or urging their atten-
SUMMER 1985
�dance upon any particular religious worship or service, other than what
they have been educated in, or have the consent and approbation of
their parents or guardians to attend; nor shall any preference be given
in the choice of a principal, vice-principal, or any professor or master
in the said college on a religious score: but merely on account of his
literary and other necessary qualifications to fill the place, for which
he is chosen" (Maryland Gazette, December 16, 1784).
"Charter of 1784" "II. Be it enacted, by the General Assembly of Maryland
That a college or general seminary of learning, by the name of Saint
John's, be established on the said western shore, upon the following
fundamental and inviolable principles, namely; first the said college shall
be founded and maintained for ever, upon a most liberal plan, for the
benefit of youth of every religious denomination, who shall be freely
admitted to equal privileges and advantages of education, and to all
the literary honours of the college, according to their merit, without
requiring or enforcing any religious or civil test, or urging their attendance upon any particular religious worship or service, other than what
they have been educated in or have the consent and approbation of
their parents or guardians to attend" (Laws of Marylandf 1785, c. 36).
23. Smith to White, January 26, 1785. Speaking of opposition to theReligious Bill in the General Assembly of 1785, Smith wrote "some men
who call themselves Christians,-but I need not tell you, seem never
to be pleased with any Thing however Christian, or however Catholic,
where their Numbers will not enable them to be the sole or chief Directors .... "In passing it is interesting to note that the word "Christian"
never appears in either the 1782 or 1784 charter.
24. Smith to White, January 26, 1785.
25. Archives of Maryland, ed. William H. Browne, 72 vols. (Baltimore,
1883- ), 27o408-409.
26. For Carroll see John Carroll Papers, 1:xlv-li; for Allison see John H.
Gardner, Jr., First Presbyterian Church of Baltimore . .. (Baltimore, 1966)
and William B. Sprague, Annals of the American Pulpit, 9 vols. (New York:
Carter, 1857-69), 3:257-63; for Smith see Horace W. Smith, Life and Correspondence of the Rev. William Smith, 2 vols. (Philadelphia, 1879), 1:22-28,
2:18-23, 34, 35 (2 vols. in 1 reprint 1972, New York, Arno).
27. John Carroll Papers, 1:80, 81.
28. Maryland Gazette, September 30, October 7, October 21, 1784.
29. John Carroll Papers. 1:82-143.
30. John Carroll Papers, 1:112: "I procured a friend to examine the edition of Chrysostom's work belonging to the public library in Annapolis." The "public library" -known today as the Annapolitan Library
or the Thomas Bray Collection-is in the possession of the St. John's
College Library and is on deposit at the Maryland Hall of Records on
the college campus. These are the volumes referred to in John Shaw's
letter January 24, 1807 (see note 16).
31. "To the Roman Catholics of the State of Maryland; Especially Those
of St. Mary's County," Maryland Gazette, November 25, 1784.
32. John Carroll Papers, 1:191.
33. John Carroll Papers, 1:185, 186. Carrull wrote to Father Eden at the
Academy of Liege, April1785: "Do you know any young men of improved abilities and good conduct, capable of teaching the different
branches of science with credit and reputation? It is now in contemplation to establish two Colleges in this state, open to Professors and Scholars of all denominations, and handsome appointments are to be
annexed to the professorships. To me it appears, that it may be of much
service not only to Learning, but to true Religion, to have some of these
Professorships fi11ed by R. C. men of letters and virtue; and if one or
two of them were in orders, it would be so much the better.
"
34. Maryland Journal July 15, 1783, "To the Public:" October 28, 1783,
"To the Han. the General Assembly:" November 26, December 7, December 14, 1784. "To the People of Maryland;" December 28, 1784, "A
Design to Raise One Sect of Christians above Another.'' A restatement
of these articles may be found in Allison, Candid Animadversions cited
in note statement of these articles may be found in Allison, Candid
Animadversions cited in note 35.
35. Patrick Allison, Candid Animadversions on a Petition Presented to the
General Assembly of Maryland by the Rev. William Smith and the Rev. Thomas Gates, First Published in 1783 ... by Vindex (Baltimore, 1793) pp. iiiv, 1-16.
36. University of Pennsylvania, Minutes of the Trustees of the College, Academy, and Charitable School (Wilmington, 1974), p. 91: "The Assembly
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
of the Province having taken Mr. Smith into Custody, the Trustees considered how the inconvenience from thence arising to the College might
be best remedied, and Mr. Smith having expressed a Desire to continue
his Lectures to the Classes, which had formerly attended them, the Students also inclining rather to proceed on their Studies under his Care.
They ordered that the said Classes should attend him for that Purpose
at the usual Hour in the Place of his present Confinement."
37. Smith, Life and Correspondence of Rev. William Smith, 2:34, 35.
38. Schultz, Freemasonry in Man;land, 1:382-393: "When Bro. Smith removed to Maryland, he was the Grand Secretary of the Grand Lodge
of Pennsylvania, and as all Lodges of Ancient York Masons in Maryland
were under the jurisdiction of the Grand Lodge of Pennsylvania, he
was active in his official and other Masonic duties. The Lodges which
had existed in Maryland prior to the introduction of the Lodges by the
Ancients, were held under the authority of the Moderns, or other branch
of the Masonic fraternity, and as these had now no ruling head in America, many of their members sought admission into the Ancient York
Lodges. Brother Smith, and Brother John Coats, a Past Deputy Grand
Master of the Grand Lodge of Pennsylvania, who also resided at the
time in Maryland, were deputed by the Grand Lodge of Pennsylvania
on the 2nd of September, 1782, to take to their assistance such true
brothers as they might see proper, and enter into the mysteries of Ancient York Masonry any respectable Modern Masons in Maryland who
might desire to be so healed .... " and Allison, Candid Animndversions, p. 3.
39. The sources of revenue are similar to those enacted for Washington
College in ''An Act to Provide a Permanent Fund for the Encouragement and Establishment of Washington College," Votes and Proceedings
of the House of Delegates for the State of Martjland (Annapolis, 1783-5), pp.
15-18.
40. Writings of George Washington, ed. John C. Fitzpatrick, 39 vols.
(Washington, D.C., 1931-44), 22:17, 18.
41. Writings of G. W., 22:20.
42. Walter Bowie, James Brice, John Bullen, John Callahan, Charles Carroll of Carrollton, James Carroll, Nicholas Carroll, John Chalmers, J.
Chase, Samuel Chase, Abraham Claude, John Davidson, George
Digges, Joseph Dawson, Joseph Eastman, Joshua Frazier, Thomas Gates,
Alexander Golder, John Graham, T. Green, William Hammond, Alexander Hanson, Benjamin Harwood, Thomas Harwood, William Harwood, Samuel Hughes, Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer, Thomas Jennings,
John Johnson, Rinaldo Johnson, Philip Key, James Mackubin, Nicholas Mancubbin, George Mann, David McMechen, John Muir, James
Murray, Ben Oake, Aquila Paca, William Paca, George Plater, Edward
Plowden, Allen Quynn, James Reid, Christopher Richmond, Abasalom Ridgley, John Roger, Richard Sprigg, Charles Steuart, James Steuart,
John Steuart, William Steuart, J. D. Stone, Thomas Stone, Michael
Taney, Alexander Travers, James Tro(?), Charles Wallace, James Williams, Nathaniel Yates. (Annapolis Subscription List, December 16, 1784
in St. John's College Archives.)
43. "Draught": "Thirdly, ... agents ... are hereby authorized and made
capable to solicit and receive contributions and subscriptions ... of any
person or persons, bodies politic and corporate, who may be willing
to promote so good a design.''
"Charter o£1784:" "III. ... and they are hereby authorised to solicit
and receive, subscriptions and contributions ... of any person or persons, bodies politic and corporate, who may be willing to promote so
good a design."
"Draught" and "Charter of 1784": "Secondly, there shall be a subscription carried on in the different counties of the western shore, upon
the plan on which it hath been opened, for founding the said college;
and the several subscribers shall class themselves, according to their
respective inclinations, and for every thousand pounds current money
which may be subscribed and paid, or secured to be paid, into the hands
of the treasurer of the western shore, by any particular class of subscribers, they shall be entitled to the choice of one person as a visitor
and governor of said college .... "The addition of "bodies and politic
and corporate" allowed the King William School to give 2000 pounds
and to qualify as two classes of subscribers, each of which could elect
a member to the Board of Visitors and Governors of St. John's College.
44. "Draught of a Proposed Act," Maryland Gazette, December 16, 1784:
" ... and provided further, that is in three years from the first day
of June 1785, there shall not be twenty-four visitors and governors
61
�chosen as aforesaid by classes of subscribers of one thousand pounds,
each class; the other visitors and governors being not less then eleven
duly assembled at any quarterly visitation, shall proceed by election
to fill up the number of twenty-four visitors and governors, as they
shall think most expedient and convenient: provided nevertheless, that
seventeen of the said visitors and governors shall always be residents
on the western shore of this state, but that the additional visitors and
governors (to make up and perpetuate the number of twenty-four) may
be chosen from this or any part of the adjacent states, if they are such
persons as can reasonably undertake to attend the quarterly visitations,
and are thought capable, by their particular learning, weight, and character, to advance the interest and reputation of the said seminary .... "
"Charter of 1784: "IV.... Provided always, that seventeen of the
said visitors and governors shall be resident on the western shore of
this state, but that the additional visitors and governors (to make up
and perpetuate the number of twenty-four) may be chosen from any
part of this state, if they are such persons as can reasonably undertake
the quarterly visitations, and are thought capable, by their particular
learning, weight, and character, to advance the interest and reputation
of the said seminary.''
45. Smith, Life and Correspondence of Rev. William Smith, 2:249.
46. The History of American Methodism, 3 vols. (New York, 1964), 1:222.
47. Schultz, Freemasonry in Maryland, 1:105.
48. Votes and Proceedings of the House of Delegates of the State of Maryland,
1783-85 (Annapolis, 1785), p. 73.
49. William Morley Brown, George Washington, Freemason (Richmond,
1952), p. 332.
50. Schultz, Freemasonry in Marylimd, 1:76-78; and Man;land Gazette, December 29, 1763: "Tuesday last, being St. John's was observed by the
Brethren of the Ancient and Honorable Fraternity of Free and Accepted Masons with great order and decency.''
51. Coil's Masonic Encyclopedia, s.v. "St. John." Smith, Life and Correspondence of Rev. William Smith, 2:85-86.
52. Writings of G. W., 22:25-27.
53. Maryland Gazette, March 30, 1786. For earlier notices to subscribers
see Man;land Gazette, June 9, 1785 (no name at all, only reference to the
Act); December 1, 1785; January 12, 1786. First eleven members of the
Board of Visitors and Governors who were elected March 1786: Thomas Claggett, D.D. and William West, D. D. (Episcopal clergymen, who
would later be elected bishops); subscribers on the Annapolis list of
December 16, 1784: Nicholas Carroll, John H. Stone, William Beans,
Thomas Stone, Samuel Chase, Thomas Jennings, A. C. Janson, John
Thomas (a Quaker) and Richard Ridgeley.
54. Robert Reinhold, "For Relevance, the Students at St. John's College Turn to Galileo," New York Times, October 18, 1971, 39:1.
55. St. John's College, Minutes of the Board of Visitors and Governors, May
12 and 13, 1972. A branch college, St. John's College, Santa Fe, New
Mexico, was founded in 1963.
Charlotte Fletcher was Librarian of St. John's College, Annapolis, and is now retired and living in Annapolis.
62
SUMMER 1985
�Montaigne
Brother Robert Smith
'
'
'
A Ia memoire de M. Jacques de Monleon, homme complete
In his introduction of the Essays, "To the Reader," 1
Montaigne states he has only one purpose in writingto help his relatives and friends to recover after he has
gone the features of "his habit and temperament." This
modest calim inspires two questions: 1) Why should we,
who are not his relatives and perhaps not yet even his
friends, bother to read his book? 2) Why should we believe him when he says such a complex book, stuffed with
quotations from other authors, is a self-portrait?
Besides, what kind of self-portrait can we expect when
we read the title of the first essay? Is it the very general
statement that we-all men, supposedly-arrive at the
same ends by diverse means? Moreover, the first paragraph asserts that "the commonest way of softening the
hearts of those we have offended when, vengeance in
hand, they hold us at their mercy is by submission to move
them to commiseration and pity."' What kind of selfportrait is that?
Maybe most of us have not thought a great deal about
how one goes about making a portrait of oneself, but, off
hand, it does not seem obvious that the way to do so is
to bring up circumstances that one sincerely hopes never
to find oneself in and then to follow up with a plausible
prescription for escape from that plight. Why make general statements if one intends personal and private ones?
Therefore, our two questions can be restated: Are Montaigne's Essays really a self-portrait? Even if they are, what
interest do they have for us?
Montaigne wanted to be judged for his whole book.
He was not satisfied with just parts of it. He kept adding
thoughts right up until his death. He would certainly
have wanted us to hear him through before judging him.
However, in the interests of keeping this discussion a
manageable length, and, I hope, as a preparation for further reading of Montaigne, I propose to discuss here just
the first essay, although Montaigne did not write this es-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
say first, by giving it the place he did, he asked us to read
it first. The first essay is, therefore, an introduction. It
has other advantages, too. It is short--a mere ten
paragraphs--and Montaigne made additions to it not long
before his death. These additions show that the subject
of the first essay was of lasting concern to him and covered most of his life as a writer.
However, before we begin to analyze the whole essay,
I call your attention to a little phrase in the second paragraph. The phrase is "our Guienne." I intend to expand
these two innocent words beyond all proportion because
they imply a world that Montaigne' s first readers knew
and that we do not, unless we have read and digested
all three Books of the Essays. Nearly all I have to say about
u our Guienne" comes from them, and what comes from
other sources is unimportant. By dwelling at length on
"our Guienne," we may acquire some of the advantages
that the first readers had over us when they opened their
books to Essay One.
One more prefatory remark. I feel the weight of the task
before us. It seems important to try to answer the questions posed above, especially the one about Montaigne' s
importance to us. I think of generations of students whom
I have heard or overheard saying they don't care about
Montaigne' s kidney stones, however painful they may
have been to him. He would certainly have been on the
side of these complainers. Unless a clearly private matter like pain has general significance, it is an intrusion
to bring it up in company. It is not unreasonable to have
the fleeting thought that all or most of Montaigne' s private business is just that, private-a matter for him and
his relatives, not for the rest of us. I hope to change your
mind about that.
On the other hand, in the four centuries since they first
appeared the Essays have been read and loved by many
people. Does it seem likely that all those readers were
63
�led by morbid curiosity about the private life of a sixteenth
century French gentleman? Certainly not all Montaigne's
readers were antiquarians. Shakespeare read and quoted the first English translation of the Essays almost in the
lifetime of Montaigne. At least one passage in The Tempest is a word-for-word transposition of that translation
into blank verse. 3 Apart from this direct quotation, there
are skeptical passages on the condition of man in Measure for Measure that echo similar questioning in the Apology for Raymond Sebond. 4
Montaigne, like Shakespeare, parades before our eyes
an array of characters, from the historically important to
far less important people. We meet kings and subjects,
men and women, wise men and fools, indeed a wide
sampling of mankind. We are shown all the ups and
downs of their lives, and to be uninterested in the works
of these authors, Shakespeare and Montaigne, is to show
lack of interest in life.
Let us now turn to "our Guienne."
Our Guienne
Guienne is a deformation of the word "acquitaine," 5
a Roman name for the southwestern part of France. In
Acquitaine is found a piece of land called Montaigne,
where our author was born. His family name was Eyquem, but he called himself, and was called by others,
Michel de Montaigne.
For us the name Guienne brings to mind three things:
1) the land in which Montaigne was born, 2) the college
at which he was education (which was called the College
of Guienne, and was in Bordeaux, capital of Acquitaine),
and 3) political institutions, like the Parlement of Bordeaux, where Montaigne exercised public responsibilities
and over which he presided when he became Mayor of
Bordeaux. The Parlement, along with a governor appointed by the king, was responsible for the assessment and
levying of taxes, for enforcing laws, and for military operations. This last point is important. During all of Montaigne' s active life, a civil war was being waged in France,
and much of it was fought in southwest France. 6 The war
was of direct personal concern to Montaigne: he took part
in military operations, he was forced to flee from his
home, and, with his family, he lived as a refugee for
several years.
Let us now examine each of these associations with
''our Guienne.''
I. The Montaigne lands
Montaigne was born in the castle of Montaigne in 1531.
That fact and his family's ownership of the lands on
which the castle stood (and still stands) were the basis
of his claim to be a member of the nobility. 7 The significance of this claim lies in the fact that the military commands, the higher administration of justice, the levying
of taxes, and the administration of justice were placed
in the hands of a small group of people, the parliamen64
tary nobles. More importantly, this situation was accepted
by all. No one seriously questioned the right of the nobility to rule. They did not depend on the king for their
position, and, like his, their status came to them through
inheritance. A nobleman often had on his own land men
on whose services he could draw as soldiers. The nobility could and sometimes did wage civil war against the
king.
The king was still only first among equals. After Montaigne' s time the king began successfully to erode the
power of the nobility, and two centuries later, the Revolution abolished their privileges altogether, but none of
this gradual decay had started in Montaigne' s time. Montaigne assumed that he had wide responsibilities, and
others concurred. He spoke realistically of himself when
he said that he was capable of being adviser to the king. 8
There was a king in Paris who trusted him and who
helped to make him mayor of Bordeaux. In nearby French
Navarre, there was a man waiting in the wings to become
king of France. This man twice visited Montaigne's
house, and when he succeeded as king in Paris, Montaigne was one of those who aided in the transition from
one dynasty to another. Montaigne was influential with
each of two suspicious rivals. He said of himself that he
was honest and disinterested enough to say exactly what
he thought without flattery. In doing so he was rendering a priceless service to men whose office invited flattery. No doubt it was Montaigne' s awareness of his own
integrity that made it possible for him to speak the way
he did about his own capacities, but it was also possible
because as a nobleman he had an unassailable, intrenched
position.
Montaigne was well aware of the advantages of being
a nobleman, and he was concerned with the obligation
of living up to what was essentially a military profession. 9
In this context virtue is mainly military and political
virtue-integrity in carrying out public charges, fearlessness in face of death, and courage against any adversitytrue mauliness. When he was young, Montaigne thought
that intrepidity is an advantage nobles have over the common herd. 10 Later he saw the peasants on his lands face
death with courage and without ostentation."
Montaigne thought like a member of a governing class.
For him education meant the formation of judgment, so
that one could take on public responsibility." His heroes
were all public figores, most of them military and political leaders. That Homer, Vergil, and Socrates were also
heroes for him shows the complexity of his mind. Even
so, Vergil and Homer sang of military men.
II. The College of Guienne
Like many people who attend good colleges, Montaigne
was ambivalent about his alma mater. He did say that it
was the best college that ever was, but he also blamed
it for spoiling the purity of his Latin. 13
He could say so because he brought to his school an
extraordinary preparation, one that none of his fellow stuSUMMER 1985
�dents could approximate. His father, like many of his contemporaries, thought that education meant being able to
read, write, and speak the refined Latin of imperial Rome.
His actions were fully consistent with his beliefs. He took
no half measures. He had his son brought up hearing
only Latin spoken. From the age of two, Montaigne had
a Latin-speaking tutor in attendance. Even before that,
all the servants who came into contact with the child
spoke in Latin exclusively. Even his father and mother
mustered up enough Latin to speak in Latin in their son's
presence. 14
As a result Montaigne, was unlike anyone who had
lived in France for more than a thousand years before his
time: His native language was Latin.
The first books Montaigne read were by the best Roman authors and his taste in literature was formed by
them. At a very young age he knew all of Ovid's Metamorphoses. He alsoknewVergil, Plautus, and Terence. Later
he knew historians and philosophers. To the very end
of his life, Seneca held his attention. The fair-mindedness
and the respect for virtue he found in Seneca-and
another favorite author (read in translation) Plutarchwere echoed in his admiration for the Emperor Julian.
Despite the antipathy of Julian toward the Church and
of churchmen toward him, Montaigne said, ''He was in
truth a very rare man, being one whose soul was deeply
dyed with the arguments of philosophy, by which he
professed to regulate all his actions; and indeed there is
no sort of virtue of which he did not leave notable examples. " 15 Montaigne saluted this man because their shnilar educations made them, over the gap of the centuries,
compatriots.
In the same place where Montaigne speaks so admiringly of Julian, he also speaks disapprovingly of the
fanaticism of those who destroyed all existing copies of
works by Tacitus because they contained some sentences
contrary to Christian belief. 16
In discussing miracles he did say that one C<!n well
doubt the prodigies attributed to the relics of St. Hilary
du Bouche!, but lh<!l it is illegitimate to dismiss their
authenticity out of mere prejudice <!g<linst mimcles in
general when they <!re <!!tested to by refined minds like
those of Caesar and Pliny."' He expressed a sympathy
<!ny well-educated Roman might h<!ve- felt.
This does not erase the fact that Montaigne was a
Catholic, and, in my opinion, a devout one in his later
years. On the contrary, there were different strains alive
in his memory, but one did not destroy the others. Again,
Montaigne was like a late Roman of consular familyChristian, but retaining pre-Christian memories.
After this education at home, Montaigne went, at about
the age of six, to the College of Guienne. 17 There he was
surrounded by young people striving with pain and misery to learn the language that had become second nature
to him. No wonder he said his Latin had been corrupted.
Still, he was active, reading a lot on his own, and taking
part in Latin plays written by his tutors. He apparently
did well as an actor. One play performed in his time at
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
school was about Julius Caesar.
One of his shrewder tutors simply left around books
by Latin authors that were not officially being studied.
Montaigne fell into the trap and surreptitiously (or so he
thought) read many non-program books that were still
in the best Latin. Among these were the less than edifying comedies of Plautus. He spoke of Ovid as a source
of delight. He also carried on the work of writing Latin
compositions, but unlike his schoolmates he did so in his
native language.
The authors he read during his school-days-Vergil,
Seneca, and Ovid, for example-were to remain his
favorite authors for the rest of his life. If we add Plutarch,
in French translation, we have completed the list of his
most favorite authors. In the Essays he sorts out his impressions of them and shows their superiority over lesser, although important authors-Cicero, for example. Late
in his life, when he wanted to express what his love affairs meant to him, he turned to Vergil for the words that
express for him what is splendid in the sexual act 18
Around those verses he grouped his further and more
complicated evaluation of what the erotic side of his life
meant to him and how he did or did not square it with
his religious convictions.
Thus the authors that Montaigne started to read in his
youth and continued to read throughout his life were the
touchstones for evaluating his scattered thoughts about
all that mattered to him. This is shown most strongly in
his judgment about what essentially constitutes virtue 19
III. The Parlemenl of Bordeaux
Montaigne was for many years a member of the Parlement of Bordeaux, 20 which ruled over not just the capital city but also the surrounding province. Montaigne,
like his father before him, served as Mayor, or presiding
officer. We now so closely associate the term "mayor"
with a city official that we have forgotten its more obvious meaning-Major (Maior), i.e., senior member of a
governing council.
The Parlement was a body of nobles who had, as has
been said, responsibility for making laws, administering
existing laws, hearing suits, levying taxes, and directing
military operations during the civil war. And we must
note that a civil war meant a war that was even more
savage than other wars, and the fact that the alleged
grounds for fighting were religious made the struggle
very bitter.
When Montaigne wrote of parlays, ambushes, and of
the breakdown of law he was not mulling over passages
in Plutarch or Caesar's Gallic Wars as much as he was
thinking about his own life. When he was quite young,
perhaps still in school, he witnessed a mob murder the
Mayor of Bordeaux, who had left the safety of his fortified residence to parlay with his angry fellow citizens.
The civil war was dangerous for Montaigne personally. He had to flee his home and lands with his family and
servants. He found shelter where he could. The workers
65
�on his lands were scattered; his vines could not be cared
for, and his grapes could not be picked, so he lost his
main source of income. Once he was surrounded and
captured by a hostile band, and he describes vividly in
the Essay On Physiognomy" how he was capriciously
saved from death because his captors decided he had an
honest face.
The war affected him on a more deep personal level.
The war was eventually fought between Protestants and
Catholics, but in its beginnings it was fought between
Catholics who had become reforme, reformed Christians,
and Catholics who had refused that choice. At first-and
by that I mean for a number of years-the reformed allowed themselves to be killed without resistance." Later,
they and their political leaders took to arms. After that,
as in all wars, especially civil wars, horrible things were
done by each side. 23
It is very important to note that the lines did not harden
all at once. Many Catholics did not like all that was done
and said by their clergy or their co-religionists. Some of
these troubled men and women never broke with their
own tradition, while after a long time others did so. This
firming up of sides was still going on during Montaigne' s
lifetime: At some time Montaigne must have chosen to
remain a Catholic. Many others whom he knew made the
opposite choice. His own brother was one of these, at
least for some years, and his sister was until her
death. 23a
Montaigne' s choice was to remain in the Catholic
Church, "in which I die and in which I was bom!" 24 That
this choice was a personal choice need not concern us
directly, but the political decisions that went along with
it influenced his work as a public official, as adviser to
kings, and as writer of the Essays.
The longest Essay, the Apology for Raymond Sebond, is
an attempt to show that there were no justifiable religious
grounds for fighting a civil war. Montaigne tries to prove
that human reason is not capable by itself of proving theological or moral truths. The opinions of men, including
the wisest and most learned, are many and diverse. Custom has not led mankind to a consensus on the most serious matters. Worse, reason relies finally on the senses,
and they are unreliable. Consequently, no one can claim
that he has a right to impose his own version of religious
truth by force of arms. Montaigne's advice is that we
should remain in the way of our fathers and so avoid public disorder.
He charged guilt on both sides, accusing each side of
proclaiming they were justified in fighting for religious
convictions when they were really acting out of worldly,
partisan interest. His proof was that they changed principles as soon as interests suggested. "See the horrible
impudence with which we bandy divine reasons about
and how irreligiously we both (Catholics and Protestants)
reject them and take them again as fortune has changed
our place in these public storms. This proposition, so
solemn, whether it is lawful for a subject to rebel and take
arms against his prince in defense of religion-remember
66
in whose mouth-this year just past the affirmative of this
was the buttress of one party (the Protestants when the
king was a Catholic), the negative was the buttress of the
other (the Catholic) and whether the weapons make less
din for one than the other .... " 25 Montaigne was addressing men who had reversed their strongly touted positions because the lawful claimant to the throne was now
a Protestant.
Montaigne' s political effort was to put an end to the
civil war. It was not to support the Catholic extremists
who wanted to force their opponents to conform. Because
there were deep religious convictions on each side, there
could be no political solution except mutual tolerance. A
law to this effect was made by Henri IV after he came
to the throne and became a Catholic. Montaigne's own
efforts were in conformity with that solution."
Montaigne' s conciliatory bent of mind was not to the
taste of extremists on either side. Montaigne tells how
close he came to being put to death by Protestants who
had captured him in an ambush. Extremists on the
Catholic side had him held in the Bastille until he was
rescued by members of the Royal family. 26• Using terms
proper to the quarrels Dante was involved in, Montaigne
said, "To the Guelfs I am a Ghibelline, and to the Ghibellines a Guelf. 027
Now we have seen how our author was deeply rooted
in his native Guienne. Because of his position there he
was also concerned with the political life of France. He
was an adviser to kings and he participated in the effort
to end the civil war. He was also a private man working
in his library to put his own thoughts in order. The record
of that effort is the three Books of the Essays. It is through
them that we know him. Through them he belongs not
just to Guienne or to France, but to all of us.
Let us now turn our attention to Essay I, 1. The title
of the Essay tells us that we can come to the same end
by diverse means. This general statement is hardly a confidence about his personal life, since the "we" presumably includes everyone, and by that token is not special
to him. However, let us have enough faith in our author
to see what his seemingly vacuous title may be leading
to. If we persevere, we will see that, step by subtle step,
he was making a self-portrait.
The essay reproduced here (see Appendix) has ten
paragraphs, but in its original form it had only seven.
These seven paragraphs are marked by the letter' A' and
are paragraphs 1-4 and 6-8. Montaigne twice made additions to his original text. First he added paragraphs 5
and 9 and the first sentence of paragraph 10. They are
marked by the letter 'B'. Still later he added the rest of
paragraph 10 in his own handwriting on the margin of
the last edition published in his lifetime. This addition
appears as the bulk of paragraph 10 in our text and is
preceded by the letter 'C'.
When studying the text of a Montaigne Essay, readers
will find it less confusing if they first read the 'A' text
and see what structure it has and then read the later additions. After all, that is how he wrote them.
SUMMER 1985
�For example, the original text of this first essay has a
clear structure. In paragraphs 1-4 Montaigne proves what
he sets out in the title, and in 6-8 he makes three attempts
to draw general conclusions from what he has shown.
Let us look at what he says more closely.
His topic throughout the essay is something dramatic,
but especially so in the first part: How does one soften
the heart of an enemy whom one has offended and who
has at hand the means of taking vengeance? Montaigne
did not need a strong imagination to know what those
words meant. Memories of ambushes in which he had
been caught and scenes when someone he knew was torn
apart by a mob were sufficient. (Most of us, seeking a
relevant example, would have to refer to childhood, when
an irate parent, teacher, or schoolyard bully had us in his
or her power! Of course, when I say this I am speaking
of myself and probably of some of you. Others may well
know from harsher experience what Montaigne is talking about.)
(
Montaigne says the commonest way of softening an
enemy is to submit to him, to show that we recognize
that we are in his power. By doing so we transfer the
responsibility for acting to the aggressor, who holds unquestioned power and must decide how to use it. Montaigne was not thinking of an ordinary situation, such as
an irate parent, but of another one entirely. He was considering ruthless conquerors who had been moved to
spare the lives of those they were minded to kill, not because their prospective victims were submissive, but because they bravely stood up against their opponent
despite the odds. Although the stakes were life and
death, they kept self-respect and honor uppermost in
their minds.
Paragraph 2 gives an example of this kind of bravery.
An angry Prince of Wales, having been injured by the
citizens of Limoges, was forced to take their city by armed
force, and as he was vengefully watching his soldiers
butcher the citizenry, including women and children, he
saw three French gentlemen who with incredible boldness were still holding out. Although they were defeated men, they refused to admit defeat. This valor aroused
the admiration of the Prince and led him to spare their
lives and those of the other Lirnousins. Pitiable sights had
no effect on him; great bravery did. This point is also illustrated in paragraphs 3 and 4.
What possible lesson can we learn from the general
truth that some angry rulers have been softened by pity
and others only by admiration for bravery?
Montaigne makes three attempts to answer this question (paragraphs 6, 7, and 8). First, he says, tentatively,
that the three historical examples are more to the point,
more useful, in teaching us how to escape being killed,
because they show what softened the hearts of a hardheaded military leader. Presumably it is such a man that
we-or at least Montaigne-should most fear. He reminds
us that they held up unshaken against appeals to their
pity but bowed to examples of great bravery. The fact that
weaker natures, such as "women, children and the com-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
mon herd, are inclined to subdue their desire for vengeance because of easy-going indulgence and softness" is
relatively unimportant, presumably because such weaker people are less likely to have the lives of others in their
power. To save our lives it is more important to know
how to soften the wrath of someone who can take them.
This conclusion is too facile for Montaigne. He immediately remembers that death may come not only from
those who hold in affection masculine and obstinate vigor
but also from "less lofty souls" (paragraph 7). Sometimes
they will be moved by pity, sometimes by "astonishment
and admiration."
Paragraph 7
The people of Thebes having put their generals on trial for
their lives for continuing in their posts beyond the time
prescribed ... , they just bravely absorbed Pelopidas who
bowed under the weight of such accusations and used only
pleas and supplications to protect himself; whereas with
Epaminondas, who came out and related proudly the things
done by him and reproached the people with them in a
haughty and arrogant manner, they did not have the heart
even to take the ballot in their hands~ and the assembly broke
up, greatly praising the loftiness of this man's courage.
These examples partly reverse the point of paragraph
6. If we take into account both inflexible admirers of virtue and weaker people, both appeals to pity and examples of audacity may be useful. This is Montaigne' s second
general position.
It is immediately revised in paragraph 8. There we read
about one of the great generals of all time, Pompey, first
behaving like the Prince of Wales, then on another occasion totally unlike him.
Here is Pompeius pardoning the whole city of the Mammertines, against which he was greatly incensed, in consideration of the valor and magnanimity of the citizen Stheno, who
took the fault of the people on himself and asked no other
favor but to bear the punishment alone. Yet Sulla's host, who
displayed similar valor in the city of Praeneste, got nothing
out of it, either for himself or for others.
This inconsistency leads Montaigne to attempt a third
generalization: "Truly man is a marvelous, vain, diverse
and undulating object. It is hard to found any constant
and uniform judgment on him." Note he says 'hard,' not
impossible.
By comparing these three tentative conclusions with the
first four paragraphs, we can learn what Montaigne means by an Essay. He says elsewhere that, if he could, he
would make decisions, but since he cannot, he writes essays." In the first four paragraphs of the present Essay
he sets down certain thoughts that have come to him from
67
�reading history. Then he attempts to judge his own musings, to say what can be learned from them. He says this
assessment is the purpose underlying the reading of
books. Reading yields matter to reflect on, so that we can
form our judgment.
We should not be put off by the tentativeness of the
judgments arrived at. Montaigne is a lot nearer to knowing what importance to give the three examples in the
first part of the essay after trying to assess them than he
was by merely reading them. The verb "to essay" is akin
"to try". 29 It is also related to "trial," where judgments,
however fallible, are delivered. Moral and political judgments are made by careful and repeated comparisons
with what we know and have stored in our memory.
They do not have the firmness and majesty of grand
generalizations, but they are not devoid of content either.
We may gradually discover the meaning for us of what
we claim to admire and/or reject.
In another essay, Montaigne says "History is my quarry. " 30 It is the source of the stones with which he intended to build the monument he would leave for his relatives
and friends. We see better how this works in paragraph 5.
Upon rereading the examples in the first part of this
essay, Montaigne discovers that either of these waysappeals to pity or an outstanding example of bravery" would easily win me." This is what he learned about
himself by re-examining those examples. Not only bravery moves Montaigne, but so do pitiable sights. There
are "tears of things" as his favorite poet Vergil tells us,
"For I am wonderfully lax in the direction of mercy and
gentleness. As a matter of fact; I believe I should be likely to surrender more naturally to compassion than to esteem." The expressions "as a matter of fact" and "I
believe" indicate that Montaigne is learning something
on the spot. Furthermore, when he says he is likely to
surrender more naturally to pity he is claiming to have
a glimpse of something quite stable, a natural tendency in
himself. Not everything about him, then, is completely
diverse, vain, and undulating. Self-portraits need ground
from which the figure can emerge.
Those who know Montaigne' s essay On Three Great
Men will have remarked upon two names in this first essay: Epaminondas (paragraph 7)"and Alexander (in the
last two paragraphs). They are the names of two of the
three men whom he considered the greatest in human
history. The third is Homer. What we can learn about
Montaigne by looking at the reasons he gives for choosing these men over all others? 31
The choice of Homer, although sincere on Montaigne's
part, is really a disguised way of pointing to Vergil, his
real hero among the poets. Montaigne never read Homer
in Greek and claimed not even to know him. He praised
him partly because "it is principally from Homer that Vergil derives his ability ... he is his guide and schoolmaster,
and ... one single detail of the Iliad furnished both body
and matter for that great and divine Aeneid. " 32 Montaigne
denied that these were the determining reasons for his
choosing Homer as one of the three greatest men in the
68
world. Instead he pointed to the place that Homer holds
in history and that "makes (him) ... a source of wonder
to me almost above man's estate. And indeed I am often
astonished that he, who by his authority created and
brought into credit ... many deities, has not himself
gained the rank of God." Still Montaigne would say
"possibly in his art ... Vergil may be compared with
him. I leave it to those men to judge who know them
both. I who know only the one can say only this according to my capacity that I do not believe that even the
Muses themselves could surpass the Roman." How much
Montaigne owes to Vergil can be seen only by reading
very many essays very well.
His choice of Epaminondas as the second greatest man
is almost as bizarre as picking Homer and praising Vergil through him. We do not know much about Eparninondas, and Montaigne did not either, mainly because
Plutarch's life of him did not survive. Still, Montaigne's
reasons were serious, and, I think, deeply personal. He
admired Epaminondas because ''his resolution and valor
did not arise from ambition but from motives that wisdom and reason are capable of implanting" in a wellordered soul. "As for ... this (military) virtue he has
... as much in my opinion as Alexander himself and Caesar. But as for his character and conscience, he very far
surpassed all those who have ever undertaken to manage
affairs. For in this respect which must principally be considered, which alone truly means what we are, and which
I weigh alone against all the others together, he yields
to no philosopher, not even to Socrates. " 33 "In this man,
innocence is a key quality, sovereign, constant, uniform,
incorruptible."
If we do not know fully the grounds for such a judgment, since we do not know Epaminondas, we do learn
about Montaigne from it. What he admired most was
moral integrity in a man vigorously carrying out his public
and private duties. "In this man alone can be found a
virtue and ability full and equal throughout, which in all
the functions of human life, leaves nothing to be desired,
whether in public or private occupations, in peace or war,
whether in living or dying greatly or gloriously. I know
no form or fortune of man that I regard with so much
honor and love."
Those words are a clear statement of what he admired
and sought in life. He may not have known much about
Epaminondas, but from that little he learned how to say
what he most admired and what he thought he should
strive for. It is not possible here to recount all that Alexander meant to Montaigne. (It would be easy to write an
entire lecture on that subject alone.) Briefly, there are
seventy-one mentions of Alexander in the Essays, and
they were made at all periods of Montaigne' s writing.
Alexander, his works, his deeds, and his habits, are
used as means of measuring other great men. How far
short do others fall from that overpowering figure? He
is almost a god in relation to other men, even great ones. 34
Still, Montaigne says that he could imagine Socrates, if
circumstances had been other than they were, accom-
SUMMER 1985
�plishing all that Alexander did, but he could not imagine
Alexander achieving what Socrates did. 35
Socrates seems not to be included in the list of the
greatest men only because his virtue was of such a high
order that it put him on a higher plain. "The soul of Socrates . . . is the most perfect that has come to my
knowledge ... I know his reason to be is powerful and
so much master in him that it would never so much as
let a vicious appetite be born. " 36 Montaigne said this even
though he knew and told the story of Socrates' overhearing people discuss his facial appearance and saying that
it had the marks of lust on it. Socrates interrupted them
to say that they were right. Those tendencies were within,
but that he had overcome them by effort. 37
Cato the younger also seems to be a man so far above
others as to brook no comparison. "Cato alone suffices
for every example of virtue. " 38
Thus the last two paragraphs of the essay are a glimpse
of Montaigne wrestling with a disturbing flaw in the
character of his hero, Alexander-his cruelty. As mentioned above, Montaigne says it is difficult to found anything stable on man, because he is such an undulating
object. This statement applies even to the ebb and flow
of Montaigne' s own thoughts. On the one hand, Alexander was a supremely great man, on the other hand he
was cruel, which was in Montaigne' s judgment a great
vice.
The condition for growth in understanding is to face
these contradictions. The truth about human thought is
flux, but flux in which some line of constancy must still
be sought.
Montaigne ends the essay by trying to find out what
possibly could be in a great man's mind that allows him
to be shamefully cruel. The fact that in paragraphs 9 and
10 he comes up with two different and plausible explanations means that he has not found one true explanation. However, the act of facing the problem and
producing plausible hypotheses is progress. The quest
is not an idle one. It is part of his finding out what he
should admire and at what point those whom he thought
were heroes have to be rejected. Julius Caesar might appear to have as much claim to be admired as Alexander,
but he is rejected because he overthrew the civil government and plunged his country into civil war. In examining Alexander's cruelty Montaigne is questioning his own
right to admire him. This is a deep moral question.
Anyone reading the last paragraphs of this essay will
gain an authentic glimpse of Montaigne's way of thinking. They will see Montaigne creating Montaigne-by trying to judge his own loyalties.
When I was mid-way into the writing of this piece, a
friend asked me what I was writing about. When I told
him, he said, "Good. You will be getting away from all
that heavy philosophy" by which he meant the Hegel
I was reading for seminar. I disagree. It is questionable
whether anyone deserves to be called a philosopher who
departs very far from the self-examination Montaigne carried on to the end.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
NOTES
1. All quotations from Montaigne are taken from The Complete Essays
of Montaigne, translated by Donald M. Frame, Stanford, 1965. References are made to that work as Essays, followed by the Book, the num-
ber of the essay and the page in the Stanford edition.
2. Essays I, 1, 3.
3. Tempest II. 1, 148 ff. Cp. Essays of Michael, Lord of Montaigne, translated by John Floris, Vol. 1, chapter 3, 219-20, Everyman Library no.
440, London-Toronto, 1910.
4. References to Measure for Measure and the Apology for Raymond Sebond are found in The Relations of Shakespeare and Montaigne, by Elizabeth
Robina Hooker [Modern Library Association XVII (1903), 358-59, and
360 fl.].
5. See Encyclopedia Brittanica, 14th-Edition, "Guienne."
6. For information about the political events in which Montaigne was
involved, I am especially indebted to Henri IV, Babelon, Paris, 1982,
and to Montaigne, a biography, Donald M. Frame, San Francisco, 1954.
7. See La ]eunisse de Montaigne, R. Trinquet, Paris, 1972, 41-77 for a
complete account of how the Montaigne family came to be numbered
among the nobility.
8. Essays, IlL 13, 825 ff.
9. Essays, I, 14, 38.
10. Ibid.
11. Essays, m, 12, 805.
12. Essays, I, 26, 109 ££.
13. Essays, I, 26, 129 ££.
14. Essays, I, 26, 128.
15. Essays, II, 19, 507.
16. Ibid.
16a. Essays, I, 27, 134.
17. Essays, I, 26, 129.
18. Frame, Montaigne, 40.
19. See Essays, Book I, 20, "That to Philosophise is to Learn to Die." This
essay, written early, has additions made in the last year of his life. His
starting place is in one place an opinion of Seneca's, against which he
engages in a vigorous polemic (p. 26 ff.).
20. See Frame, Montaigne, 234--45.
21. Essays, III; 12, 812.
22. See Cambridge Modern History, Vol. II, London and New York, 1918,
290 fl.
23. The most memorable of these tragic happenings is the massacre of
St. Bartholomew. See The Massacre of St. Bartholomew, Henri Noguehe,
translated by Eliane Engel, London, 1962.
23a. Frame, Montaigne, 30 ff.
24. Essays, I, 56, 229.
25. Essays, II, 12, 323 and note. Even more severe about the Protestants is III, 12, 798.
26. See Frame, Montaigne, 179.
26a. Ibid., 281.
27. III, 12, 798.
28. III, 2, 611.
,
29. See Olivier Naudeau, La pensee de Montaigne et le developement des
Essais, Geneve, 1972, p. 51 and note 51. For all the last part of the lecture I am deeply indebted toM. Olivier's book. Anyone seriously interested in Montaigne owes it to himself to read it.
30. I, 26, 107.
31. See II, 36, "Of the Most Oustanding Men."
32. Ibid., 569.
33. Ibid., 573.
34. Ibid., 572.
35. III, 2, 614.
36. II, 11, 308.
37. II, 12, 809.
38. II, 13, 462.
69
�1 By diverse means we arnve at the same end
Appendix
1.) A. The commonest way of softening the hearts of those we have
offended, when, vengeance in hand, they hold us at their mercy, is
by submission to move them to commiseration and pity. However, audacity and steadfastness-entirely contrary means-have sometimes
served to produce the same effect.
2.) Edward, prince of Wales, the one who governed our Guienne so
long (a person whose traits and fortune have in them many notable
elements of greatness), having suffered much harm from the Limousins, and taking their city by force, could not be halted by the cries of
the people and of the women and children abandoned to the butchery, who implored his mercy and threw themselves at his feet-until
going farther and farther into the city, he saw three French gentlemen
who with incredible boldness were holding out alone against the as~
sault of his victorious army. Consideration and respect for such remarkable valor first took the edge off his anger; and he began with these
three men to show mercy to all the inhabitants of the city.
3.) As Scanderbeg, prince of Epirus, was pursuing one of his soldiers
in order to kill him, this soldier, after trying by every sort of humility
and supplication to appease him, resolved in the last extremity to await
him sword in hand. This resoluteness of his put a sudden stop to the
fury of his master, who, having seen him take such an honorable stand,
received him into his favor. This example may suffer another interpretation from those who have not read about the prodigious strength and
valor of the prince.
4.) Emperor Conrad ill, having besieged Guelph, duke of Bavaria, would
not come down to milder terms, no matter what vile and cowardly satis~
factions were offered him, than merely to allow the gentlewomen who
were besieged with the duke to go out, their honor safe, on foot, with
what they could carry away on them. They, great-heartedly, decided
to load their husbands, their children, and the duke himself on their
shoulders. The Emperor took such great pleasure in the nobility of their
courage that he wept with delight and wholly subdued the bitter and
deadly hatred which he had borne against this duke, and from that time
forward treated him and his humanely.
5.) B. Either one of these two ways would easily win me, for I am wonderfully lax in the direction of mercy and gentleness. As a matter of
fact, I believe I should Pe likely to surrender more naturally to compassion than to esteem. Yet to the Stoics pity is a vicious passion; they
want us to succor the afflicted, but not to unbend and sympathize with
them.
6.) A.Now these examples seem to me more to the point, inasmuch
as we see these souls, assailed and tested by these two means, hold
up unshaken against one and bow beneath the other. It may be said
that to subdue your heart to commiseration is the act of easygoing indulgence and softness, which is why the weaker natures, such as those
of women, children, and the common herd, are the most subject to it;
but that, having disdained tears and prayers, to surrender simply to
reverence for the sacred image of valor is the act of a strong and inflexible soul which holds in affection and honor a masculine and obstinate
vigor.
7.) However, in less lofty souls, astonishment and admiration can engender a like effect. Witness the people of Thebes: having put their
generals on trial for their lives for continuing in their posts beyond the
time prescribed and foreordained for them, they just barely absolved
Pelopidas, who bowed under the weight of such accusations and used
only pleas and supplications to protect himself; whereas with Epaminon~
das, who came out and related proudly the things done by him and
reproached the people with them in a haughty C. and arrogant A.manner, they did not have the heart even to take the ballots into their hands,
and the assembly broke up, greatly praising the loftiness of this man's
courage ....
8.) A. Truly man is a marvelously vain, diverse, and undulating object.
It is hard to found any constant and uniform judgment on him, Here
is Pompeius pardoning the whole city of the Mamertines, against which
he was greatly incensed, in consideration of the valor and magnanimity of the citizen Stheno, who took the fault of the people upon hlmself
alone and asked no other favor but to bear the punishment alone. Yet
Sulla' s host, who displayed similar valor in the city of Praeneste, got
nothing out of it, either for himself or for the others.
9.) B.And directly contrary to my first examples, the bravest of men
and one very gracious to the vanquished, Alexander, forcing the city
of Gaza after many great difficulties, came upon Betis-who was in command there and of whose valor he had experienced marvelous proofs
during this siege-now alone, abandoned by his men, his armor cut
to pieces, all covered with blood and wounds, still fighting on in the
midst of many Macedonians who were attacking him from all sides.
Stung by such a dearly won victory-for among other damage Alexander had received two fresh wounds on his person-he said to him:
''You shall not die as you wanted, Betis; prepare yourself to suffer every kind of torment that can be invented against a captive.'' The other,
with a look not only confident but insolent and haughty, stood without
saying a word to these threats. Then Alexander, seeing his proud and
obstinate silence: "Has he bent a knee? Has any suppliant cry escaped
him? I'll conquer your muteness yet; and if I cannot wring a word from
it, at least I'll wring a groan," And turning his anger into rage, he ordered Betis' heels to be pierced through and had him thus dragged alive,
tom, and dismembered, behind a cart.
10.) Could it be that-hardihood was so common to Alexander that, not
marveling at it, he respected it the less? C.Or did he consider it so
peculiarly his own that he could not bear to see it at this height in another
without passionately envious spite? Or was the natural impetuosity of
his anger incapable of brooking opposition? In truth, if it could have
been bridled, it is probable that it would have been in the capture and
desolation of the city of Thebes, at the sight of so many valiant men,
lost and without any further means of common defense, cruelly put
to the sword. For fully six thousand of them were killed, of whom not
one was seen fleeing or asking for mercyT but who were on the contrary seeking, some here, some there, through the streets, to confront
the victorious enemy and to provoke an honorable death at his hands.
Not one was seen so beaten down with wounds as not to try even in
his last gasp to avenge himself, and with the weapons of despair to
assuage his death in the death of some enemy. Yet the distress of theb:
valor found no pity, and the length of a day was not enough to satiate
Alexander's revenge. This slaughter went on to the last drop of blood
that could be shed, and stopped only at the unarmed people, old men,
women, and children, so that thirty thousand of them might be taken
as slaves.
Brother Robert Smith is a tutor emeritus at St. John's College, Annapolis.
70
SUMMER 1985
�Occasional Discourse
Mental Imagery
(The College and Contemporay Cognitive Science)
Homecoming Lecture, September 1985
Eva Brann
I am very much alive to the fact that this is Homecoming weekend-homecoming not only for the alumni but
also for me. I've been gone from St. John's far and long-as
far as Delaware and as long as a year. So I look on the
place where I've spent exactly half my life as an astronaut
in outer space looks on the very small planet which is
home. That, together with the nature of tonight'ssubjed,
prompts me to indulge in five minutes' worth of looking
backwards.
When I came to the college well over a quarter century
ago, I entered a fresh and heady world of learning, leaving behind what I felt, rather than understood, to be a
hide-bound, dreary academia, the academia of the decade
after the Second World War. The college, then only existent in Annapolis, was less than a third the size it is on
this campus now, and it had a kind of guardian spirit,
a philosopher king, as one might say (provided one said
it with a smile), in Jacob Klein, the Dean. It was conveyed
to me that he had described me as behaving like a fish
in water, and that was just how I felt-like one who was
disporting herself in her element, to whom understanding came as she breathed. I am recounting this largely for
the freshmen among you. For as it may for you, it turned
out for me that one cannot glide along in freshman glory
forever-there followed the notorious sophomore slump
bringing sophomore sobriety and with it a second beginning, the exchange of a weightless exhilaration for abetteranchored interest. One can't be forever tumbling about
in one's element; the time comes when the thronging intimations of truth have to be turned into precise questions
and problems. The program itself offered the way: twentyeight hundred years' worth of commentary on fundamental questions, not excluding the question whether these
are always the same or subtly or even cataclysmically
different in different ages.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
So, like most of my colleagues at the college, I paid only
very passing and largely aversive attention to the contemporary state of affairs. (I mean intellectual affairs, since
ignoring politics for very long is what a citizen does at
her peril.) At the end of tonight's lecture I mean to make
a principled argument for living in isolation from "current thinking;' from vogues and trends, for long stretches
of time. Nonetheless, a moment eventually came, and
happily an opportunity too, for catching up. I simply felt
a certain avidity to know what the world was saying. I
did a lot of reading, but of course I haven't begun to master
the matter-no one could, anyhow. Yet I think I have certain inklings concerning at least one area and its associations which I'll come to in a minute.
Let me, though, repeat to you in the largest and vaguest
terms my first impressions: Our contemporaries have
verve and sophistication. Quite a few of the best are, not
to mince words, charming (or not so charming) smartalecks. Their intellectual mode has explicitness, precision,
and often a kind of purity. All the possibilities which used
to remain obtusely unconsidered in the mid-century have
been articulated and worked over. The engine of invention has been producing faster and faster, and the mill
of rational speech has been grinding finer and finer. I hear
that there is a Chinese curse: "May you live in exciting
times" and also a Greek counter-curse: "May you hear
nothing new:' Well, we're afflicted in the way of China
and blessed in the way of Greece-at least on the face of it.
I want to claim right away that this condition of affairs
can't help but draw in the college. It may and ought to
affect the program in only a limited way, but I think it
might put us in a new position vis-a-vis the intellectual
world which I want to sketch out in a broad and somewhat undigested way later on. Consequently my lecture
will have two parts, which I will call with grand simplic71
�ity Psychology and Philosophy, the first to set out what I
learned this past year and the second to be a sort of coda
of conclusions for us. So then;
I. Psychology
Again, I must begin with a bit of intellectual history,
both personal and public. For a decade now my thoughts
have circled about the theme of the imagination. In fact,
I have collected so much stu££ that my ideas are beginning to sink under its weight-the time has come to carve
out some conclusions. As for the theme itself, I have been
drawn to it along several approaches-and, as I've
learned, when all roads lead to Rome, to Rome one must
go.
One of these approaches is bookish. The imagination
plays the role of the missing mystery in a number of
philosophical texts, by which I mean that a faculty by that
name is given a central task while its operation is left sanguinely unexplained. As Kant says, it is: "a hidden art in
the depth of the human soul:' I might say here what is,
broadly, meant by imagination in the philosophical sense:
It is a faculty which presupposes that somehow or other
two worlds of objects are present to us, one of which
seems to us to be outside, the other inside ourselves. The
inner world1 in turn, appears to consist of two realms,
one of which, though lacking a certain feature of "thereness" which belongs to the external world, has at least
one characteristic apparently and yet elusively in common
with it: it is shaped and colored and, in short, space-like;
the other realm is non-sensory and word-like. Philosophical texts have much to say on the role the imagination
plays in cognition, that is, in knowing. Lately they have
said quite a bit about the unintelligibility of imagining,
but what has rarely been confronted head-on is the question: "How is such an ability possible?" And that is what
of Delaware where I am teaching. It turns out that there
is a new and burgeoning science called cognitive psychology and in it a fiercely embattled area called mental imagery.
The title of tonight's lecture, "mental imagery;' betokens
the translation into the new science of the old mystery
concerning inner, space-like representations ("representations;' as opposed to the original external presentation, though our juniors are about to learn that most
philosophers of the seventeenth and eighteenth century
think that representations are all we have).
The newness of the science that studies mental imagery
is expressed in the fact that most of what I am about to
report to you was published within the last five years. That
it is indeed a science can be seen from its method: It tortures nature, as Kant puts it, or teases out the facts, as
psychologists like to say, by simple but clever experiments.
As for the slippery and intriguing business of turning a
philosophical question into a scientific problem-what
changes the issue undergoes on the way and which endeavor ends up guiding which-! hope to say something
about that at the end.
To introduce cognitive psychology and to explain its special interest in mental imagery, in what actually goes on
when we see images before the mind's eye, I must one
last time go backward to give you a thumbnail sketchwritten on a tiny thumb at that-of the history of psychology.
The state of psychology represented a considerable part
of the aforementioned intellectual dreariness of the midcentury. In the half-century which lies between about 1910
and 1960 the discipline was dominated by two schools,
a soft one and a hard one, so to speak. The former was
psychoanalysis. Freud proposed as a provisional theoretical framework-ultimately reducible to biology-a model
or topography of the soul, in which the most extensive
territory was assigned to the unconscious, a pandemon-
imagination.
ium of anti-social passion, which a skill£ul analyst might
nonetheless tease out into the open and render less harmful. Although its founder did not think of psychoanalysis as primarily therapeutic, it eventually became almost
wholly the province of psychiatrists. The imagination
played a role in psychoanalysis since the interpretation
of dreams was thought to give access to the unconscious.
However, the interest was in establishing a symbolic interpretive vocabulary for therapeutic use, and that turned
out to be scientifically soft, that is to say, not extensively
amenable to verification. At the same time the imaginative agency that did the dream work, that turned the pas-
The third and last approach 111 mention is through the
fact that the imagination is usually regarded as the source
of made-up realms such as dreams and fictions. Since by
my reckoning I spend about 62.5% of my day betwixt the
one and the other of these, I wanted to learn something
about the power that is behind these non-existent and allimportant worlds. But tonight I haven't got much to say
about that topic.
In search of a clue to my theme I set about reading the
shelves of the excellent research library at the University
subject of study. The interest in their symbolism suppressed the interest in the images. (Freud also had a
theory of the origin of imagining in infantile wishfulfillment-hallucination.)
The hard school was behaviorism. It was very much
driven by what post-Freudian psychologists refer to as
their irrepressible "physics envy:' Its crude but forceful
tenet was that to be a science, psychology must deal with
what is verifiably observable. Therefore internal events,
intrigues me.
Another approach is through politics. The imagination
is a puzzle not only as a universal cognitive capability but
also as a general human gift which may be abused either
through hyperactivity or desuetude. I've become convinced that most political catastrophes are connected to
a fault in imagination: the inability to imagine accurately
the minute daily detail which any large vision might entail. So I became interested in what one might call "imaginative coherence;' or the projective powers of the
72
sions into symbolic representations, was not itself a central
SUMMER 1985
�being ipso facto unobservable and at best known through
the unverifiable reports of introspection, were excluded
from its field of inquiry. No event is more internal than
a mental image, and so Watson, one of the founders of
the school, uttered his notorious dictum directed at
reports of "reminiscence-imagery:" "Touching, of course,
but sheer bunk:' Sir Arthur Eddington summarized this
mind-set, which at once bedevils and buoys up the
sciences, in a sarcasm which might well stand as the epigraph of this lecture: "What my net can't catch isn't fish:'
In the sixties both empires waned, psychoanalysis because as a theory it was unverifiable, as a therapy it was
expensive, and as a world view it had been established.
Behaviorism, on the other hand, choked by the huge accumulations of quantified experimental results unlevigated by any interesting overall theory, more or less died
of tedium, though its method, too, had seeped into general opinion.
But mainly it was a new and vigorous interest that
usurped their place, the interest in cognition, in the temporal stages of learning in childhood and in the patterns
and processes of cognitive events in adults. Piaget, who
pioneered the former investigation, called "genetic epistemology;' had long had a special interest in the imagination because he thought of it as not as a congenital ability
but as a symbolizing function developing in the second
year of infancy, intermediate between mere perception
and rationality and responsible for the first interiorization
of representations.
The concern with imagery in adult cognition sprang
from several sources. One was a recollection of the fascinating imagery studies undertaken by experimental psychologists in pre-behavioral times. Another was the
spectacular new discipline of Artificial Intelligence, the attempt to write programs which would, when run (sometimes rather incidentally) on computers, simulate human
cognition. Cognitive functions involving figurative features turn out to be both rather recalcitrant to simulation
and theoretically intriguing. The effort fed a very old
philosophical debate concerning the distinction between
space and thought, for which the contemporary computer
terms-I will just throw them out for the moment-are
given by the pair "analog" and "digital:'
Yet another source of the new interest in images is the
burgeoning new brain science. The gist of the problem
here is that, contrary to earlier expectations, the brain
events which appear to be the accompanying conditions
of, or to mediate, the cognitive function of imagining show
absolutely no evidence of any formations of the sort that
used to be called "engrams;' formations analogous to the
imagery reported by subjects; that is to say, there are no
pictures in our brain, although the whole scientific community, with no significant exception, supposes that in
some, often rather sophisticated, sense cognition is just
brain states and events. (Note, therefore, that when I
spoke before of computers merely simulating cognition
and brain events merely mediating it, I was speaking far
more conservatively than do most cognitive psycho!THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
ogists.)
The most pertinent source is, finally, philosophical, not
however insofar as the imaginative faculty is acknowledged but precisely insofar as it is denied. In this
century was written the first full-scale thematic treatment
of the imagination that I know of in the history of
philosophy, namely by Jean-Paul Sartre. He was inspired
largely by Edmund Husser!, who founded phenomenology, a philosophical school which is interested in the
description of experiences as experiences. However, it is
not that work which most cognitive psychologists take account of but rather Ludwig Wittgenstein's scattered and,
above all, Gilbert Ryle's systematic attack on the possibility and significance of cognition through mental imagery.
Ryle's Concept of Mind is one of those bold books which
mask the obscurity of their position by the hard-hitting
clarity of their opposition. What Ryle attacked is what he
identified as the essence of Cartesianism, namely the very
idea of internal mental representation which I spoke of
before: the notion that we have something-ideas,
thoughts, symbols or pictures-in or before our minds.
What Ryle found absurd in mental representations, and
so rejected on logical grounds, was that they required a
mind's eye, a mental mannikin before which to appear; he
dubbed it "the ghost in the mind's machine:' What he
objected to in the interiority of mental representations was
their lack of public evidence; here he followed the
methodological requirements of the behaviorists-but he
went further, converting the requirement of observability into a conclusion of non-existence. It's Eddington's
fishy argument all over: What my net can't catch, just isn't.
Naturally, mental images were included in this annihilation.
I want to interject here a comment on the attitude of
students of cognition toward ordinary experience. Their
method-driven mode sometimes makes them cavalier
about what they nowadays call "folk psychology;' meaning everybody's natural suppositions, for example the distinction we all ordinarily make between ourselves and our
bodies, and, most to the point, the fact that we all just
do seem to see pictures in our head. For my part, no theory is plausible which, yielding to mere logical squeamishness, fails to begin by honoring and to end by
grounding what we naturally say and believe.
This, happily, is the hypothesis of the book from which
most of what now follows is taken (from it, I should say,
with the aid of about six-hundred and sixty-six other
texts). The author is Stephen Kosslyn, a cognitive psychologist at Harvard. The title of the book, published in
1983, is, pertinently, Ghosts in the Mind's Machine. Its
impetus was the sense that, Ryle notwithstanding, we
do have and also use mental images, and that methods
might be devised for testing and tricking truths about
them out of subjects-in short, to make mental imagery
somehow observable by devising experiments which
would make the protocols of introspection more reliable.
(I should say here that Kosslyn has succeeded in developing a detailed theory of the structures and processes un73
�derlying mental imagery, but it would go too far to try
to describe it tonight.)
The problem proposed itself in three parts. The part
investigated first was: do people use mental imagery in
solving some problem? If the answer was yes, the question: "do people have mental images?" would have been
implicitly answered. The second part was to determine
what the distinctive features of such imagery might be.
The third part, which shaded confusingly into philosophy, was to determine the essential nature of such imagery. You might think these are plain enough questions,
but to ask them clearly and to answer them productively
turns out to be a, possibly bottomlessly, complex
business.
The first problem, then, whether people have mental
imagery, was attacked by Galton a century ago by the
naively empirical method of sending round questionnaires to great men, asking them to describe their breakfast tables. It was partly the surprising response of a
number of the scientists among the respondents that sent
the subject into eclipse-they claimed not to have such
imagery. No one regards this result as very significant
nowadays; experiments presuppose that subjects can and
do follow the order: "Visualize (or imagine) x"; the result
of the experiments is taken further to corroborate the assumption. In the seventies Alan Shepard and his associates devised a series of experiments designed to reveal
the mental representations of subjects by seeing if they
actually used imagery in doing certain tasks.
(I want to note two items on the way. First, people under the constraints of an experiment are called" subjects"
by psychologists. It is obviously a major question whether
a subject is coextensive with a full human being. Second,
in order to avoid the distracting bustle of visual aids, I
shall choose from a horde of experiments those most easily describable in words, and I shall omit some of the complicating control features.)
Shepard presented the subjects with pairs of pictures
of somewhat complicated three-dimensional block
shapes. In half of the pairs the two shapes were slightly
different, in the other half they were the same, though
differently oriented, at increasing angies of rotation. The
subjects were asked to look at the pictures and then to
judge whether each pair included different or identical
shapes. The hypothesis was that the response time would
be a linear function of the angle of rotation, that is to say,
subjects would take longer to answer in proportion as the
second member of the pair was farther rotated from the
original. The results startlingly confirmed the hypothesis, and were interpreted to mean that the subject mentally performed a rotation on the second member of the
pair to see if it would be brought into coincidence with
the first, taking twice as long for a doubly large angle.
Consider how remarkable it is that the participants, who
had been looking at mere drawings, apparently did the
mental rotation of the depicted solids not flatly in the picture plane but through a mental space, mimicking depthperspective.
74
(I want to point out here that "reaction time" is the
bread and butter of cognitive psychology, used in boring cases to festoon with numbers a dull fact no one disputes, but in interesting ones to make cognitive processes
reveal themselves. It means, of course, that in the most
telling cases subjects are required to report on some kinetic aspect of pre-given imagery. Since it seems to me that
when most itself, most absorbing, our imaginative capacity tends to self-produced timeless tableaus and transformation, it follows that the imagery processes clocked by
cognitive psychology are characteristically of a narrowly
mundane sort-but that is the price to be paid for hard
results.)
It is. the second part of the problem, concerning the distinctive marks of mental imagery, to which Kosslyn addressed himself. Here much ingenuity was required first
just to articulate the features which an internal image
might display and then to devise experiments to make
them manifest themselves. Kosslyn, too, fell back on the
very hypothesis attacked by Wittgenstein and Ryle, the
notion that our imagery has something depictive, something picture-like about it.
Let us stop to see what in our experience of imaging
might drive us to the picture analogy. First of all, people
do in fact experience themselves as viewing their images
"in their heads." -Much as they inspect scenes and portraits and still-lives outside, they seem to be gazing on
appearances in inner space. (In fact, there is a curious and
beguiling theory that the earliest art images are cave
paintings because caves serve as a physical representation of the black internal space that appears when the eyes
are shut.) Furthermore, they don't think that the landscape or persons or objects themselves appear but their
likeness or image, just as happens in a picture. That's after all, exactly why we call it "imagining." Not to be what
it represents is the hall-mark of any image, be it on mirrors, reflecting pools or photographic plate, as you can
read in Plato's Sophist. And finally, mental images share
with artificial images the fact that they are shaped by and
imbued with the author's knowledge and feelings, and
sometimes even more: It seems somehow to be possible
to imagine and to paint what the eye of perception has
never seen.
Guided by some such considerations (and helped by
the new field of visual information processing), Kosslyn
could frame a first precise question: Do we actually scan
our interior images? To elicit an answer he devised tht:
following double-checked experiment. Subjects wen
shown a picture of an island containing seven unevenly
distributed features, a rock, a tree, a beach and so on.
They were to inspect it until they could hold it before theil
mind's eye, and fixing on a given location, they were tc
determine whether or not a certain announced featurE
was on the island by making an imaginary black sped
move to it at top speed, and when it had arrived, the;
were to press a button. The reaction times bore out Koss·
lyn' s expectations. The little speck took proportionally
more time to reach more distant features. Subjects wen
SUMMER 1985
�evidently passing mentally over the intermediate distance, that is to say, mentally scanning their images.
To explain the double check part of the experiment I
have to begin to say something about an old battle of
latter-day gods and giants that rages in cognitive psychology. These days the antagonists are called "imagists" and
Hpropositionalists," or, for fun, 11 iconophiles" and
"iconophobes." The former claim that we both have images and use them cognitively along with propositional
thought. The latter (whose chief proponent is Zenon Pylyshin) argue either that we don't have them, or that if we
have them we don't use them-that they are merely along
for the ride, ''epiphenomenal,'' and that all cognition is
propositional. I won't attempt to be precise about what
is meant by "propositional" (except that it implies notfigurative and non-spacial representations), but let Kosslyn's double-check indicate the distinction. After having
had his island experiment criticized by the propositionalists because, they claimed, reaction times could have
been the same had the subjects run through mental lists
of features rather than scanned their mental images, Kosslyn simply instructed a second group of subjects not
necessarily to use images but just to answer as quickly
as possible, on the supposition that seven features could
easily be kept in mind as a list. Lo and behold, reaction
times were indifferent to the distances of the features
from base. Apparently the task could be done either by
scanning mental image or by consulting a word-like mental list.
Next Kosslyn investigated the mental image as object.
First he posed a rather startling question suggested by
the picture analogy. As opposed to sculpture in the
round, picture images, be they mirror reflections,
newspaper photographs, paintings, or wax impressions,
are all manifested on a medium: silvered glass, newsprint
on paper, paint on canvas, wax. The question became:
Do mental images have a medium which underlies all imagery in general? What is the inner picture plane like?
For example wax takes impressions differently if it is dry
or soft (here Kosslyn cites Plato's Theaetetus where the
mental medium is compared to a wax tablet), and paper
can be coarse or fine grained. Does the mental medium
too set a limit on the resolution of images? If so, it would
underwrite the picture-likeness of the imagery, since pictures are distinguished from their real originals precisely
by the fact that we can expect real objects to offer almost
infinite prospects of detail, bounded only by the acuteness of our sight, whereas a picture has an inherent limit
of resolution past which we are no longer looking at the
images it carries; for example, a human being can be in-
spected down to the pores of the skin and beyond, while
a newspaper photo presently dissolves into mere dots.
To test the grain of the mental medium, subjects were
asked to conunit to memory pictures of a rabbit next to
an elephant and of a fly next to a rabbit, so that the larger
animal would in each case take up most of the mental
space. They were then asked to report the features of the
large and the small animals. The latter took consistently
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
more time, as if the small features were harder to see,
or as if the viewers had to zoom in on them. Since many
people have a favorite familiar rabbit while few have a
favorite fly, they were also asked to look at a tiny rabbit
next to a large fly, lest they be reporting features from
mere verbal memory. Again the tiny animal's features
took longer to make out. Kosslyn concluded that the mental medium had a definite grain which makes small objects harder to discern-perhaps somewhat dubiously
since the result might be equally attributed to the resolving power of the mental eye. But then he didn't consider
the mind's eye to be an organ of sight, as we will see.
(I must inject here a doubt I feel myself about Kosslyn' s
procedures, which is that he always has subjects memorize objects which are pictures to begin with, that is, he
works with mental images of real images. There may be
a predisposing factor in that, but let us set it aside for
this lecture.)
Again the propositionalists demurred, claiming that
subjects were not inspecting mental images but verballike lists of features. They would look at the larger animal,
which also had more features, first and store its description ill their short term memory. (Short term memory is
the kind of memory where we "keep," say, telephone
numbers we have just looked up between the book and
the dial.) Now experiments have shown that the short
term memory can hold only plus or minus seven items.
Consequently the small animal's features had simply
been crowded out, and subjects would have to dig into
their long term associative memory files, where general
coherent knowledge about flies is stored, to answer questions about them, and this would take longer.
Again Kosslyn devised a double-check. When subjects
are asked without a picture whether cats have claws they
can answer just as immediately as when asked if they
have heads. In fact, claws which are spatially small, have
as much associative memory strength as heads which are
comparatively large, but when subjects are asked to answer the question by inspecting a mental image, they
nonetheless take longer to ascertain the presence of claws
than of a head. The medium does seem to obscure small
features, and furthermore, in general, we seem to be able
to solve memory tasks in two ways, through mental images and through verbal registration. (Ask yourself, for
example, how many windows there are in your house.
Most people answer by taking a mental walk through the
place. Now wait five minutes and ask yourself again.
Usually the answer will come in a word-fourteen in my
case.)
Finally, Kosslyn considered, a medium has a size and
a shape. For real pictures these are given by the dimensions of the frame. For our perceptual window on the
world the size is given by our angle of vision and the
shape by the fact that our eyes are set horizontally side
by side-consequently our visual field is roughly elliptical. To measure the size of the field-medium, Kosslyn had
subjects mentally walk toward memorized images of
animals of various sizes, a rabbit, a dog, a cow, until they
75
�overflowed the mental field. The subjects then placed a
real tripod at a distance from a real wall which they
judged equal to the mental distance of overflow of each
animal. That distance, it tumed out, increased proportionally with the size of the animal. The angle of sharp
central mental vision was calculated with a little trigonometry to be roughly 25°, similar to that of the perceptual
field. Furthermore, subjects were to imagine walking
toward a foot-long ruler held first horizontally and then
vertically. The vertical ruler overflowed the field sooner
than the other, showing that the inner medium, too, is
roughly elliptical in shape.
Most people suppose that seeing and imagining have
similarities. That they can be confusingly alike was shown
in a famous experiment made by Perky in 1910 on the
eve of the great eclipse of imagery studies and replicated
more recently in improved format. She seated subjects
before a screen in a well-lit room and asked them to
project the mental image of, say, a banana on the screen.
(There seem to be animal and vegetable psychologists.)
Unbeknownst to them she projected a faint slide image
on the same place. Subjects declared themselves a little
surprised that while they were thinking of the banana
as lying on its side, they kept imagining it as standing
on end, but no one caught on. Kosslyn considers her
results as well as his to indicate that perceiving and imagining share certain cognitive processes. For him that
means, of course, that they share brain mechanisms,
namely those that take. place well behind the organs of
visual perception (as suggested by the fact that people
who lose their eye-sight in youth continue to have mental images).
So much for a small sampling of the experiments and
their results. Now comes the serious business, the effort
to say what all this might amount to, in itself and for us.
II. Philosophy
I hope I have not left you with the impression that the
so-called propositionalists have been repulsed. All the
conclusions have been called in question, though for my
part, I'm pursuaded by the design itself of Shepard's and
Kosslyn' s experiments that introspection can be tricked
into yielding disciplined, hard information about internal, that is, psychic, states and events while the results
indicate first, that we have an intemal space-like receptacle which resembles in some respects the medium of
pictures and in others the field of perception, and second,
that the images therein are cognitively effective, that they
are at least sometimes used in the act of knowing and
are not merely epiphenomena-idle accompaniments of
cognition. That's what I am persuaded of, but as I mentioned, in cognitive psychology the battle between the
so-called iconophiles and iconophobes continues to ragesome say ad nauseam. I think, however, that the combatants show good instincts in carrying on, because although
within cognitive science it may be that as the formula-
76
tions become more and more refined the issue becomes
more and more obscure, and perhaps finally recalcitrant
to experimental resolution, from the philosophic point of
view the question won't go away.
Before summing up what, in rock-bottom terms, that
question is and why it matters, let me just quickly run
through some of the subsequent perplexities concerning
the imagination. There is the great dual question about
the relation of perception and imagination: could we perceive if we didn't imagine?; can we image what we
haven't perceived? Then we might ask whether we inspect our mental images passively or whether in beholding them we are actually producing them. Then there is
the question of the difference between real images and
imagination-images: what is the distinction between perceiving an image such as a portrait, and imagining a perception, such as the visualization of a friend's face? Then
we can ask about composition of images: are they wholes
made of parts?; for instance, can they fade in sections or
are they fragilely integral, generated and lost as a whole?;
and in general, how sturdy or evanescent are they? Are
they altered piecemeal or by so-called blink transformations? Do they obey compositional laws like the "law of
good form'' proposed by the Gestalt psychologists? And
since mental images, whatever else they are, are somehow images, there are all the questions about the way they
mix being and non-being first raised in Plato's Saphist and
now treated in logic under the heading of fictional or non·
existent objects. These are the enticing inquires which
would come next.
But for now let me state the two terms which seem tc
sum up the debate, as I said, in the most rock-bottom and
revealing way, namely: depiction vs. description (Ned
Block). The pictoralists say that some of our mental
representations are picture-like. Aristotle's famous remar1
that "the soul never thinks without images" would seerr
to be the founding dictum of this camp. (Though that ha'
been doubted, in fact by Martha Nussbaum, who lecturec
here a couple of years ago, in her commentary on thE
De Motu Animalium.) The descriptionalists claim that al,
our mental representations are language-like, that om
inner representations, although about the world, are neve1
like it.
I am now going to conclude by trying to show wha·
matters about this controversy and how it might affec
us in particular.
First, you might think it was pretty obvious that thE
debate would drive its proponents smack into such ques
tions as: what is depiction? What can it be but thE
representation of an object as a space-like image (not, b)
the way, necessarily visual)? But what is representation
what is space, what is an image? Well, the psychologist'
mostly do what I've done tonight, skirt around theS<
questions. But when the moment comes to take them Uf
a student of this program should be way ahead. Wha
is the inner point of the sophomore study of analytic ge
ometry, for instance, but to think about just these issues'
There is a picture on one side of the text and an equatior
SUMMER 1985
�on the other. The diagram is spatial and figurative and
appears to image something. The equation consists of letters and signs and seems to symbolize something. Are they
two manifestations of the same object which they
represent differently? Is the equation closer to words or
to logic than the figure is? What is the difference among
figure, symbol and word, and what difference does that
difference make? A successful sophomore mathematics
tutorial cannot help but be a rather deep introduction to
the depiction-description debate. In fact, come to think
of it, our study of Apollonius already offers a prime introduction to the issue: Remember the propositions
where figure and words jibe at the beginning and at the
end, but in between we are required to follow letter
manipulations which are geometric nonsense (or are
they?), while, on the other hand, Apollonius' very understanding of his curves as conic sections can't be adequately rendered in symbols (or can it?).
Images, however, are only a subheading of the category
representation, and mental images co;me under mental
representations in general. Cognitive psychologists are
one and all committed to the existence of mental
representations-else what would their experiments be
forcing into the open? But as I mentioned way back in
this lecture, students of philosophy in this century have
taken to attacking the whole notion of representation.
Recall that the title of Kosslyn's book Ghosts in the Mind's
Machine was intended as a rebuttal of Ryle' s attack on
mental representations, images, of course, in particular.
Kosslyn could take this position because he thinks he has
solved the very problem of that mind's eye before which
the images appear whose necessity made mental imagery
an absurdity to Ryle. Of course, the mind's eye is just
a sub-problem: all mental representation requires a self,
or subject, or, derogatorily, a "homunculus," before
whom the representations are present, and that fact
always leads to bottomless difficulties-though, in my
opinion these are mysteries we'll just have to live with.
I mentioned earlier on that Artificial Intelligence, or computer simulation of cognitive processes, was one of the
impulses behind the new study of mental imagery; Kosslyn was able to construct a computer model of his theory, and it is indeed through a computer analogy that he
means to dispose of the question: "what or who watches
the pictures of the mind?" The answer is simply that the
imaginal medium of a computer, the display screen, is
actually an array of dots, and that the computer's central processing unit, the analogue of the mind's eye, can
"interpret" the imagery because it is immediately translatable into words and numbers like: there is a dot in
row 5, column 7. So a computer can both generate and
read images without benefit of a mind's eye. "Goodbye homunculus" is Kosslyn' s chapter heading for this
solution.
Now, to my mind, it is both a surrender and an evasion (though, I should add, Kosslyn seems to know exactly what he is doing-! just can't make out his
explanation). It is a surrender of the notion that imagery
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
has some ultimate cognitive independence or value, because it implies that an image is only what is called an
"emergent" whole, or as he says: a display "does not
have to be a picture to function as one." That is to say,
the image emerges from non-figurative elements, namely from dots marking coordinate positions. Furthermore
the interpretation, so called, of the image, the computer
simulation of its comprehension, is nothing but just the
stored matrix of these points expressed in words and
digits, or even in digits only. In short, images are at the
bottom "digital," and not "analog," a pair of terms from
computer science which I've mentioned before, referring
to discrete word-, digit-, or symbol-like representations
as opposed to continuous, figurative, or space-like
representations. What we know when we apprehend an
image is finally its algebra, just as Descartes first implied
in his Geometry, which, as I mentioned, we study so carefully for that reason.
The evasion in Kosslyn' s solution to the mind's eye perplexity is simply this: As he explicity says, cognitive science
is not competent to deal with experience, with the conscious
sense we have of our cognition (although Dennett has
tried to provide cognitive science with a theory of consciousness). As a science it is bent on turning the interior into an exterior, on making inner processes observable,
and consciousness is hopelessly and recalcitrantly andessentially interior. (It is this conscious experience to which
the phenomenological school of philosophy which I mentioned before specifically attends.) Consequently, the
computer analogy simply circumvents the perplexing
sense we have of an inner vision-an evasion which is
practiced throughout the Artificial Intelligence community, only that generally the "what my net can't catch
isn't fish" principle is in full force. What is evidently possible, though hellishly complex, is to devise equipment
and programs which will "perceive" simple scenes, and
image them, or put images having the established features of mental imagery on the display and read them
off-an accomplishment which is then hypothesized to
give insight into human imagining.
If you think about it, what the fish principle does is to
put philosophy under the domination of science-with
the whole-hearted concurrence of what might be called
the hard-nosed branch of academic philosophy. The cognitive scientists decide what method of theorizing will
keep their inquiries within the concerns of science, and
then more or less knowingly move to exclude from being what their canon excludes from notice-that after all
is just what it means to turn human beings into experimental subjects. And they do this without let or hinderance, not to say with the connivance, of a large part
of the contemporary academic philosophical community. For the contest about who asks the questions has been
won by the scientists, in this case the cognitive scientists
("Cognitive Science" being the overall name for "Cognitive Psychology," "Artificial Intelligence," "Informa'
tion Processing," and so on), and they sit inside calling
the digital tune, while the professional philosophers skulk
77
�at the windows making comments. This state of affairs
can't help but eventually arouse our community's anxious interest, because, while our program is built on the
trust that the important questions are perennially the
same however diverse the attempted answers, the capitulation of philosophy to science makes urgent the question of questions I mentioned in the beginning, namely
whether the terms of the questions themselves may be
transformed radically and beyond translation from age
to age. For science itself, by its very progressive nature,
undergoes periodic revolutions which appear to some to
consign the old problems and terms to irreducible incommensurability with the new ones, and perhaps
philosophy should reflect this discontinuity. We could do
the intellectual world a great service by rousing ourselves
to a rigorous debate with the very clever contemporary
proponents of this point of view.
Lest I seem to have gotten away from the significance
to us of the imagery debate, let me quickly show how
it fits in. On the one hand there is a bunch of terms like
11 imagistic," Lpictorialistic," analogous" and ~~analog."
On the other there is "propositional," "descriptional,"
n symbolic" and
digital." As we have seen, even the
scientists who have devoted themselves to discovering .
the precise characteristics of mental imagery soon abscond into the camp of those who believe that all cognition is finally to be characterized by the second complex
of terms, although somehow the first keeps intruding itself on experience. Why is the battle so drawn out while
underneath the profession is so unanimous? The chief
reason is this: Human experience may speak for the significance of our imaging power, but the underlying impulse of cognitive scientists is to turn the mental into the
physical (forgetting, by the way, that their heroes, the
physicists, are meanwhile busy turning the physical
world into an intelligible one). Specifically, they expect
to explain all cognitive processes in terms of the sort of
logical functions which can be realized as a physical
machine, be it computer or brain. Now as I mentioned,
brain science apparently has at present no evidence that
well accommodates picture-knowing, although there are
basic facts of the brain's functioning which would lend
themselves to the "digital" cognition. So it is plain that
the impulse in cognitive science would be to explanations
in those terms.
Now I have a deep-felt though not yet very wellgrounded suspicion that it is our imagining capacity
which will turn out to be the impregnable center of our
embattled humanity-embattled, because it appears to be
infernally difficult to articulate in principle the difference
between the activity of a perceiving and reasoning human
being and the behavior of a sophisticatedly programmed
machine, that is if the factor of self-consciousness or inner experience is disallowed, while the purely and precisely rational argument for hanging on to what I might
as well call the soul, are confoundedly elusive. We might
talk about that in the question period.
My inklings that the imagination will be crucial in fi11
11
78
nally distinguishing human cognition from its computer
simulation do have some evidence and some arguments
in their favor. The evidence is chiefly in claims from critics of the Artificial Intelligence project that it will come
to its limits in capturing just those functions which have
analogue character. The arguments I can only gesture
toward by bringing up, belatedly, a pair of pertinent
terms which is conspicuously missing from the imagery
debate: imagination and intellect. It is one of those old
thought complexes whose meaning is supposed to be
hopelessly inaccessible to us once its transformation into
the current terms has been accomplished. Well, since I
can believe that only for a minute at a time, I think there
is a world of light to be gotten from carefully retranslating the debate into these terms, since we can then re-ask
(without ignoring the new contributions of cognitive
science) old but unanswered questions concerning our
strange double power to bring the looks of this world into
ourselves while leaving its stuff outside, and to bring forth
within us figures which were never of the outer world
and yet can act potently on it. One of the chief boons will
be that the traditional pair, unlike the contemporary set,
is not an opposition but a conjunction, and that whenever
imagination and intellect are considered as equally and
unseverably necessary to knowledge, reflection on thinking, reasoning, acting intelligently, takes on a very different coloration than when the faculty of imagery is
regarded as an analytical embarrassment. What I mean
is: to my mind what the contemporary intellectual world
needs most urgently is a revision of its mode and its understanding of rationality.
Early on I described the thinking of our more interesting contemporaries as being smart, precise, pure. That
begins to catch its flavor but of course not the serious impulse behind it, which is, to think of thinking as essentially analytic and formalistic, symbolic, logical rather than
analogical. I am using somewhat opaque buzz-words because I have not yet quite come to grips with what is going on, except for a sense that sweet reason requires the
curbing of this rampant rationality, requires, if I may put
it this way, a logically legitimate way of respecting the
mysteries. Now I can imagine that it might be one of our
students who is destined to work out such a revisal, having been prepared for the task by a program which does
not segregate works of the imagination from works of the
intellect and which contains many texts honoring-and
also despising-the appearances in a way wholly different from that of current cognitive science-a way in which
our environment is not understood as a source of information to be processed but as a world of figures sending us
significant looks and speaking to us in intelligible
tongues.
And in general, it is because of the temporal cosmopolitanism of the program, its intention to make a serious attempt at empathy into radically diverse human
possibilities, that the St. John's program can be a protection against the regimented seduction of the bubbling
Babylon which constitutes our contemporary intellectual
SUMMER 198:
�world; were I a child's mother I would not wish to send
it out there unprepared in some such way, because for
all its vaunted multiplicity and its vigorous polemics, the
marchings and wheelings of opinions take place in amazingly close formation-as is perhaps not so surprising considering the temporal parochialism of university training.
When I said in the first couple of minutes of this lecture
that I hoped to give reasons for maintaining distance from
"current thinking," enticingly brilliant though it bepractically I suppose this means clearing only a very
modest and very deliberately designed space for it in the
program-! had in mind mainly this phenomenon of
homogeneity. It has recently been given a sophisticated
rationale under the heading of "the social justification of
belief" by Richard Rorty (who lectured here a couple of
years ago) and has been joyfully taken up by parascientific disciplines such as Anthropology (Geertz) and
Educational Studies (Bruffie). "We understand
knowledge," Rorty says, "when we understand the social justification of belief," meaning that knowledge arises
not from taking in and testing for oneself what ihe world
has to give, but from devising language for obtaining the
concurrence of the community accredited to judge, while
learning means being absorbed into that society which
carries on the pertinent, essentially terminological conversation. To me this view of a community of learning
seems like philosophy's self-imposed revenge for its
voluntary subjection to science, for it is modelled on the
current philosophy-of-science view of science as a social
construction (which, by the way, apparently infuriates
practicing scientists, insofar as they pay it any mind).
Now this college is not only a program but also the community designed for the study of the program, and those
of our students who were self-aware members of the
former should make peculiarly discerning judges of the
pervasive and potent view I've just described. For the
community Rorty projects is a spatially scattered league of
competent professionals whose largely written communications are aimed at the fixation of shared belief, while St.
John's is a living community of people of carefully guarded amateur status who converse with each other face to face,
to save their souls, and, standing somewhat apart, prepare
for four years to grapple with a present that has been
twenty-eight hundred years in the making.
To conclude: Under these circumstances it is not so sur-
prising that, while in the sciences hopes are high, the
dominating philosophical mood is, according to temperament, either a rage for finis-writing or a lugubrious
nihilism-a zealous anticipation of an end to philosophy
which is no consummation but either a self-destructive
bang or an unravelled whimper of mere endless argumentation. But I imagine that some of us can think of an understanding of philosophy by which it excapes these
ignominies. If philosophy is directed wonder then we need
not follow the lead of the sciences in asking only warrantably pursuable questions or abandon answers because their complete formal justification proves elusive.
Then we are permitted to assume that when something
arouses such wonder in us it is given to us, first and last,
as wonderful, however relentlessly we may work it over
in between.
A practical illustration: Close your eyes and summon
the image of some attractive shape-an elegant object, a
familiar face, a significant scene. When you have it before your mind's eye, ask yourself, perhaps vaguely at
first but then more pointedly, what might have to be true
for that wonder to occur. How could such an inquiry,
refreshed by frequent recurrence to the inner experience
itself, peter out into mere argumentation? It seems to me
to consist of continual beginnings, impulses toward a
truth which is just out of sight.
Eva Brann is a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
79
�80
SUMMER 1985
�Mozart's Happy Endings:
A New Lool< at the "Convention''
of the "Lieto Fine"
Wye
J. Allanbrook
We romantic moderns all too often make the tacit judgment that the conventions of eighteenth-century opem buffa
are hollow devices.....!'mere convention:' We tend to think
of them as having been elaborated to serve a purely musical function, and offering no support to the drama, or
even hindering it to the extent of causing serious obstruction. A case in point is the elaborate many-sectioned finale
which closes the principal acts of an opem buffa. Certainly
the innovation of this so-called "chain" finale was largely
responsible for the great success of the comic-opera style
in the mid- and late-eighteenth century; its fast pace and
musical continuity offered a pleasing antidote to the
monolithic stops and starts of opera seria. But the finale
style nevertheless had its detractors, even at the time,
notably Lorenzo da Ponte, who may be the first in that
line of critics who raised the cry of "mere convention"
against this fertile form. DaPonte, writing, one suspects,
with concealed pride about his mastery of finale poetics,
calls the finale "a little comedy or small drama all by itself:' Enumerating ironically the types of singing which
must take place in it--''l'adagio, !'allegro, !'andante, l'amabile, l'armonioso, lo strepitoso, l'arcistrepitoso''-he comes
at last to '1o strepitosissimo;' with which it must close.
This, he says, "in musical jargon is called the chuisa, or
rather the stretta, I know not whether because, in it, the
whole power of the drama is squeezed together, or because it gives generally not one squeeze but a hundred
to the poor brain of the poet who must compose the
words:' The practice of gradually massing all the characters on stage as the finale concludes he terms a mere
"dogma of the theater;' and complains that this convention prevails over the plot "in the face of judgment, reason, and all the Aristotles on earth:''
This talk of "mere convention'' implies the presence of
a truth buried beneath the convention which one can get
at by stripping away its calcified layers. In one extreme
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
case, Mozarfs Don Giovanni, the attempt to get at this supposed underground truth has occupied realizers of the
opera for two hundred years. The section which most
offends is of course the moment in the second-act finale
after the Don has descended to Hell when the rest of the
characters reassemble, chatting almost urbanely about
their experience with the mysterious shade they encountered on their way in. Then in a stylized movement
reminiscent of the French vaudeville finale, each pair (and
Leporello solitary) steps forth to pronounce his or her fate.
Finally, for what in da Ponte's terms would be the
strepitosissimo, the characters are called upon by Zerlina,
Masetto, and Leporello to sing what they call the antichissima canzon, and all give vent together to the moral of the
story: "This is the end of the evil-doer: And the death
of wicked men is always equal to their life!"2 The first line
of the moral is set as a pious and wildly fake fugue, the
last as a passage of stile legato, motet style, the strings dropping out-another massive period to balance the squaredoff fugue. The antiquity of the style of these two periods
makes it clear that this is indeed the antichissima canzon
called for in the text.
Successive critics have found this epilogue woefully inappropriate, its symmetries pallid and empty after the Dminor fireworks of Giovanni's disappearance. Jahn gives
an appalling catalogue of various scenes nineteenthcentury stage directors conceived as substitutes for the epilogue which would free the truths of the opera from the
fetters of "mere convention:' In one performance in Paris
the Don's descent into Hell was followed by the entry of
Donna Anna's corpse borne by mourners and the chanting of the Dies irae from Mozart's Requiem. Jahn hinlself
preferred to omit the entire epilogue, restricting the entry of the other characters to one final D-major scream
after Giovanni has fallen.'
Even the recent Cambridge Opera Handbook devoted
81
�to Don Giovanni, with intelligent commentary by Julian
Rushton, speaks of the scena ultima "problem;' and terms
it a "trivialization of the action"4 which is necessary only
to provide the obligatory measures in the proper concluding key. But such judgments are surely misguided; does
it make any sense to turn Don Giovanni into a tragedy?
Mozart gave us a clue to the answer to this question by
calling the work in his own private catalogue an opera buffa,
and its familiar classification, dramma giocosa, meant about
the same thing. To have the opera end on a dying fall in
imitation of the great nineteenth-century operatic tragedies is to force a private meaning on this work which it
will not bear. Clearly stripping away conventions is not
the answer; instead we must enter imaginatively into them
and make them come alive.
It is my intention within the brief compass of this paper
to examine one occasional practice of opera buffa which I
have noted which seems to me to provide a way into the
question-the habit of making music into a subject of discourse at the close of an opera buffa's last-act finale. To focus attention on music in opera, where music is the
natural mode of expression, and thus not a theme or subject matter, it is necessary suddenly to put music in relief
by placing quotation marks around it. This is most frequently done by troping into the operatic setting a kind
of music which is usually used for some social or ritual
purpose-Gebrauchsmusik, "occasional music:' It is of
course great fun to use occasional music in an opera, and
most composers have tried it in one form or another. In
Don Giovanni three stage orchestras playing social dance
music are characters in the first-act finale, and a windband on stage in the second-act finale plays three famous
tunes as Ihfelmusik for the gluttonous Don. Giovarmi, and
Cherubino in Le nozze di Figaro, both sing obvious songs,
and in Figaro's third-act finale a Turkish march and a fandango play crucial roles. These are all uses of occasional
music which emerge from the plot, and at the same time
play a more significant-even symbolic-role in the cosmos of the opera. But there are other occasions in Mozart's
operas when music comments on music in a purely musical way. For example, toward the close of an ensemble
Mozart often lets music take over on the way toward the
final cadence, notably in those sublime and dramatically
purposeless digressions into species counterpoint in the
second-act finale of Le nozze di Figaro or the second-act sextet of Don Giovanni, where the antique vocal style becomes
the only topical reference, and we are carried away to the
climax on the wings of Fuxian song. But belonging to a
third and special class of overt musical reference in these
operas are the moments at the very end of last-act finales
when music is named-when attention is drawn to the
human habit of celebratory music-making. Then the
singers, by way of rejoicing, self-consciously sing, and in
realizing that they are singing, we the audience surrender
our doubts about the events on stage, compelled by the
sheer exuberance of their choral song. This occurs at the
close of Don Giovanni when the characters sing out the
antichissima canzon. It also happens at the close of Le nozze
82
di Figaro, where the participants, after the orchestra mimics
suitable martial music in a brief interlude, call upon each
other in chorus to run off and celebrate "to the sound of
the happy march;'' all doubts about the permanence of
the reconciliation they have just witnessed momentarily
dispelled in the joy of shared festival.
A random sample of opera buffas of the last three decades
of the eighteenth century yields a number of last-act
finales which display the same habit in one form or
another. In Pasquale Anfossi's La finta giardiniera of 1787,
the lovers in their closing duet imitate bird songs to
celebrate their happiness, commenting on this in the text.
In Haydn's I:incontro improvviso (1775), another seraglio
opera; the delivered lovers enjoin each other to rejoice by
singing happy tunes, at which point the texture turns conspicuously imitative to suit actions to words. In Cimarosa's Giannina e Bemardone (1781) the entire last-act finale
is framed by occasional music, in the person of a military
band which is on stage throughout. The characters comment on the beauties of the music at the opening, and
at the close of the finale command the band to play again
so that they can dance. Then in antiphonal choruses the
men and women sing nonsense syllables~'Laira, laira,
lallallera;' and so on. The close of Cimarosa's famous II
matrimonio segreto contains a brilliant chorus consisting of
extravagant vocal excursions in imitative and concerto
style, on the text "Let there be music, let there be singing; everyone must shine:'6 Martiny Soler's Una cosa rara,
one of the operas quoted in the last-act finale of Don
Giovanni, concludes with the two female leads dancing
and singing a "seghidilla'' in honor of their queen Isabella.
Even closer to home, the Bertati-Gazzaniga Don Giovanni
Tenorio closes with a comically triumphant chorus in
which the survivors all imitate the sounds of musical instruments, again with nonsense syllables. The text is
worth quoting in full:
All: Let us no longer speak of this dreadful event. Now let
us thlnk instead of rejoicing . ... What shall we do?
Women: a a a I want to sing. I want to leap.
Duca Ottavio: I want to play the guitar.
Lanterna: I want to play the bass.
Pasquariello: And I, to add to the fracas, want to play the
bassoon.
Duca Ottavio: Tren, tren, trinchete trinchete tre.
Lanterna: Flon, flon, flon, flon, flon, flon.
Pasquariello: Pu, pu, pu, pu, pu, pu, pu, pu.
All: What beautiful madness! What strange harmony! Thus
shall we all be happy.'
None of this will seem surprising to anyone familiat
with the conventions of comedy. Comedies traditionally
end with weddings; Figaro takes this convention fm
granted when in the second-act finale to Le nozze di Figan
he seizes upon it to manipulate the discomfitted Count,
taking Susanna's arm and saying to her with feigned in·
nocence: "To finish the farce happily, and after the cus·
tom of the theater, let us perform for them a matrimonial
SUMMER 1985
�tableau:'• Two horns in horn fifths add the flavor of the
ceremonial to his music. By bringing his own comedy
within the prescenium arch under the sanction of its conventions Figaro is trying to ensure that it can play itself
out to his satisfaction. Shakespeare's comedies often close
with double or triple weddings, and the blessing of music
and dancing. As Titania puts it at the end of A Midsummernight's Dream:
Hand in hand, with fairy grace,
Will we sing, and bless this place.
Of course many operas were in fact officially celebratory:
as feste teatrali commissioned to honor a royal wedding
or other ceremony they put their blessing on an actual
nuptial rite. In Martin's Una cosa rara the seguidilla in honor
of the queen would have joined fact and fiction when performed on a royal occasion. Comedy ends with the assertion of the proper orders, and thus an act of
communion and public festival is in order. Roman comedy often ended with an invitation issued to the audience
to an imaginery banquet, and in Old Comedy the players even threw morsels of food to the audience.' In
eighteenth-century opera buffas composers substituted for
the communal feast the musical banquet of the Tones
Macht-the "power of the tone" celebrated at the end of
Die Zauberflote-the sheer power of music to effect a sense
of joyous commonality. It is no accident that in several
of the examples I mentioned above the choruses close with
bird song imitations or nonsense syllables. The word is
a distinguisher, a divider; at the moment when the barriers between audience and performers so carefully kept
erected during the course of the drama are to be lowered,
language is an alien influence, hindering complete surrender to the healing process of music.
Comedy, as I have just said, ends with the assertion of
the proper orders of society, and in most of the opera buffas I have quoted from above, that assertion is achieved
unequivocally, with no doubts about its validity or
strength. When the imbroglio is finally untangled, the appropriate couples joyfully united, there is only celebration, and no regrets. But that cannot be said to be true
in the extreme case of an opera buffa which I cited at the
beginning of this paper-Don Giavanni, where the survivors appear at best diminished creatures in a pallid and
unpalatable universe after the departure of the Don. Nor
is it entirely true for Le nozze di Figaro. For there, although
the private pastoral reconciliation sequence which
Susanna and Figaro join in promises true wedded bliss
for the servant couple, the public ceremony in which their
noble counterparts are reconciled is much less convincing; surely the future holds more pain for the gentle
Countess from her husband's harsh and philandering nature. Great comedies like these two operas of Mozart's do
not seek to please by merely mechanical couplings and
uncouplings, or a harsh and reductive caricature of human foibles. Yet it is this very quality of depth and honesty
1HE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
which occasions the wrongheaded charge that their endings are incommensurate with their content, and do not
in fine "tell the truth:' Certainly it is true that the joyful
assertion of the Tones Macht at the end of Don Giovanni
functions rather like the traditional deus ex machina-a
celebration of life in the face of cruelty, disorder, and
blighted hopes. So the most venerable comedy we
possess-Homer's Odyssey-closes with Athene the dea ex
mach ina stopping the raised ax of the emaged and bloodthirsty Odysseus and ringing a curtain of sanity and order
down over a dismaying scene of violence and nearslaughter. Comedy ends with the assertion of the proper
orders, but this assertion may not necessarily be the crown
of a serene and sane society; it may indeed be a lid
clapped on disorder and despair. Only our greatest
playwrights and composers-the names of Shakespeare,
Moliere, and Mozart might nearly complete the list-can
live with comedy on those terms. Having no illusions
about the darker side of human nature, they nevertheless choose to assert at the end of their works the goods
of continuity and order, and the equilibrium of good
sense. Is this not often the braver, higher act, to assert
that life goes on in the face of disorder, and not to succumb to the easy temptations of melodrama or to the solitude of tragedy? The cry of the lieto fine, the happy
ending--''This is the way things ought to be, just exactly
as they are''-is not always a facile assertion of an earthly
utopia, but a pledge to make the best of a bad-or at least
a difficult-job. The communal celebration effected by the
healing power of the tone is hardly "mere convention:'
but a gesture of the hopelessness of any more articulate
celebration superintended by the word, the explanation.
The celebration in these two great opera buffas of the necessity of human accommodation to what is moves one to
suspect that comedy at its greatest has a range and power
which are capable of encompassing even the tragic mode.
1. Lorenzo da Ponte, Le memorie di un avventuriero (Milan, Club degli
1973), p. 78.
2. ''Questo il fin di chi fa mal:/E de' perfidi Ia morte/ Alla vita sempre
ugual!"
3. Otto Jahn, The Life of Mozart, trans. Pauline Townsend, 3 vols. (New
York, Kalmus, n.d.), III, 213-214.
4. W.A. Mozart, Don Giovanni, ed. Julian Rushton (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1981), pp. 64-65.
5. "A1 suon di lieta marcia."
6. "Che si suoni, che si canti, tutti quanti ha da brillar."
7. "Tutti. Pill non facdasi parola
Del terribile successo;
Ma pensiamo in vece adesso
Di poterci rallegrar ...
Che potressimo mai far?
Donne. A a a, io vO cantare:
Io vO mettermi a saltar.
Duca
Ott. La Chitarra io vo suonare.
Lant. Io suonar vO il Contrabasso.
Pasq. Ancor io per far del chiasso
TI fagotto vO suonar.
Duca
Ott. Tren, tren, trinchete trinchete tre.
Editori,
e
e
83
�Lant. Flon, flon, flon, flon, flon, flon.
Pasq. Pu, pu, pu, pu, pu, pu, pu, pu.
Tutti. Che bellissima pazzia!
Che stranissima armonia!
Cosi allegri si va a star."
8.
"Per finirla [Ia burletta] lietamente
E all'usanza teatrale,
Un' azion matrimoniale
Le faremo ora seguir."
9. Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism (Princeton, New Jersey,
ton University Press, 1957), p. 164.
Prince~
Wye J. Allanbrook is a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis
84
SUMMER
19~
�Achilles and Hector: The
Homeric Hero (Part II)
Seth Benardete
Achilles and Hector: The Homeric Hero is the Ph.D. dissertation of Dr.
Benardete submitted in 1955 to the Committee on Social Thought at
the University of Chicago.
Til.E ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
85
�CONTENTS
Part I. Style
Introduction
Chapter
I. Men and Heros
II. Achaeans and Trojans
III. Achilles and Agamemnon
IV. Ancestral Virtue
V. The Armour of Agamemnon
VI. Ajax
VII. Heroic Virtue
VIII. Achilles and Hector
IX. Similes
X. Achilles' and Hector's Similes
XI. Heroic Ambition
Part II. Plot
Introduction .............................................. 87
Chapter
I. The Gods ............................................ 89
II. The Plot of the Iliad . ................................. 92
III. The Embassy ........................................ 94
IV. The Deception of Zeus ................................ 99
V. Patroclus ........................................... 100
VI. Achilles and Patroclus ............................... 102
VII. The Exploits of Achilles .............................. 104
VIII. Achilles and Hector ................................. 106
IX. The Funeral Games ................................. 107
X. Achilles and Priam .................................. 109
Epilogue ................................................. 110
86
SUMMER 198
�Introduction
It is very difficult at the present time to talk sensibly
about the Homeric hero, for not only has "virtue" itself
become an anachronism, we ourselves no longer
responding to it at once, but also, because of this unawareness, we either dismiss with contempt the tragic
hero, who embodies all virtues, or we rank him beyond
his worth. We have lost a just appreciation of virtue,
which only the world around us, and not poetry alone,
can supply. Unlike the philosopher, who may write down
all of his thoughts, the tragic hero resists translation. No
matter how well he is described, unless we have seen him
beforehand in action, and know what kind of man he is,
the poetic hero will ever remain alien to us. Unless we
are in immediate sympathy with Achilles, and regard not
his submission but his apostasy as the sign of his greatness, the Iliad will never seem real. His submission, which
his humanity imposes upon him, signifies his tragedy:
but his greatness lies in his disregard of all civility. We,
however, tend to turn his virtue into a vice, repelled by
his superhuman excellence and secretly pleased with his
downfall; or if we are more unconventional, we will
blame ''society'' for his own failure and assign his defects
to his opponents. The reason why we are so apt to distort the tragic hero, ignoring either his vices or his virtues, is the absence of examples in our midst, by whom
we could be guided in our estimate of their poetic counterparts. Indeed the "Homeric Problem" perhaps could
hardly have arisen, had not the hero as a reality no longer
been recognized and understood. Most other ages have
had an Alcibiades or a Marlborough to lend substance
to the poet's fiction; so that the paradoxical mean between
virtue and vice which the tragic hero maintains, being
both better than ourselves and yet unexceptional in justice
and virtue, was at once convincing. If we, however, must
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
look in vain for contemporary examples of the hero, our
only recourse is to fictional accounts that may impress
more deeply than the Iliad itself. Where then are we to
find them? Plutarch's Lives perhaps would have served
us best: but if his "moralizing historiography," which
was "for centuries the mental fare of the reading public," was "weighed by the nineteenth century and found
wanting, " 1 we cannot hope that a reference to him now
would suffice to restore him and make intelligible to us
the tragic hero. Although Plutarch has no other theme
than the hero-and how difficult it is either to praise or
blame him2-he is too old-fashioned to be of any use. We
need a poet whom we still read and partly understand:
so I have invoked the aid of Shakespeare's Coriolanus, not
in order to compare it with the Iliad and note the differences, but rather to appeal to everyone's imagination,
which Coriolanus, stripped of divine intervention, might
more easily excite. Since it is much shorter than the Iliad
(as well as simpler), its actors are forced to be more outspoken than Achilles and Hector, who only hint at what
Coriolanus and Aufidius state openly. By glossing the Iliad with this play, and thus making it less inaccessible
and more pertinent, I hope that my analysis of the Iliad
proper may carry more conviction than it otherwise might
have done.
The play's motif is the transformation of Coriolanus
from a man to a god: it is, like the Iliad, an experiment
in immortality. Coriolanus' progressive alienation from
Rome, from his friends, from his family mark his progress
toward a divine status. He becomes at last alienated from
his own body and ends up as a mere thing. He is thought
at first to be a god by others: he becomes a god at the
end in his own opinion. The play moves, as it were, from
simile to fact, from metaphor to tragedy.
Caius Marcius, outraged by the people's insistence on
their rights, who are in war nothing but "cushions,
87
�leaden spoons, irons of a doit, ~~ comes on the scene, after Menenius has likened them to a body's limbs and the
Senate to its belly, crying'
What's the matter, you dissentious rogues,
That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion
Make yourselves scabs?
The people are to him superfluous sores, whose authority
(vested in their tribunes) he cannot respect, for they lack
all power. Menenius had given them a place, however
small, in the commonwealth; Marcius denies them all
place, except what they might unlawfully usurp. They
are worse than strangers: they are a hostile infection.
Their weakness constantly increases his contempt, which
reaches its first climax in the battle where his own
prowess earns him the title "Coriolanus."' So even while
he curses the people as enemies, he is assuming the name
of the enemy's city. In his Roman triumph, he becomes
less Roman.
When Lartius hears how Marcius entered the gates of
Corioli alone, he announces the first stage in his becoming more than human:'
0 noble fellow!
Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword,
And when it bows, stand'st up!
He is like "his sword, death's stamp,"'
Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot
He was a thing of blood, whose every motion
Was timed with dying cries.
Once set in motion, he cannot stop but seems a perpetu:
a! instrument of death, indifferent to the object of his
slaughter and unsparing of himself. The operations of his
sword have been communicated to himself; and, now
that he is transmuted into that which he himself should
wield, whoever has, can use him. 7 He becomes like the
spoil he so much had despised.
But Coriolanus needs an enemy, no matter who it may
be; for what Valeria says of his son applies equally well
to himself:'
I saw him run after a gilded butterfly; and when he caught it, he
let it go again; and after it again; and over and over he comes, and
up again; catched it again: or whether his fall enraged him, or how
'twas, he did so set his teeth, ·and tear it; I warrant, how he roammocked it!"
Coriolanus thinks all things are gilded butterflies, whose
brilliance irritates his ambition, but whose capture
deprives them of their worth. To attain or lose his object
is equally fatal; his restlessness longs for ever-greater aggrandizement. Surfeit would kill him.
The envious tribunes, Sicinius and Brutus, are the first
to notice his godlike state:'
As if that whatsoever god who leads him
Was silly crept into his human powers,
And gave him graceful posture.
88
And when Coriolanus grows angry, calling the plebs
''those measles,'' Brutus remarks: 10
You speak of the people,
As if you were a god to punish; not
A man of their infirmity.
To him Sicinius was a "rotten thing," but to Brutus hE
is the "disease that must be cut away;" and though
Menenius objects to the Tribunes remedy, yet he thinko
Coriolanus is ''a limb that has but a disease,'' or a ''fool
gangrened. " 11 Not only the tribunes but Menenius, whc
before had called the people limbs, must now call Cori·
olanus so. He and the people reverse their roles: he be·
comes the boils and plagues he thought they were. 12 Frorr
being at the center of the body politic, he is now an in·
fection at its extremity. "Too absolute" and "too noblE
for this world," hating all dissemblance and rhetoric, hE
can only play what he is; 13 and unable to be a traitor tc
himself, he prefers to be a traitor to Rome. He is decree(
an outcast. "I shall be loved when I am lack' d," he telh
his mother, as if in echo of Achilles' threat: 14 but Achille•
did not have to help the Trojans in his own person-Zew
was his surrogate-while Coriolanus enters into oper
conspiracy with Aufidius, the enemy whom he had mos:
hated and most adrnired. 15 As his hatred of the peoplE
had turned him, metaphorically, into one of those whorr
he thought most inimical, so now his former hatred o
Aufidius seals his alliance. 16 Aufidius welcomes him
compares him to Jupiter, proclaims him a "noble thing'
and "Mars. " 17 He assumes all the aspects of an avehg
ing deity.
The Volscians make their attack on Roman territory
and Corninius brings the news that Coriolanus has joinec
them: 18
He is their god; he leads them like a thing
Made by some other deity than Nature,
That shapes man better; and they follow him
Against us brats with no less confidence
Than boys pursuing summer butterflies, or butchers killing flies
The gilded butterfly that his son had chased, as if in sym
pathy with his own attack upon the Volscians, is trans
formed, by his wrath's alchemy, into Rome and he
people. Though his opponent is different, his fury is tho
same. Cominius beseeches him, who "wants nothing o
a god but eternity and a heaven to throne in. " 19 to sparo
his native city, urging an "old acquaintance," but20
'Coriolanus'
He would not answer to; forbad all names;
He was a kind of nothing, titleless,
Till he had forged himself a name i' th' fire
Of burning Rome.
Having dropped the surname Coriolanus, which hao
been in his exile the one thing that remained his, 21 h
wishes now to be known as "Romanus": he has switcheo
sides, but stayed, ironically, the same.
SUMMER 198!
�Unmoved by Corninius and later by Menenius; his
mother, wife and son come to petition him, when the Romans send them as a last resort; but he resolves to refuse them:22
I'll never
Be ~uch a gosling to obey instinct, but stand
As if a man were author of himself
And knew no other kin.
Only for a moment, however, does he succeed in checking instinct; for he soon succumbs to natural affection.
But having failed to acquire "Rornanus" as a title, and
Aufidius having denied his right to the "stolen name
Coriolanus, in Corioli," he belongs nowhere. 23 Traitor to
Rome, he seems to have betrayed his adopted city. His
divinity played him false; it admitted of no political sanctions; it passed beyond his own power: he became its
slave. He could not fulfill the obligations that the image
of himself, made by others and perfected by himself, imposed on him. Out of place everywhere, an alien deity
in the shape of a man, his nature trips him up in the end.
Once having gone beyond the bounds that he thought
conventional, he could not return to Convention. 24 The
no-man's land, into which he had trespassed "like to a
lonely dragon, " 25 was set with the lures of his own conceits, that drew him finally to his ruin.
Achilles is Coriolanus: both are gods in their wrath.
Achilles' attack on Agamemnon's authority corresponds
to Coriolanus' refusal to acknowledge the tribune's office;
his loss of Briseis to the loss·of the consulate; the ingratitude of Agamemnon to that of the people; his withdrawal
from the battle to the other's banishment; the fulfillment
of his wish that Zeus avenge his wrongs to Coriolanus'
invasion of Rome; his rejection of the embassy of Ajax
and Odysseus to the other's denial of Corninius and
Menenius; and his acceptance of his duty, after Patroclus'
death, corresponds to Coriolanus' sparing of Rome after
his family's petition. But that Patroclus had to die before
Achilles returns to the war, that Patroclus is not even
related to him, that his mother is divine and his father
far away, and that he is not married: all this deepens
Achilles' tragedy. His ties to this world are more attenuated than Coriolanus'; and as it is easier for him to break
them, so it is harder to renew them. Drained of all human substance, isolated from other men, but unable to
become divine, Achilles cracks, turns monstrous, and
dies.
Chapter I
The Gods
If the heroes regard divinity as the end of their ambition, we must first see what the gods do-before we can
understand why Achilles and Hector, Sarpedon and
Ajax, are so desirous to become like them. Blunt Ajax
states the paradox of heroic virtue: "Alas, even a fool
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
would know that Zeus himself defends the Trojans: the
spears of all, no matter whether good or bad do hurl
them, hit their target: Zeus makes all go straight. " 1 Zeus'
partiality makes it almost impossible to practice virtue.
Were Ajax to retreat, he would be blameless-' Zeus can
render vain and useless the distinction between good and
bad, base and brave. What should prove meritsuccess-may be wholly undeserved. The javelin-cast of
Paris, were Zeus to wish it, would go as straight as that
of Hector; if the gods had always favoured Nireus, he
would have equalled Achilles. Were not the providence
of the gods inconstant and fitful, 3 they would obscure
completely any natural order of excellence; but as it is,
they sometimes withdraw and let the heroes run themselves. Then does the world run true; then we can see
the heroes for what they are.
After Achilles sets the prizes for the horse-race, and
urges the best Achaeans to compete, Horner gives us the
order in which they accept the challenge. First Eurnelus,
who excelled in horsemanship and had the best horses;'
then Diornedes with the horses of Aeneias; third
Menelaus with one horse of his own and one of Agamemnon's; and then Antilochus. 5 Before Horner tells us who
carne last, Nestor counsels his son on the power of craft.
Although Antilochus' horses are swift-footed, they are
slower than the three pairs of horses that entered before
him, yet faster than Meriones' which are the slowest of
all. 6 Meriones is naturally reluctant to compete: only after Nestor, whose praise of craft gives him a chance, has
spoken at length can he bring himself to risk his horses
in a contest they cannot possibly win.
If we look at the race itself, we see that Horner has
presented the horsemen in the order in which they
should, but do not win.' That Eurnelus should have been
first, although he comes in last, Achilles, Horner, and all
the Achaeans acknowledge; and were it not that Achilles
wishes to gratify Antilochus, even in his misfortune he
would have taken second prize. 8 Had not Apollo and
Athena interfered, Diornedes would have either come in
first ·or tied Eurnelus: 9 we shall never know which, but
m any case he would be second. Menelaus was due for
third place, but the craft of Antilochus upset him; and
yet if the course had been longer, he would have outstripped hirn.'0 Antilochus then should have been fourth,
and Meriones, unequal in skill to the others, fifth. 11
Two things disturb the natural order; art and providence. If Apollo had not wished to help Eurnelus, Athena would not have broken his horses' yoke, nor given
more strength to Diornedes' horses. 12 The gods made him
who was to be first last, and him who was to be second
first. And Antilochus' art put him ahead of Menelaus: 13
but human art is not eternally superior; for the natural
slowness of his horses would have eventually betrayed
him. 14 Thus providence and art stand very close to one
another: both change the hierarchy set up by nature and
substitute for it an unpredictable order. The superiority
of art is short-lived, and given enough time, nature triumphs: whether the gods too are subject to nature re-
89
�mains to be seen.
Homer has also given a third order, the line-up, that
the casting of lots determined. Here no one is in his right
place except Menelaus: Eumelus is second, Diomedes
last, Antilochus first, Meriones fourth. 15 Menelaus, who
was third in excellence and third in victory, is also third
when mere accident tells his position. Chance mistakes
everyone else but Menelaus: mediocrity is all that you
can trust it to find out.
The heroes can never be certain, in whatever they do,
that they will be successful. They live in constant apprehension that the gods may interfere; who not only may
give them strength but deprive them of victory. They
often snatch the heroes from death. At the start of Diomedes' exploits, had not Hephaestus saved Idaeus, "hiding him in night," he "would not have escaped a black
doom;" but he was saved only because Dares, his father,
was a priest of Hephaestus and might have been vexed
if his son had died.'• Diomedes' bold strength, bestowed
by Athena, could not overcome the opposition of
Hephaestus, who, as the son of Hera, was partial to the
Achaeans, but did not dare disappoint his priest, Trojan
though he was. 17
When Athena sees what Hephaestus has done, she
fears lest the other gods might save their own favourites;
so, confident that the Achaeans will press their advantage, she persuades Ares, her most formidable enemy,
to stand aside, with herself, from the battle. 18 Ares complies, and each Achaean king slays a Trojan: Agamemnon slays Odius, Idomencus ·Phaestus, Menelaus
Scamandrius; Meriones slays Phereclus, Meges Pedaeus,
and Euryphylus Hypsenor .19 Among the Trojans who are
slain, Scamandrius was taught to hunt by Artemis;
Phereclus was the son of Harmonides, who "knew how
to make many curious things, for Pallas Athena loved
him;" and Hypsenor was the son of Dolo pion, who
served as priest to the river Scamander. And yet Scamandrius dies as surely as Odius, when they both turn to flee,
even though one was Artemis' favourite; and Phereclus
meets the same fate as Padaeus, though the one was
illegitimate, and the other had a father who was taught
by Athena. Neither Artemis, nor the Scamander, nor
Athena saved the heroes to whom they were attached;
and they are slain along with those who had before been
less fortunate and had always lacked divine protection.
As soon as the gods withdraw, everyone indifferently
dies: bastard as well as a priest's son, plain coward and
a coward whom Artemis loved. "Loathsome darkness"
seized Phaestus, whom no god had ever befriended; and
"purple death and strong fate closed the eyes" of Hypsenor, whose father was the priest of the Scamander. The
death of neither is much adorned: Homer merely states
what happened; but later, when the gods reappear, Aeneias kills Crethon and Orsilochus (their ancestor was a
river), and they not only die, when "the end of death
covers them," but they die beautifully. They are like two
lions who, having caught sheep and cattle, are slain at
last by men; and they fall like tall pines. 20 Their death
90
appears not only as itself but as something else: doubled
in the simile's reflection, it magically loses all its horror,
becoming beautiful and almost pleasant. Heroes may die
horribly-Homer sometimes is medically precise-yet in
his similes of death, employed only if the gods are
present, nothing but a noble death, purged of grossnes'
remains. The gods transfigure death, which is, withou1
them unfeigned, but in their presence more poetic.
It might be objected to this, that no distinction can hE
drawn between Homer and the gods; but, although
Homer inserts the gods whenever he pleases, he doe'
not treat them as his own machinery, over which he ha'
any control. He accepts them to be as real as the heroe•
themselves, and to actively belong to the story; while hE
rarely shows himself to be present. He only tells wha1
happened, not what he himself has made. To us it rna}
seem a pious fiction, but we are forced to accept it. Home1
separates himself from his work: he presents neither th<
narrative nor the speeches nor the similes as his own; anc
if they follow a pattern, we must understand their proxi·
mate causes, before we can refer everything to Homer
That the gods alone can inspire a simile about death.
holds true throughout the Iliad; for even the one excep·
tion, that I know of, supplies another proof. Patroclus.
whom the gods never prompt or encourage, drives hi•
spear through the jaw of Thestor, and grabbing hold o
it, drags him over the rim of his chariot, "as when a man.
sitting on an overhanging rock, pulls from the sea a sacrec
fish with hook and line, so he dragged him gaping or
the end of his shining spear. 21 The death of Thestor
ghastly in itself, becomes more ghastly in the simile; fo:
no gods are present but only Homer, who, feeling bounc
to stand beside Patroclus on his one triumphal day, call•
to him as if he himself were there. 22 Homer favour:
Patroclus and follows him everywhere, calling hin
''horseman Patroclus'' and repeating ''you answered hin
this, Patroclus." To no other hero does Homer seemS<
attached, but since the gods are absent, he can, as it were
only ensure the aptness and not the beauty of a simile
When Patroclus has killed Thestor and many other Tro
jans, and Sarpedon rushes against him, Hera persuade:
Zeus not to save his son, who soon after is killed b'
Patroclus. 23 Sarpedon, however, unlike Thestor, di'"
beautifully-like a white poplar, or an oak, or a state!~
pine-and nobly-like a high-spirited bull whom a lim
slays in the herd. Thestor died like a fish without tho
benefit of the gods; Sarpedon' s death was heralded b~
bloody drops that Zeus poured down. The gods beauti
fy death; they order the ugly chaos of war; they are tho
gilders of the heroic world.
We have seen the heros godless in snatches of war: wo
must now see them thus over a longer period. Athen.
and Hera return to Olympus at the end of the fifth book
"having stopped baneful Ares from his slaughter o
men;" and the sixth book announces the departure o
all the gods. 24 Each event will now be unconditioned h:
the gods: the heroes will act without them and hence wil
act differently.
SUMMER 198.
�Diomedes kills Axylus, who was "a friend to human
beings" -philos d'en anthropoisi-"but no one of them
warded off his mournful death." 25 When the gods are
absent, it is sadly fitting that a philanthropist, whose
kindness benefited other mortals but not the gods, should
die. He does not share in a divine providence. He is alone.
Menelaus captures Adrastus alive, whose horses had
entangled his chariot and spilled him on the ground. 26
As an accident puts him at the mercy of anyone who
might find him, Menelaus cannot congratulate himself
on his own prowess. He owes everything to chance and
nothing to himself; and aware of this, he is willing to accept ransom, until Agamemnon comes up and rebukes
him for his leniency, urging him to kill all the Trojans,
"even a boy still in his mother's womb." Nothing equals
the cruelty of Agamemnon's advice or Menelaus' action.
Though Agamemnon himself later kills the two sons of
Antimachus, who plead for their lives, he at least defends
his decision to kill them; and when Achilles rejects Lycaon' s supplication, his excuse is his fury which, ever
since Patroclus' death, has overtaken him 27 Here
Agamemnon, without offering any excuse, persuades
Menelaus to kill Adrastus; and, Homer adds, "saying
what he ought, what is just" (aisima pareipon).Not only
Agamemnon has become cruel but Homer as well; for
the gods, who before had taken sides, are now nowhere
to be seen. Their partiality had made the heroic world
moral; they had set limits to right and wrong, however
arbitrary they sometimes may seem; their disapproval,
which depended on their affections, had guided Homer
in his own judgment. When Achilles refuses to save the
life of Tros, who wordlessly grasps his knees, Homer tells
us his opinion: "He was not a sweet-tempered man nor
mild it\ spirit;" and when Achilles slays twelve Trojans
as an offering to Patroclus, he again blames him: "He
resolved evil deeds in his heart;" for Homer, knowing
that some gods disapprove of Achilles, can echo their
opinion. 28 But now that the gods have lost all interest in
human affairs, no one tells the heroes what they ought
to do, and without the gods they become monsters.
Hector, encouraged by Helenus, charges the Achaeans,
who retreat and cease their slaughter: "They thought
some one of the immortals had come down from the starry heaven to aid the Trojans. " 29 The Achaeans mistake
Hector for a god, when no gods are present; they think
he has come from the starry heaven when he is a mortal
who crawls upon the earth. 30 As heaven and earth, gods
and men, have never been so far apart, the heroes confound them. Diomedes, whom Athena had so recently
favoured, cannot tell whether Glaucus is a god or a man;
he is as uncertain as Odysseus when he confronts
Nausicaa. 31 He asks Glaucus: "Who are you, 0 most
mighty power, of mortal human beings (kala thneton
anthropon) ? Only here does a hero call another to his face
a "human being" and not a "he-man. " 32 Diomedes reck-
ons in absolutes: Glaucus is either human or divine; he
cannot be, what he himself once was, divinely inspired.
Critics have been puzzled that Diomedes, who has
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
wounded Aphrodite and Ares, should now be unwilling
to fight Glaucus if he turns out to be a god. 33 But there
is no difficulty: the gods have departed and left the
heroes, Diomedes along with the rest, alone. His ability
to distinguish between man and god depended on Athena's favour: 34 as soon as she withdrew from the battle,
he knew no more than the Achaeans, to whom Hector
seemed a god.
The burden of their mortality oppresses Diomedes and
Glaucus. One seems at a loss without the gods, the other
sees all men as alike and undistinguishable: "as are the
generations of leaves, such are those also of men. " 35
Genealogy is a mere succession of men, akritophyllon, 36
"undistinguishable leafage." But Glaucus wishes to gloss
over his own sense of smallness, and to impress Diomedes with his divine lineage, even if he cannot quite
believe it himself. He deals in superlatives: Sisyphus was
the craftiest of men; Bellerophon said his battle with the
Solymi was the fiercest he had ever entered; and Bellerophon slew all the men who were best in Lycia. 37 Glaucus,
the son of Sisyphus, fathered blameless Bellerophon,
whose beauty and manliness came from the gods, and
whom the gods escorted to Lycia and helped to slay the
divine Chimaera. Providence sponsored his deeds, and
even the king of Lycia was forced to believe in his divine
descent. But Glaucus knows how fitfully the gods favour
men: Bellerophon became hateful to all the gods and wandered alone, "avoiding the track of human beings;" and
two of his children fared worse: Ares killed Isandrus, and
Artemis in anger slew Laodomeia. And yet all their fates
were supernatural; Glaucus' ancestors were not ordinary
mortals. Thus Glaucus himself, looking back on his past,
partly proves that men are like leaves, and partly tries,
as he bolsters himself, to astonish Diomedes. 38 If he cannot claim that he is a god, at least he has divine ancestors. And Diomedes, who before had such contempt for
the genealogies of Pandarus and Aeneias, 39 now finds an
excuse to break off the combat. As his grandfather
Oeneus entertained and exchanged gifts with Bellerophon, so he and Glaucus should exchange their armour
and proclaim themselves "ancestral friends."
Axylus, a friend to strangers, dies; Glaucus and Diomedes, whose grandfathers were friends, agree to
separate. Axylus had no divine protection, while Glaucus had its shadow, a divine lineage. In his lineage are
the gods, whose presence then can save Glaucus (or Diomedes) even now. By calling up his past-made glorious by heaven-Glaucus reminds Diomedes that the gods
control, morally and physically, the actions of men. He
holds up, as a desperate shield, the flimsiest providence;
but Diomedes, no more anxious than himself to fight,
jumps at his offer. Their ancestral friendship replaces the
gods, who are, more remotely, their ancestors.4°
When Hector has returned to Troy and bid his mother
pray to Athena, he curses Paris: if the earth swallowed
up Paris and he saw him descending to Hades, Hector
would forget his sorrow. 41 Hector's wish before, though
just as vehement, that he be without offspring and die
91
�unmarried,42 Paris' cowardice had warranted; but now,
whether he shirks or not, Hector longs for his death. Zeus
Olympius raised Paris as a bane to the Trojans, for Zeus
Olympius is gone. 43
Everyone feels the absence of the gods. When Helen
had heaped scorn on Paris' strength, he falsely attributed his defeat to Athena: "Now Menelaus has won a victory with the help of Athena, but I another time shall be
victorious over him; for there are also gods on our side. '' 44
Another time he will be victor, whenever the gods so
wish it. Although he then was wrong about Menelaus,
he was right about himself-Aphrodite did save himso it seemed reasonable to suppose that some god had
protected Menelaus. His mistake was justifiable. But now
not even he thinks the gods make for victories: niki!
d'epameibetai andras. 45 Victory alternates between men:
who knows why? No longer Aphrodite but Fortune is his
goddess: Athena has just refused the Trojans' prayer. 46
Helen feels despair more deeply than Paris. Priam had
kindly received her on the ramparts of Troy; and she, provoked by his kindness, had burst out with: "Would that
death had been pleasant to me when I followed your son
to Troy." 47 But now, though Hector has not even spoken
to her, her sense of guilt is even greater: on the very day
she was born, not on the day she committed her crime,
she wishes to have died; but, she adds, the gods decreed
otherwise. 48
Hector leaves Helen and Paris, and meets his wife Andromache with his son Scamandrius. They form a beautiful but gloomy scene. Despair finally overtakes Hector;
he predicts the fall of Troy: "Well I know this in my mind
and my spirit, that there will be a day when sacred Ilium
will perish, both Priam and his people."" What
Agamemnon had foretold, when Pandarus wounded
Menelaus, Hector has come to believe, and in the very
same words prophesies: but Agamemon saw Zeus, shaking his dark aegis, as the cause of Troy's capture. 50 Hector sees nothing. The future is black: the gods have
deserted. 51
The absence of the gods has made the sixth book the
darkest in the Iliad, and we can now better understand
how the gods interfere in the heroic world. In the Iliad
providence makes a difference; it is despotic and can
either enhance or nullify a hero's virtue; but in the Odyssey it is kind and just (except for Poseidon, a benign ogre),
and it never interferes with merit but only assists it; none
of the gods favours the suitors. War and peace differ most
in this. In peace failure is man's own responsibility, 52 for
the gods have less at stake and exert little influence. In
war the heroes become puppets of the gods, and submit
to a fate beyond their control: necessity sets the course
and is the prevailing wind. And yet men still remain
responsible: this is the theme of the Iliad and the tragedy
of Achilles.
92
Chapter II
The Plot of the Iliad
Hector and Paris re-enter the battle in the seventh book,
appearing like a fair breeze that a god sends to tired rowers; and after some success on their part, Athena and
Apollo agree to stop the war for a day, and let Hector
challenge an Achaean to a duel. 1 Helenus, a prophet, intuits the plan of the gods, who do not openly show themselves but assume the shape of vultures, and remain, as
in the sixth book, invisible to men 2 Hector is pleased with
his brother's proposal, and offers to fight anyone whom
the Achaeans might choose as their champion; he also
promises, if he should kill his opponent, to give back the
corpse for burial, so that a mound may be built near the
Hellespont, "and someone of later times, sailing by in
a large ship over the wine-faced sea, may say: 'That is
the tomb of a man who died long ago, whom excellent
though he was, glorious Hector killed': so someone will
say, and my fame shall never die." 3
Hector wants immortal fame. Though he believes that
Troy will be taken, he wants a monument to be left behind for himself' It shall perish, he shall live on. The
gloom of the sixth book, brought on by the gods' absence,
is dispelled in the seventh by the light of a future glory.
Hector finds his way out of a godless present in his fame
to come. Fame is despair's remedy. If the gods are gone,
if they no longer care, then men must take care of themselves; they must adopt a surrogate for them, and Hector suggests what the Achaeans reluctantly accept,
immortal fame. Instead of being dependent on the gods,
they will become dependent on other men (anthropoi).
They will snatch from the very uncertainty of war a permanent gain. No matter who will be victorious, and
regardless of the justice of their cause, both sides can win
glory. They can share in the success of their enemy, and
even find a certain satisfaction in being killed.
The difference between the combat of Menelaus and
Paris, that took place a few hours before, and the present
contest of Ajax and Hector, indicates the great change
in the character of the war. Menelaus fought with Paris
to settle the war, Ajax and Hector fight in a trial of
prowess. They fought to decide the fate of Helen-who
would be her husband?-Ajax and Hector fight without
any regard for Helen, but only to determine who is the
better warrior. They exchange threats and boasts;
Menelaus and Paris fought in silence. They were in deadly earnest, while Hector and Ajax can break off their combat and give each other gifts in parting. Menelaus had
wished to accept Hector's challenge, but Agamemnon
(with all the other kings) restrained him, for though he
was the right opponent against Paris, he would have now
lost his life to no purpose. He is no longer the champion
of his own cause. Had Menelaus killed Paris, he would
have recovered Helen; if Hector now wins, the Achaean~
would recover Ajax' corpse, which would serve, once i1
SUMMER 198!
�was buried, as a memorial to both Ajax and Hector. Fame
and renown would seem to be as precious to Hector as
Helen is to Menelaus, and his new ambition so much inflames him that he can refer quite brazenly to the Trojans' perfidy. 6 Whatever oaths they may have broken,
whatever injustice they may have done, has no relevance
now. As long as Helen was at the center of the dispute,
the Trojans were in the wrong; but now that she is discarded, and becomes merely a theme for heroic exploits,
right and wrong no longer apply. "Publica virtu tis per mala
facta via est" ("The public way of justice is through
crimes").
As the cause of the war has changed, so also have the
central characters. Helen unleashed a war over which she
loses control. The war, having worked loose from its origins, now feeds itself: the desire for Helen generated the
desire for fame, but the offspring no longer acknowledges
the parent. There can now be no other end to the war
than the destruction of Troy. The restitution of Helen will
no longer suffice. Diomedes speaks for all the Achaeans
when, in answer to the Trojans' proposal (of returning
all the stolen goods except Helen), he says: "Now let no
one accept either the goods of Alexander or Helen herself; for even a fool would know that the ends of destruction have already been fixed for the Trojans. 7 Not
even if the Trojans give back Helen would the Achaeans
stop fighting. The war has passed out of her hands and
become common property. No longer is the war petty.
It has transcended the bounds of its original inspiration
and assumed the magnificence of heroic ambition. Paris
and Menelaus now have minor roles, Helen is scarcely
mentioned. 8 She was a necessary irritant that has become
superfluous, and Helen herself knows this. "Upon myself and on Paris," she tells Hector, "Zeus has placed an
evil fate, so that we might be the theme of song among
men (anthropoi) who shall be." 9 Not herself but her fame
justifies the war: in the perspective of later generations
can be found her own raison d' etre. What gives purpose
to the quarrel is not a present victory but a future fame.
In the third book Helen was weaving into a cloak many
contests of the Achaeans and Trojans, "who for her sake
suffered at the hands of Ares. " 10 As the war had been
staged for her benefit, she had gone up on the walls to
watch her two husbands, Menelaus and Paris, fight for
her; but now an impersonal fame has overshadowed any
personal pleasure, although she may still find some comfort in a future glory. Her pleasure has become more remote and less immediate: nothing that can be woven into
cloth or that can be seen. She is the plaything of the future (of her own renown) and no longer manages her own
destiny .11 She is caught up in a larger issue and concedes
her own insignificance. And Menelaus, like Helen, realizes the change which Hector proposes, for he berates
the Achaeans and calls them "spiritless and fameless in
vain,' ' 12 since they are not eager to accept Hector's
challenge; for unless they are animated by fame his
challenge is meaningless. They must disregard Menelaus
and look to themselves. Their own aggrandizements, not
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Menelaus' vengeance, must become their aim. As their
ambition, in becoming more selfish, becomes more grand,
so their prowess, in advocating immortal fame as its end,
can at last justify itself.
Socrates once derived the word heros ("hero") from
eros ("love")13 and though it is a jest, it is metaphorically true. The heroes, or their ancestors, are the offspring
of gods who fell in love with mortals; and they retain in
themselves a divine longing, which is not just confined
to physical desire, though that is its origin, 14 but which
prompts them to a transcendent hope, that turns their
only weakness into their best resource. If they are fated
to die, if they are barred from becoming inunortal in deed,
their death can ensure them a fictional immortality. Were
a goddess to fall in love with them again, they could only
continue an heroic line; but were they to turn aside from
a hopeless quest, and rely on themselves, they would be
assured of a deathlessness unaffected by the gods (oiothen
oios, "all alone"). 15 War absorbs into itself the desire they
have for self-perpetuation (after Helen left Sparta, she became barren); 16 for it unites their virtue with their ambition, so that, in displaying the one, they satisfy the other.
And if we are not repelled by allegory, no better image
for the Iliad could be found than the fable told by
Demodocus, about the adultery of Aphrodite and Ares
and its detection by Hephaestus. Here is all the horror
and glory of war in secret agreement with the desires and
delights of love, which the threads of art, more subtle
than a spider's web, bind together and reveal.
Homer has carefully prepared the shift from Helen to
fame as the cause of the war, a shift that the magical disappearance of Paris first indicates. When victory is almost
within Menelaus' grasp, as he drags Paris toward the
Achaeans, Aphrodite breaks the strap by which Menelaus
held him, and "snatching Paris away, she hid him in a
great mist, and set him in the sweet-smelling bridal chamber."" Paris is as effectively dead as if he had been killed.
Overcome by desire for Helen, he is indifferent to fame:
if Athena gives victory now to Menelaus, the Trojans'
gods at another time will aid him. 18 He becomes isolated
from the war, which now begins again without him.
Although his original injustice began the war, it continues
by the injustice of Pandarus, which serves as the transition between the recovery of Helen and the desire for
fame. Not Paris but Pandarus wounds Menelaus. Paris
disappears, and the responsibility for the war spreads
among the Trojans, while among the Achaeans Menelaus
remains the central figure, about whom they still rally.
But he too disappears in the seventh book, when
Agamemnon persuades him not to accept Hector's
challenge." To transform pettiness into grandeur, a private quarrel into a public war, may require injustice; but
once the transformation is completed, once both sides accept the new conditions, the demands of justice no longer
apply.
Were it not glory that we more affected
Than the performance of our heaving spleens,
93
�I would not wish a drop of Trojan blood
Spent more in her defense. But, worthy Hector,
She is a theme of honour and renown;
A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds,
Whose present courage may beat down our foes,
And fame in time to come canonize us. 20
The change that takes place among the heroes finds its
echo among the gods. Aphrodite saved Paris, but Diomedes in the fifth book wounds her, and she never reappears among men. Even as Paris, a man wholly
dominated by desire, disappears, so Aphrodite, the divine principle, as it were, which gives him most support,
retires, and leaves the war to Ares and Apollo, Athena
and Hera. 21
After the contest of Ajax and Hector, Nestor proposes
that a trench be dug and a wall built as a protection for
their ships and themselves." The kings agree, and while
they are labouring at the wall, the gods, seated by Zeus,
admire their work, and Poseidon speaks among them:
"Zeus father, what mortal on the boundless earth shall
still disclose his plans to the immortals? Do you not see
how the Achaeans have built a wall for their ships and
run a trench about it, but they have not offered famous
hecatombs to the gods? Its fame will go as far as the dawn
scatters light, and they will forget the wall that I and
Phoebus Apollo built for the hero Laomedon. " 23 Poseidon
fears that the fame of the Achaeans' wall will outstrip the
fame of his own wall. He interprets the wall as an insult
to the gods. Fame is not a concern of the gods: they can
neither hinder nor advance it. Not even the destruction
of the wall, which Homer describes," prevents us from
hearing of it. As long as the war concerns the quarrel
which Hera and Athena had with Paris, 25 the gods are
the ultimate authority; but as soon as the war turns away
from Paris and embodies the desire for fame, the gods
seem unnecessary. Just as Hector attempted to break
loose from them, in challenging an Achaean to a duel,
so Nestor takes up his suggestion and proposes the building of tomb, trench, and wall. Hector was unsuccessful,
for he does not kill Ajax. Nestor succeeds for a time, but
even his attempt is thwarted by the gods. The wall would
make the Achaean camp as permanent as Troy: should
they win or lose, it would remain as a record of their
siege. Nestor improved on Hector, for victory was the
price of his fame, while Nestor relies on a collective effort that disregards prowess as well as success. The wall
is the most glorious attempt to break out of the gods' influence, it fails. But Zeus helps them along in their belief, for he forbids in the eighth book any intervention
by the gods in the war. 26 In the fourth book Hera was
given carte blanche to do what she wanted, but now that
her personal revenge has been transcended, Zeus no
longer will brook any interference.
The desire for fame enhances everything. The shield
of Nestor, nwhose fame reaches heaven," and the
"curiously-wrought breastplate of Diomedes, which
Hephaestus had fashioned" become the objects of Hector's arnbition. 27 These unknown arms become desirable
94
in the light of fame. Everything is worth acquiring if fame
is the goal. Tencer is encouraged and urged on by the
offer of a tripod or two horses or a woman, if Troy is captured. 28 Tencer, who plays no role in the fifth book and
is mentioned once in the sixth, becomes in the middle
books an important figure. And in the same way, Glaucus and Sarpedon, Idomeneus and Meriones, become
more important. Everyone joins in the desire for fame.
Once the transition has been completed to the second
cause of the war, Homer begins to lay the foundations
for the third cause. It is now in the eighth book that Zeus
outlines the death of Patroclus and the return of
Achilles. 29 Even as the disappearance of Paris announced
the shift to the second cause, so Zeus' prophecy indicates
the final cause. Thus three causes underlie the Iliad: Helen first, fame second, and Patroclus third. From personal
revenge to impersonal ambition and back again to
revenge is the Iliad's plot. The love for Helen turns into
the love for fame, which in turn becomes Achilles' love
for Patroclus. From eros to kleous eros ("love of fame") to
eros is the cycle of the Iliad: but how Achilles' eros unites
the other two will be our final problem.
Chapter III
The Embassy
Agamemnon calls an assembly of all the Achaeans,
where he proposes in earnest what he had once used as
a test of their resolution; and yet now they hear silently
the same speech which before had upset them and induced them to return home 1 Their roles are reversed:
Agamemnon wishes as much to flee as the Achaeans had
wished before, and they now seem as determined to stay
as Agamemnon had been intent on capturing Troy.
Agamemnon, however, has changed his speech in two
respects: he no longer addresses the Achaeans as a whole
(though they all are present) but only their leaders, and
he omits to say how shameful their flight would appear
to future generations. 2 What now keeps the Achaeans
seated, though they are troubled in their hearts, 3 is the
desire for immortal fame. The plague and the withdrawal of Achilles had so broken their spirit that not even the
prospect of disgrace had then dissuaded them; but now,
even though Agamemnon fails to mention it (for fame
no longer attracts him), they are inclined to stay. As long
as Agamemnon wished to capture Troy, the ignominy
of his return was paramount; but his despair now makes
him ignore what has inflamed everyone else. Even as
Menelaus had been replaced by Ajax, so Agamemnon,
ouce his brother's suit lost its importance, had to yield
his own preeminence. He knows that the Achaeans will
not obey him, that the darkness of the night as well aE
their new ambition will check them. He hands over tc
the Achaean kings the business of the war. He is as ready
now to humble himself before Achilles, as prompt on thE
SUMMER 198
�morrow to be wounded and remain out of action for the
rest of the lliad 4 Thus Diomedes can openly assert
Agamemnon's wearness, 5 for Agamemnon has already
abandoned his pretensions to power, now certain that
no one will question his authority. Were Helen their object, his force must equal his rank, so that the Achaeans
may be obliged to avenge an abstract wrong that does
not affect them; but if their appetites are engaged, if immortal fame is now their object, so that defeat would seem
a personal disgrace, Agamemnon can afford to forego an
absolute sway and be content with the titular superiority. Diomedes can bid him depart as brusquely as he himself once ordered Achilles to return home, and be as
confident as Agamemnon once was that the others will
stay behind. 6 Even without Agamemnon the Achaeans
cohere and stick together: he has become superfluous.
But fame is so much more an inducement than justice,
that Diomedes goes even farther than Agamemnon ever
did: the others can also depart, he and Sthenelus will win
alone. Thus he usurps the power of Agamemnon and
replaces Achilles as the emblem of virtue.
Nestor, in partly approving of Diomedes' rebuke of
Agamemnon, assigns to him the leadership of the war
(of the young), while he reserves for Agamemnon his
authority in the council (among the kings).' He distinguishes between the sceptre and the fist of Agamemnon,
and thus prepares the way for his reconciliation with
Achilles. But although he is willing to grant Agamemnon's weakness before the whole assembly, he does not
wish to propose before them the embassy to Achilles: for
if they remain ignorant, they can always count on
Achilles' future support, but if they know (as Achilles
hopes},' its success would compromise Agamemnon, and
its failure would deprive them of hope. Were Achilles to
re-enter the war, Agamemnon would be forced, in admitting his error, to surrender his sceptre; whereas Diomedes can excel Agamemnon by night (the Doloneia)
without being his rival by day: he is wounded soon after
him in Book Eleven; but should Achilles refuse to return,
the Achaeans, in losing their mainstay, would also lose
heart. Nestor knows that Diomedes' nocturnal prowess
will not seriously affect Agamemnon's authority; but he
fears that an Achilles, able to support his ambition by daytime deeds, would disturb again the hierarchy of command. Achilles must be coaxed by something other than
the return of Briseis, something that no longer will allow
him to threaten Agamemnon, nor show up his own pride
as petulance. And that bait is immortal fame.
Nothing more clearly reflects the changed purpose of
the war than the embassy to Achilles. It offers the
Achaeans their best chance to reconcile Achilles with
Agamemnon. If Hector had not made his challenge, the
embassy would have been impossible. Only on this new
basis can the Achaeans hope to persuade Achilles to forget his wrath, and be aroused by a new ambition that affords greater scope to his fury. If Helen has disappeared
as the cause of the war, Briseis should also lose her importance. If the stake is now immortal fame, and the con-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
flict is indifferent to Menelaus' just complaint, then
Achilles' quarrel with Agamemnon, who as unjustly provoked him as Paris did Menelaus, should be resolved in
favour of this larger issue. An indivisible trophy, inunortal
fame, will replace the division of spoils. What would always lead to disputes, the petty arithmetic of how much
each man is worth, will vanish before a more generous
calculation, whose scales are no longer in the hands of
Agamemnon but of all mankind. The exact weighing of
virtue in the coinage of booty becomes contemptible, and
what is beyond measure, immortal fame, is now set up
as its standard. Achilles is to be lured by honour: he can
forgive Agamemnon because Agamemnon can never
again dishonour him. Merit would be the only guide to
reward, and, in spite of Agmemnon's jealousy, Achilles
would receive his due. Let Agamemnon deprive him of
all material gain: it can only please for a lifetime, and
Achilles in the future will so much the more be recompensed. Achilles' fame lies beyond the touch of envy: if
he can now show himself magnanimous, the authority
of Agamemnon will yield before his own power.
Agamemnon must rely on gifts and bolster his rank by
the arbitrary display of his will, but Achilles can trust in
the present to his might, and to his deeds in the future.
The quibbles on their relative positions among the
Achaeans will not arise in the face of Achilles' future superiority. Agamemnon can irritate Achilles, but Achilles'
revenge is assured. As long as Achilles looks to Agamemnon for satisfaction, no number of gifts can disguise
Agamemnon's false position, nor persuade Achilles to
relinquish his claim to Agamemnon's sceptre; but if he
can only look beyond this temporary injustice, his ascendancy to come his own virtue guarantees. Agamemnon's
sway extends no further than the narrow circle of the
Achaean camp, and his every act of aggrandizement is
bought at the price of a future ignominy; while every accommodation by Achilles to his mean tyranny will only
increase his reputation and add lustre to his name.
Achilles' dangerous ambition, to rule over all the
Achaeans, can be diverted into a safer and more glorious end. To render him harmless as well as more worthy of himself prompts the Achaeans to send the
embassy: that Achilles cannot bring himself to accept their
offer, and that he cherishes more deeply his present humiliation than a lasting fame, all this makes the beginning of his tragedy.
The embassy prayed to Poseidon that they might easily convince the great heart of Aeacides (Mega/as phrenas
Aiakidao) "whom they found pleasing his heart (phrena
terpomenon) with the clear-toned lyre-beautiful it was and
intricately wrought, and it had a silver bridge-he chose
it from the spoils after he had sacked the city of Eetion,
and with it he was pleasing his spirit (thymon eterpen) and
was singing the famous deeds of men" (klea andron). 9
Achilles as Aeacides, as the grandson of Aeacus, sings
the deeds of famous heroes. In taking up the lyre he puts
on his ancestral self: as he finds his pleasure in the past,
he becomes part of the past and loses his present identi'
95
�ty. Excluded from action, he sings of the actions of others;
he consoles his inactivity by rejoicing in others' prowess;
and wrapped up in their past, he lives more by his own
past than by himself. Achilles remained by the ships, and
though "he never visited the ennobling assembly (agoran kydianeiran), nor ever went to war, yet he was destroying his spirit, and kept on longing for the battle-cry
and war. " 10 His self-imposed idleness still chafes him.
His absence from the war has not diminished his desire.
Even the assembly seems a place to win glory: kydianeira
("bringing glory") is used elsewhere only of battle, but
Achilles, now that he is cut off from all action, sees even
in speaking a certain prestige. As he cannot share in
present deeds nor in present counsel, he cannot hope for
a future fame. He is isolated from the present and the
future and so only the past exists as something which cannot be taken from him. He sacked the city of Eetion-no
one can deny it-but the witness to his virtue is this lyre,
which testifies as wen to his failure; for it gave him an
instrument more suited to a blind Demodocus than to an
Achilles. He celebrates the deeds of others, but others
should celebrate his own. The lyre cannot satisfy him,
for he is now forced to please himself instead of having
others please him. His pleasure is in another's fame and
not in his own. Klea andron ("the famous [deeds] of
men") stand one remove from erga andron ("the deeds
of men"); they are the reflection of virtue, not virtue itself; and Achilles, in singing of another Achilles, becomes
the shadow of what he was. In becoming a minstrel, he
has become unwillingly an anthropos; in withdrawing
from the war, he deserts his own character. If martial exce11ence is denied Achilles, he no longer is Achilles, no
longer what he thinks and we think he is. His "name"
depends on his deeds, and he cannot abandon all deeds
without forfeiting himself. In becoming passive, he loses
that which distingoished him: "idleness is the corruption of noble souls. " 11 But it was the very source of his
actions, his megalopsychia ("greatness of soul"}, which
had made him withdraw and betray his former self. And
the tragedy of Achilles lies here: what made Achilles destroyed AchiJJes. As soon as he reflects, he is lost, and he
is bound to reflect, to pick up this lyre, once he stops
fighting. If he ever doubts the worth of what he has been
trained to do, he will destroy himself. Any check to his
outer action will turn aU that force upon himself. His
sword needs an object, and if it is wanting, it will be himself. When the embassy arrives, he is ripe for persuasion.
When Odysseus has enumerated the gifts Achilles will
receive, if he puts off his rage, he te11s Achilles that "even
if Atreides is hateful to your heart-he and his giftstake pity at least on aU the other forlorn Achaeans, who
will honour you like a god: surely you might have great
honour among them, for now you might slay Hector,
who in his murderous lust would come quite near you,
since he says no Danaan, whom the ships brought hither,
is his equal. " 12 Odysseus is quite willing for Achilles to
reject Agamemnon's gifts, but he tries to irritate Achilles
by repeating the boast of Hector, even though Hector did
96
not mention him but Diomedes. 13 Achilles is right to reject Agamemnon's gifts, for though the gifts acknowledge
Agamemnon's need of Achilles, they do not admit
Achilles' superiority. Not only do they gloss over his
cha11enge to Agamemnon's rank, but they aim to restore
Agamemnon's predominance. Agamemnon has put a
price on Achilles' worth; he has calculated his equivalence in terms of so many horses and so much gold, and
were Achilles to accept them, he would be accepting
Agamemnon's estimation of himself. If he is reducible
to a cipher, he must submit to Agamemnon's domination. He would not acquire a greater rank, were he to allow ffiOre" to mean "better"; for then he would
acknowledge Agamemnon's right to settle his worth: but
he had withdrawn his support originally because
Agamemnon had presumed to decide what he could and
could not have. To accept the gifts is to accept Agamemnon's authority; and what is more, to receive seven Lesw
bian women, whom he himself had captured, 14 would
humiliate himself. In giving them to Agamemnon,
Achilles was the arbiter of Agamemnon's worth: in giving them back, Agamemnon would usurp his own position. Were then Achilles to acknowledge Agamemnon''
equation, and confound numerical superiority with natural greatness, 15 his whole attack on Agamemnon's posi·
lion would fail.
Even as the catalogue of ships was intended to confound number with strength, and thus whole peoples an
mentioned who never reappear in battle (for example,
the Rhodians and Arcadians}, so now Agamemnon'•
generosity gives a limit to Achilles' exce11ence, and hall
his promises can never be put to the test. Achilles wil
not live to enjoy the spoils of Troy, nor will he be abl<
to claim Agamemnon's daughter, nor the seven cities below Pylos. Not even if his daughter rivaled Aphrodite ir
beauty and Athena in skill, would Achilles marry her .1'
He could not. Only if he returns now to his father's home.
could he hope to marry; only his withdrawal now woulc
assure him the wealth Agamemnon so vainly promises.
only in Phthia would he live with the ease he carmot hav<
in the future if he stays.
Agamemnon wished to reestablish his position prio1
to Achilles' withdrawal, to forget his injustice so tha
Achilles might forget his weakness, and to reduc<
Achilles' attack on his authority to a mere outburst of tern
per. But once the gap between them has been opened
no appeal, that seeks only to restore Achilles' former sta
tus, can bridge it. Once Achilles has seen how valuabl•
he is, he will never be content with less than complet<
domination. If Achilles had not retired from the war, h•
would have never known if he was as great as he as
sumed, nor would the Trojans have ventured to fight ii
the plain, nor would the Achaeans have built their wall
His wrath freed the war from a static siege, where th•
worth of each hero could never be tested, and turned i
into a precise measure of excellence. Achilles' absenc1
from the field lets Diomedes and Ajax, Hector and Sar
pedon come forward, and make the frame, as it were
11
SUMMER 198
�within which we must see Achilles, when he at last reappears. The random sorties, that had made up so large a
part of the war, 17 have now given way to a full-scale war,
a war for immortal fame. It is this new kind of engagement Achilles is asked, but cannot bring himself, to join;
nor is he asked so much for the sake of Agamemnon (or
Menelaus or Helen) but because of Hector, who can now
become the measure of Achilles' prowess, which no
longer has to be weighed by the amount of booty he
receives. Achilles, however, refuses to consider the war
as changed, but prefers to gloat over Hector's success
rather than accept it as a challenge." He takes for granted what is by no means so certain, that he is better than
Hector .19 He does not see the war as anything other than
what it was. He is indifferent to immortal fame.
Achilles had already protested against the war in the
first book, saying that he had not come to fight because
of the Trojans, who had neither driven off his horses nor
plundered his land, but to obtain redress for Agamemnon and Menelaus." Achilles had been fighting in an
alien war; a war he had joined more out of lack of any
other attraction than out of a deep-seated feeling to see
justice done. He was willing to stay, if his prerogatives
were respected, and if nothing occurred that more affected him. But Agamemnon, in taking away Briseis, had not
only dishonoured Achilles, but also had made Briseis herself more desirable than she was. She may not be worth
fighting over, 21 yet she is the equal of Helen, who could
not be dearer to Menelaus than Briseis to Achilles. 22 If
the Achaeans fight for Helen, he askes the embassy, why
should not he fight for Briseis? If Agamemnon leads so
great an expedition to recover so small a prize, why
should not he desert a war that can bring him no satisfaction, and has already brought him disgrace? As long
as Achilles hammers away at the pettiness of the war,
he is perfectly justified: and yet he fails to see the change
he himself brought about. Achilles is careless of immortal fame. Although he mentions it as a choice his mother
gave him, it does not move him; although his return
means the loss of his fame, he still considers it a possibility. 23 His fame and his return are balanced for him, as
if they were equal alternatives; and they are nicely poised
if one has the chance, like Achilles, to reflect upon them.
He had not at first thought there was an alternative. He
had resigned himself to a short life, 24 but his enforced
idleness made him reflect. To choose immortal fame demands a certain blindness to the pleasures of life, of
which Achilles, in his very minstrelsy, has become aware.
Life seems more worthwhile than a bloodless renown. 25
Achilles, in having no care for the Achaeans, loses all
care for his fame. Their destruction and his ignominy
seem minor losses. He cannot pity them unless his
"name" has greater weight than himself. Achilles believes in the absoluteness of his virtue: it does not need
to be put into action, nor does the opinion of others measure it. He wishes to enjoy his virtue alone, 26 without performance and without regard for others. He does not
need to use his virtue in order to prove himself virtuous.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
What Shakespeare's Odysseus tells him, he does not
believe, 27
That no man is the lord of any thing,
Though in and of him there be much consisting,
Till he communicate his parts to others;
Nor doth he of himself know them for aught,
Till he behold them formed in the applause
Where they're extended; who, like an arch, reverberates
The voice again; or, like a gate of steel
Fronting the sun, receives and renders back
His figure and his heat.
Achilles finds his applause not in earth but in heaven,
where Zeus honours him. When Phoenix warns hinl that
it would be baser (kakion) to defend burning ships than
to receive Agamemnon's presents now,Z8 he replies, "I
think that I am honoured by the will of Zeus" (phroneo
de tetimesthai Dios aise). 29 He can disregard the honour he
would have from the Achaeans, because he has a greater honour from Zeus. Achilles sets Zeus higher than immortal fame. What the Achaeans and Trojans have tried
to escape from, the arbitrary decrees of the gods, Achilles
trusts completely. He does not find them arbitrary, for
they are mere extensions of himself: they are his surrogates. In neglecting human affairs, in thinking he can
decide when to interfere and when not, Achilles is elevated to a god. He despises the promises of Odysseus, that
the Achaeans will honour him like a god, for he believes
that Zeus (his Zeus) has bridged that "likeness," and
transformed it into a complete identity. Achilles is a god.
He wears the ring of Gyges. He does not heed the advice of his mortal father, 30 nor of those who are dearest
to him: Phoenix, Odysseus, and Ajax. 31 He has cut all
his ties with mortality but one. Patroclus is the flaw in
his presumed perfection, and is the silent witness to his
own doom. The true subject of the embassy is not
Agamemnon and his gifts, nor even immortal fame, but
Patroclus.
Achilles is given the cruelest choice: inlmortal fame, but
without the enjoyment of a living renown, or a present
luxury and ease, but without fame. Hector could
challenge Ajax because he knew he would not die 32 Immortal fame was something in the future and not what
would at once ensure his death. Euchenor knew he would
perish if he went to Troy, but he knew as well he would
die of a cruel disease if he stayed at home 33 He chose
the more glorious end, and shunned not a peaceful old
age but a painful death. And Adrastus did not believe
his father, who prophesied his death at Troy. 34 Achilles
is quite different from Adrastus, Hector, or Euchenor. Unlike Adrastus he believes his mother, unlike Hector his
prowess will certainly end in death, and unlike Euchenor
he could enjoy his kingdom. If Achilles were not Achilles,
the choice would never arise, for his wrath lies outside
the will of Zeus, and it was the pause in the fighting
which his wrath afforded that made the decision acute;
but insofar as Achilles is Achilles (that is, virtuous) there
can only be one answer, to elect immortal fame. And yet
Achilles decides too late, when, no longer willingly, he
97
�reenters the war. He is forced by necessity, as he himself admits, 35 and that necessity is Patroclus' death.
Achilles decides not by himself but by another. Patroclus
makes his decision for him. He wanted to be absolute,
but he discovers that it entails the death of his companion. In trying to escape all dependence on other men, he
sends to his death Patroclus. When he at last returns to
the war, he no longer fights for immortal fame, though
he may deceive himself into so believing, 36 but to avenge
Patroclus, and that vengeance is what Phoenix had called
baser and less honourable than acceptance of Agamemnon's gifts. 37 But before we look at this final stage, we
must first look at an absolute Achilles, an Achilles most
clearly revealed in the speech of Phoenix. 38
After Phoenix has pledged his loyalty to Achilles, he
inserts the story of his life most casually. "I would not
wish to be left apart from you," he tells Achilles, "not
even if a god himself would promise to scrape off my old
age and make me a blooming youth again, such as I was
when I first left Hellas, with its beautiful women;" after
which he tells how his mother begged him to sleep with
his father's concubine, and when his father learned of
it, how he cursed him and called upon the Furies to make
his son childless, which, Phoenix adds, "the gods, Zeus
of the dead and Persephone, fulfilled. " 39 Phoenix recites
this as if the mere remembrance of his youth sufficed to
recall his entire past, and yet it retells, though ambiguously, Achilles' own action, and weighs the right and
wrong of his wrath. Achilles bitterly allows Agamemnon,
in spite of his promised oath, to sleep hereafter with
Briseis, 40 and, with that assumed, Phoenix can draw the
parallel between his own story and Achilles'. Phoenix,
insofar as he slept with his father's concubine and was
cursed by Amyntor, and insofar as the curse was fulfilled
by Zeus, is like Agamemnon, who will soon sleep with
Briseis, was cursed by Achilles, the curse to be fulfilled
by Zeus. If the conflict between Agamemnon and Achilles
is seen as similar to that between a father and his son,
where, strangely enough, Achilles assumes Amyntor's
and Agamemnon assumes Phoenix' role, we cannot tell
who was right and who wrong; but Phoenix goes on to
say, in lines that Plutarch alone has preserved, 41 that he
considered killing his father, was restrained by one of the
gods, and finally left home and came to Phthia. 42 And
likewise, Agamemnon dishonoured Achilles (by taking
away Briseis), even as Amyntor dishonoured his wife and
son (by having a concubine); and Achilles would have
killed Agamemnon, just as Phoenix would have killed
father, had not Athena restrained him; and again, having withdrawn from the war, he intended to return home.
Phoenix then is also like Achilles. His dishonour, his
wrath, his murderous intent and its check, his escape
from home, all correspond to something in Achilles' own
past. Phoenix has presented a complex story, so that
Achilles may have the best of both roles. As an outraged
father or a dishonoured son, as Amyntor or Phoenix,
Achilles is justified; but Phoenix, by telling it in such an
offhand way, wishes to warn Achilles that his grievance
98
is now past history, that already he has obtained as much
vengeance as could be wished, and that, if he persists,
he will destroy himself. The loyalty of Phoenix to Achilles
should serve as a model for Achilles, of what he owes
to Patroclus: for the gods protected Phoenix in his youth,
but he would not now accept their aid even if they
promised to make him young; just so Achilles, who has
been favoured by Athena and Zeus, should not now look
to them for assistance. Meleager' s story, then, is the condemnation, as Phoenix' own was the justification, of
Achilles. It is introduced expressly as a warning to
Achilles, and as Phoenix had summarized the books before the embassy in his own life, so now he fort ells the
subsequent events of the Iliad in the story of Meleager. 43
The high-spirited Aetolians were defending the city of
Calydon against the Couretes, and as long as Meleager
fought, things went badly for them; but when he became
angry at his mother and stayed at home, the attackers
began to succeed, and the elders of the Aetolians, promising a great gift, beseeched Meleager to return; his father,
mother, and sisters urged him, but only when his wife
Cleopatra recounted how many sorrows befall a captured
city, did he pity the Aetolians and re-enter the war 44 It
is not difficult to see how this corresponds to the plot of
the Iliad, but the most important point, I think, has not
been noticed: the situation is completely reversed.
Meleager is not one of the Couretes but one of the Aetolians; he is not attacking but defending Calydon; and
not his friend but his wife persuades him to forget his
wrath. Meleager is Achilles, the high-spirited Aetolians
are the high-spirited Trojans, and Cleopatra is Patroclus 4 '
Achilles then is a Trojan, and even as Patroclus' namE
is reversed in Cleopatra, 46 so the whole story present'
a mirror-image of the events at Troy. Achilles has become,
in his wrath, an exile; he has turned into an enemy, nol
just an observer, of the Achaeans; he has changed hi'
allegiance and become enrolled as a Trojan ally. He is 2
Trojan outside the walls, a Hector enraged. The Trojan'
could have appealed to Hector, as the Aetolians did tc
Meleager, by recounting the human sorrows that wou!C
attend a captured Troy: 47 but the Achaeans could nol
move Achilles except by pointing to a silent Patroclus
If Hector had withdrawn from the war, and had Priam.
Casandra, Hecuba, and Andromache beseeched him tc
return, Phoenix' story would exactly correspond; bu;
their very absence in Achilles' case lays stress on his iso·
lation, and shows how close he has come to an inhumar
self-sufficiency. Hector could be as much Meleager ae
Achilles is: but he is a civil Achilles, an Achilles who ha•
not lost aidos ("shame"); and yet in all else he resemble•
him, so that this first meeting between them, as it were
in the realm of an old fable, marks the first stage in thei
ultimate identity.
Agamemnon had ended his speech of reconciliatior
thus: "Let Achilles submit-Hades is implacable and un
conquerable, and therefore he is the most hateful of al
the gods to mortals;" 48 and though Odysseus quit<
reasonably omits it when he addresses Achilles, yet h<
SUMMER 198
�replaces it by promising him that he will be honoured like
a god. 49 He somehow suspects Achilles' divine pretensions, and Phoenix more openly, when he urges Achilles
to relent because the gods themselves are not inexorable, ''whose virtue, honour and power are greater,'' numbers Achilles among the gods. 50 Agamemnon and Phoenix try to persuade Achilles by example, and as their
choice of Hades and the gods depends on what they think
would seem convincing to Achilles, we can readily measure his ambition by his refusal. Achilles wants to be absolute: he almost succeeds. He has forced himself into
a posture that can admit (and ask) no quarter. He thinks
himself alone, splendidly alone, and though Patroclus
proves him wrong, his conviction lasts long enough to
seal his doom. As long as he believes in his own uniqueness he is as monstrous as the Cyclops. What is
metaphorically true in the Iliad becomes a fabulous reality in the Odyssey. 51 Both live alone: Polyphemus actually, Achilles by belief. Both cultivate and consult only their
thymos. 52 Both are huge (pelorios): Polyphemus is so huge
that the stone which blocks his cave not even two and
twenty wagons could move; Achilles is so huge that three
Achaeans had to bolt and unbolt the door to his tent. 53
If Polyphemus were killed, Odysseus would never be able
to leave the cave: if Achilles were killed, the Achaeans
would never take Troy. 54 War is like the cave of the
pastoral Cyclops, from which none escape but by the unwilling help of its denizen. Polyphemus must be blinded so that Odysseus may escape, Achilles must lose
Patroclus so that Hector may be killed. Polyphemus
devours the companions of Odysseus, Achilles wishes
his angry strength would allow him to devour Hector 55
Thus Polyphemus is one extreme of Achilles' charter, as
his immortal horses are the other: one the embodiment
of the animal, the other of the thing. Achilles is called
merciless, and he has a merciless heart (nelees etor), and
only Polyphemus is also said to be so neles thymos). 56
Polyphemus is wild and untamed (agrios) so is Achilles. 57
The Cyclopes are lawless (athemistoi), not because they
do not lay down laws each to his own family, but because
they do not have regard for one another, that is, they lack
civil shame. 58 Achilles likewise gives commands among
his followers but has no regard for Agamemnon's
decrees. 59 Polyphemus boasts that he does not pay attention to Zeus: Phoenix warns Achilles that he does not
regard the Litai 60 Polyphemus then is the brute perfection of Achilles, Achilles without weakness, without
Patroclus. He is what Achilles wants to but luckily cannot be. He shows what a monstrosity is bred out of disobedience to order, no matter how arbitrary that order
may seem. He is almost Homer's final verdict on Achilles,
whose disrespect for Agamemnon, though a trifle, unleashed a fury that sweeps Achilles on to his own death.
Then everything includes itself in power,
Power into will, will into appetite;
And appetite, an universal wolf,
So doubly seconded with will and power,
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Must make perforce an universal prey,
And last eat up himself.
Chapter IV
The Deception of Zeus
Achilles acts like a god, but Patroclus makes him forfeit that likeness. Though he suppresses nature, it finally betrays him in the shape of his friend: naturam expelles
furca, tamen usque recurret ("You may expel nature with
a pitchfork, yet it will always return"). His imitation of
immortality cannot last: Patroclus stops it. But the gods
whom Achilles imitates, do they too have their Patroclus?
Are they too subject to a power beyond their art? Homer
gives us his answer in the so-called "deception of Zeus."
When Hera sees Poseidon in disguise urging the
Achaeans to battle, she thinks of a plan to end the war
quickly: to put on a disguise that will deceive Zeus. She
enters her chambers, made by her son Hephaestus, the
lock on whose doors no other god but herself could open,
and adorns herself as artfully as possible.' Then, taking
aside a guileless Aphrodite, Hera begs of her: "Give to
me love and desire, by which you overpower all immortals and mortal men. " 2 Her excuse is that she wishes to
reconcile Oceanus, the "genesis of the gods," and Tethys, who have been at strife with one another, and for
a long time have not slept together, ever since "wrath
fell upon them. " 3 Aphrodite grants her request and gives
her a magical girdle, "wherein there was love and desire
and persuasive speech, that is wont to steal away even
the mind of the prudent." 4 Having put on this girdle,
Hera goes to the brother of Death, Hypnos, the "king
of all gods and all men. " 5 If he will lull to sleep Zeus,
she promises, he will receive a golden throne and a footstool, made by her son Hephaestus. 6 Hypnos at first refuses, protesting that he would even put to sleep
Oceanus-has per genesis pantossi tetuktai ("he who is the
genesis for all")-but not Zeus, unless he himself so
wished it; and reminding Hera how he had deceived Zeus
once before, when Heracles sailed home from Troy, and
had not Night saved him-"queen of gods and of
men" -Zeus would have cast him into the sea? Hera
deprecates his fear: Zeus does not care as much for the
Trojans as he had for Heracles; and she changes her reward: anyone of the Graces shall be his bride. 8 Hypnos
then agrees, if Hera will be willing to swear an oath, 9 and
once she is sworn, he accompanies her to Olympus where
Zeus surveys the Thasians and Mysians.'° Coming into
the presence of Zeus, while Hypnos assumes the shape
of a bird, Hera's beauty dazzles Zeus, and he wishes to
sleep with her at once. 11 Hera, however, "thinking
guile," says it would be shameless to sleep out in the
open, where anyone might see them: would it not be better to retire to her own chamber, which her dear son
99
�Hephaestus had made? 12 At last Hera's plan is discovered: she wished to lure Zeus into her chamber,
whose lock no one but herself could open; and once
locked in, Zeus would have to submit to her terms, and
the Trojan war would come to an end. And yet she cannot persuade Zeus (in spite of her girdle), for his desire
admits of no delay. They sleep together, and "under
them the divine earth sprouted fresh grass, the dewdrenched lotus, the crocus, and the delicate hyacinth.' ' 13
Thus Hera is foiled by nature. Even as Hypnos would
not accept her proposal, as long as she offered him the
throne of Hepaestus, so Zeus' passion outstrips her guile.
She had hoped to enlist natural powers, sleep and desire,
into the services of art: to entice Zeus by the charms of
Aphrodite and hold him by the craft of Hephaestus. She
believed that nature would submit to art, but she ought
to have known, when Hypnos rejected the throne made
by Hephaestus, that art must submit to the passions, that
the superiority of art is ephemeral, and that nature will
always triumph. Thus the deception of Zeus is a failure."
If then Hera fails to deceive Zeus, it is not surprising
(as some have thought it is) that Poseidon does not help
the Achaeans more than before; for Hypnos, who is as
guileless as Aphrodite, did not know what Hera had intended, and, thinking her plan a success, goes of his own
accord to tell Poseidon 15 The Achaeans are entitled to
no more than a short respite. Their leaders succeed in
routing the Trojans, until Zeus awakens and forces
Poseidon to retire from the war . 16
Sleep, Desire, and Night have equal powers over gods
and men, and only Death, the brother of Sleep, is man's
peculiar fate. Mortality distinguishes men from the immortal gods. It makes the gods, who are free from death,
the masters of men. Although they are subject like men
to sleep, desire, and night, yet their immortality grants
them one advantage: they are not forced to be moral. The
gods have the ring of Gyges, which allows them to do
whatever they wish without regard for the consequences.
If they sometimes feel responsible for their charges, they
help them; but if they ignore the heroes, they never pay
for their neglect. If they choose to be as arbitrary as
Achilles, they will never feel as guilty as he, after he has
sent Patroclus to his death. Ares is easily soothed by
Athena when he hears of his son Ascalaphus' death: 17
the revengeful grief of Achilles cannot be solaced. Mortality puts a limit to Achilles' irresponsibility, not only
by checking his aggrandizement but also by forcing him
to admit, that he can lose something more precious than
his own life. His virtue cannot stand alone; for even when
he thinks he is self-sufficient, he relies on the gods; and
this reliance becomes so great that in the end he can do
nothing unless they assist him. Achilles thought he was
closer to Zeus than to Agamemnon, but when Zeus denied his prayer, that Patroclus return alive, he discovered
his ties with anthropoi were stronger than his claim to immortality. When Sarpedon rushed against Patroclus, and
Zeus pitied them both, undecided whether he should
have Sarpedon or not, Hera dissuaded him, and Zeus
100
quite readily resigned himself to the loss of his son;"
while Achilles, who imitated his indifference (as herelied on his protection) could not bring himself to accepl
the death of Patroclus. He feels compassion more strongly
than a god ever can. His natural affections outstrip hi'
self-taught principles. His indifference crumbles. He
comes to see himself as more the son of Peleus than the
son of Thetis, more human than divine. Cyclopeau
Achilles, an automaton of enormity, puts not only himself but all heroes on trial. His experiment in immortality is disastrous, for it depends on a providential world,
a world that the gods must always take care of. Achille'
sums up heroic virtue, and shows that its price is eternal
providence. Pantes de Theon chateus' heroes.
Chapter V
Patroclus
Patroclus was much affecteq by Nestor's appeal, and
as soon as he returned to Achilles, forgetting to repor
what he was charged to find out, 1 begged Achilles to re
enter the war:z
ainarete, ti sea allos onCsetai opsigonos per, ai ke me Argeioisin aeikea loi
mou amoreis? (accursed [or dreadful] in your virtue, how will anothe
even yet to be born have profit from you, if you do not ward of
shameful ruin for the Argives?)
Achilles' virtue is accursed and dreadful, for no one iu
the future (let alone now) will take pleasure in or derive
benefit from it, unless he prevents an unseemly disaster.
Patroclus warns Achilles, as Phoenix had warned him before, that he is gambling away his fame as he holds stubbornly to his virtue. What Nestor had said, that Achille'
would enjoy his virtue alone-oios tes aretes aponesetaiPatroclus takes to mean the loss of immortal fame.
Agamemnon had pleaded with Achilles (through Odysseus) to help Agamemnon; Odysseus on his own accounl
had pleaded with him to help the Achaeans; Phoenix had
pleaded for him to help himself; and Patroclus to helf
posterity. He can be as isolated in the present as he wants,
if he will display toward the future a ghostly beneficence;
but were he to abstain from all action, his untested virtue would deny him all fame. Achilles insists so mud
on immediate honour, to compensate for his early death,
that he ignores the danger of a lasting infamy. He wish·
es to enjoy now, in fact, what posterity can only granl
him in fancy, to gather into the present moment all ol
the future. He cannot balance, against his conscious per·
fection, a promised glory. Although he has threatenec
to leave, he must stay, so that the defeat of the Achaean'
may sustain his intense awareness of his own virtue. In
deed he would even wish for the death of all Achaean'
and Trojans, were he and Patroclus to escape (beini
SUMMER 19E
�neither Achaean nor Trojan), "in order that we might
alone destroy the sacred heights of Troy." 4 He does not
think on the banenness but merely on the self-sufficiency
of such a triumph; which would make him at last the absolute master of his own honour.
When Odysseus reported Achilles' refusal to Agamemnon, he only mentioned Achilles' threat to depart at
dawn, and not his milder answer to Ajax, that he would
not consider "bloody war," before Hector would come
to the ships and tents of the Myrmidons. 5 The parable
of Meleager had made Achilles slightly modify his threat:
but the change is useless. Were Hector to succeed in
breaking through the wall, Achilles' belated action might
save himself, but it would not help the Achaeans, whom
Hector would attack, not on Achilles' flank, but on Ajax'.
Achilles had speciously moderated his stubbornness, so
that he might flatter himself by his own good nature, and
yet remain as adamant as before. As the Achaeans are
given impossible conditions to fulfill, should they wish
to appease Achilles, Achilles can persevere in his own
conceit and at the same time pretend his willingness to
relent. He can compromise without compromising himself. He can regret his obduracy but keep his wrath 6 He
can send out Patroclus, in all righteousness, without his
yielding at all, and can thus ensure his return, which the
Trojans might otherwise hinder, if they set fire to his
ships? He will obtain honour from all the Achaeans, as
well as Briseis and glorious gifts, even though he will not
have submitted to Agamemnon.
Achilles carefully avoids any mention of the embassy,
as he now understands what Phoenix had meant, when
he warned him that to accept Agamemnon's gifts, if the
ships are already burning, would not only be baser but
entail less honour. 8 He now admits what he could not
foresee, that "it is impossible to cherish anger continuou~ly. " 9 But having admitted that, he cannot bring himself to confess his error. He must re-enter the war, and
yet he must maintain the absoluteness of his own virtue,
but not compromise his chance of returning home. And
Patroclus' s request, that he be allowed to put on Achilles'
armour, gives him the almost-perfect solution. He will
not go himself but will send a surrogate, who is the mere
extension of himself. Patroclus will be mistaken for him,
and thus he can rout the Trojans without ever leaving
his tent. But one thing upsets him: suppose Patroclus,
this inanimate toy, suddenly is fired by his own ambitions? Suppose his success will be too brilliant and involve Achilles in a greater dishonour?10 Were Patroclus
to do more than assure the return of Briseis, and either
kill Hector or capture Troy, Achilles would be eclipsed
by the very instrument of his design. Patroclus might become independent of Achilles; he might be able to achieve
what none of the other Achaeans had been able to do,
freedom from Achilles' tyranny. Achilles might find that
his armour was superior to himself, that the weapon and
not its owner guaranteed success, and that his own
renown could accomplish more than his own prowess.
His fears are unfounded: Patroclus does not excel him:
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
but he also fails to return. And his failure to return, the
one flaw in Achilles' scheme, sets the stage for Achilles'
own tragedy.
Patroclus puts on Achilles' armour, but leaves behind
Achilles' spear, which no one could wield except
Achilles." Automedon yokes Xanthus and Balius to the
chariot, and puts between the traces the blameless Pedasus, a horse Achilles had taken when he sacked the city
of Eetion, "who even though mortal followed immortal
horses." 12 A three-horse chariot is elsewhere unknown
to Homer. Why then should Patroclus add a mortal horse,
that at best would be superfluous and at worse a hindrance, to the two immortal horses of Achilles? "Homer
wishes to show us," the BT Scholiast remarks, "the nature of the hero, that it is composed of the mortal and
immortal." Quite true; but why should Homer wish to
insist on such a point now? His meaning goes deeper.
Even as Patroclus is Achilles' one tie to humanity, and
with his death dies Achilles' pity, 13 so Pedasus is
Patroclus, whose death reveals how impossible it is to
yoke together, as Achilles had wished, the rights of divinity with the duties of men. Pedasus is a mere appendage to these inunortal horses, Patroclus is nothing but the
trace-horse of Achilles: but the wounded Pedasus can
more easily be disentangled from his reins than the dead
Patroclus discarded by Achilles. Patroclus was to be only
an extension of Achilles, while his death, though it cuts
him off completely, binds him more closely to Achilles
than he ever was bound in life. Pedasus was a blameless
horse, not only because his excellence ranked him with
Xanthus and Balius but also because he was not responsible for his death; and Patroclus likewise is blameless, 14
his virtue being almost the equal of Achilles' and his
death Achilles' fault. Achilles' share of mortality dies with
Patroclus and Pedasus, and all that remains of him is the
immortality of his horses.
Homer speaks to Patroclus throughout his aristeia, as
if he somehow felt responsible for him and wished to console him for the harshness of his fate. Not his prowess
nor his victories but his ineluctable death enlists Homer's
sympathy: "Whom first, whom last did you kill,
Patroclus, when the gods called you to death?" 15 Homer
had spoken to Menelaus when his life was in danger, or
when he thought his petty triumphs should be celebrated; 16 and it is not accidental that he, who shares so little
in heroic ambition, and Patroclus, who is so little responsible for his fate, should be the two persons whom Homer
most often addresses. The plot involves them, one at the
beginning, the other at the end: but the plot is not their
own doing. Patroclus' death follows so quickly on the
heels of his success, that no one, except Achilles, moves
so much under the spell of doom. And yet the doom of
Achilles is part of his destiny (it is almost self-made);
Patroclus' death is alien to Patroclus and belongs more
to Zeus and Achilles than to himself: so Homer, in calling to him, seems to stand beside him and to be in at the
kill, lest Patroclus, without the gods and without Achilles,
feel himself completely abandoned.
101
�Zeus was undecided whether he should save Sarpedon
or not, and later he could not decide whether Hector
should die: 17 but he had no doubts about Patroclus. The
death of Sarpedon was arbitrary: he could have survived
Patroclus. The death of Hector was in itself unnecessary:
it could have been otherwise. Both are heroes without
a fixed destiny; not everything they do leads to one end;
they can repeat themselves. But Patroclus could not be
reprieved: not because his death arose from an inner
necessity (and in this he resembles Sarpedon and Hector), but because his death was the trigger to Achilles'
death. It foreshadowed another's death, a death that
could not be avoided. It set off another's tragedy. That
no god protests the fate of Patroclus indicates that none
will protest Achilles'.
Chapter VI
Achilles and Patroclus
If Menelaus had always seemed to cut a poor figure,
whether he worsted Paris or volunteered to fight Hector, he more than makes up for it after the death of
Patroclus. His efforts are sustained and his exploits prodigious. He shows as much concern for Patroclus' corpse,
says Homer, as a mother would feel for her first-born
calf. 1 But what is he to Patroclus, or Patroclus to him, that
he should be spurred on to such virtue? He does not act
so much out of some regard for Patroclus, as because he
feels his own interests are at stake. He sees that the war
has re-adopted its original character. As he had gone to
war to avenge the rape of Helen, so Achilles will re-enter
the war to avenge Patroclus' death. A private quarrel will
become once again the main theme of the Iliad. Achilles
will fight for Helen. 2 When Menelaus' love for Helen had
been transmuted into the desire for glory, he had lost his
importance, handing over to others the conduct of the
war;' but as soon as Achilles' love for Patroclus will shape
the rest of the Iliad, Menelaus reassumes, as a sign of
Achilles' return, his abandoned role. Almost spent is the
ambition with which Hector had inspired the heroes,
while the desire for vengeance, which had initiated the
war, returns once again as its cause. The combat of
Achilles against Hector and that of Menelaus against Paris
have more in common with each other than with the contest between Ajax and Hector. They are in earnest, while
Hector and Ajax competed for glory. They are provoked
by hatred, while Hector could exchange gifts with Ajax.
They are the rightful champions of their own cause, while
Ajax was picked by lot and Hector could have been Aeneas. And yet the central part of the Iliad, which dealt
with the love of fame, does affect the struggle between
Achilles and Hector. Achilles is not merely Menelaus nor
is Hector merely Paris, but Achilles unites Menelaus with
Ajax (the personal vengeance of one with the impersonal
102
ambition of the other), while Hector retains the role he
played against Ajax, even though he takes on some fea·
lures of Paris. Ajax and Menelaus join in protecting the
corpse of Patroclus, and thus indicate how the first twc
parts of the Iliad come together in the end. We must no"
see how Achilles puts off his wrath and re-enters the war.
When Achilles had prayed to Zeus, that Patroclus pus!
back the Trojans to the city as well as that he return safe
ly to the ships, Zeus granted the first request and denie<
the second; 4 and this new plan of Zeus', which Theti:
failed to report,S marks the first ruptrue between Achille:
and Zeus. As long as Thetis had told him what Zeus in
tended, Achilles could not fail to believe in his own pow
er; nor, as long as the Trojans continued to triumph
could he doubt the infallible result of his prayers. He i:
indeed pious Achilles. Never had he made a mov•
without the assistance of a god, whether Athena ha<
checked his impulse to kill Agamemnon, or Thetis ha<
answered his appeal for revenge: so he persuaded him
self that they would never desert him, and he could af
ford to dispense with his mother's intervention. H
treated the gods as if they were under his thumb, an<
were as obedient to his whims as he had hoped Agamem
non would be. Achilles, who thought himself the maste1
becomes the slave of the gods. He cannot live withou
them. He must live miraculously.
Patroclus is absent longer than Achilles expected, and
he begins to recall what Thetis had once told him, thai
the best of the Myrmidons would die, while he was stii
living. 6 Although he had known about this prophecy, h<
had forgotten it in his haste to obtain satisfaction, anc
free himself honourably from his own intransigence; anc
since his convenience advised him to ignore it, he sc
much the more easily could plead his forgetfulness. Anc
yet Achilles' memory is a strange mixtrue: he could keef
fresh the injury dealt him by Agamemnon, but he coulc
not remember the fate of Patroclus. Even he is uneasy
uncertain if he dispatched Patroclus in good faith; for ir
repeating now his admonition to Patroclus, he proves hi1
innocence by slightly changing his warning:"! chargee
him to return to the ships," Achilles says to himself
"when once he had averted the baneful fire, (and
charged him as well) not to fight against Hector. " 7 Bu
he had not told Patroclus to avoid Hector. He did forbi<
him to attack Troy, lest Apollo might rout him, but h<
now omits the baser motive which had dictated hi:
concern-his fear that Patroclus might achieve more glm;
and honour than himself8-and substitutes for that th<
pretense that he had warned him about Hector. Indeed
in his prayer to Zeus, he actually referred to Hector a:
Patroclus' opponent: ''In order that even Hector will se<
if our comrade knows how to battle alone. " 9 These an
not the words of someone who can truthfully say h•
warned Patroclus; but they are the words of an Achille:
who deliberately forgot the doom of Patroclus, so tha
his own pride could be appeased. Perhaps "deliberate
ly" is too strong an indictment, but his guilt is there. H
is not innocent of Patroclus' death, nor is he in turn corn
SUMMER 19E
�pletely responsible. He stands, like all tragic heroes, an
ambiguous trial tortured by the doubt of his innocence,
as he protests the consciousness of his guilt. He shares
his guilt with Hector, who is, as it were, his agent; but
he also shares Hector'S innocence, who merely carried
out the will of Zeus. His fury against Hector far exceeds
the fury of an innocent man. He exacts from Hector the
penalty he feels that he himself should pay. He attempts
to drown in the slaughter of Trojans the growing sense
of his own guilt. He expresses both is innocence and his
guilt, his grief at the loss of a friend and his pain at being
his murderer, when he tells his mother, ton apolesa, 10
which can mean "I lost him," as Achilles now intends,
or, what he finally comes to believe it means, "I killed
him." The murder of Patroclus was not Achilles' aim, but
the casual conseq11ence of his wrath. He had delegated
his shadow of himself, dressed in his own armour, to vindicate his honour. He had not so much been desirous for
Patroclus' death as he had been anxious for himself. He
was careless of Patroclus because he was certain of his
success; but his certainty was more a necessary hope to
further himself than. a proved conviction that it would
not harm Patroclus.
As soon as Achilles learns of Patroclus' death, "a black
cloud of grief engulfed him,'' and he throws himself upon
the ground, megas megalosti tanystheis keito ("mightily in
his might, he lay stretched out"), as if he were dead. His
captured slaves surround him and utter cries of lament,
and Antilochus fears he will commit suicide, "severing
his throat with iron. " 11 Achilles' muttered wailings are
heard by his mother who, when all her sisters are
gathered round her, laments the imminent death of her
son, 12
0 moi egO deilC, 0 moi dysaristotokeia
(" Ah me, wretched that I am; ah me unhappy bearer of the best
of men.")
Accompanied by the tearful Nereids, she leaves his
father's cave, and standing near Achilles takes his head
in her hands. It has often been noticed that all of this
scene resembles a funeral, and that it signifies the death
of Achilles." The phrase keito megas megalosti ("he lay
mightily in his might") was used of Cebriones' death, 14
and far from being a blemish was purposely planted there
to explain its occurrence here. Achilles is dead. Keiso megas megalosti ("You lay mightily in your might"),
Agamemnon tells him in Hades, "and your mother came
out of the sea, whom the immortal Nereids followed." 15
Thetis holds Achilles' head just as he will hold the head
of the dead Patroclus, and Andromache, Hecuba and Priam that of Hector. 16 With the death of Patroclus, Achilles
himself dies. ''I honoured him above my companions,''
he tells Thetis, "equal to my own head. " 17 Patroclus is
Achilles' head, and his death has cost Achilles his own. 18
He is now no more than a corpse. He stays alive by the
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
nectar and ambrosia Athena gives him: the very medicine Thetis gives the dead Patroclus and Aphrodite the
dead Hector, so that their bodies might not decay. 19
Achilles' and Hector's ambition, to be immortal and ageless, is finally granted them; they obtain the elixir of immortality,'0 one when he is dead, the other when he
wishes that he were. Achilles belongs to the world of the
dead, and his every action will seem as mechanical as a
somnambulist's, and as ineffectual as a dream.
Achilles is a work of art. He has more affinities with
the golden hounds of Hephaestus than with the natural
elements in his own lineage. His denial of nature is his
constant attempt to break out of mortality. Hence it is only
fitting that the eighteenth book should open with a catalogue of the Nereids and end with the making of his
shield.21 The Nereids represent all that he refuses to acknowledge, the superiority of nature over art; and the
shield proclaims all that he wants to be his, an ordered
and fabricated world. The shield is surrounded by Oceanus, 22 placed at the limits of man's nature, and beyond
which it is impossible to go. Ocean is the only one of the
gods that does not obey Zeus' summons, when he calls
all of them to assemble. 23 He is the only one beyond Zeus'
power. Hera had pretended she could reconcile Ocean
with Tethys, but she never does; Hypnos had pretended he could lull him to sleep, but he never does; and
Achilles pretends that Zeus is stronger than the Achelous,
but he only briefly succeeds.z< Hephaestus conquers the
Xanthus, so that the Olympian gods, who make the
heroic world providential, may dominate the Iliad. The
gods appear on the shield in the city of war, but they are
absent in the city of peace: 25 so it is not by chance that
the gods are less active in the Odyssey, nor that Odysseus travels to the end of Ocean, where Hades is, the absolute end of man. 26 Heroes live in a poetic world, a world
where accident has almost vanished, and everything
takes place according to fate. Providence is chance unblinded. The gods are technai ("arts"}, who correct the
faults of nature: but they are a small part of the whole.
They beautify the whole, and as war is uglier than peace,
they play a greater role in the Iliad than in the Odyssey.
Achilles needs them; without them he is a Cyclops; with
them he just manages to be noble. Achilles dies in Book
Eighteen. He dies when the providential world on which
he depended breaks down; but he is resurrected by art
and goaded on by the gods for the rest of the Iliad. He
cannot help the Achaeans until he is rearmed: the despoiling of Patroclus has stripped himself. He is refitted by
Hephaestus, so that he may take his revenge: but it is
merely a concession of the gods, merely a fiction of
Homer's, merely a sop to Achilles. He becomes a puppet, who performs his ghostly motions by a kind of inertia. The display of his virtue comes too late: he cannot
redeem, no matter how great his slaughter, the virtue he
lost in sending Patroclus to his death. Achilles is Achilles
because he is a warrior, but before he was willing, and
now he is compelled. He has lost his will. "Truly it is
not base," Thetis tells him, "to ward off destruction from
103
�your wearied companions" :27 but it is not noble either.
Achilles becomes a contrivance, a thing, a work of art.
He has lost that greatness of soul which, ironically, he
more displayed in his anger against Agamemnon than
now in his revenge on Hector. He becomes more hateful
to himself than Hades ever was. 28 He becomes his worst
Before Achilles arms himself for battle, he is reconciled
with Agamemnon: but one must not take Agamemnon's
self-humiliation as the vindication of Achilles. Agamemnon can afford to be abject because Achilles cannot now
dispute his authority: he is too busy defending himself
from his own guilt to make any demands on another.
Achilles had compared himself to Heracles, "whom fate
and the cruel anger of Hera conquered, and so even I,
if there is made a like fate for me, shall die. " 29 Achilles
begins here his self-deception. He must omit in his own
case the anger of Hera that was partly the cause of Herades' death; for it was not the wrath of a god but his own
wrath that sealed his fate. He tries to return to where he
was before his wrath, when he was okyrnorotatos allan
("doomed to an early death beyond all others"), 30 and
he had had no doubt that he would die at Troy. His wrath
then became his fate, taking over his external destiny and
making it his own. He brought himself to do through his
own action what fate had planned in advance. He becomes free of fate only to become enslaved to his own
character. Vainly he tries to restore a fateful world, where
he would no longer be responsible. What Agamemnon
does so brazenly in the defense of himself (excusing his
own folly on the grounds of Zeus'), 31 Achilles also does;
but he is more subtle than Agamemnon as his sense of
guilt is much stronger. He wishes that Briseis had
perished when he sacked Lyrnessus,'2 as if Briseis were
to blame and not himself, or as if he could not have found
another pretext for his wrath. He wishes that strife and
anger had perished among gods and men, 33 so that he
would not have been able to err. He shows himself indifferent to the gifts of Agamemnon, 34 as if he had never
cared for honour and was always careless of rewards. He
longs to go to war without eating, as if he had never feasted when the Achaeans were dying. 35 "The Achaeans cannot mourn a corpse with their bellies," Odysseus tells
Achilles, "for too many die day after day, one after the
other: when could one cease from toilsome fasting? But
we must bury him who dies and weep for a day, having
a pitiless heart. " 36 Achilles must have a pitiless heart
(nelea thymon), and Achilles once did have a pitiless heart:
when he had neither fought nor wept for the dead. 37 His
pitiless heart had kept him from the war, and his softened
heart has made him return. When he should have
showed his mildness, he preferred to be hard; when he
should now show his hardness, he must be mild. His
responsibility to Patroclus is too oppressively his own
burden for Patroclus to be numbered among the other
dead. Achilles tries to redeem his innocence by fasting,
as if physical privation would show his inner loss, but
by fasting he only stands condemned.
104
Chapter VII
The Exploits of Achilles
Achilles begins his exploits in the twentieth book, and
Homer addresses him by his father's name, "son of
Peleus," for with his return to the war he becomes like
his father. He takes over again the office which Agamemnon had filled in his absence: the Achaeans now arm
around him as they once were ordered to arm by
Agamemnon.' Achilles now enters the war with eagerness: akoretos, "insatiate," Homer calls him. The Trojans
take fright as soon as they see him, "swift-footed Peleion
ablaze in his armour, equal to mortal-destroying Ares. " 2
His virtue, his patronymic and appearance are enough
to warrant a simile, that also the presence of the gods
justifies. 3 He is known to the Trojans as the son of Peleus
(by his father's name) and as swift-footed (by his special
virtue). Apollo urges Aeneias to confront him, calling him
simply 'Peleides Achilles" ;4 but Aeneias will not venturE
forth, as he knows exactly what Peleides Achilles implies:
he does not wish to fight against "over-spirited Peleion,"
nor stand his ground, as he once did, before ''swift-footec
Achilles. " 5 Even as Achilles to him means violent anger,
so "swift-footed" means the son of Peleus 6 His swift·
ness is an inherited virtue, his anger his own: Aeneiaf
can resist neither.
Aeneias Anchisiades meets divine Achilles. 7 Anchises.
who mated with Aphrodite, begot Aeneias; Achilles i1
divine, an epithet that suggests his genealogy; for at one<
it is "Peleides" who stands before plain Aeneias; but th<
son of Peleus, after a simile, becomes Achilles once more,
who threatens Aeneias with his power: he speaks to hin
as divine and as swift-footed, in his lineage and virtoe.
Aeneias is unimpressed, "great-hearted" as he is, 10 an<
before launching a recital of his own lineage, calls hin
Peleides, which he inunediately retracts, saying, "they sa:
you are the son of Peleus and Thetis, but I boast to be th
son of Anchises and my mother is Aphrodite. " 11 Th
doubt that he raises about Achilles' parentage contrast
with the certainty he has of his own; and yet he puts fm
ward a tedious lineage as a shield against Achilles' su
periority, hoping to find in his past a counterweight t'
Achilles' present greatness.U
Aeneias hurls his javelin, Achilles holds up his shiel'
in fear: he fears as "Peleides" the spear of "great-hearte,
Aeneias," but as soon as he recovers his own spirit an
hurls back a spear, he becomes once again Achilles." An
as Achilles he rushes at Aeneias shouting dreadfully, bt
as "Peleides" he would have killed him, had nc
Poseidon pitied Aeneias and come to where he and"£<
mous Achilles" were standing." He sends down a mil
over the eyes of Peleides Achilles, for as the son of h
father he would have killed Aeneias, but when Poseido
scatters the mist, he turns into plain Achilles; 15 wh
speaks to his "great-hearted spirit" and decides to rail
the "Danaans lovers of war. " 16 Achilles was the first t
SUMMER 19:
�f' 'lovers of war'') in speaking of ~he Myr<illiidons ;ami! Tw,ijans, and only after that do Hector, Ly<llll>n, ""'d Hmmer employ it: Lycaon when he beseeches
Achilles, Homer when he either thinks of Achilles or
Achilles is almut to speak. 17 It is, like megathymoi Achaioi18
'('"ihigh-;Sjplirited Achaeans"), an epithet that depends solely•onAdlnilles' presence, or that applies to no one unless
:fhrey.,.,.,omehow transformed by Achilles, and become
wellle~;-. ·of him.
Hedter <encourages the "over-spirited Trojans to face
""!Relerom:·'' 19 Oruy if he recalls them to their highest ex•Geil!:ellllle,, - d degrades Achilles to his lowest, patronymic iidiOI!l!tiiiy, 'Will bis illlnetoric carry conviction. As the son
·l>if lb.iis Jliaitimer Adhililes <can be approached, for., Achilles"
he :says mill not ifull£llll!Ms boasts, but fail in lb.alf of what
he ~""'"-' 0 iNfotJI'Il'lkiides Achilles, as it w.,.-e, with all
hl!;~, hu!tlhra:lf®'f Achilles, the weakren-, ancestral
Jha]U,, l:lledm pmnniises tro ifight. Apollo, how<eover, disagrees,, and reminJlliimlg IE!ector of plain Achillles, who is
what lb.e tlb.lnks he iis, furbids him to meet Mrilles. 21
Achilles &en, shO!Iili!mg meadfully, engages Ephition,
whom he kills and boasts l()lWt6f as "divine.' . .n Next he
goes after "godlike l'olydol1lli.S'"' who "surpassed all the
youth in swiftness": Achi!l!es lllhterefore kills him in the
capacity of "swift-footed diviilme Achilles. " 23
Achilles becomes more and JIWl)re furious: he kiills ten
heroes one after the other (in t:birty-five lines), at~d yet
his name is never mentioned. 24 1:11iEwe Homer passes judgment on him: 25
11l1Se pkil~pto!mnoi
ou gar ti glycythymos aner en oud' agaiWJdlrwOn
("for not at all sweet-tempered nor gende.of mood was the man")
He is not "sweet-tempered" but "high-spirited," he is
not mild but pitiless. He loses his name in his fury: he
is like fire: he is equal to a god. 26 He goes through blood
as "high-spirited Achilles," and desires to obtain honour
in his father's name. 27
Achilles continues to destroy the Trojans. He drives
them into the river Scamander, and jumps in after them
"equal to a god:" he is "the Zeus-born" (ho diogenes),
inhuman and nameless. 28 His name returns: "divine
Achilles came on Lycaon as an unforeseen evil. '' 29 He observes Lycaon as swift-footed and divine, expecting him
to flee; but Lycaon stands still, so Achilles, not having
to pursue him, drops "swift-footed" and raises his spear
to kill him as "divine;" 30 and then Lycaon beseeches him,
and Achilles replies "unsweetly" and kills him as plain
Achilles. 31
The river-god Xanthus wishes to stop "divine
Achilles, 32 but the son of Peleus jumps on Asteropaeus,
despising his lineage and boasting his own. 33 Asteropaeus
is as frightened as Aeneias was: he calls him "highspirited Peleides-" He avoids the spear of Achilles and
tries to remove it from the river-bank in which it is lodged:
thrice he tries and fails to budge it-the spear of
Achilles-but on the fourth try, his last, it is the spear
of Aeacides, the spear no one but Achilles could wield. 35
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
A:s "Peleides" he slays seven heroes, but as "swift
Achilles," !by pursuing them, he would have slain more,
had noUhe:Xanthus begged him to fightelsewhere. 36 He
oont~usly ignores the river, though he pretends he
will obey it, and rushes <~gainst the Trojans "equal to a
.god;;"'"'7 a:mt as soon as the:Xanthus has reproached Apollo
fm his neglect of the Trojans, Achilles as "spearrenrnwned" pursues them. 38 The river, "a great god,"
swa:Nrows up Achilles in its stream, and "Peleides"
l'i'fu'eats, and as "swift-footed, divine'' he flees. 39 In blamillmg his mother for his present setback, he looks to heaven
"" the son of Peleus, and as such Poseidon encourages
;hJim;40
Wlhen il'riam looks out over the plain of Troy, he sees
Peleides. " 41 He is afraid lest Achilles jump
ower t:be wall, and he calls him that "pernicious, baleful
m;m'" (mKilms aner). 42 Oulos is used of Alles, of fate, and
of fire, bul nowhere directly of anyone mortal except
Achilles. 43 JHiector, it is tme, is compared to a baleful star,
or a deadly liire, or a muderous lion (oulios aster, oloon pyr
leOn o!oophron},44 but again, Achilles really is what Hector only seems to be. He is the end of Hector's ambition.
Achilles conditions the use of oulos, for in almost half of
its instances it is either said by him, or of him, or to him.
The formula epi geraos oudOi ("on the threshold of old
age"), for example occurs in Homer five times, but only
once, when Priam addresses Achilles, does it become
olooi epi geraos oUJliji, "the baleful threshold of old age. " 45
Priam calls Achilles oulos aner, that anonymous man, and
often in the last books he is merely "that man": deios
("hostile"), atasthalos ("ruthless"), omestes (" savage") 46
After Homer reveals that the Achaeans would have captured Troy, had not Apollo encouraged Agenor to resist
Achilles, Agenor sees him as "Achilles the sacker of cities."47 Achilles is "sacker of cities" not so much by the
cities he has taken, 48 but rather by the Troy he hopes to
take. His success has been anticipated in a simile: "As
when smoke rises into the broad heavens from a burning city, and the wrath of the gods set it afire, and made
toil for all and imposed cares upon many, so Achilles
made toil and cares for the Trojans." 49 Achilles is the
smoke, which foretells the end of Troy, even as he is like
the wrath of the gods (who now look down on the scene)
that sets the torch to Troy. 50 !f we look back over the similes of Achilles, this one belongs to them as the last in
a series. He was, at the beginning of his exploits, first
like Ares and then like a lion, his divine and natural
aspects alternately displayed; and again he became like
a god, but instead of returning to an animal identity, he
foreshadowed Hephaestus' help and seemed equal to
fire; after which he once more was a god and fire (they
now coalesced); and again he became like a god but then
returned to the animal world in the shape of a dolphin,
for he plunges into the Scamander to pursue the Trojans;
afterwards he was a god and an eagle as he fled the river
and again the Scamander itself compared him to the gods,
while as soon as the river subsided, he reunited fire with
divinity, resembling both the smoke of a city and the
"llllWlllSI:rouS
105
�wrath of the gods. 51 As Achilles conquers Troy in a simile, so the g<>ds dispute later "about Hector the corpse
and Achilles the sacker of cities, " 52 for Hector alone made
the city stand, and after his death the Trojans weep as
if "all Ilium were already smouldering." 53 Although
Achilles, by killing Hector, becomes ptoliporthos ("waster
of cities"}, it is nothing but poetic license that grants it,
which leaves him as ineffective in action as he was before in his absence.
We have traced the action and the epithets of Achilles
up to his encounter with Hector, trying to show how in
these last books the epithets become more striking, exact, and horrible, while his conventional epithets tend to
diminish; how the anonymity of Achilles is stressed more
and more, until his patronymic almost disappears in the
end; 54 how, in short, he has prepared himself for his battle with Hector.
Chapter VIII
Achilles and Hector
Hector is a civil Achilles. Respect for those weaker than
himself dominates everything he does. His mother and
father cannot persuade him to avoid Achilles, ashamed,
as he is, lest someone baser than himself might say, "Hector, trusting to his strength, destroyed his people." 1 He
is like Menelaus who, when he saw Hector advancing
towards him, wished to flee but feared the reproach of
the Achaeans, if he should abandon Patroclus who died
for his honour. 2 If Menelaus had resisted singly the Trojans, he would have done so out of shame, but, unlike
Hector, he reasoned it away, thinking that no one could
blame him, were he unwilling to fight against a godfavoured man. Hector is held by shame. He fears more
keenly the scorn of Troy's citizens than Menelaus the
scorn of the camp. His fear of others, not any inner restraint, makes Hector stand up to Achilles.' He had given
to And"omache, when she foreboded his death, two reasons why he must continue to fight: his shame and his
spirit' Even as now he felt shame then, but his high
spirit, which had been trained to be brave, no longer is
present. He is forced on by a necessity as great as
Achilles' that has nothing to do with virtue. He hoped
to kill Ajax and thus acquire immortal fame: now he is
content to die famously before Troy.' He is concerned
more with his own renown than with the fate of his people: his sense of shame has placed him above shame, and
made him disregard any interest but his own. Although
he cares more for Andromache than for the rest of Troy,
he prefers to act rashly than to save even her: 6 for to maintain his own self-esteem exceeds all other cares. In this
respect he resembles Achilles, who had cherished his
anger, though it meant death to the Achaeans, and now
belatedly defends them for the sake of Patroclus.
Hector to Andromache was everything: father and
106
mother, brother and husband. 7 Achilles was everythin
to Patroclus: he compared himself to a mother an
Patroclus to his daughter; he will be compared to a fath<
who burns the bones of his son; and Apollo will be ir
dignant that he shows more care for Patroclus than me
do for a brother. 8 And yet in spite of their responsibil
ties, both Hector and Achilles shirk them. Hector has bt
come an alien because of his shame, Achilles was isolate
from the Achaeans out of shamelessness.' Both are drive
to a combat each had sought to avoid. Achilles' vain ei
fort to re-establish his honour corresponds to Hector'
attempt to correct his mistake: as if Achilles could balanc
the death of Hector against the loss of Patroclus, and He<
tor, in clinging to his civil shame, could maintain hi
renown. At the cost of Troy's fall he preserves his sham<
He abandons Troy. And Achilles, in reacquiring his mru
tial spirit, loses his virtue. Each has made his own exce
lence contradict itself. In his desire to be the perfect here
each has ceased to be a hero at all.
Hector wonders if he could escape Achilles' fury, wer
he to offer him the return of Helen and all the wealth Pari
had taken with her; but he cuts himself short in so idl
a hope by saying, "There is no time now to chatter wit
him from oak and from rock, like a youth and a mak
as a youth and a maid chat with one another." 10 To whil
away the time (so neatly expressed in the epanalepsi'
a youth and a maid may beguile each other with the1
talk of fabulous origins and "old stories": 11 but Hectc
must resolve his dispute with Achilles as quickly as pm
sible, and were he to offer Helen back, who was the arcli
and origin of the war, 13 he would be guilty of a gros
anachronism. Patroclus' death is the cause of Achille'
reappearance, while Helen's bigamy has become a
mythical as a lineage from oak and from rock. The desir
for immortal fame had already discarded Helen, an
though that desire is by now less vehement, she does nc
reassume her former role. She has been replaced b
Patroclus. An obsolete Helen cannot appease a reveng<
ful Achilles, not even if he himself pretends that he fight
in a foreign land for her sake. 14 She had been unsucceS>
ful in settling the war, when the certainty of Troy's Caf
ture inspired the Achaeans;15 and she is no mor
successful now, as Achilles seeks his revenge for him wh
can never be restored.
Achilles pursues Hector round the walls of Troy, an
though he is swift-footed, he cannot overtake him: "A
in a dream one cannot pursue him who flees, and neith<
is one able to elude nor the other to pursue, so Achille
was unable to catch Hector nor Hector to escape. " 16 The
belong to a dream's endless pursuit, where the pursm
cannot catch the pursued, nor the pursued escape th
pursuer. Achilles' swiftness, which his epithet podiiki
("swift-footed") had promised, is in the act belied. H
does not measure up to his notices. His most outstanc
ing virtue, by which he excelled Ajax (his closest rival i
perfection}, is put to the test and found wanting. An
Hector, who thought that his encounter with Achill<
would be more decisive than the dalliance of a youth an
SUMMER 19:
�a maid, prolongs it as long as he can. Just as they make
a circuit of the wall three times, so in their shared dream
they thrice cannot elude one another. But the dream is
more real than their combat, for Hector's death is supernatural. Were it not that Apollo deserts him and Athena
deceives him, Hector would have continued to outdistance Achilles. His death is contrived. It satisfies
Achilles' revenge, it bolsters his prestige, it puts together
out of the scraps of his virtue a final victory. He does not
prove himself superior to Hector, but only proves that
the gods surpass both. What was to demonstrate his excellence merely shows up his weakness. Patroclus' death
was necessary for Achilles to realize his guilt; Hector's
death is necessary to make a fitting end. Homer ennobles Achilles as much as he can, and after his real death
in the eighteenth book, allows this armoured shell to become human again.
When Hector asks Achilles to respect his corpse, even
as he would give back Achilles' were he to die, Achilles
savagely replies: "As there can be no trusted oaths between lions and men, nor are wolves and sheep of one
heart in their spirit, but ever think evil of one another,
so you and I cannot be friends. " 17 Heroes had often been
compared to either lions and wolves, or men and sheep:
but it had always been a momentary likeness and not a
permanent condition. The similes had been the comments
of Homer, and not what the heroes thought of themselves. The accidental difference between man and man
had been expressed by the natural antagonisms among
animals: but it had never been elevated to a rule. Achilles
is quite willing to let Hector be a man, and assume for
himself the role of a lion. 18 He does not intend it as a
chance identity, but as nicely expressive of his lasting
hatred. He wishes that his fury and strength would allow him to devour Hector, 19 as if a simile to him were
but an optative, and to be a beast his ultimate ambition.
Hector at his death wears the arms of Achilles, 20 which
Patroclus had worn to deceive the Trojans, so that they
would mistake himself for Achilles; 21 and they were
tricked enough to grant the Achaeans a short respite,
while they themselves were forced back to the city. 22 Hector, then, in wearing these arms, partly resembles
Achilles. 23 He resembles him as much as Patroclus ever
did. He faces Achilles in the guise of Patroclus, who, as
the image of Achilles, had gone to war, and now returns
to confront him as Hector. Hector is what Patroclus had
seemed to be before his death: a mere extension of
Achilles. As Patroclus' death made him an individual and
not just a lesser Achilles, so the death of Hector stresses
the difference between arms and the man. He must be
killed where Achilles' armour does not cover him: where
the quickest death for a man happens to be: 24 where
Achilles can see most clearly his own flaw. Hector is
· almost panchalkeos ("all made of bronze")," almost a
thing, almost Achilles. He shares with Achilles the murder of Patroclus, and with Patroclus a likeness to Achilles.
Thus Patroclus is the means to the final identity of
Achilles and Hector.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Chapter IX
The Funeral Games
After the death of Hector, Achilles triumphantly ends
his speech with a paean, which includes all the Achaeans
in his own success: ''We have slain divine Hector, whom
the Trojans prayed to as a god. " 1 Although he slew Hector by himself (if we omit Athena's assistance), 2 and had
forbidden anyone else to attack Hector, lest he might
come second in the kill, 3 he feels for an instant no longer
isolated, and is quite willing to share his greatness with
the other Achaeans. If he can only be numbered among
them, they may take part credit in his victory. His slaughter of Trojans has restored his generosity and given him
once more a good opinion of himself. He so far forgets
his grief in the display of his prowess, that he wants to
press his advantage, 4 as if he had resumed the war to
gratify the Achaeans, and not to avenge Patroclus' death.
The war almost regains it lost purpose-the destruction
of Troy-and Patroclus almost becomes as superfluous
as Helen-nothing but an irritant to immortal fame-until
Achilles checks himself and remembers his guilt, "unwept, unburied Patroclus. " 5 He cannot shake off
Patroclus as the Achaeans ignored Helen, nor can
Patroclus be converted as Helen was into some higher
end. He must always remain a private sorrow. Achilles
must cling to Patroclus as to himself; he can no more
abandon him than himself; he must always remember the
crime he has done. Torn between his reacquired virtue
and his festering guilt, he cannot quite hold on to his new
status, nor slough off completely his former isolation. As
he has been galvanized into action by the death of
Patroclus, he must keep himself alive by continuous performance. To make amends to Patroclus, he abuses Hector, 6 for it is the only action he can do that does not betray
Patroclus (by starting a spiral of ever-greater aggrandizement); but the longer he prolongs this mechanical
savagery, the more withdrawn he becomes, and, instead
of allaying his guilt, he only increases his remorse.
Weariness at last overcomes Achilles, and he falls asleep
on the shore, only to be awakened by the ghost of
Patroclus, who complains that he now neglects and has
forgotten him.' Achilles then, promising Patroclus to bury
his bones with his own, stretches out his hand to embrace him; but Patroclus like smoke eludes his grasp, and
Achilles, astonished as by a revelation, cries out:'
e ra ti esti kai ein Aidao domoisi
psyche kai eidOlon, atar phrenes ouk eni tampan
0 popoi
Alas! Even in the house of Hades the soul and image are something,
but there are not at all phrenes.
The psyche is something after death, but there are no
phrenes at all. 9 Death is the loss of phrenes: the powerlessness to fulfill what one desires. Patroclus cannot clasp
Achilles' hand, for though his ghost looks exactly like his
107
�living self (in height and in features, in voice and in
clothes), 10 he can only gibber and vanish like smoke. Yet
his failure is no different from Achilles', who cannot
abuse Hector's corpse. He threatens to give Hector to the
dogs, but Aphrodite protects him, anointed with ambrosial oil, and Apollo covers him with a cloud, lest the sun
dry him. 11 No matter how much Achilles tries to humiliate Hector, he only succeeds in humiliating himself. He
is as ineffectual as the dead Patroclus, and as paralyzed
now in his action as he was before when he refused to
fight. He had thought that it was his psyche that he risked
whenever he went into battle-aiei emen psychen paraballomenos polemizein ("always risking my psyche in fighting"),12 but now he knows his psyche would have
survived his death, while his phrenes have disappeared
in his ineffectiveness. 13
Achilles tries to burn Patroclus, but the pyre will not
light; and though he prays to Boreas and Zephyrus and
promises them sacrifices, they do not hear him. Iris must
go in person to the winds, begging them to heed Achilles'
summons, and only then do they came and fan to a blaze
the pyre .14 What should happen as a matter of course
must now happen by the gods. Achilles cannot even start
a fire without divine intervention. He has become so isolated from the ordinary world that only the gods can keep
him going. The Trojans have no trouble in burning Hector; but Patroclus' s death, having broken Achilles' last
tie with man, brings about his break with the world. He
is a breach in the world. He belongs now completely to
another region, where every action must be managed by
the gods. If the winds had answered his appeal by themselves, if Iris did not have to plead for him, the scene
would have shown Achilles' hold over them. But they
do not respond; they are indifferent, as Iris is not, to his
grief. The isolation of Achilles is in this chain of command: he cannot start a fire directly, nor can he enlist
the winds in his cause: Iris must intervene. Even as the
gods gave him ambrosia and nectar, so that he could
demonstrate his virtue, so now the winds must sustain
his simplest desire. They are like the knocking at the gate
in Macbeth: they serve to recall the humdrum world, from
which we, in our sympathy with Achilles, have been
slowly removed. The winds seem rather comical, as they
sit at their feast: but it is we, who have fasted with
Achilles and seen the world through his eyes, that have
become tragic. We have come to expect failure: that the
corpse of Hector should not decompose, and that fire
should not burn. Cause and effect, will and act, have been
split apart, and only the gods hold them together.
When the pyre has been quenched and the bones of
Patroclus collected, Achilles sets up a series of games in
honour of Patroclus; but Achilles himself does not participate. He stands apart and distributes prizes. He says
his horses are the best, but he cannot prove it. 15 He says
he would take the first prize, if he competed; but he cannot put his boast to the test. He is the swiftest of heroes,
but he could not overtake Hector, nor can he now excel
Odysseus and Oilean Ajax. His virtues are as idle now
108
as they were at the beginning. They hold a promise th<
is never fulfilled. He obtains the epithet "swift-footed'
more often in this book, when he can do nothing wit
it, than anywhere else. 16 Only here is he called "hero,"
and his patronymic, which had tended to disappear dru
ing his exploits, again becomes frequent, for he regair
somewhat his former honour. He sees reviewed befor
him all of the virtues he himself once had, just as he sa1
in the catalogue of ships all the glory he squanderec
Homer had listed him in the catalogue, even though h
played there no role; and he assigns him here the tas
of offering prizes to others, since he cannot win a priz
for himself. He is no more a part of the games than 11
was a member of Agamemnon's host. He is as isolate
at the end as he was at the start; there by the paralys
of anger, here by the paralysis of guilt. Though his m
thority has never been greater, all his power is gone. H
has reversed roles with Agamemnon, whose power t
now acknowledges and whose authority is now his owr
He gives Agamemnon the first prize, without proof, i
the casting of fue spear. "We know how much you exo
us all and are the best in power and in spear. " 18 AchillE
had insisted before that he was fue best, and thi
Agamemnon had only usurped that title;" but now t
piously grants Agamemnon more than we ourselvE
would admit. As Agamemnon is best in the catalogue,
so is he best in the games; and as it was the fiat of Homo
and of Zeus that made him there outstanding, so it is tl
fiat of Achilles here that lends him prestige. Not only do<
Achilles abandon all his pretensions to rule, but he lear
over backwards to en11ance Agamemnon. He heaps upc
him all of his own ambitions and makes him as power£
and as absolute as he himself once was. And yet, in n
letting Agamemnon prove himself, he hints at his re
weakness and his own generosity.
Among the games Achilles set up was discus-throwin
and the discus itself was the prize, a mass of iron whi<
he had taken from the sacred city of Eetion. 21 There wou
be nothing remarkable in this, if we did not rememb
the other objects that came from there: the blamele
horse Pedasus, the lyre with which Achilles pleased 11
heart, Hector's wife Andromache, and the concubine
Agamemnon, Cryseis. 22 The return of Cryseis provokE
Agamemnon and led to his taking Briseis, who came fro
Lyrnessus near Thebe (the city of Eetion); 23 Andromach
the wife of his enemy, stood for Patroclus in the sto
of Phoenix; the lyre showed up Achilles' inaction and tl
wasting of his virtue; 24 the deafu of Pedasus, as that
Patroclus, was the death of the mortal Achilles; 25 and tl
mass of iron, which he may not toss, stresses aga
Achilles' idleness. Thus the city of Eetion is Achilles' ci
of failure. On that expedition which showed Achilles
his best, he captured the implements that now reveal t
defects. He must even in war, while he proves hims•
virtuous, collect the symbols of his future doom. He
never apart from his destiny: the seeds of his wrath, l
isolation, and his guilt were contained in the eviden
of his prowess. His casual acquisitions, which were t
SUMMER 1'
�spoils of war, instigate his wrath (Chryseis and Briseis),
recall his unpractised virtue (the lyre and the discus), and
destroy his humanity (Pedasus and Andromache). What
should have confirmed his excellence signify instead his
tragedy.
Chapter X
Achilles and Priam
Achilles cannot sleep after the funeral games, where
he has seen every kind of excellence that was once his
own boast, and he remembers Patroclus, "for whose
manhood and strength he longs. " 1 The loss he sustained
in the death of Patroclus is made more poignant by the
"manhood and strength" that the other Achaeans have
just displayed; who mock Achilles' present ineffectiveness, since he has only the memory of his past actions
to measure against them. Unlike Odysseus who gladly
forgets his toil as he sails homeward, Achilles must now
regret that all his bravery is over. 2 His self-inflicted grief
does not allow him respite: he must always go over again
the irrevocable past. As the recalling of what he was is
its empty iteration, so his dragging of Hector's corpse is
vainly repeated, for he can no more restore Patroclus by
his memory, than he can disgrace Hector by dragging.'
Apollo protects Hector even as Aphrodite had before, and
since they keep him beautiful, they deprive Achilles of
everything but the semblance of action.
All the gods who favour the Trojans pity Hector, and
urge Hermes to steal his corpse; but Hera, Athena, and
Poseidon object because of their old hatred of Troy.' No
longer are Achilles and Hector central, but the war has
become once again a mere feud among the gods. The
wrath of Achilles was an interlude in the Trojan war: it
suspended its first cause-Paris and Helen-and allowed
the heroes a greater scope to their ambitions; but now
that Achilles has almost worked out his tragedy, the war
returns to its origins. He has become as superfluous as
Helen once was. Yet Homer makes this heavenly dispute
his own final indictment of Achilles. Were Hermes to steal
Hector's corpse, Achilles would never become human.
He would be left to rot in his savage isolation, without
ever understanding his dependence on the gods and
other men. He would have been like Sophocles' Ajax,
had not Athena intervened and saved him from himself;
for it is she who in diverting his fury away from the Atreidae, makes him realize the enormity of his crime. If Ajax
had killed them, he would never have killed himself, and
thus asserted his claim to greatness. He would have rejoiced in the slaughter, as we see him doing, and he
would have been killed by the Achaeans, without reacquiring the honour he deserves. Suicide is the one reflective action of Ajax which shows us his virtue stripped of
rewards. So Achilles, were Hector to disappear like Paris,
would never be forced to give him back to Priam, by
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
which show of maganimity he is admitted into the family of men. To feel shame once again, to pity someone
weaker than himself, redeems Achilles, so that he can
eat, sleep, and even lie down beside Briseis. 5
Although Ajax obtained a posthumous triumph by his
own hand, and Achilles is truly noble as he confronts Priam, yet we must never forget that Athena alone made
Ajax' suicide possible, and that Zeus alone brought about
Achilles' vindication. That they both follow the prompting of the gods, when they could have resisted, is at once
a proof of their greatness and of their insufficiency. The
gods make the heroic world inhabitable. Had they not
stopped Achilles, he would have continued his senseless
dragging of Hector. He would never have escaped from
his monstrous impotence. Had Hera prevailed, and her
distinction between Hector and Achilles been accepted
(that a mortal is less than the offspring of a god), 6 Achilles
would never have realized his own humanity. Achilles
is as mortal as Hector, and his divine parentage allows
him no more irresponsibility toward men than a mortal
parentage allows Hector to betray Troy. If Hector's excess of shame, in putting his own renown before Troy's
safety, destroyed him, so Achilles is no different by his
lack of shame, which also destroys him. Achilles' honour
might be more than Hector's/ but his fate is the same.
If Hector only seemed to be the son of a god,' while
Achilles is half-divine, yet they both share a common
death. If two men equally desire immortality, but one has
the edge in the means to obtain it, he still is no different
from the other. As long as the gap between the gods and
men remains open (and if they are to be distinguished,
it must be so), no matter how similar to them a man may
seem, the distinction is fatal. Hector's funeral can end
the Iliad, and the scene be a purely Trojan affair, since
the difference between a divine and a mortal lineage, like
that between Achaean and Trojan, has at last disappeared. In losing his divine status and in gaining a civil
shame, Achilles becomes the image of Hector, whose
funeral can represent his own.
·
Priam decides to reclaim his son, after Iris has urged
him in the name of Zeus, and his friends escort him as
far as the plain, "with great lamentations, as if he were
going to his death. " 9 Zeus then sends Hermes to conduct him to Achilles' ships, so that no one might see him,
"before he comes to Peleion." If we remember that
Hermes is the conductor of the dead,'0 it is not strange
that he should be Priam's guide. Achilles died when he
heard of Patroclus' death, and was miraculously revived
in order to have his revenge; 11 but now that he has
finished his work, he belongs once again to Hades 12 With
the coming of night, Hermes leads Priam to Hades, where
a ghostly Achilles was as unable to harm Hector as
Sisyphus to roll his stone up the hill. His paralysis is the
price of his guilt, which he cannot expiate no matter how
long he may weep. His every action is timeless, for it has
no end. What he says of grief, that there is no effect nor
action in it, 13 is equally true of his guilt, which holds him
in Hades, where causes have no consequence and desires
109
�lack fulfillment. "For how long do you devour your
heart," Thetis asked her son, who, in abandoning his
wish to devour J7Iector, has turned upon himself. 14 He
becomes his sole object. He no longer has anything beyond himself, on which he can vent his fury, but must
always be reminded, and yet remain always unsated, by
the past-the bones of Patroclus and the body of Hector.
His grief alternates with his guilt, abusing Hector or
devouring himself. He can never escape from his own
hell.
In order to stress the unreality that surrounds Achilles,
Homer makes as real as possible the scenes at Troy. He
reports all the speeches at Troy-what Iris said to Priam,
what Priam to Hecuba and Hecuba to him-while he
makes Achilles in two lines agree to return Hector's
corpse; and though "mother and son in the throng of
ships spoke many winged words to one another," we
do not know what they said. 15 This silence conveys more
effectively than his words could have done the isolation
of Achilles. It allows us to imagine the magnitude of his
grief and prevents us from underestimating it. Its vagueness makes it more precise. At Troy, however, Homer
minutely describes how they harnessed a wagon to bring
Hector back; and if, for all its exactness, it has never yet
been fully explained,'' at least it stamps Priam's setting
forth as vivid and real, so that the tent of Achilles, which
has as many rooms as a palace, may seem the more insubstantial. Its huge doors, which require three men to
open and three to close, do not belong to the same world
as that of this wagon; 17 for it reflects the loneliness of
Achilles' guilt and the vastness of his grief, and has nothing to do with the everyday world, but corresponds to
the fantasy he himself has made.
As soon as Priam entered Achilles' tent, "he grasped
his knees and kissed his dread man-slaying hands, which
had killed many of his sons: as when a great doom seizes
a man, so that he kills another in his fatherland, and
comes to a foreign land, to the home of a rich man, and
wonder holds those who see him, so Achilles was
astonished beholding godlike Priam. " 18 The simile seems
pointless except for the wonder felt at the coming of a
murderer: for Priam did not kill anyone, but Achilles,
with his "man-slaying hands," did slay Priam's sons. If
Achilles had come to Priam, it would have been more
natural to compare him thus than to compare the innocent Priam to a murderer, and the guilty Achilles to a
wealthy man. Priam seems to represent someone else,
and I would suggest he is the dead Patroclus, who once
came to Peleus, having killed his playmate in Opoeis 19
Priam would come then in the guise of Patroclus to
Achilles, who would now be Peleus; for just as Peleus
"kindly" received Patroclus, so Zeus promised that
Achilles would kindly receive Priam. 20 We are transported back to Phthia, to the palace of rich Peleus, so that
the courtyard, megaron, hall and antechamber are all,
metaphorically, in place. If Achilles is cut off from the
present, Priam must appeal to the past. He must conjure
up a civil world, where Achilles would feel again the
110
sense of shame: so his first words are, "Remember yo1
father." 22 If Achilles remembers his father, he will a
knowledge the mortal half of himself; he will rememb
Peleus' reception of Patroclus and will thus pity Priar
"Achilles wept for his father and in turn for Patroclus.'·
By this shift in identities, Achilles becomes civil. r
weeps for Peleus, for that is himself; he weeps f,
Patroclus, for that is Priam. Achilles confronts Patroclu
no longer as a ghost but as the father of his enemy, wl
asks him for the corpse of him who killed him. B
Achilles killed Patroclus as much as Hector did: thus P:
am as Patroclus asks for Achilles. The corpse of Heel'
is mortal Achilles, and it is he as well as Hector who
buried at Troy. 24 Quis utrumque recte norit, ambos nove:
("Whoever knows either rightly knows both").
Epilogue
Homer began his Iliad by asking the Muse to sing tl
wrath of Achilles; he asked her to describe not Achill<
but Achilles' wrath, which began at a certain moment ar
brought about a certain end. We hardly see Achilles apa
from his wrath, and though he may exist apart, he wou
not then be a subject for poetry. Achilles is as uninh
ligible without his wrath as he is inconceivable away fro
Troy. Achilles is his wrath, and his wrath is his fate.
is his greatness. The moment of the Iliad is all of Achille
This single blaze is he. He has no history. Were we
see him sacking the city of Eetion, we might mistake hi
for someone else. As a mixture of all the heroes-the prio
of Agamemnon and the ancestral virtue of Diomedes, tl
loyalty of Patroclus and the shame of Menelaus, the pm
er of Ajax and the swiftness of his namesake, the beau
of Paris and the greatness of Hector-Achilles does n
assert his independence until he retires from the war. N
until he is alone, does he show himself unique. He on
becomes visible when he is about to die. Nothing mw
can be said about him, that does not concern his deal
The last days of Achilles tell us what he always was, f.
only in departing from heroic virtue, and in assuming '
unheroic posture, does he reveal himself.
When we turn to the Odyssey, we find Homer indiff•
ent to what stories the Muse might sing: "At any poir
goddess, daughter of Zeus, begin to tell even us.'' 1 If tl
Muse had begun differently, and described Odysseu
other adventures, we would have seen the same rna
There is no single adventure that makes Odysse1
unique. Whether he slays the suitors or blinds Polyph
mus, Odysseus cannot be taken for someone else. If I
had never gone to Hades, he would still be a subject f
poetry. Homer must select from Odysseus' travels tho
that would form a poetic unity; but that unity lies m
side himself and is more imposed upon him than diet<
ed by him. Teiresias tells him how he will die/ but th
death does not tell us more what kind of a man he is th<
the episodes Homer chose. His fate is not all of himso
as it is for Achilles; it would not reveal anything mm
SUMMER 11
�He is polutropos, "of many turns."
The Achilles of Homer and Achilles himself coincide.
There is no non-Homeric Achilles; but there would be
an Odysseus without Homer. Odysseus partly tells his
own story, and for a single night among the Phaeacians
he usurps Homer's role. He is both different from and
the same as Homer: but Achilles, as it were, employs
Homer and lets him be his chronicler. He is the doer,
Homer the talker, and had Homer sung of another man,
Achilles would not have survived at all. Except for one
fatal instance, Achilles does not bother about his fame. 3
Odysseus, however, sings his own praise and does not
need Homer's muse. He is more independent than
Achilles: he stands apart from his poem. He is not completely contrived. It is the nature of the tragic hero to be
inseparable from his poet, while the comic hero exists
even away from his fictitious self. What would Ajax be
without Sophocles? a bad loser. Would Socrates be different in life? Achilles is poetic: he cannot be translated into
the common world. He can only breathe in the world that
Homer made for him: in the Odyssey he is a ghost in
Hades.
The tragic hero has character, the comic hero personality. The one is stamped with certain attributes and cast
into a single mold; the other wears as many masks as he
needs. The comic hero can lie; the tragic hero must tell
what he thinks is the truth. 4 He does not shift from one
scene to the next, but he always carries with him all of
himself. He cannot suppress nor conceal. He can never
be a hypocrite. He is sublimely unaware of chance: he
would not stoop to craft. Although Achilles is a work of
art, he would not use art himself. He could no more tell
: Polyphemus that his name is "No-one" than restrain
himself from killing him. The tragic hero is forever
; trapped in the Cyclops' cave. To deceive another is to deceive himself; he would never sidestep an approaching
doom. He himself weaves the net that ensnares him, for
· he feels that only necessity can prove his greatness. His
imprudence is his foresight. It springs the trap of his fate,
and in his fate he lives. He fosters and feeds the extreme
situation, so that, with the odds all against him, he can
make his killing. The comic hero, however, is a catalyst:
there are no "solutions" that can precipitate his compound self: he is personally inert though he may disturb
everyone else; but the tragic hero enters into an "irreversible reaction," and 1/there's an end." After a certain
point he cannot retreat but must always advance to his
end. There are no rehearsals for the great event. He can
never repeat his past. Achilles made his way into his
death, Odysseus talked his way out of his. Odysseus
finds dangers, Achilles invents them. Poseidon prevented Odysseus' return home, and Odysseus, no matter
how much he might have profited from his travels, did
not welcome them. Achilles becomes angry at Agamemnon: no prophecy foretold it. He worked out for himself
how he was going to die. Odysseus' death is divorced
from him. Achilles made his fate his own affair; he set
the stage for the end. He is, in sense, the real poet of the
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Iliad, and Homer nothing but his scribe.
The tragic hero is rebellious, the comic hero revolutionary. Whatever laws the one may break seem to himself
undeliberated acts; while to the other every violation is
a matter of policy. One follows a destiny, the other a program. Achilles and Coriolanus invite disaster; they do not
play it. Odysseus and Prospera calculate each move: they
leave nothing to chance. To be rebellious is to pit nobility against necessity; to be revolutionary is to match wits
with chance. There is no victory in rebellion: there is only
the deed itself. The tragic hero "kicks against the pricks,"
though he knows what Hector means,
xunos Enualios, kai te ktaneonta katekta
Alike to all is the God of War, and he slays utterly even him who
would slay.
Note
There are at least two related errors in this study. Under the impression that Homer had to be proved a poet
through the smallest element, I attempted to vindicate
the epithets rather than to look at the larger units of action, which, however traditional their parts may be, could
not be subject to tradition in the same way. In my "The
Aristeia of Diomedes and the Plot of the Iliad" I tried to
make up for this defect. And again under the influence
of modern poetry, I believed that the discernment of a
symbolic pattern was enough to show the poet's hand,
even though the pattern could not be grounded in any
plausible sequence of actions. So I thought it was not
necessary to link Achilles' rebellion in Book I with the
combat between Paris and Menelaus in Book Ill. That
combat merely signified the state of affairs at Troy prior
to the shift to the love of fame away from the original
cause of the war, the love of Helen. I did not observe that
Menelaus' acceptance of Paris' challenge meant that
Menelaus no longer claimed Helen by law but saw the
necessity to prove his claim. Though Achilles failed to
replace Agamemnon, he forced everyone to acknowledge
the right of natural right. By reading Homer too poetically I did not read him poetically enough.
PART II: PLOT
Introduction
1. W. DenBoer, Laconian Studies, Preface.
2. 0., e.g., Cimon II.
3.Coriolanus 1. 1. 163-165 (following the lineation of the Cambridge
Works of Shakespeare, John Dover Wilson, ed.).
4. Ibid. 1. 9. 62-66.
5. Ibid. 1. 4. 53-55.
6. Ibid. 2. 2. 105-108; cf. 5. 4. 18-22.
7. /bid. 2. 2. 108-127.
8. Ibid. 1. 3. 61-66, cf. 67.
9. Ibid. 2. 1. 216-218, cf. 262-263.
10. Ibid. 3. 1. 80-82, cf. 254-259.
11. Ibid. 3. 1. 178, 219-221, 293-295, 304-306, cf. 234-235, 308-309.
12. Ibid. 1. 4. 30-34.
111
�13. Ibid. 3. 1. 254-259; 3. 2. 14-16, 39-41, 46-64, 99-123; cf. 4. 5. 139;
5. 3. 40-42.
14. Ibid. 4. 1. 15; cf. 4. 6. 42-46; ll. 1. 240-244; 9. 351-355.
15. Ibid 1. 1. 229-231; cf. 1. 10. 4-16.
16. a. ibid. 2. 2. 15-23; 4. 4. 12-26.
17. Ibid. 4. 5. 104-121, cf. 197-198.
18. Ibid. 4. 6. 91-96; cf. 5. 4. 11-14; King Lear 4. 1. 36-37.
19. Ibid. 5. 4. 23-24.
20. Ibid. 5. 1. 10-15.
21. Ibid. 4. 5. 76.
22. Ibid. 5. 3. 34-37, cf. 149-153.
23. Ibid. 5. 6. 85-101.
24. Cf. ibid. 2. 3. 116-120.
25. Ibid. 4. 1. 30; cf. 4. 7. 23; 5. 4. 12-14.
Chapter 1: The Gods
1.Iliad 17. 629-632; cf. 13. 222-227; 20. 242-243, 434-437; Odyssey 18.
132-135.
2. Cf. lliad 16. 119-122.
3. Cf. Iliad 15. 139-141; 16. 446-447.
4. Iliad 23. 288-289; 2. 763-767.
5. Ibid. 23. 290-304.
6. Ibid. 23. 304, 310, 530.
7. Cf. the foot race, Iliad 23. 754-792.
8. lliad 23. 536-538, 556.
9. Ibid. 23. 382-383.
10. Ibid. 23. 526-520.
11. Ibid. 23. 530-531.
12. Ibid. 23. 383-400.
13. Ibid. 23. 515.
14. a. iliad 23. 344-348.
15. lliad 23. 352-357.
16. Ibid. 5. 9-24.
17. a. lliad 20. 297-299.
18. lliad 5. 29-35.
19. Ibid. 5. 35-83.
20. Ibid. 5. 541-560.
21. Ibid. 16. 406-410; cf. Odyssey 12. 251-255.
22. Ibid. 16. 20, 584, 693, 744, 754, 787, 812, 843.
23. Ibid. 16. 419-491.
24. Ibid. 907-909; 6.1; cf. 11. 401.
25. Ibid. 6. 11-19.
26. Ibid. 6. 37-65; cf. 2. 831-834.
27. Ibid. 11. 122-142; 21. 99-106; cf. 21. 95 with 23. 746-747.
28. Ibid. 20. 463-469; 23. 175-176.
29. Ibid. 6. 108-109.
30. Cf. lliad 6. 108, 123, 128-129, 131, 142, 527.
31. Iliad 6. 119-129; Odyssey 6. 149-153.
32. Cf. Ilir:.d 9. 134 with 276; 21. 150; consider Odysset; 7. 208-212.
33. But cf. Basset, CP xviii, pp. 178-179.
34. Cf. Iliad 5. 128-132, 827-828.
35. Iliad 6. 146.
36. Cf. 21. 462-466, where Apollo speaks.
37. Iliad 6. 152-211.
38. Cf. Aeneas' speech to Achilles, Iliad 20. 200-241, where he recites
his lineage; note the frequency of anthropoi and of superlatives (204,
217, 220, 233) the gods are absent (144-152).
39. lliad 5. 244-256.
40. Cf. Iliad 6. 229 with 230, 235.
41. Iliad 6. 280-285.
42. Ibid. 3. 40, cf. 56-57.
43. Ibid. 6. 282-283.
44. Ibid. 3. 439-440; cf. 4. 7-12.
45. Ibid. 6. 339.
46. Ibid. 6. 311-312.
47. Ibid. 3. 173-174; cf. 24. 763-764.
48. Ibid. 6. 345-349; cf. 3. 180 with 6. 344.
49. Ibid. 6. 447-449.
50. Ibid. 4. 163-168; cf. 127-129.
51. Note the frequency of daimonie: ibid. 6. 326, 407, 486, 521, cf. 318; 7. 75.
52. Odyssey 1. 32-34.
112
Chapter II: The Plot of the Iliad
1. lliad 7. 1-42.
2. Ibid. 7. 43-61.
3. Ibid. 7. 87-91.
4. Cf. Iliad 6. 444-449.
5. Iliad 7. 104-107.
6. Ibid. 7. 69-72, cf. 351-353.
7. Ibid. 7. 400-402.
8. Cf. lliad 11. 122-142.
9. Iliad 6. 357-358.
10. Ibid 3. 125-128.
11. Cf. lliad 6. 323-324.
12. lliad 7. 100.
13. Plato Cratylus 398c 7-dS.
14. Cf. Plato Symposium 206cl-209e4.
15. lliad 7. 39, 226; cf. 6. 1; 11. 401.
16. Odyssey 4. 12-14.
17. lliad 3. 369-382.
18. Ibid. 3. 439-440.
19. Ibid. 3. 126-128. 7. 104-107.
20. Shakespeare Troilus and Cressida 2. 2. 195-202.
21. Cf. lliad 5. 330-333, 348-351, 427-430.
22. Iliad 7, 337-343; at 342 the volgate hippon would be merely a rr
take arising from laon; cf. 18. 153, where cod. A has laoi superscriptu
23. Ibid. 7. 446-453.
24. Ibid. 12. 10-33.
25. Ibid. 4. 31-33; 24. 27-30.
26. Ibid. 8. 7-22.
27. Ibid. B. 191-197.
28. Ibid. 8. 287-291, cf. 285 with 9. 133.
29. Ibid. 8. 473-477.
Chapter III: The Embassy
1. Iliad 9. 18-25 ~ 2. 111-118; 9. 26-28 ~ 2. 139-141.
2. Ibid. 9. 17; 2. 110, 119-138.
3. Ibid. 9. 4-8.
4. Cf. lliad 11. 276-279.
5. Iliad 9. 37-39; cf. Part I, Chap. IV above.
6. Ibid. 9. 40-46; 1. 173-175.
7. Ibid. 9. 53-75.
8. Ibid. 9. 369-372.
9. Ibid. 9. 184-189.
10. Ibid. 1. 490-492; cf. 9. 440-443.
11. BT Scholiast 1. 490; cf. Iliad 18. 104-110.
12. Ibid. 9. 300-306.
13. Ibid. 8. 532-538.
14. Ibid. 9. 128-130.
15. Cf. lliad 2. 123-133.
16. lliad 9. 388-391.
17. Thucydides i. 11.
18. lliad 9. 348-355.
19. Cf. Iliad 7. 113-114; 20. 434-437.
20. Iliad 1. 157-160.
21. Ibid. 1. 298-299.
22. Ibid. 9. 337-343.
23. Ibid. 9. 410-416.
24. Ibid. 1. 352.
25. Cf. Odyssey 11. 489-493.
26. Iliad 11. 762-763.
27. Troilus and Cressida 3. 3. 115-123.
28. lliad 9. 601-605, cf. 249-250.
29. Ibid. 9. 608.
30. Ibid. 9. 252-259; 438-443.
31. Cf. Iliad 9. 197-198.
32. Iliad 7. 52-53; cf. 20. 337-349.
33. Ibid. 13. 666-670.
34. Ibid. 2. 830-834.
35. Ibid. 18. 113; 19. 66.
36. Ibid. 18. 121.
37. Ibid. 9. 601-605.
38. I do not enter into the "discrepancies" in Phoenix' speech: t
SUMMER 1
�are less important, even if they do exist, than its purpose.
39. Iliad 9. 444-457.
40. Ibid. 9. 336-337.
41. Ibid. 9. 458-461 are found in his de aud. poet. 8 (459-460 also in Coriolanus xxxii, and 461 in de adul. et amic. 72b), where he says Aristarchus
excised them out of fear: scholars are divided as to whether they are
genuine or not; cf. G. M. Bolling, The External Evidence for Interpolation
in Homer, pp. 121-122 (with bibliography); G. Pasquali, Storia della Tradizione, pp. 231-232; Bolling in The Athetized Lines of the Iliad, pp. 26-27,
tried to refute Pasquali (unsuccessfully I believe).
42. Iliad 9. 462-480.
43. Cf. BT Scholiast I. 527; W. Schadewaldt, op. cit., pp. 139-143.
44. Iliad 9. 528-600.
45. Cf. lliad 9. 351-355, 551-552.
46. E. Howald, cited by Schadewaldt, op. cit., p. 140.
47. Cf. Iliad 6. 407-439.
48. Iliad 9. 158-159; cf. 1. 177 = 5. 891; consider 9. 312-313.
49. Ibid. 9. 302-303.
50. Ibid. 9. 497-501.
51. Cf. Part I, Chap. IX above.
52. Iliad 9. 255, 496, 629, 675; Odyssey 9. 278; cf. Eustathius on Odyssey
1. 69; 9. 183; 16. 31.
53. Iliad 24. 453-456; Odyssey 9. 240-243.
54. Odyssey 9. 302-305; cf. Iliad 9. 458-459.
55. Iliad 22. 346-347; cf. 24. 409; Odyssey 9. 291.
56./liad 9. 497, 632; 16.33, 204; Odyssey 9. 272, 287, 368; cf. Part I, Chap.
VTII above.
57. Iliad 9. 629; 21. 314; 22. 313; Odyssey 2. 19; 9. 215, 494; cf. Odyssey
9. 118-119; Iliad 6. 97-101; 24. 41; agrios is also used of battle, fire, and
Athena's wrath (Iliad 17. 398, 737; 4. 23).
58. Odyssey 9. 106, 112-115, 215, 269, 274-278.
59. Iliad 9. 97-99.
60. Iliad 9. 510; Odyssey 9. 275.
Chapter IV: The Deception of Zeus
1. Iliad 14. 153-186.
2. Ibid. 14. 198-199.
3. Ibid. 14. 200-210.
4. Ibid. 14. 216-217.
5. Ibid. 14. 233.
6. Ibid. 14. 238-241.
7. Ibid. 14. 242-262.
8. Ibid. 14. 264-268; d. BT Scholiast 270.
9. Ibid. 14. 271-276; cf. 15. 36-48; Aristotle Met. 983b 30-33.
10. lliad 13. 1-6.
11. Ibid. 14. 280-328; cf. 3. 442-446.
12. Ibid. 14. 329-340, cf. BT Scholiast 338.
13. Iliad 14. 347-348.
14. Some may object to my applying the terms "nature" and "art" to
Homer, as if he thought so abstractly; but if it be kept in mind that I
understand by nature that which always acts in the same way and is
indifferent to us, even though the gods may try to coerce it, the distinction is clear: the heroes appeal to the latter but not to the former,
who are gods that cannot be apostrophized (thus the winds do not hear
Achilles, Iliad 23. 194-195); and from the gods' point of view, Sleep and
Night are at the service of all, since by themselves, having no human
offspring, they do not take sides.
15. Iliad 14. 354-360.
16. Cf. Iliad 14. 14-15 with 15. 7-8.
17. Iliad 15. 113-142.
18. Ibid. 16. 431-461.
Chapter V: Patroclus
1. Iliad 11. 611-615.
2. Ibid. 16. 31-32.
3. Ibid. 11. 763.
4. Ibid. 16. 100; but cf. 17. 404-407; 20. 26-27.
5. Ibid. 9. 650-655, 682-683.
6.lbid. 16. 61-63; cf. P. von der Muehl, Kritisches Hypomnema zur Ilias,
pp. 241-242.
7. Iliad 16. 80-82.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
8. Ibid. 9. 600-605.
9. Ibid. 16. 60-61; cf. 4. 31-33.
10. Ibid. 16. 87-90; cf. 22. 205-207.
11. Ibid. 16. 130-144.
12. Ibid. 16. 145-154.
13. Cf. Iliad 21. 100-105.
14. Iliad 17. 10, 379; 23. 137.
15. Ibid. 16. 692-693 (cf. 5. 703-704; 11. 299-300), cf. 20, 584, 744, 754,
787, 812, 843.
16. Ibid. 4. 127, 146; 7. 104; 13. 603; 17. 679, 702; 23. 600.
17. Ibid. 16. 433-438; 22. 168-176; cf. 20. 277-299.
Chapter VI: Achilles and Patroclus
1. Iliad 17. 4-6; cf. BT Scholiast 16. 7-11; 17. 133-137.
2. Iliad 19. 324-325; cf. 9. 337-339.
3. Cf. Part II, Chap. II above.
4. Iliad 16. 241-252.
5. Ibid 17. 404-411. The iterative 'anayyEA.AeaKs (409) determines the
sense of l>fll"Ocs ys (410), which bears its normal meaning: a return to
the immediate present after a stated time in the past (Ameis-Hentze);
and it does not mean, as it is usually taken, that Thetis never told him,
which contradicts 18. 9-11; in Odyssey 22. 185-186 tpotpf:saKs serves the
same purpose (d. lliad 20. 408-411). Cf. how the interatives in Iliad 1.
490-492 explain 'eK l"OlO in 493.
6. Iliad 18. 9-11.
7. Ibid. 18. 13-14.
B. Ibid. 16. 87-94.
9. Ibid. 16. 242-244.
10. Ibid. 18. 82.
11. Ibid. 18. 22-34.
12. Ibid. 18. 54.
13. Cf. J. Kakridis, Homeric Researches, pp. 65-75.
14. Iliad 16. 776.
15. Odyssey 24. 39-48.
16. Iliad 23. 136-137; 24. 712, 724.
17. Ibid. 18. 81-82, cf. 114; 23. 94.
18. Kephale ("head") sometimes means psyche ("soul," "life"), and I
suspect it means so here (Iliad 4. 162; 17; 242; cf. Odyssey 2. 237 with
3. 74 and the v. i. Iliad 1. 3.).
19. Iliad 19. 38-39, 352-354; 23. 185-187.
20. Odyssey 5. 196-199.
21. Iliad 18. 39-49.
22. Ibid. 18. 607-608.
23. Ibid. 20. 4-9.
24. Ibid. 21. 194; cf. Part I, Chap. IX, X; Part II, Ch. IV above.
25. Iliad 18. 516-519, 535-540.
26. Odyssey 10. 508-515; 11. 12-22.
27. Iliad 18. 128-129; cf. 9. 601-602.
28. Ibid 9. 312-314.
29. Ibid. 18. 119-120.
30. Ibid. 1. 505, cf. 417-418.
31. Ibid. 19. 86-136.
32. Ibid. 19. 59-62.
33. Ibid. 18. 107-108.
34. Ibid. 19. 147-148.
35. Ibid. 9. 225-230.
36. Ibid. 19. 225-229.
37. Cf. Part I, Chap. VIII above.
Chapter VII: The Exploits of Achilles
1. Iliad 20. 1-2, 11. 15-16; 20. 3 ~ 11. 56.
2. Ibid. 20. 45-46, cf. 26-28.
3. Cf. lliad 20. 447.
4. Iliad 20. 85.
5. Ibid. 20. 88-89, cf. 80.
6. Cf. Iliad 22. 188-193.
7. Iliad 20. 160.
8. Ibid. 20. 164, 174.
9. Ibid. 20. 177.
10. Ibid. 20. 175.
11. Ibid. 20. 200, 206-209, cf. 105-106; 6. 99-100; and Odyssey 1. 215-216,
113
�where Telemachus doubts his parentage.
12. Cf. Part II, Chap. I above.
13. Iliad 20. 261-263, 273.
14. Ibid. 20. 283-291, 320; cf. 302-304.
15. Ibid. 20. 321-322, 341-342.
16. Ibid. 20. 343, 351-352.
17. Ibid. 16. 65, 90, 835; 17. 194, 224; 19. 269; 21. 86; 23. 5, 129.
18. a. Part 1; Chap. II above.
19. Iliad 20. 366.
20. Ibid. 20. 367-370; cf. 22. 250-258.
21. Ibid. 376-378.
22. Ibid. 20. 386-388.
23. Ibid. 20. 407-413.
24. Ibid. 20. 455-489.
25. Ibid. 20. 467; cf. 2. 241; 13. 343-344; 14. 139-140.
26. Ibid. 20. 490-494.
27. Ibid. 20. 502-503.
28. Ibid. 21. 17-18.
29. Ibid. 21. 39.
30. Ibid. 21. 49, 67.
31. Ibid. 21. 98 (cf. 11. 136-137), 116, 120.
32. Ibid. 21. 136-138.
33. Ibid. 21. 139-199.
34. Ibid. 21. 153.
35. Ibid. 21. 173-179.
36. Ibid. 21. 208-213.
37. Ibid. 21. 222-227.
38. Ibid. 21. 233.
39. Ibid. 21. 251, 265.
40. Ibid. 21. 272, 288.
41. Ibid. 21. 527; 3. 229.
42. Ibid. 21. 536.
43. Ibid. 24. 39.
44. Ibid. 11. 62; 15. 605, 630.
45. Ibid. 24. 487.
M~m~nm22M~M~D~mm~~
47. Ibid. 21. 544-550.
48. Ibid. 9. 328.
49. Ibid. 21. 522-525, cf. 18. 207-214.
50. Menis ("wrath") is used only of Achilles (Iliad 1.1; 9. 517; 19. 35,
75) or the gods (1.75; 5. 34, 178, 444; 13. 624; 15. 122; 16. 711; 21. 523).
51. Iliad 20. %, 164-175, 447, 490-494; 21. 12-14, 18, 22-24, 227, 252-254,
315.
52. Ibid. 24. 108.
53. Ibid. 22. 410-411, cf., 287-284
54. The frequency of his patronymic is: 20 in Book 20, 12 in Book 21,
11 in Book 22, 17 in Book 23, 5 in Book 24.
Chapter VIII: Achilles and Hector
1. Iliad 22. 105-107.
2. Ibid. 17. 91-105.
3. Cf. Iliad 11. 404--410; Schadewaldt op. cit., pp. 61-62.
4. Iliad 6. 441-446.
5. Ibid. 22. 108-110, cf. 514.
6. Ibid. 6. 450-465.
7. Ibid. 6. 429-430.
8. Ibid. 16. 7-11; 23. 222-225; 24. 46-48; cf. 9. 632-633.
9. Ibid. 22. 123-125.
10. Ibid. 22. 126-128.
11. Cf. Odyssey 19. 162-163; A. B. Cooke, CR, xv, 1901, p. 326; U.
Wilamowitz, op. cit., pp. 97-98; P. von der Muehl, op. cit., p. 234, who
translates Hesiod Theogony 35 as "alte Geschichten."
12. Iliad 22. 129-130.
13. Ibid. 22. 116.
14. Ibid. 19. 324-325.
15. Ibid. 7. 400-402.
16. Ibid. 22. 199-201.
17. Ibid. 22. 262-265.
18. Cf. Iliad 12. 167-172; 17. 20-23.
19. Iliad 22. 346-347; cf. 21. 22-24; 24. 41-44.
20. Ibid. 17. 183-197.
114
21. Ibid. 11.
22. Ibid. 16.
23. Cf. Iliad
Peleides'').
24. Iliad 22.
25. Cf. Iliad
798-801 ~ 16. 40-43.
278-282.
17. 214 v. i. J.lT!Yct9UJ.l(!)
7t~A.c1rovt
("[like] to high-spiri
322-325; cf. 8. 324-326.
20. 102; d. Eustathius ad loc., 510-511; 13. 321-323.
Chapter IX: The Funeral Games
1. Iliad 22. 393-394; cf. 16. 243-244.
2. Cf. 22. 216-223.
3. Iliad 22. 205-207; cf. 16. 87-90.
4. Ibid. 22. 379-384.
5. Ibid. 22. 385-388; cf. 9. 608-610.
6. Ibid. 22. 395-404.
7. Ibid. 23. 59-70.
8. Ibid. 23. 103-104.
9. Cf. Odyssey 10. 493; 11. 475-476.
10. Iliad 23. 66-67; cf. 2. 57-58.
11. Ibid. 23. 184-191.
12. Ibid. 9. 322.
13. Cf. Iliad 14. 139-142.
14. Iliad 23. 192-216.
15. Ibid. 23. 274-284.
16. The frequency of "swift-footed" is: 6 in Book 20, 5 in Book 21
in Book 22, 14 in Book 23, 4 in Book 24.
17. Iliad 23. 824, 896.
18. Ibid. 23. 890-891.
19. Cf. Part I, Chap. III, IV, above.
20. Iliad 2. 482-483, 579-580.
21. Ibid. 23. 826-828.
22. Ibid. 1. 366-369; 6. 395-397; 9. 188; 16. 153.
. 23. Ibid. 2. 689-691.
.
24. Cf. Part II, Chap. III above.
25. Cf. Part II, Chap. V above.
Chapter X: Achilles and Priam
1. Iliad 24. 6.
2. Iliad 8-9; Odyssey 13. 91-92; Cf. Iliad 19. 319-321; 23. 56; Ody
7. 215-221.
3. Iliad 24. 9-21.
4. Ibid. 24. 22-30.
5. Ibid. 24. 675-676.
6. Ibid. 24. 56-63.
7. Ibid. 24. 66.
8. Ibid. 24. 258-259.
9. Ibid. 24. 322-328.
10. Odyssey 24. 1-4.
11. Cf. Part II, Chap. VI above.
12. That the suffix -de (denoting motion toward, d. English "-ware
is only used here of a person-Pelefonade, "the-son-of-Peleus-war·
(Iliad 24, 338: it is unique until Ap. Rhod. iii. 647).-recalling at o
thanatonde, ''deathwards'' above and the common Afdosde ''towards
house] of Hades" (24. 328; cf. 9. 158, 312-313), also S;!J-ggests this.
Horace C i. x. 13-20. Note too the unique locative Aidi, "in Hadt
at 23. 244 in Achilles' mouth.
13. lliad 24. 524; Odyssey 202, 568.
14. Iliad 24. 128-129; 22. 346-347.
15. Ibid. 24. 139-142.
16. Ibid. 24. 266-274; cf. Leaf II, App. M, pp. 623-629.
17. Ibid. 24. 448-456.
18. Ibid. 24. 477-483.
19. Ibid. 23. 85-90.
20. Ibid. 23. 90; 24. 158.
21. Ibid. 24. 452, 644-647, 673-674.
22. Ibid. 24. 486.
23. Ibid. 24. 511-512.
24. Cf. Iliad 20. 127-128with 24. 209-210; 16. 852-853 with 24. 131Epilogue
1. Odyssey 1. 10.
2. Ibid. 11. 134-136.
3. Cf. Part II, Chap. III above.
4. Cf. Plato Hippias Minor 364d7-365d4, 369a7-371e5.
SUMMER 1
�•
Paradoxes of Education In a Republic
Theory and Practice: Eva Brann
Jan H. Blitz
Paradoxes of Education in a Republic.
By Eva T.H. Brann.
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979. 172 pp.:
cloth, $12.95.)
In this short yet comprehensive book, Eva Brann
examines American higher education in the light of the
foundations of the American political regline. Reviving
the ancient notion of Education as the culmination of political craft (p. 10), she argues that" American education
embodies certain root dilemmas that would become much
more amenable to reflection and resolution if they were
seen as originating in the very foundation of this country" (p. 1). 1 Miss Brann therefore examines the educational writings of the Founding period, particularly those
of Jefferson, and sets forth "several paradoxes of education in a republic in general and of the early American
Republic in particular in order to recover the roots in
thought-and quite incidently, in time-of some familiar
practical perplexities in American education" (p. 1). Her
explicit assumption is that the beginning truly rules in
America, "both insofar as its consequences inform our
educational institutions and insofar as it provides an everapplicable reference" (p. 13).
Miss Brann considers the paradoxes of education under
three general headings. Chapter One deals with the paradox of Utility, which concerns the purposes and ends of
education; Chapter Two, with the paradox of Tradition,
which concerns the ways and means; and Chapter Three,
with the paradox of Rationality, which concerns the content and substance. Each chapter traces the general paradox it deals with to its intellectual roots in the
Enlightenment ("this Republic was founded under the
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
aegis of the Enlightenment" [p. 27]) and then concludes
with an attempted resolution of the paradox it discusses.
Miss Brann's specific educational proposals are contained
in these resolutions.
The resolutions taken together amount to the restoration of classical education in America. Miss Brann seeks
the revival of a mode of learning that was "sometimes
unwittingly and sometimes explicitly repudiated" by our
Founders (p. 20) and which consists primarily in the reading of the collection of texts, chiefly of poetry, science,
and philosophy, that constitutes the Western tradition.
She intends, however, something far more radical than
what is ordinarily called classical education. She seeks
a return not merely to a certain set of texts, but to the
classical notion of intellect (p. 144), whose activity the
ancients called contemplation or theory (p. 132) and she
calls inquiry (pp. 22, 142-144), and which is aroused not
by practical problems but by paradoxes or perplexities inherent in things themselves (pp. 1, 62). She seeks to
replace "the mode of Rationality," which derives from
the Enlightenment and is characterized by the use of reason as a tool or a method for manipulating and managing the world, with a "question-asking mode, in which
instrumental reason yields to receptive intellect, theoretical construction to contemplative theory, critical delimitation to expectant openness" (p. 22). What most
distinguishes her ambitious book is not simply that it advocates the restoration of classical theory in America, but
that it does so on the grounds that such inquiry is the
mode of learning most suitable to the American polity.
Theoretical reflection, Miss Brann argues, is "that education most apt to foster what is of the essence to this
best of all practicable polities" (p. 148).
115
�I
The paradox of Utility consists in treating learning,
"which is naturally an end in itself" (p. 20}, as a means.
The idea of utility, which pervades modern life, is that
of instrumentality, of means. In education it refers to
learning intended for worldly use. Thus, for example,
mathematics, considered by the ancients the sort of learning that should be pursued primarily for its own sake or
to draw the soul to philosophy, comes to be thought of
by Locke and the other writers of the Enlightenment
chiefly as a training of the mind for use in the world. The
mind, whose leading faculty is thought to be instrumental
reason, is itself considered essentially a tool, which is employed or used on the matter it studies. Miss Brann, on
the other hand, maintains that Aristotle is correct when,
in "the first sentence of the founding work of first
philosophy," he says, "All human beings by nature
desire to know/~ or, as she retranslates more precisely
and more forcefully, "All human beings hunger
(oregontai) to know by their very nature" (Metaphysics,
980a22). Far from being merely instrumental, knowing
fulfills an aspect, perhaps "the essential aspect," of human nature. "[U]tilitarian education is [therefore] a contradiction in terms, a perverse enterprise. Learning is
naturally done for love, not for use; it is itself a mode of
living, not a mere means" (p. 59).
Miss Brann's resolution of this dilemma is to construe
liberal education as an inquiry into ends. Liberal education, she points out, is the traditional term for non utilitarian education. While the term has several meanings,
literally it means "pertaining to freedom or to the free
(liberi)." It can refer to the upbringing of children who
are to be free adults ("free children in particular are called
liberi in Latin"}, or it can be interpretated to mean liberating people from the shackles of guardians or conventions. "But in its original use the term means, precisely,
free from the bonds of utility" (p. 60). As an inquiry into
ends, liberal learning is the complement rather than an
alternative to useful learning. It provides the kind of
learning that intelligent practice requires but instrumental knowledge inherently lacks. It is therefore also a perfect complement to the American Republic. "We live in
a Republic that does not attempt to provide happiness
but to facilitate its pursuit; hence, all its ways are
instrumental-our public realm is primarily one of means.
Therefore, the inquiry into purposes, goods, ends, ought
always to have been crucial" (p. 61). In a word, "liberal
education provides that inquiry into ends which is crucially
necessary to a republic congenitally engaged in instrumental activity" (p. 20).
Miss Brann's general resolution is very compelling.
Surely, there is something perverse in treating learning
merely as a means-indeed, a means to a further means
such as wealth or power-and, even more so, in pursu-
ing the knowledge of means while ignoring the
knowledge of ends. To be a means, Miss Brann observes,
116
is precisely to be ultimately discounted in favor of an enc
"When that end is improperly established-false or fm
gotten-the mode of usefulness acquires a pathology" (f
25). Particularly in an "open-ended" polity in which tr<
clition is discredited and the individual and his choice
are infinitely valued, people need to reflect thoughtful!
on their ends.
Yet Miss Brann's resolution is itself paradoxical. P
she presents it, liberal education is at once the culmino
tion of the natural desire to know and a necessary co
rective of the inherent deficiencies and tendencies of tt
American polity. It is both an end in itself and a form<
prepractical republican training. As an end in itself, it
''naturally done for love, and not for use,'' and ''is itse
a mode of living." As a form of republican training,
neither is to be done for its own sake nor is itself a moe
of living, but exists "to provide for the possibility an
protection of the good life in the worldly sense" (p. 59
Seen in the one light, liberal education seeks knowled!
in the hope of applying it to "the perplexities of living'
seen in the other, it seeks a kind of learning "that is Til
instrumental, except in a most oblique way" (p. 61).
Aristotle appears to be Miss Brann's principal if not h
sole authority in the presentation of her resolution. St
not only quotes mainly from him, but seems to rest eve1
important point in her argument on a quotation from U
Politics or the Metaphysics. Yet Miss Brann tacitly depar
from Aristotle even while apparently deferring to hin
While explicitly restoring his distinction between liber
and useful learning, she attenuates his related and no le:
important distinction between theoretical and practic
inquiry, between philosophical and non-philosophic
education. Just as she uses the term liberal education ·
embrace both purely theoretical and prepractical educ
tion, so she argues that reflection on the practical pe
plexities of life can "conduct us" to the realm of pu
reflection, quoting a passage from the Metaphysics (982(
contrary to the sense of the passage, to support this stri
ingly non-Aristotelian conclusion (p. 62). 2 Why she do:
this is not immediately clear, but comes to light, upc
reflection, in Chapter Two. The reason is implicit in h
attempt to resolve the paradox of Tradition. Far fro
being wanton, Miss Brann's peculiar use of Aristotle
Chapter One proves to point to what she evident
considers the central problem of "our problema1
modernity" (p. 111).
II
Chapter Two deals with the paradox of Tradition. Mi
Brann uses the term tradition in a special sense. "By t
tradition I mean neither the old customs nor the rece
routines, neither the sedimentary wisdom nor the pet
fied habits of communities. I mean, to begin with, a C<
lection of books," specifically, "the collection of te>
generally recognized as the founding books of Weste
learning" (pp. 64, 20). Most immediately, the parad:
SUMMER 19
�of tradition concerns the Founders' repudiation of the
bookish tradition that made them what they were. More
broadly, it concerns the Enlightenment's repudiation of
the tradition as the principal means of becoming educated. Ultimately, 'it concerns the self-repudiation implicit
in tradition itself: "traditio literally means both transmission and betrayal" (p. 67). Miss Brann reserves the
term the tradition for the founding books of Western learning because the determining fact for the Western tradition is that it is handed down in texts and acquired by
study. Originating with Homer and the Bible, ours is
essentially a written tradition. She thus sometimes uses
the terms tradition and the tradition interchangeably. The
paradox of our tradition is ultimately the paradox of
tradition itself.
The paradox of tradition is inherent in the nature of
writing. Writing provides "an artificial memory, a way
of storing the inventions of the imagination and the discoveries of the intellect externally." Without it,
knowledge would soon perish and vanish into oblivion.
Yet, this artificial memory also induces a deeper, though
usually insensible, forgetfulness. It permits us to acquire
knowledge without inquiring into its intellectual roots-to
take, or take over, what is handed down (traditur) as
"given." Writing's pejorative tendency is to replace wisdom with memory.
Miss Brann describes the prevailing position of the
Enlightenment with respect to the tradition as one of
repudiation. This position, she says, has three distinctive features. First, "Modernity was to prevail." This
meant not only that contemporary writers were to prevail over ancient ones, but that "a productive complex
of secularism and science, of care and competence in the
present world-' present' in every sense-won the day"
(p. 74). Second, science, with the aid of instruments and
experiments, was to yield to the cry, "things, not words."
This was "a revulsion against book learning, against
words both as notions and as utterances, in favor of real,
literally 'thingish,' preoccupations" (p. 75). And third,
books were no longer to be approached with the trusting expectation that they may reveal important truths,
but with the skepticism that things may prove them
wrong. In brief, "the transnti.ssion or tradition of
knowledge was discredited in favor of the advancement
and diffusion of knowledge-these were the new key
terms" (p. 74).
At the same time, however, the Founders were primarily concerned with citizen education. In the "Rockfish
Gap Report," Jefferson writes that the final end of higher
education is ''to form [youths] to habits of reflection and
correct action, rendering them examples of virtue to
others, and of happiness within themselves.'' The great
difficulty, Miss Brann observes, is that the Baconian curricula implicit in the repudiation of the tradition, particularly in the preferential concern for "things, not words,"
while "almost elegantly appropriate" to America's
materialistic concerns and to "the vigorous intellectual
materialism that naturally forms part of the founding
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
philosophy of this Republic" (p. 95), cannot by their very
nature ever fulfill this end. The Republic's essential
educational requirements are fundamentally at odds with
its characteristic life and tastes.
Miss Brann's proposed resolution of this dilemma is
''the recovery of the very tradition in which the Founders
who repudiated it were so well versed" (p. 102). When
discussing the Founders' classical training, she remarks
that they had the tools and the taste to appropriate the
classical tradition. "They were founders of a polity
without 'a model on the face of the globe' (Madison, Federalist 14) who had the advantage of perfect selfawareness because they knew that which allowed them
to distinguish the new from the old" (p.88). They knew
in detail and from original sources, for example, what it
was that made the antique participatory democracies unsuitable models for modern republics. However, when
she says that within the tradition there are studies that
are "fundamental and necessary to mastering life in the
Republic" (p. 108), she does not mean primarily political works. She means, rather, the founding works of
modern science. Notwithstanding the importance she
gives to ancient political writings ("when the ancients become inaccessible, the moderns become unintelligible"
[p. 88]), she argues that a theoretical study of science must
constitute the core of modern citizen education. Aristotle to the contrary notwithstanding, a theoretical inquiry
into science must be the core of prepractical education
in a modern republic.
The reason for this uniquely modern necessity is the
problem that Miss Brann evidently considers the central
problem of ''our problematic modernity.'' Both our world
and our understanding of our world are formed and constantly transformed by modern science. Miss Brann indicates the fundamental difficulty when, explaining why
such a study of science is not likely to occur even in a
conventional elementary science course, she says she
opens four reputable textbooks in elementary physics and
finds that "Each uses, from the very beginning, the first
dimensionally secondary quantity of the science of
motion, namely, velocity/' that is, each begins with a
ratio or a quantity that is compounded of elementary
quantities, in this instance, space and time.
Thus I observe that all four books begin past the point where naive
questions might be asked. Yet who understands without reflection
how the time, how the place in which we live and have our being,
can be transmogrified into mere magnitudes capable of entering into
a ratio, and how those magnitudes have in tum been transformed
into quantities able to constitute a rational number? All such questions are regarded in textbooks as outside actual physics. And yet
they can never be considered with any immediacy in the abstracted
fields of philosophy of science or history of science, but only in the
actual context of real if elementary science. But considered they must
be, for our problematic modernity is the residue of such transformations (p.111).
Modern science, in addition to altering our physical
world, alters even more fundamentally our basic understanding of the world and of our mode of being in the
117
�world as it prepares its subjects for study. In Miss Brann's
telling example, it mathematizes, or algebratizes, what
it studies. It deliberately" denatures" nature in order to
study it. In the Republic (514b-515c), Socrates identifies
non-philosophers with cave dwellers, who, having their
legs and necks chained so that they cannot move, see only
the shadows of artifacts before them. Whatever they see
they understand in the light of conventional or received
opinions, which they take for the truth of things. Miss
Brann suggests that much the same is true of us. Notwithstanding the Enlightenment's intention to bring the
light of reason into the cave to dispel the shadows, we
modems, too, are prisoners in such a ~ave. Our imprisonment, however, is far more problematic because it is in
large part the result of science. Whereas in the Republic the
prisoners can escape the cave by moving from the artificial light of opinion to the, natural light of science or
knowledge, science itself casts the darkest shadows in our
cave. We moderns are the passive recipients of readymade scientific methods, terms, and premises that alter
our natural perception of even "the time ... [and] the
place in which we live and have our being." The scientist has replaced the legislator. Thus whereas in the Republic the cave is open at one end to the natural light of the
sun, in our cave the artificial light of the Enlightenment
tends to eclipse the opening. By teaching us to understand our world, including our mode of being in the
world, in the light of the requirements of the Cartesian
method, modern science threatens to imprison us in a
world of its own making.
A reflective study of science is therefore indispensible
to our self-knowledge. Without it, we cannot possibly understand our world, including ourselves. We cannot act
intelligently. In Aristotle's best polity the education of
citizens never goes beyond the imitative arts. Because ancient cities "lived by tradition in the widest sense" (p.
114), the natural ground of practice was "given." Even
as tradition opposed nature in one fundamental respect,
it preserved it in another. In our polity, on the other hand,
the repudiation of tradition has obscured both the conditions and the nature of practice. The natural ground
of practice must therefore be recovered. Theory must
recover what the repudiation of tradition has caused us
to lose. "[W]e moderns require [theoretical inquiry] precisely as moderns .... What was an exemplary culmination for the ancients is for us a common necessity"
(p.115). Aristotle's distinction between theoretical and
practical education must be at least partly obscured in
order to recover the Aristotelian realm of intelligent practice or prudence.
Now someone who agrees with Miss Brann on the need
for a reflective study of science might also think that such
a course of study could consist in the reading of certain
contemporary works in the philosophy and the history
of modern science. That is, in fact, what is usually done
in most American colleges and universities. Miss Brann,
however, maintains that the study must consist in the
reading of the originating works of the scientific
118
tradition-the writings of Galileo, Kepler, Newton, ar
the other first founders of modern science. "[F]or us
is to be either tradition or technique, ... we either retw
to the roots or fall prey to the consequences" (p. 111
The reason for this necessity at first seems paradoxio
It is "precisely because of the progressive character
science" that it is "philosophically necessary" to stuc
the original sources of the scientific tradition (p. 112:
Miss Brann explains that "In each of its supersedil
movements the scientific enterprise enters a higher sta
of abstraction and becomes more remote from and fc
getful of its immediately intelligible origins; there is
sedimentation of significance." Philosophical works, on tl
other hand, are neither simply timeless, like those
poetry, nor progressive, like the discoveries of scienc
but "are related in both and neither fashion." Almost '
such works address their predecessors and are address•
in turn by their successors. "Hence, the philosophical b
dition proceeds, but not progressively; it is rather a kil
of spiral on which motion comes periodically over tl
same position, but at a higher level." By "higher
however, Miss Brann means ''an extremely dubious at
problematic rise, which may, in fact, be a fall" (p
112-113). It may be "unavoidably the case," she saj
quoting from Bacon,
that 'in the arts mechanical the first deviser comes shortest, and til
addeth and perfecteth; but in sciences [that is, philosophy; Pl;
and Aristotle are among those instanced] the first author goeth f
thest, and time leeseth and corrupteth.' It is at least poss1ble tl
in philosophy all successors are unavoidably epigones and th
works attenuating elaborations and leveling explications of the ori
nal deep insight. The possibility must be contemplated that
philosophy a pejorative principle is at work, that the loss of im
cence, of immediacy, of naivete, must in the very nature of the thi
bring with it a loss of depth (p. 113).
Miss Brann thus suggests that the modern scientific e
terprise, by its very nature, presents in extreme form t
forgetful tendency of the bookish tradition. It epitomiz
what it repudiates: it exemplifies the paradox of tradih
and of writing itself. We must return to the foundi
works of the scientific tradition, then, because mode
science, owing to its progressive character, is itself a tJ
dition in every sense of the term.
III
The last chapter deals with the paradox of Rationali
It contains Miss Brann's explicit call for the return to t
ancient notion of the intellect. Taking as her starting po
Tocqueville's observation that the people in whom t
intellectual principles of the Enlightenment have reach
their worldly embodiment are also the people amo
whom less attention is paid to philosophy than amo
any other, she explains that wherever human beings c<
gregate some mode of thought becomes incarnate in t
community. This mode, differing both in itself and in
communal appearance, may be the tacit, inbred rna
SUMMER 1'
�tenance of a grown tradition, or the devoted, continual
exegesis of a God-given law, or the strenuous, correct
adumbration of a certified ideology. For us, the mode is
rationality. Whereas these other ways of using reason ''are
not the way of reason," ours is self-consciously rational.
Our way requires "an incessant application of the personal instrumental reason to the world, accompanied by
an unremitting demand for articulate explanatory speech.
And yet it is such reasoning and such speaking as can
be embodied in a people and become a national habit"
(pp. 121-122). Our way is at once reasoning and unreasoned. An ''unreasoned use of reason,'' it is the Cartesian method as an assimilated habit (p. 121).
Most of Chapter Three is spent describing certain fundamental facets of rationality and their inbuilt pedagogical paradoxes. Briefly stated, these include the pervasive
tendency to dichotomize subjectivity and objectivity, leaving us, like Swift's Laputians, no middle ground on
which to fix both eyes; and the familiar opposition between the head and the heart, which, resting at bottom
on the understanding of reason as a coldly wielded instrument serving a selfish will, teaches us finally to see
ourselves as oppressed by the very power of our minds.
The facets also include the Lockean conception of the
mind as an instrumental rational tool whose last resort
is self-evidence and which works on an alien matter obtained as evidence through what Locke calls experience.
The former tends to forestall reflection (what is selfevident requires no explanation), while the latter tends
. to forestall immediacy (Lockean experience comes through
· the senses packaged as "phenomena," "facts/' "data/'
"information," etc. "It delivers wood, not trees" [p.
1341). Above all, rationality's familiar aspects include the
; replacement of classical theory with Cartesian theorizing.
· Whereas classical theory is an activity which exists "for
· the sake of seeing and presenting the object as it is in its
· very nature, for the 'ardent love, the proud, disinterested love, of what is true'" (p. 132), Cartesian theorizing,
which confuses receptivity to truth with making mental
artifacts, involves methodological problem-solving and
is ultimately concerned with controlling the matter it
•. studies.
Miss Brann argues that the root of all these and other
related facets of rationality is "self-thinking." Self-thinking
• is a Kantian term capturing what she calls the ''chief commandment" of rationality and what Tocqueville calls the
principal character of the American mode of thought,
namely, "to seek the reason of things for oneself and in
oneself alone" (p. 21). It means always to think for one. self, which, as Kant says, is Enlightenment. The "self"
as used in the term refers to the agent who thinks, not
•to the object of thought. It is self-insistent rather than self. reflexive. 11 It signifies a conscious, self-assertive resistance
to authority, a mental declaration of independence." An
"assertion of individual sovereignty," it declares that "It
. is before this supreme court of the self that all cases are
ultimately brought for adjudication" (p. 125). While selfthinking thus corresponds directly to the political enfran-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
chisement of the individual, it nonetheless ultimately undermines the conditions for republican life. For
republicanism rests on "a public realm in which the
thought of all coincides to form a consensus," but the
obligation to think for oneself turns everyone else's
thought-and finally even one's own-into mere opinion, and thus dissolves the basis for a truly public opinion, leaving the field to either a Locke an "forcelike vector
of the larger mass of atomic judgments" or "a necessarily compromised public consensus" produced by "continual cession of individual thinking" (pp. 125, 126).
Miss Brann argues that the ultimate consequence and
culmination of the various aspects of rationality is a preoccupation with form over substance-" a ubiquitous formalism, a deliberate preponderance of methods over
ends, of pursuit over realization, of possibility over actuality" (p. 21). The incessant demand for certainty, for
example, continually directs attention away from the
knowledge of things themselves to the formal conditions
of knowledge. The matter itself, as well as the approach
to learning, becomes highly formalized as strenuous efforts are made to replace substance by logic and content
by structure. Miss Brann says that a useful phrase for the
formal is that it is the condition of the possibility of an object, required so that it might exist, but not included in
what it is. Thus, in making decisions, "the decision making process" comes to matter more than the decision itself; in morals, the sincerity of the judgment matters more
than the content, and the intention and the background
of the deed are more regarded than the deed itself. In
short, process and manner eclipse purpose and content.
However, "Most pervasive in their formalistic consequences~'' Miss Brann observes, ''are the very founding
terms of this Republic." The principle of equality is a formal notion, whichever of the two major contending interpretations is accepted. If equality is taken to mean
equality of opportunity, it is merely a condition of the possibility for becoming or gaining some possible good. If,
on the other hand, it is taken to mean equality of results,
it similarly lacks substance, focusing attention not on a
good but on the comparison of its possession. Likewise,
liberty, "our noblest and our most exemplary formal principle," is nothing but the condition for the possibility of
being or doing or having something. "It is noble precisely
because it bestows nothing concrete at all." And as for
the pursuit of happiness, "that most characteristic of
American rights," the phrase literally speaks for itself (p.
141).
Miss Brann proposes the return to the classical mode
of inquiry and the classical notion of intellect as the resolution of these dilemmas. In Chapter Two she used the
term inquiry for the reading of the written tradition. Here
she means it to go beyond such study and include the
asking of questions. Generally synonymous with reflection, it is, as quoted earlier, "a question-asking mode,
in which instrumental reason yields to receptive intellect,
theo.etical construction to contemplative theory, critical
delimitation to expectant openness" (p. 22). It is con-
119
�cerned with giving reasons, not with mere reasoning;
with finding depth, not with achieving certainty; with
thinking, not with "thinking for oneself." Most of all,
it is concerned with seeing things as they are in their very
nature, without the mediation of modern methodology.
It involves the activity and the perfection of one's natural intellect.
Miss Brann's resolution raises a paradox of its own,
which in the final analysis underlies her book as a whole.
How can the classical notion of inquiry be combined
with-indeed, put in the service of-modern political
principles that rest fundamentally on the theoretical repudiation of that notion? More particularly, how can wereject Rationality as a public mode and still retain our
Republic's Founding political principles?
In elaborating her third resolution, Miss Brann explains
the "revealing double capacity" of a question. A question, she says, "can be asked either of a fellow human
being or about things. When addressed to a human being, it is a demand for the communication, the sharing, ·
of truth. When addressed to things, it serves notice that
the world is held responsible, that it is thought to be able
to answer, to speak out of its depths, to be endowed with
reasons" (p. 143). Inquiry in this sense implies or presupposes that the mind is naturally open to the truth, that
there is a fundamental harmony between the mind and
the world at its depths. Yet this is exactly what the Enlightenment's repudiation of the tradition denies: "For
let men please themselves as they will in admiring and
almost adoring the human mind, this is certain: that as
an uneven mirror distorts the rays of objects according
to its own figure and section, so the mind, when it
receives impressions of the objects through the senses,
cannot be trusted to report them truly, but in forming its
notions mixes up its own nature with the nature of
things" (Francis Bacon, The Great Instauration, "The Plan
of the Work"). That is, the mind is essentially projective,
not receptive. It naturally confuses the seeking of truth
and the making of rational constructions. On this view,
theory in the classical sense is impossible, belief in its possibility resting on nothing more than the mind's inherent tendency to deceive itself. And just as the Enlightenment rejects the classical notion of the intellect, so it also
rejects the possibility of disinterested inquiry. Contrary
to the ancients' claim that theoretical wisdom could ever
be chosen for its own sake, the authors of the Enlightenment insist that no human activity can ever be free in the
sense that Aristotle means when, denying that the
highest science is a productive science, he says that "just
as we say a person is free who exists for his own sake
and not for another's, so this alone of all the sciences is
free, for only this science exists for its own sake"
(Metaphysics 982b25-28). According to the Enlightenment,
liberal education in the strict sense ("an education beyond utility" [pg.62]) is impossible because, contrary to
the classical understanding, the highest in man rests upon
and is reducible to the lowest: needs necessarily
predominate life.
120
In presenting her resolution of the paradox of utility
Miss Brann claims that liberal education in the strict sens
is a natural right (pp. 62-63). The modern notion of nah
· ral rights, however, directly implies self-thinking an
hence rationality as a public mode. The natural right t
self-preservation entails the right of everyone to decid
for himself the best means of preserving his own life. ''A
ways to think for oneself" means, ultimately, always t
have the right to judge for oneself the best means t
preserve oneself. Self-thinking thus derives directly fror
the primary concern for and natural right to self-prese1
vation. It is the effective guarantee of our most impo:
!ant right. Rationality as a public mode is thus inseparabl
from the rights to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Hal
piness as fundamental political principles, as indeed Mi•
Brann herself seems to say in setting forth the parade
of Rationality (pp. 122, 125). Miss Brann wants to con
bine what she evidently considers the best of the ancier
and of the modern worlds-namely, classical theory an
the American polity. Yet she herself observes th;
"modes of study have wide political implications" (1
101). Whether, or in what way, classical liberal educatio
and modern liberal democracy can be combined is lht
a question her resolution leaves open. 3
Miss Brann claims not to take sides in the battle h
tween the ancients and the moderns. "For my part," sl
says, "I think that were this contest ever finally abm
doned the Western tradition would have ended." TI
peculiar quarrels that constitute the contest "both mm
the tradition and perennially recollect it" (p. 69). Thu
later, in a note, she explains, "It goes without saying th
my own inquiry takes a middle ground in interpretir
modernity as a ruptured continuation, at once debilite
ing and invigorating, of the ancient tradition" (p. 16'
It is true that, in one sense, she does not take sides: tl
revival of the tradition "does not aim at a return to tl
past but at its reappropriation for the present. The pa
matters, not as it has gone before, but as it has gone in
the present" (p. 148). In a deeper sense, however, sl
does take sides, as, indeed, it seems she must. The a
dent understanding of the intellect and of nature is h
constant point of reference. Her guiding intention is
recover that understanding by studying the intelleclll
roots of the modern world from its perspective. 4
1. All italics are original.
2. Miss Brann often uses the term theory equivocally. Sometimes
uses it in the strict sense of "pure reflection" (p. 58; see esp. p. 1
but at other times it includes reflection on human affairs in the wi•
sense. Indeed, occasionally she uses it when she does not mean
all. For example, she describes as "theoretical" certain studies fav<
by Jefferson that, later, in a stricter context, she attacks as "abov,
an antimetaphysical polemic, which leads to an empirical metho
analysis" (pp. 57, 58, 93). In order to make her case, she often sl
insensibly between the wide and the strict sense of the term.
3. It should be noted that, in the last sentence of the book, Miss B1
offers a cryptic reinterpretation of "the essence" of the American
ity: "that it be a republic of incomparable equals" (p. 148). She does
explain what she means by this.
Miss Brann uses the term republic ambiguously throughout the b
SUMMER.
�Early in the book, when saying that it is "specifically education in a
republic" that she wants to consider, she presents the meaning of the
term in a way that obscures the primary distinction between ancient
and modern republicanism. She retains the public realm as the core
of the meaning of a republic, but she redefines the public so as to make
it include rather than oppose the private. The contrary of the public
becomes not the worldly private but the other-worldly communal. By
republic she seems to mean the City of Man as distinguished from the
City of God (p. 11).
4. Just as with other key words, Miss Brann uses the term paradox ambiguously. At times she makes no distinction between a paradox and
a problem. To resolve a paradox is the same as to solve a practical
problem. The resolution disposes of the paradox or alleviates its undesirable effects. It is in this sense of the term that her proposed resolutions are intended to remedy ''some familiar practical perplexities in
American education" (p. 1). At other times, however, she sharply distinguishes a paradox from a problem, calling it "a dilemma inherent
in [a] thing itself, the kind of inner breach not improperly called tragic''
(p. 1). Whereas "to solve a problem is, after all, to dissolve the matter
of the inquiry, since a solved problem is a matter of indifference" (p.
132), a paradox "is an incitement to an inquiry and to a resolution intended not to collapse the paradox, but recover its roots" (p. 148). An
insoluble object of contemplation, it is something to be recovered, not
removed, to be understood, not addressed. In the end Miss Brann seems
to intend classical inquiry to resolve the educational paradoxes of modernity in both senses at once. As she says at one point, "I am suggesting
that a recovery of the deep and vital founding paradoxes will prove therapeutic" (p. 45). As her inquiry shows, the tension between these practical and theoretical senses, which proves to underlie her inquiry, is
perhaps inescapable in the modern world.
Jan H. Blitz, an alumnus of St. John's College, Annapolis, teaches at the University of Delaware.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
121
�
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<em>The St. John's Review</em><span> is published by the Office of the Dean, St. John's College. All manuscripts are subject to blind review. Address correspondence to </span><em>The St. John's Review</em><span>, St. John's College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, MD 21401 or via e-mail at </span><a class="obfuscated_link" href="mailto:review@sjc.edu"><span class="obfuscated_link_text">review@sjc.edu</span></a><span>.</span><br /><br /><em>The St. John's Review</em> exemplifies, encourages, and enhances the disciplined reflection that is nurtured by the St. John's Program. It does so both through the character most in common among its contributors — their familiarity with the Program and their respect for it — and through the style and content of their contributions. As it represents the St. John's Program, The St. John's Review espouses no philosophical, religious, or political doctrine beyond a dedication to liberal learning, and its readers may expect to find diversity of thought represented in its pages.<br /><br /><em>The St. John's Review</em> was first published in 1974. It merged with <em>The College </em>beginning with the July 1980 issue. From that date forward, the numbering of <em>The St. John's Review</em> continues that of <em>The College</em>. <br /><br />Click on <a title="The St. John's Review" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=13"><strong>Items in the The St. John's Review Collection</strong></a> to view and sort all items in the collection.
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1985-07
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Sterling, J. Walter
Coughlin, Maria
Freis, Richard
Freis, S. Richard
Sachs, Joe
Stickney, Cary
Wilson, Curtis A.
Sachs, Joe
Allanbrook, Wye Jamison
Brann, Eva T. H.
Alvis, John
Arnhart, Larry
Weatherman, Donald V.
Flaumenhaft, Mera
Fletcher, Charlotte
Smith, Brother Robert
Benardete, Seth
Blitz, Jan H.
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Volume XXXVI, number 3 of The St. John's Review, formerly The College. Published in Summer 1985.
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The_St_Johns_Review_Vol_36_No_3_1985
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Annapolis, MD
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v _ THE
.•··.J'
'sReview
r St. a
Jl
'f
I
l
,i' '"i
l
'
.I
l
Spring, 1985
�f
Editor:
J. Walter Sterling
Managing Editor:
Anita Kronsberg
Poetry Editor:
Richard Freis
Editorial Board:
Eva Brann
S. Richard Freis,
Alumni representative
Joe Sachs
Cary Stickney
Curtis A. Wilson
Unsolicited articles, stories, and poems
are welcome, but should be accompanied by a stamped, self-addressed
envelope in each instance. Reasoned
comments are also welcome.
The St. John's Review (formerly The College) is published by the Office of the
Dean, St. John's College, Annapolis,
Maryland 21404. Edwin J. Delattre,
President, George Doskow, Dean. Published thrice yearly, in the winter,
spring, and summer. For those not on
the distribution list, subscriptions:
$12.00 yearly, $24.00 for two years, or
$36.00 for three years, payable in advance. Address all correspondence to
The St. John's Review, St. John's College,
Annapolis, Maryland 21404.
Volume XXXV1, Number 2
Spring, 1985
© 1985 St. John's College; All rights
reserved. Reproduction in whole or in
part without permission is prohibited.
ISSN 0277-4720
Composition: Best Impressions, Inc.
Printing: St. John's College Press
Cover: From the east pediment of the
Temple of Aphaia on Aegina. Fallen
warrior, Parian marble. Length 1.85 m.
ca. 490/480 B.C. Munich, Glyptother 85
�THE
StJohn's Review
Contents
3
Groups, Rings, and Lattices
Curtis Wilson
12
Sartorial (poem)
Elliott Zuckerman
13
The Logic of Morality
Allen Clark
25
Social Science and Humanism
Leo Strauss
30
Reply to Tertullian (poem)
M. L. Coughlin
31
Achilles and Hector: The Homeric Hero
Part I Style
Seth Benardete
BoOK REVIEWS
59
. . . . . The White Rose: Munich 1942-43
The Short Life of Sophie Scholl
- Beate Ruhm von Oppen
63
A Lover's Afterthought (poem)
Max Dublin
64
The Effects of Gravity on Health (poem)
Max Dublin
i
i
'
�I know that I speak not only for myself but for the whole community, and especially for those of us associated with The St. John's Review, when I express my sadness at the death of Thomas Parran.
It was not unexpected. He had been recurrently ill for a long time, and the brave, unobtrusive way in which
he bore his hospitalizations and returns won the admiration of us all.
It was good to see Tom back each time and to keep up the habit of dropping into his office for some business
and a pleasant talk. Being the most courteous and gentlemanly of men, he would never fail to make one welcome, and his praise for one's writing, delivered in an unassuming but convincing way, was always a pleasure
to come away with.
He was the Managing Editor of the Review for so many years that I came to think of him as the guardian
spirit of its appearance, the more so since he had a fine eye for layout. We would sometimes chat about the
articles he was preparing for the printer, and it seemed to me that his private judgments were very acute as well.
St. John's College and the Review have lost a good and devoted friend, and we shall miss him.
Eva Brann
It was shortly after I became editor of The St. John's Review that Tom Parran's cancer came out of remission.
From my first meeting with him I had been impressed by his manner - gentlemanly and courteous, yet entirely
down to earth. But what I shall not forget is the grace he exhibited throughout his last year and a half. At the
least to all appearances he treated his illness as but a nuisance. Never did his humor or enjoyment of life seem
diminished. His was a spirit grateful for the more than a decade that the cancer had been held in check. There
was no time when I was with him that he did not quickly deflect attention from any awareness of his health
to other matters. He showed no need for sympathy or support in his illness, though he did not exhibit impatience with expressions of concern. He formally resigned as managing editor of the Review at the end of January,
1985. Quietly and unobtrusively he passed from the life of the college, so quietly and unobtrusively that his own
passing went scarcely noticed.
Walter Sterling
�In Memoriam
Thomas Parran, Jr.
1920-1985
�THE
ST.
JoHN'S REVIEW
Spring 1985
Groups, Rings and Lattices
Curtis Wilson
The words "group, u "ring," and "lattice," as used in
modern mathematics, are names for certain kinds of
formal structure. Let me say at once that this will not be
a lecture about mathematics; I am going to attempt to discuss the nature of intellectual work, and to use the
mathematical structures, especially the group structure,
as models or paradigms of structures which, so I shall
claim, are rather generally present, either implicitly or explicitly, in the exercise of intelligence.
To describe what goes on in the exercise of intelligence
is no easy task. In a rough analogy, one might compare
thinking to riding in an airplane, and now and then going up front to do a bit of steering; the riding and even
the steering are possible without understanding what
keeps the airplane aloft and moves it forward.
This difficulty of description is rooted in the fact that
thinking involves a temporal process. The fact has several
aspects.
In the first place, whatever is accomplished in intellectual work, whatever is grasped or understood, is grasped
or understood through successive steps, by running
through connections. At a certain moment, I believe
myself justified in saying: "Now I understand the situation which I previously did not understand." What has
gone on in the interim? Well, I take it that whenever I
understand anything, whenever I grasp anything, what
is understood or grasped is a complex of elements, with
their properties and relations; if it were only a solitary
thing, without any internal complexity or any relation to
anything else, we would speak not of understanding but
Curtis Wilson is a tutor and former dean at St. John's College, Annapolis.
Groups, Rings, and lAttices was originally delivered as a formal lecture
at St. John's College, Annapolis in September 1959.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
perhaps of trance. In other words, understanding is
always understanding of something which is somehow
many. In the interim, then, I have been presumably tracing out the relations between elements of the situation,
presumably one by one, and then I say: "I understand
now." But at this moment in which I say that I understand, it does not seem possible that all these relations
are present to me at once, in their full significance; and
it becomes a problem as to how they are present. And in
any case, it is clear that the acquisition of any understanding involves necessarily a kind of evanescence; different
aspects of the situation to be understood have to fall successively into the background, into the past; and when
I try to understand my understanding, to grasp reflectively what has gone on in the process of understanding, it seems that I must either reactivate the original
process, step by step, or else I am liable to fall into
superficiality or false generalization.
This problem of evanescence goes beyond any single
process leading to a single act of understanding. All intellectual work is based on previous acquisitions which
have become as though embedded and submerged in
one's thinking. Previous acquisitions, in order to become
transmissible from one person to another, or even to remain accessible to one person, have in general to be
framed in words, written or spoken. And written or
spoken words exercise a seductive power; increasing
familiarity with certain words and patterns of words
makes possible a certain kind of passive and superficial
understanding; which carries us forward to another stage
without our grasping the full meaning, without our having gotten to the roots of what has been presented. Even
thinking which has seemed satisfying and adequate
always involves an interlacing of what is grasped centrally
and with a degree of clarity and distinctness, and what
is accepted passively as pre-given, often without the
3
�awareness that there is an embedded structure which
needs to be brought to light. Learning never starts from
a zero-situation, complaining members of the teaching
profession to the contrary notwithstanding.
This state of affairs with regard to past acquisitions is
inevitable, is an essential aspect of the human quest for
knowledge. I am not the first member of the human race,
nor can I actually put myself in the position of the first
member of the human race. What happened in the past
of the race cannot be resurrected and re-lived just as it
was in fact; first because the past presents us only with
a few documents and monuments, fragmentary endproducts of processes whose factual character remains inaccessible; secondly because whatever I understand of the
past is understood in my own present, and in the light
of my own interests and preoccupations. I cannot even
re-live my own past as it was in fact, for recollection differs essentially from the original experience; I cannot
abolish the fact that I now know the outcome. Moreover,
I do not even remember my own birth-! suspect that no
human being ever does-nor do I remember how I began
to emerge from the buzzing and booming confusion of
the sensations which first bombarded me. Whatever its
cause, whether it is because we forget what is painful,
as Freud says, or because we forget what is useless, as
Bergson says, this childhood amnesia seems to be universal. We are all in the situation of Adam, who according
to William James-James may not be quite the proper
authority to refer to here-was created with a navel, and
must have been rather puzzled by it, if no one told him
what it meant.
The situation with regard to past acquisitions, this
engulfment in time, is mirrored by a corresponding situation with regard to the future. Whatever I accomplish in
intellectual work remains open to modification or
qualification by a series of future investigators, including
me. If I claim to understand or grasp anything with any
kind of completeness-and the nature of this completeness is just our problem-there yet remains the open
possibility of grasping further relations, determinations,
connections, so that what has thus far been grasped appears as a special case of something else.
The difficulty of describing the mind at work lies just
in the fact that the being of the mind is its work, it is what
it does, and this doing involves temporal succession, a
coming-to-be and passing-away of moments, with a
bewildering complexity of structure which is constantly
being modified, or fading into the past.
So much for the difficulty. What I propose to do is to
start with an example of thinking, one in which there is
an advance from passive acceptance of the pre-given to
an active grasp of a situation and its parts and relations.
And then I shall try to frame a generalization on the basis
of the example, to arrive at a model or paradigm that can
be applied and tested in other cases.
Now for example.* Suppose I am asked to find the sum
*This example is given in Max Wartheimer, Productive Thinking.
4
of 1+2+3+4+5+6. (The correct answer is 21). What do
you do when you add? Ordinarily when one is asked
what the sum of 4+5 is, I suspect the answer "9" comes
immediately-we even say "without thought;" one has
been drilled in the repetition of the addition tables since
childhood, the associations are built into one's memory,
and the answer comes automatically when a situation requires it. But what if the series to be summed were much
longer? Suppose one were asked to find the sum of the
first 201 whole numbers? Adding them up successively
would be tedious, and one might have to check the additions several times to be sure of having the correct
result, which is 20,301.
Is there a shorter way? The reader may know that there
is a formula for the sum of any such series; it is n(n + 1)/2,
where n is the last term of the series. Use of the formula
involves merely a recognition of the cases to which it is
applicable, a substitution for n, and a multiplication and
a division, based on memorized tables.
But someone will undoubtedly ask: how do we know
that this formula is correct? The answer is, of course, that
we can prove it. There are several proofs, but let me give
one which can be stated very briefly. I write the series
down twice, mice in the usual way and the second time,
just underneath, in reverse order:
1 + 2 + 3 + ..... + (n-2) + (n-1) + n
n + (n-1) + (n-2) + ..... + 3 + 2 + 1
(n+1) + (n+1) + (n+1) + ..... + (n+1) + (n+1) + (n+1)
Then if I add the two terms in each vertical column, I find
the sum in each case to be (n + 1). There are n such sums,
that is, just as many as there-are terms in the series. So
the sum of the series taken twice is n(n + 1), and the sum
of the series taken just once is half that, or n(n + 1)/2.
All right. I have gone through the proof, nodding in
assent at each step, and my conclusion is that the formula is true. I may still be left with a vague sense of
dissatisfaction, as though a neat trick had been performed
which I clid not fully understand; insight may still be lacking. I can still ask why the formula is correct; more
specifically, what is the connection between the fonn of
the series and the sum of its terms? Why is just this particular formula the formula for this particular kind of
series, a series of this form?
There is a clue to the answer in the proof I have just given,
but let me return to a particular case, the series
1+2+3+4+5+6. First I note that the series has a direction of increase going from left to right:
1+2+3+4+5+6.
Next, an obvious remark, but one that will prove decisive.
The increase from left to right involves a corresponding
decrease from right to left:
1+2+3+4+5+6.
If I go from left to right, from the first number to the sec-
SPRING 1985
�ond, there is an increase of one; if I go from right to left,
from the last number at the right to the next preceding,
there is a decrease of one. Hence the sum of the first and
last numbers must be the same as the sum of the next
inner pair. And this must be true throughout:
1+2+3+4+5+6
~
What we grasp now can be symbolized by two arrows,
meeting in the center:
1+2+3+4+5+6
There remains only the question: how many pairs are
there? Obviously the number of pairs is one-half of all
the numbers, hence of the last number; so we get (6/2).7
as the sum, or in general (n/2)(n + 1). Here (n + 1)
represents the value of each pair, (n/2) the number of
pairs.
If one knew the formula only blindly, then expressions
of the forms (n' + n)/2 and (n + 1)(n/2) would be completely equivalent. But in view of the derivation just completed, the meaningful form is (n/2)(n + 1): we have a sum
for each pair, namely (n + 1), and then we multiply by the
number of pairs. The two factors of the product have different functions.
The formula applies equally when the series ends with
an odd number, for example:
1+2+3+4+5+6+7.
~
What is to be done with the number in the middle which
cannot be paired? Well, it turns out to be half a pair, that
is, (n + 1)12, so that all in all we have 3 + 'h or n/2 pairs,
and the formula does not change. Or better: just take the
center term and multiply it by the number of terms in
the series: 7 x 4 or n x (n + 1)/2. In the case of a series
ending with an even number, the corresponding thing
would be to take the average of the middle two terms.
In each case a central value is taken, and multiplied by n.
Now I believe we can say at this point that we have
more than a formula, a way of getting the correct answer.
I grasp, I have insight into, the relation between the formula and the form of the series, and I can go on to work
out the sums for series of different types from the type
just considered. For example, I see almost at once that
the sum of the numbers: 96+97 +98+ 102+ 103+ 104 is
600. For the terms are grouped symmetrically about 100,
and there are six terms; so six times the central value,
100, gives 600. The formula (n/2)(n + 1) now appears as
a special case only. The important thing is the basic relationship: some series show a clear relation between their
principle of construction and their sum. The relationship
uncovered here, the notion of a balance in the whole,
compensation among the parts, symmetry, has numerous
applications; it is fundamental, for instance, in the integral calculus.
Let me try to re-state and generalize what is involved
in the example. In the first place, I am presented with
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
a manifold, a many-ness of elements. The elements in
this case are numbers. In the second place, the elements
have a certain kind of order among themselves. In the
example this is what is called linear or serial order. It is
grasped initially as a relation between each term and its
inunediate successor and predecessor. In the third place,
in the course of approaching this order from opposite
sides, I come to grasp the symmetry of the situation, the
possibility of pairing off the terms symmetrically about
a central position in the series.
I would propose that any piece of intellectual work,
leading to understanding or insight of any kind,
necessarily involves a consideration of a multiplicity, a
many-ness, a manifold of elements and things, with their
properties and relations. By an "element" or "thing"
here I mean just any possible object of thought, anything
that is somehow one; by a relation, any kind of connectedness between things, any characteristic of a thing
that can be specified only through the intermediary of
another thing.
Let me add just one more term: "operation." The consideration of a manifold of things and their relations involves the performance of operations of some kind, carried out on images or symbols, or perhaps even on
physical objects. The distinction between a relation and
an operation is just that a relation holds between two or
more elements of a manifold simply in virtue of what and
how the elements are, while an operation is something
that we can perform, an action that we may will to carry
out. Equality, for instance, is a relation; addition is an
operation.
I would maintain, then, that different kinds of objects
or elements and relations or orderings of things can be
isolated and grasped only with the development of a corresponding set of operations. For instance, consider the
linear order in our example: 1< 2<3<4<5<6. The order
here is like that which I may construct by arranging different sticks, A, B, C, D, and so on, in the order of their
lengths: A<B<C<D< . . . The ordering relation is
assymmetrical-B is shorter than C but C is not shorter
than B-and transitive-B is not only shorter than C but
also than D orE or any stick farther along in the series.
The construction of such a series presupposes, first, the
operation of comparing any two of the objects and noting
the difference, the assymmetry. Then, as one learns to
proceed systematically, rather than just comparing parts
of the objects at random, a further operation is presupposed: one will try to find the smallest of the elements
first, then the smallest of those left over, and so on. Here
one is coordinating two inverse relations: Cis larger than
A orB, and is shorter than D or any longer object. In the
case of the series of numbers, the ordering presupposes
the more specific operation of getting from one number
to the next by adding 1; in fact, the understanding of what
the numbers themselves are presupposes my awareness
of the ability always to add one more, and there is a sense
in which one can say that one successively constructs or
re-constructs the numbers by this process. The discovery
5
�of symmetry in the example depended on the possibility
of applying this operation reversibly, the correlation of
increase with decrease.
Let me say a few words about kinds of order other than
linear order. Linear order is an instance of a more general
kind of order called "lattice" order, which is an instance
of a yet more general kind of order called "partial" order.
In general any set of a finite number of elements, in which
the elements are related by a single assymmetrical relation, can be presented by a diagram; the elements a, b,
c, and so on, can be represented by small circles, and an
ascending line from a to b will mean that
a is less than b, or is included in b or is,
so to speak, at the lower pole of the
assymmetrical relation between a and b.
In the case of linear order, we have
simply a series of circles placed one
above the other and connected by vertical
lines.
By drawing different diagrams one can
illustrate very different kinds of order.
For instance, suppose we have a
classification, like the classifications used
in biology, or like the one presented in
Plato's dialogue The Sophist. We start
with a class of things-call it "A"characterized by some property. Then we
subclivide A-for simplicity's sake I shall
assume that we subdivide it only into
two parts, B and B', and so on . . . A
system of class inclusions of this kind presupposes a
number of reversible OP,erations. For instance, there is the
formation of the union of D and D', the result being C1 :
D+D 1 =C1; C+C'=B; and so on. Reversely, C1 -D1 =D;
B- C' = C; and so on. Also, there is the operation of forming the intersection of any two classes, that is, forming the
class of all those elements which are in both of the given
classes; thus I write:
D x D1 = 0, because there are no elements ·common to
both D and D1;
C x B = C, because the only members which are in both
B and C are those in C. This system of class inclusions
forms a semi-lattice. Roughly speaking, in a complete lattice one would have to have the diagram end not only
in a single circle above, but also in a single circle below.
Different sorts of ordered systems will presuppose a
number of different sorts of operations, and the understanding of such systems will involve implicitly the performance of such operations.
Ordered systems such as I have described, in which
there is a set of elements !md a single, assymmetrical relation, constitute one of the simplest kinds of mathematical
structure. A more complex structure may involve several
relations. Also, there is another possibility. An operation,
such as addition, may be drawn from its hiding place
behind a relation, be given a symbol, and be incorporated
explicitly as part of a mathematical structure. Thus another
simple kind of mathematical structure will consist of a
d
6
set of elements together with a single operation; the most
important example of this kind is group structure. We
can complicate matters now by constructing systems in
which there are sets of elements, and both relations and
explicit operations. There is still another possibility.
Operations may be incorporated in a structure not only
as operations, but also as elements. That is, the character
of operations may be grasped reflectively, the operations
may themselves be made into objects of thought, and sets
of operations may be found to have an objective structure which can be described. The structure may be that
of a group, and in this case we speak of a group of transformations.
Let me summarize. I am proposing that intellectual
work consists in a consideration of a manifold of elements
and relations. At any given stage of intellectual work,
some of the elements and relations are taken as pre-given,
others are not given but are progressively isolated by
means of operations. What is taken as pregiven at any
stage itself involves sets of related operations, which may
be embedded in one's thought, but which can be unearthed by a kind of retrogressive inquiry.
The interest in this connection of the mathematical
theory of groups of transformations lies first in the fact
that the operations, which belong initially to the subjective side, are here objectivated; one is no longer performing them, one is viewing them. In the second place, the
mathematical theory of groups of trartSformations brings
to the fore the question of invariance. Given a group of
transformations, one asks what remains invariant or
unaltered under this group of transformations. Or given
a presumptive invariant, the problem is to discover the
group of transformations under which this something remains invariant. The importance of the notion of an invariant under a group of operations lies simply in the fact
that the most general or universal aim of intellectual work
is the discovery of invariants, of that which is not timebound in a fluctuant world. Every piece of intellectual
work, I should say-and I believe the remark is nothing
extraordinary-aims at the cliscovery of an invariant structure of some kind. Mathematics, in the most general
sense, is the study of formal structure. Group structure
is just one such structure. But it suggests itself as a kind
of paradigm for intellectual work generally, because it involves an explicit consideration of operation and invariant, the two poles, subjective and objective, of intellectual work. To keep these two poles in an articulate
and conscious relation with one another, I would suggest, constitutes the liberal climension of intellectual work.
In presenting the mathematical notion of a group I shall
follow the standard textbook expositions. The notion of
a mathematical group first received explicit formulation
in a letter written by Evariste Galois in 1832, on the night
before he was killed, at the age of 20, in a duel which
had nothing to do with his mathematical interests. Since
that time the theory of groups has been found to have
wide ramifications; it is applied, for instance, in relativity theory and in quantum mechanics. To begin with, I
SPRING 1985
�shall describe a simple example, having to do with the
symmetry of a rectangle, then go on to a formal definition.
Imagine a cardboard rectangle,
placed against the chalkboard so rAr------~10>'"'
that two of its edges are horizontal
and two are vertical. I label the corners of the cardboard A, B, C, D.
If I rotate the cardboard clockwise P
c.through 180 deg. about its center,
that is, the intersection of its diagonals, the cardboard will
then cover exactly the same rectangular spot on the
chalkboard as before, but now the corner A will have
taken the former place of C, C will have taken the former
place of A, and also the positions of B and D will have
been interchanged. In the mathematician's way of speaking, the rectangle has been carried into itself by a clockwise
rotation of 180 deg. Let us call this rotation R.
What about a clockwise rotation of 360 deg.? This has
the same final effect as not rotating the cardboard at all,
and so does a rotation through any integral number of
whole revolutions. Before considering these, let me ask
also about counter-clockwise rotations. You will see, I
hope, that a counter-clockwise rotation of 180 deg. has
the same final effect as a clockwise rotation of 180 deg.;
that is, the letters A, B, C, D will be carried into the same
final positions in either case. Even if I rotate the rectangle
through 360 deg. plus 180 deg. in either direction, or
through 720 deg. plus 180 deg. in either direction, the
final result is always the same. Because of this state of
affairs, it will be well if we change our definition of R;
henceforth let us mean by R any rotation which interchanges the position of A with the position of C, and the
position of B with the position of D. R refers to any one
of a whole class of rotations, or in mathematical language,
designates a transformation. A transformation is specified
completely by its initial and final positions; the path from
the one to the other is unimportant for Bpecifying the
transformation.
The transformation so far
~
described exhibits the rota/
~ )l
tiona/ symmetry of the recI
tangle. There are two addiI
tional transformations which
carry the rectangle into itself, 1-1
__ ___ _ _e- _
-- +I..
and which exhibit the reflective
symmetry of the rectangle.
:D
Thus we may reflect the rec1
tangle about a horizontal axis
'
running through its center. This transformation carries
A into D and D into A, and it carries B into C and C into
B. Let us call this transformation H. Similarly, we may
reflect the rectangle about the vertical line through its
center; let us call this transformation V.
What happens if 1 perform two of these transformations
in succession? For instance, suppose I first perform R,
t/\
and then V. Starting from the initial
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Bl
position~~~~'
I
Ii~ j,
I~;
1-
first obtain
and then
But this is the same
final result I would obtain if I simply performed H. To
symbolize the situation, I write RV = H, where the letters
Rand V in succession, written like an algebraic product,
mean that I first perform R and then V. The same sort
of result occurs in other cases: if I perform two of the
transformations in succession, the result is always the
same as the third transformation. In symbols,
RV=H=VR, VH=R=HV, HR=V=RH.
What if I perform R twice in succession? The result is
a total rotation of 360 deg., and I have simply returned
to the starting-point. I get the same result if I perform
H twice, flipping the rectangle twice over the horizontal
axis, or if I perform V twice. In order to be able to write
equations in these cases also, we do something a bit
strange; we speak of any rotation or motion which carries the cardboard from its initial position back into its
initial position as the identity transformation-although
it is not really a transformation at all-and we symbolize
it by "I." The transformation I has the same sort of function as zero in the addition of numbers, and the reason
for introducing the one is about the same as the reason
for introducing the other. I can now write:
R1 =H'=V1 =1.
(fhe superscript "2" just means that the transformation
is performed twice in succession.)
Adding I now to our list of transformations, we have
four all told; there are no other transformations,
distinguishable from these four, which carry the rectangle
into itself; and I say that these four transformations, along
with the ways in which they combine, tell us all there
is to say about the symmetry of the rectangle. To say a
figure is symmetrical is to say that there is a set of
transformations which carry the figure into itself. In the
case of a square there are eight transformations in the set;
in the case of a cube there are 48; and so on.
So much for the example; I have now to show that it
exemplifies group structure. In order to have a group in
this technical sense, it is necessary first of all to have a
set of somethings-in our case, transformations-and
secondly to have a way of combining any two of the
somethings-in our case the operation of combining or
"multiplying" transformations by performing them one
after another. Let the somethings, the elements of the
system, be designated by lower case letters a, b, c, ...
, and let the combining operation be designated by a circle: o. Such a system will constitute a group if four conditions hold:
(1) The result of combining two elements of the set is
itself a member of the set; in symbols: a o b = c. This
particular condition is so important that it is sometimes
referred to as the group property. In our example it is clear
that it applies: the result of performing any two of the
four transformations in succession is itself one of the four
transformations.
(2) There must exist an identity element-! shall
7
I
1
'
t
(.
'
''
~~
�designate it by "I" -which is such that when it is combined with any given element then the result of the combination is the given element again; in symbols: a o I =
I o a = a. In our example it is clear that there is an identity transformation fulfilling this condition.
(3) For each element there must be an inverse element,
such that when any element is combined with its inverse,
the result is the identity element. To symbolize this I shall
designate the inverse of any element a by a- 1; then the
condition stated in symbols is: a o a-1 = a- 1 o a = I. In
our case it turns out that all four transformations are their
own inverses. This is a somewhat special situation, but
it is still true that the condition is satisfied.
(4) Finally, there is a condition called "associativity:"
when three elements a, b, care to be combined, it makes
no difference whether I first combine a and b and then
combine the result with c, or first combine b and c and
then combine a with the result. In symbols: a o (b o c)
= (a o b) o c. It can be shown that the transformations
of our example, taken three at a time, obey this associative
law.
I give a few more illustrations of groups, to help fix in
mind these four conditions, especially the first three,
which are most important for what follows. Countless
other examples can be found in any textbook on group
theory.
The positive and negative integers, including zero,
form a group under the operation of addition. Oearly the
sum of any two integers is an integer. The identity element is zero, and the inverse of each integer a is -a. This
group is actually a subgroup of a larger group, in which
the elements are all the positive and negative integers and
fractions-all the rational numbers, we say-and in which
the operation is again addition, and the identity element
zero.
The positive and negative rational numbers, excluding
zero, form a group under the operation of multiplication.
Thus the product of any two rational numbers is a rational
number. The identity element is 1, since 1 multiplied by
any given rational number yields as a result the given
number again. The inverse of any rational number a is
what is usually called its reciprocal, that is 1/a; for the
product of a and 1/a is always the idenhty element 1. Zero
has to be excluded here because it has no reciprocal.
If we consider all positive .and negative rational
numbers under the operations both of addition ahd
multiplication, we obtain an example of a type of structure called a field. A field, in turn, is a special instance
of a type of structure called a ring.
Now I am proposing group structure as ·a kind of
paradigm of the structures involved in rationality, in the
exercise of intelligence. Let me try to justify the proposal
in terms of the characteristics of a group.
In the first place, the presence of group structure means
that we have a closed system. To say that a system is closed
means that the combination of two elements of the system
always yields an element of the system, something of the
same kind as the somethings I began with. If I combine
8
two musical tones, in the sense of sounding them either
in succession or simultaneously, the result is not a musical
tone, but something different, a melodic move or one of
the intervals of harmony. But two colors, in the form of
two pigments or colored lights, can always be mixed to
form a color, if you include white and black and gray as
colors. And two sentences when combined by such connectives as "and," "or/' but," "although," form
sentences. And so on. The importance of the group property, that is, the property of a system in virtue of which
it is closed, is that it provides a criterion of relevance and
a means of distinguishing one subject matter from
another, or one level of consideration of a subject matter
from another level, or one kind of invariant from another.
On any particular level of discourse, the group structure
provides a paradigm of completeness; it lies at the root
of the fact that there are just five regular solids, for instance, or just 32 types of crystals. When more than one
level is involved, the group property may provide a
criterion for distinguishing them.
In the second place, because of the fact that every element in a group has an inverse, any given application
of the combining operation can be reversed. If I add 7
to 5 and so obtain 12, I can always proceed to add the
inverse of 7, namely -7, to 12 and so obtain 5 again,
returning to the starting-point. In other words, operations
are reversible. This reversibility is an essential characteristic of an operation. All operations are actions,
whether carried out on physical objects, images, or symbols; but not all actions are reversible. If I write down a
sentence, going from the left to the right side of the paper,
the action is irreversible, in the sense that I cannot write
the sentence from right to left Without first going through
the labor of acquiring a totally new habit. Or if I act out
of a passion, for instance wrath or love, the actions entails consequences which cannot simply be reversed, and
I cannot return exactly to the original starting-point.
Reversibility is, I believe, an essential condition of rationality. I would hypothesize that the possibility of progression and return, with reference to an invariant point
of origin, lies at the basis of every exercise of the
intelligence.
Thirdly, I return to the notion of invariance under a
group of transformations. The reversibility of operations,
also perhaps their associativity, the possibility of performing then in different orders without changing the
end-result, give them a certain neutrality. If I cut down
a tree, the action is irreversible, and the world has been
irrevocably changed. But if I take ten steps eastward, I
can reverse the operation, taking ten steps westward; the
first operation is annulled by the second. That which remains invariant under a set of such operations may, as
the operations are carried out, emerge as an organizing
principle. For instance, taking ten steps east and then
again ten steps west, I experience a kaleidoscopic flow
or series of shifting views of colors and shapes, which
I organize in terms of the notions of physical object and
spatial framework. There is a physical object over there,
11
SPRING 1985
�another beside it to the left, another behind it, and so on.
I would propose, then, that invariants such as physical
objects do not swim ready-made into our ken, as complete, pre-given wholes. The discovery of invariants goes
hand in hand with the development of sets or groups of
reversible operations. We attempt to assimilate new experience in terms of previously developed operational
structures; sometimes everything does not go smoothly,
we are thwarted in our attempt, and have to accommodate the operations to what is presented. The progress
of knowledge proceeds in two complementary directions,
in the direction of increasing articulation of experience
as organized in terms of invariants, and in the direction
of increasing awareness of operations as being in equilibrium and as forming groups. This twofold progress
enables the individual subject to place himeself within
the world as part of a coherent whole.
The progressive emergence of the physical object as an
invariant involves the development of a number of groups
of operations. These have been traced out in some detail
in the experiments of Jean Piaget on the child's conception of space. There is, for instance, the group of Euclidean transformations, also the group of projective
transformations and the group of topological transformations. The Euclidean transformations are those which
carry every point of space into another point, either by
the translation of every point by a given amount in a given
direction and sense, or by a rotation of all space, thought
of as a rigid body, about a point or line, or by a combination of a translation with a rotation, that is, a twist. All
these transformations, which are infinitely many, form
a group. What remains invariant under this group of
transformation is the congruence of geometrical figures,
that is equality of size and sameness of shape. Euclidean
geometry is largely the study of what remains invariant
under this group of transformations.
Secondly, there are the projective transformations. Suppose I project a plane figure from one plane to another
by means of straight lines running from my eye through
the first plane to the second. Any given point in the
original figure will have a corresponding point in the second plane, located by means of the line which passes
through my eye and the given point of the original figure.
Straight lines in the original figure are carried into straight
lines in the new figure, but angles and lengths in the
original figure may differ markedly from angles and
lengths in the new figure; thus neither size nor shape is
conserved. The projective transformations, however,
form a group; and projective geometry is the study of
what remains invariant under this group. What remains
invariant, principally the straightness of lines, the incidence of points on lines, and something called the crossratio of four points on a line, is what enables us to correlate different perspective views of an object as being
views of the same object.
Finally, the topological transformations. Topological
transformations are those which carry one figure into
another in such a way that to every point of the one figure
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
there corresponds a single point of the other, and points
that are nearby or neighboring in the one figure remain
nearby or neighboring in the other. Figures can be
stretched and shrunk and enormously distorted under
topological transformations. A circle can be transformed
into a square or an ellipse, but not into a straight line;
a sphere into a cube but not into the figure of a doughnut.
The relations which remain invariant under such transformations, relations like contiguity, surrounding or being
surrounded, closure or lack of closure, constitute the subject matter of topology.
I have listed these three branches of geometry in the
historical order in which they have been made subjects
of mathematical study. It is Piaget' s conclusion that the
order of development in the child is just the reverse. The
child grasps topological invariants before projective invariants, and projective invariants before Euclidean invariants. Each of these acquisitions presupposes the ability to carry out, in part physically but more importantly
in the imagination, a corresponding group of operations.
Topological invariants can be established before there is
a clear demarcation between the operating subject and
the objects operated on. Projective invariants involve the
correlation of different visual points of view, and hence
presuppose the child's realization that he is seeing from
a point of view. Here the polar opposition between self
and world, subject and object, begins to crystallize out.
Only with the attainment of equilibrium of the Euclidean
operations does the physical object appear in its final
character, as an ideal unity within a spatial framework,
over against the observer, accidentally where it is and
capable of being somewhere else, capable of presenting
constantly different aspects, but never of presenting itself
all-at-once as a whole.
There is one other sort of invariant, radically different
from the physical object, which I wish to take up, namely
idea. But first it is necessary that I consider yet another
kind of thing, another sort of invariant if you wish,
namely word. Words are in general the medium through
which the result of any piece of intellectual work becomes
the possession of more than one man; and operations
with words, as well as with images and physical objects,
may be importantly involved in the original carrying out
of the work. What is a word?
As I talk to you now, we in this room are aware of
sounds corning from my mouth. The sounds, considered
just as sounds, are part of the world of nature, the world
of physical objects and processes occurring in space and
time. As sounds, they do not differ from the sounds of
nature, the sounds produced by brooks and breezes; each
one is a temporal event, occurring during a certain time,
and apprehended at certain places.
We sometimes speak of a sound being repeated; we say
that we have heard the same sound, for instance the
sound of a whistle, several times repeated. If we were
strict, we would say, not that the sounds are the same,
but that they are similar, in the same way that we say
that giraffes are similar, or objects produced on an
9
I
I
'
I
'
\.
'
,,
'
:'!
�assembly line are similar. Each sound is an individual temporal process; everything belonging to the world of
nature is individuated in space and time. No two individuals belonging to the world of nature, whether
physical object or temporal event, can be precisely the
same; but two such individuals may be similar.
I submit, however, that I can repeat the same word
twice. A word is identifiable as identically the same word
in any number of real individual embodiments, whether
sounds or concatenations of written characters. I can
repeat exactly what I said before, if you failed to catch the
words. Therefore the words are not the sounds, but are
rather embodied in the sounds. This no doubt seems a
bit strange.
We have a similar problem-perhaps the same problem,
I am not quite sure-when we ask what a symphony or
a folk dance is, independent of its individual performances; or what the Iliad is, independent of a thousand
copies or a thousand recitations of it.
I do not believe that the word can be defined as a class
of similar sounds or marks. When I grasp a word as embodied in a sound, the action is different from grasping
the fact, for instance, that an individual animal belongs
to the class of giraffes. One has to try to ascertain precisely
what it means to speak or to listen to speech.
Listening now to the sounds coming from my mouth,
we are aware of these sounds as having functions which
merely natural processes lack. Seeing my body and hearing my voice, we are aware of me as willing the sounds
and giving expression to thoughts which I wish to communicate. We apprehend the sound of my voice as manifesting certain psychic processes and as embodying expressions of certain meanings or ideas.
The word, then, is intrinsically relative to psychic or
subjective activities. Within the objective world, there are
many things which are thus relative to psychic activities.
The qualification of anything as familiar or strange, useful
or useless, as a tool or monument, as a slave or a king,
presupposes the existence of psycho-physical beings who
use things for intended ends or goals. We encounter here
a new stratum of the world, over and above the stratum
of the inclividual objects and processes of nature; let us
call it the cultural stratum. The cultural stratum includes
some things which are individuated in space and time,
such as ashtrays, but it also includes objects like words
and symphonies whlch are not inclividuated in space and
time, but which can be repeatedly embodied in particular
spatio-temporal inclividuals, physical objects or processes.
The fact that words and symphonies are not spatiotemporal individuals does not make them any the less
objective. Through their embodiments, they are observable, distinguishable, repeatedly identifiable somethings;
one can ask questions and make verifiable judgments
about them.
In the grasping of such cultural invariants, there is
presupposed the fact that I belong to a community, with
established customs and traditions. I must have recognized myself as one among other psychophysical beings,
10
as one man among other men, who can intend the same
things as I. This recognition presupposes in turn the
establishment of certain modes of transaction, reversible
operations in whlch I put myself imaginatively in the
place of another man, in whlch I identify myself, in certain respects, with every man.
Words, embodied in sounds or written characters, not
only manifest psychic activities; they express meanings
or ideas. An idea is not itself a psychlc activity; it is not,
so to speak, within consciousness. Consciousness is
always consciousness of something; thls somethlng is an
object of some kind; and an idea is one such kind of object. When I grasp an idea, I grasp it with the sense that
it is something I can return to and see or grasp on another
occasion; also, that it is possible for someone else to grasp
it, too. We can ask questions about ideas, and make
testable statements about them; they fulfill the criteria for
objectivity, although they are not physical objects. On the
other hand, they may be exemplified or illustrated in
physical objects or processes or relations, as the idea of
giraffe is exemplified by a particular giraffe, or the idea
of equality is illustrated in the relation with respect to
weight or size of two particular boclies. But it belongs to
the idea of idea that an idea can be entertained in the
absence of any physical exemplification of it.
The grasping of an idea presupposes certain judgments,
and prefigures other judgments. We cannot sharply
separate the making of judgments and the grasping of
ideas, as though the ideas were first grasped, and then
judgments were then built out of conjunctions of ideas
the way a house is built out of bricks. Every judgment,
every grasping of a relation, presupposes operations such
as comparison, classification, seriation, and the ideas can
emerge clearly only as these operations reach equilibrium.
In large part, ideas are presented to us through the
medium of speech and writing, as presumptive invariants.
Most words are encountered as familiar; we understand
them in the sense of being vaguely, passively conscious
of their meaning. An intellectual conscience will propose
the task of making this meaning distinct, of articulating,
one by one, the parts of thls vaguely unitary sense.
One of the most important procedures
here is just the free variation of the image which comes with the word. As the
operations become established whereby
I pass from one form of the image to
another, varying one factor at a time,
they tend to assume the equilibrium of
group structure. Suppose, for instance,
that I uncover four variants of the image (see figure); once
I can pass from any one form to any other by carrying
out a specific variation, then the operations form a group;
any two of them are equivalent to a third, and each is
its own inverse.
Besides this free but disciplined use of fantasy, there
are the operations on symbols employed in hypothetical
or deductive reasoning. Like fantasy, hypothetical reasoning is a way of dealing with what is physically absent;
SPRING 1985
�it enables us to draw out the implications of possible
statements; and to discover invariants which fall outside
the range of empirical verification, for instance the law
of inertia.
The diagram I have just drawn will remind some of you
of the traditional square of opposition, which is involved
in what are called immediate inferences. The grasping of
the relations involved in the square presupposes the
establishment of operations whereby any one of the four
propositional forms is transformed into any other, and
the six operations or transformations form a group.
Again, a group of operations is involved in the part of
logic which deals with the propositional connectives, such
as "and/' and 0t/' "if-then," "neither-nor," ~~unless,"
together with the sign of negation of a proposition,
namely "not." Given any two propositions, p and q, we
can construct sixteen fundamental propositional forms by
means of these connectives, for instance, p and q, p or
q, if p then q, if q then p, and so on. All sixteen forms
can be expressed by means of the three logical words
"and," "for," and "not." The sixteen forms, thus expressed, constitute the elements of a lattice. More important, the operations whereby one of these forms can be
transformed into another constitute a group.
Let me try to recapitulate what I have been saying. The
work of the mind-and the mind simply is its work-is
a process of attending to and grasping situations, affairs,
complexes of elements that are somehow presented, and
explicating them with respect to such of their detenninations and relations as are likewise presented. There is no
zero starting-point for inquiry, but in any inquiry
something is accepted initially as pre-given. Then either
of two directions may be taken; either further invariant
relations are sought by tracing out the connections between the elements, which continue to be taken as pregiven, or else the pre-given elements themselves become
the problem, and it is necessary to reactivate the embedded relations and connections upon which the grasp11
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
ing of them depends. But whether the work proceeds progressively or retrogressively, it always involves operations, that is, actions which are reversible and repeatable.
To say that I understand a situation is to say that I have
performed the operations of tracing out the relations in
the situation, and have the clear sense that I can perform
them again. Completeness of understanding on any level
implies that the operations have attained the equilibrium
of group structure, so that the transformations taking us
from any one element of the situation to any other have
become explicit. The structure of operations thus becomes
cyclical and transparent to what is operated on; new invariants may now come into view, or what has previously
been taken as invariant may appear for the first time with
clear boundaries.
We are prone to ask ultimate questions, and inevitably
we ask how far this process goes and where it may arrive. Does there exist, at the summit of the hierarchy of
structures, a pure form, the form of forms, of which every
other form or structure is a refracted image? Can the
edifice of forms traced out in intellectual work have completeness or is there inevitably something left out,
something which is inaccessible to the intellect? Plato and
Aristotle recognized some such thing called Necessity or
Matter, which kept the world from being completely intelligible. jerusalem, in opposition to Athens, has insisted
that the highest principle is not accessible to the human
intellect, and that our chief duty is loving submission
rather than inquiry. Contemporary existentialism has
claimed that the intellect itself is corrupt; that the freedom
from engulfment in time which it pretends to give us is
an illusion; and that the identification which it brings
about between the self and everyman is a bar to direct
knowledge of our existence and its mortality. But wherever the truth lies here, it is clear that the explication of
these opposing positions, the drawing out of their consequences in every detail, is itself a task for the intellect
at work.
11
�Sartorial
How I envy men who remember what
They know! They slide the wall of a walk-in closet
And seize the robe that fits, show us the cut
And cloth, the designer's label for that particular
Paisley. And their drawers, how organized
They are, while mine are muddled and anyway stick
In every season. My birds are rarely in
Their cages, and my wardrobe is a warren
Of what is worn or otherwise unwearable,
For stripes and tartans clash. It's easier
To go out and buy a suit,
And in discussion over gin or scotch,
To think up something green, that will not match
And isn't in the best tradition
And will not be remembered.
Elliott Zuckerman
Elliott Zuckerman is a ttitor at St. John's College, Annapolis.
12
SPRING 1985
�The Logic of Morality
Allen Oark
Introduction
Ethics is perhaps of all subjects the driest and tritest,
and it is fortunate that it is so, for the triteness of ethics
is testimony to the fact that all the basic truths of ethics
are commonplaces, tediously familiar to everyone, because they were discovered very early in the history of
the human race; and had they not been discovered very
early, the human race would not have long survived. For
ethics is concerned with those rules of human conduct
that are indispensable in order for human life to be possible and (for human life to be) worth living. Human beings had to learn the basic rules of morality very early,
for the same reason that they had to learn the basic rules
of agriculture or dietetics, very early; because otherwise
they would not have survived. Morality is, therefore,
nothing accidental or arbitraiy, no matter of mere opinion, but an indispensable necessity for human existence,
as indispensable as skill in finding food, as indispensable
as air or water. Morality, is, in short, a biological necessity
for man.
For man is, like the bees and the ants, one of the socinl
animals. But unlike the bees and the ants, he is not supplied with instincts that determine inevitably his cooperation with other members of the species. In place of
instinct he has intelligence; and the incomparable superiority of intelligence over instinct is its capacity for error. Those who repeat the ancient apothegm Human urn
est errare, ''to err is human,'' speak more wisely than they
know. For this apothegm may be taken, not only as an
observation about man, but as a definition of man. Man
Allen Oark, formerly a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis, delivered
The Logic of Morality as a formal lecture at St. John's College·, Annapolis in 1970.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
is of all animals, the most prone to error; the dangers that
other animals avoid through instinct, he must avoid
through foresight; the flickering light of his intellect illumines his path but a few paces ahead. He lives in
awareness of constant dangers, which his intellect is
strong enough to foresee, but too weak to forestall.
The greatest of these dangers is death. All animals must
die; but only man knows that he must die. The fear of
death is, therefore, a peculiarly human burden, and a
peculiarly human privilege. Because he knows that he
must die, he can dream of inunortality. Because he knows
that the individual must die, he can dream of perpetuating his nation or his race. He can thus dream of values
that transcend his own body and his own life-and can
devote himself to merely imagined goals. And by so doing he enters upon the ethical life.
What is the Criterion of Ethics?
Most fundamental of the questions that are raised concerning ethical matters is the question of the ultimate
criterion of ethics: on what basis shall we judge an action
to be right or wrong? The most immediate answer, of
course, is that we judge an action to be right or wrong
according to some accepted moral code. It is 'right' if it
conforms to the accepted moral code, and 'wrong' if it
violates this code. But we soon become aware that there
are different moral codes, that what has been accepted
in one time and place has been condemned at other times
and places, and that even moral philosophers-who
might be expected to take broader views of such
matters-have tended all too often to differ with each
other even more than do the generality of mankind.
Therefore we are forced, as soon as we reflect at all upon
the questions of moral conduct, to consider the question
13
�of what is the ultimate standard, if any, by which the
various moral codes, and moral philosophies, are
themselves to be judged. Is there any universal moral
standard, and, if so, what is it?
Relativism
Some may attempt to escape this question by saying,
''There is no universal moral standard; it is right for each
man to follow whatever moral customs happen to be accepted in his community." This is the position known
as Moral Relativism, which has a good deal of prestige
these days. But of course it may be pointed out that even
this position does enunciate a universal rule as binding
upon all men without exception, namely, that each man
ought to follow the moral customs of his own community. The position of Moral Relativism, therefore, is after
all a form of moral absolutism; it does enunciate a single
moral criterion which it asserts to be valid for all men
everywhere; and this criterion is the criterion of
CONFORMITY.
Or, taking a slightly different view, the relativist may
say, not that conformity to custom is right, but that it is
what is everywhere CJllled "right.'' Nothing really is right
or wrong, but men call things right or wrong according
to their various customs. What is called right in Persia
may be called wrong in Greece. We call cannibalism
wrong, but the cannibals call it right, and so on. Hence
there are no universal standards.
Now of course the mere fact that men differ in their
moral views does not prove that there are no universal
moral values; for there may be ways of showing that some
moral opinions are sounder than others.
Furthermore, if the relativist says that "right" simply
means "customary/' and 11 wrong" simply means ~~con
trary to custom," he is mistaken. For that is not the way
we use the words "right" and "wrong." We often admire martyrs and rebels and social reformers; we often
say that it was right for a man to violate the customs of
his time and place; that it was right for Christian martyrs
to defy the Roman emperors; that it was right for abolitionists in mid-nineteenth century America to violate the
Fugitive Slave Law. We can even see some moral value
in nonconformity within our present society.
Societies are not always monolithic. There are groups
within groups, and a man who conforms to the moral
code of his family may ipso facto violate that of his
neighborhood; or by conforming to his neighborhood, he
may defy his community; or by conforming to his community, he may outrage his tribe, or his nation. If there
is no universal standard, then by which of these many
conflicting standards should a man be judged?
The statement. that a man should be judged only by the
customs of his time and place contains, furthermore,
another ambiguity. Does it mean merely that a man's action must be interpreted in the light of the prevailing
customs; or does it mean that his action must be appraised
only by the standards of his group or culture? If, when
14
visiting China, I see the victorious party in a law-suit press
money into the palm of the judge, I cannot know whether
this was a bribe or merely the payment of a legal fee until I know the customs of the country. But if I discover
that the payment was indeed intended as a bribe, then
I am by no means obligated to condone the act merely
because bribery is condoned in China. If the bribe leads
the judge to deprive a man of his legal rights, then it is
unjust, no matter how completely such injustice may be
accepted in that society.
If the relativists deny our right to criticize customs by
any more general moral standard, then, in effect, they
make each custom an absolute; and I do not see how they
can logically stop short of making each particular man's
behavior an absolute, a law unto itself; and regarding
each man's moral judgments as relevant only to himself.
Moral Subjectivism
The most extreme of the moral relativists have done exactly this, and have adopted the position known as Moral
Subjectivism, which holds that when a man says, for example, "Stealing is wrong," all that he means to say is
"I disapprove of stealing." Hence every moral judgment
is merely a statement about the speaker's own attitudesa piece of his autobiography.
The absurdity of this doctrine is immediately shown by
the following fact. If, when I say, "War is wrong," all
I mean is that I disapprove of war; and, when you say,
"War is not wrong," all you mean is that you don't disapprove of war, then there is no conflict between our two
statements. For it may perfectly well be the case that I
do disapprove of war and you don't. Hence both our
statements are true, mine for me and yours for you, and
hence we don't disagree about anything after all!
This apparently absurd conclusion was, however, embraced by the most extreme of the moral subjectivists,
Alfred Ayer, in his little book Language, Truth, and Logic,
published in 1936. In this book, Ayer says we never do
disagree in our moral judgments, for the simple reason
that all moral judgments are meaningless, and hence they
can't possibly disagree with each other. According to Ayer,
a moral judgment is not even a statement at all; it is a mere
expression of emotion, equivalent to a grunt or a cry. I
quote some relevant passages from Ayer' s book:
"The presence of an ethical symbol in a proposition
adds nothing to its factual content. Thus if I say to someone, 'You acted wrongly in stealing that money,' I am
not stating anything more than if I had simply said, 'You
stole that money.' In adding that this action is wrong,
I am not making any further statement about it. I am
simply evincing my moral disapproval of it. It is as if I
had said, 'you stole that money!' in a peculiar tone of
horror ... The tone of horror adds nothing to the literal
meaning of the sentence. It merely serves to show that
the uttering of it is attended by certain feelings in the
speaker.
SPRING 1985
I
�"If now I generalise my previous statement and say
'stealing is wrong,' I produce a sentence which has no
factual meaning-that is, expresses no proposition which
can be either true or false. It is as though I had uttered
the word 'stealing!' in a peculiar tone of horror. The tone
of horror would express my feelings about stealing, but
it would not be equivalent to any proposition at all."
The ethical compenent of any utterance is simply the
overtone of approval or disapproval which it conveys; or,
in short, the emotive tone of the utterance. For this reason,
Alfred Ayer' s interpretation of ethical judgments has
come to be known as the Emotive Theory of Ethics.
The Emotive Theory of Ethics seemed to its followers
and its opponents alike to represent the utter destruction
of ethics, the complete reduction of what had been
thought mankind's noblest utterances to the level of mere
animal grunts and grimaces. Needless to say, in conservative quarters Alfred Ayer was regarded as the very devil
of the schools, an image of Satan himself.
But may not his followers and opponents alike have
been overhasty? I suggest that we, having pursued the
argument to the very pit of Hell, as it were, should follow
the example of Dante, and climb through this modern
Satan into starlight, at least, if not daylight, on the other
side of the world.
Suppose then, that Alfred Ayer were right in saying
that our moral judgments merely evince our moral approvals and disapprovals. Still, is not the most significant fact of all the very fact that men do feel moral approval
and disapproval? The very point with which Ayer concludes his demolition of ethics, namely that moral
judgments are emotional, should be the point at which
the real ethical investigation begins-namely, that we
human beings care about moral problems, that moral
problems do enlist our loyalities, our enthusiams, our
love, and hate, and fear. Of course, men are emotional
about ethics, because ethics concerns the very things that
we care most deeply about. The very argument by which
Ayer and his followers attempt to show that moral judgments are meaningless seems to me to show, on the contrary, that moral judgments are intensely meaningful.
Indeed, if men never became emotional about moral
issues, morality would be of as little importance to us as
astronomy. If moral judgments were merely factual propositions, like those of physics, they would impose as
little moral obligation upon us as do those of physics.
Moral judgments couldn't do what we need to have them
do unless they were, at least in part, emotive utterances.
For our moral feelings are already our commitments to
action; a man who deeply feels a repugnance at stealing
is already prepared to refrain from stealing and to deter
others from stealing. An honorable man is not a man who
merely knows that certain deeds are shameful; he is man
who would feel shame at his dishonorable deeds.
Therefore we must agree, I think, with the emotive
theory as far as it goes, and say that a genuine moral judgment contains at least some overtone of moral feeling,
of moral approval or disapproval. But-and here is the
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
important point-it con,tains a great deal more than that.
For when I say, for example, "War is wrong," I don't
mean merely "I hate war" -though, in fact, I do hate war.
What I mean is "I hate war, and you should, too; and
you would, too, if you really understood it." I mean that
I not only disapprove of war, but I disapprove of anyone's
not disapproving of war, and I approve of anyone's disapproving of war. Our moral approvals are second-order approvals, so to speak; that is, approvals of approvals. What
we morally approve of, we necessarily approve of approving of-and, indeed, approve of approving of approving
of, and so on, to third-order, fourth-order, and higherorder approvals. Hence the very notion of moral approval
seems to contain within it a potential infinity of higherorder approvals.
Universality
Now have we not, with this notion of higher-orderedness,
arrived at the distinguishing characteristic of moral
judgments, moral feelings, moral attitudes? The very
distinction between righteous indignation and simple
anger is that righteous indignation is anger which we approve of. When a man is righteously indignant he says "I
am angry, and I have a right to feel angry. Anyone would
feel angry in my place; or, if he didn't, he ought to." What
is morally significant here is not the anger but the feeling of justification, the feeling that is resenting an injustice
one is, for the moment, the spokesman of all mankind.
You resent the injustice, not merely because it hapened
to you, but because it is the sort of thing which you feel
that anyone would resent, and would approve of your
resenting. The greater depth and dignity of moral indignation, as compared with simple anger, comes from
the feeling of impersonality and universality that accompanies it; the feeling that your feeling would be reinorced
by the feelings of all who love justice.
Thus the emotive theory of ethics, though partly true,
has seized upon ethical questions by the wrong end.
What characterizes a moral judgment is not its emotiveness, but its universality. A proof of this is the fact that
if a man says, "Oysters are good," and you say, "Well,
I don't happen to like them," and he says, "Well, if you
don't like them you certainly don't have to eat them,"
he shows by his very tolerance that he is not making a
moral judgment, but an expression of taste. But if he were
to say, "I not only like oysters, but I demand that
everybody like oysters," then indeed he would be making a moral issue of it. Precisely what distinguishes our
judgments of taste from our judgments of morals is that
we don't demand, or even wish, that everyone should
share our tastes; whereas we do wish and demand that
everyone should share our moral judgments. If a man
were to say, "I happen to disapprove of kidnapping, but
of course I don't care whether anyone else disapproves
of it or not," we would say that he doesn't really disapprove of kidnapping; he merely dislikes it. What is essen-
15
�tial for any genuine moral judgment is that it contain an
implicit demand for universality.
Even the moral relativist, therefore, cannot finally avoid
the question of what is the universal standard of right
and wrong. He-like all other men, if they reflect upon
the matter long enough-is forced to consider the question of what it is that makes an action, or a moral rule,
or a moral code, right or wrong.
Hobbesian Theory
It seems to me that a way of approaching an answer
to this question is to ask, "Why do we need to have any
moral code at all?" And the answer to this question comes
very easily: if there were no moral code, no moral
restraints upon men, some men would take advantage
of this liberty to injure their fellow men. They would take
whatever they wanted and kill whoever stood in their
way. No man's life or property would be safe, for even
the strongest man can be easily overpowered by five or
six of the weakest. Hence all men would live in constant
fear of being robbed, wounded, or killed. No man could
trust another, for no man would feel any obligation to
keep his promises. No man could believe another, for no
man would feel any obligation to speak the truth. Hence
there could be no co-operation, nor even any communication among men, for the mutual trust and confidence
upon which these necessarily rest would have been
destroyed. Human life would indeed be, as Hobbes
described it in his Leviathan, "solitary, poor, nasty,
brutish, and short." It is morality, and morality alonewhether embodied in habit, custom, or law-that protects
us from these evils.
The basic rules of morality are those that are indispensable for the very existence of men in society; any society that tried to get along without them would soon exterminate itself, or dissolve into anarchy. The reason why
"there is honor even among thieves" is that without
some adherence to some rules of honor in their dealing
with each other, even a gang of thieves could not long
survive. One of the many tributes that vice pays to virtue is the fact that even vice cannot be successful without
making use of some of the virtues.
The Moral Law Well Known
The indispensable moral code is well known to all of
us, and is incorporated in the legal code of all civilized
communities. It has received the approval of the consensus of mankind. And indeed not accidentally, for this
code expresses the minimal set of restraints that are
necessary for the survival of the human race and human
society.
This basic moral law takes the form of a list of prohibitions, a list of "Thou shalt not's," such as "Thou shalt
not kill," "Thou shalt not steal," "Thou shalt not lie,"
16
"Thou shalt not make false promises," and so on. These
can all be summarized in a single prohibition, "Thou shalt
not injure anyone." And the quickest way to decide what
kinds of actions shall be considered injuries is to ask
yourself what kinds of actions you would resent as injuries if they were done to you. Different men may, to
be sure, resent different things, but there are cerlain things
that almost any man would resent having done to him,
and it is these generally resented injuries that may appropriately be restrained by general laws.
The Golden Rule
The fundamental principle common to all these indispensable prohibitions can therefore be summarized in
a single prohibition: "Do not do to others that which you
would not have them do to you,'' -in short, the Golden
Rule. The principle expressed by the Golden Rule might
be called the Principle of Mutuality.
a. Sympathy
The Golden Rule may be looked at from two other
standpoints, as embodying two other aspects of human
nature. First, it may be regarded as embodying the Principle of Sympathy. Such was the standpoint of Adam
Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments, published in 1759.
Human society would probably be impossible unless
most men felt some degree of sympathy with some of
their fellow men, and indeed the roots of such sympathy
seem to lie in the very structure of the human nervous
system. We tend unconsciou~ly to beat time to music, to
tap our feet in time with a march or a waltz. A crowd
watching a tight-rope walker will tend to sway unconsciously in sympathy with his movements. When we
see a man walking near the edge of a precipice, we tend
to shrink back ourselves, and to gasp when his foot slips.
Even when we are watching a stage play or a motion picture, we tend to be frightened at represented dangers,
to shrink with fear when the villain sneaks up behind the
hero, and feel an impulse to cry out a warning. Human
beings like to project themselves into the feelings of others
and to identify imaginatively with some real or fictitious
person, in history or legend, in a novel or a play.
Thus, when self-interest does not interfere, we tend
naturally to sympathize with the sufferings of another
person. We imagine what we should feel if we were in
his place and were threatened by his dangers. When we
see a man brutally assaulted by another, we tend more
naturally to sympathize with the victim than with his
assaillant, for we see what causes the fear and pain of
the victim, while we do not see what provoked the anger
or malice of the attacker.
Our sympathy with the victims of crime combines with
our fear of being victims ourselves to produce a general
consensus of feeling that crimes ought to be punished,
and that the laws ought to forbid a man to do to others
that which he would not willingly suffer himself. Sym-
SPRING 1985
�pathy and selfishness, which so often conflict, here coincide to give us a double motive for upholding those laws
that protect ourselves as well as others. Further more,
our natural sympathy, which itself was one of the fountains of morality, becomes incorporated into our moral
code as itself one of the virtues to be praised, rewarded,
and instilled in the young. Our natural tendencies toward
sympathy acquire a moral as well as a natural status; and
a man may cultivate as a moral virtue a benevolence to
which his own nature might not have inclined him. At
the very least he may learn to simulate benevolent
behavior, and to exhibit in his actions a generosity which
he may not feel in his heart.
Now the fullest development of sympathy would consist in feeling each man's pain and joy as though it were
your own. If aU men were perfectly sympathetic, then
the pain of one would be the pain of all, the joy of one
the joy of all, and hence the particular locus of the joy
of suffering would be unimportant. Each man would thus
treat all others as he would wish them to treat him,
and thus the perfect formula for the principle of sympathy
is simply the Golden Rule.
b. Rationality
Not only does the Golden Rule express the universalization of the spontaneous human emotion of sympathy; it also expresses the fullest application to ethics
of the human faculty of reason.
Human reason first begins to find application to ethics
when the accepted rules conflict, or do not seem to cover
some new kind of case, or when men disagree about what
is right-in short, when there is moral controversy. Now
in moral controversy one disputant will ask the other such
questions as "Why is lying wrong?" That is, he demands
reasons for conventionally accepted rules, and forces the
other disputant, perhaps for the first time, to look for rational grounds for his moral attitudes. It is through controversy that morality becomes rational. By the unflagging
criticism of each proposed moral principle, we reason our
way up to the highest moral principle of all, which merely
says that moral principles must be reasonable, that is,
universal, containing nothing arbitrary or accidental. As
a rule of conduct, it merely says, "So act that you could
consistently will the maxim of your action to be a universal law." In other words, "Obey the rules that you want
others to obey," or, in short, Don't make an exception
of yourself."
This is the very principle that is familiar to us all in the
demand for "fair play." When we say that someone has
behaved "unfairly," we mean that he has made an exception of himself; that he has not followed the rules that
he expects others to follow.
If we look for the formal property that characterizes all
wrong acts, such as lying, cheating, stealing, and so on,
we see that in every case the wrongdoer is behaving in
a way that even he cannot logically will that other people
behave. The cheat, for example, cannot want cheating to
become an accepted practice, for, if it were accepted, then
11
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
nobody would trust anybody, and hence he could not
cheat anybody. The liar cannot want lying to be permitted, for then no one would expect him to tell the truth,
and thus he could not deceive anyone through his lies.
Nor can the man who makes false promises want false
promises to be permitted, for then no one would trust
any promises, including his. Thus lying, cheating,
fraud-and, in general, all forms of deceit-have the
following purely formal structural property: they logically
entail the very rule that they violate. There is a kind of contradiction in the mind of the deceitful man: he wants to
deceive, and yet at the same time he wants to be forbidden to deceive. Thus the deceiver stands condemned out
of his own mouth.
Acts of violence or selfishness do not, indeed, entail
this same kind of contradiction, since they can be conceived
of as universal, but no rational man would by his own
will render them so, since he would thereby harm himself.
Thus there is a formal property of all acts that we commonly call wrong, namely, that they are acts that even
the man who commits them wants to forbid. They are
acts which no one could consistently defend on principle. They are self-condemning, like a self-contradictory
proposition in logic.
Such is the approach of Immanuel Kant, in his Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals, published in 1785. Kant
goes on to point out that we could have deduced the basic
axiom of morals from the bare concept of man as a rational
animal. For how could man express his rationality in action except by making his conduct conform to the very
principle of universality a·s such, namely, that rational
imperative:
"So act that you could consistently will the maxim of your
action to be a universal law,''
which Kant calls the Categorical Imperative.
This is, also, as you will have recognized, another form
of the Golden Rule, and it succeeds in expressing the
logical essence of the Golden Rule better than the familiar
formula of it does. For when we say, "Do unto others
as you would have them do unto you," we do not, of
course, mean that whatever specific act you want someone to perform for you, you must perform that same act
for him. Rather The Golden Rule means: "Act toward
others according to the same moral principles that you want
them to follow in their behavior toward you, and toward
all other men." And this is just the meaning that Kant
succeeded in expressing.
Now if a man is to make his maxims into universal
laws-as the Categorical Imperative says he must-then
he must (according to the Categorical Imperative) accord
the same privilege to each other man. That is, he must
accord each other man equal moral authority with himself
as a center of reason and conscience. Hence arises Kant's
second formula for the Categorical Imperative, which
reads:
17
�"So act as to treat humanity, both in your own person and
in the person of every other, never simply as a mere means,
but always at the same time as an end-in-itself."
This is the Law of Respect for Humanity, on which is
grounded the dignity of the individual.
The reason why each man is an end-in-himself is that
he is not only subject to moral laws, but also by his maxims creates moral law, insofar as his maxims agree with
those of every other rational man. Thus your maxims are
not valid moral laws unless you can conceive of their being voluntarily adopted by each rational man independently; and if they can be so adopted, they constitute what
may be called distinctively THE MORAL LAW, in capital
letters.
We thus arrive at the third formula for the Categorical
Imperative, which embodies the motion of an ideal moral
commonwealth, or Kingdom of Ends, as Kant calls it, in
which each man is both king and subject, both legislator
and citizen. No law can pass without unanimous consent;
therefore no man can be bound against his will. Yet once
a law is passed, it is inexorably enforced upon all. The
third formula of the Categorical Imperative reads:
"So act as if you were, through your maxims, a lawmaking
member of a kingdom of ends."
Now we must not make the mistake of regarding Kant's
imaginary Kingdom of Ends as a Utopia, a community
of saints, or a Kingdom of Heaven on earth. It is nothing
of the sort; nothing in its definition requires that its
citizens be good men; on the contrary we could people
it with the worst men on earth, and it would still serve
just as well as a model for morality. For under the
specified conditions it would be to the self-interest of each
man to vote for laws against murder, theft, arson,
burglary, fraud, and all other felonies; which, once being enacted, would bar him from crime. Thus a community of sinners would enact exactly the same laws as a community of saints; the only difference would be that the
saints would obey gladly the laws that the sinners would
obey only grudgingly.
Kant's moral republic is ideal only in the sense that it
is the pure idea of community as such, the very eidos of
community. It is also the eidos of legal system, abstracted
from all historical legal systems. From this myth of the
ideal moral commonwealth, we can derive the actual moral
duties of men. For it is the supreme privilege of man as
a rational creature that he can imagine himself even now
as a citizen of this merely possible community; and by imagining himself to be such, he can begin to act out the
role of such a citizen, and thus fit himself to join the
world-wide brotherhood of men of good will.
In the Kingdom of Ends, each man would have the utmost freedom that a man can morally have, namely the
freedom of being subject to no will but his own, since
he is bound only by laws to which he has given his consent. Yet, at the same time, he has complete moral
18
responsibility, since he is inexorably bound by all the laws
to which he has given his consent.
Thus the three cardinal notions of morality: Moral
Freedom, Moral Law, and Moral Responsibility, stand
linked in an intimate logical relationship. Moral Freedom
is whatever freedom a rational man would wish to enjoy
on condition that he grant equal freedom to all other men.
The Moral Law is whatever law would be consented to
by rational men in the exercise of their moral freedom.
And Moral Responsibility is the willingness of the morally
free man to be held responsible for his violations of the
Moral Law.
The Puzzle of Free Will vs. Determinism
11
The terms "freedom" and responsibility" immediately bring to mind the notorious puzzle of free-will versus determinism, which has absorbed such a large portion of the time of moral philosophers. The supposed conflict of free-will and determinism arises from the existence
of two very basic human interests: our interest in being
able to anticipate how other men are going to act; and our
interest in being able to hold them accountable for their
acts.
The free-will doctrine consists of saying that these two
interests are incompahble; that insofar as we can anticipate
a man's behavior, we cannot hold him accountable for
it. For our desire to anticipate human acts leads us to
develop various theories of psychological determinism, by
which every human choice is explained as resulting from
motives. But insofar as a man's choices are determined by
his motives, he cannot help acting as he does; and a man
is not responsible for what he cannot help. Therefore, a
man deserves praise and blame only in so far as he was
acting freely-that is, free from the influence of his own
desires.
From this argument it follows that the stronger a man's
desire to do evil, the less blame he deserves for doing
evil; or, conversely, the stronger his desire to do good,
the less praise he deserves for doing good. Hence the only
praiseworthy or blameworthy acts are completely unmotivated acts. A man's choice is good only insofar as
it was not made from good motives, and is evil only insofar as it was not made from evil motives.
To such an absurdity are we driven by the doctrine that
free will is essential to moral responsibility; and what it
shows, of course, is that free will, in fact, would be utterly destructive to all moral responsibility. For if a man
really had a free will, he would be impervious to all
motives, moral and immoral; he would be totally indifferent to all moral considerations, as well as to all other
considerations. He would either never act at all, or would
act in a completely unaccountable manner, like a lunatic
or an elementary particle.
Nothing could be further from the quantum indeter-
SPRING 1985
�I
'
just, according to his understanding of the precedents
established by previous judges in previous cases. As the
lower courts adjudicated conflicts between private
litigants, so the conflicting precedents established by
judges in the lower courts were reconciled by higher
courts. In deciding a novel case, not covered by the
precedents, or covered by conflicting precedents, a judge
could only rule as he thought best, and hope that higher
and later courts would uphold him. If a particular decision seemed too far out of line with the main body of
prevailing precedents, it was not likely to be followed,
or cited as a precedent in later cases, and hence would
have little influence in determining the contours of that
great body of precedents called collectively the Common
Law of England.
No one decision, no one judge, therefore, was likely
to have much influence upon the shape of the law. Each
decision added a page to the growing volumes of law
reports which were collected year after year, which grew
as a coral reef grows by successive layers of minute
deposits, as one marine organism after another deposits
its calcified remains upon it.
From time to time commentators raked through these
volumes of reports, and winnowed from them certain
general principles, or legal maxims, that seemed to be implicit in the way the judges were deciding cases. Then
later commentators commented upon earlier commentators, and still later ones upon these, from the Middle
Ages on down through Bracton, Glanville, Littleton,
Cook, and Blackstone. Gradually the law took shape, and
legal principles emerged, but no one knew in advance
just what shape this great organism was going to assume.
Justice Holmes, writing his commentary on the Common
Law in the 1880's was quite in the English spirit when
he defined law as ''a prediction of how the courts are going to act."
Of course the judges did not use the language of prediction in their decisions. Instead they declared "The law
is this," or "The law says this," as though the law were
already in existence somewhere; but in fact each decision
helped to make the law, insofar as it was incorporated into the body of precedents. The judges spoke as though
the law were dead and laid out in books, but in fact the
living edge of the law was before them in the instant case.
Only there is the living law; the rest, deposited in
casebooks, is only the fossilized remains, the deposits left
by previous acts of adjudication. Each judge studied the
body of precedents and tried, on the whole, to rule in
the spirit of the law; each decision, therefore, may be
regarded as a further inquiry into what the law is really
trying to say, the gist of the law. It is as though the law
were trying to find itself through the medium of the
courts; and the English Common Law is this continuing
process of the Law in Quest of Itself.
What we call the Moral Freedom-and at the same time
the Moral Responsibility-of the individual is his ability
to be determined by ideal goals. He can respect a moral
ideal, and he can respect the process by which moral
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
ideals are generated, and he can respect the ideal of having ideals. Moral Idealism is the principle of having ideals,
of acting for an ideal end.
Moral idealism is already implicit in the feedback circuits of an organism whereby it maintains self-control,
the first of the moral virtues, and thus affirms its courage
to be in the midst of a risky world. Man, however, is
distinctively a talking organism, and it is through language
that his self-control comes increasingly to operate. A man
is called "rational" insofar as he is amenable to linguistic
persuasions that are impersonal in form, and in ethics,
as in science, the appeal by which men seek to justify their
thinking or acting is the appeal to the viewpoint of the
disinterested judge; but in calling him" disinterested" we
do not mean that he is "uninterested." On the contrary,
this is only a peculiar way of saying that he is concerned
with all interests involved. He wishes to take account of
all the facts; he is sensitive to all moral demands. He can
see the issue from every point of view; hence his viewpoint includes all other viewpoints.
The process of moral enlightenment, whereby each
man approximates more and more toward the viewpoint
of an ideal observer, is the only real moral progress. It
is progress in the sense in which science makes progress
when it takes into account more and more of the facts
and harmonizes them into a coherent theory. For moral
sensitivity is a form of knowledge, an awareness of what
is the case. The objective observer is objective just because
he is the most compassionate of observers. His emotional
reactions are themselves realistic in that he feels with unerring accuracy the exact amount of pain that each act
causes, shares in full the joy of victory and also the pain
of defeat. His emotions are perfectly just in that they are
exactly proportioned to the total human significance of
the acts that arouse them.
We must not make the common error of supposing that
to be just or unbiased a man must be devoid of passion.
The presence or absence of pers~nal emotion has nothing
to do with the validity of a moral claim. A man may make
an impassioned plea for justice without thereby rendering
his plea invalid, or of only "subjective" validity. For he
is speaking as the champion of the rights of all litigants,
and of all possible future litigants, whether he intends
to or not. The passion that infuses his plea represents, so
to speak, or embodies the indignation of all wronged
men. Their rights speak through him, and their voices
blend together with one voice; he speaks with the voice
of humanity.
The great orator, like the scientist, is a spokesman for
universal human experience. Scientific language synthesizes human experience in one way, through abstraction; and if it speaks of human emotions at all, it does
so under passionless symbols. Only rhetorical language-including drama and poetry-can present emotions as emotions, causing the audience to feel what these
feelings are like. The fact that the great moral leader, or
dramatist, or poet speaks in emotional language in no
way entails that what he says has a merely personal or
21
�\.
subjective validity. What gives his utterance moral
authority is the fact that his heart and mind are open to
human experience to a greater degree than those of most
men are. Thus his feelings acquire a representative status;
that is, they are what the feelings of other men ought to
be, or would be, if freed from blindness, pettiness, and
narrowness of view.
A large part of the ability of a great moral teacher consists in his ability to see what is there in human experience.
The reason why sympathetic insight is the central moral
virtue is not that sympathy itself is good, but that sympathy is a doorway to truth; it opens the mind upon the
world and enables it to see what is actually the case. Sympathy is simply the realism of the emotions.
The heart of ethics is the eternal possibility of reexamining all ethical maxims in the light of reason and
experience to see whether the crystallized formulas still
express that which we really affirm; or whether they have
been preserved by inadvertence, absence of mind, inertia, or the interests of some particular class of men in
presenting re-examination of a formula that benefits them
at the expense of other men.
Ethical theory is thus analogous to scientific theory in
that the 'true' theory in either case is not otherwise
definable in advance than as that limit toward which an
indefinite continuation of the critical process would never
permanently cease to tend. The essentially ethical act is
the act of committing oneself to the quest for The Moral
Law; and the essentially ethical attitude is loyalty to this
quest.
Men can and do develop a loyalty to the Moral Quest
itself, just as they can and do develop a loyalty to the
Scientific Quest. For every man has some interest in truth,
if only because he does not want to have his hopes
frustrated by being based on error. Similarly, he desires
to avoid having to reproach himself for his own conduct,
and hence may try, even now, to anticipate the demands
of his future conscience. Conscience is as natural as
curiosity: men by nature find goods and evils in the
world, come to value certain kinds of objects, persons,
and traits, and even to value them distinterestedly. But
because rival goods conflict, men must learn to discriminate, to rank and compare, to evaluate. The human need
to evaluate is as natural as the human need to know; indeed, the two needs are inseparable; for all knowledge
involves evaluation, just as all valuation rests on
knowledge; and both have their biological basis in the
ability of organisms to make differential responses. Only
because an organism can respond differently to stimuli
A and B can it ever come to 'know' that stimulus A or
B is present, and thus eventually learn to delineate the
contours of its surrounding world. Only because some
stimuli are painful and others pleasurable can an
organism ever come to value some experiences and disvalue others, and thus learn how to evaluate its world.
But organismic sensitivity merely provides the basis for
the possibility of science, and morality; it is neither their
substance nor their goal. Science, though it may have its
22
origin in the sensitivity of the living protoplasm, projects
its curiosity into the farthest corners of the universe, far
beyond any needs of man's animal body, and hopes
eventually even to understand the structure of the protoplasm from which it sprang. Conscience, though it may
have its origin in the defensive reactions of the cell, extends its sympathies to the widest limits of the human
race and hopes at last to express the nature of man's
''glassy essence.''
Morality is as rationally defensible as science, or any
other branch of knowledge; and indeed both morality and
science stem from that same demand for rationality that
we call logic. Ultimately, the logic of morality is simply
logic itself. Morality is the logic of conduct, as logic is the
morality of thinking.
APPENDIX I
A large part of the activity of the moral philosopher consists of either encumbering the ground of ethics with
stumbling-blocks imported from other fields, or in clearing away the obstacles left by his predecessors. Were it
not for such peripheral and prophylactic activities there
would, indeed, be little left for the moral philosopher to
do. For the basic principles of ethics are well known to
everybody, and have been forthousands of years. No one
seriously advocates murder, arson, burglary, discourtesy,
cowardice, or lying on principle. The only genuine moral
problems are problems of casuistry: of the art of applying general rules to specific cases. It is only when faced
with a specific problem of moral choice that most of us
become interested in ethics; jllld we are quite right, for
it is only the specific cases that have either practical importance or intellectual interest. It is these that arouse our
sympathies and tax our ingenuity, for the same reason
that reading reports of courtroom trials and criminal cases
is much more interesting than reading the Revised Statutes.
And it is only casebook law that provides us with much
written material in casuistry. This most important branch
of ethics has been almost totally neglected. Most of the
handbooks or manuals of casuistry have been written by
Jesuits, and they are all in Latin. The professors of ethics
have made singularly little attempt to get down to cases,
and to test their own theories by seeing whether they
could serve to resolve moral conflicts.
APPENDIX II
Hume' s famous problem of how an "ought" can be
derived from an "is," i.e., how moral obligations can ever
be derived from mere facts, can be answered by considering, first of all, the inference "I promised to do X;
therefore I am obligated to do X." Now the premiss here
is a mere statement of fact, while the conclusion states
an obligation. How is this inference valid? What is needed
here is not a major premiss such as "Whoever promises
SPRING 1985
�p
:
to do something is obligated to do that which he promises," for this is only a generalization of the given inference. No major premiss is needed at all, for the statement "! promised to do X" means "I obligated myself to
do X." The very purpose of making promises is to create
obligations; and to make a promise simply is to take upon
oneself an obligation.
Next consider two friends, Damon and Pythias, and ask
"Why should Damon be loyal," and suppose that Damon
asks "Why should I be loyal to Pythias?" The question
is unanswerable, because the mutual loyalties of two
friends are not deduced from any general principle, such
as ''Friends ought to be loyal to each other.'' Rather their
friendship just is their mutual loyalty. When they cease
being loyal to each other, they will ipso facto have ceased
to be friends. They are not friends for the sake of anything
beyond their friendship.
Now imagine this friendship to embrace 3, 4, 5, ...
n persons, so as to form a community. The question
"Why should I be loyal to my community?" still does not
meaningfully arise; for a community simply is a network
of mutually reinforcing loyalties. One's obligation to the
community is simply one's way of being part of the community. It is one's concrete ties to the other persons in
the community, and is not derived from any abstract principle at all. If one no longer feels any loyalty to that community, then there is no reason why one should go on
being a member of it. An obligation is a sense of obligation.
Therefore a sentence like "You ought to be loyal to
Damon," or "You ought to pay Tom the money you owe
him" is not a statement about a moral relationship; itis
part of that relationship. The uttering of such sentences
is part of the way we keep friendships alive, and remind
people of their obligations, and induce them to do their
duties. When the Prodigal Son said to himself "I will arise
and go to my father," he was not informing himself of
a fact or making a prediction; he was performing an act
of repentance. Similarly when the sinner says "Peccavi,"
"I have sinned," he is not merely stating a fact; he is
acknowledging his sin thereby already beginning the process of repentance.
These are instances of what I may call the "liturgical"
use of language, wherein the uttering of certain words
is itself a moral act: such as praying, confessing, taking
a vow, making a pledge.
The liturgy of the courtroom is full of other examples
of such liturgical use of language: swearing an oath,
rendering a verdict, pronouncing a sentence. Or consider
one of the commonest examples, the making of a promise; when a man says "! promise" he by that act does
promise. To promise is to utter such a sign as "I promise,'' or some equivalent sign.
Now the role of language in the law is a peculiar one;
for, in a very real sense, we may say that the language
of the law is the law, in a sense in which, for example,
astronomy is not the language of astronomy, and chemistry is not the language of chemistry. For law is a matter
of words: a statute consists of words uttered by a legis-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
lature,. a decision consists of wor?s uttered by a judge,
a verdtct of words uttered by a Jury; and legislatures,
judges and juries make the law by the words they use.
Law might be considered as a way of using such words
as "lawful," "unlawful," uguilty/' 'not guilty/'
"right," "property/' °Contract," and so on.
Similarly, we might say that ethics is the language of
ethics; ethics is concerned with the ways in which people influence each other by their use of such words as
''right,'' ''wrong,'' ''good,'' ''bad,'' ''virtue,'' ''con~
science," and so on.
1
APPENDIX III
The Role of Language in Ethics: A Dialog
jOHN (a simple-minded, unphilosophical fellow):
Stealing is wrong.
HENRY (a subjectivist philosopher): You mean, of
course, that you disapprove of stealing.
JOHN: That's right.
HENRY: Now, suppose jim says to you "No, stealing
isn't wrong." He, of course, merely means "I don't
disapprove of stealing." Therefore, your two statements
are equivalent, respectively, to the following:
A: john disapproves of stealing.
B: jim does not disapprove of stealing.
But these two statements are both true (assuming that
you both spoke sincerely). Hence there is no disagreement between you after all!
jOHN: Hmm! That's certainiy odd. I'd have sworn we
were disagreeing.
jEREMY (a utilitarian philosopher): just a minute,
Henry; you've missed the point. When john, or anyone,
says that stealing is wrong, he means that stealing injures
the long-run welfare of the human race. Hence, when
jim disagrees with him, they are really disputing the question of whether stealing does, in fact, injure the long-run
welfare of the human race. And this is a factual question,
capable-in principle-of being answered by empirical
evidence.
GEORGE: (an intuitionist philosopher): So, you say
that "wrong" simply means "injurious to the long-run
welfare of the human race?"
jEREMY: That's correct.
GEORGE: Well now, tell me: do you think it's wrong
to injure the long-run welfare of the human race?
jEREMY: Of course I do!
GEORGE: Now let's take your statement "Injuring the
long-run welfare of the human race is wrong" and
substitute for the word "wrong" your definition of the
word "wrong." What we get is the statement "Injuring
the long-run welfare of the human race injures the longrun welfare of the human race." But this is a mere
tautology! Is that all you meant to say?
JEREMY: Not exactly. Maybe I should try another
definition.
GEORGE: It won't do you any good. No matter what
23
�definition you give, I can show you that you are uttering
a mere tautology.
CHRISTIAN (A Christian): Jeremy, of course, was
wrong in his definition of "wrong." What "wrong"
really means is "displeasing to God."
GEORGE: Oh? Well, let me ask you: do you consider
it wrong to displease God?
CHRISTIAN: Certainly. To displease God is wrong,
indeed.
GEORGE: Now let's take your last statement and
substitute in it your deinfition of "wrong." What we get
is "To displease God is displeasing to God" -another
tautology.
You see, the mistake you are all making is to assume
that "wrong" is definable. But of course it isn't. For suppose you say o 'wrong' means 'X'," where 'X' is any
definition you please. Then I will ask you "Is X wrong?",
and you will have to say "Yes, X is wrong;" in which
case by your own definition, all you have said is "X is X."
You are all guilty of the Naturalistic Fallacy, which consists of supposing that ethical terms can be defined.
ALFRED (an emotivist philosopher): Just a minute,
George. You are very subtle, and you have been playing
a trick on all our friends here. When Christian said "To
displease God is wrong" is wasn't uttering a tautology;
he was evincing his disapproval of displeasing God. His utterance was equivalent to saying "What? displease God!"
in a peculiar tone of horror. The tone of horror added no
factual content to the utterance; it merely conveyed the
emotions of the speaker. The various ethical terms
uright," ~~wrong/' "good/' "bad," etc., serve merely
an emotive function. They convey the emotional attitudes
of the speaker. The utterance "X is good" does nothing
but convey the speaker's favorable emotional attitude
toward X. Thus Henry was quite correct in saying that
men never disagree in their moral judgments; but he was
incorrect in saying that this is because moral judgments
have purely autobiographical meaning. It is because they
have no meaning at all.
RICHARD (an imperativist philosopher): No Alfred,
you still miss the point. The motive for saying "Stealing
is wrong'' is not to vent one's emotions; the motive is
to dissuade other people from stealing. Moral judgments
have an imperative function. "Stealing is wrong" really
means "Thou shalt not steal!" This explains why moral
judgments seem to disagree. The judgments "Stealing
is right" and "Stealing is wrong" conflict in the same way
that "Shut the door" and "Don't shut the door" conflict: namely, it is impossible to obey both of them.
Neither utterance is true or false; you are right there,
Alfred. But they do conflict, and that is why men engage
in moral controversies: each is trying to get the other to
obey conflicting imperatives.
JOHN: But when I say "Stealing is wrong" I don't feel
that I am issuing a command at all. When I say "Shut
the door" I do so because I want the door to be shut. But
when I say "Stealing is wrong" it doesn't seem to me
that I am merely expressing my own wishes. I feel that
I am commanded not to steal. The imperative seems not
to issue from me, but to be issued to me, and to everyone
24
else. I assert "Stealing would be wrong even if I didn't
disapprove of it, and even if I didn't wish people not to
steal."
CHARLES (a logician): Quite right, John. Making a
moral judgment feels more like accepting an obligation
than imposing one. Isn't this because of the logicality of
the human creature? We call a man "rational" in proportion as he is amenable to linguistic persuasions that are
impersonal in form, that is, not dependent for their validity
upon anything peculiar to either speaker or hearer. This,
in turn, is part of our logical demand for universality in
our statements and beliefs. Ethics is, in this way, parallel
to science; for in both we seek to purge away the influence
of subjective error and limited perspectives, and frame
statements that shall hold true for all times, persons, and
places; in short, that are invariant under shift of origin
or frame of reference. It is for this reason that we are unwilling to rest content with any form of relativism or subjectivism; to do so would frustrate the demands of logic
itself. This logical demand is just what Kant expressed
in his so-called Categorical Imperative (which I prefer to
call the Rational Imperative): "So act that you could consistently (i.e. logically) will the maxim of your action to
become, by your act, a universal law." In other words,
"!, as a rational man, cannot be content to act in ways
that I could not justify on grounds that would be equally
valid for all rational men."
Now to sum up: you all are partly right. Henry is right
in emphasizing the autobiographical element in all moral
judgments. We expect a man to approve of whatever he
calls "right" and to disapprove of whatever he calls
"wrong." Otherwise we call him insincere. Alfred is right
in emphasizing the emotive etement in moral judgments;
for certainly we do feel emotional antagonism to that
which we judge to be morally wrong. Richard is right in
emphasizing the imperative element; for we do seek to
impose our moral judgments on others, but isn't that
because we believe them to be valid, and not merely
because they are ours? And Jeremy is right in emphasizing that we expect a moral judgment not to be an isolated
pellet of unexplained moralism, but to have demonstrable
connection with some total economy of human goods;
that every moral judgment must justify itself by reference
to human life as a whole. And George is right in emphasizing that "good" can never be exhaustively defined
in naturalistic terms; for, however, we define it, the question always remains open as to whether we can remain
forever content with our present view of what is good.
The very thing we are all searching for is to discover what
we can ultimately be content to approve of, in the light
of the fullest knowledge. This is the goal of moral controversy. Therefore, the one thing we all can agree upon
is that we must keep moral controversy alive, and keep
it logical. Rational controversy, or dialectic, is the living
heart of ethics itself, just as the continuing dialectic in the
law courts is the living heart of the law. The one truly
unethical act would be to try to cut short the process of
moral controversy itself by any arbitrary dogma. The one
goal that we can all agree to seek is the furtherance of
concrete reasonableness itself.
SPRING 1985
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Social Science and Humanism
!
Leo Strauss
!
I
. We have been assigned the task of discussing humanISm an~ the social sciences. As appears from our program,
f
I
humarusm is understood in contradistinction to science,
This little known paper* by Leo Strauss** is of special interest to students of the thought of Leo Strauss because in it
certain things are said in his own name which appear in his
other printed works as descriptions of other men's views. I refer
particularly to the twelfth paragraph on science. There, rather
than emphasizing the opposition between, or mutual exclusiveness of, ancient and modern science, he looks forward to a more
comprehensive universal science, "the true universal science
into which modern science will have to be integrated eventually." The suggestion is that each science, ancient and modern,
clarifies different aspects or parts of the same whole.
The notes are supplied as an aid to readers less familiar with
Strauss's writings, to enable them to follow up themes discussed
here in places where they are treated more extensively. This
paper was published by Strauss without any notes. I recommend reading it through at least once without looking at the
notes.
on the one hand, and to the civic art, on the other. It is
thus suggested to us that the social sciences are shaped
by sCience, the civic art, and humanism or that the social
sciences dwell in the region where science, the civic art,
and humanism meet and perhaps toward which they converge. Let us consider how this meeting might be understood.
Of the three elements mentioned, only science and humanism can be said to be at home in academic life. They
certainly exhibit one characteristic of academic life. According to an old adage, man is a wolf to man, woman
is more wolfish to woman, but a scholar in his relations
to scholars is the most wolfish of all. Science and humanism are then not always on friendly terms. We all know
the scientist who despises or ignores humanism, and the
humanist who despises or ignores science. To understand
Laurence Berns
this conflict, tension, or distinction between science and
*From The State of the Social Sciences (papers presented at the 25th Anniversary of the Social Science Research Building, The University of
Chicago, November 10-12, 1955), ed. Leonard D. White, (19.56: The
University of Chicago Press), pp. 415425. We are grateful to the University of Chicago Press fot permission to reprint.
*"Leo Strauss was the Robert Maynard Hutchins Distinguished Service Professor of Political Science at the University of Chicago, and at
the time of his death in 1973 the Scott Buchanan Distinguished Scholar
in Residence at St. John's College.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
humanism, we do well to turn for a moment to the seventeenth century, to the age in which modern science constituted itself. At that time Pascal contrasted the spirit of
geometry (i.e., the scientific spirit) with the spirit of
finesse. We may circumscribe the meaning of the French
term by referring to terms such as these: subtlety, refinement, tact, delicacy, perceptivity. The scientic spirit is
characterized by detachment and by the forcefullness
which stems from simplicity or simplification. The spirit
of finesse is characterized by attachment or love and by
breadth. The principles to which the scientific spirit defers
are alien to common sense. The principles with which
the spirit of finesse has to do are within common sense,
yet they are barely visible; they are felt rather than seen.
They are not available in such a way that we could make
them the premises of our reasoning. The spirit of finesse
25
�is active not in reasoning but rather in grasping in one
view unanalyzed wholes in their distinctive characters.
What is meant today by the contrast between science and
humanism represents a more or less profound modification of Pascal's contrast between the spirit of geometry
and the spirit of finesse. In both cases the contrast implies that, in regard to the understanding of human
things, the spirit of science has severe limitationslimitations which are overcome by a decidedly nonscientific approach.
What are these limitations as we observe them today
within the social sciences? Social science consists of a
number of disciplines which are specialized and which
are becoming ever more specialized. There is certainly no
social science in existence which could claim that it studies
society as a whole, social man as a whole, or such wholes
as we have in mind when we speak, for example, of this
country, the United States of America. De Tocqueville
and Lord Bryce are not representative of present-day social science. From time to time one or the other special
and specialized science (e.g. psychology or sociology)
raises the claim to be comprehensive or fundamental; but
these claims always meet strong and justified resistance.
Co-operation of the various disciplines may enlarge the
horizon of the co-operating individuals; it cannot unify
the disciplines themselves; it cannot bring about a true,
hierarchic order.
Specialization may be said to originate ultimately in this
premise: In order to understand a whole, one must
analyze or resolve it into its elements, one must study
the elements by themselves, and then one must reconstruct the whole or recompose it by starting from the
elements. 1 Reconstruction requires that the whole be sufficiently grasped in advance, prior to the analysis. If the
primary grasp lacks definiteness and breadth, both the
analysis and the synthesis will be guided by a distorted
view of the whole, by a figment of a poor imagination
rather than by the thing in its fulness. And the elements
at which the analysis arrives will at best be only some
of the elements. The sovereign rule of specialization
means that the reconstruction cannot even be attempted.
The reason for the impossibility of reconstruction can be
stated as follows: The whole as primarily known is an
object of common sense; but it is of the essence of the
scientific spirit, at least as this spirit shows itself within
the social sciences, to be distrustful of common sense or
even to discard it altogether. The common-sense understanding expresses itself in common language; the scientific social scientist creates or fabricates a special scientific terminology. Thus scientific social science acquires
a specific abstractness. There is nothing wrong with
abstraction, but there is very much wrong with abstracting from essentials. Social science, to the extent to which
it is emphatically scientific, abstracts from essential
elements of social reality. I quote from a private communication by a philosophically sophisticated sociologist
who is very favorably disposed toward the scientific approach in the soCial sciences: "What the sociologist calls
26
'system,' 'role,' 'status,' 'role expectation/ 'situation,'
and 'institutionalization' is experienced by the individual
actor on the social scene in entirely different terms." This
is not merely to say that the citizen and the social scientist mean the same things but express them in different
terms. For "the social scientist qua theoretician has to
follow a system of relevances entirely different from that
of the actor on the social scene .... His problems originate
in his theoretical interest, and many elements of the social
world that are scientifically relevant are irrelevant from
the point of view of the actor on the social scene, and
vice versa.'' The scientific social scientist is concerned
with regularities of behavior; the citizen is concerned with
good government. The relevances for the citizen are
"values," values" believed in and cherished, nay,
"values" which are experienced as real qualities of real
things: of man, of actions and thought, of institutions,
of measures. But the scientistic social scientist draws a
sharp line between values and facts: he regards himself
as unable to pass any value judgments.'
To counteract the dangers inherent in specialization as
far as these dangers can be counteracted within the social
sciences, a conscious return to common-sense thinking
is needed-a return to the perspective of the citizen. We
must identify the whole in reference to which we should
select themes of research and integrate results of research,
with the over-all objectives of whole societies. By doing
this, we will understand social reality as it is understood
in social life by thoughtful and broad-minded men. In
other words, the true matrix of social science is the Civic
Art and not a general notion of science or scientific
method. Social science must either be a mere handmaid
of the Civic Art-in this case no great harm is done if it
forgets the wood for the trees, or, if it does not want to
become or to remain oblivious of the noble tradition from
which it sprang, if it believes that it might be able to
enlighten the Civic Art, it must indeed look farther afield
than the Civic Art, but it must look in the same direction
as the Civic Art. Its relevances must become identical,
at least at the outset, with those of the citizen or
statesman; and therefore it must speak, or learn to speak,
the language of the citizen and of the statesman. 3
From this point of view, the guiding theme of social
science in this age and in this country will be democracy,
or, more precisely, liberal democracy, especially in its
American form. Liberal democracy will be studied with
constant regard to the co-actual or co-potential alternatives and therefore especially to communism. The issue
posed by communism will be faced by a conscientious,
serious, and relentless critique of communism. At the
same time, the dangers inherent in liberal democracy will
be set forth squarely; for the friend of liberal democracy
is not its flatterer.' The sensitivity to these dangers will
be sharpened and, if need be, awakened. From the scientistic point of view, the politically neutral-that which is
common to all societies-must be looked upon as the clue
to the politically relevant-that which is distinctive of the
various regimes. But from the opposite point of view
II
SPRING 1985
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�which I am trying to adumbrate, the emphasis is put on
the politically relevant: the burning issues'
Social science cannot then rest satisfied with the overall objectives of whole societies as they are for the most
part understood in social life. Social science must clarify
those objectives, ferret out their self-contraclictions and
haifheartednesses, and strive for knowledge of the true
over-all objectives of whole societies. That is to say, the
only alternative to an ever more specialized, an ever more
aimless, social science is a social science ruled by the
legitimate queen of the social sciences-the pursuit traclitionally known by the name of ethics. Even today it is
difficult, in dealing with social matters, consistently to
avoid terms like a man of character," honesty," "loyalty," "citizenship education," etc.
This, or something like this, is, I believe, what many
people have in mind when speaking of a humanistic approach, as distinguished from the scientistic approach,
to social phenomena. We must still account for the term
"humanism." The social scientist is a student of human
societies, of societies of humans. If he wishes to be loyal
to his task, he must never forget that he is dealing with
human things, with human beings. He must reflect on
the human as human. And he must pay due attention
to the fact that he himself is a human being and that social
science is always a kind of self-knowledge. Social science,
being the pursuit of human knowledge of human things,
includes as its foundation the human knowledge of what
constitutes humanity or, rather, of what makes man complete or whole, so that he is truly human. Aristotle calls
his equivalent of what now would be called social science
the liberal inquiry regarcling the human things, and his
Ethics is the first, the fundamental, and the clirective part
of that inquiry. •
But, if we understand by social science the knowledge
of human things, are we not driven to the conclusion that
the time-honored distinction between social science and
the humanities must be abandoned? Perhaps we must
follow Aristotle a step further and make a clistinction between the life of society and the life of the mind, and
hence assign the study of the former to social science and
the study of the latter, or a certain kind of study of the
latter, to the humanities.
I do not have to go into another implication of the term
"humanism" -viz., the contradistinction of human
studies to clivinity, since our program is silent about
clivinity. I may limit myself to the remark that humanism
may be said to imply that the moral principles are more
knowable to man, or less controversial among earnest
men, than theological principles. 7
By reflecting on what it means to be a human being,
one sharpens his awareness of what is common to ali
human beings, if in clifferent degrees, and of the goals
toward which all human beings are clirected by the fact
that they are human beings. One transcends the horizon
of the mere citizen-of every kind of sectionalism-and
becomes a citizen ofthe world. Humanism as awareness
of man's distinctive character as well as of man's clistinc11
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
tive completion, purpose, or duty issues in humaneness:
m the earnest concern for both human kindness and the
betterment and opening of one's mind-a blend of firm
delicacy and hard-won serenity-a last and not merely
last freedom from the degradation or hardening effected
especially by conceit or pretense. One is tempted to say
that to be inhuman is the same as to be unteachable, to
be unable or unwilling to listen to other human beings.
Yet, even if all were said that could be said and that
cannot be said, humanism is not enough. Man, while being at least potentially a whole, is only a part of a larger
whole. While forming a kind of world and even being
a kind of world, man is only a little world, a microcosm.
The macrocosm, the whole to which man belongs, is not
human. That whole, or its origin, is either subhuman or
superhuman. Man cannot be understood in his own light
but only in the light of either the subhuman or the
superhuman. Either man is an accidental product of a
blind evolution or else the process leading to man,
culminating in man, is clirected toward man. Mere
humanism avoids this ultimate issue. The human meaning of what we have come to call "Science" consists
precisely in this-that the human or the higher is
understood in the light of the subhuman or the lower.
Mere humanism is powerless to withstand the onslaught
of modern science. It is from this point that we can begin
to understand again the original meaning of science, of
which the contemporary meaning is only a modification:
science as man's attempt to understand the whole to
which he belongs. Social science, as the study of things
human, cannot be based on modern science, although
it may jucliciously use, in a strictly subordinate fashion,
both methods and results of modern science. Social
science must rather be taken to contribute to the true
universal science into which modern science will have to
be integrated eventually.•
To summarize, to treat social science in a humanistic
spirit means to return from the abstractions or constructs
of scientistic social science to social reality, to look at social
phenomena primarily in the perspective of the citizen and
the statesman, then in the perspective of the citizen of
the world, in the twofold meaning of "world": the whole
human race and the all-embracing whole.
Humanism, as I have tried to present it, is in itself a
moderate approach. But, looking around me, I find that
it is here and now an extreme version of humanism. Some
of you might think that it would be more proper on the
present occasion to present the median or average opinion of present-day humanistic social scientists rather than
an eccentric one. I feel this obligation, but I cannot comply with it because of the elusive character of that meclian opinion. I shall therefore describe the extreme op·
posite of the view which appeals to me, or, rather, one
particular expression, which is as good as any other, of
that opposite extreme. Median social science humanism
can be defined sufficiently for our purpose by the remark
that it is located somewhere between these two extremes.
The kind of humanism to which I now turn designates
27
�itself as relativistic. It may be called a humanism for two
reasons. First it holds that the social sciences cannot be
modeled on the natural sciences, because the social
sciences deal with man. Second, it is animated, as it were,
by nothing except openness for everything that is human.
According to this view, the methods of science, of natural
science, are adequate to the study of phenomena to which
we have access only by observing them from without and
in detachment. But the social sciences deal with phenomena whose core is indeed inaccessible to detached observation but discloses itself, at least to some extent, to the
scholar who relives or re-enacts the life of the human beings whom he studies or who enters into the perspective of the actors and understands the life of the actors
from their own point of view as distinguished from both
his point of view and the point of view of the outside
observer. Every perspective of active man is constituted
by evaluation or is at any rate inseparable from it.
Therefore, understanding from within means sharing in
the acceptance of the values which are accepted by the
societies or the individuals whom one studies, or accepting these values "histrionically" as the true values, or
recognizing the position taken by the human beings
under consideration as true. If one practices such
understanding often and intensively enough, one realizes
that perspectives or points of view cannot be criticized.
All positions of this kind are equally true or untrue: true
from within, untrue from without. Yet, while they cannot be criticized, they can be understood. However, I
have as much right to my perspective as anyone else has
to his or any society to its. And every perspective being
inseparable from evaluation, I, as an acting man and not
as a mere social scientist, am compelled to criticize other
perspectives and the values on which they are based or
which they posit. We do not end then in moral nihilism,
for our belief in our values gives us strength and direction. Nor do we end in a state of perpetual war of
everybody against everybody, for we are permitted to
"trust to reason and the council table for a peaceful coexistence.''
Let us briefly examine this position which at first glance
recommends itself because of it apparent generosity and
unbounded sympathy for every human position. Against
a perhaps outdated version of relativism one might have
argued as follows. Let us popularly define nihilism as the
inability to take a stand for civilization against cannibalism. The relativist asserts that objectively civilization
is not superior to cannibalism, for the case in favor of
civilization can be matched by an equally strong or an
equally weak case in favor of cannibalism. The fact that
we are opposed to cannibalism is due entirely to our
historical situation. But historical situations change
necessarily into other historical situations. A historical
situation productive of the belief in civilization may give
way to a historical situation productive of belief in cannibalism. Since the relativist holds that civilization is not
intrinsically superior to cannibalism, he will placidly accept the change of civilized society into cannibal society.
Yet the relativism which I am now discussing denies that
28
our values are simply determined by our historical situation: we can transcend our historical situation and enter
into entirely different perspectives. In other words, there
is no reason why, say, an Englishman should not become,
in the decisive respect, a Japanese. Therefore, our believing in certain values cannot be traced beyond our decision or commitment. One might even say that, to the extent to which we are still able to reflect on the relation
of our values to our situation, we are still trying to shirk
the responsibility for our choice. Now, if we commit
ourselves to the values of civilization, our very commitment enables and compels us to take a vigorous stand
against cannibalism and prevents us from placidly accepting a change of our society in the direction of cannibalism.
To stand up for one's commitment means among other
things to defend it against its opponents not only by deed
but by speech as well. Speech is required especially for
fortifying those who waver in their commitments to the
values we cherish. The waverers are not yet decided to
which cause they should commit themselves, or they do
not know whether they should commit themselves to
civilization or to cannibalism. In speaking to them, we
cannot assume the validity of the values of civilization.
And, according to the premise, there is no way to convince them of the truth of those values. Hence the speech
employed for buttressing the cause of civilization will be
not rational discourse but mere "propaganda," a "propaganda" confronted by the equally legitimate and
perhaps more effective "propaganda" in favor of
cannibalism.
This notion of the human situation is said to be arrived
at through the practice of sympathetic understanding.
Only sympathetic understanding is said to make possible valid criticism of other points of view-a criticism
which is based on nothing but our commitment and
which therefore does not deny the right of our opponents
to their commitments. Only sympathetic understanding,
in other words, makes us truly understand the character
of values and the manner in which they are legitimately
adopted. But what is sympathetic understanding? Is it
dependent on our own commitment, or is it independent
of it? If it is independent, I am committed as an acting
man, and I am uncommitted in another compartment of
myself, in my capacity as a social scientist. In that latter
capacity I am, so to speak, completely empty and
therefore completely open to the perception and appreciation of all commitments or value systems. I go through
the process of sympathetic understanding in order to
reach clarity about my commitment, and this process in
no way endangers my commitment, for only a part of my
self is engaged in my sympathetic understanding. This
means, however, that such sympathetic understanding
is not serious or genuine and is, indeed, as it calls itself,
"histrionic." For genuinely to understand the value
system, say, of a given society, means being deeply
moved and indeed gripped by the values to which the
society in question is committed and to expose one's self
in earnest, with a view to one's own whole life, to the
claim of those values to be the true values. Genuine
SPRING 1985
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�understanding of other commitments is then not
necessarily conducive to the reassertion of one's own initial commitment. Apart from this, it follows from the inevitable distinction between serious understanding and
histrionic understanding that only my own commitment,
my own "depth:' can possibly disclose to me the commitment, the "depth:' of other human beings. Hence
my perceptivity is necessarily limited by my commitment.
Universal sympathetic understanding is impossible. To
speak crudely, one cannot have the cake and eat it; one
cannot enjoy both the advantages of universal understanding and those of existentialism.
But perhaps it is wrong to assume that all positions
ultimately rest on commitments, or at any rate on commitments to specific points of view. We all remember the
time when most men believed explicitly or implicitly that
there is one and only one true value system of universal
validity, and there are still societies and inviduals who
cling to this view. They too must be understood sympathetically. Would it not be harsh and even inconsistent to deprive the Bible and Plato of a privilege which
is generously accorded to every savage tribe? And will
sympathetic understanding of Plato not lead us to admit
that absolutism is as true as relativism or that Plato was
as justified in simply condemning other value positions
as the relativist is in never simply condemning any value
position? To this our relativist will reply that. while Plato's
value system is as defensible as any other, provided it
is taken to have no other support than Plato's commitment, Plato's absolutist interpretation of his value system,
as well as any other absolutism, has been refuted unqualifiedly, with finality, absolutely. This means however
that Plato's view as he understood it, as it reveals itself
to us if we enter sympathetically into his perspective, has
been refuted: it has been seen to rest on untrue theoretical
premises. So-called sympathetic understanding necessarily and legitimately ends when rational criticism
reveals the untruth of the position which we are attempting to understand sympathetically; and the possibility of
such rational criticism is necessarily admitted by
relativism, since it claims to reject absolutism on rational
grounds. The example of Plato is not an isolated one.
Where in fact do we find, outside certain circles of
present-day Western society, any value position which
does not rest on theoretical premises of one kind or
another-premises which claim to be simply, absolutely,
universally true, and which as such are legitimately exposed to rational criticism? I fear that the field within
which relativists can practice sympathetic understanding
is restricted to the community of relativists who understand each other with great sympathy because they are
united by identically the same fundamental commitment
or rather by identically the same rational insight into the
truth of relativism. What claims to be the final triumph
over provincialism reveals itself as the most amazing
manifestation of provincialism.
There is a remarkable contrast between the apparent
humility and the hidden arrogance of relativism. The
relativist rejects the absolutism inherent in our great
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Western tradition-in its belief in the possibility of a rational and universal ethics or of natural right-with indignation or contempt; and he accuses that tradition of
provincialism. His heart goes out to the simple preliterate
people who cherish their values without raising exorbitant claims on their behalf. But these simple people do
not practice histrionic or sympathetic understanding.
Lacking such understanding, they do not adopt their
values in the only legitimate manner, that is, as supported
by nothing except their commitment. They sometimes reject Western values. Therewith they engage in invalid
criticism, for valid criticism presupposes histrionic
understanding. They are then provincial and narrow, as
provincial and narrow as Plato and the Bible. The only
people who are not provincial and narrow are the
Western relativists and their Westernized followers in
other cultures. They alone are right.
It almost goes without saying that relativism, if it were
acted upon, would lead to complete chaos. For to say in
the same breath that our sole protection against war between societies and within society is reason, and that according to reason "Those individuals and societies who
find it congenial to their systems of values to oppress and
subjugate others" are as right as those who love peace
and justice, means to appeal to reason in the very act of
destroying reason.
Many humanistic social scientists are aware of the inadequacy of relativism, but they hesitate to tum to what
is called "absolutism." They may be said to adhere to
a qualified relativism. Whether this qualified relativism
has a solid basis appears to me to the most pressing question for social science today. 9
1. The Political Philosphy of Hobbes, (University of Chicago Press: 1952),
pp. 2-3, 150-155.
2. Natural Right and History, (University of Chicago Press: 1953} Chapter
II, ''Natural Right and The Distinction between Facts and Values."
3. What is Political Philosophy? (The Free Press of Glencoe, fllinois: 1959),
pp. 27-28; and 78·94, "On dassical Political Philosophy."
4. Natural Right and History, pp. 1 2; Liberalism, Ancient and Modem, (Basic
Books: 1968), pp. v~vili, chaps. 1 & 2, "What is Liberal Education,"
4
"Liberal Education and Responsibility;" pp. 23()..231; Political Philosophy:
Six Essays l1y Leo Strauss, ed. Hilail Gildin, (Bobbs~Merrill: 1975), "The
Three Waves of Modernity," p. 98; Natural Right and History, pp. 181~ 186,
"Modem Natural Right," 253-260, 278~290, 294-323; The City and Man,
(Rand McNally: 1964), pp. 1~12, "Introduction."
5. Liberalism, Ancient and Modern, pp. 214-218.
6. Natural Right and History, chapter IV, "Classic Natural Right," esp.
p. 126 ff.; Studies in Platonic Political Philosophy, (University of Chicago
Press: 1983), chapter 6, "On Natural Law."
7. Studies in Platonic Political Philosophy, chapter 7, "Jerusalem and
Athens: Some Preliminary Reflections;" Liberalism, Ancie11t and Modem,
chapters 6, 7, 9, 10; Persecution and the Art of Writing, (The free Press;
1952); SpinoZil's Critique of Religion, (Schocken Books: 1965); W1zat is
Political Philosophy?, Chapters v and vi; Natural Right and History, pp.
78-93; "On the Interpretation of Genesis," L'Homme, Jan.-March, 1981,
XXI(I), pp. 5~20; 'The Mutual Influence of Theology and Philosophy,"
The Independent Journal of Philosophy, vol. III, 1979, pp. 111-118; "Progress or Return? The Contemporary Crisis in Western Civilization,"
Modem Judaism, vol. I, pp. 17--45, Oohns Hopkins University Press: 1981).
8. Natural Right and History, pp. 23-24, 30-32, esp. 121-126; The Cit_11 and
Man, pp. 19-29; esp. What is Political Philosophy? pp. 38-40; "Farabi's
Plato," Louis Ginzburg Jubilee Volume, (American Academy for Jewish
Research: 1945), pp. 364ff. and 389-393.
9. Natural Right and History, p. lff.
29
�Reply to Tertullian
What speech could she make, unadvised,
to explain how the serpent sang
and she listened
and obeyed
because she'd never heard a voice she couldn't trust?
And even now she guards a secret pity for the reptile.
She has not forgotten his punishment.
It seems he did not lose his voice, nor his song,
but only had it altered.
So from dress to dress she goes,
searching for the cover that doesn't by its very presence
recall nakedness.
She envies him who at every season's change
can shed the garment that fails to grow.
Dear brother, whose every hiss
is only a reminder
of long-absent melodies.
M. L. Coughlin
M.L. Coughlin is a graduate of St. John's College, Annapolis now living in Annapolis.
30
SPRING 1985
�Achilles and Hector: The
Homeric Hero (Part I)
Seth Benardete
Achilles and Hector: The Homeric Hero is the Ph.D. dissertation of Dr.
Benardete submitted in 1955 to the Committee on Social Thought at
the University of Chicago.
·
1HE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
31
�T
.
.
i¥
'I
'§
:
CONTENTS
Part I. Style
Introduction .............................................. 33
Chapter
I. Men and Heroes ..................................... 36
IT. Achaeans and Trojans ................................. 38
ill. Achilles and Agamemnon ............................. 42
IV. Ancestral Virtue ...................................... 44
V. The Armour of Agamemnon .......................... 46
VI. Ajax ................................................. 47
VIT. Heroic VIrtue ....................................... .48
VITI. Achilles and Hector ................................... 49
IX. Similes .............................................. 50
X. Achilles' and Hector's Similes .......................... 52
XI. Heroic Ambition ..................................... 53
Part IT. Plot
Introduction
Chapter
I. The Gods
II. The Plot of the iliad
ill. The Embassy
IV. The Deception of Zeus
V. Patroclus
VI. Achilles and Patroclus
vn. The Exploits of Achilles
Vlli. Achilles and Hector
IX. The Funeral Garnes
X. Achilles and Priam
Epilogue
32
SPRING 1985
.
�Part I
Style
Introduction
This essay falls into two parts. The first part analyzes
the style of the Homeric hero, all that the heroes have
most in common; the second formulates the plot of the
Iliad, the tragedy of Achilles. That such a division is possible and even necessary indicates the peculiar nature of
the Iliad. It is a long work. It can neither be surveyed in
a single glance nor remembered in a single hearing. And
yet since it is presented as a whole, it must have a certain style to maintain its unity, and a certain kind of subject that will justify its length. Its subject cannot be merely
the story of Achilles, for otherwise a short tragedy would
suffice, and many of its episodes would be superfluous.
Whatever impression one has of Achilles' character does
not obviously depend on the whole of the Iliad. Many
parts, however excellent in themselves, do not seem to
advance our knowledge of Achilles and his wrath. The
catalogue of ships, the exploits of Diomedes, the deception of Zeus, all seem to reveal Achilles in no clearer light.
Only if its scope were as universal as an ancient commentator suggests it is, would its bulk seem warranted:
Were anyone to ask, noting the worth and excellence of Achilles,
why Homer called his work the fliad and not the Achilleid,-as he
did the Odyssey after Odysseus-we would answer that, in one case,
the story concerned a single man, while in the other, even if Achilles
excelled the rest, yet they too were excellent; and that Homer wished
to show us not only Achilles but also, in a way, all heroes, and what
sort of men they were: so unwilling to call it after one man, he used
the name of a city, which merely suggested the name of Achilles. 1
Achilles is a hero in a world of heroes; he is of the same
cast as they, though we might call him the first impression which has caught each point more finely than later
copies. He holds within himself all the heroic virtues that
are given singly to others, but his excellence is still the
sum of theirs: we do not need a separate rule to measure
his supremacy. Golden he may be, but the others shine
as brilliant and work as much havoc. Before we can come
into the presence of Achilles, and take his measure, we
must first be presented with the common warrior, who
is not just something abstract and mechanical but human,
and with whom Achilles has more in common than he
knows. They are not just gibbering ghosts and mere
trophies: they are the armature on which Achilles is
shaped and the backdrop against which his tragedy is
played. Homer assumes our ignorance of what the heroes
are, and like an historical novelist fills the landscape as
he advances his plot (it is no accident that the Odyssey
A former teacher at St. John's College, Annapolis, Seth Benardete is
professor of classics at New York University. His most recent book is
a translation with commentary of Plato's Theatetus, Sophist and Statesman.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
is shorter), so that their every aspect belongs to his art,
until the substance of Achilles, not merely its shadow,
can at last be seen and judged; indeed, had not Homer
described all of the heroic world, the tragedians would
have been unable to select a part and still remain
intelligible.
And yet, even if we discover the relevance of the Iliad's parts to one another, many of the details within the
parts would still be thought needless. That the Achaeans
are "well-greaved" and the Trojans "high-spirited" does
not evidently pertain to Achilles or the heroes; but again,
even were they found to be pertinent, why should Homer
have indulged in their repetition? Surely they cannot
strike more than a momentary flash in our imagination?
They might have served as ornaments, were they not so
common: their constant presence makes them tawdry,
the burnt-out sparks of a dead tradition; and even if
repeated epithets were not tedious, similar scenes, formulaic lines, and identical heroes cannot but burden our
memory without improving our knowledge. To answer
these charges and grasp the purpose of repetition, we
must first consider, in a general way, the style of the Iliad.
The Iliad, if it is to maintain its unity, demands repetition, but to avoid strain, it needs as well a relaxed
grandeur. It must be rapid, easy and spacious. To write
like Tacitus, if one wished, like. Livy, to record the entire
history of Rome, would be intolerable; and to adopt a Livian manner, were one to devote an essay to Agricola,
lessens the height of one's opinions. Regardiess of
temperament, if Tacitus had abused his style, contrary
to the needs of the subject itself, and written an universal history, his failure would have been certain; and even
as it is, he employs a "choked" syntax, that departs from
Ciceronian usage, mostly in his portrayal of Tiberius,
whose mastery of dissemblance imposed a similar effort
on Tacitus himself. As a student of Thucydides he attempts only small chapters of history, while Livy (like
Herodotus) imitates the range of his subject. A rambling
work demands a leisurely style;. a constricted view must
regulate more exactly the stride of each sentence.
Density seems to favour shortness as openness length.
A lyric poem is both short and compact; were it longer,
its very brilliance would cloy: even Pindar' s fourth
Pythian, which contains but three hundred lines, is
thought excessive. Aeschylus' trimeters are denser than
Sophocles', and as a consequence his plays are shorter:
not that a single line conveys more matter, but a greater
length would shatter the whole. Vergil and Milton, for
example, by employing the diction of lyric poetry, often
go against the grain of epic. Each line is so overloaded
that its luxury saps the strength of the whole, as if the
lavishness of their genius packed the work so tightly that
it became stunted. The high road of fancy, no matter how
inviting it may appear, is closed to the epic poet, even
as the thoroughfare of prose would betray his calling. He
must steer a middle course between the whirlpool of anarchic invention and the rock of listless monotony; he must
restrain his exuberance in each of the parts as he keeps
33
�his eye on the whole but still illumine the whole by the
light of each part. He cannot adopt a Livian style, containing no limit within itself, whose only virtue is its flexibility, so that it can be stretched to any length; for in
achieving a careless ease, he might abandon all the strictures that should limit its extension. A relaxed style seems
to guarantee its own dissipation, but as soon as it is stiffened, it may lose, in turn, the only virtue that justified
its apparent poverty. And Homer, whether by genius or
by art, hit upon a device, partly traditional and partly his
own, that at once retained the sprezzatura proper to his
work as well as informed it into a whole.
Formulae clearly solve a part of this problem. Their
familiarity does away with the need for continual invention; their strangeness raises them above the common
speech. They will not clutter the work and obscure the
whole, nor will they make it vulgar and weaken the
whole. They are stage directions. They dispose
economically of all the necessary but unimportant actions:
walking, speaking, falling and dying, all of which cannot be omitted, even though they may Jack significance.
Such a diction has great advantages, but it the formulae
are merely the cues and promptings to the action, they
cannot belong to the whole, however much they may be
a part. If they frame the words and deeds, they do not
affect their matter. They have no hold on the vital concern of Homer, Achilles and Hector, nor can they pass
as his own coinage. They would seem an irreducible surd
and a necessary evil. If they are to be fused with the
whole, they must reveal something about the heroes,
something that distinguishes them from everyone else
and from each other, and thus contributes to the theme
of the Iliad. These differences must exist not only in the
large but in the smallest detail, since as Plutarch remarks,
"not in the most glorious actions is there always the truest
indication of virtue and vice, but often a small occasion,
a word, or a gest expresses a man's character more clearly
than great sieges, great armaments, and battles with thousands slain; and just as painters catch a likeness from the
fact and its features, by which character is expressed, and
neglect almost entirely the rest of the body, " 2 so Homer
must not Jose sight of the smallest occasion, put he must
endow each one with a poetic necessity. And yet the
vastness of his plan is a hindrance. To present each hero
diversely would render them distinct but alien to one
another, excessive detail being more likely to break up
the whole than restore its unity. Each particular, in choking the whole, would itself be drowned in the others.
Homer then, forced to obtain depth without density,
realized that the style, which most suited the whole,· also
could be worked to unite it. Formulae could be repeated
without complicating the style: so epithets, were they
suggestive enough, could also recur, and in their very
recurrence enrich the whole. Their repetition would force
us to attend to them and regard them as something more
than baubles; so that, even though they are details by
themselves, they acquire in the mass sufficient bulk to
influence the whole. If, however, they changed their
34
meaning on each occasion, the sum of their ambiguities
would disperse their common significance, and confound
the simplicity of his style; but if they were fixed in meaning, they would not support the otherwise subtle portrait of Achilles: they would be thought the burden of a
tradition Homer could not shake off. Confronted with
these two dangers, infinite variety and idle repetition,
Homer struck a balance: he set aside a certain number
of occurrences of each epithet as a neutral base, by which
the rest are nourished as they reveal its various aspects.
Some are unaffected by the passage in which they stand
(preserving the clarity); others are closely linked with
their context (increasing the depth). The two kinds,
though diverse, do not contradict but supplement one
another: neither can be sacrificed. The first shows us how
essential the epithets are to a hero, the conventions he
must observe before he strikes out on his own; the second illustrates these common attributes in action and
what they imply: how, when raised to the highest degree,
they entail Achilles' tragedy. Neutral epithets indicate
how impossible it is for the heroes to cast off their general
character, even if these virtues are not required at the moment; pregnant epithets, on the other hand, show themselves in action and explain why the heroes must carry
them wherever they go.'
One cannot build a palace out of bricks, nor an epic out
of separate words; the longer the phrase that can be heard
as a unit, the less each part will be swallowed up in the
whole. Although precision cannot be discarded, it must
have a measure far different from a sonnet's. There must
be boldness and dash in epic precision: the broad strokes
of painting rather than the sharp exactness of the engraver's art. Every brush mark, regafded closely, neither
shares in the whole, nor affects its design. All it presents
is a blur of colour, seemingly indifferent to any larger purpose; but as soon as we view the iliad at its proper
distance, what seemed at first superfluous, assumes the
appearance of necessity. Yet how could Homer ensure
that we would observe the correct distance, and not
destroy his work by a too minute inspection? Happily
there was already at hand a measure in recitation. Recitation guaranteed that no one would count the threads in
the fabric, but it still allowed every thread to count. It
separated primary from secondary effects, which, though
indistinguishable to a reader's eye, the ear as readily
keeps apart as unites. One recital may have sufficed to
present the whole, another to explicate the parts, a third
or a fourth would be needed to make intelligible the formulae: so we in this essay have inverted the natural order
of understanding, and explained first what a hearer
would come to appreciate last. The first part cannot stand
by itself; it must be reinforced by the overall design; but
neither is that completely independent, and in one section (Part II, vii) we have tried to bring them together.
Within the framework ofthe epithets Homer "develops"
his heroes, and it would almost not be too rash to assert
that, if all of them were properly understood, the plot
of the Iliad would necessarily follow.
SPRING 1985
�Horner did not invent his formulaic diction: if he had,
a certain residue of unworked elements would be absent.
A swift ship, a black ship, a hollow ship are to him indifferent, metrical convenience alone dictating their use; and
though he was not always careless of things, it was not
until the lyric poets that they were made equal in rank
to persons. He nevertheless transformed the tradition,
for, as we suggested, only a poet extremely conscious of
the whole would have employed so much repetition, to
which no other folk-epic can offer a parallel.• He saw that
the tradition could be exploited so as to turn its supposed
defect into its greatest virtue. It gave him the means to
combine the many and the one; display a massiveness
that did not sacrifice delicacy; and thus achieve a balance
between the generic and the individual, uniformity and
diversity, that has always been the despair of the inferior
poets. A tragedian, it is true, does not face this problem:
he can always join, without intermediaries, the part with
the whole, since his hero occupies all of the canvas, and
every image and figure works directly for a single end.
The details and the design are inseparable, and either immediately leads to the other. To show how successfully
it can be managed, and yet how unlike to Homer, has
prompted us to trace the imagery of Shakespeare's Coriolanus at the end of the second Introduction. There are
other reasons as well that made us examine this play; but
it suffices to refer to it now as an example of the differences inherent in a short and a long work.
Although Vergil more inclined than Homer did to busy
himself with detail (at the expense of the whole), yet he
borrowed from him some of his technique; and before
we exemplify the previous remarks with an Homeric instance, it is instructive to consider a much simpler one
in Vergil. Aeneas is often called "pius."* Sometimes it
is obviously apt, and even if it were not his peculiar
badge, we would understand at once why Vergil employed it. When he has buried his nurse Caieta,
at pius exsequiis Aeneas rite solutis . . .5
(But pius Aeneas, when the funeral rites were duly paid ... )
no one would object to its insertion, since the rites Aeneas
performs clearly demand it; nor even when Aeneas calls
himself "pius," for not only is it right to assert his piety
before Venus, but the rest of the line explains the epithet,
sum pius Aeneas, raptor qui ex hoste penn. tis
classe veJw mecum .
6
(I am pius Aeneas, who cany with me in my fleet my household gods,
snatched from the foe ... )
whoever would think first of his household gods, in a
moment of great danger, eminently deserves such a title. Sometimes, however, it is not at all obvious why
Aeneas should be thus distinguished, and yet it should
*Latin pius has a range of meaning which is wider than "pious" or
"reverent," e.g., "dutiful," "obedient," "upright."
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
not be called even then an idle or an ornamental epithet.
When Aeneas attacks Mezentius, tum pius Aeneas hastam
iacit (then pius Aeneas casts a spear)', not so much
because Mezentius is "comtemptor deum" ("scorner of the
gods") is Aeneas glorified, 8 as because Aeneas must be
shown to be pious even in war. That is what he is no matter what he does. The action does not explain the epithet,
but the epithet is nevertheless its complement. It is the
basis on which Aeneas' prowess rests, and as without
it, he would not be what he is, Vergil employs it in its
most extreme consequences, where it is not visibly effective and yet not wholly powerless. The particular action
and the generic epithet are indissolubly linked, not in
some mechanical way, so that Aeneas will not only be
pius when he pays homage to the gods, but also when
he fights, and especially when he fights an irreligious
man.
As Horner works on an even larger scale than Vergil,
his technique differs radically. He must give more examples of the neutral as well as of the pregnant epithet.
He must impress upon the audience not only how
minimal the virtue in an epithet may be, but also how
much greatness it can, when evoked, suggest. An epithet
that shows an extraordinary range is amymon, which
sometimes means a routine efficiency and sometimes a
moral blamelessness. When Horner says,
For [Achilles] was by far the best, and the horses also, who carried
the blameless (amymlm) son of Peleus, 9
he set its meaning very high: as best of the Achaens,
Achilles is blameless, even as the mortal horse he yokes
in with his immortal horses deserves the same recognition;10 but when in the Odyssey he calls Aegisthus
blameless, 11 he sets its meaning at the very lowest mark.
Great virtue can exist with great baseness: Aegisthus was
of good family, bold (Nestor is partisan when he calls him
a coward), 12 and surely as excellent as Antinous and
Eurymachus, the worst of Penelope's suitors, who yet
excelled all the others in virtue Y Between Achilles and
Aegisthus lies the whole range of virtue, whose indifference to morality the Odyssey makes clear.
When, however, Athena looks for "godlike Pandarus,"
in order that she might urge him to renew the war, and
finds him, the "strong and blameless son of Lycaon,"
the irony in his perfection is obvious: he is an excellent
bowman but a fool." Homer takes care that such a twist
may not be lost on the hearer, for he repeats the same
lines later, when Aeneas reproaches Pandarus for not
employing his skill, and he insists that he did all he could
in vain: he should have left his bow at home .15 It is its
repetition within a changed setting that marks the epithet
as a variant on its common significance. As Pandarus is
a blameless bowman but blameworthy for his attempt o11
Menelaus' life, so he is innocent of Aeneas' accusation,
but he ought never to have brought his bow. And again,
who does not feel it is charged with a different feeling,
when the dying Patroclus predicts that "blameless
35
�Achilles" shall kill Hector? 16 when Patroclus forgives
Achilles for sending him to his death, Patroclus whom
Homer himself calls blameless after his death? 17 To
restrict the epithets to mere efficiency in these scenes, or
to deny that the audience would respond to them,
deprives the Iliad of half its effect and turns it into a
scrapheap.
"Ajax in his blameless heart knew-and shuddered
before-the works of the gods, that Zeus it was who completely thwarted the battle and wished the Trojans victory. " 18 If Ajax now retreats, he cannot be blamed, for
conscious of his courage, he is not ashamed to yield when
Zeus favors the Trojans. Kala thymon amymona is unique
in the Iliad, and hence is proof against all charges of
metrical convenience; and since it agrees so well with the
passage, it cannot be dismissed as accidental. Poulydamas
is often called blameless, 19 and though it seems at first
ornamental, as we watch him in action, the epithet fills
out and is explained. He first obtains it in a list of heroes,
where, though it plays no role, it prepares us for his
blameless advice thereafter; which Hector at first accepts
but later, to his sorrow, ignores. 20 Homer, in fact, goes
out of his way to confer upon him this epithet; for, when
amymon no longer fits the metre, he substitutes another
word (perhaps his own invention) to express the same
thing: "The other Trojans obeyed the plan of blameless
(amomi!toio) Poulydamas, but Asius was unwilling. " 21
Examples could be multiplied, but these suffice to indicate Homer's style and our own method. An epithet
must not be considered a useless relic: each contains a
real part of the Iliad. Each is worked so expertly as to cement the great with the small, and yet never lose its own
identity. Together they give an easy flow to the whole,
even as they add a solid intricacy. No other poet has
reconciled so well the subtle and the massive: we would
have to look to Plato for an equal success; who joined
repetition with variety and the univesal with the particular to an even greater degree; and though in this he
surpasses Homer, he himself acknowledges no worthier
rival.
Chapter I
Men and Heroes
When Hector's challenge to a duel found no takers
among the Achaeans, "as ashamed to ignore as afraid
to accept it," Menelaus, after some time, adopting a
rebuke invented by Thersites, berates them thus:
0 moi apeileteres, Achai"des, ou.ket' Achi011
(Ah me, you boasters, you women, no longer men, of Achaea).
Warriors ought to believe that to be a woman is the worst
calamity; and yet Homer seems to mock their belief, in
making Menelaus, who warred to recover the most
beautiful of women, and Thersites, the ugliest person
36
who came to Troy, the spokesmen for manliness. However this may be, both the Achaeans and Trojans not only
insist on being men as opposed to women, but also on
being andres as distinct from anthropoi.
Anthropoi are men and women collectively, and }lien
or women indifferently: and whatever may be the virtues of an anthropos it cannot be martial courage, which
is the specific virtue of men. Nestor urges the Acheans
to stand their ground:
My friends, be men (aneres), and put shame of other humans (an~
thropoi) in your hearts, and remember, each of you, your children
and wives, your possessions and parents. 2
The Achaeans themselves must be andres*, or ''he-men'';
others, their own children, parents and wives, are anthropoi. "Anthropoi, or "human beings," are others, either
those who lived before-proteroi anthropoi'-or those yet
to come-opsigonoi anthropoi'; and if the heroes employ
it of the living, they are careful not to include themselves.
Agamemnon swears that he has not touched Briseis, and
even if he had, he would not have sinned very much,
doing
he themis anthrOpOn pelei arulron ede gynaikOn 5
(as goes the way of human beings, both men and women).
But Odysseus, though he repeats the rest of Agamemnon's speech almost exactly, changes this one line, when
he addresses Achilles:
he them is estin, anax, e t'and rOn e te gyn11ikOn 6
(as is the way, my Lord, either of men or of women).
Odysseus is aware that Achilles will find that oath more
difficult to believe than Agamemnon's other promises;
and so by a personal appeal, "my Lord," he hopes to
remind Achilles that he too is subject to the same passion, and thus Agamemnon's show of abstinence is all
the more to be admired; but lest he risk Achilles' anger,
were he to number him among human beings, Odysseus
omits anthropoi and distinguishes (by "either/or") between men and women, whom Agememnon had classed
together. That Achilles, in spite of Odysseus' precaution,
does not credit the oath, and that he would have taken
offense had Odysseus called him human, his reply indicates; for he places Menelaus and Agememnon among
meropes anthropoi (literally, humans endowed with
speech) though it can only there mean husbands, and
calls himself aner agathos kili echephron ("a good and sensible man").'
Others are anthropoi, but never is another an anthropos.
If you wish to be an individual, you must be either aner
or gyne, "man" or Woman";_ but if you belong to a
crowd, indistinguishable from your neighbor, you are
both catalogued together under "human beings. " 8 The
singular anthropos occurs but thrice in the Iliad, twice in
11
,. Aner is a singular form; plural forms are andres, aneres.
SPRING 1985
�a general sense and perhaps once of an individual, but
in all three cases Homer speaks in his own name, and
two of them occur in similes.' And not only do humans
in the heroic view lack all uniqueness and belong more
to the past or the future than to the present, but even
Odysseus seems to young Antilochus, as a member of
a prior generation, more anthropos than aner. 10 Old age
is as absolute as death, which deprives Hector and
Patroclus of their "manhood and youthful prime" (androteta kai heben) ," of an heroic manhood that lasts but an
instant. Odysseus is consigned to the world of anthropoi
and Hector to Hades.
Achilles in the ninth book is found "pleasing his heart
with the dear-toned lyre and singing the famous deeds
of men" (klea andron); 12 whereas Aeneas, before declaiming his genealogy to Achilles, remarks that "we know
each other's lineage and have heard the famous words
of mortal human beings" (proklyta epea thneton anthropon).13 Deeds are done by andres, words are spoken by
anthropoi; and if human beings do anything, it is only the
tillage of the fields. 14 The hero's contempt for speeches
is but part of his contempt for anthropoi, 15 and yet they
depend on them for the immortality of their own fame. 16
Anthropoi are the descendants of andres, the shadows, as
it were, that the heroes cast into the future, where these
poor copies of themselves live on; and as the adulation
they will give would seem to justify their own existence,
it is proper that these later generations, extolling the
heroes beyond their worth, should look on them as
demigods: so the word hemitheoi, "demigods," occurs
but once, in a passage on the future destruction of the
Achaeans' wall, and not accidentally it is coupled there
with andres (hemitheon genos and ron)."
Under one condition are the heroes willing to regard
themselves as anthropoi if they refer at the same time to
the gods. Achilles makes the two heralds, Talthybius and
Eurybates, witnesses to his oath:
pros te theon makaron pros te thrlCton anthrOpOn 18
(before the blessed gods and mortal men).
The gods are blessed and immortal, while anthropoi are
mortal, and it is only their weakness, when confronted
with the splendid power of the gods, that makes the
heroes resign themselves to being human. "Shall there
be evil war and dread strife," ask the Achaeans and Trojans, "or does Zeus bind us in friendship, Zeus who
dispenses war to anthropoi?"19 Whenever the heroes feel
the oppressive weight of their mortality, they become,
in their own opinion, like other men, who are always
human beings; 20 and the gods also, if they wish to insist
on their own superiority, or no longer wish to take care
of the heroes, call them in turn anthrapoi; as Athena does,
in calming Ares, who has just heard of his son's death:
For ere now some other, better in his strength and hands than he,
has been slain or will yet be slain, for it is hard to save the generation and offspring of all men (anthrOpoi). 21
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
If anyone had the right to be called a hero, surely this
Ascalaphus, a son of Ares, had; but Athena wishes to
point out his worthlessness and deprive him of any divine
status, so that Ares' regret at his loss might be diminished. For the gods are not concerned with men insofar
as they are mortal, but on the condition of their possible
divinity.
How far apart the Achaeans and Trojans are from ordinary men, the word "~hero"* shows; Homer identifies
it with aner (the phrase heroes andres thrice occurs), 22 and
it clearly has nothing to do with anth ropoi, for even we
can feel how jarring the union heroes anthropoi would
have been." But in what consists the heroic distinction?
First, in lineage: the heroes are either sons of gods or can
easily find, within a few generations, a divine ancestor;
and second, in providence: the gods are concerned with
their fate. Zeus is a father to them-"father of men (andron) and gods" -who pities them and saves them from
death, while he is not the father but the king of mortal
creations-has te theoisi kai anthropoisi anassei ("who is lord
over gods and men"). 24 Zeus acts toward the heroes as
Odysseus was said to treat his subjects-"he was gentle
as a father" 25-and he acts toward us as Agamemnon
toward his men: distant, haughty, indifferent. As the providence extended over human beings is unbenevolent,
Zeus dispenses war to anthropoi, himself careless of its
consequences; but it is a "father Zeus" who, Agamemnon believes, will aid the Achaens and defeat the perfidious Trojans; and as father Zeus he later pities
Agamemnon and sends an eagle for an omen. 26
Andres and theoi (gods) belong to the same order: they
may be built on different scales, but they are commensurate with one another. 27 Achilles is a theios aner: 28 theios
anthropos would be unthinkable. The direct intervention
of the gods seems to elevate man to aner, whereas the
flux of fortune, in which no caring providence can be
seen, degrades him to anthropos. "Of all the things that
breathe and move upon the earth," Odysseus tells Amphinomus, "the earth nurtures nothing weaker than a
human being (akidnoteron anthropoio); for as long as the
gods grant him virtue and his limbs are strong, he thinks
he will meet with no evil in the future; but whenever the
blessed gods assign him sorrows, then he bears them,
though struck with grief, with a steadfast heart."" When,
however, Zeus pities the horses of Achilles, who weep
for Patroclus, he regrets that he gave to mortal Peleus
horses ageless and immortal, for "of all the things that
breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is more pitiful
than a he-man (oizyroteron andros). " 30 Odysseus talks of
anlhropoi; Zeus is concerned only with andres, those
among us whom the gods favour and try to raise above
the common lot of mankind. It is not the uncertainty in
man's life which seems to Zeus man's sorrow; for the
gods can put an end to chance and ensure his success:
but even the gods are powerless to change man's fate,
*Greek, heros (singular), herOes (plural).
37
�no matter how many gifts they might lavish on him. Mortality and mortality alone makes for the misery of man.
Odysseus, on the other hand, did not find man's burden
in mortality (already implied in anthropos) but in his inability to guarantee, as long as he lives, his happiness.
Not his necessary death, in spite of the gods' attention,
but his necessary helplessness, because of the gods' wilful
despotism, seems to Odysseus the weakness of man.
Although Zeus and Odysseus here state the human and
divine opinions about man's nature, they also reflect, in
a more general way, the difference between the Iliad and
the Odyssey. Zeus spoke in one, Odysseus in the other.
The Iliad is an image of a war-torn world, and as such
is but a partial view of the world around us. This deficiency the Odysset; corrects, for it more accurately depicts
the simply human things. Not man protected by the gods
(man at war), but man without the gods, is the subject
of the Odyssey. Odysseus indeed is an exception in his
own world, and carries with him some of the providence
that was so universal in the Iliad. Both Achaeans and Trojans obtained divine assistance there: but not one of the
gods now favours the suitors; so that, even if providence
still works for Odysseus (who must especially be helped
against the suitors, andres hyperphialoi-"overweening hemen" -that they are), 31 it leaves the rest of the world intact, little affected by the gods' presence: and this is the
world of human beings-"
Even as the word anlhropos is more frequent in the
Odyssey than in the Iliad, while the word heros occurs
almost twice as often in the Iliad, 33 so Odysseus saw the
cities of many men (anthropoi), and Achilles cast into
Hades the lives of many heroes. 34 The Odyssey takes place
after the Trojan war, when those, upon whom the heroes
had relied for their fame, are living and remember in song
the deeds of the past. 35 Phemius among the suitors and
Demodocus among the Phaeacians celebrate an almost
dead heroic world; and Odysseus also, since he shared
in that past but never belonged to it, recounts rather than
acts out his own adventures. As Odysseus' deeds are
only mythoi so he himself is an anthropos 36 not only as opposed to the gods, which even Achilles might allow to
be true of himself, but absolutely so. 37 War is the business
of heroes andres, peace of anthropoi; and as Odysseus
never did quite fit into the Iliad and was an obscure figure
(his greatest exploit occurred at night), 38 he becomes in
the Odyssey preeminent, while the former great are mere
ghosts in Hades, and depend on Odysseus for their
power of speech.
The heroes are survivors in the Odyssey; they no longer
dominate the stage, they are old-fashioned and out of
favor. Menelaus is a hero (and often uses the word),"
but Telemachus becomes a hero only at his court, 40 where
the spell of the past still lingers. Laertes is a hero, or rather
"hero-oldman" (geron heros), 41 who putters about in his
garden. Other old men are heroes: Aegyptius,
Halitherses, Echeneus 42 and Eumaeus calls Odysseus,
when disguised as an old man, hero." The word has been
preserved in the country and remains on the lips of a
38
swineherd. It has become an empty title, without any
suggestion of force, nor even as an indication of rank,
for Moulius, a servant of Amphinomus, can now l~y claim
to it. 44
Chapter II
Achaeans and Trojans
To Agamemnon's demand for an equal prize in return,
were he to give Chryseis back to her father, Achilles objects: "Most worthy Atreides-most rapacious of all!how will the magnanimous Achaeans give you a prize?" 1
The phrase megathymoi Achaioi would not at first draw
us to examine it, though we might doubt its suitability,
were it not that, after Amemenon has used it (in echoing
Achilles), it never again occurs in the Iliad. 2 Not the
Achaeans but the Trojans are megathymoi. 3 Why then did
Achilles employ it? Megathymos bears here two senses:
"great-spirited" and "greatly generous." Achilles asks
Agememnon, on the one hand, how the Achaeans,
generous though they are, could give him a prize, when
all the spoils are already divided. And he asks him, on
the other, how they, indignant at Agememnon's greed,
could grant him anything more. As Achilles himself is
often megathymos, 4 he transfers his own epithet to all the
Achaeans, in the hope that, as his anger rises against
Agememnon, the Achaens, carried along by his rhetoric,
will side with him. "Great-spirited" is, as the BT Scholiast
remarks, demagogic. The Achaeans should be as indignant as himself; they too should revile Agamemnon's
presumption; but Agememnon twists Achilles' phrase to
his own end:
... but if the megathymoi Acha_eans give [me] a prize, suiting it to
my heart, so as to be worth as much- 5
Had not Agmemnon wished to echo Achilles' line, the
apodosis would have been expressed (e.g. essonlai
megathymoi, "they will be magnanimous"); but proleptically, as it were, he puts his conclusion in the protasis.
Disregarding megathymoi as "great-spirited" (which
Achilles the more intended), he assumes it means, ignoring Achilles' irony, "greatly generous": The Achaeans
will give him adequate recompense because they are
magnanimous, and know how to prepare a gift agreeable
to the spirit of a king. 6 The thymos of Agamemnon will
find a sympathetic response in the megas thymos of the
Achaeans. He will have nothing to fear from so liberal
an army.
The Trojans are megathymoi not in generosity but in
martial temper, for their leaders use it as an exhortation, 7
even as Hector urges them, as hyperthymoi ("overspirited") to fight in his absence, or not to let Achilles
frighten them' They are "over-spirited" as well as "highspirited" in Homer's opinion.' Their spirit is not only
grand but excessive; their exurberance in war turns eas-
ily into pure fury-" They are in the opinion of others,
SPRING 1985
�though not in Homer's, hyperphialoi, "over-proud" and
"arrogant," 11 a vice that Homer attributes to Penelope's
suitors, 12 whom he also calls agenores, "super-men," as
it were, or "muscle-bound"; and this the Trojans also
are. 13 Magnanimity may be a vice or a virtue. It contains
for example, the intransigence as well as the fearlessness
of Achilles." It recognizes no obstacles and knows no
bounds. It is so high-keyed that the slightest jar untunes
it; it has no slack to take up, nor any reserve to expend.
It is all action and no recoil. Thus the Trojans are "highspirited" both when they see the blood of Odysseus, and
when they see one son of Dares killed and the other in
flight. 15 In one case, they are spurred to charge and cluster
round Odysseus, while in the other they are crestfallen.
Men who are high-spirited flourish on success but cannot withstand adversity. "Their courage rises and falls
with their animal spirits. It is sustained on the field of
battle by the excitement of action, by the hope of victory,
by the strange influence of sympathy"" whereas those
more reserved and less outwardly spirited (menea
pneiontes,-Homerically, "breathing furious courage")17
might accomplish less in victory, but would not fall off
so much in defeat. They would possess a resilience and
a steadiness the Trojans lack.
Nestor in the Doloneia asks whether anyone would be
willing to spy on the Trojans, but he begins by assuming
no one would: "Friends, no man, trusting to his bold and
steadfast heart (thymos tolmeeis), would go among the
high-spirited Trojans." 18 Whoever might have a thymos
tolmeeis would be not only thymodes ("high-spirited") but
tlemon ("stout-hearted") as well. He would be
megathymos and megaletrJr, "high-spirited" and "greathearted," combined. The thymos would bestow daring,
the etor ("heart") endurance:" the one would match the
high spirit of the Trojans, "deaf as the sea, hasty as fire";
the other would keep him steady and patient. Thus Diomedes who is "high-spirited" and "over-spirited" picks
as his companion "much-enduring" and "great-hearted"
Odysseus:" for as he kills Dolan and other Trojans, so
Odysseus calms the horses of Rhesus, lest they be unnerved at the sight of Hood and corpses 21 Were then
Odysseus' and Diomedes' virtues united in the same person, he would be the best: so Achilles has a megaletora
thymon as often as he is megathymos. 22 To be able to suffer qtrietly and act qtrickly are complementary virtues that
in Achilles seem to coalesce. But the Trojans are not, except twice, megaletores: once Hector, who is himself
"great-hearted,"" urges the Trojans to be so; and once
Achilles is surprised that they are. 24
The Trojans are not only megathymoi but also hippodamoi,
''tamers of horses'': one word refers to their spirit in war,
the other to their peaceful occupation. They exhibit,
however, two aspects of the same character. Their temper
in war reflects the temper of the horses they tame in
peace: we must think of cavalry officers rather than of
trainers and grooms: as if the quick, restive, and irritable
humours they subdue in horses rubbed off on themselves.25 Pandarus calls to the Trojans: "Arise, high-
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
spirited Trojams, goaders of horses. " 26 He exhorts them
in their martial qualities, both in the nature they inherited
and the skill they acquired: they would engage their
whole person. In another passage, the "over-spirited Trojans" keep pressing in on Ajax, who sometimes turns to
flee and sometimes checks the ranks of "Trojans tamers
of horses. " 27 Had Homer not wished to indicate how
close these two epithets are in meaning, he could have
easily found another word or phrase. At any rate, it is
one of the few instances where hippodamoi occurs in a battle scene, and the only time Homer uses it while there
is fighting. 28
After Menelaus and Paris have finished arming themselves, "they walked into the space between the
Achaeans and Trojans, and their glances were fearful:
wonder held those who beheld them, Trojans tamers of
horses and well-greaved Achaeans.""' Achaeans and Trojans both lack an epithet, when Homer sees them merely
as two groups of men; 30 but as soon as Paris and
Menelaus impress them with their look, and Homer turns
to describe their feelings, they become distinguishable.
The Trojans are tamers of horses as the Achaeans are wellgreaved: but the epithets are not of the same order. If
you see the Trojans, you cannot tell that they train horses;
if you see the Achaeans, you know they are well-greaved.
They appear well-armed: they may or may not be brave
warriors: but the Trojans, all of them, are high-spirited
in war. They show, even in their wonder, all of their
spirit-as if their surprise, though momentary, stirred
them completely and declared their profession, while the
suprise of the Achaeans glanced off their greaves. 31 The
Trojans are more readily affected than the Achaeans, who
can remove their armour and be different in peace than
in war: but the Trojans cannot so easily shake off their
temper. Their epithets are general and do not particularly
belong to an army. If we saw them in peacetime, they
would be still "high-spirited" and "tamers of horses."
But the Achaeans' epithets describe only their military
aspect and offer no clue to their peaceful appearance. We
know at once more about the Trojans than about the
Achaeans, who are, as it were, many-sided and polytropoi,
"of many turns": 32 there is no Odysseus among the Trojans. Not their outward show but the Trojans' inner fibre
impresses Horner; he sees it immediately. The Achaeans,
however, wear long hair, are well-greaved and bronzeclad, and their eyes flash; while the Trojans, though no
doubt they too are bronze-clad and shielded, display
more of themselves, and have a kind of openness in their
nature that the Achaeans lack. 33 The Trojans' epithets tell
us what they are, those of the Achaeans only hint at what
they are.
We learn about the Achaeans-what kind of men they
are-before we ever meet the Trojans, whom we first get
to know but briefly at the end of the second book; and
yet we may say that our knowledge of them both is almost
complete by the tenth: for it is remarkable how seldom
their distinctive epithets appear in the later books.
Although the most sustained and violent engagements
39
�take place in Books 11-17, it is not in these books that the
epithets of the Trojans and Achaeans are most frequently
found; they abound instead in the early books, of which
only the fifth and eighth books include great battles, and
cluster round interludes in the war rather than in the war
itself. Euknemides ("well-greaved") for example, occurs
nineteen times in Books 1-10, but only twelve in Books
11-24; chalkochitoncm ("bronze-coated") seventeen times
in Books 1-10, eight afterwards; and kare komoiintes
("long-haired") twenty-two times in Books 2-9, four later.
In the case of the Trojans, whose high and excessive spirit
has more of a place in war (and hence megathymoi and
hyperthymoi occur throughout the Iliad), only hippodamoi
suffers a like decline: seventeen times in Books 2-10,
seven afterwards. When the epithets have served their
purpose-to introduce us to the Achaeans and Trojansand Homer becomes increasingly concerned with
Achilles, they are more sparingly used. Another reason
why hippodamoi is used less frequently is that Homer
assigns to the Trojans many more similes (which both
supplement and replace the epithet) after the tenth book
than before: they obtain two in the first half (one in Book
3 and one in Book 4, but fourteen from Books 13 to 22.
Of joint similes-those shared equally with the
Achaeans-there are four before Book 10 and nine after.
For the Achaeans the opposite holds true: eighteen
similes occur in Books 2-9, nine in Books 11-19. The
similes complete Homer's description of the Achaeans
and Trojans, and as we start from the Achaean side and
slowly move across the lines to the Trojan (the plague
of the Achaeans turns into the funeral of Hector), so the
number of the Achaeans' similes diminishes, while that
of the Trojans' increases. We must start then (like Homer)
with the Achaean host, which is first presented in the second book, where almost half of its similes occur.
When the Achaeans first assemble, at Agamemnon's
command, they seem like a mass of bees that issue in constant stream from a smooth rock and then fly in grapelike clusters to spring flowers: so the Achaeans at first
make the earth groan when they come from their tents,
and a hum pervades the host, but then, once seated in
serious concentration, they are perfectly quiet. 34 But as
soon as Agamemnon has finished his disastrous speech,
they seem like long waves of the sea that east and south
winds agitate-they are disturbed contradictorily, and as
thick-set wheat, the shrill west wind shakes them-they
are pliant and disordered; and with shouts and cries,
whose din reaches up to heaven, they drag their ships
down to the sea. 35 In their desire to return home, they
forget all discipline: no longer distinguishable as individuals as they were as bees when gathering (slight
though that individuality might have been), they become
the riot and chaos of wheatfield and sea. So much have
they been stirred up, that even after Odysseus has
checked them, they return to the assembly as they left
it, shouting like the tumultuous ocean which breaks
against a shore. 36 Later, when they scatter to their tents,
their shout is the crash of waves against a high-jutting
40
rock, that waves never leave; 37 yet they are now more
singly resolved than before, for only the east wind (no
east, south, and west as before) moves them, and they
center round one object-Troy's capture- like waves that
always drench one rock."
The individuality of the Achaeans, lost after Agememnon' s speech, is slowly restored in the succeeding similes,
when they are marshalled and turned once again into
disciplined troops. The glint of their arms is like fire; the
stamp of their feet like the swelling crash of geese, cranes,
and swans; the number of their host like leaves, flowers,
and flies in spring. 39 They regain in these animal identities their former status, although they are not yet distinct
until the next simile: as shepherds easily recognize their
own flock in a pasture, so the leaders ranked the
Achaeans for battle. 40 Then the catalogue is made, which
completes their ranking, and they seem like fire spread
across the whole plain of the Scamander, and the earth
quakes like thunder." The Achaeans are marshalled
noiselessly: the necessary clang of their weapons and
tramp of their feet alone are heard; as if their high spirits
had been purged in the assembly and nothing remained
but a quiet resolution.
Fortissimus in ipso discrimine exerdtus est, qui ante discrimen
quietissimus. 42
(That army is bravest in the struggle itself, which before the struggle is more quiet.)
Homer made all of the second book as a contrast to the
Trojans, who as noisily prepare for war as they advance
with cries against the silent Achaeans. 43 And later when
the truce is broken, while the Achaeans, in fear of their
commanders, silently move like the continuous roll of
waves, and the only sounds are commands, "nor would
you say they had speech"; the Trojans shouted, like ewes
bleating ceaselessly, "nor was their clamour in concert,
for the voices were mixed, as the men had been called
from many lands."" As the Achaeans are silent, they can
obey the orders they hear; but the Trojans would drown
in their own clamour any command. The simile of the
Achaeans is deliberately inexact, for the echoing shore,
against which the waves break, has no counterpart in
themselves. No sooner are they compared to the sea, than
they are dintinguished from it. They are, what is inconceivable in nature, an ordered series of silent waves.
The Trojans, however, exactly correspond to their simile:
myriads of eyes pent up together in confusion. Of the
Trojans' other similes in the midst of battle, four single
out the clamour they make, as waves, or winds, or
storm:" but the noise of the Achaeans, even when they
do shout, 46 only warrants a simile if the Trojans join in, 47
and they are compared to water but once in battle: when
their spirit, not any outward sign, shows vexation. 48
It is not difficult to see how the epithets of the Trojans
are connected with their disorder, nor how those of the
Achaeans indicate their discipline. The high-spiritedness
of the Trojans would naturally express itself in cries, and
the fine greaves of the Achaeans would indicate a deeper
SPRJNG 1985
�efficiency. The ranks of the Trojans never equal in
closeness those of the Achaeans, whose spears and
shields form a solid wall, shield and helmet of one resting
on helmet and shield of another, 49 Nor do the Achaeans,
on the other hand, ever retreat like the Trojans:
paptenen de hekastos hopei phygoi aipytr alethron90
(and each looked about, how he might escape sheer destruction).
The Trojans flee, as they attack, in disorder, and more
by thymos than by epistemi! ("knowledge," "skill") are
they warriors. 51 They are, in the later Greek vocabulary,
barbarians. Thucydides' Brasidas, in urging his troops to
face bravely the lllyrians, could be describing the Trojans,
who "by the loudness of their clamour are insupportable,
and whose vain brandishing of weapons appears menacing, but who are unequal in combat to those who resist
them; for, lacking all order, they would not be ashamed,
when forced, to desert any position, and a battle, wherein
each man is master of himself, would give a fine excuse
to all for saving their own skins. " 52
How then are we to explain the silent efficiency of the
Achaeans and the noisy disorder of the Trojans? Has
Homer given a reason for this difference? Is there one
principle whose presence would force the Achaeans into discipline, and whose absence would let the Trojans
sink into anarchy? Aidos, "shame," seems to distinguish
them. There are two kinds of aidos: one we may call a
mutual or military shame, the other an individual or civil
shame. 53 The first induces respect for those who are you
equals; or, if fear also is present, your superiors; 54 the second entails respect for those weaker than yourself. The
first is in the domain of andres, the second of anthropoi. 55
Hector shows civil shame when, in speaking to Andromache, he says: "I am terribly ashamed before the
Trojans, men and women both, if I cringe like someone
ignoble and shun battle. " 56 And Hector is killed because
he would be ashamed to admit his error (of keeping the
Trojans in the field after Achilles' reappearance), ashamed
lest someone baser than himself might Bay, "Hector,
trusting to his strength, destroyed his people."" As commander of his troops, with no one set above him, Hector
must either feel the lash of public opinion, or become as
disobedient as Achilles, who at first lacks all respect for
Agamemnon and later all respect for Hector's corpse. 58
When, however, the Achaeans silently advance against
the Trojans, they show another kind of shame, "desirous
in their hearts to defend one another." 59 Their respect
is not for others but for themselves. Neither those
stronger nor those weaker than themselves urge them to
fight, but each wishes to help the other, knowing that
in "concerted virtue" resides their own safety. 60 Be
ashamed before one another," shouts Agamemnon (and
later Ajax), "in fierce contentions: when men feel shame,
more are saved than killed; but when they flee, neither
is fame nor any strength acquired. " 61 And even when
the Achaeans retreat, they do not scatter like the Trojans,
but stay by their tents, held by "shame and fear, for they
call to one another continuously. " 62 Whatever fear they
11
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
have before their leaders is tempered by their shame
before one another; and as, according to Brasidas, three
things make men good soldiers-will, shame, and
obedience-•3so the Achaeans show their will in prefering war to peace, 64 their shame in mutual respect, 65 and
their obedience in the fear of their leaders. 66
Agamemnon as a good king and Ajax as a brave warrior appeal to military shame, when they incite the
Achaeans; but aged Nestor urges them in the name of
civil virtue: "Friends, be men (andres) and place in your
spirit shame of other human beings (anthropoi), and let
each of you remember your children, your wives, possessions, and your parents, whether they still live or now
are dead; for the sake of those who are not here I beseech
you to stand your ground. " 67 Even as Nestor has placed
his worst troops in the middle, so that they will be forced, though unwilling, to fight, 68 so there he wishes to
regard all the Achaeans as caught between the Trojans
in front and their own families behind them; and he
hopes by this necessity, of avoiding death at the hands
of one and humiliation in the eyes of the other, they will
resist. Nestor leaves nothing to personal courage: it is of
a piece to rely on necessity and to appeal to civil shame;
for to a man who has outlived two generations the bonds
of society would seem stronger than those of an anny,
nor would his own weakness give him any confidence
in others' strength. As a very old man he has no peers,
and all relations seem to him the relation of the young
to the old, so that in making the Achaeans respect their
parents, he covertly makes them respect himself. Unable
to inspire his men by fear of himself and unwilling to trust
to military discipline, Nestor falls back on the rehearsal
of his own past prowess and on his soldiers' recollection
of those absent. 69
Military shame never once arouses the Trojans, whom
the cry "Be men!" always encourages; and once, when
Sarpedon tries to rally the Lycians-aidas, o Lykioi, pose
pheygete; nyn thooi este ("Shame, you Lycians, whither are
you fleeing? Be vigorous now!")-the appeal is to civil
shame: for as warriors they are urged to be "vigorous,"
and shame is only invoked to check their flight. 70
The Trojans rely more on their leaders than on their
troops, 71 for we always read of the "Trojans' and Hector's" attacking," as if the single virtue of Hector more
than equaled the mass effort of his men. 73 If the Trojans
act in concert, it is rather by the example of one man than
by any bravery in themselves; and Hector himself resembles Xenophon's Proxenus, who "was able to rule those
who were noble and brave, but unable to instill shame
or fear into his own troops, since he actually was more
ashamed before his men than they before him. " 74 Aeneas,
for example, can rouse Hector and the other captains by
an appeal to shame, but it would be unthinkable to
employ the same argument before all. 75 Though Nestor's
call to the Achaeans does appeal to a kind of civil shame,
theirs differs in this from the civil shame of the Trojans,
which affects only their greatest warriors.
How little the Trojans as a whole are affected by honor
41
�or shame, Homer shows us in the Doloneia, where under
the secrecy of night the basest motives and the most
cowardly actions prevai\. 76 Nestor asks an Achaean to
volunteer for a night patrol, and as reward he offers great
fame under heaven, a black ewe with her lamb from each
of the chiefs, and the perpetual right of being present at
banquets and feasts. n The two last inducements are mere
tokens, deliberately intended to be insufficient by themselves; so that the real emphasis might fall on the desire
for fame, which would animate only the noblest heroes.
When, however, Hector tries to provoke a Trojan to the
same exploit, he offers a considerable prize: the best
horses and chariot of the Achaeans." The consideration
of honor barely obtains mention. Hector does not even
think that fame would be an incentive at all, while Nestor
makes the material gain so little that fame alone must suffice. The cupidity of Dolon (though his being the only
male among five sisters somewhat pardons it) is the extreme example of Trojan shamelessness, while the honorable ambitions of Diomedes, though slightly depreciated
by his hesitation, is but the kind of nobility in which all
the Achaeans share.
Lessing grasped very well the difference between the
Achaeans and Trojans, when he wrote that "what in barbarians springs from fury and hardness, works in the
Greeks by principle, in whom heroism, like the spark concealed in flint, sleeps quietly, and as long as no outer force
awakens it, robs it of neither its clearness nor its coldness;
while barbaric heroism is a clear, devouring flame which
always consumes (or at least blackens) every other good
quality. If Homer leads the Trojans to battle with wild
cries, but the Greeks in resolute silence, the commentators are quite right to observe, that the poet wishes to
depict one side as barbarians and the other as a civilized
people. I am surprised, however, that another passage,
where there is a similar contrast of character, has not been
noticed. The enemy leaders have made a truce, and are
engaged in the cremation of their dead, which on both
sides takes place with much weeping. But Priam forbids
the Trojans to weep.79 'He forbids them to weep,' says
Mme. Dacier, 'because he fears they may become soft,
and in the morning go into battle with less ardour.' Quite
true; but still I ask: Why must Priam alone be afraid of
this? Why did not Agamemnon also give the same order?
The meaning of the poet goes deeper. He wishes to teach
us, that only the civilized Greeks can both weep and be
brave, while the barbarous Trojans, in order to be brave,
had to stifle all their humanity. " 80
Chapter III·
Achilles and Agamemnon
forces us to find other traits peculiar to themselves. Who
then is Achilles? Homer begs a goddess to sing the wrath
of "Peleides Achilles.'' 1 Achilles is the son of Peleus. he
is marked off from all other men because of his father:
as an only son, without brothers, he was entirely Peleus'
heir. 2 And were we to ask, Who is Peleus? we would be
told: "Aeacides," the son of Aeacus. And if we persisted,
and wanted to know who he was, Achilles himself boasts
it: "Aeacus was from Zeus. " 3 Achilles then is "Zeusborn," "Zeus-nurtured," or "dear to Zeus." In three
generations he goes back to Zeus, and beyond him it
would be foolish to go. To ask him who he is means to
ask him his lineage; and as he can only define himself
in terms of his past, were his ancestors unknown, he
would be a non-entity. 4 In Achilles' patronymic is
summed up part of his own greatness. He is partly the
work of generations.
Achilles has so much the springs of all his actions in
the past, that Homer can call him "Peleides" without
adding "Achilles," though it is Agamemnon, who even
more than he depends on his ancestors, that first addresses him so; while Homer calls him "Peleion" for the
first time only after Agamemnon has mocked and
doubted his divine ancestry. 5
Achilles, however, is not only the son of Peleus but the
grandson of Aeacus; and yet to be called "Aeacides,"
when he is actually "Peleides," means that he has inherited something that was common to all his ancestors.
Achilles is called the son of Aeacus first in the Trojan
catalogue: Ennomus and Amphimachus were both killed
by Achilles in the guise of "swift-footed Aeacides."'
Achilles resembles his grandfather in his ability to kill.
As a warrior he is indistinguishable from his forefathers:
killing is a family profession.' During the embassy, when
Achilles is most idle, though ironically most Achilles (for
his wrath makes up a great part of him), no one calls him
the son of Peleus; rather they point out to him how much
he has failed to follow his father's precepts.' When,
however, he returns to the fighting, his father's name is
almost as common as his own; and as he assumes his
ancestral name, he takes up his father's spear, which no
more could be hurled by another than "Peleides" be said
of another;' while again, in the last book, where his own
name occurs more frequently than anywhere else, his
patronymic hardly appears,· and he is never called to his
face the son of Peleus. Somehow he has outlived it.
As Hector had many brothers, to tell us at first that he
is the son of Priam would mean little: so Achilles, who
first mentions him, calls him "Hector the man-slayer. " 10
Paris, contrariwise, does not even deserve his father's
name, for his only distinction lies in his theft: he is most
of all the "husband of Helen, " 11 although in his braver
moments, which do not last very long, he earns the right,
that other heroes have without question, to be called
''Priamides.'' 12
Achilles and Hector are heroes, one an Achaean, the
other a Trojan: but to know them better, so that even
away from their camps, we would not mistake them,
42
But when we ask, "Who is Odysseus?" and tum to the
first lines of the Odyssey, the answer is quite different:
"Tell me of the man, Muse, of many wiles who wandered
SPRING 1985
�very far:" Odysseus is a clever man who wandered very
far. He 1s not made distinct from other men because he
is the only son of Laertes, but because he traveled. His
genealogy is contained in what he himself did and not
in what his father might have been. Laertes' father is
known, but his grandfather is unmentioned: tradition indeed gave him two family stems. 13 Homer in the Iliad
never calls him anything but Odysseus, though other
heroes address him as if he were like themselves-"Zeusborn Laertiades, very-crafty Odysseus" -but even here
his subtlety belongs to himself, while his divine origins
(whatever they may have been) belong to his father.
Homer in the Odyssey calls him "Laertiades," except in
a special case, 14 only after he has returned to Ithaca. 15 For
twenty years he is merely Odysseus, but he reassumes
his lineage as soon as he lays claim to his kingdom. His
patrimony gives him back his piety .16 Ovid understood
Odysseus when he made him say:
Nam genus et proavus et quae non fecimus ipsi, /Vix ea nostra voco. 17
(Race and ancestors and what we ourselves have not done, I hardly
call ours.)
I
Even the shift from the plural "fecimus" to the singular
"voco'' reflects his uniqueness. 18
Odysseus' adventures are his lineage, making his very
name superfluous. He is a traveler, who "saw the cities
of many men and knew their mind"; and his name, put
almost as an afterthought (without his patronymic), 19 cannot make clearer his identity, nor add much lustre to his
eminence. He is like Thersites, whose father and country are not given, 20 his deformity and outspokenness being title enough; so that to have Odysseus, Thersites'
closest rival in anonymity, answer his abuses was a
master-stroke. Their resemblance is so close that
Sophocles' Neoptolemus, when Philoctetes asks about a
man "clever and skilled in speaking," thinks he must
mean Odysseus, whereas he actually means Thersites. 21
Moreover, Philoctetes, believing it to be a truer lineage,
can even call Odysseus the son of Sisyphus; and
Odysseus can tell Eurnaeus that he is illegitirnate.U
When Odysseus tells the Cyclops his name-"No-one
is my name: my father, my mother, and all my companions call me No-one" 23-he is speaking more truthfully
than when he tells Alcinous that he is the son of Laertes. 24
His anonymity is the result of his guile, for Homer has
him pun* on the likeness of outis and metis. 25 His wisdom
made him no one, and cut all his ties with the past.
Although Achilles, if opposed to Odysseus, seems to
consist in nothing but his past, yet when opposed to
Agamemnon, he becomes more an individual. Indeed,
he stands somewhere in between Agamemnon and
*The Cyclopes confuse Odysseus' assumed name, Outis, with outis,
"no one" (Od. 9. 366, 408, 410). Odysseus' pun is based on the
resemblance of the alternative word for "no one," mi!tis, to m~tis,
"guile," "cunning" (9. 410, 414).
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
Odysseus. Agamemnon does not even appear at first
as himself, but as" Atreides lord of men," whil; Achille~
is "divine" in comparison. 26 Not until he differs from the
rest of the Achaeans (":ho wish to restore Chryseis),
though he has been mentioned thrice before, does Horner
call hun Agamemnon;" even so does Achilles call him
"Atreides" after he has convened the assembly, but
''Agamemnon'' when he wishes to single him out for his
crime 18 Agamemnon rises to rebut Achilles, but Homer
first clothes him in all possible authority: "Hero Atreides,
wide-ruling Agamemnon."" This majesty fails to impress
Achilles, who begms h1s reply, however, as if he agreed
with him: "Most worthy Atreides," but instead of ending the line, as we later realise he should have, he cruelly inserts: "Most rapacious of all!" 30 The proper endtag ("Lord of men Agamemnon") often occurs, mostly
spoken by Nestor, who, old man that he is, knows what
loyalty and respect must be shown to a king. When the
Achaeans are about to be catalogued, Agamemnon must
have full power. He must be not only the "most worthy" because of his lineage, but also the "King of men"
in his own name. 31 Later, when the fortunes of the
Achaeans are lowest, Nestor again bolsters Agamemnon
with his titles; and the other kings also, after the embassy
to Achilles fails, subscribe in the same way their loyalty. 32
Achilles only much later, when he has sloughed off his
rage, addresses him properly 33
Not until, however, Achilles swears an oath by
Agamemnon's sceptre, does the conflict between them
come out in the open: "Yes, by this sceptre, which never
again shall grow branches or leaves, since it first left its
stump on the mountain, not shall it bloom again, for the
bronze blade has stripped it of its leaves and its bark: and
now in turn the sons of the Achaeans, the wielders of
justice, carry it, those who protect the laws that come
from Zeus .... " 34 Then he flings down the sceptre, "studded with golden nails." We learn the true origin of this
sceptre much later, just before Agamemnon, doing "what
is right, " 35 tries the Achaeans, fearful that Achilles'
refusal to fight and his desire to return home have infected the army: "Up stood strong Agamemnon with the
sceptre, which Hephaestus artfully had made:
Hephaestus gave it to Zeus lord Cronion, and Zeus gave
it to the Treasurer of Riches (who kills with his brilliance),
and lord Hermes gave it to Pelops the goader of horses,
and Pelops in turn to Atreus the shepherd of his people;
and Atreus when he died left it to wealthy Thyestes, and
he in turn left it for Agernemnon to wield-to rule over
many islands and all Argos." 36 Lessing has beautifully
brought out the reason why the one sceptre receives these
two descriptions: "This was the work of Hephaestus;
that, an unknown hand hewed on a mountain: this belonged of old to a noble house; that to him whose fist
first grasped it: this to a king whose rule extended over
many islands and all Argos; that, wielded by a man in
the midst of the Greeks, to whom was entrusted, with
others, the defense of the laws. Here was the real difference between Agamemnon and Achilles, a difference
43
�which Achilles himself, in all his blind rage, could not
but admit. " 37 The conflict between them is between
authority and power, between the gifts of nature and
those of an heritage. Agamemnon's authority consists in
mere words (in the fame of his ancestry), and were
Achilles to yield to them, as if they were deeds, he would
be thought weak and cowardly." Briseis is only the
pretext for this more serious difference, which must
always exist, wherever power and position (potentia and
potestas) do not coincide. The usurper Bolingbroke and
King Richard II, for example, as made by Shakespeare,
work out in more tragic fashion the dispute between
Achilles and Agamemnon: for Richard relies as much on
his divine appointment as Agamemnon; and Bolingbroke, like Achilles, trusts more to "blood and bone"
than to ancestral right."
Achilles swears by the authority of Agamemnon in
terms of his own power. He swears by the sceptre as he
swears by the gods: and only Achilles swears. 40 Agamemnon calls upon the gods more cautiously, as witnesses
(as those who know);" whereas the gods to Achilles are
no more than this sceptre, which is but the extension of
his own power, losing all its force as soon as he casts it
aside. Though "studded with golden nails," he holds it
in no esteem. Any branch at all-" a palmer's walkingstaff" -would serve him as well. He does not need the
past to rally the present. But Agamemnon, who has little confidence in his own strength, must lean upon his
sceptre; unlike Hector, Achilles' equal, who leans upon
a spear while he speaks." Hector's spear is replaceable,
while Agamemnon's sceptre is unique: were it broken,
Agamemnon would be doomed to obscurity. He swears
neither by sceptre nor by gods, but rather he holds up
the sceptre to all the gods. 43 His lineage, embodied in the
sceptre, connects him with the gods. He looks to them:
Achilles looks to himself.
Odysseus alone knows how to combine, in the sceptre, the rank of Agememnon and the force of Achilles.
He stops the general rout of the Achaeans, which
Agamemnon's speech had caused, by making a distinction that Achilles would not, and Agamemnon could not,
employ. 44 Taking the ancestral sceptre in his hand, he
speaks to the kings thus: "If you disobey Agamemnon,
he shall oppress you; the wrath of a Zeus-nurtured king
is great; his honour comes from Zeus, and counseling
Zeus loves him. 45 He uses the sceptre as an emblem of
power, threatening the kings, who would be unimpressed by mere lineage, with divine vengeance. Authority lies in power. But against anyone of the rank-and-file,
Agamemnon's sceptre turns into a weapon: Odysseus
drives them before him with it. 46 He speaks to them quite
differently: "Sit down without a murmur, and listen to
others, who have more authority: many-headed rule is
bad; let there be one head, one king, to whom the son
of Cronus gave rule. " 47 Power lies in authority. As Zeus
is Zeus to the kings, but to the common warrior the son
of Cronus, 48 so Agamemnon must appear to the kings
44
as authoritative might, but to the warriors as powerful
authority.
Chapter IV
Ancestral Virtue
It is important that we do not learn the true nature of
the charges that Achilles had made against Agamemnon
until the second book; that the lineage of the sceptre is
not disclosed until then; and that we are kept in suspense
about his accusations against Agamemnon-who neither
risked his life in ambush, he said, nor ever entered into
the battle1 -until Achilles is no longer present, and his
one defender is Thersites. 2 Only in retrospect is Achilles
justified.
Homer throughout the first book keeps underlining the
struggle between them. Agamemnon scornfully remarks
to Achilles: "If you are, in fact, stronger, a god (I suppose) gave it to you." 3 He sees what Achilles is aiming
at, and, desperately, points out to him that, even though
Achilles is stronger, a god gave him his strength, so that
he really is no different from himself, to whose ancestor
Zeus gave the sceptre. Not only does he deny the superiority of Achilles in birth (the source of Agamemnon's
strength is Zeus, who is superior to any other god), but
he wishes to prove that the gulf between them is not very
great, since neither his own authority nor Achilles'
strength is properly their own. It is a last-minute stopgap,
and naturally it fails to work. But Agamemnon, confident
that he has been persuasive, merely asserts what Achilles
refuses to acknowledge: "so that you might know how
much more powerful [authoritative] I am."' Nestor, when
he tries to calm them both, adopts Agamemnon's argument. He calls Achilles "Peleides," hoping to remind him
of his ancestry, and then: "If you are stronger, a goddess was your mother; but he has more authority, for he
rules over more people. " 5 He does not insult Achilles by
doubting his divine parentage, as Agamemnon had, but
he insists on the same point. Agamemnon has greater
preponderance because his kingdom is larger. The size
of his empire, not the massiveness of his fist, exacts
obedience.
Horner seems to have arranged the catalogue in accordance with the conflict of Achilles and Agamemnon.
Odysseus holds the center, just as he does in the camp. 6
but Ajax and Achilles, who occupy the camp's extreme
wings, are here out of place. There are fourteen groups
on either side of Odysseus: Achilles and Agamemnon are
equally six places away from him. The number of ships
is far greater on Agamemnon's than on Achilles' side (732
to 442); so that Homer emphasizes the wealth rather than
the prowess which surrounds Agamemnon (placenames
are double those on Achilles' side, and even the epithets
suggest prosperity); while he neglects to list the cities of
Achilles' partisans and recounts instead stories about the
heroes themselves. We learn why Thoas is leader of the
SPRING 1985
�Aetolians, why Tiepolemus came from Rhodes, why
Nireus brought so few ships, why Achilles stayed away
from the war, how Protesilaus died, and why Philoctetes
is absent: 7 but with Agamemnon none of the commanders are replacements and little is said about any of
them. Thus the catalogue itself reflects the individual
power of Achilles and the ancestral authority of
Agamemnon. 8
The catalogue is also intended to recover Agamemnon's
prestige, which Achilles' attack had so greatly damaged:
as if the number of his ships and of his followers would
blot out his poor showing in front of Achilles, and dazzle us into acceptance of his sovereignty. Zeus also is willing, at least for a single day, to help out Nestor's plan,
making Agamemnon tower over the many and superior
to the heroes: "He excelled all the heroes because he was
the best and led the most people." 9 Yet no one contested
Achilles, when he stated that he was the best, and that
Agamemnon could only boast (or pray for) such a distinction.10 And Homer's agreement, in the catalogue, with
that boast is only a sop to Agamemnon's real humiliation: for no sooner has this providential superiority consoled him, than it is taken away: the Muses tell us that
Ajax was the best as long as blameless Achilles remained
angry .11 For this reason Ajax, in the catalogue proper, is
only given a line or two, 12 and his own excellence with
the spear is assigned to his namesake Oilean Ajax, who
is much smaller than himself and thus no rival to
Agamemnon. 13
Helen, ignorant of the dispute in the first book, sees
Agamemnon enhanced by the catalogue, and unconsciously takes his part. In pointing him out to Priam"That is Atreides, wide-ruling Agamemnon, who is both
a good king and a strong warrior" - 14she assigns him the
virtues Achilles had claimed for himself and denied to
Agamemnon. Helen settles everything in Agamemnon's
favor, giving him power and authority, which Diomedes,
after the Achaeans have suffered great loses, could not
possibly bring himself to admit. It is impetuous
Diomedes, susceptible to Achilles' rhetoric, who finally
declares Agamemnon's weakness: "The son of Cronus
gave you the sceptre to be honoured above all others, but
he did not give you strength which is the greatest
power." 15 Why Diomedes, however, can say in the ninth
book what had caused the rift between Agamemnon and
Achilles in the first, we must postpone answering until
later.
Diomedes himself in the fifth book gives us the best
example of ancestral virtue; and if we look at the first hundred lines, we can understand both its strength and its
weakness: how it is the main source of his prowess and,
for that very reason, how inadequate it is by itself. Athena
begins by putting strength and boldness into "Tydeides
Diomedes. " 16 Diomedes and his father are almost identical. For over one hundred lines, while he works destruction everywhere-it is even unclear whose side he is
on-1
70iomedes' own name never recurs. He acts bravely
and hence in the name of his father .18 But when Sthenelus
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
draws out the arrow, with which Pandarus had wounded
him, and the blood spurts through his shirt of mail, as
Diomedes, not as Tydeides, he prays to Athena. 19 His
paternal impetus once checked, he must summon help
in his own name: he begs Athena to stand by him even
as she once stood by his father. 20 Athena responds, calls
him simply "Diomedes," and promises aid . Thus
restored to favour, he becomes once again Tydeides. 21
Diomedes as an individual is weak, but as the son of his
father he is irresistible. Not in himself but in his lineage,
of which he is very conscious, 22 resides most of his own
greatness. It is ironic, however, that it should be
Diomedes, a hero so narrowly bound to the past, who
challenges the authority of Agamemnon.
Agamemnon, as we have seen, knows how important
ancestry is. When he wishes to rebuke Diomedes, who
has not yet rejected his right to do so, he praises his
father's courage and slights his own; and Athena herself
incites Diomedes by the same argument, concluding:
"Therefore you are not the offspring of Tydeus, warlike
Oeneides. " 23 Athena, in denying that Diomedes is the
son of Tydeus, says at the same time that Tydeus was
the son of Oeneus. Not to be the son of one's father is
the greatest shame: to surpass one's father unthinkable.
When Sthenelus attempts to rank Diomedes and himself
above their fathers, Diomedes silences hirn. 24 One must
be content with "ancestral strength," which Athena in
fact grants Diomedes: beyond that a hero cannot go. 25
Yet Odysseus, far from imitating his father, calls himself
after Telemachus; 26 for he is not only, in a sense, the
author of himself but the author of another. He is the
beginning of a new Iine.27
The absence of Achilles makes Agamemnon more and
more aware of his false position; so that he is at last forced
to concede him everything except a superiority in age,
upon which he now bases his greater royalty. 28 It is a concession, however, which Odysseus, in repeating
Agamemnon's promises to Achilles, prudently omits. 29
After the embassy fails, Agamemnon's despair increases still further. He fears that Diomedes might pick,
as his companion on a night patrol, Menelaus: "Nor you
in shame leave behind the better, and yielding to shame
choose the worse, looking at a lineage, not even if the
worse is more royal." 30 Diomedes' sense of shame must
not interfere with his knowledge. He must judge
Menelaus stripped of his titles, which is so much easier
to do under the cover of night. Agamemnon now affirms,
what he just as strongly before denied, that rank and birth
are no guarantee of virtue. He realizes now how wrong
he had been: it takes Achilles much longer to
acknowledge his guilt.
At the funeral games the struggle between innate and
inherited virtue reappears. It is staged for Achilles'
benefit. Menelaus becomes very angry with Antilochus,
because he had tricked him into yielding his advantage.
The trick made him third instead of second: "You have
shamed my virtue arete, you have blasted my horses, putting your own in front, which you know are much worse
45
�[Let the Argives judge between us], lest one of them
say, 'Menelaus by lies and by force worsted Antilochus,
and he takes the horse as his prize, because his horses
were much worse, but he himself stronger, in virtue and
strength (aretei te biei te). " 31 It has been usual to translate
arete differently each time: first as skill, then as dignity: 32
but the point is lost unless Menelaus refers twice to the
same virtue. "Better" has as its correlate "worse": the
horses of Menelaus will be thought worse, and Menelaus
himself better, in "virtue and strength," Menelaus would
on the one hand be lying, if he said his horses were better and they were not, 33 and on the other he would be
using "virtue and strength" to gain the prize. Menelaus
can mean only one thing by virtue:
,•,/ Ill 11/l~'IILI> , CSI Ill CtJIIIS
(There
IS
palrll/11 vir/1/S
in bullocks, there is in horses, the virtue of their fathers) .
Virtue and lineage are for Menelaus interchangeable.
"You have shamed my virtue," he says, but he means
his family "The Achaeans will say my horses were inferior in virtue and strength, while I won by superior virtue and strength"· Menelaus means in both cases family As his horses are good, so are they of good family:
as he himself is of good family, so is he virtuous. Family
and virtue are the same. Laertes in the Odyssey similarly
confounds them. Odysseus begs Telemachus not to
shame the race of his fathers, and after Telemachus promises he will not, Laertes, who has overheard them, rejoices because "his son and his grandson contested about
virtue. " 34 Laertes and Menelaus are agreed: a virtue
always descends from father to son. But what we would
call skill (namely, Antilochus' device for getting ahead),
and what Nestor calls "craft," Menelaus can only think
of as guile. 35 Virtue is family, art is base deception.
Menelaus reunites what Achilles had taken apart: he
holds, like Agamemnon, the sceptre while speaking. 36
Chapter V
The Armour of Agamemnon
Many readers must have noticed that Agamemnon,
though he plays a great part in the Iliad, po~<;esses few
epithets. His honorifics scarcely match his honour. He
is regularly adorned with five: Menelaus can claim at least
twelve. But were these five peculiar to himself, perhaps
they would prove no less illustrious for being few. This
however is not the case. Anax and ron, "lord of men," he
is allowed to enjoy by himself, until we meet the enemy
and find that Anchises and Aeneas also have it; 1 or
Nestor, in his garrulity, bestows it on Augeias. 2 These
somehow may be thought worthy enough to be ranked
with Agamemnon: but when Euphetes, about whom
nothing is known, and worse still Eumelus, an Achaean
who led but eleven ships, obtain it,3 Agamemnon's glory
is stolen from him. Likewise he shares poimen laon,
"shepherd of the people," not only with Dryas, whom
Nestor numbers among the former great, but with the
obscure Bias, Hypeiron, and Thrasymedes. 4 It is even
46
twice applied to his enemy Achilles. 5 Dios, "brilliant,"
needs no comment, for it adorns almost all heroes. Only
eury kreion, wide-ruling, which Poseidon once us,urps, 6
and kydistos, "most glorious," which often describes
Zeus, may be considered Agamemnon's own. His consolation, of course, may be that others are called
"shepherd of the people" or "lord of men" only on
special occasions, while he constantly enjoys them: but
these few occasions are sufficient to lower his rank. Having so few distinctions, he must be more jealous of their
use than Achilles, who, in the abundance of his store,
can afford to be prodigal.7
To marshal his troops Agamemnon's epithets suffice:
but to wage war with them would be folly. The enemy
cannot be expected to consider, in the midst of battle, the
extent of his sway. He stands almost naked for the
business of war: he must be armed, before entering it,
more carefully than anyone else. His arming of himself
begins his aristeia. Piece by piece Agamemnon is put
together and made a hero. The effort is so great that
Athena and Hera must make "loud clamour in order to
honour the king of wealthy Mycenae. " 8 His careful fitting contrasts sharply with Hector, who needs no time
to arm himself, but he is shown at once bearing his shield
among the front ranks. 9 Moreover, Hector fires the imagination of Homer: his essence can be caught in a simile:
he is like a baleful star, sometimes flashing through the
clouds, sometimes ducking behind them. 10 But Agamemnon cannot be fused into a single image: he remains in
fragments. His armour clothes, it does not transform him.
It is his breastplate, not himself, that calls for a simile;
whose snakes gleam "like the rainbow Zeus sticks in a
cloud, a portent for mankind. " 11 Not Agamemnon but
his breastplate is more than the sum of its parts; not
Agamemnon but his well-wrought shield is "furious. " 12
Though the bronze of his armour flashed far into the
heavens, the wonder of it fails to impress us: we suspect
that Hera and Athena have intervened. The statement
is too literal. He is unpoetic. But Hector's bronze "shone
like the lightning of Father Zeus the aegis-bearer. " 13 His
armour is as miraculous as his own person.
Armour makes the man: it covers his fears and his
cowardice. When Paris agrees to fight Menelaus, he dons
his armour, as the husband of fair-haired Helen, just as
methodically as Agamemnon. Indeed, his breastplate is
borrowed, and, Homer adds, "he adjusted it to fit
himself." 14 And having completed Paris, as it were,
Homer does not go through it again for Menelaus; who,
though not much of a warrior, is so much better than
Paris, that it suffices to say, "so in the same way warlike
Menelaus put on his armour. " 15 Menelaus is already
armed with his epithet "warlike": but Paris needs more
protection than the epithet "godlike" (theoeides) can
afford.
Nestor and Odysseus find Diomedes sleeping outside
his tent, still clothed in all of his armour, while his companions rest their heads on their shields. 16 Not even in
sleep can Diomedes the man peel off Diomedes the war-
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�rior. Man means: armed man. Armour is a promise of
power; it is, like a hero's patronymic, a proof of his
eminence. If he is deprived of this emblem, which is
sometimes handed down from his father, he might be
mistaken for a common warrior and lose his claim to
ancestral virtue-" When Hector thinks of appealing to
Achilles, having taken off his helmet, laid down his
shield, and rested his spear against a wall, he suddenly
stops himself: "He will kill me even though I am naked
and as if I were a woman. " 18 A hero becomes like a
woman and thinks of himself as naked, as soon as he is
deprived of spear, helmet and shield. 19 Not the force in
his limbs but the force in his armour transmutes a man
into a hero. He acts as if he were the instrument of his
own weapons and subject to them. How elaborately the
Achaeans prepare in the Doloneia, merely to attend a
meeting! Agamemnon puts on a coat of mail and takes
a spear; Nestor does the same; and neither helmeted
Menelaus nor armed Diomedes forgets his spear-'0 Only
Odysseus forgets and takes but a shield: for his part in
the patrol is defensive, and Diomedes does the killing. 21
When Patroclus is stripped of Achilles' armour, Achilles
knows that he cannot go into battle unarmed, and yet
he feels that the armour of no one else would suit him:
only the shield of Ajax would accord with his dignity/2
as if the arms of another would make him lose his own
identity." When Zeus, on the other hand, fitted the arms
of Achilles to Hector, at once "great Ares crept into him,
and his limbs were filled with strength. " 24 Zeus no doubt
partly inspires him, but it is equally the arms themselves,
made by Hephaestus, that lend him support. Here is not
just the flash of bronze, which dazzles the enemy and
leaves him unchanged: but here is an inner sympathy between Hector and his armour that creates a single implement of war. Even the heroes acknowledge the partial
identity of arms and the man, anna virumque. 25 Pandarus
speaks thus to Aeneas, when he asks him who the
Achaean warrior is who slays so many Trojans: "I liken
him in all respects to warlike Tydeides, knowing him by
his shield and his helmet, and seeing his horses. " 26
Diomedes is known by his shield, his horses, and his
helmet. To lose them would be to lose the best part of
himself, 27 so that every hero is as intent on capturing
pieces of armour as he is on killing their owner: for should
he fail to despoil his victim, he has no record of the deed.
Trophies bear witness to his prowess: they guarantee his
fame.
Patroclus fills perfectly the armour of Achilles, and
when he first appears, he is mistaken for him; 28 but it is
his inability to wield Achilles' spear that tells the difference between them. 29 Had Patroclus been able to wield
it, we would have had two Achilles.
Chapter VI
Ajax
Nireus was the most beautiful man, after Achilles, who
came to Troy: but he was weak and few people followed
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
him.' Lacking both the ancestral authority of Agamemnon and the inborn power of Achilles, he showed up so
poorly in the war that, outside the catalogue, he never
is mentioned. That beauty does not carry with it any
strength, we know already from Paris; 2 but strength can
yet draw a man into beauty. Although Ajax at first is only
the best warrior among the Achaeans after Achilles,' he
assumes, in the stress and strain of war, when the Trojans are about to drag away Patroclus' corpse, a greater
likeness to him: "Ajax, who in beauty as in deeds surpassed all the Danaans except the son of Peleus. " 4 His
deeds shed a lustre over his appearance, so that he usurps
the place of Nireus, whose peacetime beauty counts as
nothing in battle.' The parents of Nireus gave him a
superficial beauty, that reflected, as it were, the glorious
bravery of their own names (Aglaie and Charopus:
"Splendour" and "Flash"), but that yielded to brute Ajax
in the shock of war.
We know the war-mettle of Ajax before Achilles', and
that he imperfectly copies heroic virtue; but his very imperfection serves as our only possible guide to Achilles.
Were we to witness Achilles' valour in the seventh book,
instead of Ajax', we could form no just idea of his
greatness: but after having before us his inferior, though
he is apparently flawless, the peculiar virtues of Achilles
become something clear and precise.
He doth permit the base contagious douds
To smother up his beauty from the world,
That, when he please again to be himself,
Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at,
By breaking through the foul and ugly mists
Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.
We must look then more closely at Ajax. A hundred
lines of the eleventh book, in which he displays more of
himself than elsewhere, are the best place to begin. The
Trojans have tracked down the wounded Odysseus; and
Ajax, summoned by Menelaus, enters the fray, as is his
custom, without a word. 6 Homer aptly compares him to
a lion, who chases off jackals from a stag: "then devours
it himself.'' These last words seem not only inexact (common enough in similes) but inapplicable: for Ajax has
come to defend and not to kill Odysseus. Yet Homer
wished to indicate, in the aside of his simile, that Ajax'
excellence does not include his loyalty. He is a warrior
first, an Achaean second: he could have been as readily
a Trojan. 8
Ajax is all head and shoulders, and carries his shield
like a turret: even in motion he seems to stand still. 9 He
plays a large part in the defense of the wall: when its
tower is threatened, Menestheus prefers him before
others; and Tencer, just as if Ajax were a battlement,
shoots his arrows from behind him and his shield. 10
As Ajax wounds one Trojan after another, Homer likens
him to a river swollen by winter rains: "Many flourishing
oaks and many pines it carries away, and casts much
trash into the sea.'' 11 The river sweeps away not only oaks
and pines (trees to which falling warriors are often com-
47
�pared) but trash: so Ajax wounded Lysandrus and
Pyrasus, whose names occur nowhere else; and Pylartes,
whom Patroclus later killed; and even his noblest victim,
Doryclus the son of Priam, is illegitimate." He lacks
discrimination in his slaughter of horses and men. 13
Ajax is hard-pressed but retreats reluctantly, like a lion
driven away from cattle. The simile would have little
point (it is used elsewhere of Menelaus), 14 were it not for
what follows: an ass he seems, glutted on corn, whom
children beat out of a field. 15 He is a beast (ther), the word
Homer employs in bringing together these two similes.1•
Aristotle must have had this passage in mind, when after
showing how Homer made Hector and Diomedes possess
a kind of noble courage, he continues: "Honour and the
noble incite the brave to action, and spirit (thymos) works
with them; but pain incites animals, ... who are not
courageous, since pain and spirit alone goad them to face
dangers they fail to foresee; for even asses, if they are
hungry, would be brave, and, though they are beaten,
refuse to budge from pasture." 17 Whatever nobility, then,
Ajax has, he shares with Menelaus (it is of the most
general kind): but what makes him unique, his stubbornness, lacks all nobility. He is a glutton in war: insatiate.t8
When Ajax is called the best, after Achilles, both in
deeds and in beauty, he is at once compared to a wild
boar, an animal which Achilles himself never seems to
imitate. 19 Ajax after all, Homer admits, even if ennobled
by war, is quite ugly. In short, as lion, boar, and ass, we
may call him: thymodes ("quick-tempered") but eleutherios
("noble"), enstatikos ("ferocious") but andreios
("courageous"), arnathes ("unmanageable") but eugenes
("well-born"). 20
Chapter VII
Heroic Virtue
"To no man would Telamonian Ajax yield ... nor
would he retreat before Achilles the man-smasher, if they
fought hand-to-hand; but in swiftness he cannot rival
him. " 1 ldomeneus very exactly describes Ajax thus: only in swiftness does Achilles excel him, for in pitched battle Ajax would be his equal. Achilles is better than Ajax
because he is faster, and if we wish to find someone like
him in this respect, we need only look to Ajax' namesake:
"Ajax slew the most, the fast son of Oileus; for no one
was his equal in following up a rout, whenever Zeus put
fear into them. " 2 Speed is needed to follow up a rout,
bulkiness to cover a retreat. That two men, who would
almost match Achilles if combined (they often appear
together), should bear the same name is a brilliant stroke-'
Achilles is Telamonian, added to Oilean, Ajax: the
shoulders belong to one, the legs to the other.' We see
in each of them separately some of Achilles' vices which,
because he contains both their virtues, are in himself
concealed.
We have come round at last to Achilles' most frequent
48
epithet, "swift-footed," which seems to occur in such
reckless profusion throughout the Iliad; but Homer
manages its use more finely than many suppose.
Although swiftness of foot does not in itself sum tlp all
virtues, for ugly Dolon has it (has de toi eidos men een kakos,
alia podokes,-"who was ill-favored in looks, but swiftfooted"),' yet, if someone is more beautiful than Nireus
and as bulky as Ajax, 6 it suffices to set him apart from
all others. 7 It seals the doom of Hector when he tries to
flee.'lt is the most obvious proof of Achilles' power, so
that even his eloquence seems based upon it. He assumes
it first when he addresses Agamemnon: swift-footed
Achilles is pitted against the son of Atreus.• It assures
Calchas, uncertain whether he may speak the truth or
not: it convinces him that Achilles is stronger than
Atreides, and hence he has nothing to fear 10 And
Achilles, as long as he irritates Agamemnon (illustrating
in his speech his power), is swift-footed, but when
Athena persuades him not to use his strength, and he
replaces his sword in its sheath, he becomes "Peleides. " 11
His piety, gaining for the moment the upper hand, lets
him reassume his father's name.
Achilles receives the epithet "swift-footed" more than
any other man, but one animal has it almost as often.
Horses are okypodes. They resemble Achilles in his proudest virtue, and only if we discover how the horse and the
hero are related, shall we see Achilles in a true perspective. The word arete, "virtue," occurs, all told, sixteen
times in the Iliad. 12 It is used exclusively of horses and
men. 13 But what is equine virtue?" A horse must be both
strong and beautiful: its strength resides in the legs, its
beauty in the head. " 14 Thus it is the perfect image for
Achilles, the swiftest and most beautiful of the heroes.
What is more Aristotle assigns to the horse two virtues
(among others) which, we have seen, characterize
Achilles: "The virtue of a horse makes him both run
quickly and abide the enemy.ts It is, therefore, right and
proper that Achilles should have the best horses. 16
That Achilles harmoniously unites two virtues that
usually cannot even fit together, stamina and speed, constitutes the miracle of his excellence; for what Lady Wentworth says of racehorses, that "it is doubtful whether extreme sprinting speed can be combined with extreme
staying power" -no less doubtful than that "a weightlifter [can be] built like an acrobat" 17-holds true for heroic
virtue. Oilean Ajax is much smaller than his namesake: 18
but Achilles did not sacrifice the swiftness of one to acquire the turret-like stolidity of the other. He is, in a real
sense, more than the sum of his parts.
Paris dons his armour and comes to join the fight.
Homer describes him brilliantly: "And he, when he had
put on his famous armout:, curiously wrought in bronze,
rushed through the city, confident in his swift feet: as
when some stabled horse, fed in its stall, breaks its bonds
and rushes over the plain, striking the earth with his
hooves, accustomed to bathe in the fair-flowing river, rejoicing: it holds its head high, and its mane streams from
the shoulders (confident in its splendour), its swift legs
SPRING 1985
�bring it to the pastures and the herd of horses: so the son
of Priam, Paris, brilliant in his arms, came like the sun
from the top of Pergamun, smiling with self-satisfaction,
and his swift legs brought him. " 19 Critics have been annoyed that Hector obtains the same simile-"So Apollo
said and breathed strength into the shepherd of his people, as when etc." - 20 and yet the reason for the repetition is not hard to find. Both are equally swift but exultant differently. Paris, godlike in his beauty, flashing like
the sun and "smiling with self-satisfaction," 21 puts on
beautiful armour; while Hector returns to the fight, after
being almost mortally wounded, with renewed strength.
Paris is beautiful like Nireus, Hector like Ajax: even in
war Paris has the glitter of peace, even in a lull Hector
terrifies his son. 22 Paris' brilliance will fade in battle, Hector's force will increase. They stand at the two poles of
heroic excellence, beauty and power, which are fused in
Achilles (and only these three heroes are compared to
horses): "As a triumphant horse with his chariot rushes,
who easily in the stretch runs over the plain, so Achilles
managed his swift feet and knees. " 23 Achilles then is a
mixture, among the Achaens, of the two Ajax; among the
Trojans, of Paris and Hector.
This general resemblance of men and horses Homer
pursues even to small particulars. He tells us what is the
most fatal spot for horse and man alone (they are not the
same);" and he implies that, in the eyes of the gods, there
is no difference between the providence extended to
horses and men: Zeus pities the immortal horses of
Achilles, who weep for Patroclus, even as he pities Hector, prancing in the arms of Achilles." Achilles' arms and
Achilles' horses would be the two greatest prizes for Hector." That he captures one, while the other eludes him,
spells out his doom. Zeus allowed him the one and refused him the other: mortal Patroclus he can kill, Xanthus and Balius he cannot. Achilles survives to kill him,
they to humiliate his corpse.
Virtue shows itself in foot and hand: to have both in
the highest degree is to be Achilles. Yet virtue consists
in another element which Achilles is slow to demonstrate:
the willingness to use what one has. Horses have it almost
everywhere: (to auk aekonte petesthen-"but not unwillingly the two flew forward.") 27 Obedience to the lash of
his driver suffices for a horse; but in the case of a hero,
though he sometimes fails to realize it, his obedience must
come from within. Willingness must accompany a hero's
knowledge and efficiency. Hence only the Achaeans as
a body, and never the Trojans (who defend themselves
by necessity)," fight with arete."
Eumaeus complains to Odysseus that nothing runs
smoothly any more, ever since his master went away; not
even the dog Argus was cared for: "And the servants,
as soon as their masters no longer stand over them, are
unwilling to do what they ought; for half of virtue Zeus
takes away from a man, when the day of slavery overtakes him. " 30 A man does not lose in slavery his skill but
his willingness to perform enaisima ("just things" -with
the sense of having been decreed by the gods), which are
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
the things one should do if one knows them. "No one
who is just," says Hector to Paris, "would ever blame
your work in battle, since you are strong; but willingly
you hold off and do not wish to fight. " 31 To be strong
is not enough: one must wish to use one's strength: one
must be willing to die."
Chapter VIII
Achilles and Hector
When Hector sees Paris retreating before Menelaus' advance, he rebukes him sharply; Paris humbly submits but,
almost as an aside, complains of Hector's ruthlessness:
"Your heart is always like an unwearying axe, by which
a man cuts through a ship's plank with the help of his
art (techni!), and the axe increases his force (eroen). " 1
Paris' simile is unique in many ways. Nowhere else is
a hero compared to a man-made thing; nor does the word
techni! recur in the Iliad (common enough though it is in
the Odyssey);' nor is eroi! used commonly of a man but
of a spear's cast. 3 Hector is not the woodsman but the
axe, or rather woodsman and axe; his heart multiplies
his strength; he is self-sufficient. He carries within himself
the means to greater power. He is all weapon.
Hector does not stand alone in being a mere instrument
of himself. Ni!li!s, "merciless," often describes two
things: to avoid death is to ward off ni!lees i!mar, a merciless day; to be slain is sometimes to be cut ni!lei' chalkoi,
with merciless bronze. 4 A day of death is merciless but
perhaps bronze would be better called indifferent. Yet
Achilles and no one else is neles. 5 His spirit is iron. 6 He
is a thing, indifferent and merciless: as inevitable as
death; as unfeeling as bronze. "Made by some other
divinity than nature," Hector and Achilles embody the
ultimate ambition of a hero: to be no man at all.
That for Achilles' image stood his spear
Gripped in an armed hand; himself behind
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:
A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,
Stood for the whole to be imagined. 7
Patroclus, who understands Achilles, begs him to
return to the war; and feeling, while he speaks, that
Achilles stiffens himself to refuse him, denies what
seemed Achilles' inalienable possession: "Pitiless
horseman Peleus was not your father, nor Thetis your
mother; but the grey-green sea and steep rocks bore you,
for your mind is harsh."• Thetis and Peleus could never
have been the parents of Achilles: sea and rocks must
have begot him. Patroclus has chosen his image carefully.
Achilles' mother, instead of being a Nereid, is the sea
itself; and Achilles' father, instead of being a grandson
of Zeus, is a fabulous rock. "Tell me your ancestry,"
Penelope says to the disguised Odysseus, "for you are
not from fabled oak or rock. " 9 Achilles' divine lineage,
known to be but three generations, becomes uncountable
and formless. He is as anonymous as Odysseus.
49
�If we compare Patroclus' bitter words with a similar
passage, Achilles' uniqueness will appear more clearly.
Hector cannot break through the lines of Achaeans who
defend the ships, holding him back "like a great steep
rock, set near the iron-grey sea, that resists the swift
onrush of shrill winds and foaming waves, which break,
crash and roar against it. " 10 The Trojans as waves and
winds beat vainly against the Achaeans, a steep rock.
Achilles may seem at first, as the offspring of rock and
sea, to be nothing more than "half-Trojan and halfGreek": but he is more. Achilles is what others only seem
to be. Whereas the Achaeans and Trojans are rock and
sea by Horner's fiat, their identity to be changed as the
scene itself changes, Achilles' character is more permanent. He is the son, however unnatural, of sea and stone,
and as such beyond the whims of Horner. The harshness
of Achilles resides in his elemental lineage, that of the
Achaeans and Trojans in a likeness; just as the mild
temper of Patroclus, when he beseeches Achilles, is
shown in his weeping like a spring, "which pours its dark
waters down a precipice ." 11 Patroclus' grief evokes a com-
parison in which he does not become, as Achilles does,
the objects in the simile but merely resembles their outer
appearance. Not abandoning himself in the image, he
assumes only its manner; while Achilles is the very
substance of Patroclus' aspect, as if the sea were the
source of every spring and the steep cliffs of every
precipice. He is the reality that lies behind the accidental
and the momentary, and hence he cannot change his being and his origins as others change their attributes. He
wears no disguises.
Chapter IX
Similes
Hephaestus divided Achilles' shield into three parts:
sky, earth and sea. 1 Sun, moon, and stars, which seem
to make up the whole of heaven, are done in a few lines;
and the sea; which surrounds the shield, even more
quickly; but the earth, or rather man's business on earth,
takes up most of Horner's description.' The city at war
requires more time to depict than the city at peace: but
the peaceful tasks of men predominate over both. 3
Horner made the shield as an image of his two works,
but his picture of war, the Iliad, is explained by similes
taken over from the peaceful scenes of the shield; while
his picture of peace, the Odyssey, merely repeats the same
scene.• The ocean on which Odysseus travels is the real
ocean, while the storms and tempests in the Iliad are borrowed images. War cannot explain itself. It needs to be
glossed by peace. It is an abstract of peace, unable to make
full use of its richness, so that the similes are restricted
and, except for one detail, sometimes fail to correspond.
Only the idea or sentiment that lies behind a simile can
be shared with the bleakness of war.' Peace needs no
similes, it is what everyone knows. A simile would merely
50
duplicate our own vision and add nothing to it. War, the
unfamiliar, must be shown in terms of the familiar, so
that only through the Odyssey can we understand the Iliad. The simile puts the heroes in the perspective of peace,
of what they resemble in the world around us. Indeed
it is because war seems more desirable than peace-to stay
at Troy more desirable than to return horne-that Horner
can use peaceful similes. 6 But can counterparts to the
heroes be found in our world? or must peace be distorted
to fit them? We must look more closely at the similes to
find Homer's answer. The twelfth and thirteenth books
are perhaps the clearest examples; for the heroes are
restricted to the battlefield, so that the series of similes
are uninterrupted and contribute to a single idea.
What Hector is compared to at first sets up an opposition that Horner repeats and enlarges upon in the succeeding similes. Hector leads the charge like a lion and
a whirlwind. 7 He is both animate and inanimate nature:
animal and thing. 8 As a whirlwind he is absolute; his opponents are not described. As a boar or lion he becomes
contentious and forms but part of the scene: hemmed in
by dogs and huntsmen, his eyes gleaming with strength,
the lion tries to make his way out, and not fear but
rashness finally kills him.' As whirlwind, Hector is alone,
and
Runs rushing o'er the lines of men, as if 'twere
A perpetual spoil;
as lion, Hector finds himself surrounded, his liberty
chained to a narrow circle, within which he must move
and die.
Then Asius makes his diversionary sally against the
wall of the Achaeans, which Polypoetes and Leonteus,
fixed like two oaks (their long roots unmoved by wind
and rain), defend. 10 Here the whirlwind of Hector has
become the wind and rain of Asius, who meets his first
resistance in the oaken Lapiths. The absolute rush and
motion of the winds encounter two oaks, which are, just
as absolutely, obstinate and immobile. But as soon as they
charge and engage in combat, they do not differ from the
boarlike Hector. Now the Trojans under Asius are the
dogs and huntsmen which the Achaeans before had represented.11 The roles of attacker and defender are reversed, but the reversal has brought no real change in
the similes. They are still the same two aspects of nature:
animal and thing.
As Achaeans and Trojans are now equal in the eyes of
Homer, the simile shifts to their weapons. The stones
they hurl against one another are like the snowflakes that
cover, indifferently, the fertile earth. 12 We are at war and
so in the dead of winter, when nothing grows, but a
blanket of snow hides every aspect of life. We are reminded now that the world of war and the world of peace
do not jibe; that the winter of war has no sequel like the
winter of nature; and that no spring will come after the
death of heroes.
Asius frets at the sudden check, which the La piths have
given, to his high expectations. He compares them to bees
SPRING 1985
�or wasps which stand in the way of hunters intent on
bigger game 13 To Homer, Leonteus and Polypoetes are
the hunters, but to Asius, naturally, the advance is all
on his side. He does not acknowledge the reversal but
thinks of them as a slight bother in his way. Thus again,
as Asius drew an image from animate, so Homer drew
his from inanimate nature: snow and bees continue the
comparison of animal and thing. Even Zeus follows
Homer's lead, sending first an eagle and then a whirlwind as omens: 14 but whereas Homer gives us images,
Zeus gives the heroes the things themselves. Omens spell
out before their eyes what Homer's similes spell out for
us.
After Zeus has shown his presence, Homer adapts his
simile of snowflakes to this divine interference. Zeus now
makes it snow, and the earth no longer seems a simple
entity: Homer picks out mountain-tops, plains, steep
headlands, and the worked fields of men. 15 With the entrance of Zeus, civil man also enters: he becomes part of
the landscape. Men have been so far only huntsmen; now
they are farmers as well.
Zeus rouses Sarpedon his son, who charges like a lion
among cows or sheep. 16 Men are now cowherds and
shepherds. The peaceful world fills out. As the war itself
is elaborated, more and more elements are seen in its mirror. Every aspect of war refracts an aspect of peace. The
heroes are shadowed, in whatever they do, by the world
they left behind. But Sarpedon not only is lionlike, he
also is, with Glaucus, a black hurricane.l7 Never can the
heroes escape from being both animal and thing.
Achaeans and Trojans have exhausted the animal
world. Their counterparts exist now only among men.
They fight like two men squabbling over a boundary."
War becomes a conventional dispute, that no longer is
similar to the natural conflict between lion and sheep 19
It is man-made and arbitrary, without a true reflection
in nature. The similes become more petty. After being
like wind and lions, they seem to be like a woman who
weighs out wool barely sufficient for her children. 2 ' For
her wool she receives a wdge, even as eternal fame is the
reward for the Achaeans and Trojans, that they will hand
down to their children. But her wage is mean and
unseemly, while they think fame glorious. They deceive
themselves, she is an honest woman: gyne chernetis ale. thes. Seen by the eyes of peace, their war is foolish and
of little worth.
Hector raises a stone against the Achaean gate, carrying it as easily as a shepherd carries fleece. 21 His stone is
as light as wool, and he himself but a shepherd. Neither
the purpose of the war, nor the heroes themselves find
any glory in peace. If we wish to be impressed by them,
we must keep our eye on inanimate nahlre. So Hector is
likened to swift-coming night, and on this note of dead
nature the book ends. 22
We have followed the hero through a series of similes,
which shifted back and forth between animal and thing;
but this alternation was not simply repetitive: for it emphasized always more openly, in each successive image,
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
how little ad~pted the hero was to peace; how only wind,
snow, and mght really smted h1m; and how little in common have men and human beings. Man at war is half
thing and half beast, but there is no nobility, no greatness
in him, if we think on peace. Homer does not glorify war.
As we become involved in the destinies of his heroes, he
whispers more and more insistently, "there is a world
elsewhere."
In the thirteenth book the similes are more concerned
with the battle itself than with the heroes; and as neither
side overwhelms the other, the similes reflect this
stalemate, animating the inanimate and stilling the force
and motion in animals. Thus it is built on a series of
paradoxical images. The Trojans, massed like fire or a
whirlwind, advance behind Hector: the fire contains all
of their flashy persistence (most evident in Hector), while
the wind is their inevitable march, whose bluster belongs
less to Hector than to his troops. 23 Hector himself is then
compared to a boulder, that, breaking loose from a crag,
rolls until it comes to the plain, where it can proceed no
farther "however much it desires. " 24 A thing is granted
life unnaturally, until its course is finally checked and it
is brought back to its nahlral state; while in the death of
Imbrius, who falls like an ash cut down by an axe, the
reverse takes place: what should naturally stand upright
is laid low, and its "delicate foliage," that once was held
high on a conspicuous mountain, draws near the earth. 25
And again, once Imbrius lies upon the ground, the two
Ajax raise him up, like lions which grasp in their jaws a
goat. 26
Idomeneus rehlrns to his tent and puts on his armour:
he resembles a lightning-flash sent by Zeus but unlike his
image he runs back to the war." The steady streak of his
brilliance has been set in motion, and thus preserves the
double aspect of motion and rest with which the book
started. His companion Meriones is compared to "swift
Ares," while both together are like Ares and Phobos, who
arm now the Ephyroi, now the Phlegyae: so impetus is
united with impartiality, their loyalty to the Achaeans with
their indifference (as warriors) to either side. 28 And having decided where they should lend their aid, Meriones
again is compared to "swift Ares" and Idomeneus to fire. 29
The battle itself is next likened to the rush of shrill winds
that raise a great cloud of dust, which in tum hovers over
the earth. 30 Achaeans and Trojans are brought to a stillstand, their opposed desires endeavouring to move (like
the boulder of Hector), but their equality resulting in a stationary cloud (like the level plain that stopped Hector).
Asius comes up to protect the corpse of Othoneus, and
he is cut down like an oak or a white poplar or a tall
pine. 31 Asius dies like Imbrius, and what is naturally erect
carpenters will fashion into a ship. Idomeneus attacks
Alcathous, whom, although he wishes to flee, Poseidon
charms to the spot; and he stands as rigidly as a tree or
a stele." Thus he who wished to stand falls, and he who
wished to move remains. War has inverted the world of
nature and of men.
Aeneas advances against Idomeneus, who, instead of
51
�flight, only thinks of holding his ground, and now, when
the image of a tree would be appropriate, 33 Homer likens
him to a boar, that bristles its back at the approach of men,
its eyes flashing fire in defiance'' What should be permanent changes, and what should be in motion holds
fast. Aeneas, on the other hand, is like a ram who waits
for the sheep to follow him. 35 He retains the stationary
fire of Hector, while his men continue the first image of
the wind. So when he and Idomeneus stand before one
another, they seem like Ares, as if their conflict has been
cancelled, and they are found together in a single image.
Meriones returns to prominence as ''swift Ares," even
though Achaeans and Trojans are drawn closely together
about the dead Ascalaphus; but he soon becomes a
vulture, as he snatches the spear he cast and falls back
among his troops."
Adamas attacks Antilochus and, though he launches
his spear with energy, it fails to penetrate the shield but
remains there like a burnt stake: Poseidon has checked
it and deprived it of its strength. 37 As Adamas retreats,
Meriones hits him and, like an unwilling ox bound by
ropes, he struggles gaspingly but in vain. 38 His forceful
spear becomes a lifeless stake and he himself a bound ox:
the purposes both of weapon and of man have vanished.
Helenus shoots an arrow at Menelaus, but his breastplate deflects it, as if it were a winnowing-fan, from which
beans or peas bounce off in a light wind. 39 All the force
in the arrow is transferred into a harmless pea, while the
solid breastplate becomes a moving fan. Again the reality has been reversed in the simile.
Meriones kills Harpalion, who lies stretched upon the
earth like a worm. 40 just as the arrow of Helenus lost its
swiftness in a contemptible simile, so Harpalion loses all
his dignity as the poor worm. The heroic world has
almost stopped.
Achaeans and Trojans fight like blazing fire, and the
Achaeans try to push back flamelike Hector. 41 Though
a mass of fire, Hector moves, and all the motion of the
Achaeans is spent in vain. The two Ajax stand by one
another like two yoked oxen, who with a single spirit drag
the plow: but unlike the simile they do not move 42 Thus
Hector like fire advances and the Ajax like oxen stand
firm.
What has been up to now a concealed paradox at last
is revealed in Hector's penultimate simile: he charges like
a snow-covered mountain. 43 No amount of ingenuity can
explain that away; but if the sequence of similes is followed, it fits the tenor of the whole book. The correspondence between animate nature and the hero has
long broken down, and now not even the inanimate
world can be twisted to suit him. The Trojans fight like
savage winds and stir up the sea, and as crest of wave
follows wave, so they move in a perpetual order, though
they effect no breech in the Achaean ranks; 44 and Hector
is at last compared to "mortal-destroying Ares," who,
though he tries everywhere, cannot make the enemy
yield. 45
. In the twelfth book the heroes were alternately animal
52
and thing; in the thirteenth they acquire a new dimension - they sometimes are compared to gods." The
reason for this is obvious: Poseidon has disguised himself
as a man and is present among them 47 Once the gods
actively interfere, the merely natural world no longer suffices as a source for Homer's imagery. He must transcend
the bounds of everyday life and compare the heroes not
to what we see and know, but to that which is beyond
our knowledge. The heroes at first were made familiar
to us, but now only the supernatural can make intelligible their superhuman virtues. As they take on the
semblance of what is above them, they become more
remote and retreat farther away from us; and such a
transformation entails a kind of perversion of the oncenatural world. All the motion in the hero and his arms
is brought to a halt, even as their fixity is set in motion:
a tall pine falls, a wild boar stands still. Thus Homer, in
elevating the heroes to a divine status, has been forced
to alienate them from nature.
Chapter X
Achilles' and Hector's Similes
Heroes are not given much to poetry: they rarely see
their enemies as anything other than men to be killed.
They leave to Homer the beautifying of their world.'
Asius likens the Lapiths to wasps or bees, because his
disappointment is so great at being thwarted; he is irritated and chagrined by the insignificance of the enemy. 2
So when Menelaus described Hector metaphorically"he has the terrible force of fire" -we can imagine how
frightened he feels.' But that was only a prelude to Hector's own image for Achilles: "I shall go against him, even
if his hands are like fire, if his hands are like fire, and
his force burning iron."' In. the very repetition of the
phrase we can feel the power of Achilles: he is something
unquenchable. That Achilles, to be adequately conceived
of, demands a simile, is the greatest tribute Hector could
pay him; but that Hector summons up such a description only to dismiss it, gives us an index as well to his
own greatness.
Although Achilles and Hector are often compared to
animals-eagles, hawks, lions and dogs-their largest
group of similes concerns fire. Fire is unlike all other
elements, for its contains within itself its own destruction: as it burns it is consumed, and it dies with the end
of its opponent. It is an exact image for wrath.
Sometimes Hector's (or Achilles') armour is likened to
fire,' but more often they themselves are fire, which
flashes from their eyes. 6 And this fury lives not just in
their faces, but even more in their work: "As portentous
fire rages through deep mountain-glens, and the forests,
thickly-set and flourishing on the mountain, are burnt,
and the wind charging everywhere fans the flame, so
Achilles, armed with his sword, rushed everywhere like
a god. " 7 Achilles as fire seems equal to a god; and Hector might equally be either Ares or fire.' But Homer has
another name for fire besides pyr or phlox: Hephaestus
SPRING 1985
�is not only his divine blacksmith, who made Agamemnon's sceptre and Achilles' armour, but he uses his name
for fire itself.' Hephaestus both makes and destroys: the
heroes burn with his fire as they wield his weapons. Their
armour and their persons show the dual aspect of
Hephaestus. To be his work and to work with his fire
would seem the aim of heroic ambition. He is their all.
Although Hector numerically rivals Achilles in similes
of fire, he cannot claim "he is pure air and fire, and the
dull elements of earth and water never appear in him."
He is in fact often like a storm, or a river, or the sea, to
all of which Achilles is never compared.'" He has more
bluster in his nature than Achilles; his energies are more
widely scattered. He is not as concentrated in his person,
nor does he plunge as headlong toward his fate. His violence rages on the surface; he is not everywhere pure
flame. He has other sentiments than fury. He is
''watered-down.''
Achilles has a fear of drowning. The thought that he
might be drowned by the Xanthus, like a young swineherd whom a winter torrent sweeps away, provokes his
bitterest complaints against his mother Thetis. 11 As fire
and light, fanned by his ambition, he trembles before all
obscurity. To be quenched, as it were, and returned to
"earth and water" is the most shameful doom: deprived
of all distinction and confounded with a swineherd. 12
Achilles ridicules the lineage of Asteropaeus, whose
ancestor was the river Axius: "As Zeus is stronger than
rivers that flow into the sea, so the generation of Zeus
is stronger than that of a river . . . nothing can fight
against Zeus the son of Cronus, not even the strong
Achelous is his equal, from whence all rivers and every
sea and all fountains and springs arise: but even he fears
the lightning and terrible thunder of great Zeus,
whenever he makes it crash in the heavens." 13 Zeus the
hurler of lightning and thunder is greater than water:
Achilles boasts his descent from fire and forgets that his
own mother is a sea-goddess-" If he is more closely
related to the gods on his mother's side, Achilles prefers
to emphasize the divine lineage of his father: for there
is something womanish dnd humane about Thetis that
does not fit in with Achilles' image of himself.
When Zeus makes the gods take sides, the river Xanthus is pitted against Hephaestus. 15 Water defends the
Trojans, fire Achilles: and fire triumphs. As Achilles surpasses Asteropaeus in ancestry (as fire does water), so
Hephaestus destroys Xanthus. It is the triumph of art over
nature.
Chapter XI
Heroic Ambition
Hector is bold enough to declare the ultimate end of
his ambition; he would assign to himself all the prerogatives of the gods: "Would that I might be in this way
honoured as Athena and Apollo are honoured, as surely
as this day brings evil to the Argives." 1 Hector does not
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
contrast the impossibility of his wish with the certainty
of his success, but rather his success colours his desire.
Victory is so certain, it is so much a foregone conclusion,
that he presents the impossible as something tangible and
real. "My concern," he says to the Trojans, "is not for
the outcome of tomorrow's battle- that is as good as
ours-but for my immortality." His ambition overleaps
the present and reaches out beyond the immediate. Even
if to become immortal is unlikely, to be honoured like
Apollo and Athena is not: so that, as his certainty about
the morrow gives him assurance of divine honours, these
honours in turn strengthen his hope for immortality.
Since Hector will win on the morrow, he deserves to
be honoured like Athena and Apollo. He picks the foremost gods on each side: he does not wish partisan honour
but true honour, based on something that even the
enemy's gods must acknowledge.' His excellence would
force their admiration. So Homer, when he wishes to
praise the excellence of the Achaeans' battle-order,
invokes Ares as well as Athena;' and not just because
they are the gods of battle, 4 for when the battle is fiercest
over Patroclus' corpse, "neither Ares nor Athena, beholding it, blame their fighting, not even if wrath came into
them."' If the gods were angry, they could not find fault:
no passion, which might warp their judgment, could
diminish their praise.
Hector wants to be immortal and ageless: it is his final
goal. The end of his action, to destroy the Achaeans,
should issue in the perfection of his being, immortality.
But he wants even more: "Would that I might be the son
of aegis-bearing Zeus, and would that awesome Hera had
borne me."' To be the son of Zeus and of Hera is his ambition: to be in fact what Homer grants him in simile
pushes him on. If he could break through the simile, and
become what he resembles; if he could change "like to
a mortal-destroying Ares" to Ares himself, he would be
satisfied. According to Poseidon he believes that he is. 7
To affirm, to boast, to pray (they are the same verb
euchesthai) means the same thing to Hector. Both in the
past of his lineage and in the future of his desire stand
the gods. If he could return to his origins, he would
achieve his end. In the inability of Hector and Achilles
to come full circle lies their tragedy.
We must not think that Achilles and Hector are alone
in this wish: even lesser heroes are compared to a divinity
or honoured by their people like a god. But Hector is not
content with the praise of his own fellow citizens: he wants
all men, any man, to praise him.' Universal praise, which
does not perish, is the closest he can approach to immortality. Fame is its substitute. If Sarpedon were fated to
be immortal and ageless, he would not stay in battle; but
as he cannot remain alive forever, he must nobly act and
die, so that he may stay alive in the memory of others'
The love of fame animates not only the hero but also
his horse, and if we just glance at how the classics
described and exploited the horse, we can see more readily why Homer bound them together, and gave to
Achilles immortal horses.
53
�And Achilles' horse
Makes many Thetis' sons. 10
The horse, of all animals, is the most naturally ambitious.
It has thymos ("spiritedness"), matching man in this as
in almost all other things." Xenophon speaks as if in his
time thymos was the proper name for a horse's spirit and
orgC for a man's; Parmenides likens his own desire to
mares'; Socrates compares the good appetites of the soul
to a noble horse: "upright, well-knit, high-arched neck,
aquiline nose, white, black eyes, a lover of honour; " 12
and as the horse is the most erotic of creatures after man
(his eros is both sexual and ambitious), 13 Vergil in the
third Georgie, as part of his theme, shifts from the warhorse to love and from love to the love of glory,
tarJtus amor laudem, ta11tae est victoria curac.t4
( ... so great is their love of praise, victory is so great a care.)
When Dolon offers to spy on the Achaeans, he makes
Hector swear to give him, on the condition of his success, the chariot and the horses of Achilles. 15 He can think
of no greater glory than that: they are at the height of
his ambition. To possess Achilles' immortal horses is to
become almost immortal oneself; for as they would be
forever, they would always keep flourishing one's fame.
They would be a more lasting monument than a grave,
that may either be mistaken for something else or completely washed away. 16 They are, however, beyond
Dolan's capacities, and not even Hector could manage
them. 17
Nothing indicates more exactly the difference between
the Iliad and the Odyssey than Achilles' horses and
Odysseus' dog." The horses weep for Patroclus but will
outlast Achilles and all men; while Argus, who was
beautiful and swift, dies at the sight of Odysseus. 19 His
life is so closely bound up with his master's that he cannot live well without him: but Achilles' horses will continue to be both beautiful and swift forever. Their immortality prevents their affection from ever being serious; 20
they do not really belong to any man, nor are they ever
domesticated. They stand even beyond Achilles, and
represent the futility of his end.
Achilles' horses, having all the qualities desired in a
horse, mixed, so to speak, with no corruptible matter,
are quite naturally divine. Immortality and agelessness
seem to be the reward for their virtue; and if man's perfection were the same as a horse's, then Achilles, who equals
them in swiftness as in beauty, would be a god. That his
virtues do not secure for him immortality points to the
only flaw in his nature.
When Achilles has cut through Hector's throat, Hector is still able to speak. 21 Homer makes it almost grotesquely clear; for Achilles' javelin seems to have gone
out of its way to allow Hector speech: "The bronze-heavy
javelin did not sever his wind-pipe, so that he might tell
him something and reply in words." It is Hector's very
act of speaking, not so much what he says, that should
54
instruct Achilles. Man is an animal that speaks even on
the verge of death, while Achilles' horses, perfect though
they are, can only speak when Hera has given, them
voice." The will of a god makes them the spokesmen of
Achilles' fate: but Hector needs no divine aid to foretell,
even more precisely, Achilles' death. 23 The horse is the
measure of man's humanity. For not to Achilles, who is
all action, but to Odysseus, whose speech is like the
winter's snow, is immortality offered. 24 Calypso promises
to make Odysseus immortal and ageless; but he refuses
on the very grounds which Achilles would have given
for acceptance.
When Odysseus walks through the palace of Alcinous,
he sees bronze walls, gold doors, silver jambs, and last,
"gold and silver hounds were on each side, which
Hephaestus had cleverly made to be the guardians of
great-hearted Alcinous' palace, immortal and ageless
forever. " 25 Here is what Calypso had promised: here is
what Odysseus rejected. To be like a golden hound, a
work of art, a thing forged on the anvil of Hephaestus,
is immortality. Why Odysseus prefers Penelope to Calypso, toil and trouble to heart-ease, his own rocky kingdom
to a kind of paradise, the golden hounds of Hephaestus
explain. He prefers to remain mortal and human: to be
a person and not a thing.
PART 1, STYLE
Introduction
1. Prophyry, Quaestiones Homericae.
2. Alexander I.
3. [twas Milman Parry's error not to realize that the inapplicability
of an epithet in some instances did not preclude its relevance in others,
and that both kinds were necessary.
4. C. M. Bowra, Heroic Poetry, pp_. 233ff.
5. Aeneid 7. 5.
6. Ibid. 1. 378-379.
7. Ibid. 10. 783.
8. Ibid. B. 7; cf. 10. 812 and Servius ad loc., 826.
9. Iliad 2. 769-770.
10. Ibid. 16. 152.
11. Odyssey 1. 29.
12. Ibid. 3. 310.
13. Ibid. 4. 628-629; d. 17. 381; 22. 241-245.
14. Iliad 4. 89, 104.
15. Ibid. 5. 169-216.
16. Ibid. 16. 854.
17. Ibid. 17. 10, 379; cf. 11. 654.
18. Ibid. 16. 119-121; Odyssey 10. 46-54.
19. Ibid. 11. 57; 12, 88; 13. 790; 14. 469.
20. Ibid. 18. 249-252; 22. 99-103.
21. Ibid. 12. 108-110.
Chapter I: Men and Heroes
1. Iliad 7. 96; cf. 2. 235; 7. 235-236; 11. 389; 23. 409.
2. Ibid. 15. 661-663.
3. Ibid. 5. 637; 23. 332, 790; ef. 1. 250; 6. 202; 20. 217, 220, 233; 24. 535.
4. Ibid. 3. 287, 353, 460; 6. 358; 7. 87.
5. Ibid. 9. 134; cf. BT Scholiast.
6. Ibid. 9. 276.
7. Ibid. 9. 335-337,340-341. Cf. Hesiod, Theogony416-436; Tyrtaeus fr.
9, 13-14; Aristophanes, Knights 1276-1277, 1304; Thucydides viii. 73.3,
92.2; Xenophon, Hiero viL 3.
SPRING 1985
�8~3~9~-~~mme~~mma
342; 20. 204, 357; 24. 202.
9. Ibid. 16. 263, 315; 17. 572.
10. Ibid. 23. 787-791.
11. Ibid. 16. 857; 22. 363; d. 24. 6. The v.1. ha(a)droteta is a corruption
of androteta (cf. Chantraine, Grammaire Home'rique, I, 110) and is not to
be confounded with adrosyne (Hesiod, Works and Days 474).
12. Ibid. 9. 189; cf. 524-527.
13. Ibid. 20. 203-204.
14. Cf. Iliad 16. 392; 17. 549-550; 19. 131; but cf. Hesiod, Theogony 100.
15. Cf. Iliad 15. 741; 16. 620-630; 20. 356-368, 248-257.
16. Iliad 6. 357-358; 7. 78-91; cf. Odyssey 8. 579-580.
17. Ibid. 12. 23; cf. W. Schadewaldt, Iliasstudien, p. 118, n. 1. The heroes
seem in strength more than twice an ordinary man, for they perform
deeds which hardly two mortals "such as they now are" could do (Iliad 5. 303-304; 12. 447-449; 20. 286-287; d. 12. 381-383); and at the same
time they possess half the strength of the gods, for, though unwilling
to resist alone a god-inspired enemy, they think themselves equal if
another joins them (13. SS-58, 235-238; 17. 102-104). It would seem that,
while the heroes are half-gods, mortals are at most a quarter; and hence
the greater frequency of dyo ("two") with the dual in the Iliad than in
the Odyssey well accords with its theme, as if two sons or two warriors
together (taken as a unity) reacquire a divine status (e.g., the two Ajax
or the two Atreidae; d. 2. 679, 822; 4. 393-395; 5. 10, 572). Cf. J. Gonda, Reflections on the Numerals "One" and "Two" in Ancient I-E Umguages,
pp. 15-20.
18. Ibid. 1. 339.
19. Ibid. 4. 82-84; 19. 224.
20. Ibid. 1. 339; 3. 279; 4. 84, 320; 6. 123, 180; 9. 460, 500, 507; 18. 107;
19. 94, 131, 224, 260; 21. 566, 569; 23. 788.
21. Ibid. 15. 139-141; cf. 4. 45; 5. 442; 24. 49.
22. Ibid. 5. 746-747; 9. 524-525; 13. 346; d. Hesiod, Works and Days 159.
23. Hesiod, in his five ages of man, never calls the heroes, unlike the
other four ages, anthrOpoi (Works and Days 109, 137, 143, 180)
24. Iliad 2. 669; d. Vergil, Aeneid 1. 65 passim: divum pater atque hominum
rex ("father of gods and king of men").
25. Odyssey 2. 47, 234; 5. 12; cf. Iliad 8. 40; 22. 184.
26. Iliad 4. 84; 19. 224; 4. 235; 8. 245; cf. 5. 33; 8. 132, 397; 11. 80, 201;
16. 250; 17. 630.
27. Cf. Iliad 19. 95-96.
28. Iliad 16. 798; cf. 5. 184-185, 331-332, 839, and how in Pindar theos
and anlr are linked: Py. 4. 21-23; 5. 123; 12. 22; Ne. 1. 8-9; 3. 23; fr. 224,
225 (Schroeder).
29. Odyssey 18. 130-135; cf. Iliad 24. 49.
30. Iliad 17. 446-447; cf. 20. 21.
31. Cf. Odyssey 23. 302-307.
32. We can easily measure the difference between the Iliad and Odyssey
if we remember that, when Odysseus tells Eumaeus about his exploits
in war~how he loved not the working of the soil nor the care for his
household, but always ships and wars and well-polished lances were
dear to him-it is told as part of a lie (Odyssey 14. 211-228).
33. AnthrOpos: 118 in Odyssey, 70 in Iliad; herOs: 73 in Iliad, 40 in Odyssey;
the same applies to anir, phOs, brotos.
34. Iliad 1. 3-4, Odyssey 1. 3; cf. Odyssey 4. 267-268.
35. Cf. Odyssey 1. 347-352; 8. 479-480; Iliad 8. 492-493, with Odyssey 1.
358-359; 21. 352-353.
36. Odyssey 1. 219, 236; 7. 212, 307; 8. 552; 11. 363-366; 22. 414-415.
37. Cf. Seiler, H., Glotta xxxii. 3/4, p. 233, who notes that the expressed
opposition of anthrOpoi-theoi is more common in the Iliad than in the
. Odyssey.
38. Cf. Ovid, Metamorphoses xlii. 9-15.
39. Odyssey 4. 268, 312, 423, 617; 15. 117, 121.
40. Ibid. 4. 21, 303, 312; 15. 62.
41. Ibid. 1. 189; 2. 99; 19. 144; 22. 185; 24. 134.
42. Ibid. 2. 15, 157; 7. 155; 11. 342; 24. 451.
43. Ibid. 14. 97. It is in line with this that Eumaeus himself obtains the
once proud title orchamos and ron, "file-leader of he-men."
44. Odyssey 18. 423; d. Eustathius ad loc.
Chapter II: Achaeans and Trojans
1. Iliad 1. 122-123.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
2. Ibid 1. 135; d. Odyssey 24. 57.
3. Ibid. 5. 27, 102; 8. 155; 10. 205; 11. 294, 459; 13. 456, 737; 17. 420;
23. 175, 181.
4./bid. 17. 214; 18. 226; 19. 75; 20. 498; 21. 153; 23. 168; cf. 9. 184, 496.
5. Ibid. 5. 135-136.
6. Cf. Iliad 2. 53, 196.
7. Iliad 5. 102.
8. Ibid. 6. 111; 20. 366.
9. Ibid. 9. 233; 11. 564; 14. 15; 15. 135; 17. 276.
10. Cf. Iliad 13. 620-639.
11. Iliad 3. 106; 13. 621; 21. 224, 414, 459.
12. Odyssey 1. 134; cf. 20. 291-292; 21. 289.
13. Iliad 10. 299; cf. 4. 176; Odyssey 1. 106 passim; d. 0. Hoffman, G/otta
xxvili, p. 32.
14. Ibid. 9. 496; 20. 498.
15. Ibid. 11. 459; 5. 27-29.
16. I borrow these lines from Macaulay's portrait of Monmouth, History of England, I, 464 (Everyman's ed.).
17. Iliad 3. 8; 11. 508; 24. 364; but cf. 2. 536, 541.
18. Ibid. 10. 204-206.
19. Cf. Iliad 19. 164-170.
20. Diomedes: Iliad 5. 25, 235, 335; 6. 145; 10. 509; cf. 4. 365; 5. 376,
881; Odysseus: 5. 674 (cf. 670); 10. 232, 248, 498; 11. 403; only once is
he megathymos (Odyssey 15. 2).
21. Iliad 10. 476-481, 488-493.
22. Ibid. 9. 255, 629, 675; 18. 5; 20. 343; 21. 53.
23. Ibid. 22. 98.
24. Ibid. 8. 523; 21. 55.
25. Cf. Sophocles Ajax 548-549; Odyssey 18. 261-264.
26. Iliad 5. 102; cf. 4. 509; 12. 440.
27. Ibid. 11. 564-568.
28. Ibid. 4. 355, 509; 8.110; 12. 440; 17. 230, 418; all in speeches. Similarly, knre komoOtJtes Achaioi ("long-haired Achaeans"), which we may
say is opposed to hippodamoi ("tamers of horse"), rarely occurs in bat~
tie scenes (Iliad. 3. 79; 8. 341).
29. Ibid. 3. 341-343.
30. Cf. Iliad 2. 123; 3. 111, 274, 297, 319; 15. 390; 16. 564, 770; 20. 2-3.
31. Cf. Iliad 19. 74.
32. Cf. Odyssey 1. 1.
33. Even the epithet tachypOloi, "with swift horses" (of the Danaans),
is more "obvious" than the Trojans' hippodamoi.
34. Iliad 2. 87-100.
35. Ibid. 2. 144-154.
36. Ibid. 2. 209-210.
37. Ibid. 2. 394-397.
38. Cf. H. Fraenkel, Die Homeriscl!en Gleichnisse, p. 20.
39. Iliad 2. 455-473; cf. 469 with 87.
40. Ibid. 2. 474-477.
41. Ibid. 2. 780-785.
42. Tacitus Hist. i. 84.
43. Iliad. 2. 810; 3. 1~9; cf. Thucydides ii. 89. 9.
44. Ibid. 4. 422-438; cf. 2. 804, 867; Aeschylus Pers. 401-407; Polybius
xv. 12. 8-9; Plutarch de aud. poet. 10; Milton Paradise Lost i. 549-562.
45. Ibid. 13. 795-800; 15. 381-384; 16. 364-366; 17. 263-266; cf. 12. 138;
16. 78, 373; 21. 10. Once the Trojans attack without shouting (abromoi
auiachoiJ and only then are they compared to fire (13, 39-41); cf. C. Robert,
Sudien zur !lias, pp. 124-125; U. Wilamowitz, Die !lias und Homer, p. 252,
n. 2.
46. Ibid. 11. 50; 18. 149.
47. Ibid. 4. 452-456; 14. 393-401; 17. 736-740 .
48. Ibid. 9. 4-8.
49. Ibid. 13. 128-133; 16. 212-217.
50. Ibid. 14. 507; 16. 283.
51. Cf. Th.ucydides i. 49. 3; ii. 11. 8, 87. 4·5, 89. 5·8.
52. iv. 126. 5; d. Herodotus vii. 211. 3, 212. 2; viii. 86. One might say
that what distinguishes the Achaeans and Trojans persists in Herodotus as the difference between Greeks and Persians, and in Thucydides,
on a much higher level, as the difference between Athenia.ns and
Spartans.
53. Consider how in Thucydides virtue and shame are coupled: i. 37.
2, 84. 3; ii. 51. 5; iv. 19. 3; v. 9. 9, 101.
55
�54. Cf. Sophocles Ajax 1075-1080; Plato Euthyphro 12a7-12c8, Amatores
135a3-135a5 with Odyssey 21. 285-286, 323-329.
55. Cf. Aeschylus Agamemnon 937-938.
56. Iliad 6. 441-443; cf. 8. 147-156; 12. 310-321; 17. 90-95.
57. Ibid. 22. 104-107; cf. Aristotle MM 1191a5-1191a13, EE 1230a161230a26.
58. Ibid. 24. 44-45.
59. Iliad 3. 9; d. 2. 362-363.
60. [bid. 13. 237.
61. Ibid. 5. 529-532; 15. 561-564.
62. [bid. 15. 657-658; cf. 8. 345-346; 17. 357-365.
63. Thucydides v. 9. 9; d. i. 84. 3.
64. Iliad 2. 453-454; 11. 13-14.
65. [bid. 5. 787; 8. 228; 13. 95, 122; 15. 502, 561.
66. Ibid. 4. 431; cf. 1. 331; 4. 402; 24. 435.
67. Ibid. 15. 661-666; d. Tacitus Hist. iv. 18. 4; Germania 7-8.
68. [bid. 4. 297-300; cf. Xenophon Memorabilia ill. i. 8; Polybius xv. 16. 1-4.
69. Cf. Iliad 4. 303-309.
70. Iliad 16. 422-430; cf. BT Scholiast 13. 95; 15. 502.
71. Cf. Tacitus Gemwnia 30. 2.
72. Iliad 13. 1, 129; 15. 42, 304, 327, 449 passim.
73. Cf. Iliad 13. 49-54.
74. Xenophon A11abasis ii. vi. 19.
75. Iliad 17. 335-341. It is noteworthy how both here and elsewhere (5.
787; 8. 228; 13. 95, 122) the appeal to shame is either said or inspired
by a god.
76. Cf. Xenophon Cyropaedeia viii. i. 31.
77. Iliad !0. 212-217.
78. Ibid. 10. 303-307; cf. BT Scholiast 10. 303; 17. 220.
79. Ibid. 7. 427 (consider 430); cf. 19. 295-299.
80. Lessing Laokoo11 I.
Chapter III: Achilles and Agamemnon
1. Whether "Peleides," "Atreides," etc., are patronymica or gentilica has been much disputed; d. K. Meister, Die Homerische Kuntsprache,
pp. 149-150; P. Chantraine, op. cit., I, 105-106.
2. Iliad 24. 538-540.
3. Ibid. 21. 189.
4. Cf. Iliad 6. 123 with 145-146; 21. 150 with 153.
5. Iliad 1. 146, 188, d. 178.
6. Ibid. 2. 860, 874, but cf. A. Scholiast.
7. Cf. the way each side exhorts their troops in Thucydides, e.g., iv.
92. 7, 95. 3; see also Herodotus vi. 14. 3; viii. 90. 4.
8. Iliad 9. 252-259, 438-443.
9. Ibid. 19. 387-391; cf. 14. 9-11; 16. 140-144; 21. 174-178; 20.2.
10. Ibid. 1. 242.
11. Ibid. 3. 329; 7. 355; 8. 82; 13. 766.
12. Ibid. 3. 356; 6. 512.
13. Cf. Paulys Realet~cyclopiidie vxii, 2 col. 1918.
14. Odyssey 8. 18.
15. Ibid. 16. 455; 17. 361; 18. 348; 20. 286; 22. 191, 339.
16. Cf. Odyssey 24. 270. Thucydides refers to himself only once as the
son of Oro! us: when he is in command of Athenian forces (iv. 104.4);
elsewhere, as an historian, he is plain Thucydides or Thucydides the
Athenian.
17. Metamorphoses xiii. 140-141.
18. Cf. lliad 6. 150-151; 20. 213-214.
19. Odyssey 1. 21.
20. Cf. BT Scholiast 2. 212.
21. Sophocles Pltiloctetes 440-442.
22. Ibid. 417 (cf. Ajax 190); Odyssey 14. 202-203.
23. Odyssey 9. 366-367.
24. Ibid. 9. 19; cf. 10. 325-330.
25. Ibid. 9. 414, cf. 408.
26. Iliad 1. 7.
27. Ibid. 1. 24.
28. Ibid. 1. 59, 90, cf. 94.
29. Ibid. 1. 102; d. 7. 322; 13. 112.
30. Ibid. 1. 122.
31. Ibid. 2. 434, but note 2. 362.
56
32. Ibid. 9. 96, 163, 677, 697 with which cf. 8. 293.
33. Ibid. 19. 146, 199; cf. 23. 49.
34. Ibid. 1. 234-239.
35./bid. 2. 73; cf. B Scholiast (Porphyry); jacoby, F. SBPAW 1932, pp.
586-594.
36. Ibid. 2. 100-108.
37. L:wkoon xvi.
38. Cf. 1. 293-294.
39. Cf. Rich"'d ll 3. 2. 54-62; 3. 3. 39-53, 72-90.
40. Iliad 1. 86, 339; 23. 43.
41. Ibid. 3. 276-280; 19. 258-260.
42. Ibid. 2. 109; 8. 496.
43.
44.
45.
46.
47.
48.
Ibid. 7. 412; d. Aristotle Politica 1285b3-1285b12.
Cf. Xenophon Memorabilia i. ii. 58; iv. vi. 13-15.
Iliad 2. 185-197; cf. 1. 174-175; ABT Scholiast 2. 186.
Ibid. 2. 199, cf. 265-266.
Ibid. 2. 200-205.
Cf. lliad 1. 175; 9. 37, 98, 608.
Chapter IV: Ancestral Virtue
1. lliad 1. 226-228.
2. Ibid. 2. 239-241.
3. Ibid. 1. 178.
4. Ibid. 1. 185-186, cf. 169.
5. Ibid. 1. 280-281; cf. 11. 786-787; Odyssey 15. 533-534.
6. Ibid. 2. 631-637; 11. 5-9.
7. [bid. 2. 641-643, 657-670, 673-675, 687-694, 698-703, 721-725.
8. Odysseus' ships are the only ones called miltopareioi, ''red cheeked,''
(2. 637), an indication to the hearers that his position is central (d.
Eustathius ad lac.); and likewise the importance of Achilles is indicated
by nun au (681, d. Eustathius).
9. Iliad 2. 579-580, cf. 481-483, Eustathius ad loc.
10. Cf. lliad 1. 91 with 244, 2. 82.
11. Iliad 2. 768-770, cf. 769, 7. 289.
12. Ibid. 2. 557-558.
13. Ibid. 2. 527-530.
14. Ibid. 3. 178-179.
15. Ibid. 9. 37-39; cf. 1. 231, 293.
16. Ibid. 5. 1.
17. Ibid. 5. 86.
18. Ibid. 5. 16, 18, 25, 85, 93, 97.
19. Ibid. 5. 114.
20. Ibid. 5. 116-117.
21. Ibid. 5. 134.
22. Ibid. 14. 110-127.
23. lbid. 4. 370-400; 5. 8U-813. It is not accidental that Agamemnon alone
calls Odysseus "Laertiades," without adding his proper name (9. 185);
nor that he bids Menelaus "call each man by his lineage and patronymic,
glorifying all" (10. 68-69; cf. 5. 635-639; 7. 125-128; 8. 282-283). Nicias,
Thucydides' Agamemnon, does the same (vii. 69. 2.), Cf. Xenophon
Oecmwmicus vii. 3.
24. Ibid. 4. 404-412.
25. Ibid. 5. 125; d. 6. 479; 15. 641-642; Odyssey 2. 276-277; Horace C,
i. XV. 27-28.
26. Ibid. 4. 354; 2. 260.
27. C( Meyer, de Homen· patrot~ymicis, pp. 61-66, who points out the
rarity of patronymics in the Odyssey: but he wrongly infers from this
its more recent origin, whereas it actually indicates the intended difference between the two works.
28. Iliad 9. 160-161, cf. 69.
29. Cf. Iliad 9. 392.
30. lliad 10. 237-239.
31. Ibid. 23. 571-585.
32. So Leaf ad 571.
33. Iliad 23. 572.
34. Odyssey 24. 508-515, d. Iliad 6. 209-211; Pindar Namea11 xi. 37-38.
35. lliad 23. 322, 515, 585, cf. 415.
36. Ibid. 23, 568, cf. 587-588; 1. 260; 2. 707.
Chapter V: The Armour of Agamemnon
1. Iliad 5. 268, 311.
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2. Ibid. 11. 701.
3. Ibid. 15. 532; 23. 288; cf. 2. 713.
4. Ibid. 1. 263; 4. 296; 5. 144; 9. 81.
5. Ibid. 16. 2; 19. 386.
6. Ibid. 11. 751.
7. Achilles bears approximately 28 epithets, Hector 17, Odysseus 1~
Menelaus 13, Ajax 17; and of them Odysseus alone has several that are
shared with no one else, mostly compounds with poly-.
8. Iliad 11. 45-46.
9. Ibid. 11. 61.
10. Ibid. 11. 62-63.
11. Ibid. 11. 27-28.
12. Ibid. 11. 32.
13. Ibid. 11. 65-66.
14. Ibid. 3. 333.
15. Ibid. 3. 339; cf. 10. 121-123; 17. 588.
16. Ibid. 10. 150-152 ..
17. Cf. Iliad 17. 195-197.
18. Iliad 22. 124-125; cf. Odyssey 10. 300-301.
19. Cf. Iliad 21. 50.
20. Iliad 10. 21-24, 31, 131-135, 178; cf. 29-30 with 3. 17.
21. Ibid. 10. 149; cf. BT Scholiast.
22. Ibid. 18. 192-195.
23. Cf. Vergil Aen. ii. 396.
24. Iliad 17. 210-212; cf. 19. 384-386.
25. Xenophon Anabasis ii. i. 12.
26. Iliad 5. 181-183.
27. Cf. iliad 7. 424; 11. 613-614.
28. Iliad 16. 278-282.
29. Ibid. 16. 141-144; cf. Eustathius ad 140.
Chapter VI: Ajax
1. Iliad 2. 671-675; d. Aristotle Rhetoric 1414a2-1414a7; Lucian Dial.Jyforl.
XXV.
2. But cf. niad 6. 522.
3. Iliad 2. 768.
4. Ibid. 17. 279-280.
5. Cf. Iliad 6. 156, where Bellerophon has "lovely manliness," i!norein
ereteinin, a unique collocation: erateini! is used of a country or Helen's
daughter (Iliad 3. 175, 239, 401; Odyssey 4. 13) and i!noree of strength
(Iliad 4. 303; 11. 9; 17. 329; Odyssey 24. 509).
6. Iliad 11. 465-472; d. his silence in Book 10 and 3. 292.
7. Ibid. 11. 474-481; cf. 15. 271-180 of Hector; Aristotle HA 610a13-610a14.
More than any other Achaean, Ajax (in Homer's eyes) is a lion: Iliad
7. 256; 11. 548-557; 13. 197-202; 17. 132-137; cf. Plato Republic 620b1-620b2.
8. Cf. Iliad B. 570-571.
9. lliad 3. 227; 7. 219; 11. 485; 17. 128; cf. 11. 526-527.
10. Ibid. 12. 330-350; 8. 266-268; cf. 17. 128-137.
11. Ibid. 11. 494-495.
12. Ibid. 11. 489-490.
13. Ibid. 11. 496-497.
14. Ibid. 11. 548-557; 17. 657-667.
15. Ibid. 11. 558-562, d. 67-69, its source.
16. Ibid. 11. 546.
17. Aristotle EN 1116a21-1116a35, 1116b30-1117a1.
18. lliad 12. 335.
19. Ibid. 17. 281-283.
20. Cf. Aristotle HA 488b15-488b17.
Chapter Vll: Heroic Virtue
1. niad 13. 321-325.
2. Ibid. 14. 520-522.
3. Cf. Iliad 17. 718-721.
4. Cf. Iliad 13. 75-79.
5. Iliad 10. 316.
6. Ibid. 21. 527; 22. 92; cf. 5. 395; 7. 208.
7. Cf. Uvy ix. 16. 11-19.
8. Iliad 22. 161 ..
9. Ibid. 1. 54, 58.
10. Ibid. 1, 84, cf. 80.
11. Ibid. 1. 121, 148 (cf. 215), 223-224.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
12. Ibid. B. 535; 11. 90; 13. 237, 275, 277; 14. 118 (cf. 15. 642); 20. 242,
411; 22. 268. 11. 763 and 9. 498 are used of Achilles; 23. 276, 374 of horses;
d. Pindar Pythian x, 23; Herodotus iii. 88. 3, i. 216; Iliad 20. 411 refers
only to swiftness.
13. Iliad 9. 498 is an apparent exception.
14. Theomnestus in Hippiatrica Cant. xciii. 93 (ed. Oder-Hoppe).
15. Aristotle EN 1106a19-1106a21; d.lliad 5. 222-223, 230-234; 10. 491-493;
16. 808-809; Odyssey 4. 202.
16. Iliad 2. 769-770.
17. British Horses and Ponies, pp. 23-24.
18. Iliad 2. 527-529.
19. Ibid. 6. 504-514, cf. 513 with 19. 398.
20. Ibid. 15. 262-270 (264-268~ 6. 507-511).
21. S. Leaf ad l/iad 6. 514; cf. 3. 43; 11. 378.
22. lliad 6. 466-470, cf. 318-322.
23. Ibid. 22. 22-24, cf. 162-165.
24. Ibid. 8. 83-84, 325-326; it is curious that Paris should hit the horse,
Hector the man; d. 22. 324-325; 8. 85; 13. 568-569.
25. Ibid. 17. 198-208, 441-450; consider 8. 186-190; d. Eustathius ad
188-189.
26. Cf. Iliad 10. 305-306, 322-323, 402-404 ( ~ 17. 76-78).
Chapter VIII: Achilles and Hector
1. Iliad 3. 60-63.
2. Cf. Iliad 23. 415.
3. Iliad 4. 542; 15. 358; 21. 251; 23. 529; 14. 488 of a man.
4. W. Schulze, Quaestiones Epicae, pp. 289-290, derives nelees of nelees
emar from aleomai ("shun"), and E. Risch, Wortbildung der Homerischen
Sprache, p. 76, n. 1, thinks both adjectives may come originally from
aleomai, but that later both were derived from eleos ("pity"}. In any case,
Homer, I think, did not distinguish them.
5. Iliad 9. 497, 632; 16. 33, 204; cf. 19. 229; Pindar Pythian I. 95-96.
6. Ibid. 22. 357. If we set aside its occurrence in lists (e.g., 5. 723), iron
mostly indicates horror, savagery, or indifference: 4. 123, 510; 7. 141,
144; 8. 15; 17. 424, 565; 18. 34; 22. 357; 23. 30; cf. Odyssey 16. 294. Iron
and bronze are related one to the other in Homer like steel and gold
in Shakespeare's line: ''To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown''
(Richard II 3. 2. 59).
7. Shakespeare Rape of Lucrece 1424-1428.
8. Iliad 16. 323-35; cf. Aeschylus Prometheus Bound 242, 299·302.
9. Odyssey 19. 162-163; cf. Ilzad 21. 190-199; 22. 126-128.
10. Iliad 15. 618-621.
11. Ibid. 16. 3-4; d. Eustathius 16.31.
Chapter IX: Similes
1. Iliad 18. 483; cf. 15. 187-193.
2. Ibid. 484-489, 607-608.
3. Ibid. 18. 491-508, 509-540, 541-606; BT Scholiast 490.
4. Cf. Iliad 18, 550-557 with 11. 67-70; all the similes of lions are derived,
as it were, from 18. 577-586; but see Iliad 605-606 and Odyssey 4. 17-18;
d. Odyssey 4. 1-7 with Iliad 18. 491-496.
5. Cf. Fraenkel, Dichtung a11d Philosophic der Fruehen Griechentum, pp.
58-59.
6. Cf. Iliad 2. 453-454; 11. 13-14.
7. Iliad 12. 40-50.
8. Cf. BT Scholiast 13. 39, 137.
9. Cf. Iliad 6. 407.
10. Iliad 12. 131-136.
11. Ibid. 12. 146-152.
12. Ibid. 12. 156-160.
13. Ibid. 12. 167-172 (cf. BT Scholiast). So 0. Becker interprets it: Das
Bild des Weges, pp. 44-45 (Hermes Einselschrift, Heft 4, 1937).
14. Ibid. 12. 200-207, 252-255.
15. Ibid. 12. 278-289; cf. 5. 557.
16. Ibid. 12. 293, 299-308.
17. Ibid. 12. 375-376.
18. Ibid. 12. 421-424.
19. Cf. Iliad 22. 261-264.
20. Iliad 12. 433-436.
21. Ibid. 12. 451-455.
22. Ibid. 12. 463.
57
�23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.
39.
40.
41.
42.
43.
44.
45.
46.
47.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Cf. Iliad
Iliad 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Ibid. 13.
Cf. Iliad
Cf. Iliad
39, 53.
137-142.
178-181.
198-202.
242-245.
295-303.
328, 330.
334-338.
389-391.
434-438.
12. 132-136, 146-150.
471-475.
487-495.
526-533.
560-565.
570-575.
588-592.
653-655.
673, 687-688.
703-708.
754-755.
795-801.
802-808.
12. 130, 188.
12. 465-466.
Chapter X: Achilles' and Hector's Virtues
1. The poetic gifts of Achilles are by no means common; d. Iliad 1.
225; 9. 189, 323-325; 16. 7-11; 21. 280-283; 22. 261-265.
2. Iliad 12. 167-172.
3. Ibid. 17. 565.
4. Ibid. 20. 371-372.
5. Ibid. 11. 65-66; 22. 134-135; 19. 373-382; cf. 22. 317-319.
6. Ibid. 15. 605-610; 19. 16-17, 365-366.
7. Ibid. 20. 490-493; cf. 13. 53, 688; 17. 88-89; 18. 154; 20. 423; 21. 12-16.
8. Ibid. 15. 605; cf. 13. 53-54.
9. Ibid. 2. 426; 9. 468; 17. 88; 23. 33.
10. Storm: Iliad 11. 297, 305; 12. 40; river: 5. 597-599; waves: 11. 307;
15. 624.
11. Iliad 21. 273-283.
12. Cf. lliad 7. 99-100; Tacitus Annales i. 70. 1-3.
13. Iliad 21. 190-199; cf. 124-132; 20. 390-392; 14. 244-246. 21. 195 is interpolated; cf. G. Bolling, Extemal Evidence, pp. 188-189; Pasquali, G.,
Storia della Tradizione, pp. 225-227. Note that Achilles does not know
the power of Oceanus: only the gods and Homer know.
14. Cf. Iliad 20. 104-107.
15. Iliad 20. 73-74.
58
Chapter XI; Heroic Ambition
1. Iliad 8. 538-541.
2. Cf. Iliad 2. 371-372; 4. 288-289; Odyssey 11. 543-547.
3. Iliad 13. 126-128.
4. Ibid. 18. 516.
5. Ibid. 17. 397-399; cf. 20. 358-359.
6. Ibid. 13. 825-826.
7. Ibid. 13. 54, 802; cf. 7. 298; 14. 388-391; 24. 258-259.
8. Ibid. 7. 87-91.
9. Ibid. 12. 322-328.
10. Ibid. 16. 154; 23. 277.
11. Thymos of a horse: Iliad 8, 189; 10. 492, 531; 11. 520; 16. 382, 469;
23. 468. Neither the horse nor any other animal has phrenes: for the difference between them, cf 2. 371-372 with 4. 288-289; 13. 493-494. The phrase
kilta ph rena kai kata thymon usually expresses indecision: the hero is inclined one way by thymos, another way by phren: it is not tautological
(1. 193; 11. 411; 17. 106; 18. 15; d. 10. 507). Homer seems to distinguish
between singular phrin and plural phrenes: the singular is never used
in a bad sense, but often of pleasure, rarely of grief; the plural is often
in a bad sense, rarely of pleasure, often of grief and other violent passions. "Pure" passions are entitled to the singular, "impure" to the
plural; the pure ones seem to be fear for others and pleasure for oneself (of fear: 1. 555; 9. 244; 10. 538; of pleasure; 6. 285; 8. 559; 9. 186
(d. 184), passim). Zeus' undivided will is singular (2. 3; 10. 45-46; 12.
173; 19. 125; 20. 23), but it becomes plural when perturbed and divided
(8. 360, 446; 13. 631; 14, 165, 294; 16. 435, 444; 19. 121, 127) Consider
the beautiful uses of phren in the Odyssey (6. 147; 19. 471), the only instances, I believe, of the singular used of anger and of grief.
12. Xenophon de re equestri ix. 2; Parmenides fr. 1, 1; Plato Phaedrus
253d3-253e1; cf. Iliad 10. 436-437.
13. Aristotle HA 575b31-474b33, d. 604b25-604b27; Vergil Georgica iii.
266; Shakespeare Henry V 3. 7. 1-88; Venus and Adonis 259-324, 385-396.
14. Georgica ill. 112.
15. Iliad 10. 322-323, cf. 305-306.
16. Cf. Iliad 7. 86-91, 446-451; 12. 13-33, 326-333.
17. Iliad 10. 401-404; 17. 75-78.
18. Cf. Geddes, The Problem of the Homeric Poems, pp. 205-235.
19. Odyssey 17, 291-323.
20. Cf. Iliad 1. 573-574; 15. 138-141; 21. 379-380.
21. Iliad 22. 328-329.
22. Ibid. 19. 407.
23. Ibid. 19. 416-417; 22. 358-360; d. Xenophon de re equestri viii. 13.
24. Odyssey 5. 136; 7. 257; 23. 336; lliad 18. 105-106; 19. 217-219; 3. 216-224;
cf. 15. 741; 16. 630-631.
25. Odyssey 7. 91-94.
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�The White Rose: Munich 1942-1943 by Inge Scholl
With an Introduction by Dorothee Soelle. Translated from the German by Arthur
R. Schultz.
(Middleton, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 1984)
The Short Life of Sophie Scholl by Hermann Vinke
With an Interview with lise Aichinger. Translated ... by Hedwig Pachter.
(New York: Harper & Row, 1984)
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During the escalation of the controversy about President Reagan's intended visit to the German war cemetery
at Bitburg, when, after the "discovery" that there were
no graves of American soldiers there, it was discovered
that there were 49 graves of men of the Waffen-SS among
or beside the roughly 2000 graves of soldiers of the German army, the German government made attempts to
co-opt Germans with ''resistential" credentials to counteract the outrage and to demonstrate unity in the matter. Berthold von Stauffenberg, a son of the man who
tried in vain to kill Hitler on 20 July 1944, was willing to
go, though with a marked lack of enthusiasm. He is, as
his father was, a professional soldier, a colonel in the Bundeswehr. He felt that this was not a matter of conscience;
so that he would not refuse an order or request to attend.
His brother, who is a member of parliament, had told his
staff not to accept any such invitation. Their cousin Alfred
von Hofacker, son of the man who played a pivotal role
in the one-day anti-Nazi takeover in Paris in July 1944,
felt that the next-of-kin of the men and women whoopposed the Nazis at the cost of their lives should not serve
as figleaves to hide someone's embarrassment (Washington Post, 4 May 1985).
Much could be said about the Figleaf-And-Oiive-Branch
Function-ever since the founding of the Federal Republic-of the names associated with the German opposition
to Hitler. There would be nothing wrong with the use
of these people, their names and their memories, to build
bridges and foster friendly relations between the new
German republic and Germany's erstwhile enemies-if
it had not tended to be a trifle too purposeful, almost a
mechanism, and therefore suspect, as well as demeaning to the people thus called upon to perform this
function.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
It is a pity, because in our epoch any example of
resistance to the prevailing trend or to a totalitarian regime is of great interest precisely because it is so rare.
For such exemplars to be used for propaganda or for public relations is all too likely to be a misuse. But such misuse is widespread; and it is by no means confined to one
side. Some of the very concentration camp sites now have
"Left" and "Right" associations. Commemorations are
often accompanied by tensions among the commemorators.
Dr. Michael Probst, the son of Christoph Probst, a
member of the White Rose group who was put to death
with Hans and Sophie Scholl, attended a recent commemorative gathering at the cemetery at Munich-Perlach
where they are buried. (Most of the people executed later
in connection with the July '44 plot were denied graves
by a regime bent on revenge.) The ceremony attracted
representatives of many groups, including the American
Jewish Congress. Probst wrote an open letter to Professor Michael Wyschogrod of that organization in which
he expressed his concern at the politicisation of the event.
American Jews wanted to pay demonstrative honour to
the White Rose for being the first to denounce the mass
murder of Jews publicly, in one of their leaflets. But the
gesture was also intended as a demonstrative corrective
to President Reagan's visit to Bitburg; indeed, in Probst's
view, it lent support to "people in Germany who oppose
your President and those who elected him, who think
they can thereby promote the interests of disarmament."
He considers their assumption misguided and support
for the tyrants of our day. "My father and his friends
aimed at the spiritual renewal of the German people after the ... liberation from the Hitler regime, not their
confusion. They paid for this with their lives. The dead
59
�should not be dragged into the political discussions of
the day." (Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 6 May 1985;
my translation.)
On the other hand the ubiquitous media had tracked
down Inge Scholl at the graveside and recorded her misgivings about Bitburg. But it did not take that television
news item to show disagreements even between the families of the White Rose, this tiny group in the context
of the German opposition to Hitler, perhaps even within
families.
just as the liberal father, Robert Scholl, had not been
able to convince his children of the menace and wickedness of the Nazi regime until they had discovered it for
themselves, so too he failed, 35 years later, to prevail with
the young firebrands of the Left who were determined
to break up a commemoration of the White Rose in the
disturbed 1960s, because they objected to the conserva,
tive views of some who took part. The father's plea to
let the gathering proceed without disturbance was of no
avail.
That was in February 1968. (See, for instance, Die Zeit,
5 March 1968.) One year later Inge Scholl wrote some
Concluding Remarks for her little book about the White
Rose, which had become a classic since its first publication, but had now to contend with the criticisms of latterday perfectionists and pragmatists-which were, of
course, often mutually contradictory. This postscript appears again in the American second edition. But the book
now has an additional Introduction by the prominent theologian Dorothee Soelle. Aha, one might think: she will
say something about the part played by Christianity in
the lives and deaths of the White Rose group. (Christoph
Probst, for instance, asked to be received into the Catholic
church before he died.) Far from it: there is not a word
about it, nor even about what Dietrich Bonhoeffer called
"religionless Christianity." Instead there is a diatribe
against NATO, the Pentagon, the arms race, and Ronald
Reagan. Mrs. Soelle packs powerful punches. She says
that she does not believe the people who say they did
not know about the systematic mass murder of the jews
while it was going on. She ends her Introduction with
this nightmare-"that my children will later approach
[reproach?] me and ask, 'Mom, what did you do when
Ronald Reagan laid the groundwork for the nuclear
Holocaust?' No matter what, I would not be able to say
that I did not know. All of us know, and we have to act
in one way or another. That is the legacy of the White
Rose" (White Rose, p. XIV).
Is it? Is it that simple? The contents of the book speak
against it. Even Inge Scholl's 1969 Postscript harclly points
that way. And I would say that even-and especially-if
one has grave misgivings about President Reagan and
what he stands for, one must, surely, discountenance
such an Introduction which, instead of introducing the
reader to the White Rose, uses it for political purposeshowever heartfelt.
The book itself is nonetheless still valuable, consisting,
as it does, of Inge Scholl's first and fundamental account
60
and an appendbc of 10 documents, such as the text of the
Indictment and Sentences, a moving account by her cellmate of Sophie's last days and nights in prison, some
newspaper announcements of the executions, and iln excerpt from a letter by the Norwegian Bishop Berggrav
describing the scene when Helmuth james von Moltke
told him about the White Rose at a secret meeting in Oslo
in spring 1943.
Inge Scholl's Postscript of 1969 explains that her book
was originally written in 1947, for use in schools, for
adolescents from the age of thirteen to eighteen-some
of whom had still served in the Hitler Youth, many of
whom could not understand how their parents could be
taken in by the Nazis. She wanted to correct what she
now saw as a political deficiency in that early book as well
as the misconception that the Munich resistance of 1943
was little more than an action arising out of moral outrage without much regard for its political aspects.
The Munich student rebels realized that only force
could overthrow the regime. Since force was not available, they spread information and called for passive
resistance. Some of them did collect what arms they
could. By their leaflets they also hoped to create a sense
of solidarity among individuals opposed to the regime.
They hoped "to win over the hesitant, to move the uncommitted to a decision, to cast doubt in the minds of
Nazi followers, to induce questioning in the minds of
Nazi enthusiasts" (p. 95). They also had, and they
wanted to foster, a sense of solidarity with the other European resistance groups. The third of the White Rose
leaflets clearly states that "A victory of fascist Germany
in this war would have immeasurable, frightful consequences." How could the regime be fought? By sabotage
everywhere, by convincing everyone of the senselessness
and hopelessness of the war, ''of our intellectual and economic enslavement at the hands of the National Socialists; of the destruction of all moral and religious values
... " (pp. 97-8).
Politically they favoured parliamentary democracy but
concentrated more on the rejection of National Socialism
and of nationalism. They were appalled by the failure of
the German intellectuals. In the autumn of 1942 Hans
harangued them in his diary: "It is the very negation of
the intellect that you serve in this desperate hour. You
do not see the despair. You are rich, you do not see the
poor. Your soul is dried up because you did not want to
heed its call. You apply your intellect to the refinement
of a machine gun, but even in your young years you
brushed aside the simplest, the primary questions: Why?
and Whither?" (p. 101).
He felt that the educated classes were most to blame
and most confused-more than, say, the workers or the
dergy-and he pleaded with the educated to become politically engaged.
Inge Scholl is convinced that her brother's and sister's
rigor of thought was closely related to their discovery of
Christianity, which "paralleled the development of their
independent political stand"-helped by such older
SPRING 1985
�I
I
friends as Carl Muth and Theodor Haecker. She also
stresses the importance of personal contact with such
thinkers as well as with other forbidden writers and
artists.
She ends her Postscript with a warning against the easy
drawing of false parallels. "It is my view that one should
let what happened then stand as it was. Practical applications do not exist; we should look upon it as a singular
instance. It was an instance in which 5 or 6 students took
it upon themselves to act while the dictatorship was totally in control; in which they accepted the lonely burden of not even being able to discuss these matters with
their families; in which they took action even though the
omnipotent state allowed them no room for maneuver;
in which they acted in spite of the fact that they could
do no more than tear small rifts in the structure of that
state-much less blast out the corner stones." She ends:
"It is rare that a man [ein Mensch?] is prepared to pay with
his life for such a minimal achievement as causing cracks
in the edifice of the existing order" (p. 103).
J
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Hermann Vinke' s Short Life of Sophie Scholl is a marvellous book. The author modestly describes it as a collage
of reports, letters, documents, testimonies and photos.
Again it is written for the young, from the age of twelve
up; and it got the German prize for a juvenile book. In
fact it is a book for all ages and much more adult than
many books for "grown-ups." It is much more concrete,
more detailed, more specific and circumstantial, than Inge
Scholl's trailblazing story. The author works in television,
but seems quite free from the temptations of one who
writes with a film or a "docudrama" in mind. He lets
the word speak, though he has many pictures too. He
has used Inge Scholl's book, interviews with her and with
Fritz Hartnagel, Sophie's friend, and he was given photographs which at last get away from the joan of Arc images and show the little girl with her siblings, with a
friend playing with dolls, in her Hitler Youth blouse and
skirt, in a bathing suit by the water. Some. show her with
hair cut so short that one can almost understand the
police arresting her in 1937 thinking she was a boy-when
she was 16 and they were cracking down on illegal youth
movements. Some of the best happy snaps were taken
by her younger brother Werner. The wartime photos look
less happy. There is a rather miserable one of her in a
boisterous and bovine group of Labor Service girls in
striped pyjamas; and the previously published worriedlooking one with her brother Hans and Christoph Probst
when they were leaving for Russia; and the last pensive
one, a blown-up passport photograph. There are also
some reproductions of her drawings.
Vinke reproduces long quotations from her letters and
diaries. Here she does indeed speak for herself. Vinke
respects her and, while presenting and interpreting her,
never foists anything on her that is not warranted by the
evidence. He just seems to make all the arrangements to
allow her to live again.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
How extraordinarily alive she was! How happy, how
richly endowed, as a child, a girl, an adolescent, a young
adult. She was eleven when Hitler came to power and
twenty-one when she died. She was eighteen in September 1939 when the war broke out and left school in
March 1940. Then came the separation from her family,
labor service, war service. She trained as a Montessori
teacher, worked with children, then on the land and in
a factory. Shortly after her twenty-first, her last, birthday in May 1942, she was free at last to go to the university. She joined her elder brother Hans in Munich and
met his friends, solcliers who were allowed to study medicine and to do medical work in the army. She studied
biology and philosophy and took part in their political
discussions and activities. She helped with the clandestine distribution of their leaflets and was finally arrested
with her brother, tried and sentenced and executed with
him and Christoph Probst, all in a matter of four days
in February 1943. Her parents came to the trial and were
thrown out, but were able to see her once more before
she went to her death. Then her family were arrested.
Her brother Werner died serving in Russia. Her friend
Fritz Hartnagel had managed to survive Stalingrad, later
married her sister Elisabeth, studied law, and became a
judge. He was reluctant to talk to Hermann Vinke, but
was finally persuaded by his son, a history teacher.
Fritz Hartnagel was four years older than Sophie who,
however, even in her teens, was the one who set the tone
politically and involved him in stern cliscussions. He was
an army officer and slow to see that Germany had to lose
the war. Sophie was quite clear and consistent about it.
Her final break with the Nazis seems to have come in
1938-9, after the arrest of the young Scholls for illegal activities in late 1937. Her father, a liberal and pacifist even
in the first world war, a mayor after the war and later,
under the Nazis, a private economic consultant, had jewish clients in Ulm, and so the family was aware of the
repercussions and sequel of the pogrom of November
1938. And after Munich, after Prague, the relentless drive
to war was all too clear. The father, too, served time in
jail, during the war-which made it doubly hard for his
eldest son and youngest daughter to go ahead with their
oppositional activities; they had to fear that they would
endanger him even more. It was he who, in the first Nazi
years, tried to restrain his children's enthusiasm for the
new regime and its lies about progress and the People's
Community. Once they saw the light he may have worried about the risks they took; but he was proud of them.
The five Scholl children grew up in a loving, liberal,
educated and educative home. They enjoyed much freedom-even, despite the parents' misgivings, the freedom
to join the Hitler Youth before it was compulsory and to
become leaders in it. The children roamed the Suabian
and Bavarian countryside, and Sophle, in particular,
loved nature passionately-and poetically.
There was a great intensity about her life, an intensity
which enabled her to face death calmly when it came.
61
�Even the Gestapo were impressed-and probably at a loss
for an explanation.
The faith that animated her, and which she was able
to put in words-though quiet, she was a very articulate
person-was probably at first the faith of her mother, who
had been a Protestant nurse, a Diakonisse, before she married. But it was also acquired and deepened by Sophie
herself, by her whole-hearted response to what went on
around her, a response that made her withdraw to serious reading whenever she could, even as a labor conscript, and glad to join with Hans and his friends and
mentors when she had at last escaped to Munich.
But Munich brought its clandestine work and Sophie
once commented herself on how carefree and childlike
she was during a brief spell at home and how she became grown-up and careworn again during the short train
journey back from Ulm. She was not plagued by doubts.
She knew what she wanted to do, what she was doing,
and why. Such wholeness, such integrity, is exceedingly
rare.
Else Gebel, her cell-mate between her final arrest and
execution, marvelled at her serenity and her considerateness, at how concerned Sophie was not to endanger her
and at how well Sophie slept even the last night before
her trial and execution.
There is a great "legacy" in the Vinke book-but not
in the sense of Mrs. Soelle. It is so effective because it
is informative, straightforward and plain-dealing and free
from both polemic and unctuousness.
It, too, has a kind of postscript, an interview with the
writer lise Aichinger, who describes what the news of
the White Rose meant to her during the war when she
and her mother lived in fear and were "racially" at risk.
It gave her hope and restored her faith in humanity; it
gave her strength to survive. She surely shared that leg-
62
acy with many others. Many more now have cause to be
grateful to Hermann Vinke for concentrating on the life
of Sophie Scholl and presenting her as a person,•as an
individual. This is doubly welcome after the Bitburg incident has once more shown the power of thinking in
terms of collectives and the need to get away from it. The
young people of the White Rose were emphatic about the
importance and the responsibility of the individual.
They knew the likely cost of taking responsible action
under a totalitarian regime. During their last Christmas
holidays at horne Hans told Inge about a recent execution of fourteen Communists and Social Democrats and
added: "It is high time that Christians, too, start doing
something" (p. 138). Wilhelm Geyer, a painter an.d friend
of the Scholls, remembers that two days before their last
leaflet action and arrest Sophie said: "With all those people dying for the regime, it is high time that someone died
against it" (pp. 163-4).
There were and were to be others, who paid the same
price. Michael Probst, writing to Michael Wyschogrod,
quotes the farewell letter of a farmer's son called up to
serve in the 55 in early.:J.944. He and a friend had refused
to sign and were sentenced to death. He thanks his parents for all they had done for him since his childhood.
They had told him not to join the 55. He asks for his parents' forgiveness and asks them to pray for him.
It took heroic virtue to make such decisions.
Beale Ruhm von Oppen
Beate Ruhm von Oppen is a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis. Her
article about the White Rose, Student Rebellion and the Nazis, appeared
in the Winter 1984 issue of The SL John's Revieu1.
SPRING 1985
�:."'
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A Lover's Afterthought
Trotsky resisted the idea of death,
was scandalized by the notion of
an ice-pick in the skull
that someone might thus question
the integrity of his skin. He called upon
the whole available arsenal, tooth and claw,
he gnashed and bit and kicked and screamed and scratched,
did all he could to unzip his assailantbut to no avail-poor Trotsky,
he was obviously incapable of intimacy.
The slave in your Persian carving,
who is about to be devoured by a lion,
he knows better. He casts his head back cavalier
as the lion leans on him,
feels the beast's warm breath, the intentness of
its heartbeat, the seering potential of its
unsocialized behavior. He casts his head
back to reveal the neck, extends the curve,
even exaggerates it a bit to make the
vulnerability more palpable to the
animal-the way lovers sometimes do.
The stage thus set the rampager cannot
help but act, and there are only two possibilities
in the face of such desperate vulnerability.
1) contract the steely jaws and break and shred
the unresisting skin; 2) or not. Murder or not.
Both are acts of enormous intimacy, murder and forgiveness
are both very romantic, but murder is a one-time act,
it trivializes all the other scenes that follow but forgiveness,
forgiveness is the greatest intimacy
Max Dublin
Max Dublin is a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis.
THE ST. JOHN'S REVIEW
63
�'
l
The Effects of Gravity
on Health
Almost everyone passed out at the meeting today,
only the smokers & joggers stayed awakeall that extra energy stolen from the air.
Me, I was still asleep when I arrived,
even though I'd shaved already:
I shaved today, I know I did,
but did it by touch, with my eyes closed,
so as not to disturb my repose.
I know what it would take for me to awaken again
but I'm unwilling to make the sacrifice,
just as my sister, under different circumstances,
said on her suicide tape, blithely clinging to her wounds,
'There may be some sacrifices I am unwilling to make
in order to get better." Very good old girl,
you always had a way with words. So much meaning
and so much precision in such a compact statement,
as the reviewers might say. I wonder, will we
ever have suicide reviews?
In the end, however, what killed her, besides gravity,
was the unremitting and increasing ordinariness of
the world which, being a romantic, she could hardly forgiveand a single sentence which she finally got right.
I lived out of town in Cambridge then;
today I pass the spot daily as I walk to work,
there is no more stain on the pavement to mark the place,
but surely one macromolecule of her physical being
has survived the ravages of scrubbers and time and
weather and lingers on, quietly living its macromolecular
existence, quietly betokening to this day
that last pronouncement,
the steely sentence of her relentless unbecoming.
Max Dublin
64
SPRING 1985
�
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<em>The St. John's Review</em><span> is published by the Office of the Dean, St. John's College. All manuscripts are subject to blind review. Address correspondence to </span><em>The St. John's Review</em><span>, St. John's College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, MD 21401 or via e-mail at </span><a class="obfuscated_link" href="mailto:review@sjc.edu"><span class="obfuscated_link_text">review@sjc.edu</span></a><span>.</span><br /><br /><em>The St. John's Review</em> exemplifies, encourages, and enhances the disciplined reflection that is nurtured by the St. John's Program. It does so both through the character most in common among its contributors — their familiarity with the Program and their respect for it — and through the style and content of their contributions. As it represents the St. John's Program, The St. John's Review espouses no philosophical, religious, or political doctrine beyond a dedication to liberal learning, and its readers may expect to find diversity of thought represented in its pages.<br /><br /><em>The St. John's Review</em> was first published in 1974. It merged with <em>The College </em>beginning with the July 1980 issue. From that date forward, the numbering of <em>The St. John's Review</em> continues that of <em>The College</em>. <br /><br />Click on <a title="The St. John's Review" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=13"><strong>Items in the The St. John's Review Collection</strong></a> to view and sort all items in the collection.
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1985-04
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Sterling, J. Walter
Kronsberg, Anita
Freis, Richard
Freis, S. Richard
Sachs, Joe
Stickney, Cary
Wilson, Curtis A.
Sachs, Joe
Brann, Eva T. H.
Zuckerman, Elliot
Clark, Allen
Strauss, Leo
Coughlin, M.L.
Benardete, Seth
von Oppen, Beate Ruhm
Dublin, Max
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Volume XXXVI, number 2 of The St. John's Review, formerly The College. Published in Spring 1985.
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The_St_Johns_Review_Vol_36_No_2_1985
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's Review
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