 Chapter 1, Section 1 of the Greek View of Life. Chapter 1, The Greek View of Religion. Section 1, Introductory In approaching the subject of the religion of the Greeks, it is necessary to dismiss at the outset many of the associations which we are naturally inclined to connect with that word. What we commonly have in our mind when we speak of religion is a definite set of doctrines of a more or less metaphysical character, formulated in a creed and supported by an organization distinct from the state. And the first thing we have to learn about the religion of the Greeks is that it included nothing of the kind. There was no church, there was no creed, there were no articles, there was no doctrine even, unless we are so to call a chaos of legends orally handed down and in continual process of transformation by the poets. Priests there were, but they were merely public officials appointed to perform certain religious rites. The distinction between cleric and layman as we know it did not exist. The distinction between poetry and dogma did not exist. And whatever the religion of the Greeks may have been, one thing at any rate is clear, that it was something very different from all that we are in the habit of associating with the word. What then was it? It is easy to reply that it was the worship of those gods, of Zeus, Apollo, Athene and the rest, with whose names and histories everyone is familiar. But the difficulty is to realize what was implied in the worship of these gods. To understand that the mythology which we regard merely as a collection of fables was to the Greeks actually true. Or at least that to nine Greeks out of ten it would never occur that it might be false, might be, as we say, mere stories. So that though no doubt the histories of the gods were in part the inventions of the poets, yet the poets would conceive themselves to be merely putting into form what they and everyone believed to be essentially true. But such a belief implies a fundamental distinction between the conception, or rather perhaps the feeling of the Greeks about the world and our own. And it is this feeling that we want to understand when we ask ourselves the question what did a belief in the gods really mean to the ancient Greeks? To answer it fully and satisfactorily is perhaps impossible. But some attempt must be made, and it may help us in our quest if we endeavour to imagine the kind of questionings and doubts which the conception of the gods would set at rest. End of chapter 1, section 1. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 1, section 2 of the Greek view of life by Goldsworthy Lowe's Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Chapter 1, section 2. Greek religion, an interpretation of nature. When we try to conceive the state of mind of primitive man, the first thing that occurs to us is the bewilderment and terror he must have felt in the presence of the powers of nature. Naked, houseless, weaponless. He is at the mercy every hour of this immense and incalculable something, so alien and so hostile to himself. As fire it burns, as water it drowns, as tempest it harries and destroys. Benignant it may be at times in warm sunshine and calm, but the kindness is brief and treacherous. Anyhow, whatever its mood it has to be met and dealt with. By its help, or if not in the teeth of its resistance, every step in advance must be won. Every hour, every minute it is there to be reckoned with. What is it then? This persistent, obscure, unnameable thing. What is it? The question haunts the mind. It will not be put aside, and the Greek at last, like other men under similar conditions, only with a lucidity and precision peculiar to himself, makes the reply, it is something like myself. Every power of nature, he presumes to be a spiritual being, impersonating the sky as Zeus, the earth as Demeter, the sea as Poseidon. From generation to generation under his shaping hands, the figures multiply and define themselves. Character and story crystallise about what at first were little more than names, till at last from the womb of the dark enigma that haunted him in the beginning. There emerges into the charmed light of a world of ideal grace, a pantheon of fair and concrete personalities. Nature has become a company of spirits. Every cave and fountain is haunted by a nymph. In the ocean dwell the Nereids, in the mountain the Oryad, the triad in the wood, and everywhere, in groves and marshes, on the pastures or the rocky heights, floating in the current of the streams, or traversing untrodden snows. In the day at the chase, and as evening closes, in solitude, fingering his flute, seen and heard by shepherds, alone or with his dancing train, is to be met the horned and goat-footed, the sunny smiling pan. Thus conceived the world has become less terrible, because more familiar. All that was incomprehensible, all that was obscure and dark, has now been seized and bodied forth in form, so that everywhere man is confronted no longer with blind and unintelligible force, but with spiritual beings moved by like passions with himself. The gods, it is true, were capricious and often hostile to his good, but at least they had a nature akin to his. If they were angry, they might be propitiated. If they were jealous, they might be appeased. The enmity of one might be compensated by the friendship of another. Dealings with them, after all, were not so unlike dealings with men, and at the worst, there was always a chance for courage, patience and wit. Man, in short, by his religion has been made at home in the world, and that is the first point to seize upon. To drive it home, let us take an illustration from the story of Odysseus. Odysseus, it will be remembered, after the sack of Troy, for ten years was a wanderer on the seas, by tempest, enchantment, and every kind of danger detained, as it seemed, beyond hope of return, from the wife and home he had left in Ithaca. The situation is forlorn enough, yet somehow or other beauty in the story predominates over terror, and this in part at least, because the powers with which Odysseus has to do are not mere forces of nature, blind and indifferent, but spiritual beings who take an interest for or against in his fate. The whole story becomes familiar, and if one may say so comfortable, by the fact that it is conducted under the control and direction of the gods. Listen, for example, to the Homeric account of the onset of a storm, and observe how it sets one at ease with the elements. Now the Lord, the shaker of the earth, on his way from the Ethiopians, espied Odysseus afar off from the mountains of the Solymy. Even thence he saw him as he sailed over the deep, and he was yet more angered in spirit, and wagging his head he communed with his own heart. Low now it must be that the gods at the last have changed their purpose concerning Odysseus, while I was away among the Ethiopians. And now he is nigh to the Fiasian land, where it is so ordained that he escape the great issues of the woe which hath come upon him. But me thinks that even yet I will drive him far enough in the path of suffering. With that he gathered the clouds, and troubled the waters of the deep, grasping his trident in his hands, and he roused all storms of all manner of winds, and shrouded in clouds the land and sea, and down sped night from heaven. The east wind and the south wind clashed, and the stormy west and the north that is born in the bright air, rolling onward a great wave. The position of the hero is terrible, it is true, but not with the terror of despair. For as it is a God that wrecked him, it may also be a God that will save. If Poseidon is his enemy, Athene he knows is his friend. And all lies after all in the hands, or as the Greeks said, on the knees, not of a blind destiny, but of beings accessible to prayer. Let us take another passage from Homer to illustrate the same point. It is the place where Achilles is endeavouring to light the funeral pyre of Patroclus. But because there is no wind, the fire will not catch. What is he to do? What can he do? Nothing, say we, but wait till the wind comes. But to the Greek the winds are persons, not elements. Achilles has only to call and to promise, and they will listen to his voice. And so we are told, fleet-footed noble Achilles had a further thought. Standing aside from the pyre, he prayed to the two winds of north and west, and promised them fair offerings. And pouring large libations from a golden cup besought them to come, that the corpses might blaze up speedily in the fire, and the wood make haste to be enkindled. Then Iris, when she heard his prayer, went swiftly with the message to the winds. They, within the house of the gusty west wind, were feasting all together at meet, when Iris sped thither and halted on the threshold of stone. And when they saw her with their eyes, they sprung up and called to her every one to sit by him. But she refused to sit and spake her word. No seat for me! I must go back to the streams of ocean, to the Ethiopians' land where they sacrifice hecatums to the immortal gods, that I too may feast at their rites. But Achilles is praying the north wind and the loud west to come, and promising them fair offerings, that ye may make the pyre be kindled, whereon liars patroclus, for whom all the Achaeans are making moan. She, having thus said, departed, and they arose with a mighty sound, rolling the clouds before them. And swiftly they came blowing over the sea, and the wave rose beneath their shrill blast, and they came to deep soiled Troy, and fell upon the pyre, and loudly roared the mighty fire. So all night draved they the flame of the pyre together, blowing shrill, and all night fleet Achilles, holding a two-handled cup, drew wine from a golden bowl, and poured it forth and drenched the earth, calling upon the spirit of hapless patroclus. As a father waileth when he burneth the bones of his son, new married, whose death is woe to his hapless parents. So wail Achilles, as he burnt the bones of his comrade, going heavily round the burning pile with many moans. But at the hour when the morning star goeth forth to herald light upon the earth, the star that saffron mantled dawn cometh after, and spreadeth over the salt sea, then grew the burning faint, and the flame died down, and the winds went back again to betake them home over the Thracian main, and it roared with a violent swell. Then the son of Pilius turned away from the burning, and lay down weary, and sweet sleep leapt on him. The exquisite beauty of this passage, even in translation, will escape no lover of poetry, and it is a beauty which depends on the character of the Greek religion, on the fact that all that is unintelligible in the world, all that is alien to man, has been drawn, as it were, from its dark retreat, clothed in radiant form, and presented to the mind as a glorified image of itself. Every phenomenon of nature, night and rosy fingered dawn, earth and sun, winds, rivers and seas, sleep and death, all have been transformed into divine and conscious agents, to be propitiated by prayer, interpreted by divination, and comprehended by passions and desires, identical with those which stir and control mankind. End of chapter 1, section 2. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 1, Section 3 of the Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Chapter 1, Section 3. Greek Religion and Interpretation of the Human Passions. And as with the external world, so with the world within. The powers of nature were not the only ones felt by man to be different from and alien to himself. There were others equally strange, dwelling in his own heart, which though in a sense they were part of him, yet he felt to be not himself, which came upon him and possessed him without his choice and against his will. With these two he felt the need to make himself at home, and these two, to satisfy his need, he shaped into creatures like himself. To the whole range of his inner experience, he gave definition and life, presenting it to himself in a series of spiritual forms. In Aphrodite, mother of Eros, he incarnated the passion of love, placing in her broided girdle, love and desire of loving converse, that steals the wits even of the wise. In Ares he embodied the lust of war, in Athene wisdom, in Apollo music and the arts. The pangs of guilt took shape in the conception of avenging furies, and the very prayers of the worshipper sped from him in human form, wrinkled and blear-eyed, with halting pace in the rear of punishment. Thus the very self of man he set outside himself, the powers so intimate and yet so strange that swayed him from within. He made familiar by making them distinct, converted their shapeless terror into the beauty of visible form, and by merely presenting them thus to himself in a guise that was immediately understood, set aside, if he could not answer, the haunting question of their origin and end. Here, then, is at least a partial reply to our question as to the effect of a belief in the gods on the feeling of the Greek. To repeat the phrase once more, it made him at home in the world. The mysterious powers that controlled him, it converted into beings like himself, and so gave him heart and breathing space, shut in, as it were, from the abyss by this shining host of fair and familiar forms, to turn to the interests and claims of the passing hour, and attention undistracted by doubt and fear. Chapter 1 Section 4 Greek Religion the Foundation of Society But this relation to the world of nature is only one side of man's life. More prominent and more important at a later stage of his development is his relation to society, and here too in Greek civilization a great part was played by religion. For the Greek gods, we must remember, were not purely spiritual powers to be known and approached only in the heart by prayer. They were beings in human form, like though superior to ourselves, who passed a great part of their history on earth, intervened in the affairs of men, furthered or thwarted their undertakings, begat among them sons and daughters, and followed from generation to generation the fortunes of their children's children. Between them and mankind there was no impassable gulf. From Heracles the son of Zeus was descended the Dorian race, the Ionians from Ion son of Apollo. Every family, every tribe traced back its origin to a hero, and these heroes were children of the gods, and deities themselves. Thus were the gods, in the most literal sense, the founders of society. From them was derived even physically the unit of the family and the race, and the whole social structure raised upon that natural basis was necessarily penetrated through and through by the spirit of religion. We must not therefore be misled by the fact that there was no church in the Greek state, to the idea that the state recognized no religion. On the contrary, religion was so essential to the state, so bound up with its whole structure, in general and in detail, that the very conception of a separation between the powers was impossible. If there was no separate church, in our sense of the term, as an independent organism within the state, it was because the state in one of its aspects was itself a church, and derived its sanction, both as a whole and in its parts, from the same gods who controlled the physical world. Not only the community as a whole, but all its separate minor organs were under the protection of patron deities. The family centered in the hearth, where the father, in his capacity of priest, offered sacrifice and prayer to the ancestors of the house. The various corporations into which families were grouped, the local divisions for the purpose of taxation, elections and the like, derived a spiritual unity from the worship of a common god. And finally, the all-embracing totality of the state itself was explained and justified to all its members by the cult of the special protecting deity, to whom its origin and prosperous continuance wed due. The sailor who saw on turning the point of Sunnium, the tip of the spear of Athene, glittering on the acropolis, beheld in a type, the spiritual form of the state. Athene and Athens were but two aspects of the same thing, and the statue of the goddess of wisdom, dominating the city of the arts, may serve to sum up for us the ideal of that marvellous corporate life, where there was no ecclesiastical religion only because there was no secular state. Regarded from this point of view, we may say that the religion of the Greeks was the spiritual side of their political life, and we must add that in one respect their religion pointed the way to a higher political achievement than they were ever able to realise in fact. One fatal defect of the Greek civilization, as is familiar to students of their history, was the failure of the various independent city-states to coalesce into a single harmonious whole. But the tendency of religion was to obviate this defect. We find, for example, that at one time or another federations of states were formed to support in common the cult of some god. And one cult in particular there was, that of the Delphian Apollo, whose influence on political no less than on religious life was felt as far as, and even beyond, the limits of the Greek race. No colony could be founded, no war hazarded, no peace confirmed, without the advice and approval of the god, whose cult was thus at once a religious centre for the whole of Greece, and a forecast of a political unity that should coordinate into a whole her chaos of conflicting states. The religion of the Greeks being thus, as we have seen, the presupposition and bond of their political life, we find its sanction extended at every point to custom and law. The persons of heralds, for example, were held to be under divine protection. Treaties between states and contracts between individuals were confirmed by oaths. The vengeance of the gods was invoked upon infringers of the law. National assemblies and military expeditions were inaugurated by public prayers. The whole of corporate life, in short, social and political, was so embraced and bathed in an idealizing element of ritual that the secular and religious aspects of the state must have been as inseparable to a Greek in idea as we know them to have been in constitution. End of chapter 1, section 4. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmeyer Surrey, chapter 1, section 5 of The Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Chapter 1, section 5. Religious Festivals. For it was in ritual and art, not in propositions, that the Greek religion expressed itself, and in this respect it was closer to the Roman Catholic than to the Protestant branch of the Christian faith. The plastic genius of the race, that passion to embody ideas in form, which was at the root, as we saw, of their whole religious outlook, drove them to enact for their own delight in the most beautiful and telling forms, the whole conception they had framed of the world and of themselves. The changes of the seasons, with the toil they exact, and the gifts they bring, the powers of generation and destruction, the bounty or the rigours of the earth, and on the other hand the order and operations of social phenomena, the divisions of age and sex, of function and of rank in the state. All these took shape and came as it were to self-consciousness in a magnificent series of publicly ordered fet. So numerous with these, and so diverse in their character, that it would be impossible, even if it were desirable, in this place, to give any general account of them. Our purpose will be better served by a description of two, selected from the calendar of Athens, and typical the one of the relations of man to nature, the other of his relation to the state. The festivals we have chosen are those known as the Anthisteria and the Panathenaia. The Anthisteria was held at that season of the year when, as Pindar sings, in an ode composed to be sung upon the occasion. The chamber of the hours is opened, and the blossoms hear the voice of the fragrant spring, when violet clusters are flung upon the lap of earth, and chaplets of roses braided in the hair, when the sound of the flute is heard, and choirs chanting hymns to semele. On the natural side the festival records the coming of spring and the fermenting of last year's wine. On the spiritual its centre is Dionysus, who not only was the god of wine, but according to another legend, symbolised in his fate the death of the year in winter and its rebirth at spring. The ceremony is open with a scene of abandoned jollity. Servants and slaves are invited to share in the universal revel. The school holidays begin, and all the place is alive with the bustle and fun of a great fair. Bargaining, peep shows, conjuring, and the like fill up the hours of the day, and towards evening the holiday makers assemble, garlanded, and crowned in preparation for the great procession. The procession takes place by torchlight. The statue of Dionysus leads the way, and the revelers follow and swarm about him in carriages or on foot, costumed as hours or nymphs or back-eye in the train of the god of wine. The destination is the temple of the god, and there sacrifice is performed with the usual accompaniment of song and dance. The whole closing with a banquet and a drinking contest, similar to those in vogue among the German students. Aristophanes has described the scene for us. Couches, tables, cushions, and coverlets for mattresses, dancing and singing girls for mistresses, plum-cake and plain, comfits and caraways, confectionery, fruits preserved and fresh, relishes of all sorts, hot things and bitter, savouries and sweets, broiled biscuits, and what not, flowers and perfumes and garlands, everything. And in the midst of this the signal given by the trumpet, the simultaneous draft of wine, and the prize adjudged to the man who is the first to empty his cup. Thus ends the first phase of the festival. So far all has been mirth and revelry, but now comes a sudden change of tone. Dionysus, god of wine, though he be, has also his tragic aspect. Of him too, there is recorded a descent into hell, and to the glad celebration of the renewal of life in spring succeeds a feast in honour of the dead. The ghosts, it is supposed, come forth to the upper air. Every doorpost is smeared with pitch to keep off the wandering shades, and every family sacrifices to its own departed. Nor are the arts forgotten. A musical festival is held, and competing choirs sing and dance in honour of the god. Such, so far as our brief and imperfect records enable us to trace it, was the ritual of a typical Greek festival. With the many questions that might be raised as to its origin and development, we need not concern ourselves at present. What we have to note is the broad fact, characteristic of the genius of the Greeks, that they have taken the natural emotions excited by the birth of spring, and by connecting them with the worship of Dionysus, have given them expression and form. So that what in its origin was a mere burst of primitive animal spirits is transmuted into a complex and beautiful work of art, the secret springs and fountains of physical life flowing into the forms of a spiritual symbol. It is this that is the real meaning of all ceremonial, and this that the Greeks better than any other people understood. Their religion, one may almost say, consisted in ritual, and to attempt to divide the inner from the outer world would be to falsify from the beginning its distinctive character. Let us pass to our second illustration, the great city festival of Athens. In the Ancestria it was a moment of nature that was seized and idealized. Here in the Panathenaea it is the forms of social life, its distinctions within its embracing unity, that are set forth in their interdependence as functions of a spiritual life. In this great national fete held every four years all the higher activities of Athenian life were ideally displayed. Contests of song, of lyre and of flute, foot and horse races, wrestling, boxing and the like, military evolutions of infantry and horse, pyrrhic dances symbolic of attack and defense in war, mystic chants of women and choruses of youths, the whole concentering and discharging itself in that great processional act in which, as it were, the material forms of society became transparent, and the whole moved on, illumined and visibly sustained by the spiritual soul of which it was the complete and harmonious embodiment. Of this procession we have still in the frieze of the Parthenon a marble transcript. There we may see the life of ancient Athens moving in stone from the first mounting of their horses by isolated youths, like the slow and dropping prelude of a symphony, on to the thronged and trampling ranks of cavalry, past the antique chariots reminiscent of Homeric war, and the marching band of flutes and zithers by lines of men and maidens bearing sacrificial urns, by the garlanded sheep and oxen destined for sacrifice, to wear on turning the corner that leads to the eastern front, we find ourselves in the presence of the Olympian gods themselves, enthroned to receive the offering of a people's life. And if to this marble representation we add the colour it lacks, the gold and silver of the vessels, the purple and saffron robes, if we set the music playing and bid the oxen low, if we gird our living picture with the blaze of an august noon, and crown it with the acropolis of Athens, we may form a conception better perhaps than could otherwise be obtained of what religion really meant to the citizen of a state whose activities were thus habitually symbolized in the cult of its patron deity. Religion to him clearly could hardly be a thing apart, dwelling in the internal region of the soul, and leaving outside untouched by the light of the ideal, the whole business and complexity of the material side of life. To him it was the vividly present and active soul of his corporate existence, representing in the symbolic forms of ritual the actual facts of his experience. What he reenacted periodically in ordered ceremony was but the drama of his daily life, so that as we said before the state in one of its aspects was a church, and every layman from one point of view a priest. The question, what did a belief in the gods really mean to the Greek, has now received at least some sort of answer. It meant to recur to our old phrase that he was made at home in the world. In place of the unintelligible powers of nature, he was surrounded by a company of beings like himself, and these beings who controlled the physical world were also the creators of human society. From them were descended the heroes who founded families and states, and under their guidance and protection cities prospered and throve. Their histories were recounted in innumerable myths, and these again were embodied in ritual. The whole life of man, in its relations both to nature and to society, was conceived as derived from and dependent upon his gods, and this dependence was expressed and brought vividly home to him in a series of religious festivals. Belief in the gods was not to him so much an intellectual conviction, as a spiritual atmosphere in which he moved, and to think it away would be to think away the whole structure of Greek civilization. End of chapter 1 section 5. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 1 section 6 of The Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Chapter 1 section 6. The Greek Conception of the Relation of Man to the Gods. Admitting, however, that all this is true, admitting the place of religion in Greek life, do we not end, after all, in a greater puzzle than we began with? For this it may be said, whatever it may be, is not what we mean by religion. This, after all, is merely a beautiful way of expressing facts, a translation, not an interpretation of life. What we mean by religion is something very different to that, something which concerns the relation of the soul to God. The sense of sin, for example, and of repentance and grace. The religion of the Greeks, we may admit, did something for them which our religion does not do for us. It gave intelligible and beautiful form to those phenomena of nature which we can only describe as manifestations of energy. It expressed in a ritual of exquisite art, those corporate relations which we can only enunciate in abstract terms. But did it perform what, after all, it may be said, is the true function of religion? Did it touch the conscience as well as the imagination and intellect? To this question we may answer at once, broadly speaking, no. It was, we might say, a distinguishing characteristic of the Greek religion, but it did not concern itself with the conscience at all. The conscience, in fact, did not yet exist to enact that drama of the soul with God which is the main interest of the Christian, or at least of the Protestant faith. To bring this point home to us, let us open the pilgrims' progress and present to ourselves in its most vivid colours the position of the English Puritan. Now I saw upon a time when he was walking in the fields that he was, as he was won't, reading in his book, and greatly distressed in his mind, and as he read he burst out as he had done before, crying, what shall I do to be saved? I looked then and saw a man named evangelist coming to him, and asked, wherefore dost thou cry? He answered, sir, I perceive by the book in my hand that I am condemned to die, and after that to come to judgment, and I find that I am not willing to do the first, nor able to do the second. Then said evangelist, why not willing to die, since this life is attended with so many evils? The man answered, because I fear that this burden that is upon my back will sink me lower than the grave, and I shall fall into torfet. And, sir, if I be not fit to go to prison, I am not fit to go to judgment, and from dense to execution, and the thoughts of these things makes me cry. Then said evangelist, if this be thy condition, why standest thou still? He answered, because I know not wither to go. Then he gave him a parchment roll, and there was written within, fly from the wroth to come. The whole spirit of the passage transcribed, and of the book from which it is quoted, is as alien as can be to the spirit of the Greeks. To the Puritan, the inward relation of the soul to God is everything. To the average Greek one may say broadly, it was nothing. It would have been at variance with his whole conception of the divine power. For the gods of Greece were beings essentially like man, superior to him not in spiritual nor even in moral attributes, but in outward gifts, such as strength, beauty, and immortality. And as a consequence of this, his relations to them were not inward and spiritual, but external and mechanical. In the midst of a crowd of deities capricious and conflicting in their wills, he had to find his way as best he could. There was no knowing precisely what a god might want. There was no knowing what he might be going to do. If a man fell into trouble, no doubt he had offended somebody, but it was not so easy to say whom or how. If he neglected the proper observances, no doubt he would be punished, but it was not everyone who knew what the proper observances were. Altogether it was a difficult thing to ascertain, or to move the will of the gods, and one must help oneself as best one could. The Greek accordingly helped himself by an elaborate system of sacrifice and prayer and divination. A system which had no connection with an internal spiritual life, but the object of which was simply to discover, and if possible, to affect the divine purposes. This is what we meant by saying that the Greek view of the relation of man to the gods was mechanical. The point will become clearer by illustration. End of chapter 1 section 6. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 1 section 7 of the Greek view of life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Chapter 1 section 7. Divination, Omens, Oracles. Let us take first a question which much exercised the Greek mind, the difficulty of forecasting the future. Clearly the notion that the world was controlled by a crowd of capricious deities swayed by human passions and desires was incompatible with the idea of fixed law. But on the other hand it made it possible to suppose that some intimation might be had from the gods, either directly or symbolically, of what their intentions and purposes really were. And on this hypothesis we find developed quite early in Greek history a complex art of divining the future by signs. The flight of birds and other phenomena of the heavens, events encountered on the road, the speech of passers-by, or most important of all the appearance of the entrails of the victims sacrificed were supposed to indicate the probable course of events. And this art, already mature in the time of the Homeric poems, we find flourishing throughout the historic age. Nothing could better indicate its prevalence and its scope than the following passage from Aristophanes, where he ridicules the readiness of his contemporaries to see in everything an omen, or, as he puts it, punning on the Greek word, a bird. On us you depend, sings his chorus of birds. On us you depend, and to us you repair, for counsel and aid, when a marriage is made, a purchase, a bargain, a venture in trade, unlucky or lucky, whatever has struck he, an ox or an ass that may happen to pass, a voice in the street, or a slave that you meet, a name or a word by chance overheard. You deem it an omen, and call it a bird. Aristophanes, of course, is jesting, but how serious and important this art of divination must have appeared, even to the most cultivated Athenians, may be gathered from a passage of the Tragedian Eskilus, where he mentions it as one of the benefits conferred by Prometheus on mankind, and puts it on a level with the arts of building, metal-making, sailing, and the like, and the sciences of arithmetic and astronomy. And if anyone were dissatisfied with this method of interpretation by signs, he had a direct means of approaching the gods. He could visit one of the oracles, and consult the deity at first hand about his most trivial and personal family affairs. Some of the questions put to the oracle at Dodona have been preserved to us, and very curious they are. Who stole my cushions and pillow? asks one bereaved householder. Another wants to know whether it will pay him to buy a certain house and farm. Another whether sheep farming is a good investment. Clearly the god was not above being consulted on the meanest affairs, and his easy accessibility must have been some compensation for his properable caprice. Nor must it be supposed that this phase of the Greek religion was a superstition confined to individuals. On the contrary, it was fully recognized by the state. No important public act could be undertaken without a previous consultation of omens. More than once, in the clearest and most brilliant period of the Greek civilization, we hear of military expeditions being abandoned because the sacrifices were unfavorable. And at the time of the Persian invasion, at the most critical moment of the history of Greece, the Lucky Dimonians, we are told, came too late to be present at the Battle of Marathon, because they thought it unlucky to start until the moon was full. In all this, we have a suggestion of the sort of relation in which the Greek conceived himself to stand to the gods. It is a relation, as we said, external and mechanical. The gods were superior beings who knew it might be presumed what was going to happen. Man didn't know, but perhaps he could find out. How could he find out that was the problem? And it was answered in the way we have seen. There was no question clearly of a spiritual relation. All is external, and a similar externality pervades on the whole the Greek view of sacrifice and of sin. Let us now turn to consider this point. End of chapter 1, section 7. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 1, section 8 of the Greek view of life by Goldsworthy Lowe's Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Chapter 1, section 8. Sacrifice and Atonement In Homer we find that sacrifice is frankly conceived as a sort of present to the gods, for which they were in fairness bound to an equivalent return, and the nature of the bargain is fully recognized by the gods themselves. Hector, se Zeus to Hera, was dearest to the gods of all mortals that are in Ilios. So was he to me at least, for no wise failed he in the gifts I loved. Never did my altar lack seemingly feast, drink offering, and the steam of sacrifice, even the honor that falleth to our dew. And he concludes that he must intervene to secure the restoration of the body of Hector to his father. The performance of sacrifice then ensures favor, and on the other hand its neglect entails punishment. When Apollo sends a plague upon the Greek fleet, the most natural hypothesis to account for his conduct is that he has been stinted of his due mead of offerings. Perhaps, says Agamemnon, the savor of lambs and unblemished goats may appease him. Or again when the Greeks omit to sacrifice before building the wall around their fleet, they are punished by the capture of their position by the Trojans. The whole relation between man and the gods is of the nature of a contract. If you do your part, I'll do mine. If not, not. That is the tone of the language on either side. The conception is legal, not moral nor spiritual. It has nothing to do with what we call sin and conscience. At a later period it is true we find a point of view prevailing which appears at first sight to come closer to that of the Christian. Certain acts we find, such as murder, for example, were supposed to infect us with a stain, not only the original offender, but his descendants from generation to generation. Yet even so, the stain, it appears, was conceived to be rather physical than moral, analogous to disease, both in its character and in the methods of its cure. Aeschylus tells us of the earth's breeding monsters as a result of the corruption infused by the shedding of blood, and similarly a purely physical infection tainted the man or the race that had been guilty of crime. And as was the evil, so was the remedy. External acts and observations might cleanse and purge away what was regarded as an external affection of the soul. And we know that in historic times there was a class of men comparable to the medieval pardons whose profession it was to effect such cures. Plato has described them for us in striking terms. Mendicant prophets, he says, go to rich men's doors and persuade them that they have a power committed to them of making an atonement for their sins, or those of their fathers, by sacrifices or charms with rejoicings and games. And they promise to harm an enemy, whether just or unjust, at a small charge, with magic arts and incantations binding the will of heaven, as they say, to do their work. And they produce a host of books written by Museus and Orpheus, who were children of the moon and the muses. That is what they say, according to which they perform their ritual, and persuade not only individuals, but whole cities, that expiations and atonements for sin may be made by sacrifices and amusements which fill a vacant hour. How far is all this from the puritan view of sin? How far from the Christian of the pilgrims' progress with the burden on his back? To measure the distance we have only to attend, with this passage in our mind, a meeting, say, of the Salvation Army. We shall then perhaps understand better the distinction between the popular religion of the Greeks and our own, between the conception of sin as a physical contagion to be cured by external rights, and the conception of it as an affection of the conscience which only grace can expel. In the one case, the fact that a man was under the taint of crime would be born in upon him by actual misfortune from without, by sickness, or failure in business, or some other of the troubles of life, and he would ease his mind and recover the spring of hope by performing certain ceremonies and rites. In the other case, his trouble is all inward. He feels that he is guilty in the sight of God, and the only thing that can relieve him is the certainty that he has been forgiven, assured him somehow or other from within. The difference is fundamental and important to bear in mind if we would form a clear conception of the Greek view of life. End of chapter 1, section 8, recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 1, section 9, of the Greek view of life, by Goldsworthy Lowe's Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Chapter 1, section 9, Guilt and Punishment It must not be supposed, however, that the popular superstition described by Plato, however characteristic it may be of the point of view of the Greeks, represents the highest reach of their thought on the subject of guilt. No profounder utterances are to be found on this theme than those of the great poets and thinkers of Greece, who without rejecting the common beliefs of their time, transformed them by the insight of their genius into a new and deeper significance. Especially striking in this connection is the poetry of the Tragedian Aeschylus, and it will be well worth our while to pause for a moment and endeavour to realise his position. Guilt and its punishment is the constant theme of the dramas of Aeschylus, and he has exhausted the resources of his genius in the attempt to depict the horror of the avenging powers, who under the name of the Erinias or Furies, persecute and torment the criminal. Their breath is foul with the blood on which they feed. From their roomy eyes a horrible humour drops. Daughters of night and clad in black, they fly without wings. God and man and the very beasts shun them. Their place is with punishment and torture, mutilation, stoning and breaking of necks, and into their mouth the poet has put words which seem to breathe the very spirit of the Jewish scriptures. Come now, let us preach to the sons of men. Yay, let us tell them of our vengeance. Yay, let us all make mention of justice. Whoso showeth hands that are undefiled, low, he shall suffer naught of us forever, but shall go unharmed to his ending. But if he hath sinned, like unto this man, and covereth hands that are bloodstained, then is our witness true to the slain man. And we sue for the blood, sue and pursue for it, so that at the last there is payment. Even so, it is written, O sentence sure, upon all that wild in wickedness dip hand in the blood of their birth, in the fount of their flowing, so shall he pine until the grave receive him, to find no grace even in the grave. Sing then the spell, sisters of hell, chant him the charm, mighty to harm, binding the blood, madding the mood. Such the music that we make quail ye sons of man, and quake, bow the heart, and bend and break. This is our ministry marked for us from the beginning. This is our gift, and our portion apart, and our Godhead. Ours, ours only for ever. Darkness, robes of darkness, a robe of terror for ever. Ruin is ours, ruin and wreck, when to the home murder hath come, making to cease innocent peace. Then at his beck follow we in, follow the sin, and ah, we hold to the end when we begin. There is no poetry more sublime than this, none more penetrated with the sense of moral law. But still it is wholly Greek in character. The theme is not really the conscience of the sinner, but the objective consequence of his crime. Blood calls for blood, is the poet's text. A man, he says, must pay for what he does. The tragedy is the punishment of the guilty, not his inward sense of sin. Orestes, in fact, who is the subject of the drama with which we are concerned, in a sense was not a sinner at all. He had killed his mother, it is true, but only to avenge his father whom she had murdered, and at the express bidding of Apollo. So far is he from feeling the pangs of conscience that he constantly justifies his act. He suffers, not because he has sinned, but because he is involved in the curse of his race. For generations back, the house of Atreus had been tainted with blood, murder had called for murder to avenge it, and Orestes, the last descendant, caught in the net of guilt, found that his only possibility of right action lay in a crime. He was bound to avenge his father, the god Apollo had enjoined it, and the avenging of his father meant the murder of his mother. What he commits, then, is a crime, but not a sin, and so it is regarded by the poet. The tragedies, we have said, centres round an external objective law. Blood calls for blood. But that is all of the internal drama of the soul with God, the division of the man against himself, the remorse, the repentance, the new birth, the giving or withholding of grace, of all this the essential content of Christian Protestantism, not a trace in the clear and concrete vision of the Greek. The profoundest of the poets of Hellas, dealing with the darkest problem of guilt, is true to the plastic genius of his race. The spirit throws outside itself the law of its own being. By objective external evidence it learns that doing involves suffering, and its moral conviction comes to it only when forced upon it from without, by a direct experience of physical evil. Of Aeschylus, the most hebraic of the Hellenes, it is as true as of the average Greek, that in the Puritan meaning of the phrase, he had no sense of sin, and even in treating of him we must still repeat what we said at the beginning, that the Greek conception of the relation of man to the gods is external and mechanical, not inward and spiritual. End of chapter 1 section 9. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 1 section 10 of The Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Chapter 1 section 10. Mysticism. But there is nothing so misleading as generalization, especially on the subject of the Greeks. Again and again, when we think we have laid hold of their characteristic view, we are confronted with some new aspect of their life, which we cannot fit into harmony with our scheme. There is no formula which will sum up that versatile and many-sided people. And so, in the case before us, we have no sooner made what appears to be the safe and comprehensive statement that the Greeks conceived the relation of man to the gods mechanically, than we are reminded of quite another phase of their religion, different from and even antithetic to that with which we have hitherto been concerned. Nothing we might be inclined to say on the basis of what we have at present ascertained. Nothing could be more opposed to the clear anthropomorphic vision of the Greek than that conception of a mystic exaltation, so constantly occurring in the history of religion, whose aim is to transcend the limits of human personality and pass into direct communion with the divine life. Yet of some such conception, and of the ritual devised under its influence, we have undoubtedly though fragmentary indications in the civilisation of the Greeks. It is mainly in connection with the two gods, Apollo and Dionysus, that the phenomena in question occur. Gods whose cult was introduced comparatively late into Greece, and who brought with them from the north, something of its formless but pregnant mystery. As though at a point the chain of guardian deities was broken, and the terror and forces of the abyss pressed in upon the charmed circle of Hellas. For Apollo, who in one of his aspects is a figure so typically Hellenic, the ever young and beautiful god of music and the arts, was also the power of prophetic inspiration, of ecstasy, or passing out of oneself. The priestess who delivered his oracle at Delphi was possessed and mastered by the god. Maddened by mythic vapours streaming from a cleft in the rock, convulsed in every feature and every limb, she delivered in semi-articulate cries the burden of the divine message. Her own personality for the time being was annihilated. The wall that parts man from God was swept away, and the divine rushed in upon the human vessel it shattered as it filled. This conception of inspiration as a higher form of madness possessed of a truer insight than that of sanity was fully recognised among the Greeks. There is a madness, as Plato puts it, which is the special gift of Heaven, and the source of the chiefest blessings among men. For prophecy is a madness, and the prophetess at Delphi, and the priestesses at Dodona, when out of their senses have conferred great benefits on Hellas, both in public and private life, but when in their senses few or none, and in proportion as prophecy is higher and more perfect than divination, both in name and reality, in the same proportion as the ancients testify, is madness superior to a sane mind, for the one is only of human, but the other of divine origin. Here, then, in the oracle at Delphi, the centre of the religious life of the Greeks, we have an explicit affirmation of that element of mysticism, which we might have supposed to be the most alien to their genius, and the same element reappears in a cruder and more barbaric form in connection with the cult of Dionysus. He, the god of wine, was also the god of inspiration, and the ritual with which he was worshipped was a kind of apotheosis of intoxication, to suppress for a time the ordinary worker-day consciousness with its tedium, its checks, its balancing of prose and cons, to escape into the directness and simplicity of mere animal life, and yet to feel in this no degradation but rather a submission to the divine power, an actual identification with the deity. Such it would seem was the intention of those extraordinary revels, of which we have in the back eye of Euripides, so vivid a description, and to this end no stimulus was omitted to excite and inspire the imagination and the sense. The influence of night and torches in solitary woods, intoxicating drinks, the din of flutes and cymbals on a base of thunderous drums, dances convulsing every limb and dazzling eyes and brain, the harking back, as it were, to the sympathies and forms of animal life in the dress of fawn skin, the horns, the snakes twined about the arm, and the impersonation of those strange half-human creatures who were supposed to attend upon the god, the satyrs, nymphs and fawns who formed his train. All this points to an attempt to escape from the bounds of ordinary consciousness, and pass into some condition conceived, however confusedly, as one of union with the divine power. And though the basis, clearly enough, is physical and even bestial, yet the whole ritual does undoubtedly express, and that with the plastic grace and beauty that redeems its frank sensuality, that passion to transcend the limitations of human existence, which is at the bottom of the mystic element in all religions. But this orgy of the senses was not the only form which the worship of Dionysus took in Greece. In connection with one of his legends, the myth of Dionysus Zagreus, we find traces of an esoteric doctrine, taught by what were known as the Orphic sects, very curiously opposed, one would have said, to the general trend of Greek conceptions. According to the story, Zagreus was the son of Zeus and Persephone. Hera, in her jealousy, sent the Titans to destroy him. After a struggle, they managed to kill him, cut him up, and devoured all but the heart, which was saved by Athenae and carried to Zeus. Zeus swallowed it and produced there from a second Dionysus. The Titans he destroyed by lightning and from their ashes created man. Man is thus composed of two elements, one bad, the Titanic, the other good, the Dionysiac, the latter being derived from the body of Dionysus, which the Titans had devoured. This fundamental dualism, according to the doctrine founded on the myth, is the perpetual tragedy of man's existence, and his perpetual struggle is to purify himself of the Titanic element. The process extends over many incarnations, but an ultimate deliverance is promised by the aid of the Redeemer, Dionysus Lucius. The belief, thus briefly described, was not part of the popular religion of the Greeks, but it was a normal growth of their consciousness, and it is mentioned here as a further indication that even in what we call the classical age they were not wanting traces of the more mystic and spiritual side of religion. Here in the tenets of these Orphic sects we have the doctrine of original sin, the conception of life as a struggle between two opposing principles, and the promise of an ultimate redemption by the help of the divine power. And if this be taken in connection with the universal and popular belief in inspiration as possession by the God, we shall see that our original statement, that the relation of man to the gods was mechanical and external in the Greek conception, must at least be so far modified, that it must be taken only as an expression of the central or dominant point of view, not as excluding other and even contradictory standpoints. Still, broadly speaking, and admitting the limitations, the statement may stand. If the Greek popular religion be compared with that of the Christian world, the great distinction certainly emerges that in the one the relation of God to man is conceived as mechanical and external, in the other as inward and spiritual. The point has been sufficiently illustrated, and we may turn to another division of our subject. End of chapter 1 section 10. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Chapter 1 section 11 of The Greek View of Life by Goldsworthy Loes Dickinson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Chapter 1 section 11. The Greek View of Death and a Future Life. Of all the problems on which we expect light to be thrown by religion, none to us is more pressing than that of death. A fundamental, and as many believe, the most essential part of Christianity is its doctrine of reward and punishment in the world beyond. And a religion which had nothing at all to say about this great enigma, we should hardly feel to be a religion at all. And certainly on this head, the Greeks, more than any people that ever lived, must have required a consolation and a hope. Just in proportion as their life was fuller and richer than that which has been lived by any other race. Just in proportion as their capacity for enjoyment in body and soul was keener, as their senses were finer, their intellect broader, their passions more intense, must they have felt with peculiar emphasis the horror of decay and death. And such, in fact, is the characteristic note of their utterances on this theme. Rather, says the ghost of Achilles to Odysseus in the world of shades, rather would I live upon the soil as the hireling of another, with a landless man who had no great livelihood, than bear sway among all the dead that are no more. Better, as Shakespeare has it, the weirdest and most loathed worldly life that age, ache, penury and imprisonment can lay on nature. Better that, on earth at least, and in the sun, than the phantom kingdoms of the dead. The fear of age and death is the shadow of the love of life, and on no people has it fallen with more horror than on the Greeks. The tenderest of their songs of love close with a sob, and it is an autumn wind that rustles in their bowers of spring. Here, for example, is a poem by Mimnermus, characteristic of this mood of the Greeks. Oh, golden love, what life, what joy, but thine! Come, death, when thou art gone, and make an end, when gifts and tokens are no longer mine, nor the sweet intimacies of a friend. These are the flowers of youth, but painful age, the bane of beauty, following swiftly on, wearies the heart of man with sad presage, and takes away his pleasure in the sun. Hateful is he to maiden and to boy, and fashioned by the gods for our annoy. Such being the general view of the Greeks on the subject of death, what has their religion to say by way of consolation? It taught to begin with that the spirit does survive after death, but this survival, as it is described in the Homeric poems, is merely that of a phantom, and a shade, a bloodless and colourless duplicate of the man as he lived on earth. Listen to the account Odysseus gives of his meeting with his mother's ghost. So spake she, and I mused in my heart and would fain have embraced the spirit of my mother dead. Thrice I sprang towards her, and was minded to embrace her. Thrice she flitted from my hands as a shadow, or even as a dream, and sharper ever waxed the grief within me, and uttering my voice I spake to her winged words. Mother mine, wherefore dost thou not tarry for me, who am eager to seize thee, but even in Hades we twain may cast our arms each about the other, and satisfy us with chill lament. Is it but a phantom that the high goddess Persephone hath sent me to the end that I may groan for more exceeding sorrow? So spake I, and my lady mother answered me anon. Ah, me, my child, luckless above all men, nor doth Persephone the daughter of Zeus deceive thee, but even in this wise it is with mortals when they die, for the sinews no more bind to gather the flesh and the bones, but the force of burning fire abolishes them, so soon as the life hath left the white bones, and the spirit, like a dream, flies forth and hovers near. From such a conception of the life after death little comfort could be drawn, nor does it appear that any was sought. So far as we can trace the habitual attitude of the Greek, he seems to have occupied himself little with speculation, either for good or evil, as to what might await him on the other side of the tomb. He was told indeed in his legends of a happy place for the souls of heroes, and of torments reserved for great criminals, but these ideas do not seem to have haunted his imagination. He was never obsessed by that close and imminent vision of heaven and hell, which overshadowed and dwarfed for the medieval mind the brief space of pilgrimage on earth. Rather he turned by preference from the thought of death back to life, and in the memory of honourable deeds in the past and the hope of fame for the future sought his compensation for the loss of youth and love. In the great funeral speech upon those who have fallen in war, which Thucydides puts into the mouth of Pericles, we have, we must suppose, a reflection more accurate than is to be found elsewhere of the position naturally adopted by the average Greek, and how simple are the topics, how broad and human, how rigorously confined to the limits of experience. There is no suggestion anywhere of a personal existence continued after death. The dead live only in their deeds, and only by memory are the survivors to be consoled. I do not now commiserate the parents of the dead who stand here. I would rather comfort them. You know that your life has been passed amid manifold vicissitudes, and that they may be deemed fortunate who have gained most honour, whether an honourable death like theirs, or an honourable sorrow like yours, and whose days have been so ordered that the term of their happiness is likewise the term of their life. Some of you are at an age at which they may hope to have other children, and they ought to bear their sorrow better. Not only will the children who may hereafter be born make them forget their now lost ones, but the city will be doubly a gainer. She will not be left desolate, and she will be safer. For a man's councils cannot be of equal weight or worth, when he alone has no children to risk in the general danger. To those of you who have passed their prime, I say, congratulate yourselves that you have been happy during the greater part of your days. Remember that your life of sorrow will not last long, and be comforted by the glory of those who are gone. For the love of honour alone is ever young, and not riches, as some say, but honour is the delight of men when they are old and useless. The passage perhaps represents what we may call the typical attitude of the Greek, to seek consolation for death, if anywhere, then in life. And in life, not as it might be imagined beyond the grave, but as it had been and would be lived on earth, appears to be consonant with all that we know of the clear and objective temper of the race. It is the spirit which was noted long ago by Goethe as inspiring the sepulchral monuments of Athens. The wind, he says, which blows from the tombs of the ancients, comes with gentle breath as over a mound of roses. The reliefs are touching and pathetic, and always represent life. There stand father and mother, their son between them, gazing at one another with unspeakable truth to nature. Here a pair clasp hands, here a father seems to rest on his couch and wait to be entertained by his family. To me the presence of these scenes was very touching. Their art is of a late period, yet are they simple, natural, and of universal interest. Here there is no knight in harness on his knees, awaiting a joyful resurrection. The artist has with moral less skill presented to us only the persons themselves, and so made their existence lasting and perpetual. They fold not their hands, gaze not into heaven, they are on earth, what they were, and what they are. They stand side by side, take interest in one another, and that is what is in the stone, even though somewhat unskillfully, yet most pleasingly depict it. As a further illustration of the same point, an epitaph may be quoted equally striking for its simple human feeling, and for its absence of any suggestion of a continuance of the life of the dead. Farewell is the first and last word, no hint of a joyful resurrection. Farewell, tomb of Melite, the best of women lies here, who loved her loving husband Onesimus. Thou wert most excellent, wherefore he longs for the after thy death, for thou wert the best of wives. Farewell, thou too, dearest husband, only love my children. But, however characteristic this attitude of the Greeks may appear to be, especially by contrast with the Christian view, it would be a mistake to suppose that it was the only one with which they were acquainted, or that they had put aside altogether as indifferent or insoluble the whole problem of a future world. As we have seen, they did believe in the survival of the spirit, and in a world of shades ruled by Pluto and Persephone. They had legends of a place of bliss for the good, and a place of torment for the wicked, and if this conception did not haunt their mind, as it haunted that of the medieval Christian, yet at times it was certainly present to them, with terror or with hope. That the Greek was not unacquainted with the fear of hell, we know from the passage of Plato, part of which we have already quoted, wherein speaking of the mendicant prophets, who professed to make atonement for sin, he says that their ministrations are equally at the service of the living and the dead, the latter they call mysteries, and they redeem us from the pains of hell, but if we neglect them no one knows what awaits us. And on the other hand we hear as early as the date of the Odyssey, of the Elysian fields reserved for the souls of the favourites of the gods. The Greeks then were not without hope and fear concerning the world to come, however little these feelings may have coloured their daily life, and there was one phase of their religion which appears to have been specially occupied with this theme. In almost every Greek city we hear of mysteries, the most celebrated being of course those of Eleusis in Attica. What exactly these mysteries were, we are very imperfectly informed, but so much at least is clear that by means of a scenic symbolism, representing the myth of Demeter and Corre, or of Dionysus Sagreus, hopes were held out to the initiated, not only of a happy life on earth, but of a happy immortality beyond. Blessed, says Pindar, blessed is he who has seen these things before he goes under the hollow earth. He knows the end of life, and he knows its God-given origin, and it is presumably to the initiated that the same poet promises the joys of his thoroughly Greek heaven. For them, he says, shineth below the strength of the sun, while in our world it is night, and the space of crimson flowered meadows before their city is full of the shade of frankincense trees, and of fruits of gold, and some in horses, and in bodily feats, and some in dice, and some in harp-playing have delight, and among them thriveeth all fair flowering bliss, and fragrance streameth ever through the lovely land, as they mingle in sense of every kind upon the altars of the gods. The Greeks, then, were not unfamiliar with the conception of heaven and hell, only—and that is the point to which we must return, and on which we must insist—the conception did not dominate and obsess their mind. They may have had their spasms of terror, but these they could easily relieve by the performance of some atoning ceremony. They may have had their thrills of hope, but these they would only indulge at the crisis of some imposing ritual. The general tenor of their life does not seem to have been affected by speculations about the world beyond. Of age indeed, and of death, they had a horror proportional to their acute and sensitive enjoyment of life. But their natural impulse was to turn for consolation to the interests and achievements of the world they knew, and to endeavour to soothe by memories and hopes of deeds future and past the inevitable pains of failure and decay.