PHYSICAL SCIENCE IN THE
TIME OF NERO
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MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
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PHYSICAL SCIENCE
IN THE TIME OF NERO
BEING A TRANSLATION OF THE
_QUAESTIONES NATURALES_ OF SENECA
BY
JOHN CLARKE, M.A.
LECTURER ON EDUCATION IN THE UNIVERSITY OF ABERDEEN
WITH NOTES ON THE TREATISE BY
SIR ARCHIBALD GEIKIE
K.C.B., D.C.L., Sc.D., LL.D.
PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1910
_Plurimum ad inveniendum contulit qui speravit posse reperiri._
SENECA, _Q.N._ VI. V. 2.
PREFACE
This book is intended primarily for English readers, to most of whom it
will probably be at least new. Thomas Lodge, the well-known dramatist,
published in 1614 a translation of the whole of Seneca’s prose works
(except the _Apocolocyntosis_), but no English editor or commentator
seems to have turned his attention to the _Quaestiones Naturales_,
either before or since. Lodge’s translation, a folio volume of nearly a
thousand pages, was probably very good for its day, but is now out of
date.
The Introduction is designed to give a setting to the translation, and
to answer a few of the questions that would naturally occur to the
mind of an intelligent reader who was not a classical scholar. In the
Index also some details are included that may be helpful to those who
have neither time nor opportunity for hunting up historical and other
allusions in books of reference. The object has been to make the volume
self-interpreting, though it may be that the course has not always been
judiciously steered between too little and too much.
The _Quaestiones Naturales_ must be regarded as occupying historically
an important position. It was the latest deliverance of the classical
world upon the subject of physical speculation. Its currency during
the Middle Ages rendered it for many centuries the chief authority in
science in Western Europe. Its cosmology represented not only popular
but also educated opinion, and became the source of many of the
accepted ideas concerning the universe that passed into early modern
literature in our own and other countries.
Indebtedness to editors of Seneca and to others, which has been very
great, is acknowledged as fully as possible in the Introduction and
elsewhere where help has been availed of. The interest taken in the
book by various friends is also gratefully acknowledged. Professor Sir
Joseph Larmor and Professor J. Arthur Thomson have made several useful
suggestions. Professor Herbert J. C. Grierson has very kindly read the
proofs and given valuable assistance in other respects. But my chief
acknowledgments are due to Sir Archibald Geikie. To him the translation
owed its inception: his constant aid and encouragement have enabled
me to complete a task from which I should probably have otherwise
shrunk. I am indebted to him also for the Commentary appended to the
translation, in which the questions treated by Seneca are considered
from the point of view of modern Science. It has been to him a labour
of love: may our readers enjoy something of the same satisfaction!
J. C.
Old Aberdeen,
_September 27, 1909_.
CONTENTS
PREFACE v
INTRODUCTION xxi
BOOK I
[METEORS, HALO, RAINBOW, MOCK SUN, ETC.]
PREFACE
PAGE
Contrast between human (moral) philosophy and divine (natural,
physical). The sublime character of the latter which lifts
us above the contemplation of the littlenesses of the earth
and earthly life to the knowledge of God and His nature.
Compared with astronomical conceptions and dimensions the
world of man is but as a threshing-floor, the haunt of ants.
The mind of man attains its true height in contemplation and
investigation of these sublime facts. Some of the problems
thus raised 3
CHAP.
I. Meteoric fires--_she-goat_, _kid_, etc. Occasions of their
appearance; connection of portent with event. Explanation
of the phenomena. They may be due to pressure of the
atmosphere. Aristotle attributes them to the effect of
terrestrial evaporation: difference of density causes
various outbursts of this kind. They are analogous to
lightning, but less violent 8
II. _Halos._ Produced by the light of a heavenly body striking
the surrounding air and forming a circle as a stone does
when thrown into a pond. Formed far away from the heavenly
body and comparatively near the earth in the region of the
wind. Require a particular state of the atmosphere neither
too dense nor too thin. More frequent at night than day for
this reason: by day the sun rarefies the air too much by
its heat. Method of dissipation gives indication of wind or
rain. Calmness a condition of formation, as in the analogous
case of water 12
III. _Rainbows._ Generally by day, produced by inequalities
of surface and density in clouds. Another species seen in
a burst pipe or a fuller at work. Various explanations.
Light and shade will not explain the varied colours. Some
explain the rainbow as a confused reflection of the sun
from individual drops of rain: every bounded surface, large
or small, thus reflects--fish-pond and dew-drop equally.
Aristotle attributes the confusion of colours to weakness of
human sight; parallels may be found in persons whose sight
is abnormally weak. As the innumerable drops, apparently
without intervals, fall, human vision fails to distinguish
severally the reflections of the sun, which thus become
blended and confused. Vision is similarly deceived in the
case of an oar in water, apples in a glass globe, etc., even
in the size and movements of the sun himself. At any rate
the rainbow requires both sun and cloud, and these opposite
to each other. These two in operation produce the varieties
of colour 16
IV. That the rainbow is an image is shown by the relation of
sun to cloud in position, by the rapidity of formation and
dispersion. Artemidorus’ explanation of the shape of the
cloud (concave), and the consequent position of the red in
the rainbow 22
V. Arguments to show that the cloud is coloured by the sun,
like a dove’s neck or a peacock’s tail, and that the rainbow
is not a _reflection_ of the sun. The position (opposite)
would be equally necessary in this case. Answer to this
contention by Posidonius. The colour effects. Author agrees
with Posidonius’ position but not his arguments. The only
_proof_ is the geometrical one 23
VI. Arguments from the size--never more than a semicircle--and
shape of the bow. As the colour, whether real or reflected,
is derived from the sun, so must also the shape be. The size
is accounted for by the magnifying power of water, glass,
etc. The sun as he appears in the rainbow is seen through
moisture 28
VII. The arguments from the dispersion of the sun’s rays through
glass (prism). Contention that they confirm author’s view 30
VIII. The form once more; why it is never larger than a
semicircle. A wrong explanation refuted. Explanation of
Aristotle’s remark as to the seasons of rainbows, in summer
only in the morning or evening, in autumn at any time 31
IX. _Streaks_ or _weather-galls_. Merely abortive or imperfect
rainbows 33
X. Relations and differences of _halos_, _bows_, and
_weather-galls_ 34
XI. _Mock suns._ Their appearance and position in relation to
the sun. They are a reflection of the sun in a suitable
medium 34
XII. The formation of a mock sun may be compared to the image
of the sun in eclipse as seen reflected in a dish of oil or
pitch: the medium must be adapted to give the impression.
The mock sun requires a certain consistency of cloud,
failing which, a different effect is produced--obscuration,
dissipation, etc. 35
XIII. There may be two mock suns simultaneously. Some think
the one is a reflection of the other, the clouds acting as
mirrors set opposite to one another. Mock suns, especially
in the South, are a sign of rain 36
XIV. Other celestial fires. “_Cave meteors_,” “_Barrel
meteors_,” “_Chasms_,” with a brief description of each. The
rapidity of their flight, just as of lightning, deceives the
sight. Their origin and cause. They indicate wind 37
XV. _Gleams_ (_flashes_, σέλα). Their production and motions,
varieties of them. Some do damage. Some are analogous to
comets. “_Bearded_,” “_torches_,” “_cypress_” are different
kinds. “_Beams_” and “_barrels_” may be of the same class.
A curious case where such an appearance raised an alarm of
fire. They are real fires. On the contrary, rainbows and
halos are mere reflections. Mirrors have this wonderful
power of false presentation 39
XVI. The “mirrored den” of Hostius Quadra 41
XVII. The philosophy of the looking-glass. The evolution of
mirrors. Mirrors of full length are now used. They cost a
fortune greater than the Senate gave Scipio’s daughters.
A harmless necessary device has become an instrument of
luxury, the adornment of women, the burden of men, nay, part
of the kit of the soldier 44
BOOK II
[THE NATURE OF AIR. THUNDER AND LIGHTNING]
[I.-XI. Prefatory to treatment of thunder and lightning,
descriptive of the nature of the air, in which these
phenomena occur.]
I. Divisions of physical science--astronomy, meteorology,
geography. Cross divisions, _e.g._ earthquakes, belong to
meteorology, being produced by air; so the earth, as a
planet, belongs to Astronomy but its properties belong to
Geography 51
II. Unity and composition in bodies. The analogy of the seen
applies to the unseen. The atmosphere is possessed of unity
(_unitas_) 52
III. Parts and material of bodies distinguished. In the human
body blood is both 54
IV. The atmosphere is an integral part of the universe: has
unity 54
V. The earth is both part and material of the universe. From it
nourishment is supplied to the latter 55
VI. The atmosphere has unity--is not compact of atoms, otherwise
it could not exert tension, which is one of its main
features, with endless manifestations 55
VII. There is no vacuum in the air, as the analogy of water
shows 57
VIII. The exertion of tension presupposes tensibility, just as
motion does mobility. Its existence in air proved by the
effects of air, which tosses about mountains, houses, walls,
etc. The propagation of sight and sound proves the same 58
IX. Its tension is seen in raising water, as in the jet in the
amphitheatre. Proofs from a ship upborne of water, a quoit
flung from a height, sound heard through a wall 59
X. Varieties of density and temperature in the atmosphere: the
central layer is coldest 60
XI. The lower parts are most subject to change. The cause of
this is in part the earth, in part the sun, moon, and other
stars. So much by way of preface to explain the nature of
that atmosphere in which thunder and lightning occur 61
XII. _Lightning_, _thunder-bolt_, _thunder_. All agree that they
occur in the clouds, but different explanations are given of
their cause and relations. Anaxagoras connects them with the
ether; Aristotle says they are due to exhalations of various
kinds, from the earth, coming in contact with the clouds 62
XIII. The fire cannot be inherent in the clouds and fall from
them. When it so comes it is forced 64
XIV. There is nothing inconsistent with this in the explanation
given (I. xv.) of meteors. There may be an analogy with what
is observed in cases of fire when isolated groups of houses
take fire through gradual accumulation of heat 65
XV. Some (Stoics) think that spontaneous combustion takes place
in the air 66
XVI. Difference between a flash of lightning and a bolt 66
XVII. Some explain the noise of thunder as due to hot meeting
cold, as in the case of hot iron plunged into water 67
XVIII. Anaximander attributes the effects to air and explains
all the phenomena by reference to it 67
XIX. Anaxagoras says it is the ether that acts on the lower
atmosphere to produce them: it sends out fire 68
XX. Diogenes of Apollonia thinks that fire and air interact,
producing one another, as may be observed in the various
phenomena 68
XXI. Authorities discarded: independent explanation. A flash and
a bolt are fire in some form: they differ only in degree 69
XXII. Analogy of fire on earth: it must apply above. Lightning
due either to impact or friction. Hurricanes are a
sufficient cause of the former 70
XXIII. Clouds and air may through friction also be a cause. The
fires so produced are insubstantial and evanescent 71
XXIV. Fire by reason of its lightness levitates, just as water
gravitates. But in the case of a bolt it is forced down,
contrary to its nature, like a “weeping” tree 71
XXV. But it is said that wet clouds produce fire. How? 72
XXVI. There is no inconsistency in the combination in the same
cloud of potential fire and water. A log burns at one end,
exudes moisture at the other. An island on each of two
occasions was thrown up by fire in the Aegean Sea, fire
overcoming water. And clouds are, as a matter of fact,
required for lightning: exceptions to this are only apparent 72
XXVII. Different kinds of thunder. The growling and the
crashing, with their causes 75
XXVIII. In order to the sound of thunder, clouds of a particular
shape must meet in a particular way. A bladder does not
burst with a report if cut. A broad simultaneous blow over
the whole cloud is necessary to an explosion 76
XXIX. The proper shape and the rupture of the cloud are
necessary. Compare drums, etc. 77
XXX. According to some, clouds are not necessary to thunder:
witness eruptions of Etna and the overthrow of Cambyses’
army, where particles of sand were the medium of the thunder
and lightning. But in this case, too, a cloud was formed, it
may be, a denser, and more solid than one composed of mere
air, before the sound was emitted 77
XXXI. Strange effects of lightning 78
XXXII. Portents and events, their undoubted and widespread
connection 79
XXXIII. Thunderbolts. Threefold division of the art of dealing
with them 81
XXXIV. Mistaken views as to the relation of lightning to other
presages. The former are of equal, not superior, value 82
XXXV. Fate cannot be changed by expiation and entreaty 83
XXXVI. “God is not a man” that he should change fate. What is
the use, then, of rites? 84
XXXVII. Answer--Fate fixes some things only conditionally: the
alternative issues are determined by the conduct, active or
passive, of the worshipper 84
XXXVIII. This action of his is likewise a part of fate. The
soothsayer, like the physician, is the minister of fate.
Discussion of free will deferred 85
XXXIX. Three classes or kinds of thunderbolts, as judged by
their indications, according to Caecina 86
XL. These are kinds of prognostications rather than of bolts.
The different species of the latter are distinguished by
their effects--boring, splitting, burning. Fine distinctions
of Latin terms 87
XLI. A kind that stains or discolours. The Etruscan view of the
three kinds of bolt according to _their_ division 88
XLII. The Etruscans knew what they were about in attributing
certain motives and actions to Jupiter. Their theory was for
the benefit of the ignorant mass of humanity 89
XLIII. “Which things are an allegory.” An example is set to
earthly rulers to be merciful and consider well their
judgments 90
XLIV. Jove does not change his missiles; but there are
gradations in the offence to be punished. That is the lesson 91
XLV. By Jove the Etruscans meant, as we do, all that is greatest
and best--Fate, Providence, Nature, the Universe 91
XLVI. He is the source of the thunder’s power, though he does
not superintend each stroke. Why he spares the guilty is
another affair, which will be discussed in another place 92
XLVII. An erroneous classification of thunderbolts according to
time 92
XLVIII. It must be wrong, because the time is always limited. A
better basis of treatment is that of Attalus. Place, time,
person, etc., must all be looked into 93
XLIX. Caecina’s division, his names and their meanings 94
L. That of Attalus is much better, being based on the true
signification 95
LI. The signification of some does not affect, of some does not
reach, us 95
LII. The force of lightning as seen in different materials, and
at different times in the same material (cf. xxxi.) 96
LIII. Poisonous effects: may be followed up afterwards.
Panegyric on philosophy 97
LIV. Returns to Posidonius’ (Aristotle’s) opinion as to the
cause of thunder, an explosion of air 98
LV. The collision of clouds may produce it. Air is the cause
in this instance also. Shooting stars are associated with
thunder, but this is the exception, not the rule 98
LVI. Heraclitus and Caecina think sheet lightning an
intermittent incipient fire. Change in the pronunciation of
the Latin word 100
LVII. Lightning is probably due to the air turning into fire
through rarefaction of the clouds. It is naturally most
frequent in summer. Sheet and forked lightning differ in
degree, not in kind 100
LVIII. Reasons for rapidity of lightning and its obliquity 101
LIX. Every story should have a moral. Death cannot be prevented;
why fear it? It is cowardly and silly. Death by lightning is
rather an honour than otherwise. Besides, fear is futile 102
BOOK III
ON FORMS OF WATER
PREFACE
Having begun a mighty task in my old age I must make up for
lost time by hurrying on. The magnitude of it is actually
an incentive to effort. Such studies are far superior to
the historian’s task of recording the deeds of the robbers
and butchers of mankind. The former raise us above the
vicissitudes of fortune. “The principal thing” is to have a
pure heart and clean hands, to escape slavery to self. The
study of the universe exalts us to this 109
I. The cause of rivers and their varieties. Waters vary in
amount at different seasons, in temperature, in medicinal
qualities 114
II. Varieties of taste, weight, colour, utility to health,
consistency 115
III. Gravitation or the force of air determines the flow of
water. Surface and spring water: they may be combined as in
Lake Fucinus 115
IV. Why is the sea not filled nor the earth drained dry by
rivers? 116
V. Some hold that what flows into the sea returns by secret
passages cleansed of its salinity 116
VI. Some think rain supplies the rivers, and in proof cite the
interior of Africa as contrasted with Gaul and Germany 117
VII. Objections to this argument. Rain does not penetrate more
than 10 feet. If the earth is dry, it absorbs the rain; if
it is saturated, the rain runs off. Again, rivers rise in
rocks and mountains, where what rain ever fell must have run
off. Rich wells of “living” water are found in the driest
ground at depth. Fountains well out at mountain tops 117
VIII. The interior of the earth is, according to some, a huge
receptacle of fresh water 118
IX. Others think the air which is contained within the earth
being prevented from circulating turns into water 119
X. But indeed the four elements are all interchangeable 120
XI. Though the supply of water is perennial, rivers and springs
are intermittent 121
XII. The abundance of water is no difficulty, since it is a
fourth part of the universe 123
XIII. The relation of water to the other elements. Thales’ silly
notion that the earth sails in water like a ship at sea 124
XIV. The Egyptians divide each of the elements into male and
female 125
XV. The veins of the earth resemble those of the human body.
There are likewise the analogies of marrow, mucus, etc., of
injuries and of bleeding, of parturition, perspiration, etc. 125
XVI. Intermittent fountains are an illustration of seasonal
activity. The great vacant spaces of the earth and their
tenants. Underground fish 128
XVII. The incredible wonders of nature are paralleled and even
outdone by the excesses of luxury 129
XVIII. The extravagances of luxury, which make a wise man mad 130
XIX. To return--a sudden eruption of water casts up fish,
generally poisonous. This points to the unfailing supply of
subterranean water 132
XX. Various tastes of water due to four causes; qualities of
water--petrifying, soporific, intoxicating, fatal 133
XXI. The same pestilential influence as taints rivers is
perceived in caves: the noxious rivers flow from or through
them 134
XXII. The Ocean and seas are coeval with the universe. So
probably are abnormal rivers like the Danube and the Nile 135
XXIII. Rain and surface water must be added to subterranean 135
XXIV. The causes of hot springs 136
XXV. Poisonous rivers. Colouring power of others. Great specific
gravity of certain waters, its effects and cause 137
XXVI. Intermittent rivers and springs. Means possessed by river,
fount, and sea of purifying themselves 141
XXVII. Digression on the universal deluge which will destroy
the world. Nature is niggardly in creation, lavish in
destruction. Ovid is unequal in his treatment of this
catastrophe 143
XXVIII. Further imaginative pictures of what water can do by
way of destruction. Alternative methods of destroying the
earth--water and fire 148
XXIX. Further possibilities of the same character. Distinctions
of seas, gulfs, etc., will all be obliterated; nature and
the works of man will alike be overthrown 150
XXX. Nature shows by the chafing of the sea that she designs to
inundate the world. A deluge is part of the fore-ordained
plan. But there will be a new earth and a new race of men
who will not sin--for a time 154
BOOK IV
CONTAINING A DISCUSSION OF SNOW, HAIL, AND RAIN. [THE NILE]
PREFACE
The dangers of flattery and its insidiousness. If you must
have praise, praise yourself. Lucilius has good cause: he
must not, however, think too much of himself because he is
governor of that historic province Sicily, which has ere now
decided the fate of generals and of empire 159
I. Leaving Sicily and its marvels let us deal with the omitted
part of the last book, the Nile. There is no real analogy
between it and the Danube 166
II. The course of the Nile; its cataracts. The inundation of
the river. Its meaning to Egypt. Its denizens; crocodiles
and dolphins in conflict. Causes of the overflow: melting
of snow; Etesian Winds; drying up of the springs through
internal heat of the earth in winter; the attraction of
the sun in Africa draws water from the sea to fill up the
gap caused by evaporation [none of the accounts apparently
accepted] 167
III. Origin of hail; why it differs from snow 177
IV. Causes of snow in winter, hail in spring 179
V. It is said that the cooler air of the North (Scythia, etc.)
is stirred by the melting of the snow in spring and floats
South, causing hail instead of rain 180
VI. Hail, it is again alleged, is averted by sacrifice. If there
is not a victim handy you have merely to prick your finger! 181
VII. This belief in the power of blood was an ancient
superstition 182
VIII. Three causes why the air near the earth is warmest, and
therefore produces snow rather than hail 182
IX. Democritus’ view--dense bodies are heated most quickly, and
retain their heat longest 183
X. The air nearest the earth is denser than elsewhere 184
XI. The tops of mountains, it is urged, should be warmer because
nearer the sun. The difference is wholly inappreciable if we
adopt the scale of the universe, the true one 184
XII. The comparatively mild air near the earth causes snow, but
not hail 186
XIII. The despicable luxury of the effeminate Romans, who bought
snow, bathed in it, and must resort even to ice to cool the
unnatural feverish thirst born of their indulgence 186
BOOK V
TREATING OF WINDS AND MOVEMENT OF THE ATMOSPHERE
I. Definition of _wind_--air flowing in one direction. The
air, like the sea, is always moving, even when it is
thought to be still; hence the necessity of the additional
qualification--in one direction 193
II. Democritus says wind arises from a multitude of atoms in a
small space striving to get free, just like a crowd jostling
each other 194
III. But wind does not thus depend on density; cloudy or misty
weather does not necessarily produce wind, while wind is
produced when the morning sun dissipates the air. Democritus
is, therefore, wrong 195
IV. Wind arises in two ways--from the interior of the earth by
emission--like wind on the stomach!--and from evaporation 196
V. The air has inherent power of movement, which is the chief
cause of wind, evaporation being a less powerful one. Water
has the power of moving and of imparting life to animals and
plants 197
VI. Fire even, the destroyer, sometimes generates life. Air in
like manner has a peculiar power of its own 197
VII. _Breezes before dawn_ arise from rivers, etc. Do not last
long 198
VIII. _The “gulf” wind_ (ἐγκολπίας): its origin and duration 198
IX. Connection of winds with seasons of the year and with the
heat and light of the sun. The sun does not directly cause
the winds 200
X. Some cite the Etesian Winds as proof that he does. They blow
in summer when the snows melt and the moisture is carried
South 201
XI. But as to the effect of the sun, there is no analogy between
the Etesian Winds, which do not spring up till late in the
day, and the winds which rise at dawn and fall as the day
advances 202
XII. _Cloud squalls_ (ἐκνεφίας). Their formation and
combinations 203
XIII. The breaking up of clouds produces wind. Air, in an effort
to get free, or heat, may produce this. Interruption of free
passage may produce a whirlwind, just as an obstacle in a
river a whirlpool. _Violent whirlwinds_ take fire (πρηστήρ).
Some winds produce different ones. An analogy holds between
air and drops of moisture. A union of forces in air or in
dew is necessary to give impulse and produce a current. Air
and wind are merely a matter of degree 204
XIV. Mode in which the subterranean winds are generated and make
their escape 205
XV. Ancient miners of Philip’s saw rivers and vast underground
reservoirs. It is some consolation to read such a story,
which shows greed is no new vice: the older generations were
as reckless as we are in their quest for treasure better hid 207
XVI. The four _cardinal winds_. The full list includes twelve.
Their names and directions 208
XVII. The great circles of the earth which give twelve
divisions, and therefore prescribe the possible number of
the winds 210
XVIII. The uses of wind and the illustration afforded of the
wisdom of Providence. The crops are dependent on it. So
is commerce. But we make the sea a highway to war and
not to peace. We go to seek for death, as if it were not
always near. Xerxes, Alexander, Crassus are warnings of the
mischievous use of power to cross the sea. Better, perhaps,
the winds had never been given at all. But the value of a
natural gift must not be estimated by the depraved use of
it. Every gift, even sight and speech, man has perverted in
the same way 212
BOOK VI
TREATING OF EARTHQUAKES
CHAP. PAGE
I. Earthquake at Pompeii and the alarm it caused, many giving
up Campania as a residence altogether. If the solid earth
fail, what can be done? Refuge from tempest and fire and
thunderstorm and war is possible, but not from earthquake.
But (1) the whole earth is subject to such movement: we
cannot escape by changing our ground--Tyre, Asia Minor,
Achaia have all suffered. (2) Death is the same in whatever
form it come, the circumstances matter not, a stone is all
one with a mountain 221
II. We cannot escape death. The hopeless find refuge in despair.
The knowledge of our frailty and mortality is our true
solace. Death must come, a death with circumstance is rather
to be preferred than otherwise. In an earthquake the earth
shows itself mortal as men are 225
III. Our fears are due to ignorance. Through lack of a
philosophic view of the universe we consider phenomena
strange which are merely rare, _e.g._ eclipses. Fear may be
removed by knowledge 228
IV. The study of such problems is the very worthiest; it reveals
the secrets of nature, and is disinterested. But it is
highly profitable at the same time 229
V. Various explanations of _earthquakes_ have been suggested.
The earlier ones are crude, but not therefore to be
despised. Every subject develops as time goes on. Gratitude
is due to the investigators who first dared to question
nature 230
VI. The cause of earthquakes is by some said to be water. Thales
of Miletus explains how this takes place, but he must be
wrong: the analogy of a ship sailing the ocean will not
apply to the earth (cp. III. xiii.) 231
VII. Water may be the cause, but may operate in quite different
ways from those supposed by Thales. Storms, etc., in
subterranean seas may cause earthquakes 233
VIII. There must be such subterranean water. The Tigris and
Arethusa prove it. Nero, the virtuous and the veracious,
sent two officers to investigate the sources of the Nile;
their account confirms the assumption 235
IX. Fire is another alleged cause. It either bursts out through
opposing obstacles, as in the clouds (Anaxagoras), or burns
away the foundation and causes a subsidence at the spot 236
X. Pieces of the earth falling in merely through the decay of
age may produce the effect without fire or any external
influence. This is Anaximenes’ opinion 237
XI. Fire is supposed by some to cause earthquakes by expanding
the vapour which it first causes to be given off from the
subterranean waters 238
XII. Archelaus sets down the cause as air pressing up the
earth’s internal wind which is already condensed to bursting
point 239
XIII. Aristotle and Theophrastus take evaporation to be the
cause. Strato, much in the same way, thinks that differences
of internal temperature are the cause 240
XIV. By some it is thought that air is the cause, but that its
operation, along with water, is like that of blood and air
in the vessels of the body. The earth, it is assumed in this
case, admits air, which must find an exit. When it does so
violently, the result is an earthquake 242
XV. The earth is porous, perforated at many points, and it is
thus that the air enters 243
XVI. The earth is full of air, nourishing plants rooted in it,
and exhaling enough to feed the sun and the other heavenly
bodies. Air is the most movable of elements; therefore
the earth, if it is full of air, must also have frequent
movements 244
XVII. Obstruction of air, just as of water, causes greater
impetuosity when it escapes. Wind is frequently associated
with earthquakes, as at Chalcis 245
XVIII. Additional considerations to prove that the great cause
of earthquakes is air, _i.e._ wind 247
XIX. Metrodorus of Chios compares the rumbling of an earthquake
to the resonance of the voice in a tub; the underground
caves impart the sound 248
XX. Various combinations of water and air supposed by Democritus
and Epicurus to co-operate to the production of earthquakes 249
XXI. Air must be the cause. Different kinds of earthquakes 251
XXII. First species--shaking of the earth: its causes 252
XXIII. Next comes the form of concussion caused by air. The
great Callisthenes, who braved the fury of Alexander and
lost his life for it, supports this view. Submarine effects
of it are particularly noticeable 253
XXIV. Different explanations may be given of the exact method in
which air acts 255
XXV. The striving of the air in subterranean caverns produces
a concussion or collapse in the earth above. The area of
disturbance is limited, never over 200 miles, as numerous
instances prove. The Peneüs and Ladon were thus produced 256
XXVI. The nature of the soil composed of muddy accretions
without interstices is said to account for the exemption of
Egypt from earthquakes. So Delos in the sea has porous rocks
which emit the air easily. But the facts are wrong. There
is abundant proof that proximity to the sea is no safeguard
against shock 258
XXVII. A peculiarity of the Campanian earthquake, that it killed
600 sheep, is explained by the emission of pestilential
vapour, by which sheep, with their heads close to the
ground, naturally were most readily affected 259
XXVIII. Noxious vapours are not, however, peculiar to
earthquakes. They are found in several parts of Italy
habitually. Such, too, is the origin of new diseases 261
XXIX. Excessive fear drives people mad. Earthquakes split
statues and divide kingdoms, _e.g._ Sicily from Italy, Spain
from Africa 262
XXX. The action of the air accounts for all the detailed
phenomena, splitting of walls, houses, towers, statues; also
for the prolongation of shocks for several days 263
XXXI. A further proof that air is the agent is to be found in
the gradually diminishing violence of the successive shocks.
Phenomena in the pavement witnessed by a philosopher who was
in his bath 264
XXXII. The moral. Life hangs on a thread; why should one dread
the loss of it? The greatness of the cause of death is no
source of terror. The hereafter is better and safer than
earth. There there is no fear of earthquake or thunderstorm,
fire or flood. Fear of death magnifies all human risks. Do
not dread death, long for it, and, if necessary, meet it
half way 265
BOOK VII
TREATING OF COMETS
I. Phenomena, however wonderful, are not noted and admired
unless they are uncommon. The sun and moon and starry
heavens have no observers, but a Comet at once sets the
whole world agog. The nature of the stars is a sublime and
likewise a profitable study 271
II. The nature of _Comets_ has not been hitherto fully
investigated. They are so rare that one wants a record of
the movements of all ever observed 273
III. Democritus, Eudoxus, Conon, Epigenes, and Apollonius of
Myndus all fail to give any satisfactory account of the
matter. Nor had the Egyptians or Chaldaeans investigated
them 274
IV. Epigenes explains the Comet as due to a conjunction of
Saturn with Mars or the Sun: it is akin to whirlwind and
“beam” meteors 275
V. But there are essential differences between whirlwind, which
is terrestrial, and beams and torches, which are above the
clouds. There is a difference of duration also. Beams and
Comets, it is true, have been mistaken for one another. It
was a Comet, according to Aristotle, that appeared before
the destruction of Buris and Helice. The character of the
flame differs in the two forms 276
VI. There are two kinds of Comets, according to Epigenes. They
are produced by air driven up and setting on fire suitable
material above, which takes place every day at the same hour 277
VII. But Comets are not concomitants of winds; there is no
parallelism in the phenomena. The higher ones, which have an
orbit, he attributes to the north wind, but the facts do not
square here either 278
VIII. The course and altitude of Comets render the whirlwind
explanation impossible 279
IX. The force and duration of whirlwinds are similarly
inadequate 280
X. The slowness and steadiness of the Comet could not be
accounted for on this assumption, nor its general behaviour
and shape 281
XI. We must look for some other explanation. Now Comets, it must
be premised, appear in all quarters of the sky. Whatever the
divisions of them made by the Greeks, they are all of one
origin. Some of the ancients thought they were due to the
union of two planets 283
XII. Again the facts do not square. Comets and planets appear
simultaneously. A conjunction is momentary, a Comet lasts
six months sometimes. The planets do not pass much beyond
the ecliptic, but Comets appear in every quarter of the sky.
And there are other objections 284
XIII. Artemidorus thinks the firmament is solid and has
openings for stars. Comets are casual planets, or formed by
conjunctions of them. His account is a tissue of barefaced
falsehoods 286
XIV. How would a solid firmament be supported? No feasible
explanation can be offered. Besides, the number of stars is
so great--and they may all be “wanderers” if an indefinite
number is--that there must be innumerable conjunctions of
them, _i.e._ Comets. But, as a matter of fact, Comets are
rare 287
XV. Again the huge Comets of the times of Demetrius and Attalus
would require scores of planetary conjunctions to form them 288
XVI. Ephorus, a mere chronicler, who takes this view, has
nothing to support him. He tries, like others of his set, to
embellish his work by narrating marvels. Why did he not tell
us what the two stars were into which the Comet resolved
itself, as he alleges it did? 289
XVII. Apollonius of Myndus holds the Comet to be a true star
(planet) with an erratic course, visible only when it
approaches the lower part of its orbit. Different colours of
Comets 290
XVIII. But Comets do not wax and wane as they approach and
recede like planets. Nor do their orbits lie within the
ecliptic. Besides, we can see through a Comet but not
through a true star (planet) 291
XIX. Zeno the Stoic thinks the light of converging stars gives
the appearance of a longer star. Others hold modified forms
of the same opinion or analogous views 291
XX. Most of the Stoics hold Comets to be evanescent, and
attribute them to friction of the air. Various phenomena are
analogous 292
XXI. Their methods of accounting for varieties of orbits in
Comets 293
XXII. I do not agree with any School. Reasons 295
XXIII. Further arguments showing difference between fires and
Comets 295
XXIV. There may be many stars in the universe whose paths
have not been traced: Comets are such. No satisfactory
explanation has been given of the mind, but its existence is
not doubted 297
XXV. Comets are not yet fully understood. Many things are in the
same category. A future age will be amazed at our ignorance
of such matters 298
XXVI. Reasons of apparent movements of Comets. The transparence
and shape accounted for 299
XXVII. Parallels to the differences between Comets and other
planets 300
XXVIII. Comets give prognostications, but not of immediate
events or weather 302
XXIX. Denial of heaviness and slowness of Comets 303
XXX. Humility is as becoming in investigators of the nature of
the heavens as in worshippers. God has revealed but a little
of Himself to man 304
XXXI. One cannot be surprised that everything has not yet
been discovered. We must leave something to succeeding
generations. We are not yet fully proficient in vice, though
we have striven so long and hard. We still retain, strange
to say, some traces of manhood 305
XXXII. We are all given up to low pleasures and vices, and
devote our strength to them. Philosophy is kept for wet
days. The old teachers have no successors. In fact, we are
letting go what they discovered. We at best play with truth,
which, as of old, lies at the bottom of the well, and needs
the best efforts of young and old, late and early, to bring
it to light 307
NOTES BY SIR A. GEIKIE 309
TRANSLATOR’S NOTES ON “AIR,” QUOTATIONS, AND GERCKE’S READINGS 344
INDEX 351
INTRODUCTION
SENECA
I. LIFE
Lucius Annaeus Seneca was the second son of Annaeus Seneca (generally,
but apparently without authority, called Marcus Annaeus Seneca) of
Corduba (Cordova) in Spain: his mother was a Spanish lady named Helvia.
The elder Seneca was himself a man of note. He is known as Seneca the
Orator or Rhetorician, in contradistinction to his more famous son,
the Philosopher. His works that have come down to us suggest by their
titles, _Controversiae_ and _Suasoriae_, the rhetorical character of
the contents.
Seneca had an elder brother, M. Annaeus Novatus, and a younger one,
L. Annaeus Mela (or Mella), father of Lucan the poet (M. Annaeus
Lucanus).[1] The family was thus a distinguished one. The poet Martial,
himself a Spaniard, speaks of “the house of learned Seneca thrice to be
numbered” (iv. 40. 2): the allusion might with equal appropriateness
apply either to the three brothers or to the three generations: Seneca
the Elder, Seneca, Lucan--father, son, grandson.
[1] Lucan, owing to the jealousy of Nero, was induced to join Piso’s
conspiracy in 65 and suffered the penalty. His heroic poem, the
_Pharsalia_, though in many respects crude, is a wonderful production
for a man of twenty-six.
The eldest brother of the Senecan family, Novatus, was adopted by a
friend of the family, Junius Gallio, by whose name he is known to
history. Seneca on more than one occasion makes reference to him in
the _Q.N._, and always in the most laudatory terms. In iv. Pref. 9
_et sqq._, he pays a high tribute to his character, and a further
proof of his admiration and affection is afforded by his addressing to
him his treatise on _A Happy Life_. Gallio is of interest in another
connection. He was proconsul of Achaia during the period of the Apostle
Paul’s activity there (Acts xviii.), and his conduct on the occasion of
a sectarian uproar at Corinth has attached to his name a certain stigma
which, perhaps, he does not altogether deserve.
Seneca was born about the beginning of the Christian era, probably in
the year 3. By this time the language and the arts of Rome had spread
widely over the conquered provinces, in many of which independent
centres of culture and literary activity had sprung up. While Rome
as the capital and heart of things continued to draw to herself all
that was best, or, at any rate, all that was most enterprising and
ambitious, her literary and even her political life was largely
recruited and maintained by supplies from external sources, such as
Spain, Gaul, and Africa.[2]
[2] From Spain, besides the Senecas, Lucan and Martial, already
mentioned, came Columella, Pomponius Mela, Quintilian, etc.; from
Gaul came many rhetoricians; Africa sent so many of the same class
that by Juvenal’s time (_circ._ 100) it could with propriety be
designated “nursery of lawyers” (see Teuffel, _Hist. of Rom. Lit._
vol. ii. 6).
Seneca was brought by his father to Rome at an early age,[3] and there
he was educated and spent practically his whole life. His lot was cast
in perilous times, those of Caligula the madman (37–41), Claudius the
imbecile (41–54), Nero the monster (54–68). Seneca’s early studies
were devoted to rhetoric. With such assiduity did he prosecute them,
and with such brilliant success were his efforts at the bar crowned,
that he speedily awakened the jealousy of Caligula. The hint of danger
was taken. By his father’s advice he abandoned law in the meantime and
devoted himself with equal ardour and enthusiasm to philosophy. Among
his philosophic tutors were Attalus, a Stoic, and Sotion, a pupil of
the Sextii, the decline of whose school is lamented in the _Q.N._
(307). He first embraced the Stoic doctrine, but finding the tenets
and practices of this sect not sufficiently severe, he adopted those of
the Pythagoreans. His father, a man with a good deal of worldly wisdom,
saw the dangers of extreme eccentricities of this kind, which implied
a covert condemnation of the whole world. He exhorted his son to live
more like other people; he might otherwise be mistaken for a Jew
(_i.e._ a Christian)! The young barrister’s difficulties were, however,
ended for a time by the death of Caligula (41). Seneca, who was now
thirty-eight, resumed his practice at the bar, and opened a school for
youths of noble birth, which was largely attended. About this time also
he obtained the quaestorship, the duties of which introduced a young
man into public service and enabled him to obtain some insight into the
financial methods of the Empire.
[3] His maternal aunt acted as nurse on the occasion: see _Consol. ad
Helviam_, xvii.
His re-entry on public life was, however, destined to be the prelude to
another disaster. Indeed, all through his subsequent life his interests
were so involved with the affairs of the rulers of the State that he
must always stand on slippery ground. The fact is, Seneca’s abilities
were too great for his position. He was a man of the most brilliant
parts, “one of those ardent natures the virgin soil of whose talent
shows a luxurious richness unknown to the harassed brains of an old
civilisation” (Cruttwell, _Hist. of Rom. Liter._ p. 378). In an age of
absolute and suspicious tyranny all eminence is obnoxious to the ruling
powers. It is a standing reproach to them, hence a source of fear
and alarm, a menace as they imagine, and an incentive to disloyalty.
During the very first year of Claudius’ reign Seneca was banished to
Corsica, where the next eight years find him. It was the outcome of a
Court intrigue. Messalina, wife of the Emperor, was apparently jealous
of the influence of Claudius’ nieces, Julia and Agrippina, whom he had
just recalled from banishment. Julia was again banished, and Seneca, on
the ground of an alleged improper intimacy with her, was made to share
her disgrace. His banishment was really a blessing in disguise. He
employed assiduously the period of enforced leisure, devoting himself
again to philosophy, and returning to his first love, Stoicism. Here
he perfected his study, and probably elaborated most of those doctrines
with which his writings abound. In Cruttwell’s words, he “struck out
the mild and catholic form” of the Stoic philosophy “which has made
his teaching, with all its imperfections, the purest and noblest of
antiquity” (_op. cit._ 379). To this period, too, belong some of what
may be called his earlier works, already showing remarkable power.
His exile had been compassed by the notorious Messalina, the third wife
of Claudius. On her fall Claudius married, as his fourth wife, his
niece, the still more notorious Agrippina,[4] daughter of Germanicus
Caesar and sister of Caligula and of Julia. One of Agrippina’s first
acts was to have Seneca recalled and appointed tutor to the young Nero,
her son by a former marriage and now heir-apparent to the throne. This
was in 48, when Nero was but eleven years of age, and henceforth to the
end of his life Seneca’s fortunes are closely associated with those of
Nero, “a name to all succeeding ages curst.” To be tutor to a prince
means much if the pupil is docile. If he prove headstrong and at the
same time vicious, as Nero speedily did, the choice of the tutor is an
unenviable one, either to follow his pupil and palliate his conduct,
or else to resist at the risk of position and influence and, it may be
eventually, of life. With Seneca at first all went well. The prince
was amenable, the tuition seemed to bear good fruit. The teacher was
faithful to his charge, and loyal to the prince’s mother, Agrippina,
to whom he owed his office and influence. Mother and son were still in
accord. To the philosopher there was no conflict of duty, no necessity
for the choice of one of two evils.
[4] This lady must not be confounded with her mother, who bore the
same name.
In 54 the vacillating Claudius was poisoned by Agrippina, and Nero
succeeded to the throne. For a time the government was virtually in
the hands of Seneca and of Burrus, also an excellent man, commander of
the praetorian guards. In these earlier years the young Emperor gained
a reputation for justice and moderation which has thrown a halo round
that golden quinquennium. His tutor must in fairness receive a portion
of the credit. He seems to have been throughout imbued with an honest
desire to promote virtue and good government and to check such vicious
propensities as a youth with Nero’s antecedents was not unlikely to
develop; but whether the means adopted were always unimpeachable
seems more open to question. Seneca’s own interests were apparently
not neglected. In 50 he had been made praetor; shortly after he was
raised to the consulship. Within the short space of four years from his
appointment as Nero’s master he had attained a position of commanding
influence in the State, and had amassed a colossal fortune (nearly
£3,000,000 it is said). The latter he attributed to the unsolicited
generosity of his master, but his enemies and detractors had quite a
different version of the matter.
For more than a decade after Nero’s succession Seneca’s life is part
of the history of the Roman Empire. The philosopher had become, as
it appeared, _de facto_ king and a new era seemed to have arisen
on mankind. Philosophers, it is true, have neither in ancient nor
in modern times shone in the sphere of action. The troubled sea
of practical politics is strewn with the wrecks of philosophic
reputations. Still, even before the age of the Antonines, Seneca, if
any man, might have been the exception to prove the rule. He was a
man of versatile genius, he had had a practical training, he was a
man of affairs. The facts show that he had a true conception of the
necessities as well as of the duties of government. But he was placed
in an impossible situation. Agrippina wished to rule her son, and her
chosen means was through his tutor. Nero, on the other hand, once he
had tasted the sweets of power, determined not to be ruled by his
mother, but to make her instrument his tool. The condition of unstable
equilibrium could not long continue.
The conflict came to a head through a disgraceful intrigue of Nero’s
about the year 59. Seneca had to make his choice, and never was choice
more difficult. To Agrippina he owed everything--life, position,
fortune, his past belonged to her. But he saw that Nero was to be the
winner in the struggle; his safety, his hopes, his future lay with
the ruling power. He may have felt that expostulation was vain and
resistance fruitless. He does not appear to have attempted either.
He decided to cast in his lot with the Emperor. When Nero finally
decided to get rid of his mother, Seneca not only adhered to the plan
but consented to vilify her memory by composing the letter to the
Senate, in which the matricide sought to justify his act. It was the
great treason of his life. In a critical situation he had chosen a
wrong course, and it cannot have been without a pang, a sense of moral
cowardice and tergiversation. He had sacrificed self-respect, he had
lost philosophic caste.
After the murder of his mother, Nero abandoned himself to the wildest
excesses and extravagances. The philosopher had perforce to follow in
his wake, and humiliating enough he must have felt the part he was
obliged to play. Still, he and Burrus continued to act as a sort of
drag, conspiring with what of conscience was left to Nero in checking
his headlong course. The beginning of the end, so far as Seneca was
concerned, came with the death in 63 of Burrus, his constant friend
and ally. Various indications now showed that the tyrant was anxious
to be freed from the last remaining restraint. The philosopher felt
his position was insecure. The man who had murdered his mother, not to
mention his (step-)brother and his wife--two of his other victims--was
not likely to have great compunction in ridding himself of his
tutor. Seneca sought to anticipate the storm by abandoning politics,
retiring from Court, and surrendering his estates. Nero refused the
offer, and expressed profusely his continued regard for his tutor;
shortly afterwards he displayed the sincerity of his professions by an
insidious attempt to poison him! The philosopher then renounced all
his state, adopted a voluntary poverty, and by putting into practice
his professed tenets of the simple life endeavoured to avoid a
repetition of the risk at least of poison. His diet was herbs, his
drink, water from the fountain. But it was only a matter of time now.
The occasion for which the Emperor was on the watch came in 65. In
that year Piso’s conspiracy was formed against the Emperor’s life, and
Seneca was accused, falsely so far as we can judge, of complicity. He
was ordered to prepare for death, which, according to the custom of
the day, allowed the victim the choice of means, and was usually a
voluntary opening of the veins in order to bleed to death. Tacitus has
with characteristic power and pathos depicted the scene (_Annals_, xv.
61–4). No act of his life, it would seem, became Seneca better than
the leaving of it. His death was worthy of a philosopher and a Stoic.
With the utmost calmness, amid a throng of mourning, sympathising
friends, he faced his fate, and yet with the studied pose of a man who
had conned the part. The age was one of posturing. Men were always
under the eye of the informer and the spy, and learnt to act their part
accordingly. The “meditation of death” must often have occupied the
philosopher’s latter days. He was a second Socrates consigned to an
unjust end; the last scene was enacted with all the dignity, composure,
and even cheerfulness of his great prototype. The cock due to
Aesculapius has a parallel more worthy of the occasion in the libation
to Jupiter the Liberator. The supreme act atoned for many weaknesses
and failures.
Though Seneca was not without many detractors,[5] his worth as a man is
attested by many proofs. His young wife Paulina desired to share his
fate, and opened her veins along with her husband. By Nero’s orders
she was saved, but she continued to the end of her life to bear in
her unnatural pallor the marks of her devotion. Tacitus, writing at a
distance of thirty or forty years, describes the character of Seneca in
terms of commendation and esteem. No doubt the historian had himself
borne the yoke of the savage Domitian, and knew what life under a
tyrant meant. But withal he was too acute an observer and too impartial
a critic to be blinded by any mere sentimental sympathy. He understood
and appreciated Seneca, to whose genuine worth his testimony is the
most enduring tribute.
[5] Dio Cassius is often very caustic in his criticisms, but even he
recognises Seneca’s sterling merit and services to the state.
The age of Seneca, whose “life almost coincides with the Julio-Claudian
tyranny,” has been made to re-live for us in Professor Dill’s _Roman
Society from Nero to Marcus Aurelius_, which ought to be studied
by those who desire to understand more of Seneca as statesman,
philosopher, and man.[6] In addition to a short account and criticism
of the _Quaestiones Naturales_ (pp. 300 _et sqq._), the chapter (Book
III. ch. i. pp. 289–333) on “The Philosophic Director” is particularly
illuminating. The following tribute from it may fittingly close our
brief sketch:--
[6] Mr. Henderson’s _The Life and Principate of the Emperor Nero_
should also be studied.
“The man who approaches Seneca thinking only of scandals gleaned from
Tacitus and Dio Cassius, and frozen by a criticism which cannot feel
the power of genius, spiritual imagination, and a profound moral
experience, behind a rhetoric sometimes forced and extravagant, had
better leave him alone. The Christianity of the twentieth century
might well hail with delight the advent of such a preacher, and
would certainly forget all the accusations of prurient gossip in the
accession of an immense and fascinating spiritual force. The man with
any historical imagination must be struck with amazement that such
spiritual detachment, such lofty moral ideals, so pure an enthusiasm
for the salvation of souls, should emerge from a palace reeking with
all the crimes of the haunted races of Greek legend” (_op. cit._
p. 295).
II. WRITINGS
Seneca was a voluminous writer. Most of his works partake more or less
of a philosophical character. In a class by themselves may be placed
the ten tragedies, together with some verses, attributed to him. The
titles, _Medea_, _Hercules Furens_, _Hippolytus_, _Agamemnon_, etc.,
suggest the Greek subjects as well as the plays of the same names by
Euripides and Aeschylus. The treatment of the themes is all Seneca’s
own. Moral maxims abound; the plays are homiletic and were never
designed to be acted.
One of the plays is of special interest as dealing with current
topics. This is the _Octavia_, whose chief character is Nero’s wife
of that name, exiled by him in order to make room for the licentious
Poppaea Sabina. Seneca himself is introduced as one of the characters,
deploring the vices of the age and the unhappiness of those set in high
position. If the play is genuine, which has been doubted on the ground
of references in it that seem to apply to Nero’s death, it goes to
prove that Seneca used very plain language toward his master and pupil.
In any case, it shows what the relation of Seneca to Nero was generally
supposed to be. Tacitus (xv. 61) represents Seneca as telling Nero
by messenger that the latter has had more frequent experience of his
independence than of his servility, and the _Octavia_ is fair comment
upon his statement.
Here is a specimen of the dialogue:--
_Nero._ Fortune has put everything in my power.
_Seneca._ Distrust her favours: she is a fickle goddess.
_N._ To fail to see all that one may do, betrays the coward.
_S._ The credit lies in doing not what one may, but what one ought.
_N._ The crowd tramples on a feeble prince.
_S._ They will crush a hated one:
and so forth. Seneca’s last remark may be a prophecy--some would say
after the event. The play contains other allusions which suggest some
of the actual details of Nero’s end.
The prose works include:
(_a_) Philosophical Essays such as _Anger_, _Clemency_, _Benefits_,
_Calmness of Mind_, _A Happy Life_, _The Shortness of Life_,
_Providence_, or _Why Providence allows troubles to afflict the Just_,
_The Constancy of the Sage_, _The Leisure of the Sage_.
(_b_) Letters, or rather Treatises, of Condolence, the so-called
_Consolations_, addressed respectively _to his Mother Helvia_;
_to Marcia_, the daughter of Cordus, on the death of her son; _to
Polybius_, the powerful freedman of Claudius, on the loss of his
brother.
(_c_) _Letters to Lucilius_, a hundred and twenty-four in number.
(_d_) _Apocolocyntosis_--a lampoon on the deceased Emperor Claudius. On
such occasions deification (apotheosis) was accorded to the late ruler,
and he was received into the number of the gods. This skit describes
the reception of Claudius in heaven and his expulsion thence to the
lower regions, with his trial and sentence there. _Pumpkinification_ is
the nearest English translation of the title.[7]
[7] One would have expected that Claudius’ fate would be to be
enrolled among--the Pumpkins. But the piece as we have it contains no
allusion to this.
(_e_) _Quaestiones Naturales._
(_f_) Works no longer extant, the only one of them that concerns us
being that on _Earthquakes_, referred to as a work of his youth in
_Q.N._ 230.
(_g_) A spurious work, as is now on all hands conceded, is the
correspondence between Seneca and St. Paul. In his opposition to
popular beliefs and superstitions, and in the purity of his moral
tenets, Seneca approached some of the Christian doctrines, and it
was no improbable supposition that at the Court of Nero he might
have became acquainted with the Apostle of the Gentiles.[8] But the
assumption of a correspondence of this kind is another affair. Its
genuineness was believed from the time of Jerome (400) till the
sixteenth century.
[8] See Mr. Henderson’s _Life and Principate of Nero_, 286–7, and Mr.
Glover’s _The Conflict of Religions in the Early Roman Empire_, 149.
Seneca is generally considered to appear at his best in the
_Consolation to his Mother Helvia_ and in the _Epistles to Lucilius_,
which are therefore usually ranked as amongst his finest works. The
latter work, which from the outset was designed for publication, is
not an ordinary correspondence on the current affairs and interests
of everyday life like Cicero’s Letters, but is philosophic in
character; it covers a wide range of moral discussion and reflection,
and is full of admirable maxims. Many of its sentiments have become
commonplaces; their almost hackneyed character detracts perhaps
somewhat from our appreciation of their intrinsic merit. On the other
hand, the spitefulness of the _Apocolocyntosis_, the servility of the
_Consolation to Polybius_, and the flattery of the _Clemency_, which
was addressed to Nero, show the reverse of Seneca’s character. Of the
characteristics of his style, however, and of his position in Roman
literature--one of commanding importance--this is not the place to
speak. His works reflect truly enough both the iron and the miry clay
which entered into his mental and moral composition.
III. “QUAESTIONES NATURALES”
This work stands in a category by itself. It raises a number of
difficult problems, in which every reader of it, whether classical
scholar or not, is interested.
The historical title, _Natural Questions_, is convenient, though,
without explanation, a little misleading. The nearest rendering of
the Latin form _Quaestiones Naturales_ is Physical Inquiries, or
Investigations in the Domain of Physics, or, as in the title, what we
should now call Physical Science. The terms Physics and Science had a
very different connotation in that age and in ours. Plutarch, almost
a younger contemporary of Seneca, gravely discusses in a work with a
similar title such questions as Why shepherds give their sheep salt,
Why horses’ hair is superior to mares’ for casting-lines, and even, Why
a dog runs after a stone rather than after the person who threw it!
The extent of such a title is determined pretty much by the range of
topics an author decides to include. In Seneca’s case, as it happens,
the branches chiefly dealt with are Astronomy and Meteorology, together
with certain portions of what may be designated as Physical Geography
including Seismology.
Science was in that day synonymous with Philosophy, or at any rate
Philosophy embraced all that could claim to be Science. Learning
was homogeneous; its subdivisions had not yet been separated or
differentiated.
The treatise was addressed in a quasi-epistolary form to Lucilius
Junior, procurator[9] of Sicily. Most of our knowledge of him is
derived from Seneca, who, besides the _Q.N._, addressed to him his
_Epistles_ and his tract on _Providence_. Lucilius seems to have been
a _protégé_ of Seneca, and rising from the ranks under his fostering
care and guidance, not only to have attained a position of influence,
but also to have achieved literary distinction. His philosophical
predilections were toward Epicureanism, but he was a man of high
principle and character, though not exempt from dangerous temptations
at various points in his career. His public labours had associated
him with Sicily, and the themes of his writings, chiefly poems as it
would appear, had been drawn from the same quarter. He is, not without
probability, supposed to have been the author of the anonymous didactic
poem _Aetna_, for long attributed to Virgil, a work which presents
many interesting parallelisms to the _Q.N._ both in its science and
its philosophy. Seneca’s Epistle lxxix. contains a special charge to
Lucilius, who was at the time making a circuit of his province, to
report the facts concerning Charybdis--Seneca knew all there was to
know about Scylla--and to investigate in detail the present condition
of Aetna. The letter goes on to banter Lucilius upon the inclusion of
Aetna in the poem on which he was engaged--no doubt the work referred
to in _Q.N._ 114, 142; cf. 167. The whole question is discussed
with full knowledge by Professor Robinson Ellis in the Introduction
(xxxvi-xlviii) to his edition of the _Aetna_, to which reference
should be made. For other allusions to Lucilius in Seneca see, besides
the _Q.N._, Epistles xix. xxvi. xxxiv. etc.
[9] The procurator was in this case practically governor. In some
instances he was the representative of a chief governor (_praeses_)
to whom he was subject, _e.g._ Pontius Pilate was procurator of
Judaea under the Governor of Syria.
The _Q.N._ was composed probably about the year 63 or 64. We
might content ourselves with the statement of the fact, did not
the circumstances of composition throw light upon difficulties of
arrangement and sequence which can scarcely be passed unnoticed. The
evidence on which we have to rely is chiefly internal. The exact
date of Lucilius’ procuratorship in Sicily (159) is unknown, but the
consulship of Regulus and Virginius, which witnessed the Campanian
earthquake (221), fell in 63, that is, some two years before Seneca’s
death. The allusions in the Preface to Book III. (109) are still more
direct and convincing. The writer was drawing near his end, pressed
hard on the rear by old age, with every necessity and incentive to
hurry on the completion of his task.
On the other hand, the mission despatched by Nero to the sources of
the Nile (235–6) would naturally point to an earlier date during the
more promising years of his reign--unless indeed, as is by no means
improbable, the complimentary reference to the emperor’s virtues be a
piece of adulation. A similar reference recurs in connection with the
comet in Nero’s reign (290), the date of which must (after Tacitus) be
assigned to the year 61.
The Elder Pliny, writing in 77, about a dozen years after Seneca’s
death, adds to each Book of his _Natural History_ an exhaustive list of
the authorities, native and foreign, that he had used. Book II. deals
with many of the subjects of the _Q.N._, of which it is in some places
an expansion, but in most little more than an epitome.[10] And yet no
mention of Seneca occurs in the list of authorities attached, which
seems strange if the work had then been given to the world.[11]
[10] See particularly Pliny’s treatment of Comets (ii. xxii.), Winds
(xliv.-l.), Lightning (liii.), Floating Islands (xcvi.). But most
striking of all is the reproduction (lxiii.) of Seneca’s remark (208
end of c. xv.), “If any nether gods existed, they would have been dug
up long ere this in the mines sunk by our avarice and luxury.” The
two authors had hit upon the same thought, and Seneca had happened to
use it first. Or it may have been a current witticism in an age of
unbelief.
[11] Seneca’s name does occur in the lists attached to Books VI. IX.
and XXXVI.; the first is geographical, dealing with Asia and Africa,
the second has for subject fishes and aquatic life in general, while
the third deals with the natural history of stones.
We read in the Sixth Book of the _Q.N._ (230) that the author had
previously, when a young man, composed a work upon Earthquakes. This,
taken in connection with what precedes, and with what we know of
the author’s character and interests, affords some ground for the
conjecture that he may have worked intermittently at the subject at
various periods of life. But no doubt the arrangement of the materials
and the completion of the work belong to his latter years. He had by
this time lost his hold upon Nero, and had practically retired from
political activity. His trust in princes had been found misplaced. He
was disappointed if not embittered. The discussion of public affairs
was precluded. It was dangerous even to let one’s thoughts rest upon
them. But there were consolations for political disappointment and
inactivity. Recourse might be made to the contemplation of those great
works and workings of Nature which are exempt from the caprices of
human passion. The study of Nature was equally fitted to humble and to
console; to it Seneca betook himself for refuge.[12]
[12] “The Stoics affected to despise physical studies, or at any
rate to postpone them to morals. Seneca shared this edifying but
far from scientific persuasion. But after his final withdrawal from
court, as the wonders of nature forced themselves on his notice,
he reconsidered his old prejudice, and entered with ardour on the
contemplation of physical phenomena” (Cruttwell, _op. cit._ 381).
The _Q.N._ may, thus, have been composed at different dates, materials
for it being gathered at various times as opportunity offered. But the
final arrangement and systematisation belong to the last years of the
author’s life, about the years 63 or 64. The publication may not have
taken place until some time subsequently, and may have been carried out
by Lucilius, who was Seneca’s literary executor. So much is certain,
that the work as we have it is not the work as it left the author’s
hand.
Much time and ingenuity have been bestowed on attempts to restore
the _Q.N._ to what may be supposed to have been its original form.
The most casual reading of it as it stands, shows that it is full
of inequalities. If the clue could only be recovered, much of its
difficulty and obscurity would disappear. As it is, it abounds in
abrupt transitions, interruptions of the logical sequence, repetitions,
excrescences, and even irrelevancies and inconsistencies, which it can
hardly be supposed that an author would have allowed to remain in a
treatise prepared for publication.
One or two considerations derived from the present arrangement will
serve to throw light upon this point. In the first place, Book IV., as
we have it, is evidently composite. Between Chaps. II. and III. there
is a deep hiatus. In the former chapter the discussion of the Nile is
cut short, and the author’s own view is not even indicated, much less
established; while the latter opens so abruptly as at least to suggest
that it may have originally been preceded by something with which it
stood in organic sequence.
Again, the several Books do not conform to the author’s division of the
subject as set forth in the opening of Book II. (51), but follow--or
precede--one another anyhow.
Then, three of the Books (I. III. IV.) have a formal Preface, while the
others have not, though in them, too, with the exception of the Sixth,
the opening chapter is introductory in character.
Any attempt to restore a more intelligible order must depend for its
success on the extent to which we may assume Seneca to have been a
methodiser. In Book II. i, he certainly states very distinctly the
divisions of his subject--(_a_) things in the heavens, (_b_) things
between heaven and earth, (_c_) things on the earth. But it by no
means follows that he himself maintained this order of treatment, or
that he always exhausted one subject before passing on to the next.
The division evidently enumerates the subjects in order of dignity or
worth, and may have little, if any, relation to the order of their
discussion; in fact, in Book II. he goes on immediately to deal with
meteorology, his second and not his first topic.
Bernhardt (_Die Anschauung des Seneca vom Universum_, p. 7) frankly
accepts the traditional order of the Books, and finds its explanation
in the distinction between phenomena and elements. The first three
Books deal with the phenomena of heaven, air, earth, respectively; the
last four respectively with the elements--water, air, earth, fire. This
is ingenious, if not altogether convincing.
The most recent editor, Professor Gercke, divides Book IV. into
its two constituents, IV. (_a_) = IV. Pref.-ii., IV. (_b_) = IV.
iii.-xiii., and arranges the Books in ascending scale thus: Earth III.
IV. (_a_); Air IV. (_b_), II. V. VI; Heaven VII. I. There seems great
probability, almost amounting to certainty, that there were originally
eight Books, as he supposes. But a consistent and fairly natural order
might perhaps be restored with less violence to the accepted form
than his scheme involves. Books III. and IV. (_a_) seem to have been
misplaced or transposed, being placed after Book II. instead of after
Book VI., where they originally stood; Book IV. (_a_) had somehow got
mutilated, which the more easily led to the confusion. Book IV. (_b_)
also suffered somewhat in the process. Thus the original order may have
been I. II. IV. (_b_), V. VI.; III. IV. (_a_); VII.; the first five
Books deal with Meteorology, including Seismology (air), the next two
with Physical Geography (earth), the last Book with Astronomy (heaven).
A single change of the order is thus all that is required; but, of
course, the regrettable gap after IV. (_a_) remains.
Even with this rearrangement the sequence leaves something to be
desired. But it must be borne in mind that the author makes a claim to
philosophic liberty (178), and that in no case can the rules of modern
requirement be applied to him.
Of course, if the assumption of methodical arrangement be unfounded,
and the author composed just as the humour took him, the existing order
may be all right: it is as good as any other fortuitous collocation.
Some have supposed that the work was left unfinished at the author’s
death, but of this we have no proof.
The language of the Preface to Book III. has been taken by some to
imply that this was the opening of the whole work. Whether this is
so must remain to some extent matter of opinion. It may, however, be
pointed out (_a_) that the claim of the Preface to Book I. seems at
least equally strong, (_b_) that the language of § 4 of the Preface to
Book III. (110), “how much is unaccomplished of my plan, though not of
my life,” seems inapplicable to a work that was not begun or merely
beginning. There was a remnant of the work and a remnant of life, but
they were disproportionate, the one large, the other small. This was a
reminder to hurry on to completion a work with which, _ex hypothesi_,
some progress had already been made.
When all has been said, we must, for practical purposes, accept the
book as it has been handed down to us and make what we can of it.
The difficulties are not exhausted even when the pristine order is
restored. What is true of the work as a whole is true of it also in
detail. The text is full of uncertainties and corruptions. The work
was popular and was frequently copied, and this naturally gave rise
to variations, which, being improved upon by succeeding generations
of copyists, in course of time rendered the text in many places very
obscure if not unmeaning. The nature of the subject matter, frequently
little understood, no doubt facilitated and hastened the process of
corruption. Hence the translator has at every turn to decide first
_what_, and then _how_, he shall translate.[13]
[13] Gercke says (Preface, xlvi) that the traditional text of the
_Q.N._ is utterly corrupt and still requires the united efforts of
many earnest scholars for its restoration. He writes as recently
as two years ago (1907), and has himself probably made the most
considerable contribution of all the editors to the correction of the
text; but he modestly calls himself only a pioneer.
An added difficulty is the form of address to Lucilius. The adoption of
the epistolary style, whatever its other advantages, has not, it must
be admitted, conduced to the lucidity of the argument. Science does
not readily lend itself to exposition by dialogue, and the trouble
is aggravated when, in addition to the correspondent, an imaginary
opponent is from time to time introduced and indifferently addressed
in the second person, or referred to in the third. To make matters
still worse, the author frequently conceals himself behind the mask of
one or other of the disputants, irrespective of pronouns. Finally, he
employs “we” sometimes of himself and his correspondent, sometimes of
his philosophic sect, the Stoics, sometimes of his nation, the Romans,
sometimes of his kind, man in general!
IV. SENECA’S METHOD OF TREATMENT OF SUBJECT
In order to appreciate Seneca’s treatment of his subject we must
understand something of his philosophical tenets. He was in the main
a Stoic, but with such a strong tendency toward independence that
he may be considered an Eclectic. The Stoics, whether or not they
originated, at any rate recognised and adopted the threefold division
of philosophy--Physics, Ethics, Logic[14]--which was originated among
the Greeks and handed down by them to the Romans, who were in this
department their pupils. Seneca is typical of the Stoics in regarding
Ethics as of supreme importance. On Logic he did not apparently set
any great store, though he must have been a diligent student of the
cognate branch, Rhetoric. Physics, as we have seen, did not claim much
attention from him in early life; only as he approached the mature age
of threescore did his study of it become more detailed and systematic.
No clear line of demarcation existed in his mind, or for the matter
of that in his age, between philosophy and science. Yet there is
considerable internal evidence in the _Q.N._ that his pursuit of such
studies was in part an outcome of the true scientific spirit, and that
he possessed in no ordinary degree the scientific imagination. Still,
when all due allowance is made for this, it remains true that Seneca
was moralist first and physicist or scientist afterwards. Physics led
to theology,[15] and had thus a direct bearing on man’s destiny and
fate. Had there been no Ethics, whose interests were involved in a
knowledge of the universe, its parts, its function, and its author,
the impelling motive for the study of Physics would have been removed.
Possibly when his political career was closed by the death of Burrus
in 63, Seneca might in any case have devoted some of his leisure to a
subject which offered such opportunities of exalted contemplation. But
it was his ethical aims that added the chief zest to the pursuit.[16]
As the various departments of knowledge had not assumed definite
divergent forms, there was nothing incongruous to his mind in the
mixture, or as he might have regarded it, the union, of what to us
seem so different from one another as Physics and Ethics. The facts
of nature had, in his view, to be brought into connection with the
lessons that may be derived from them. In so many words he tells us
(102) that every study must have a moral attached to it, or to put
it otherwise, that physical phenomena must be made the occasion for
driving home some general truth, establishing some ethical position,
clinching an argument, reprobating a vice. The conclusion of each Book
of the _Q.N._ contains the practical application of the lessons to be
derived from its subject: there are not infrequent digressions, too,
for the same or a cognate purpose. The author’s moral zeal sometimes
ran off with him, and he felt constrained to break off for the time his
discussion of scientific truths and to assume the rôle of the moralist
and reformer.[17]
[14] See Professor Davidson’s _The Stoic Creed_, p. 42, where it is
pointed out that each of these may be subdivided so as to bring the
number up to six--Physics and Theology, Ethics and Politics, Logic
and Rhetoric. See also Seneca, Epist. lxxxix., where the division is
discussed. For further information on the subject, the article on the
Stoics in the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_ and any of the histories of
philosophy, _e.g._ Erdmann or Zeller, may be consulted.
[15] Cf. Professor Burnet’s _Early Greek Philosophy_ for illustration
of this in earlier times.
[16] Cf. footnote 2 to p. xxxiv.
[17] The method was not obsolete for many centuries, even if it is
yet wholly dead. On more than one occasion the study of Natural
History has been advocated on account of the abundance of figures of
speech that may be drawn from it! Erasmus esteemed it because of the
light it threw on the classics; his insensibility to the wonders of
natural forces and processes provoked Luther’s remark that “Erasmus
looks upon external objects as cows look upon a new gate.”
The reader of the _Q.N._ need not, therefore, regard as matter of
surprise this curious medley of science and morality, which is of the
very essence of the author’s principles and purpose. Seneca performs
this part of his task with evident relish. He is always ready to
improve the occasion, and will even go out of his way to find it.
His censure of vice, his denunciation of luxury and self-indulgence,
his castigation of immorality, seem to afford him a kind of morbid
satisfaction. Even a note of insincerity may sometimes be suspected.
He is rather too ready to display his own acquaintance with all the
refinements of the vices of “good society”: perhaps it was the fault of
his age to gloat over unsavoury details that a moralist would now be
more anxious to conceal than to reveal.[18]
[18] “There are pictures of voluptuous ease and jaded satiety which
may be the work of a keen sympathetic observation, but which may also
be the expression of repentant memory” (Dill, _op. cit._ p. 298).
With Seneca as moralist, however, we are not here directly concerned.
But what attitude are we to assume toward his Science? It need
scarcely be said that of Science in the twentieth century sense, the
first century of our era knew very little. Its greatest weakness was
that it possessed practically no means of interrogating nature save
those afforded by the human senses. The sundial was known, but the
thermometer, the barometer, the telescope, and even the microscope,
had still to be invented. Experiment except in the most rudimentary
form was impossible. Observation was the only method available, and
it lost much of its value from the necessary looseness and inaccuracy
attaching to it. Seneca was fully alive to the necessity of procuring
correct data. He records his own observation when digging among his
vines (117); he had visited the Sabine country to see a floating island
(139); he had evidently watched closely rainbow, lightning, meteors,
comets, etc, etc. He laid friends like Lucilius under contribution,
and he insists on the necessity for keeping records of observation,
especially when the phenomenon is comparatively rare, as a Comet
(274). Besides, he draws not only upon the history of his country,
but also upon the learning of other nations--Greeks, Babylonians, and
Egyptians--records which for the most part are no longer extant. The
_Q.N._ thus embodies many out-of-the-way facts which otherwise would be
unknown to us. Accuracy is nearly always a relative term: approximate
accuracy is the most we can look for in that age. Seneca’s contribution
of data is curious, interesting, and valuable.
Again, in arguing from facts, or supposed facts, Seneca is entitled to
credit for his method if not always for his results. A great merit is
that he endeavours to account for the phenomena observed, he habitually
raises the causal issue, and he is not satisfied until he has passed in
review all the considerations involved in the observation or problem.
He is scrupulous in always giving the other side a hearing, and in
discussing views with which he disagrees, even though only to reject
them. On the negative side he is generally fairly convincing, and
succeeds in showing the fallacies involved in a proposition. But on
the constructive side he is many times ingeniously perverse, curiously
blind to the inadequacy of the theories which he himself advances,
and which he would readily have confuted in an opponent. Sometimes
he adopts an error already current, as old as Aristotle or older;
sometimes he advances a fresh one of his own. But even his errors are
instructive, and represent a phase of progress. The line of progress is
zigzag. Only after errors have been exhausted does the truth emerge and
advance become possible.
The amenities of ancient science seem to have been somewhat scanty.
A mistake, a false inference, an erroneous view, is met with the lie
direct. The moral stigma of falsehood is, at any rate in certain
instances, attached to such a deviation from fact. Nor is this all.
The whole character must be bad if a man has “lied.” The authors,
whom Seneca calls chroniclers, and particularly Epigenes, are in one
passage quite fiercely attacked (289). In justice to Seneca it must
be said that he is hardly more polite toward himself. The words on
p. 154, § 2, rendered, “I can give my own word, etc.,” read literally,
“I’m a liar if water does not meet us, etc.” Perhaps, therefore, it is
only a manner of speaking. In the early days of public education in
Britain a Government report recorded as a proof of moral progress the
substitution in some parts of the country of “I beg your pardon” for
“You’re a liar!” The child seems to have here re-lived the history of
the race.
Seneca had a wide outlook, too, and a splendid scientific faith.
With prophetic eye he sees the day when an astronomer will arise to
demonstrate the nature and orbit of Comets[19] (299); he is content
to let posterity have a share of the credit! Nor is his humility less
than his confidence. His lessons may still usefully be taken home;
we imagine we have pierced to nature’s inmost sanctum, yet we are
still loitering round her outer court (306); let us not despise the
day of small things, the investigation of nature’s marvels requires
generations of workers and ages of work; there will come a day when
all will be revealed, when posterity will smile at our feeble and
clumsy efforts and wonder how we missed such obvious truths (298). The
ancients must be treated leniently; it was a large contribution to
discovery to have conceived the hope of its possibility (231). Seneca
maintained and promoted this belief in ultimate success. He displays
throughout the same alert, buoyant, enthusiastic confidence, together
with patient, reverent search for truth in nature and truth about God.
[19] The fulfilment, or at least the beginning of the fulfilment, of
this prediction may be dated from Newton in 1680.
Seneca nowhere gives us a reasoned connected exposition of the views
entertained by him regarding the Universe as a whole or the relation
of its parts. Only “by parcels” and inference can we glean them from
scattered remarks and comments that he makes in the course of his
work. In Physics even more than in Ethics he was an Eclectic; he
criticises freely, and occasionally rejects entirely, the opinions of
his own school, the Stoics, at one point going so far as to call them
silly (181, cf. 295). He claims authority, too, for his own research,
and asserts the right to hypothesise for himself: he is hopeful, if
not certain, of discovery (304). He frequently quotes rival opinions
without indicating his own. He is familiar with conflicting theories
which he does not attempt, or fails in his attempt, to harmonise.
And in the end one is tempted to ask whether he himself had reached
any consistent comprehensive cosmical scheme. There is much that is
quaint and interesting and ingenious, but it seems doubtful whether
an attempt to construct from the _Q.N._ a complete cosmology would in
the end repay the labour. The scheme might prove self-contradictory;
it would in any case be full of error, and there would in no case be
the assurance that it was all Seneca’s own. This seems sufficient
reason for declining the task. If one care to pursue it further,
helpful information may be obtained from Bernhardt’s _brochure_ (_Die
Anschauung, etc._) already referred to, while a discussion of the whole
subject will be found in Crouslé’s Thesis, written in Latin, _De L._
_Annaei Senecae Nat. Quaest_., which for fulness and fairness leaves
nothing to be desired.[20] In the Commentary and Notes at the end of
the volume Seneca’s scientific opinions and methods are discussed by
Sir Archibald Geikie.
[20] Ideler’s _Meteorologia veterum Graecorum et Romanorum_, which
forms the Prolegomena to his edition of Aristotle’s _Meteorology_,
but is printed as a separate volume, also contains much curious
information on this recondite subject.
V. SOME OF SENECA’S PREDECESSORS AND CONTEMPORARIES
The history of ancient Science is a very tangled and abstruse subject,
a portion of the history of ancient Philosophy, which lies as much
outside the scope of the present work as beyond the powers of the
writer. Still, Seneca cannot be altogether detached from what preceded
him. In order to throw light upon his work, it may be permissible to
pass in rapid review a few of the chief sources from which he drew. Our
starting-point may be Aristotle.
Aristotle is with good reason named “the master of those who know”
(Dante, _H._ iv.). He may be said to have summed up the knowledge of
the ancient world, at least as far as Greece is concerned, on all
subjects. If not the founder of Science any more than of Philosophy,
he recapitulated so fully all that went before that he became the
fountain-head and source from which all succeeding workers mainly drew.
He systematised the existing materials, adding his own criticisms
and observations, and illuminating the whole with the strong light
of his unrivalled powers. He drew upon many authorities whose works
are now lost, the leading names among them being familiar from the
_Q.N._--Thales, Anaximander, Pythagoras, and the rest. The extent and
variety of the material may, perhaps, best be understood from a work
like Professor Burnet’s _Early Greek Philosophy_, to which reference
should be made. A reasoned consecutive account will there be found of
the individual contributions made to philosophy (including science)
by the early Greek thinkers. Long before Aristotle’s time numerous
physical theories had been propounded, and had been supported by their
authors with great acuteness of argument; hardly any question had
been left unasked that related to matter, motion, or mind. “We may
smile, if we please, at the strange medley of childish fancy and true
scientific insight.... But we shall do well to remember at the same
time that even now it is just such hardy anticipations of experience
that make scientific progress possible, and that nearly every one of
the early inquirers ... made some permanent addition to the store of
positive knowledge, besides opening up new views of the world in every
direction” (_op. cit._ 29).
Seneca probably possessed fuller details of the investigations and
speculations of these early workers than we now do. The existing
materials are contained in Professor Diels’ _Die Fragmente der
Vorsokratiker_, with which his other great work, the _Doxographi
Graeci_, should be compared.[21]
[21] These are, of course, only for the classical scholar.
The chief work of Aristotle upon which Seneca drew was the
_Meteorologica_. The extent to which its subject coincided with that
of the _Q.N._ may be inferred from a glance at its contents. The
_Meteorologica_ is divided into four Books, arranged thus:--
I. Scope and relations of Meteorology. The four elementary
bodies--earth, water, fire, air--and their relations. Celestial fires.
Shooting stars. Comets. The Milky Way. Clouds. Fog. Dew. Hoar-frost.
Rain. Snow. Hail. Wind. Formation of rivers. Change in land through
action of rivers: effects on movements of races.
II. The sea and its salinity. Theory of the winds, their varieties,
positions, etc. Earthquakes and their explanation. Lightning and
thunder.
III. Lightning, thunder, and similar phenomena. Halo and rainbow. Mock
sun and cognate appearances. Exhalation and its influence.
IV. Theory of the elements (= ingredients or first principles); two
active--hot and cold, two passive--dry and moist. Their effect on
bodies. Cohesion, Liquefaction, Solidification, Coagulation, Fusion,
Solubility, and other properties. Homogeneous and non-homogeneous
bodies. Effects of temperature. Place of this work in author’s scheme.
Another work that goes under Aristotle’s name, but is now generally
considered spurious, is the _De Mundo_ (_the Universe_), which in
part repeats the subjects of the latter part of the _Meteorology_.
Seneca may also have drawn on the _De Coelo_ (_the Heavens_), whose
subject covers portions of the _Q.N._ He refers more than a dozen of
times to Aristotle by name, but it was not customary to refer to
individual works. There are numerous instances in which Aristotle is
his authority, though no specific mention of him occurs.
Theophrastus, the pupil of Aristotle, and, his successor as head
of the Academy, is also frequently referred to in the _Q.N._ His
master bequeathed to him his library and original manuscripts, and
Theophrastus was himself also a voluminous writer.
Among his extant works on Science, we have treatises or tracts dealing
with Fire; Winds; Stones; Signs of Rain, Wind, Storm, and Fine Weather;
not to mention Colours, Odours, etc., and an extensive work on Plants
and their History. His work on Perception and Percepts is said to be a
chapter of a larger work on the history of philosophy. At any rate, it
records and discusses the opinions of earlier writers on the subjects
to which the title refers. For his further views on Physics, and the
lost treatise on the subject, see Diels, _Dox. Graec._ 119 _et sqq._,
and 473 _et sqq._
Aratus, who flourished about 280–270 B.C., wrote two poems (in
Greek) entitled respectively _Phaenomena_,[22] an introduction to
the knowledge of the constellations; and _Prognostics_, a method of
forecasting the weather from astronomical phenomena. Aratus scarcely
ranks as a scientific writer, but Seneca refers to his opinions on one
occasion in the _Q.N._ He was apparently held in high esteem by the
Romans, for he found a translator (in part) in Cicero, and an imitator
in Virgil (_Georgics_).
[22] It is from this poem (l. 5) that Paul quotes (Acts xvii. 28),
“For we are also his offspring.” Aratus was a native of Soli in
Cilicia, and therefore a compatriot of Paul.
Plutarch stands in a somewhat different relation to Seneca. He was a
little subsequent in date, but there is a sort of parallelism between
the two, both in their scientific and their more general interests.
Besides the _Physical Causes_, already referred to, Plutarch made a
compilation in five Books--at least it goes under his name--of the
Tenets of the Philosophers (_Placita Philosophorum_) regarding a
vast number of physical, especially astronomical and physiological,
subjects. Diels (_op. cit._ 65) scouts the idea of the genuineness of
the “wretched epitome,” and assigns it to the middle of the second
century. Whether this be so or not does not much affect its value for
us. The existence of the work shows the nature of the material which
was available in Seneca’s age. The work is a kind of distant echo of
Theophrastus’ lost treatise and preserves many opinions of the older
philosophers, of which, to say the least of it, we should otherwise
have been less fully informed. The parallelism of the _Placita_ to the
_Q.N._ will appear from a few of the titles. Books II. and III. of
the former reproduce a long array of opinions of Thales, Empedocles,
Anaxagoras, Diogenes, Anaximenes, Democritus, Xenophanes, Xenocrates,
not to mention Plato, Aristotle, the Pythagoreans, the Stoics, etc.,
etc., regarding such subjects as Eclipses, the Milky Way, Comets,
Earthquakes, Clouds, Winds, Thunder and Lightning, etc., etc.
Plutarch also has questions regarding Aratus _Prognostics_, and a
Miscellanea of discussions on allied subjects.
Of Latin writers two have special bearing on Seneca. Lucretius (95–51
B.C.), in his great poem on Nature (_De Rerum Natura_), has expounded
the Epicurean view of the universe. In so far as science is capable
of metrical and poetical exposition, he ranks high among scientific
writers; while the recent resuscitation of the atomic theory lends
special interest to his views. The Romans were always a practical
and not a speculative nation, and any deviation from the type, such
as Lucretius or Seneca, becomes especially noteworthy and valuable.
Numerous parallelisms between them have been brought out in the
Commentary and Notes appended to this Translation.
Pliny the Elder stands in respect of date in much the same relation
to Seneca as Plutarch does. His great work on Natural History, which
was addressed to the reigning Emperor, Vespasian, was published in
the year 77, that is, about a dozen years after Seneca’s death. We
have already glanced at the bearing of this date upon that of the
publication of the _Q.N._ We are now concerned rather with the relation
of the contents of the two works. Gibbon (_Decline and Fall_, chap.
xiii.) speaks of “that immense register where Pliny has deposited
the discoveries, the arts, and the errors of mankind.” Nor is the
description unjust. The work is of portentous length, extending to
thirty-seven Books; it treats of an enormous variety of subjects,
physical, geological, geographical, ethnographical, botanical, medical,
etc., many of which are now quite dissociated from the title, _Natural
History_. Pliny seems to have read everything that existed in writing
on the various subjects included, and his array of authorities attached
to the contents of each Book is very imposing.[23] But unfortunately
his judgment does not appear to have been equal to his industry.
Everything is recorded, credible and incredible, whether derived from
trustworthy literature or based on mere report: a more uncritical
congeries of truth and error it would be difficult to imagine.
[23] He claims to have read about 2000 volumes of 100 choice authors,
but his lists seem to include a much larger number of names--146
Roman and 327 foreign writers. See Teuffel, _Rom. Lit._ vol. ii.,
under Pliny the Elder. Cf. Dill, _op. cit._ p. 146 and _note_.
Book II. deals with the constitution of the universe, including
astronomical and meteorological phenomena, such as Meteors, Halos,
Eclipses, Winds, Earthquakes, Rain, etc., etc. Many of these cover
the same ground as the _Q.N._ Among the domestic authors cited for
this Book are M. Varro, Livy, Cornelius Nepos, Caecina, “who wrote on
the Etruscan cult”; among the foreign authors are Plato, Anaximander,
Democritus, Archimedes, Aristotle, etc., etc. The omission of Seneca
from the Latin list is balanced by that of Theophrastus from the
Greek list. It is, of course, unsafe to build any theory on a merely
negative basis. Obviously Pliny had read at any rate portions of these
authors, to whom he elsewhere refers, and may, through mere oversight
or negligence, have omitted specific mention of them here: he usually
refers to authors and not to their individual works. If, at the time of
the composition of Book II., which may have been considerably earlier
than the date of publication of the whole work, he did not know of
Seneca’s _Q.N._, then the inference seems inevitable that there were
current a collection or collections of the opinions (δόξαι) of the
older philosophers which were common property to any one interested in
such matters. The _Placita_ attributed to Plutarch, though its present
form may be much later than Pliny’s time, may have been derived from
sources of this kind. We shall not be far wrong in supposing that,
in addition to the works still extant, there was a mass of material
available to Seneca and Pliny alike which represented the traditional
views on physical and allied subjects handed down from the old Greek
philosophy. Most of the Latin authors, seventeen in number in all,
cited by Pliny on Book II. are now known to us only by name; of those
whose works remain, Varro is the only one whom we should consider
likely to furnish much material for the topic in hand.
Of Pliny’s lists in general it may be said that they indicate that a
good many writers even among the Romans had been attracted by subjects
of a scientific or quasi-scientific character, if we may not venture to
say that their works can rank as science even in the modified sense in
which the term is applicable to Seneca or Pliny. It is in keeping with
the character of the people that practical sciences like agriculture
(Varro, Columella) and architecture (Vitruvius), not to mention
cookery, should have received special attention. These authors, with
others like Manilius (_Astronomica_) and Pomponius Mela (geography),
however interesting in themselves, have only an indirect and sometimes
only a remote bearing on the Physical Science of their day.
VI. THE “QUAESTIONES NATURALES” IN THE MIDDLE AGES
The _Q.N._ is a landmark in the progress of Physical Science. From
Aristotle and Theophrastus there is a great gap until we reach Seneca:
the gap is still greater between Seneca and the Renascence, from which
the era of true science is to be dated. The _Q.N._ is the last word
spoken on the subject by the classical world, and practically the only
work of its kind that survives to us in Latin. Various commentators
on Aristotle and Seneca have, probably unconsciously, appeared as
champions of either author’s claim to be considered as _the_ authority
in Science during the Middle Ages. All the materials for forming an
unbiassed judgment are to be found in Dr. Sandys’ _History of Classical
Scholarship_ (vol. i.).
Seneca possessed one or two initial advantages. In the first place,
Latin, in which he wrote, was understood and spoken throughout the
world, whereas for many centuries Greek was over large tracts of it,
particularly in the West, an unknown tongue. Again, Seneca was for
long supposed to be a Christian, claimed by the early fathers as “one
of us,” and ranked by Jerome among the _Ecclesiastical Writers_. There
was not therefore the same prejudice against his works as is known to
have existed in the early Christian centuries against pagan authors,
especially against the poets.
As a matter of fact, the knowledge of Aristotle’s works, at any rate
in the West, seems to have been derived in the first instance from
Arabic translations made in the ninth century and brought to Spain
about the twelfth century, while from 1204 onwards he was known in
Latin translations made direct from the Greek MSS., which were now
accessible. “In Roger Bacon’s day, not-withstanding his eagerness for
promoting the study of Aristotle in the original Greek, it was the
_Latin_ Aristotle alone that was studied in the schools” (Sandys,
_op. cit._ 575). That was about the year 1267. Seneca seems to have
been well known, chiefly as a moralist, through the Middle Ages. He
“was famous as the author of the _Naturales Quaestiones_” (_ib._
627[24]) also. Saint-Hilaire’s claim, therefore (Arist. _Meteor._
Pref. ii. iii.), “that Aristotle laid down the law on Meteorology,
as in everything else, from the age of Alexander right up to the
Renascence,” must be accepted with some qualification. There seems
room for Ruhkopf’s explanation (_Q.N._ Pref.) that Seneca’s work was,
and continued to be, the sole fountain whence Natural Philosophy
derived its source and drew its supplies during many centuries, “until
Aristotle’s books were transmitted for public use into Western Europe.”
[24] See, besides, pp. 387, 541, 547, 560, 569, etc.
By the thirteenth century Aristotle had come fully into vogue, and the
references to his teaching in Dante (1265–1321), said to number upwards
of 300, show what a hold he had obtained upon the greatest man of the
age. The “moral Seneca” is also known to Dante, and placed by him in
the same region of the unseen world (_H._ iv.), but the references
to his teaching are insignificant by comparison (less than ten). Dr.
Sandys states (_op. cit._ 591 _n._) that the references to Aristotle
are mainly to the _Ethics_, _Physics_, _Metaphysics_, and _De Anima_.
But we are now on the eve of the Renascence, whose “morning-star
... arose in the person of Petrarch” (_op. cit._ 650), early in the
fourteenth century (1304–1374). Greek scholarship was reviving in
the West, and Petrarch studied the language in his later days. But
his inspiration was derived in the first instance from Latin, “the
philosophical works of Cicero and the moral letters of Seneca” (_op.
cit._ ii. 4). The latter he cites as many as sixty times (_ib._ 7), and
he was also familiar with the Senecan tragedies (_ib._ 6).
From this and from the general course of history we seem justified
in believing that during the Middle Ages, in default of any general
knowledge of Aristotle, Seneca was the chief authority on Physical
Science. The views transmitted by him, for they were comparatively
seldom altogether his own, having obtained currency, found their way
into literature, and probably went far to colour the conceptions
entertained on the subject in all the earlier literature of Modern
Europe. Later, when Aristotle’s works became more widely known, his
authority became supreme alike in philosophy and in science. Nor does
the temporary ascendancy of Seneca, though historically very important,
carry with it any presumption of rivalry, not to say superiority, to
Aristotle. Seneca may best be regarded as pupil and interpreter of
Aristotle, in so far as the two come into competition. His date, the
language employed as his medium, his position, his reputation as a
Christian, and his activity in other fields, all conspired to give him
a position in the Middle Ages which is not necessarily the measure of
his intrinsic merit as compared with Aristotle.
VII. THE PRESENT TRANSLATION
From what has preceded, it will appear that the path of the translator
of the _Quaestiones Naturales_ is beset with snares. At best he has a
choice of difficulties, It may perhaps, therefore, be well to say a
word or two upon the method in which these have been dealt with on the
present occasion.
A translator’s prime duty is to follow his author, for which purpose
he must first understand him, a requirement not very easily here
fulfilled. The texts of the _Q.N._ vary greatly, as already indicated,
and it is no easy matter to select any one that might be consistently
followed. The most recent and best text, the Teubner, edited by Gercke,
has strong claims, and had it been my good fortune to have it by me
when the translation was made, I should have been tempted to adopt
it _simpliciter_, even though in many details it departs somewhat
violently from the accepted arrangement. As it was, it did not come to
hand until the translation was finished and paged for publication, so
that full use could not be made of it. In a few cases its corrections
had been anticipated; in some its readings have been adopted; some that
could not be incorporated are referred to in a note on the subject.
The text being settled, the translator must, if possible, put himself
in the author’s position and obtain his point of view.
In science, particularly, the _milieu_ of the author must be caught
if his thoughts are to be accurately reproduced. The danger of
attributing to Seneca ideas that were unknown to him and that are due
to modern analysis and discovery has to be constantly present to one’s
mind. For example, “homogeneity,” “elasticity,” “electricity,” “gas,”
“explosion,” etc., are a few of the terms that his language suggests,
but that would probably convey a wrong impression of his conception
of the phenomena to which they relate. They have been thus ruled out.
Nor is Seneca consistent in the use of the terms he employs; he has
no scientific vocabulary. In a separate note attention is called to
his words for “air” and “atmosphere”; but there are many other terms
that belong to the same category. These are, for instance, three
words for “thick” or “dense,” _crassus_, _densus_, _spissus_, which
he seems to use almost indifferently, at any rate without any precise
discrimination. So with terms like “_impetus_” (impulse, onset)
“_impulsus_” (shove, impulse), “_ictus_” (stroke, blow), “_vis_”
(force, quantity, amount), “_curro_” (to run (river), to revolve
(heavenly body)), and its compounds, _eo_ (to go), and its compounds,
etc., etc.
Apart from any peculiarity of Seneca, Latin allows the use of
adjectives and pronouns, whose distinctive gender points their
reference, where English requires substantives or their equivalent.
Latin, too, often conveys by mere suggestion where English requires
explicit expression. This is particularly so with connectives, where
a separate clause may be required to develop the _nuance_ of a subtle
collocation. In general, assuming--and it is no great stretch--that
the author meant to express _something_, whether right or wrong, I
have endeavoured to ascertain what that something was and to convey
it to the English reader. In doing so I have had no scruple in using
more words than Latin, or in making explicit what I conceived to be
implicit, or in varying the rendering of the same term to suit the
context and idiom. Ambiguity has, as far as possible, been avoided and
even removed. At the same time the author has been followed as closely
and faithfully as may be. Where he repeats a term purposely, as he
frequently does, the repetition is retained, though a variant might
have sounded more euphonious. Probably, in some cases--it may be in a
good many--the meaning has been misconceived; certainly, there will be
difference of opinion in regard to readings adopted for translation,
where one had to be taken and two or more almost equally good had to
be left out. Ruhkopf was the text chiefly used; in addition Koeler
and the Variorum Edition of Bouillet were constantly at hand, and I
have been much indebted to all three in questions of interpretation.
Nisard’s French Translation has also been of some service, indirectly
by suggestion perhaps rather than directly; in a few passages the
translation is from a different text from that printed on the same
page. The old Tauchnitz text has been habitually consulted, while
Gercke’s text has been carefully collated throughout. The latter does
not mention Ruhkopf at all in his Bibliography--surely an involuntary
omission. There is a useful Bibliography also in Bouillet, but the date
of his Edition is as far back as 1830. To my regret I have not been
able to procure Lagrange’s famous French Translation, and the same
remark applies to several German works of repute. Lodge’s Translation
(1614) was not of any service for my purpose.
THE NATURAL QUESTIONS OF L. ANNAEUS SENECA ADDRESSED TO LUCILIUS
BOOK I
[METEORS, HALO, RAINBOW, MOCK SUN, ETC.]
PREFACE
Lucilius, my much esteemed friend--While a great gulf separates 1
philosophy from the other learned arts, there is to my mind an equally
wide gulf in philosophy itself between the portion which relates to
human conduct and that which deals with the nature and power of heaven.
The latter is more exalted and more speculative, it allows itself wide
liberty. It is not satisfied with mere observation, it surmises that
there is a greater and fairer realm placed by nature beyond human
sight. Between these two divisions of philosophy, in short, there is as
wide a gulf as between their subjects, God and man.
The one teaches us what should be done on earth;[25] the other, what 2
is done in heaven. The one dispels our errors and flashes a light by
which to thread the mazes of life; the other far transcends this gloom
in which we grope, rescues us from the darkness, and leads us to the
very source of light itself. For myself, I am grateful to nature, not
so much when I see her on the side that is open to the world, as when
I am permitted to enter her shrine. Then one may seek to know of what
stuff the universe is made, who is its author or guardian, what is the
nature of God. Is He wholly absorbed in Himself, or does He sometimes
regard us? does He do something daily, or has He done once for all? is
He a portion of the world, or the whole world? may He issue new decrees
even to-day and thus modify the laws of fate, or is it an infringement
of His majesty and an acknowledgment of error to alter what has once
been made? for surely the same must always please Him who can be 3
pleased only with what is best. Nor yet withal is His freedom or power
diminished, for He is a law unto Himself.
[25] In other words, the principles of human conduct.
Life would have been a useless gift, were I not admitted to the study
of such themes. What cause for joy would it be to be set merely in
the number of those who live? In order to digest food and drink?
To repair a diseased, enfeebled body, that would perish unless it
were continually refilled, and thus lead the life of a sick man’s
attendant? To fear death, to which our very birth destines us? Away
with the priceless boon! Life is not worth the heat and the sweat. How 4
despicable a creature is man, unless he rise above the earth! What
great thing can we do as long as we have to wrestle with our passions?
Even if we prevail, we but conquer monsters. What cause have we to
esteem ourselves because we are not quite so bad as the very worst? I
can see no great reason for self-satisfaction because one’s strength is
rather above the average of those in the same hospital. You are still
far from good health and vigour. Or, again, you have escaped vices of
soul, the hypocrite’s brow, the flatterer’s speech fashioned to serve
another’s will, the dissembler’s heart, the miser’s spirit, which
robs all, but yet mortifies itself. You are a prey neither to luxury,
which loses basely and repairs its losses still more basely; nor to
ambition, which leads to place of worth only by unworthy means. But 5
yet you have accomplished nothing. You have escaped many perils, but
not yet [that of] self! The virtue we aim at raises to a splendid
eminence; not so much because escape from vice is in itself a blessed
thing, but rather because the soul is emancipated, prepared for the
knowledge of heavenly things, and rendered worthy of entering into
communion with God.
The full consummation of human felicity is attained when, all vice
trampled under foot, the soul seeks the heights and reaches the inner
recesses of nature. What joy then to roam through the very stars, to
look down with derision on the gilded saloons of the rich and the whole
earth with its store of gold! Gold, did I say? Yes, all the gold the
earth ever produced and sent into currency, and all that she keeps
hidden in secret to glut the avarice of posterity. Only when one has
surveyed the whole universe can one truly despise grand colonnades, 6
ceilings glittering with ivory, trim groves and cooling streams
transported into wealthy mansions. From above, one can now look down
upon this narrow world, covered for the most part by sea, and, even
where it rises above the sea, an ugly waste either parched or frozen.
The philosopher says to himself: Is this the plot that so many tribes
portion out by fire and sword? How ludicrous are their frontiers! The
Dacian must not pass the lower Danube; the Strymon must shut off the 7
Thracians; the Euphrates must be the barrier of the Parthians; the
Danube must form the boundary between Sarmatian and Roman; the Rhine
must set a limit to Germany; the Pyrenees must raise their chain
between Gallic and Spanish provinces; between Egypt and Ethiopia a
desert of barren sands must stretch! Why, if ants are ever endowed
with human intelligence, will not they in like manner portion out a
threshing-floor into many provinces?
But when you rise to what is truly great, then, as often as you 8
see armies marching forth with floating banners, and the cavalry now
scouting in front, now massed on the flanks, as if some great design
were toward, you will pleasantly remark:
The black swarm is hurrying through the plains.
That host is a throng of ants, its evolutions are in a back garden.
In what do we excel the ants, save in the measure of the puny little
body? That is a mere point in which you sail, and war, and dispose
your kingdoms. Your kingdoms are lilliputian even when they stretch
from Ocean to Ocean. Only on high are the domains spacious; to their 9
possession the mind is admitted, provided always that it bring with
it no taint of the body, but wipe off all stain and pass forth like an
armed man, lightly equipped, nimble, modest in his wants. When the soul
reaches those regions, it receives nourishment and growth; as if freed
from the shackles of earth, it returns to the true source of its being.
A proof of its divine origin is furnished by the pleasure it derives 10
from what is divine; here it feels itself at home, not in a strange
land. Without alarm it views the setting of the stars and their rising,
and the mazy orbits of the heavenly bodies that yet move all in unison.
It notes when each star first shows its light on earth, when it attains
its meridian height, observes its orbit and the limits of its descent.
An interested spectator, it examines and investigates every detail.
And why should it not? It feels that they are akin to itself. Then
contempt for the narrow limits of its former dwelling succeeds. For 11
what after all is the space that lies from India to the farthest shores
of Spain? A few days’ journey if a prosperous wind waft the vessel. But
that heavenly region affords a route during full thirty years to the
swiftest of the planets, rushing with untiring velocity, never once hal
ting.
Here at last the soul comes to learn what it has long sought, it begins
to know God. But what is God? The universal intelligence. What is 12
God, did I say? All that you see and all that you cannot see. His
greatness exceeds the bounds of thought. Render Him His true greatness
and He is all in all, He is at once within and without His works. What,
then, is the difference between the divine nature and the human? In us
the better part is spirit, in Him there is nothing except spirit. He 13
is wholly reason: though mortal eyes are so sealed by error that men
believe this frame of things to be but a fortuitous concourse of atoms,
the sport of chance. And yet than this universe could aught be fairer,
more carefully adjusted, more consistent in plan? But men will have it
that it is tossed about at random in the confusion of thunder, cloud,
and storm, and the other forces by which the earth and its purlieus are
haunted.
Nor is this merely the madness of vulgar error; even the philosophers
are tainted by it. Men there are who think that they themselves have 14
a mind, one, too, that foresees and orders events in detail whether
relating to themselves or to others. But this frame of things, in which
we men along with the rest of creation are set, they deem void of
counsel, hurried hither and thither at random; or at best, nature, they
suppose, does not know what her own aim is. How profitable then, think
you, will it be to ascertain the truth on such questions and exactly
to define each position! For example, what is the extent of the power
of God? Does He create matter or does He employ matter already given?
Does the pre-existing archetype give shape to matter, or does the
matter determine the shape? Can God perform anything He wishes, or does
material fail Him in many cases, just as a great artist often produces
inferior work, not through any defect in his art, but because the 15
material on which it is exercised is refractory? To search into such
things, to learn them, to meditate upon them--why, is it not in effect
to transcend the limits of mortality and to be enrolled a citizen of a
higher state? What good will it do you, you ask. Well, if nothing else,
I shall, at any rate, know that measured by divine standard all earthly
things are mean. But of this more anon.
I
To come now to my purpose--listen to the explanation offered by 1
Natural Philosophy concerning _the Fires_ which the atmosphere drives
athwart. Their oblique course and amazing velocity furnish proof that
they are thrust out with great violence. Evidently they do not come
forth of themselves, they are shot out. There are many different forms
of them. A certain kind of them Aristotle calls a She-Goat. If you
ask me why, I must retort by asking you first to explain why they are
also called Kids. It will, perhaps, be more to the purpose not to 2
cross-examine one another with questions such as: What does such
and such an author say? Answer me. Better examine the cause of the
phenomenon itself than form surmises as to why Aristotle has applied
the name She-Goat to a ball of fire. This was the shape of the one
as big as the moon that appeared when Paulus was engaged in the war
against Perseus. In our own days we have more than once seen a huge
ball-shaped flame which broke up in the very middle of its course. We 3
saw a similar portent about the time of the death of the late Emperor
Augustus. We again saw one when Sejanus was executed. A warning of the
same kind preceded the death of Germanicus.
You may, perhaps, exclaim: Are you then so benighted as to suppose that
the gods send out previous intimation of the death of great men? Do you
imagine that anything on earth is so great that the Universe should
perceive its loss? That question must be reserved for another season.
We shall then see whether a fixed succession is observed in all events,
and whether one event is so bound up with another that what precedes is
either cause or at least token of what follows. We shall then see, 4
too, whether the gods trouble themselves about human concerns, and
whether the mere series of events reveals by unmistakable signs what
its effects must be. Meantime, I venture the opinion that fires of the
class referred to are produced by violent friction of the atmosphere.
The pressure inclines toward one or other side, and as there is no
yielding there, an internal struggle ensues. From violent action
of this kind arise the different varieties of fires--beams, balls,
torches, and gleams. When the shock is less severe, and the atmosphere
is merely grazed, as it were, smaller lights are emitted,
And the flying stars drag their hairy tail.
Then their thin fires mark a slender path, which they prolong across 5
the sky. For that reason no night is without sights of the kind; no
great movement of the atmosphere is required to produce them. In fact,
to put it shortly, they are due to the very same cause as thunderbolts,
only they require less force.
Clouds that encounter each other with little force cause flashes of
lightning; if impelled by greater violence, thunderbolts. Aristotle
offers the following explanation: The earth gives forth many 6
different exhalations, some moist, some dry, some cold, some containing
the seeds of fire. And little wonder if the earth’s evaporation is of
all varied kinds. Why, even in the heavens the colour of objects does
not show uniform; the red of the Dog-star is brighter, that of Mars
duller; Jupiter has no red, his sheen is prolonged into pure light. 7
Well, in the great abundance of minute bodies emitted by the earth and
driven up to the higher regions, of necessity some of the elements that
reach the clouds furnish material for fires. They do not require any
collision in order to burn, the breath of the sun’s rays is sufficient
to kindle them. So with us, shavings sprinkled with sulphur catch fire
at some distance. Probably, therefore, tinder of this kind gathering 8
within the clouds is easily kindled; greater or less fires are produced
just as there has been more or less substance in the elements.
On the other hand, to suppose either that actual stars fall or leap
across the sky, or that some portion of them is taken away or pared
off, is sheer folly. If this had been so, they would ere this have 9
disappeared. For there is not a single night on which there is not a
very large number of stars that seem to break up as they pass across
the sky. Yet they are all found again in their wonted places: each one
maintains its size unimpaired. It follows, therefore, that the fires
referred to have their origin below the stars, and that, being without
solid foundation on fixed abode, they quickly perish. Why, then, you
ask, do they not cross the sky by day as well as by night? The next 10
thing you will say will be that there are no stars by day because they
are not visible! The stars are, of course, there, but obscured by the
sun’s brightness. Similarly, meteor fires like torches cross the sky by
day too, but they are hidden by the brightness of the daylight. If, as
sometimes happens, a burst of light shoots out strong enough to assert
its brilliance even in the face of day, then they do become visible.
In fact, our own age has more than once seen torches by day, some 11
rushing from east to west, others from west to east.
Sailors consider it a sign of storm when there are many shooting
stars. If their appearance really is a sign of wind, they must occur
in the quarter where wind is found, in other words, in the atmosphere
which lies between the earth and the moon. In violent storms at sea
there sometimes appear, as it were, stars settling on the sails. The
sailors who are in jeopardy then suppose that they are being aided by
the power of Castor and Pollux. They have really ground for better 12
hope in this appearance, because it makes plain that the storm is
breaking, and the wind falling. Otherwise the fires would flit about
without settling. When Gylippus was on the voyage to Syracuse, a star
appeared, resting on the very tip of his lance. In the camp of the
Romans at times pikes appeared to be on fire, no doubt because fires
of this kind glided down on to them: these fires are often wont to
strike animals and trees, just like thunderbolts. If, however, they 13
are discharged with less force, they merely glide down and settle, and
do not inflict stroke or wound. Again, some are forced out from among
clouds, others come from a clear sky, if the atmosphere has got into a
condition to emit fire. In like manner, it occasionally thunders with a
clear sky, and from the same cause as with a cloudy one, the atmosphere
undergoing internal collision. Even when the air is comparatively clear
and dry, it may become condensed, and form bodies similar to clouds,
the clashing of which causes the sound of the thunder. From time to 14
time, therefore, arise meteors like beams and like shields, and the
semblance of vast fires over the sky, if a force similar in kind but
greater in degree encounter suitable material.
II
Let us now see how the brightness is produced that sometimes envelops 1
the heavenly bodies. History has put on record that, on the day of the
late Emperor Augustus’ entrance into Rome on his return from Apollonia,
a parti-coloured circle, such as is wont to be seen in a rainbow,
appeared round the sun. The Greeks call this a _Halo_; our most
appropriate name for it is a Crown. Let me explain how it is formed.
When a stone is thrown into a pond, the water is observed to part 2
in numerous circles, which, very narrow at first, gradually widen out
more and more until the impulse disappears, lost in the surface of the
smooth water beyond. Let us suppose something of the same kind to occur
in the atmosphere. When condensed it is capable of receiving an impact:
the light of sun, moon, or any heavenly body encountering it forces it
to recede in the form of circles. Moisture, be it observed, and air,
and everything else that takes shape from a blow, is driven into the
same form as that possessed by the object that strikes it. Now every
kind of light is round. Therefore, the air when struck by light will 3
assume this form. Accordingly the Greeks gave the name Threshing-floor
(_i.e._ Halo) to a brightness of this kind, because spaces set apart
for threshing corn were, as a rule, round.
Be the better name threshing-floors, or be it crowns, there is no
reason to suppose that they are formed in the neighbourhood of the
heavenly bodies. They are a very long distance from them, though as
seen from the earth they seem to touch and encircle them. In reality
such an image is formed not very far from the earth, but the wonted 4
frailty of human vision is deceptive, and we imagine the ring is formed
close round the heavenly body itself. But no such thing could possibly
occur in the neighbourhood of the sun and stars, as there is nothing
but thin ether there. It is only when bodies have become rough and
dense that shape can be impressed upon them. In subtle bodies there
is no point on which form can lay hold or to which it can adhere. A
phenomenon of the same nature as the halo may often be witnessed in
baths, because the atmosphere is thick and dark: it is most frequent
when the wind is in the south, when the air is heaviest and most dense.
Halos sometimes are dissolved gradually and fade away, sometimes they 5
are broken up on one side. In the latter case seafaring men look for
wind in the direction in which the circle of the crown has been broken.
If the parting is on the north, there will be a north wind, if on the
west, zephyrs will follow. This is a proof that these crowns are formed
in the region of the sky in which the winds are usually formed. The
upper regions of air have no crowns because they have no winds either.
An additional proof of the connection of winds and halos is afforded 6
by the fact that the halo is never formed unless the atmosphere is at
rest, and the wind, as it were, inactive. Under other circumstances it
is not usually observed.
The atmosphere when it is at rest may be fashioned to any pattern by
being driven or drawn in any direction. But when it is in motion, light
cannot even strike it. It takes no shape and offers no resistance,
because the part first affected is always dissipated by the motion.
Therefore it is that no heavenly body can ever be surrounded by a 7
figure of the kind referred to unless when the atmosphere is dense and
motionless, and so preserves the ray of round light that strikes upon
it. Nor is it without good reason. Recollect the analogy mentioned
a little ago. A pebble thrown into a pond or lake or any other
circumscribed piece of water produces innumerable circles; but it has
not the same effect if thrown into a river. And why so? Because in the
latter case the water as it hurries on prevents the formation of any
definite figure. So in the atmosphere the same thing happens; when 8
it is stationary, it may receive a pattern; when it rushes in rapid
motion, it evades all control, warding off every blow and every form
as it approaches. When these crowns, of which I have spoken, have
disappeared uniformly on all sides, and vanished in their own tracks,
it is an indication of equilibrium in the atmosphere: there is perfect
quietness and you may then look out for rain. When they break up 9
at one side, it means wind in that quarter. If they burst at several
points, a storm is brewing. The reason of this may be gathered from
the explanations I have now given. If the ring fade all round, it is
evident that the atmosphere is equable, and therefore calm. But if it
is broken through on one side, evidently there must be an inclination
of the air in that direction: hence that quarter will produce wind. But
when the halo is rent and torn on all sides, plainly an attack is being
made on it from several quarters at once, and a disquieted atmosphere
is assailing it on this side and on that. So this disturbance of
the heavens, the repeated effort and striving in all directions, 10
betokens evidently that a storm is coming up with sudden shiftings of
the wind.
These crowns may be observed generally by night round the moon and
other stars, but very seldom by day; in fact, so rarely in the latter
case, that certain of the Greeks have denied that they appear at all
by day. But history proves that they do. The cause of the infrequency
of their appearance by day is that the sun’s light is stronger then,
and the atmosphere itself when stirred and warmed by it is less dense.
The moon’s power, on the other hand, is feebler, and is therefore more
easily resisted by the surrounding air. The rest of the heavenly 11
bodies are equally weak, and unable by their own force to burst
through the atmosphere. So their shape is impressed and retained in
the more solid and less yielding medium. For, in order to produce the
phenomenon, the atmosphere must neither be so thick as to exclude or
dissipate the light that streams in on it, nor yet so thin and rare
as to furnish no hold to the rays that fall upon it. This particular
consistency is obtained at night: the sluggish air is at that time
struck with the faint light from moon or stars without violence or
rudeness, and, being thicker than it is wont to be by day, is tinged
thereby.
III
On the contrary, _the Rainbow_ does not occur by night, except on 1
very rare occasions, inasmuch as the moon has not sufficient strength
to pierce the clouds and suffuse them with hues such as they receive
from the brilliant light of the sun. The shape and varied colours of
the rainbow are due to the peculiarities of different kinds of clouds.
Some parts of the clouds are swollen, others hollow; some are too dense
to transmit sunlight, others too rare to exclude it. This difference in 2
consistency causes alternations of light and shade, and produces that
marvellous variety presented by the rainbow. Another explanation is
offered in instances like the following: When a pipe bursts anywhere,
the water is observed to be forced by pressure through the small
opening; the drops seen against a slanting sun reproduce the appearance
of the rainbow. Again, if you will at any time watch a fuller at work,
you will observe the same appearance: when he has filled his mouth with
water and spirts it lightly on the clothes stretched on pegs, the air
thus besprinkled exhibits plainly the various colours that shine in the
bow. One cannot doubt that the reason of this lies in the moisture. 3
For a rainbow never occurs except when there are clouds about.
Let us inquire how it is produced. Some authorities say that there are
certain drops of water that transmit light, while some are too compact
to be translucent. Thus the brightness is the effect of the former; the
shadow, of the latter; by the intermingling of the two is formed the
rainbow, part of which is bright, to wit, that which admits sunlight,
part darker, namely, that which has shut out the light and cast a
shadow from itself over the objects nearest it. Others again deny that 4
this is so. Shade and light, they say, might be the cause if the
rainbow had only two colours, and thus was made up of light and shade.
But now, though there gleam a thousand diverse hues,
Their changes withal elude the eyes that behold.
The hues that touch seem actually one, yet the edges are quite different.
In it sight detects something that is red, something that is orange,
something that is blue; and there are other colours too, laid on in
finest lines just like a skilful painting, so that, as the poet remarks
above, it is impossible to discover whether the colours differ from one
another until the last of them is compared with the first. The junction 5
of colour with colour deceives the sight: with such marvellous skill
does nature starting from what is like end in what is totally unlike.
What good, then, do the two alleged colours, light and shade, do in
a case of this kind, when the presence of an endless variety must
be accounted for? Again, certain authorities are of opinion that the
following is the method of formation of the rainbow: In the quarter of
the sky where rain is falling, they say, the drops of falling rain are
so many mirrors; from each mirror, therefore, is reflected an image of
the sun. By and by, many, in fact, countless, images, descending and
crossing abruptly, are all blended together. Therefore the rainbow is
just a blending of a great number of images of the sun. They appeal to
the following argument in proof of this: On a clear day, say they, 6
set out a thousand basins, and they will all contain images of the sun.
Or arrange single drops of water on single leaves; they will each have
an image of the sun. On the other hand, an immense pond will have no
more than one image. Why so? Just because every smooth surface that is
fenced off, and surrounded by its own boundaries, is a mirror. Again,
divide a pond of very large size into several small ponds by inserting
partition walls; it will show as many images of the sun as it has
divisions. Leave it as it was, spreading out to its full extent, and it
will show but one reflection of him. The small extent of the liquid or 7
pond makes no manner of difference. If the surface is circumscribed,
it forms a mirror. Well then, those countless drops, which are carried
down by a falling shower, are so many mirrors, and contain so many
reflections of the sun. To an observer right in front of them they
present the appearance of being mixed up: the intervals which part
them from each other are not distinguished, their mere distance from
the observer prevents discrimination of them. By and by instead of
individual drops there is seen a single blurred mass that contains them
all.
Aristotle agrees with this opinion. His words are: Beams of light
are reflected by sight from every smooth surface. Now, nothing is 8
smoother than water and air. Therefore, our sight is reflected back on
us from thick air. Indeed, where the vision is dull and feeble, the
slightest stroke of air checks it. Some people suffer from an affection
which causes them to think that they are meeting their own image, and
they see everywhere the reflection of themselves. And why? Because the
power of their eyes is so weak that it cannot overcome the resistance
of even the nearest layer of the atmosphere. What dense air effects in
ordinary cases, any kind of air is sufficient to effect in the cases
referred to by Aristotle. For whatever the nature of the air, it is
strong enough to defeat weak sight. Now, much more is our vision
reflected upon us by water because it is denser and cannot be pierced;
it absolutely stops the rays from our eyes, and turns them back to
the source whence they proceeded. Well then, when there are numerous 9
raindrops, they are just so many mirrors. But on account of their
smallness they express the sun’s colour without
distinct shape. By and by when the same colour is reflected in the
countless drops that fall without intermission, it begins to take on
the appearance not of numerous images with intervals between, but of a
single, long, uninterrupted image.
But how, you may object, can you tell me that there are many thousands
of images there, where I can see none at all? Besides, as there is
but one colour in the sun, why are there different colours in the 10
reflections of him? These objections which you have put forward, as
well as others that no less call for refutation, I will endeavour to
refute. And let me say, first of all, that nothing is more deceptive
than our eyesight, not merely in objects whose careful examination is
prevented by distance in position,[26] but even in objects seen close
at hand. An oar, though quite whole, presents the appearance of being
broken when seen in clear shallow water. Apples seen through glass
appear much larger than they really are. In long colonnades, pillars 11
set at intervals present an apparently unbroken continuity of line. Or
go back to the case of the sun himself; his orb, which reason proves to
be larger than the whole earth, is so contracted by human sight that
some of the philosophers have maintained that it is only a foot in
diameter. He is, we know, the swiftest of all luminaries, yet none of
us can see him move; nor should we believe that he does advance, were
it not evident from time to time that he has advanced. The world itself
glides on with headlong speed; within an instant of time it unfolds its
risings and its settings, yet none of us is aware of its movement. What
cause, then, is there for wonder if our eyesight cannot separate 12
the drops of the rain showers, and loses the distinction of the images
on account of the vast distance at which they are beheld? At any rate
no one can doubt this, that the rainbow is a reflection of the sun,
formed in a hollow cloud full of moisture. This is made plain from the
simple fact that the image is never seen except opposite the sun, high
up or low down, in inverse relation, just as he sinks or elevates his
course. When he descends, it is higher; when he is high in the heavens,
it is more sunken. A cloud of the required kind is often at the side 13
of the sun without producing a rainbow, because it does not catch his
image straight in front.
[26] The received text gives “diversity of colours.”
As to the variegation in colour, it is due simply to its double
source, derived partly from the sun, partly from the moist cloud. The
moisture produces lines now blue, now green, now purple-like, and
orange or red--the two shades, dull and bright, combining to produce
this diversity. So also, a purple garment does not always come out 14
in exactly the same tint from the same dye. Differences depend upon
the length of time it has been steeped, the consistency and the amount
of moisture in the dye it has imbibed: it may be dipped and boiled
more than once, or it may have received only one immersion. In like
manner then, when there are the two elements, sun and cloud, in other
words, object and mirror, it is little wonder that as many varieties of
colour are generated as can be produced from them in higher or lower
tone in countless different categories. For example, there is one 15
colour that proceeds from the light of fire, another from a light that
is duller and less violent than fire. In other details concerning the
rainbow the method of inquiry is full of uncertainty; there is nothing
concrete to lay hold upon, and conjecture must be ventured in every
direction. But in this question of its origin doubt is precluded; for
it is evident that the causes of the rainbow are two in number, sun and
cloud. The bow never appears when the sky is clear, and never when it
is so cloudy as to hide the sun. It must, therefore, unquestionably
arise from these, failing either of which it cannot come into being.
IV
A further consideration must be mentioned, which is just as manifest 1
as the preceding, to prove that the reflection is given back after
the fashion of a mirror; it is never given back save from straight
opposite to the sun, that is,[27] unless on one side stands the object
to be reflected, and on the other the mirror that reveals it. Proofs
are adduced by the mathematicians that are not merely convincing but
that compel belief of this. Nor can doubt be left in any mind that
the rainbow is an image of the sun, imperfectly reflected owing to
the defective shape of the mirror. But meantime let us recall other
proofs that may, so to speak, be picked up in the street without any 2
reference to mathematics. Among the proofs of this origin of the bow
I place the extreme rapidity of its emergence. In a single moment the
huge form with its thousand lines is inwoven in the texture of the
heavens, and just as rapidly does it fade. Now, nothing is returned so
quickly as an image from a mirror. The mirror does not create anything,
it merely reveals it. Artemidorus of Parium tells us further even the
kind of cloud required to reflect such an image of the sun. If you 3
make a concave mirror, he says, that is, one resembling half of a ball
cut through the middle, and take your stand outside the centre, then
those who stand beside you will appear in the reflection inverted and
nearer to you than to the mirror. The very same thing, according to
him, takes place when we look at a round hollow cloud from the side: 4
the image of the sun detaches itself from the cloud, and is nearer us
and more turned in our direction. Therefore the red colour is from the
sun, the dark blue is from the cloud: the other hues are produced by a
blending of these two.
[27] In a writer less prone to repetition the words to the end of the
sentence would seem the insertion of a copyist.
V
But there are arguments on the other side. About mirrors there are 1
two opinions; some people think that only phantoms are seen in them; in
other words, the shape of our bodies, an emanation separated from our
bodies. Others, however, affirm that images do not exist in the mirror,
but that it is the very bodies that are seen, the eyesight being bent
back and reflected on itself again. Now, the point is not how do we see
whatever it is we see: the question is, how the image should resemble
the original in the cloud as in a mirror.[28] Could anything be more 2
unlike than the sun and a rainbow in which neither the colour nor the
shape nor the size of the sun is to be seen? A bow is far larger and, in
the bright part, far redder than the sun: in the other colours, too, it
is different from him. Besides, when you insist on comparing a mirror
to the atmosphere (_i.e._ as embodied in a cloud), you must show me
in the latter the same smoothness of texture, the same levelness of
surface, the same brightness as in the former. But surely no clouds
resemble mirrors to this extent. We often pass through the middle of
clouds without seeing ourselves in them. People who climb to the tops
of mountains look down on cloud, but cannot make out their reflection 3
in it. True enough, but it is separate drops that are separate mirrors,
says my opponent. Admitted. Still, I deny that a cloud consists of
fully formed drops. It no doubt contains the elements from which
the drops are formed, but not as drops. Clouds do not contain even
water, but only the material to form water. Granting, for the sake
of argument, that there _are_ countless drops in the clouds and that
they can reflect an object, yet they do not all produce one and the
same reflection, but each its own. Further, you may join mirrors to
one another, but they will not unite to form a single reflection: 4
each portion will enclose a likeness of the object. Some mirrors are
composed of a large number of very small parts. Set before them one man
and a whole people is reflected, each portion producing an image
of its own. The portions of the mirror thus united
and placed side by side none the less keep their images separate, and
out of one man make a crowd. But they do not blend in one that troop; 5
they separate and distinguish the individual faces. Now, a rainbow is
bounded by a single outline, the whole presents but one representation.
[28] The reading of the MSS. is admittedly corrupt. I have followed
Ruhkopf’s conjecture, though without conviction. The argument seems
to require _dissimilis_ = unlike, or _non similis_ (cf. c. v. 13),
instead of _similis_ = like (“resemble” in the text): in that case
the meaning would be: how an image unlike the original ought to be
reflected from the cloud as from a mirror. Cf. § 13 below.
Well, but, says our opponent, is not the water that is scattered
from a burst pipe, or that is tossed up by the oar, wont to exhibit
something similar to these colours that are seen in the bow? True,
but not for the reason which you wish to bring out, to wit, that each
single droplet receives an image of the sun. As a matter of fact, the 6
drops fall too quickly to be able to form such an image. The medium
must be stationary in order to receive the impression of what is to be
reproduced.
How, then, it may be asked, does it come about? The drops, I reply,
receive the colour, but not the image of the sun. Besides, as Nero
Caesar says very elegantly:
The neck of Venus’ dove glitters as the bird tosses its head,
and so the neck of the peacock shines with varied colours as often
as it is turned hither and thither. Are we, therefore, to say that
feathers of this kind, whose every turn passes into new colours, are 7
mirrors? Well, clouds differ in character from mirrors no less than
the birds mentioned, and as chameleons and the other animals whose
colour changes. In the latter case the cause is sometimes subjective:
the creatures when inflamed with anger or passion vary their hue
through the suffusion of moisture: at other times the position of the
light, direct or slanting, gives the colour its particular hue. What
resemblance, I say, is there between mirrors and clouds? Whereas 8
those are not translucent, these transmit light. Those are dense and
compact, these are rare. Mirrors are of uniform material throughout,
clouds are made up of various elements brought together at random, and
therefore are full of internal strife, and cannot long hold together.
Consider further; at sunrise one sees a certain portion of the sky
ruddy; at other times one sees clouds of fiery red. This particular
colour is received by the clouds from encountering the sun: what, then,
is there to prevent the many colours of the bow being derived by them
in the same way from him, even though they do not possess the power of
mirrors? A little ago, my opponent retorts, you advanced the argument 9
that the rainbow is always produced opposite the sun, because an image
could not be reflected from a mirror unless the object were in front
of it. We agree in this point, he adds. Yes, for just as the object
whose image is to be transferred to the mirror must be set opposite
the mirror, in like manner, in order that the clouds may be tinged by
the sun’s rays, the sun must occupy a suitable position. He does not
produce the same effect if his light streams in on all sides; there
must be a proper incidence of the rays to produce the effect. Such are
the reasons alleged by those who will have it that the rainbow is a
coloured cloud.
Posidonius and those who are of opinion that the phenomenon is produced
by reflection as from a mirror, answer their arguments thus: If there 10
were any real colour in a bow, it would persist, and be seen more
distinctly, the nearer it is. As it is, the image of the bow is clear
only in the distance; it is lost as it begins to approach. I do not
agree with this argument in refutation, though I approve the main
sentiment which it supports. And I will tell you why. The cloud _is_
coloured, but in such a way that the colour cannot be seen from every
point. And no more can the cloud itself: for no one who is in it can
see it. What wonder, then, if its colour cannot be seen by one 11
to whom itself is not visible? And yet, although the cloud is not
seen, it is there: and so is the colour. It is, therefore, no proof
of the deceptiveness of the colour that it ceases to be manifest
when one approaches it. For, I repeat, the same happens to the clouds
themselves: they are not all a sham merely because under certain
conditions they cease to be visible. Besides, when you are told that
the cloud is dyed by the sun, it does not mean that that colour of
his is mingled, as it were, with a hard, firm, durable body, but with
a liquid unstable body that is incapable of more than a very brief
impress. Let me add that there are certain artificial colours which 12
display their virtue at a distance. The better and richer the Tyrian
purple is, the higher up you must hold it to display its full blaze. It
does not cease to possess its colour simply because it does not reveal
its best shade in any and every position in which it is exhibited. I
am of the same opinion as Posidonius in holding that the bow is formed
in a cloud shaped like a hollow round mirror, whose form is that of a
section through a ball. This cannot be proved without the aid of 13
geometry: the mathematical proofs leave no doubt that the bow is an
image of the sun, but one that does not resemble it. Nor, indeed, are
all objects faithfully represented in mirrors. There are some mirrors
one is terrified to let one’s eyes rest upon, such is the misshapen and
distorted image they reproduce of those who gaze upon them. They deform
the likeness they preserve withal. Some, again, there are, a glance at
which causes great self-satisfaction in one’s strength: the arms are 14
enormously increased, and the appearance of the whole body is enlarged
to superhuman proportions. There are mirrors that turn faces to the
right, and mirrors that turn them to the left, others twist and even
invert them. What wonder, then, that a mirror of this kind should be
formed in a cloud by which a defective appearance of the sun should be
presented?
VI
Among the other arguments it must be mentioned that a rainbow never 1
is seen greater than a semicircle: the higher the sun is, too, the
smaller is the bow. As our countryman Virgil says:
And deep drinks
The mighty bow,
when rain is brewing. But the threat the bow conveys is not the same
whatever the quarter it has shown itself in. If it rises toward the 2
south, it will bring a heavy fall. The rain in that quarter, such is
its force, cannot be mastered by the strongest midday sun. If it
shine toward the west, there will be only a dew or a light rain. If
it rise in the east or thereabouts, it prognosticates fine weather.
If, however, the bow is the sun’s reflection, why does it appear of
far larger size than the sun himself? Just because there is a kind
of mirror that exhibits objects on a far larger scale than that on
which they are presented to it, increasing their form to a portentous
magnitude: and in turn there is another kind that reduces the size. And
tell me this again, why does an image assume the form of a circle if it
does not answer to a circle? You may, perhaps, tell me why the colour 3
of the bow is varied: why its shape is what it is, you will not be able
to tell me except by citing some model after which it is formed. Now,
other model there is none save that of the sun; when you admit that the
rainbow receives its colour from him, it follows that it receives its
shape also from him. In short, you and I are agreed that those colours
by which its quarter of the heaven is adorned proceed from the sun.
But on one point we are not agreed: you say that the colour is real; I
maintain that it is only apparent. Whichever it is, real or apparent,
it comes from the sun. On your assumption its sudden cessation cannot
be explained, seeing that all other bright lights in the sky are
dispelled gradually. Its sudden appearance and, at the same time, its 4
sudden extinction make for my contention. For it is a peculiarity of a
mirror that the reflection in it is not built up piecemeal, but all at
once comes fully into being. Every image in it is destroyed, too, with
as great rapidity as it was formed. For to the construction or removal
of the images nothing is required but the presentation and withdrawal
of the objects.
In the rainbow-cloud whose nature is in question, there is no proper
substance or material: there is only a sham and a likeness without
reality. Will you be convinced that this is so? The proof is, the 5
rainbow will cease if you conceal the sun. Place another cloud, I
repeat, in front of the sun, and all the bright hues of the bow are
gone. But what is to be said, you may ask, in explanation of the size
of the bow which is considerably greater than that of the sun? I have
already said that there are certain mirrors that multiply every object
they reflect. I may now add that every object much exceeds its natural
size when seen through water. Letters, however small and dim, are
comparatively large and distinct when seen through a glass globe filled
with water. Apples floating in a glass vessel seem more beautiful than
they are in reality. The stars appear bigger if seen through a cloud, 6
because our vision is blurred in the moisture, and cannot accurately
grasp its object. This will become plain to demonstration if you fill
a cup with water and throw a ring into it. While the ring lies right
at the bottom its appearance is visible on the surface of the water.
Anything, in fact, that is: seen through moisture appears far larger
than. in reality it is. What wonder that the image of the sun, being 7
seen in a moist cloud, should be reproduced on a scale larger than the
original, and that for the two reasons indicated? The cloud contains
the two elements, one like glass, which can transmit light, and one
also of the character of water; at any rate, if it does not just yet
contain the actual water, it is now forming it, its nature is already
such as can easily be changed into water.
VII
As you have mentioned glass, some one interposes, I can draw from 1
this same material an argument to confute you. Glass sticks are
manufactured, either fluted or bulging,[29] with many corners like a
club. If one of these sticks is placed obliquely in the path of the
sun’s rays, it sends back the colour which is wont to be seen in the
rainbow. This proves that there is not here an image of the sun, but an
imitation of his colour from reflection. Now, in this argument there
are many points that make for my view. First of all, it is plain that 2
there must be some smooth surface like a mirror to reflect the sun.
Secondly, it is plain that no colour is formed in the rod, but only a
false appearance of colour, such as I mentioned above, which the neck
of a pigeon, as it is bent hither and thither, alternately puts on
and off. This, I say, is seen likewise in the case of a mirror, which
assumes no real colour, but only a certain imitation of the colour of a
foreign body.
[29] Another reading gives “twisted.”
Still, this one point requires explanation; it is not the sun’s 3
image that is beheld in that glass stick, because it is not capable of
expressing it accurately. True enough it tries to reproduce the image,
because the material is smooth and suitable for this purpose. But it
fails because its shape is unsymmetrical. If it had been suitably
constructed, it would reflect as many images of the sun as it had
faces. But since the sides are not distinctly separated from each
other, and not bright enough to serve as mirrors, the images are only
incipient, not fully expressed; they get confused through being crowded
together, and are reduced to the appearance of a single band of colour.
VIII
But to return--why does the bow not complete the full circle in its 1
form, but appear as only a semicircle when stretched to the full extent
of its greatest span? Some are of opinion that the reason is that the
sun, being much higher than the clouds, strikes them only on the upper
side. Hence their lower parts are not touched by his light. Receiving
the sun only on one side, the clouds reproduce only one portion of him,
and this is never more than a half. There is very little force in this
contention. My reason for saying so? The sun, even though he is on 2
the upper side, yet strikes, and therefore colours, the whole cloud.
How could it be otherwise? His rays are wont to be transmitted through
the clouds and to penetrate any density in them. Further, the proof
they advance is flatly in opposition to their main proposition. For if
the sun is higher than the clouds, and his beams, therefore, shed only
on their upper side, the bow would never come down as far as the earth.
Yet it does descend to the very ground. Besides, the bow is never 3
seen except opposite to, not below, the sun. The fact is, the sun’s
highness or lowness does not affect the matter: the side of the cloud
that faces him is struck by him throughout its whole extent.
Furthermore, sometimes even the setting sun produces a rainbow; surely
at that time, being near[30] the earth, he strikes the clouds on their
lower side. And yet then, too, the bow is only a semicircle, though
the clouds receive the sunlight on their lower and darker portions.
The Stoics, who hold that the light is reflected in the cloud as 4
in a mirror, make the cloud hollow like the section of a ball. Such
a mirror, being but part of a circle, cannot, they think, reproduce
a whole circle. I give my adherence to the proposition, but I cannot
agree to the argument in its support. For, if the whole figure of a
circle placed opposite a concave mirror is reproduced in it, then there
can surely be nothing to prevent the whole of a ball being seen in a
semicircular circular mirror. Besides, we have already shown that 5
complete rings resembling a rainbow surround the sun and the moon at
times. Why should the circle be complete in the halo, but never in
the rainbow? And then again, why should the clouds that receive the
sunlight be always hollow ones, and not sometimes flat or bulging?
[30] The common reading makes this adjective refer to clouds--the
clouds which are near the earth.
Aristotle says that rainbows are formed, after the autumnal equinox,
at any hour of the day, but in summer only either in the early part
of the day, or when the sun has begun to sink. The cause of this is
obvious. In the first place, about midday the great heat of the sun 6
dispels the clouds: he cannot be reflected in the clouds which he
breaks up. But in the early morning and as he sinks toward the west,
his rays have less power, and can thus be resisted and reflected by the
clouds. In the second place, the sun is not wont to form a bow except
when he faces the clouds in which it is formed. When the days are 7
shortening in autumn, his rays are always slanting. Therefore, he has
some clouds facing him that he can strike, at any part of the day, even
at the hour at which he attains his meridian height. But in the summer
season he sails right overhead. Therefore, in the great altitude of his
midday course, he looks down on the earth too directly to encounter any
clouds. He has them at that period all beneath him.
IX
I must now go on to speak of _Streaks_ (watergalls, sun-dogs), which 1
are as bright and varied as the rainbow, and commonly received by us as
equally indicative of rain. No great labour need be spent in explaining
them, for they are just incomplete rainbows. They have the variegated 2
appearance of the bow, but none of its curve. They lie in a straight
line. They are formed near the sun, as a rule, in a moist cloud that
has begun to break up. Thus, they have the same colour as is found
in the rainbow, but there is a difference in the shape, due to the
corresponding difference in the clouds over which they stretch.
X
There is a similar variety of colours in _Halos_. But there is this
difference in the various phenomena: Halos are formed at any point in
the sky, wherever there is a heavenly body; rainbows are not found
except opposite the sun; streaks, only in the neighbourhood of the sun.
I may express their difference in another way: Bisect a halo and you
have a rainbow; make it a straight line and you have a streak. In all
three there is the same multiplicity of colours, the scale running from
dark blue to orange. Streaks, then, are found only close to the sun.
Rainbows are all either solar or lunar. Halos are seen with all the
heavenly bodies.
XI
Another kind of streak is visible when thin rays of bright light 1
equidistant from one another are shot out through narrow apertures
in the clouds. These, too, are a prognostication of rain. How am I
to express myself here? What shall I call them? Images of the sun?
The chroniclers call them merely suns, and have put on record that
they have been seen in twos and threes. The Greeks call them _Mock 2
Suns_ (parelia = beside the sun), because they are generally seen in
proximity to the sun, and somewhat resemble the sun. They do not give a
complete reproduction of the sun, but exhibit only his size and shape.
They are dull, however, and languid without any of his heat. What name
are we to apply to them? Shall I do as Virgil did---hesitating about
the name, employ the very name which causes the hesitation?
And by what name[31] shall I call you, Rhaetian wine?
But yet you must not seek to compete with the Falernian bins.
[31] He has altered Virgil’s word “carmine” to “nomine” to suit his
meaning, or, as the editors say, _lapsu memoriae_.
There is no objection to my calling these, mock suns. They are, in
fact, images of the sun formed in a thick cloud close to him after 3
the fashion of a mirror. Some writers define a mock sun as a cloud,
round, bright, and resembling the sun. The mock sun follows the sun,
and is never left farther behind him in his orbit than it was at its
first appearance. None of us, I suppose, is surprised at seeing a
reflection of the sun in some fountain or quiet lake. Well, his disc
may be reflected in the heavens just as readily as on earth, if only
the material is suitable to produce the reflection.
XII
Whenever we wish to observe an eclipse of the sun, we place on the 1
ground basins filled with oil or pitch. The thick liquid is not easily
disturbed, and therefore retains the images it receives. Images, I
may observe, cannot be seen except in a liquid at rest. Then we are
in the habit of noting how the moon obstructs the sun, and by the
interposition of her body hides his, which is so much larger, sometimes
partially, if it so fall out that she only encounter a portion of his
orb, sometimes completely. The latter is called a total eclipse: it
quite shuts out the light and shows us the stars; it occurs when the 2
centre of the two bodies lies in the same straight line. Now, just as
the image of both sun and moon can be seen on earth, so it is in the
case of mock suns in the atmosphere. The still air is so compact and
yet clear that it can receive the sun’s likeness. Other clouds receive
it, but let it go if they are either in motion, or thin, or black. The
moving clouds disperse it, the rare let it slip, the black and impure
do not take the impress of it, just as on earth soiled objects do not
reflect an image.
XIII
Mock suns are wont to be formed in pairs and on the same principle. 1
There is nothing, in fact, to prevent the formation of as many as there
are clouds suitable for exhibiting an image of the sun. Some writers
are inclined to hold that when two such phantoms are visible, one
arises directly from the sun, the other from his image. For, to use
an illustration from common experience, when several mirrors are so
arranged that one is in sight of the other, all reflect the same image;
but only one is directly from the original, the rest are reflections
of images. The nature of the object presented to the mirror makes 2
no difference in the effect. Whatever it sees it reproduces. So, up
on high there, if some chance has so disposed the clouds that they
face one another, one of them reflects the image of the sun, the other
the image of his image. The clouds that produce this effect must be
dense, smooth, bright and flat, analogous in character to the sun. All
phantoms of this kind are white and resemble so many discs of the moon,
for the reason that the sun’s light that they receive and reflect back
is always oblique. If the cloud, on the contrary, is beneath the 3
sun and too near him, his rays dispel it: or again, if situated too
far away, it does not reflect them nor produce any image. In ordinary
experience in the same way mirrors withdrawn to a distance from us do
not reproduce our features because our sight cannot carry back to us
from them.
These suns, too--to employ the name given by the chroniclers,--are
an indication of rain, especially if they have their position in a
southern quarter, from which the most heavily-charged clouds chiefly
come up. When such an image surrounds the sun on both sides, then, if
we are to believe Aratus, a storm is brewing.
XIV
It is now high time that I ran over the other varieties of celestial 1
fires, whose forms are diverse one from the other. Sometimes there
is a shooting star, sometimes there are glowing lights, which are
occasionally stationary, sticking to one spot, and at times able to
rush through the air. Several species of these may be observed. There
are, for example, _Bothynae_ (cave-like meteors) when within an outer
circle there is a blazing gulf in the sky like a circular grotto
excavated in it. Then there are _Pithitae_ (barrel-shaped meteors) when
a vast circular mass of fire like a cask either rushes through the sky,
or blazes away in one spot. There are _Chasmata_ (chasms), too, when 2
there is a subsidence of some portion of the heavens, which sends out
hissing flame, as it were, from its hidden recesses. There are also a
great number of colours in all these. Some are of brightest red, some
of light insubstantial flame, some of white light, some glittering,
some with a uniform glow of orange without sparks or rays. We see,
therefore,
The stars’ long tracks that gleam white behind.
These stars, for so they appear to be, dart forth and flit across 3
the sky, and by reason of their extraordinary rapidity seem to leave
a long trail of fire. Our sight cannot follow their course, and
wherever their career leads we imagine the heaven is all on fire.
Such is the swiftness of their flight that its separate portions are
not distinguished and it can be grasped only as a whole. We are aware
rather of the quarter in which the star appears than of its route. It,
therefore, seems to mark its entire course with a line of continuous 4
fire, because the slowness of our vision fails to keep pace with the
stages of its career and sees at the same moment the start and the
finish; as happens in a flash of lightning, the fire seems a long train
because the meteor traverses its path rapidly and the space through
which it falls presents itself to our eyes as a whole. But, as a matter
of fact, the fire does not extend itself all through the space crossed
by the meteor. Nor have such long thin bodies strength enough for the 5
effort. How, then, it may be asked, do they issue forth? The answer
is, the fire is kindled by the friction of the atmosphere and is urged
headlong by the wind. Still, it does not always arise from wind or
friction. Sometimes its origin is due to certain peculiar conditions
in the atmosphere; for on high there are many elements, dry and hot
and earthy, among which fire is generated. It then streams down in
pursuit of fuel to sustain it, and therefore is hurried rapidly along.
The reason for the differences of colour it presents lies in the 6
nature of the material set on fire and in the degree of violence of the
conflagration. A falling body of this kind betokens wind, which may be
looked for in the quarter in which the meteor has burst out.
XV
How, some one further inquires, are those bright gleams of light 1
which the Greeks call _Sela_ (luminosities) produced? In many ways,
people say. They may arise from the violence of the winds, or from
the fervent heat of the upper heavens. Fire is a very widely diffused
element there, and sometimes catches the lower regions if they are
combustible. The mere motion of the stars in their courses may kindle
fire, and convey it to all that lies beneath them. Nay, is it not
quite possible that the atmosphere should drive up even to the ether
the germs of fire, from which may arise a glow or burning or darting
resembling a star? Some of these gleams rush headlong like shooting 2
stars, some remain fixed in their place, emitting light sufficient to
dispel darkness and reinstate daylight, until their fuel is used up,
and they gradually grow dimmer, and by and by, just like a flame which
is dying out, are by gradual subsidence reduced to nothingness. Some of
these appear in the clouds, some above them: in such cases the thick 3
air nearer the earth feeds them for a long time, but eventually forces
them right up to the stars. Certain of these last no considerable time:
they straightway dart across the sky, or are extinguished just at their
point of origin. These are called gleams because their appearance is
fitful and short-lived, though their fall is not always unattended by
injury: they have often caused as much damage as lightning. One has
seen houses struck by them, what the Greeks call _astrapoplecta_[32]
(= star-struck). Those that have a longer career and a stronger fire 4
which follows the motion of the heavens, or those that pursue an
orbit of their own, are regarded by the Stoic philosophers as Comets:
of which more anon. Different kinds of these are _pogoniae_ (bearded),
_lampades_ (torches), and _cyparissiae_ (like cypress trees), and all
the rest of them: they have a thin tail of fire. It is doubtful whether
beams (_trabes_) and the rare barrel-meteors (_pithitae_) should be
placed in this category or not. Such meteors require a great mass of 5
fire, since their immense orb sometimes surpasses in size that of the
morning sun.
[32] The term might also mean _struck by lightning_. A commoner
reading gives the meaning: which, when grazed by this means, the
Greeks called plecta (= struck).
Among these should certainly be placed a phenomenon of which we often
read in the chronicles--the heavens appeared to be on fire. The
blaze of it is occasionally so high as to mount to the very stars;
occasionally it is so low as to present the appearance of a distant
fire. In the reign of Tiberius Caesar the fire brigade hurried off 6
to the relief of the colony at Ostia, supposing it to be in flames;
during the greater part of the night there had been a dull glow in
the sky, which appeared to proceed from a thick smoky fire. No one
has any doubt that these burnings in the heavens contain flame as
really as they display it: they have a certain substance in them. As
to those formerly discussed, I mean rainbows and halos, it is a 7
question whether they deceive the sight and consist of an illusion;
or really contain what appears in them. I and those who think with me
cannot convince ourselves that the rainbow and halo have a basis of
any definite material in them. For we judge that in a mirror there is
nothing but a deception: the mirror only pretends to show a foreign
body. What is revealed does not exist _in_ the mirror. Otherwise 8
it would not come out of it, nor would it be forthwith obscured by
another image: nor would innumerable forms now fade from it, now be
received by it. What follows, then? That these are mere phantoms
and the insubstantial imitation of real bodies. Indeed, in certain
instances, people have so arranged mirrors that the objects have been
distorted and degraded in the reflection. For, as I have already said,
there are some mirrors that twist the faces of those who look into
them, some that enormously increase them until they exceed all size and
proportions of these bodies of ours.
XVI
At this point I wish to tell you a little story to show you how 1
unscrupulous lust is in seizing every instrument that will rouse
passion: so resourceful is it in goading to madness its own morbid
fury. There was one Hostius Quadra whose obscenity formed a model for
everything that was lewd on the stage. He was rich and avaricious,
a very slave to his millions. He was eventually murdered by his own
slaves, but the late Emperor Augustus considered his murder undeserving
of punishment, and as good as declared that he had been justly slain.
This man’s lust knew no distinction of sex. Among other things, he 2
had mirrors constructed of the kind just mentioned, that reflected
images of abnormal size, causing, for example, a finger to exceed the
size of an arm in length and thickness. He so arranged his mirrors
that he could see all his accomplices’ movements, and could gloat over
the imagined proportions of his own body. He raised a levy of scamps 3
like himself in all the public baths, where he chose men of the
regulation height; this but whetted his appetite to have his scenes
of riot reproduced in false unnatural proportions. Go to, you that
say the mirror was invented for purposes of adornment! I could not
soil my pen by recording the foul words and deeds of that monster:
he deserved to be torn by his own jaws. To aggravate his guilt,
mirrors faced him on every side that he might be a witness of his own
infamy. Deeds of darkness, which lie heavy on the conscience, the 4
imputation of which ordinary men will indignantly spurn, weighed so
lightly with him that he thrust them before his face, and into his
very eyes. Crimes, in faith, usually dread the sight of themselves.
Even in those lost to shame, and exposed to every insult, the eye is
still delicately susceptible. But that beast thought his unparalleled
wickedness but a trifle; he summoned his eyes to witness it. Aye, not
content with seeing his sin, he surrounded himself with mirrors to
multiply and group his scenes of vice. Even when he could not see 5
directly, he employed the reflecting power of the mirrors to reveal
scenes of revolting and abominable iniquity. The filthy blackguard
left nothing that could be called a deed of _darkness_. He had no 6
dread of the daylight, but complacently applauded himself in all his
bestial vice. Now, don’t you think he would have liked to have his
portrait painted in that attitude? The ministers of public vice draw
the veil of modesty over them in part: in fact, a house of ill-fame is
in some degree shame-faced But that brute had made an exhibition of 7
his obscenity, and presented to his own sight what the darkest night is
not deep enough to hide. I will be out and out bad, was the monster’s
resolve; my eyes must share my lust, they must witness and superintend!
By my art I will defeat nature’s shyness: nobody must imagine that I 8
do not know what I am about! Nature is niggardly to man, she is more
generous to the cattle. I will find means to thwart her, and to indulge
my little weakness. My lust shall go one better than nature. I will
construct a mirrored chamber that will reflect shapes of enormous size.
I only wish I could make the size real; but I must be content with 9
the belief of it. My vice must see more than it can compass, and must
rest content with wonder at its own restraint.
Away with such a fellow! Perchance he met a speedy death even before he
could gloat over the sight. He richly deserved to be offered up as a
victim before his own mirror-idol.
XVII
Go now and laugh at the philosophers for discussing the nature of 1
the mirror and inquiring why our face is reflected in it, and is
turned toward us too. What did nature mean by giving us real bodies
and then ordaining that phantoms of them also should be visible?
What was her purpose in providing material of the sort capable of
receiving and returning images? Not, I trow, that we men might use a 2
looking-glass to pluck out the straggling hairs of our beard and polish
up our face. Nature has never at any point merely provided resources
for luxury. First of all, her motive was to show us the sun with his
glare dulled, since our eyes are too weak to gaze at him direct, and
without something to reflect him we should be wholly ignorant of his
shape. No doubt one may study him as he rises and as he sets. But we 3
should know nothing of his true figure as he shines in fierce noonday
brightness, without his softening ruddy glow, unless an image of him
could be mirrored in some liquid where he shines less directly and
is more easy to observe. In the second place, we should be unable to
see or investigate the conjunction of two heavenly bodies, by which
the daylight is wont to be interrupted, unless we could examine the
reflections of sun and moon in basins on the ground with comparative
freedom. In the third place, mirrors were discovered in order that 4
man might come to know himself.
Many benefits have ensued; first, the knowledge of self, after that,
devices to secure specific results. The comely man was taught to shun
conduct that would degrade him. The uncomely learned that bodily
defects must be compensated by virtue of character. The young man was
reminded by his vigour that youth was the time for learning and for
performing daring deeds of chivalry. The grey-beard was warned to have
respect for his hoary hair and turn his thoughts sometimes to death.
It was for this that even objects in nature have afforded us the 5
opportunity of seeing ourselves.[33] A clear fountain or a smooth stone
gives each back his image. In the poet’s words:
Lately I saw myself on the shore,
When the sea stood calm without a breath of wind.
[33] The meaning may be, In addition, _i.e._ to artificial mirrors,
objects in nature, etc.
What, think you, was the style of life of the people who dressed at a
mirror of this kind? The age was unsophisticated, satisfied with what
supplies chance presented. It did not as yet degrade a boon into a
vice, or turn nature’s invention to purposes of lust and luxury. At
first, chance revealed to each his form. In due time the inherent 6
self-love of mankind endeared the sight of their own figure, and they
came to look more frequently into the mirror held up by nature in which
they had first beheld their image. Later on, when a worse race of men
ransacked the very bowels of the earth for treasure better hid more
deeply, iron first came into use; its production might have caused no
damage had the world produced only that one metal. But then in good 7
earnest were brought to light the other precious banes of earth. Their
smooth surface presented the image of their possessors, who had in view
some quite different purpose. One saw his reflection in a cup, another
in a brass vessel procured for some ordinary use. Presently a round
mirror was constructed specially to render this service: it was not as
yet of polished silver, but of a common brittle ware. [33] The men of
ancient days lived a homely life; they thought themselves smart enough
if they washed off in the stream of the river the dirt contracted in
their work. But even then they bestowed pains on dressing their hair
and combing out their flowing beards. In this part of the toilet each
attended to himself and at the same time helped his neighbour. The 8
thick streaming hair of the men, which it was of old the fashion to
wear, was, of course, combed out by the wives. But sometimes they
thought themselves handsome enough without any such artistic hand, and
they just shook it out for themselves as spirited animals do their
mane. Afterwards, when luxury had now gained sway, embossed mirrors
of gold and silver of full-length size were made, and at last they
were actually adorned with precious stones. One of these has ere now
cost a woman more than the amount of a dowry given in the old days
at the public expense to the penniless daughters of famous generals.
Do you suppose Scipio’s daughters bought mirrors chased with gold 9
from the iron money that their dowry was paid in? Happy the poverty
that gave occasion to earn such a title to glory! The Senate would not
have dowered them if they had been able to afford mirrors. Whoever the
man was to whom the Senate acted the part of father-in-law, he knew
that he had got a wife that was above suspicion. Nowadays the whole
of the dowry that the Roman people gave Scipio would not be enough to
buy a single looking-glass for some of the loose, silly daughters of
our freedmen! Luxury has been gradually developed merely by the 10
possession of wealth, and has now gone to oppressive lengths; therewith
vices have received an immense accession of strength. In short,
everything has got so mixed up through our perverted refinements that
all that used to be regarded as the decoration of women has become
part and parcel of the outfit of man; I am understating, it is now an
essential portion of a soldier’s kit. The mirror was introduced for the
sake of the toilet; nowadays there is no vice to which it is not an
indispensable adjunct.
BOOK II
[THE NATURE OF AIR. THUNDER AND LIGHTNING]
I
Every inquiry into the nature and constitution of the universe falls 1
into three divisions--astronomy, meteorology, and geography. The first
investigates the nature of the heavenly bodies, the size and shape
of the fires that ring-in the world. It inquires whether the heavens
are solid, composed of strong rigid material, or woven of a fine thin
stuff; whether they receive or impart motion; whether the heavenly
bodies are beneath them or fixed in their texture; in what manner the
sun maintains the succession of the seasons; whether he returns upon
his track or not, and all the other questions of a similar character.
The second division deals with what lies between heaven and earth, to 2
wit, clouds, rain, snow, and
Thunder that frights the heart of man:
in short, all that the atmosphere does or suffers. This subject is
called meteorology (_sublimia_ = raised on high), because it deals with
phenomena exalted above the low earth. The third part inquires about
waters, lands, trees, crops, or to use a legal phrase, everything that
is contained in the soil.
How comes it, you ask me, that you have put the question of 3
earthquakes in the division under which you are going to treat of
thunder and lightning? For that is my plan. Well, the earthquake
is due to air, and air is the atmosphere in violent motion. Now,
though the air may enter the earth in order to produce earthquakes,
the treatment of earthquakes does not fall under geography, but more
properly belongs to meteorology, which deals with the sphere to which
nature has assigned the atmosphere. I can tell you something that will
sound stranger still: I must speak of the earth when dealing with
the heavenly bodies. Why? you ask. For this reason: we discuss in 4
their own proper place, as part of geography, the properties of the
earth, for example, whether it is broad, projecting unequally in a
huge bulge to one side, or whether it all assumes the shape of a ball,
gathering up its parts into a globe; whether it binds its waters or
is itself bound by them; whether it is an animal or a lifeless mass
without feeling, full of air no doubt, but not its own breath. These,
and all other questions of the kind, as often as they crop up, will 5
be relegated to geography, and be placed in the lowest category. But
when the question comes to be the situation of the earth, the part of
the universe in which it has settled, its position with respect to the
heavens and heavenly bodies, then the inquiry will take its place in
the higher category,[34] and obtain higher rank so to speak.
[34] Viz. that of the heavenly bodies which constitute the subject
matter of astronomy.
II
Having described the three divisions into which all the material of 1
nature falls, I must add a few general remarks on the subject. And this
must be premised, that the atmosphere belongs to the class of bodies
that possess unity. What exactly this means, and why it must be laid
down as an axiom, will appear if I go back a little, and entering more
fully into the subject, tell you that certain bodies are continuous,
and certain formed, by a union of different elements.[35] Continuity
may be defined as unbroken union of parts one with another. Unity 2
is continuity without a break; it is the contact of two bodies joined
to one another. There can be no shadow of doubt that of the bodies
around us which we see and handle, and which are either perceived or
perceive, certain are composite. They are so either through nexus or 3
through mere accumulation; take as illustrations a rope, corn, a ship.
Again, there are bodies that are not composite, as a tree, a stone.
You must, therefore, grant that likewise among the objects that elude
sense, and are grasped only by thought, some are possessed of unity[36]
[while some arise from junction of parts]. See how careful I am of your
susceptibilities. If I had chosen to employ the jargon of philosophy, 4
I might have got out of the difficulty by merely saying “united
bodies.” You must, in turn, be duly grateful for this concession to
your weakness! What am I driving at? This: if at any time I speak of
“unity” in this connection, bear in mind that it is not used of number,
but has reference to the composition of a body that coheres through no
external aid, but by its own unity. To this category the atmosphere
belongs.
[35] This difficult passage, according to Gercke’s text, runs:
You will understand the meaning of this, and the necessity for my
axiomatic position if I take up the argument a little farther back,
and say that there is one kind of body possessing unity, another that
is continuous, and another that is formed by junction. For junction
is the contact of two bodies joined one to another, continuity is the
uninterrupted joining of parts one to another, unity is continuity
without junction (_i.e._ without a break).
[36] That is, are not composite.
III
The universe embraces all the objects that fall, or that can fall, 1
under our cognisance. Of these some are its parts, the remaining ones
must form its material. Nature, just like every manual art everywhere,
requires material. Let me make this a little plainer. In ourselves 2
the parts are hand, bones, sinews, eyes; the material is the sap of the
digested food, which will be distributed for the nourishment of the
parts. Again, blood is in a certain sense a part of us, but still it is
material as well. For it goes to form other parts, and, none the less,
it is among the parts that go to make up the whole body.
IV
So the atmosphere is a part, a most necessary one, of the world. 1
This it is that joins heaven and earth, separating highest and lowest
in such a way as yet to unite them. It separates by coming in between,
it unites by rendering possible communication between the two. It
transmits to the higher regions what it receives from the earth; and
again, it transfuses terrestrial objects with the influences of the
heavenly bodies. I call it a part of the world in the same sense as
animals and trees are parts. The whole class of animals and trees forms 2
part of the universe, since it has to be taken in to make up the
whole, and without it the universe is not complete. A single animal or
tree is a quasi-part: though it is lost, that from which it is lost is
still entire. Now the atmosphere, as I have been saying, adheres both
to sky and earth. In both it is inborn. Whatever is an inborn part of
anything else possesses unity, for without unity nothing can be born.
V
The earth is at once part and material of the world. You are not, I 1
think, more likely to ask why it is a part than why the sky is a part.
The one is just as essential as the other to the existence of the
whole, which they go to make up, and from which [from the one no less
than from the other][37] sustenance is provided for all animals and
crops and stars. From the earth all the strength of every man, all 2
the energy of the world with its ceaseless demands, are supplied. Hence
proceeds the force that, by day and by night, sustains in their labours
so many stars, so active and so eager, and that provides their food.
The universal nature derives from this source what suffices for its
nourishment. The world has appropriated all that it requires throughout
eternity. To adopt a tiny illustration of a great subject: eggs enclose
within them as much moisture as they require for the completion of the
creature that is to be hatched.
[37] The words in brackets are in all probability spurious, the
addition of some commentator. The whole passage is very uncertain.
VI
The atmosphere is in unbroken contact with the earth, in such close 1
juxtaposition that it must always occupy the space that she has just
quitted. It is a part, as I have said, of the universe. At the same
time it receives all that the earth sends forth for the nourishment
of the heavenly bodies; so that, of course, it should be understood
in this connection as material rather than part. It is these earthy
elements that cause its fickleness and constant turmoil. Some
authorities believe the atmosphere to be composed of separate bodies as
dust is, but they are sadly in error. For there can never be internal
effort in a body held together in any other way than by unity,[38] 2
since the elements must be in agreement in order to contribute their
united strength toward the tension. Now, the atmosphere, if assumed
to be cut up into atoms, must be dispersed. Scattered elements cannot
hold together as one body. But, as a matter of fact, the tension of
the atmosphere is proved by inflated objects that will not yield to
a blow. It is proved, too, by weights carried up to a great height
merely by the support of the wind. It is proved by the sound of
voices sinking or swelling, according to the stirring (= vibration)
of the air. For what is voice save tension of the air moulded by a 3
stroke of the tongue so as to become audible? What is all running and
motion? Are they not the effects of tense air? This it is that imparts
strength to the sinews, and endows the runner with his speed. When,
being violently stirred, it has twisted itself into an eddy, it uproots
trees and woods, carries aloft and shatters whole buildings. When the
sea lies all peaceful, the air raises it in waves. Or, to descend to 4
less violent manifestations, what song can be sung without tension of
breath? Or, take horns and trumpets, or those organs that by means of
hydraulic pressure can produce a greater volume of sound than the mouth
is capable of doing: is it not through atmospheric tension that they
display their functions? Or, let us note what an enormous force is 5
exerted in secret by quite tiny seeds, whose smallness has allowed them
to find a lodgment in the clefts of stones. Their slender diminutive
roots gather strength enough to dislodge huge boulders, split statues,
and cleave crags and rocks. And to what is this due but air tension, 6
without which there is no strength, over which no strength can prevail?
The unity of the atmosphere may, in fact, be inferred from the mere
coherence of our bodies. What else is it that holds them together
save air? What else is it by which the soul is stirred (literally,
moved)?[39] What constitutes that motion if it be not tension? What 7
tension can there be except from unity? What unity could there be
unless it were in the air? What else, too, brings forth from the earth
its fruits and slender grain, and sets erect the verdant trees, and
stretches out their branches, or sets them on high, but the tension and
unity of air?
[38] Or, except in a body of uniform texture.
[39] Nisard translates, What imparts movement, in man, to the vital
principle?
VII
Some writers believe that the air is rent and separated into small 1
parts with void spaces, as they suppose, between. They consider the
easy flight of birds through it a proof that it has not a compact
body, but has large empty spaces: fowls, great and small, pass through
it without difficulty. But this is a mistake. For water also affords
the same easy motion, and there is no doubt of its unity. When it 2
receives bodies, it always retreats in the direction opposite to them.
This the Stoics call displacement, in Greek it is peristasis,[40] which
takes place in air just as it does in water. For it literally stands
round every body by which it is pressed. There is no need to assume an
admixture of vacuum with the element. But more of this another time.
[40] περίστασις = a standing around. The Latin equivalent in the text
is _circumstantia_, rendered “displacement.”
VIII
From what has been said it must be inferred that in nature there 1
exists a principle of activity of enormous force. For there is nothing
that does not become more active through tension; and it is no less
true, nothing will be found capable of tension from another body unless
it have in itself capacity of tension.[41] In the same way we say that
nothing could be moved by another body without possessing the quality
of mobility in itself. But what element can be conceived more likely
to possess tension in itself than air? Will any one deny that it can
be subject to that force after seeing how it tosses about the earth 2
with its mountains, houses, and walls and towers, and great cities
with their inhabitants, seas, and whole coast-lines? The tension of
air is proved, too, by its velocity and expansion. Illustrations of
these properties are common: in an instant the eye extends its sight
over many miles; a single voice resounds at the same moment through
whole cities; light does not creep forth little by little, but is shed
simultaneously over the whole world.
[41] The reading at several points is so uncertain that one cannot
be at all sure of the meaning. Probably the whole passage is very
corrupt. So far as the main theme is concerned, the argument seems to
be, As mobility is a presupposition of motion, so tensibility is a
necessary condition of actual tension produced in a body by another
body. One is tempted to employ “elasticity,” but the term contains
implications with which the author was apparently unfamiliar.
IX
Again, how could water be subject to tension without the aid of 1
air? You entertain no doubt, I suppose, that the jet of water in the
amphitheatre, which is thrown from the centre of the arena to the
highest pinnacle, is accompanied by tension of the water? And yet
neither hand[42] nor any other engine can send or force water more
effectively than air. It lends itself readily to the influence of the 2
air, by the compelling force of which within the pipe it is raised. Its
nature is to flow down, but under pressure it mounts and accomplishes
great results contrary to its nature. Yes, and do not heavily laden
vessels also prove that it is the resistance of air, not of water, that
prevents their sinking? The water of itself would give way, and would
be unable to bear up the burthens, were it not itself upborne. So,
too, a quoit thrown from a height into a pond does not fall straight 3
in, but recoils, and that merely because the air bears it back. In
what way, again, could the sound of a voice be transmitted through the
thick barrier of a wall unless the solid masonry contained some air to
receive and transmit the sound from without? The tension of the air,
of course, affects not only what is exposed, but what is concealed
and enclosed as well. This is easy for it to do, since it is never 4
divided, but maintains an unbroken continuity even through the centre
of objects by which it appears to be parted. The interposition of walls
and high mountains renders it impassable by us, but is no obstacle to
itself. The air is there all the same,[43] but a portion is enclosed
and we cannot follow it through; that’s all.
[42] A conjecture widely adopted gives “crane.”
[43] The general sense is clear, but the particular text is uncertain.
X
Thus the air passes through the middle of an obstacle by which it is 1
apparently divided. It not merely surrounds and encircles all objects,
but permeates them likewise. It is shed abroad from the bright ether on
high down to the very earth. It is nimbler and rarer and more exalted
than the earth, and no less so than the waters of earth; but, on the
contrary, it is thicker and heavier than the ether, and is naturally
cold and dark, its light and heat coming from without. It is not of
the same specific quality in every region, but borrows its qualities
from its surroundings. The highest part of it is extremely dry and 2
hot, and so, very rare also, from the proximity of the eternal fires,
the endless motions of the stars, and the constant revolution of the
heavens. But the lowest portion next the earth is dense and dark,
because it forms a receptacle for the exhalations of the earth. The
intermediate portion, in dryness and rarity, runs to neither extreme as
compared with the highest and lowest strata, but is colder than either.
The reason is this: The higher parts are affected by the heat of the 3
heavenly bodies that are close by; and again the lower parts are warmed
in the first place by the earth’s breath which is charged with heat,
while in addition the sun’s rays are reflected from the ground, and as
far as the reflection extends it renders the atmosphere kindlier and
more genial. Besides, the temperature of the lower air is raised by the
warm breath of all animals, trees, and crops, whose life is dependent
on heat. Add to this also fires on the earth, not merely the 4
artificial ones about which we know, but also those concealed beneath
it, some of which have ere this broken out, and myriads of which are
blazing away in the hidden depths incessantly. Add, too, that all the
fertile parts of the earth have some degree of heat which is exhaled
into the air: heat is a condition of generation, the frigid is sterile.
So, then, the middle portion of the atmosphere being remote from all
these influences abides in its native cold: for air is by nature chilly.
XI
Such being the divisions of the atmosphere, I may observe that in 1
its lowest layer it is most variable, unstable, and changeful. It is
near the earth that the air is, so to speak, most enterprising and
most long-suffering, as it tosses or is tossed. But withal, it is not
all affected in the same way, but at different times at different
points its different parts are in unrest and turmoil. The reasons
of the changefulness and inconstancy are in part derived from the
earth: her position turning hither and thither is a potent factor in
determining the quality of the atmosphere. Other reasons are due to
the heavenly bodies, chiefly the sun, whose course directs the year,
whose solstices determine winter and summer. Next in importance is the
moon’s influence. But even the other stars produce an effect alike on 2
the earth and on the air that rests upon the face of the earth. Their
rising or their corresponding setting and their disturbances cause now
cold, now rain, now other damage such as earth is subject to.
It was necessary for me to make these preliminary remarks before going
on to speak of thunder and thunderbolts and lightnings. For as these
phenomena occur in the atmosphere, I had to explain the nature of
the latter, that it might more readily appear what active or passive
capacities it possessed.
XII
There are, I have just said, three phenomena--lightnings, 1
thunderbolts, thunderings: the last is simultaneous in occurrence with
the others, but its sound reaches us subsequently. Lightning (_i.e._
sheet) merely reveals fire, the thunderbolt (forked lightning) actually
despatches it on its mission. The former is, so to speak, a threatening
and feint without a blow, the latter a stroke and a blow. There are
some of the facts connected with the phenomena of thunder and lightning
on which there is general agreement, others on which there is much
diversity of opinion. For example, there is agreement that they 2
occur in the clouds and issue from the clouds; further, it is agreed
that lightning of both kinds is either composed of fire or at any rate
presents the appearance of fire. But to pass on to the points which are
disputed--some authorities believe that the fire is actually resident
in the clouds, some that it is merely produced for the occasion,
and that it does not exist until it issues out. But yet there is no
agreement as to what brings out the fire. One explains it as due to 3
light. Again, a certain author says that the sun’s rays accumulate
through recurrent intersection, and kindle the fire. Anaxagoras asserts
that it is distilled from the ether, that from such heat in the sky
many sparks fall which the clouds enclose and retain for a long time.
Aristotle supposes that the fire does not gather in the clouds any long
time previously, but rather that it bursts out at the same instant
as it is formed. His opinion runs thus: Two elements of the world, 4
land and water, lie in its lower part; each exhales its peculiar
emanation. The vapour of earth is dry, resembling smoke, and produces
wind, thunder, and lightning; the breath of water, on the other hand,
is moist, and produces rain and snow. But that dry vapour from the
earth, to which [as mentioned] winds owe their origin, on account
of its accumulation in large masses, is subject to violent lateral
pressure when it is condensed for the formation of clouds. Thereupon
it strikes the adjacent clouds over a larger surface, and the blow 5
reverberates loudly [in thunder]. The effect is analogous to that
produced by the crackling of flame from the moisture contained in green
unseasoned firewood. In this case the air enclosed in the wood has some
moisture in it, and when it accumulates it bursts out in the flame. So
likewise the air which, as I said a little ago, is driven out through
a collision of two clouds, cannot burst or leap out without noise. The
sound varies according to the variety of impact in the clouds; the 6
larger cavity in some clouds, the smaller in others account for the
variety. That air violently driven out is fire, which is called sheet
lightning when it forms a fitful flame of no great violence. We see the
flash before we can hear the sound: eyesight is swifter than hearing,
and far outstrips it.
XIII
The mistakenness of the opinion that the fire is stored up in the 1
clouds may be inferred from many considerations. For example, if the
fire merely falls from the sky, why does it not do so every day from
the glowing mass that is constantly up there? Then, again, the theory
gives no explanation of the downward course of the fire, an element
which naturally rises. Fires on earth from which embers fall belong to
a different category; the embers possess a certain amount of weight,
which carries them down. Fire cannot descend in the same way, but must
be forced or conducted down. Nothing analogous to a terrestrial fire 2
can take place in that pure ethereal fire which contains nothing that
can carry it down to earth. Otherwise, if any portion of it fall down,
the whole is endangered; for anything susceptible of gradual diminution
piecemeal may evidently also fall in a mass. Besides, if an element
whose lightness habitually prevents its fall contain any weight in its
hidden depths, how could it maintain itself in the place whence it
fell? But, it is urged, are not certain forms of fire wont to descend
into the lower parts of air very much like these bolts of lightning
that we are investigating? Admitted. Only they are conveyed, they do 3
not proceed of themselves. Some force not resident in the ether carries
them down. For in the ether no violent compulsion, no breach, no
interruption of the wonted continuity, can occur. It preserves a fixed
succession; its fire cleansed of impurity claims the upper regions as
its own, and performs its functions in preservation of the universe
with beautiful precision. It cannot leave its place, no, nor even be
thrust from it by external force, because no disturbing body can find
lodgment in ether. Its fixed and ordered composition renders conflict
impossible.
XIV
Some of your friends the philosophers, a critic may say to me, in 1
giving an explanation of shooting stars have told us that some parts
of the atmosphere contract fire which is drawn from these same higher
regions, and that the fires are kindled by the glow of the ether.
Yes, but I reply that it makes all the difference whether the fire is
alleged to fall from the ether, which is incompatible with its nature;
or whether it is asserted that from its fierce glow the heat leaps the
boundary between it and the lower regions, firing them by its power.
For on the latter assumption, the fire does not fall from the upper
region, which is impossible, but is kindled in the lower. Surely, too,
when a widely spread conflagration occurs in one of our cities, we 2
see detached blocks which have for long been heated by the fire from a
distance at last catch fire of themselves. So in the upper atmosphere,
which is endowed with the power of drawing fire, in all probability
there are cases of ignition from the heat of the superposed ether. In
nature there is never a sudden transition from one element to a totally
different one. Hence there must be some congruity between lowest ether
and highest atmosphere; conversely highest atmosphere cannot be wholly
dissimilar to lowest ether. On the confines the two elements pass so
imperceptibly into one another that at a particular point there might
well be doubt whether one is in atmosphere or in ether.
XV
Some of the Stoics believe that air, being interchangeable with other
elements such as fire and water, does not derive from without a fresh
cause of fire; it kindles itself by its internal motion. Then in
dissipating masses of thick, compact clouds it necessarily emits a
loud noise from the bursting of such large bodies. Besides, the very
conflict of the resisting clouds contributes to the energy of the
fire. In the same way the hand contributes to the cutting power of an
instrument, but the actual cutting is done by the steel.
XVI
Let me now explain the difference between the flash and the bolt of
lightning which you naturally wish to know. The flash is the fire
widely spread out, the bolt is the condensed fire hurled with violence.
Let me use a homely illustration. We sometimes join our two hands in
order to take up water in them; then we squeeze our palms together
and squirt out the water like a syringe. Imagine something like this
to take place in the clouds. When they are compressed the restricted
space drives out the air between them, setting it on fire at the same
time, and hurling it forth like a cannon ball. The missiles from our
balistae[1] and scorpions[44] give forth a loud noise as they are
hurled.
[44] The ancient counterparts of cannon.
XVII
A certain number of writers are of opinion that the air of itself emits
a report as it traverses the cold and moist regions. Iron, they point
out, when heated cannot be dipped in moisture without noise. A mass of
heated metal when plunged in water causes a loud sputtering as it is
cooled; so, according to Anaximenes, air meeting cloud produces peals
of thunder; then as it rushes struggling through the obstructions that
bar its way it kindles the flame of lightning merely by its escape.
XVIII
Anaximander refers all the phenomena of thunder to air. Peals of
thunder are, he says, the sounds of blows on a cloud. He explains
the inequality of the peals by the inequality of the blows. To the
question, why it thunders in a clear sky also, he answers that even
in absence of cloud the atmosphere is shaken and rent by the bursting
forth of air. But why is there thunder sometimes and yet no lightning?
The rarity and feebleness of the air render it incapable of producing
flame, while yet sufficient to produce sound. Lightning, according
to him, then, is really a disturbance where the atmosphere is merely
parted and rushes hither and thither, displaying a faint fire that will
not issue from its place. As for the thunderbolt, it is the career of
the more active and denser air.
XIX
Anaxagoras says all the phenomena correspond to the descent of some 1
force from the ether to the lower regions. So when the fire encounters
cold clouds it emits a sound; when it cleaves them there is a flash;
less violence in the fires produces lightning, greater, thunderbolts. 2
XX
Diogenes of Apollonia asserts that thunder arises in some cases from 1
fire, in some from air. Fire precedes those it produces, to herald
them. Those that are attended with rattling noise, but without flash,
are produced by air. Either sound or flash, I grant, can and sometimes
does occur without the other. Still, their powers are not distinct,
each may be produced by each. For will any one say that air borne
with great violence, when it can produce sound, will not also produce
fire? Will not every one grant, too, that fire as well as air may 2
sometimes burst the clouds without darting from them, for example, if
it has burst through a few of the clouds, but is buried beneath an
accumulation of them? So fire will pass into air, and lose its shining
appearance in cutting through some cloudy obstacles and kindling
what is within. Add now another inevitable result--the rush of the
thunderbolt sends out blasts of air and drives them before it, and
raises a wind behind it through the great extent of its impact on the
atmosphere. Thus, through the vibration caused by the wind which the
fire drives in front of it, all objects quiver before they are actually
struck by the bolt of lightning.
XXI
We must now dismiss our tutors and try to walk alone as we pass on 1
from what is admitted to what is debatable in this subject. What is to
be classed as admitted? It is admitted that the thunderbolt is fire
of some kind; similarly with the lightning flash, which is simply
flame ready to become a bolt if it had more strength. The difference
between the two is not in character but in force. The fiery nature of
the bolt is proved by its heat. Apart from that, its effects prove it,
for it has often been the cause of great conflagrations. Forests and 2
portions of cities have been burnt to ashes by it. Even objects that
are not struck are yet seen to be scorched, some are discoloured as if
by smoky grime. Then, again, everything that lightning strikes has the
smell of sulphur. And so it is beyond dispute that both phenomena are a
form of fire, and that they differ merely in their method of movement.
A flash is a bolt that has not strength to carry it down to the 3
earth. And conversely you may say that the bolt is a flash that has
been conveyed right down to the ground. It is not for the purpose of
refinement of terms that I deal at some length with them, but in order
to prove the phenomena related and of the same category and character.
A bolt is something more than a flash. Inverting the statement, a flash
is all but a bolt.
XXII
Now that it is agreed that the two things are both fire, let us see 1
how fire arises on earth, for no doubt the same method prevails aloft.
There are two common methods of producing fire--one by striking it out,
as, for example, from a stone; the other by the more tedious method
of friction, as when two pieces of wood are rubbed together for some
time. It is, of course, not every kind of substance that gives the
desired result; you must choose one suitable for giving out fire, for
example, laurel, ivy, and other trees familiar to shepherds for this
purpose. Probably, therefore, clouds may in the same way emit fire
either from a blow or from friction. Consider for a moment the force
with which squalls rush forth, the impetuous eddying revolution of 2
the whirlwind. Anything that encounters a missile from an engine of war
is scattered and removed and driven far from its position. What wonder,
then, that such violence in the wind extracts fire either from some
external object or merely from itself? You can readily see what a glow
all neighbouring bodies grazed by its passage must receive. But the
force of storms cannot for a moment be compared with the energy of the
heavenly bodies, whose immense power is beyond question.
XXIII
Perchance, too, when the wind only blows softly and exerts no great 1
force, the clouds, wafted against each other, will emit fire strong
enough to show a gleam, though not to issue from them. Less force is
required for lightning than for the thunderbolt. We found above what a
glow the friction of certain woods caused. Now when the air, which is
interchangeable with fire, [has been changed in full force into fire 2
and][45] undergoes friction, it is credible and even probable that fire
is struck out, but of an evanescent and transitory character, as it
arises from no solid material and has no fuel in which it can lodge. It
therefore quickly passes; its duration is no longer than its route and
course; it has nothing to support it when hurled forth into space.
[45] These words seem of more than doubtful genuineness.
XXIV
But how, you ask me, when you philosophers say that it is the nature 1
of fire to rise, does the bolt seek the earth? Perhaps what you said
about fire is not true? It seems to take its course down as well as up.
Both my statements, I reply, may be true. Fire naturally does rise
and mounts if nothing prevents it, just as water naturally gravitates
downwards. But water if affected by a force which drives it uphill is
pressed up in the direction from which it was precipitated in rain. In
like manner the same force as launched the bolt from the cloud causes
it to fall to the ground. Something of the same kind happens to these 2
celestial fires as to trees when bent. The topmost branches if slender
may be dragged down so as to touch the ground; but when you let them
go, they rebound to their original position. You must not regard the
condition which an object involuntarily assumes as characteristic of
it. If you allow fire to go where it will, it will return to the sky,
the abode of all the lightest bodies. But when there is anything to
carry it down and divert it from its natural course, that is not a mark
of its disposition but a token of its subjection.
XXV
You and your friends say, an objector interposes, that clouds emit fire
through mutual friction when they are moist, indeed wet. How can such
clouds produce fire, which is no more likely to be generated by a cloud
than by pure water?
XXVI
Well, first of all, the fire which is thus produced is, as it is 1
found in the clouds, not water, but thick air, adapted for the
generating of water; it is not yet changed into it, but is already
inclined toward, and ready for, the change. There is no ground for
supposing that water is first gathered in the clouds and afterwards
shed from them. It falls simultaneously with its formation. But in
the second place, though I grant that the cloud is moist and charged
with fully formed water, still there is nothing to prevent fire being
drawn from what is moist, yes--and what will surprise you more to
learn--out of pure moisture. Some authorities have actually affirmed 2
that nothing can be converted into fire without a prior change into
water. A cloud, then, without prejudice to the water it may contain,
may emit fire at some part of it, just as often one end of a log is
blazing while the other exudes moisture. I do not deny that fire and
water are opposing elements and that the one destroys the other. But
where the fire is stronger than the water it wins the day. On the
other hand, where there is a superabundant supply of moisture, then
fire is powerless. That is why green wood won’t burn. The result
depends, therefore, on the quantity of water present. If it is small,
no effectual resistance is offered, the fire is not prevented. Why, 3
according to Posidonius’ account, when an island rose in the Aegean Sea
long ago in our forefathers’ days, the sea was lashed into foam for a
long time previously and sent up smoke from its depths. At last fire
was emitted, not continuously, but in flames shooting out at intervals,
after the fashion of thunderbolts, just as often as the fervent heat
of what lay below had overcome the weight of water above it. By and by
boulders were thrown up and rocks, part of them still unimpaired, 4
which the air had thrust out before their calcination, part of them
corroded by the fire and changed to light pumice; at last the cone of
a blasted mountain issued from the waves. Subsequently, there was an
addition to its height, and the rock grew in extent into an island.
The same thing happened within our own recollection during the second
consulship of Valerius Asiaticus.
Why have I narrated these incidents? My purpose was to make it 5
evident that neither is fire necessarily extinguished by having the
whole sea poured over it, nor its violence prevented from bursting out
by the weight of huge waves. Asclepiodotus, a pupil of Posidonius, has
left it on record that the height to which the fire mounted, after
overcoming the resistance of the waves, was a hundred fathoms. Now,
if such a huge mass of water was unable to overcome the force of the
flames that rose from its depths, how much less can the thin, dewy
moisture in the clouds extinguish fire in the atmosphere? In short, the 6
moisture of the clouds is so far from presenting any obstacle to the
formation of fire that lightning is never seen to flash except when
the sky threatens rain. A clear sky has no bolts to hurl. No terror
of that sort proceeds from a bright day, nor for the matter of that
from a night that is not enveloped in cloud. But what! I hear some one
say. Does it not sometimes lighten in a calm night when the stars are
visible? It does, but you must remember that there are clouds all the 7
same in that quarter whence issues the flash; only, the earth’s hump
does not allow them to be seen by us. Add, too, what is quite possible,
that low clouds near the earth may produce fire through friction. This
fire when forced up to the upper regions becomes visible in the clear
bright part of the sky, but none the less its place of origin was in
the dark vicinity of earth.
XXVII
Some writers have distinguished different kinds of thunder, saying 1
there was one kind with a deep growl like that which precedes an
earthquake, when the wind moans and tries to burst its prison walls,
Let me tell you how they suppose this kind of thunder to arise. When
the clouds have enclosed air, it rolls through their cavernous depths
and emits a hoarse, regular, continuous sound like bellowing. So also
when that quarter of the heavens is charged with moisture, its exit is
prevented until the thunder begins. Therefore, thunder of this kind 2
is a sure sign that rain is to follow. There is another kind, which is
sharp, and it might be described more accurately as a crackling than as
a regular sound; it resembles the report one hears when a bladder is
burst over some one’s head. Such thunder is the result of the breaking
up of a densely massed cloud and the release of the air by which it
was inflated. This is appropriately named a peal, sudden and violent.
When it occurs, people collapse and are sometimes literally frightened
to death by it; others retain life, but are dazed and completely lose
their wits: we call them thunder-struck, for that sound in the heavens
has quite unhinged their minds. This sound may also be produced by 3
the atmosphere shut up in a hollow cloud being rarefied, merely through
motion, and expanded. By and by in seeking more room for itself it
resounds against the walls that envelop it. In fact, is it not just
similar to the applause given out by the clapping of the hands? only,
when the clouds collide, the sounds may be expected to correspond in
volume to the greatness of the encountering bodies.
XXVIII
But clouds, says some one, are seen striking upon mountains. without 1
causing any sound. How is that consistent with your theory? Well, in
the first place, a sound is not caused by any and every method of cloud
collision, but only when there is an arrangement of their position
suitable for producing a sound. Striking the backs of the hands does
not produce clapping, but the contact of palm with palm does. It makes
a great difference, too, whether the clouds that strike are hollow,
or flat and extended. In the second place, the clouds must not merely
drift, as against a mountain, but be driven with great tempestuous
violence. Besides, a mountain does not cut through a cloud, it merely 2
disperses it by displacing the successive front layers of it. Even a
bladder does not give a report irrespectively of the method in which it
emits the air in it; it depends on the way in which the air escapes.
If the bladder is cut with a knife, the air is emitted without the ear
perceiving it. It must be burst, not cut, in order to give a report.
The same, I assert, holds in regard to the clouds: they emit no peal
unless broken up with great violence. Besides, clouds driven against a
mountain are not broken up, but merely pour round certain parts of 3
the mountain, tree branches, shrubs, and rough projecting boulders.
They are rent thereby, and emit by numerous exits whatever air they may
contain; but there is no rattle unless the air all burst out at once.
In proof of this, bear in mind that the wind blowing through a tree, 4
which cuts it, hisses but does not roar. A broad blow, so to speak,
that dissipates the whole mass at once, is required in order to the
emission of a sound such as is heard when there is thunder.
XXIX
Moreover, the atmosphere is by constitution adapted to the transmission
of sound.[46] Of necessity this is so, since sound is nothing but an
impact of the atmosphere. The clouds that [as indicated] are completely
rent must therefore be hollow and taut. One sees how much more resonant
empty vessels are than full, and distended ones than slack. So this
accounts for the sound of tambourines and cymbals; the former resound
because the blow upon the air is resisted at the farther side; the
latter are beaten against the air directly, but unless there were a
cavity in the instrument it would not tinkle.
[46] The specific word _vox_ = voice is used in the text.
XXX
Some authors, including Asclepiodotus, are convinced that thunder 1
and lightning may also be produced by the collision of certain solid
bodies. Once Etna was in violent eruption and cast up a huge quantity
of burning sand. The daylight was veiled with the cloud of dust, and
sudden night terrified the world. On that occasion, they allege,
there was much thunder and lightning, produced, they maintain, by
the concourse of dry bodies, not of clouds: with such a glow in the
firmament there probably were no clouds at all. Cambyses once sent an
army to the temple of Jupiter Ammon in the desert. The sand raised by 2
the south wind fell on it like snowflakes, first covering and finally
overwhelming it. Probably on that occasion also there was thunder and
lightning, caused by the mutual friction of the particles of sand. Such
a view is not inconsistent with my contention above. I have said that 3
the earth’s exhalations contain bodies of two kinds, dry and moist,
portions of which roam through the whole expanse of the atmosphere.
So if any heavy element be introduced, it makes a cloud thicker and
more solid than if its texture were of pure air exclusively. Such a
[solid] cloud may burst with a loud report. The elements I have 4
mentioned, whether they have charged the atmosphere with moist fires or
with earth-sweeping winds, must produce a cloud before they produce a
report. Dry elements no less than moist may make up a cloud. For cloud,
as we have already said, is just a condensation of thick air.
XXXI
But further, if you will but open your eyes to them, there are 1
marvellous effects in lightning that leave no doubt that a subtle
divine power is inherent in it. For example, coins are fused while
the purse containing them is uninjured and intact. A sword is melted
while the sheath remains. The iron point is fused in a javelin, but
the wooden shaft suffers no damage. The jar is smashed and the wine
frozen, but the stiffness does not last for more than three days.
There are other no less notable effects of lightning. The head of 2
man or other animal struck by it always points in the direction whence
the lightning issued: the twigs of all trees that are struck rise
straight up in the direction of the lightning. Let me add, too, when
venomous serpents or other animals whose bite is fatal are struck with
lightning, all the poison disappears. How, you say, can I tell that? In
the dead bodies of poisonous animals worms are not produced. But when
struck with lightning they breed worms within a few days.
XXXII
Lightning portends the future, too. Nor do the signs it gives refer 1
to only one or two events. Often a complete series of fate’s succeeding
decrees is intimated, with proof, too, plain to demonstration, far more
distinct than if it were recorded in writing. There are differences
of interpretation, however, between our countrymen and the Tuscans,
the latter of whom possess consummate skill in the explanation of the
meaning of lightning. We think that because clouds collide, therefore 2
lightning is emitted; they hold that clouds collide in order that
lightning may be emitted. They refer everything to the will of God:
therefore they are strong in their conviction that lightning does not
give an indication of the future because it has occurred, but occurs
because it is meant to give this indication. Whether the indication is
its purpose or its consequence makes no difference in the method of its
occurrence. How, then, do they give indication unless they are sent by
God? Just in the same way as birds give favourable or unfavourable 3
omens, though they are not moved on their flight for the express
purpose of meeting us. God moves them too, it is urged. You imagine He
has so little to do that He can attend to trifles of this sort, if you
will have Him arrange visions for one, entrails of victims for another.
Nevertheless, all those things are managed by Divine agency, not, 4
however, in the sense that the wings of birds are immediately directed
by God, or the bowels of cattle arranged by Him in certain forms under
the priest’s axe. It is in far other way that the roll of fate is
unfolded; it sends ahead in all directions intimations of what is to
follow, which are in part familiar, in part unknown to us. Everything
that happens is a sign of something that is going to happen: mere
chance occurrences uncontrolled by any rational principle do not
admit of the application of divination. An event that belongs to a 5
series thereby becomes capable of being predicted. But why, then, is
the honour conferred upon the eagle of giving omens concerning great
events? or a similar function assigned to the raven and a very few
other birds, while all the rest give no presage by their notes? The
reason simply is that some departments have not yet been brought within
the sphere of the art of augury, while some are incapable of ever being
brought within it, because our acquaintance with them is too slight.
As a matter of fact, there is no living creature whose movement or 6
meeting with us does not foretell something. Of course, only some, not
all, can be observed. The omen lies in the observation. So it concerns
the person who directs his attention to it. But other things as well
concern him, though they pass unheeded. For instance, the Chaldaeans
confined their observation to the five great planets. But do you
suppose that the influence of so many thousands of other bright stars
is naught? The essential error of those who pretend to skill in 7
casting the horoscope lies in limiting our destinies to the influence
of a few of the stars, while all that float above us in the heavens
claim some share in us. Perchance the lower stars exert their force
on us more directly; and[47] the same may be true of the stars that
by reason of their more frequent movements turn their view upon man
in a different way from that in which it is turned upon other living
creatures. But even those stars that are either stationary or, from
their velocity being the same as that of the world as a whole, seem
to be so, are not without sway and dominion over us. Add one other 8
consideration and you have the subject set out with due arrangement of
its parts:[48] it is not more easy to ascertain what the power of the
stars is than justifiable to doubt that they possess such power.
[47] Or, Turn their view upon man no less than on the other living
creatures now from one point, now from another, _i.e._ under more
varied aspects. The passage is doubtful. The general sense is plain:
nearness, frequency of appearance, and variety of aspect severally
are or may be special factors in determining a star’s influence on
the fate of man.
[48] The text is corrupt and the sense more or less conjectural.
Ruhkopf suggests that the words may have been transferred from some
other passage to this. One would be inclined to suspect that _adjice_
= add, instead of _aspice_ = see, regard, is the correct word at the
beginning of the sentence.
XXXIII
To return now to lightning: the art relating to it falls into three
divisions--its observation, its interpretation, its deprecation. The
first has regard to the category in which it should be placed, the
second to divination, the third to the propitiation of the gods, whose
blessings we ought to ask and whose threats we must avert by prayer.
We must ask them to fulfil their promises, pray them to remit their
threats.
XXXIV
People are convinced that lightning possesses sovereign power, 1
because its occurrence destroys the force of other portents. On the
other hand, whatever it portends is regarded as unalterable, and the
appearance of no other omen lessens its import. Anything threatened
by unfavourable entrails or inauspicious birds will be cancelled by
favourable lightning. But any warning given by lightning cannot be
defeated by opposing entrail or omen. Now this belief seems to me
mistaken. My reason? Simply that nothing can be truer than the truth. 2
If birds have truly foretold the future, the omen cannot be nullified
by lightning: if it can, then it was not a true prophecy the birds
uttered. It is not bird and lightning whose force I am here comparing,
but two revelations of truth, which must be equal in authority if
they are equally intimations of truth. Therefore, if the occurrence
of lightning destroys the indications given by priests or augurs,
there must have been a flaw in the inspection of the entrails or the
observation of the auguries. It is not a question of which of the 3
two kinds of omen possesses the more exalted or powerful character:
if both have furnished indications of truth, they are so far equal.
You would be quite justified in asserting that the power of flame
was greater than that of smoke; but flame has just the same power as
smoke, and no more, in giving indication of the existence of fire. So
if the statement is confined to the assertion of the greater authority
of lightning on occasions when the entrails give one indication and
lightning a different one, I shall perhaps agree. But if the statement
go on to affirm that although other signs have foretold the truth, 4
yet the lightning stroke has destroyed all that went before and claims
credit only for itself, then the statement is untrue. And for this
reason: the mere number of the auspices makes no difference. Fate is
but one. If it was rightly understood through the first auspice, it
is not destroyed through the second; it remains just the same. And so
I say again it does not matter whether the means of our inquiry (=
auspice) is the same or different, since the object of the inquiry
remains the same.
XXXV
Fate cannot be changed by lightning. And why? Lightning is itself 1
a part of fate. Well, then, it may be asked, what is the good of
expiation and atonement if the fates are immutable? Let me uphold the
rigid sect that takes exception to such rites and regards vows as but
comfort to a breast ill at ease. The fates perform their function in a
far different way from that supposed; they are not moved by any prayer
nor changed by pity nor by favour. The course they hold is irrevocable;
once they have entered upon it they flow on by unalterable decree. 2
As the water of rushing cataracts returns not upon itself, nor yet
lingers, since each succeeding wave drives headlong that which went
before; so the order of events is rolled on by the eternal succession
of fate, whose first law it is to abide by its decrees.
XXXVI
For what is one to understand as meant by fate? I suppose it is the 1
binding necessity of all events and actions, a necessity that no force
can break. If you believe that such a power can be prevailed upon to
change through sacrifice or the head of a snow-white lamb, you know
little about the Divine dispensation. You say that even a wise man 2
does not change his mind: how much less is God a man that he should
change? Even the wise man knows what is best under present conditions;
to the Divine wisdom everything is present. Still, I wish, for the
moment, to advocate the views of those who hold that atonement should
be made for lightning, and who have no doubt that expiation is of
avail, now to remove dangers, now to mitigate them, now to delay them.
XXXVII
In a little I will follow up what I have said and show the 1
consequences involved. Meantime we have so much in common with the
persons last mentioned in holding that vows are of service, but without
prejudice to the power and sway of fate. Some things are, in fact,
left by the immortal gods in such a state of suspense as to turn to
the advantage of worshippers if they employ prayer to heaven and take
vows upon them. This, then, is so far from being opposed to fate that
it is actually a part of fate. But my opponent argues thus: an event is
either going or is not going to take place. If it is going to, then 2
it will take place, even though you take no vows upon you. If it is not
going to, then it won’t, even though you take the vows. The dilemma, I
reply, is no valid one: you overlook an alternative that lies between
those horns of yours. This, say I, will take place, but not unless vows
have been taken upon those concerned. This, too, one may say, must be
included in the order of fate, either that you undertake the vows or
that you do not.
XXXVIII
Suppose that I surrender at discretion and admit that it is likewise 1
included in fate that vows be assuredly performed. Then for that
reason they will be performed. It is fated that a man be eloquent, but
only if he use due means and apply himself to study. The same destiny
enjoins that he should study; therefore he will study. Another will be
rich, but he must first go to sea. But in the order of fate in which
he is promised a great fortune, it is also decreed that he go to sea;
therefore he will go to sea. In regard to expiation, I apply just 2
the same principle. A man is fated to escape danger if he expiate the
threats foretold by heaven. But it is likewise contained in fate that
he offer expiation; therefore he will offer it.
An objection is usually urged against this view which seeks to prove
that no freedom of will is on this assumption left to us, all sway
is handed over to fate. When I come to treat of that subject, I will
explain how, without infringing the power of fate, something may still
be left to human choice. For the nonce, I have explained the point at 3
issue, viz. how, consistently with an order fixed by fate, perils from
prodigies may be averted through expiation and sacrifice, inasmuch as
they do not conflict with fate, but, on the contrary, are assumed by
the very law of fate. What benefit, then, you say, can I derive from
a soothsayer? In any case I must of necessity offer expiation, even
though he be not by to advise it. He so far does good in that he is the
instrument of fate. In like manner, when recovery from illness seems
the work of fate, it is due at the same time to the doctor, because the
boon of fate passes through his hands in order to reach us.
XXXIX
There are, Caecina says, three kinds of lightning--the counselling, 1
the authoritative, and what is called the ordinary. The counselling
occurs before an event, but after the design is formed. When something
is simmering in one’s mind, the lightning stroke either urges it or
deters from it. The authoritative one succeeds an event, indicating
its outcome as good or ill fortune. In the ordinary case, people 2
are busied neither with action nor design when the lightning suddenly
occurs. The flash conveys either threat, promise, or warning. The
last form is indeed called admonitory: I am disposed to think it is
identical with the counselling mentioned above. One who warns at
the same time counsels. Yet there is a distinction between them.
Therefore they are put in different classes. The one applies suasion
or dissuasion, the other is restricted to warning how to avoid
an impending danger; as, for example, fire, or deception from 3
neighbours, or a plot by slaves. Besides, I can perceive another
difference between the two kinds: if one has a design, then the
lightning that occurs counsels; but if one has no such design, it
warns. Each situation has its own peculiar features. In deliberation
advice is appropriate, but a warning comes unsought.
XL
On the face of it, one’s comment on this view would be that these 1
are so many kinds of prognostications and not of lightning. Of the
latter the kinds are the boring, the splitting, and the scorching.
The first has a subtle flame, which from its unalloyed purity can win
escape through the tiniest aperture. The second, which scatters to the
winds what it strikes, is massed fire with an admixture of condensed
tempestuous wind. So the first kind escapes again by the opening by
which it entered. The second spreads wide the effects of its violence,
it bursts what it strikes, and does not perforate it. The third kind
mentioned, the scorching, has much earthiness in its composition, 2
and contains fire rather than flame. It therefore leaves deep scars of
fire, which will be branded in what it has struck. No lightning, it is
true, that comes to earth is fireless, but this kind is distinctively
called fiery, because it imprints the marks of fire so manifestly, by
either scorching or staining. It scorches in three different ways,
that is, it either breathes on its object, so to speak, inflicting
slight injury, or burns it right up, or sets it on fire. All those
are methods of what I have called scorching, differing, however, in
character and degree. Whatever is, for example, burnt up is necessarily
scorched as well. But [the converse is not equally true], everything 3
that is scorched is not necessarily burnt up. And so with what is set
on fire; it is not necessarily consumed, the fire may merely have
scorched it in passing. Everybody knows that things may be scorched
without breaking out into fire, but that nothing can break out into
fire without being scorched. I have only one further remark on the
point: an object may be consumed without being set on fire; it may also
be set on fire without being consumed.
XLI
I pass on now to the kind of lightning that stains objects struck by 1
it. The staining is either discolouring or colouring, between which I
draw a distinction. When the colour is spoiled, without being changed,
there is discolouring. On the contrary, there is colouring when the
aspect of an object becomes different in kind from what it was, for
example, when it turns dark blue or black or pale. So far the Etruscans
and the philosophers are in agreement. But disagreement begins when
the former go on to assert that lightning is sent by Jupiter, to whom
they assign three species of bolt. The first, according to their 2
statement, gives a peaceful warning, being sent by Jove’s own counsel.
The second is, it is true, sent also by him, but by advice of his
council, to which he summons the twelve gods as assessors. This bolt
is no doubt beneficial, but not without doing damage to some extent.
The third kind of bolt is still of Jove’s sending, but he summons into
council the so-called supreme veiled gods. This bolt causes destruction
of what it encounters, and in particular it changes the existing
condition of private and public affairs that it finds. For fire allows
nothing to remain as it is.
XLII
Taking a superficial view one would pronounce these old beliefs all 1
wrong. What could be more absurd than to believe that Jupiter hurls
bolts from the clouds, aiming at pillars, trees, aye, and statues of
himself sometimes, or that, passing by the sacrilegious unbelievers, he
strikes sheep, sets fire to altars, and smites innocent flocks? or can
one imagine that great Jove should call the gods into council, as if
he were himself lacking in counsel? Or that those bolts bring promise
of peace and joy that he hurls unaided, and those cause destruction in
whose despatch a greater crowd of deities was concerned? If you ask my 2
opinion on the point, however, I may tell you that I do not for a
moment suppose those people of old were so obtuse as to believe that
Jupiter was evilly disposed or, to say the least of it, insufficiently
prepared with his missiles. When he issued fiery bolts to pass over
the heads of the wicked and strike the innocent, as is alleged, did
he, do you suppose, refuse to send them with truer aim, or did he miss
his shot? If that cannot be the explanation, what was the idea of
those ancients in speaking as they did? Being men of profound wisdom 3
they were, in my opinion, of the settled conviction that fear was
essential to restrain the passions of the ignorant; we must reverence
something higher than ourselves. In a time of such audacious crime it
was expedient that there be a belief in something which no criminal
could seem powerful enough to resist. And so it was to terrify those
wretches, against whose passions innocence is no protection unless
backed up by fear, that they placed over us in the heavens the image of
an avenger, and him well armed.
XLIII
Why, therefore, on this assumption, is the bolt that Jupiter sends
alone, peaceful, while the other is destructive on which he has sought
counsel, and which he has sent down with the approval of other gods
besides? The reason is that Jupiter, that is, an absolute monarch, when
acting alone ought to be always a power for good; he should not inflict
injury unless when a numerous council has ratified the decision.
From this let all those who have inherited great earthly power learn
that not even the bolt of heaven is sent without counsel taken. Let
them call to them their advisers, let them ponder the opinions of a
multitude of counsellors, let them temper the rigour of their decrees;
and when some blow must fall, let them not forget that even Jupiter
needs more than his own wisdom to guide him.
XLIV
Nor, again, were the ancient sages so stupid as to suppose that 1
Jupiter changed his missiles. It is only the licence of poetry that can
with decency say:
There is another and lighter bolt to which the Cyclopes’ hands
Have added less of harshness and of flame, less, too, of wrath.
The dwellers above call them missiles of peace.
Those men of exalted wisdom were undoubtedly not possessed with the 2
delusion that Jupiter sometimes employs lighter bolts, weapons of the
practising school, so to speak. Their object was to warn those who
have to direct their bolts against the sins of men, that all offences
are not to be visited after the same fashion: some offenders must be
crushed, some censured and lightly punished, some[49] dismissed with an
admonition.
[49] _Admoneri_ = to be admonished, seems necessary, instead of
the authoriser _admoveri_, to which it is impossible to attach any
satisfactory meaning in this connection. The word means to be moved
towards; _amoveri_ = to be removed, would make sense.
XLV
Nor yet did these ancient sages believe that the Jupiter we worship 1
in the Capitol and the rest of the temples ever really hurled
thunderbolts from his hand. They recognised the same Jupiter as we do,
the guardian and ruler of the universe, its soul and breath, the maker
and lord of this earthly frame of things, to whom every name of power
is appropriate. If you prefer to call him fate, you will not be wrong.
He it is on whom depend all things, from whom proceed all causes of
causes. If you prefer to call him providence, you will still be right;
for he it is by whose counsel provision is made for the world that 2
it may pursue its orderly course and unfold the drama of its being.
If you prefer to call him nature, you will make no mistake; for it is
he from whom all things derive being, and by whose breath we live. If
you prefer to call him the world, you will not be in error; for he is
everything that you can see, he is wholly infused in all his parts,
self-sustained through inherent power. The Etruscans thought so too.
They said bolts were sent by Jove, just because nothing is performed
except by his power.
XLVI
But, you ask, why does Jupiter pass over the guilty and strike the
innocent? That is too big a question to enter on here; it shall have
its own place and time. Meantime I insist on this, that bolts are not
sent directly by Jupiter, but that all things are so arranged that even
what is not done by him is yet not done without some plan, which plan
is his. The force of the bolts is a consequence of his permission. For
even though Jupiter does not make them, he caused them to be made. He
does not superintend every detail; but to all he gives the signal,
force, and cause.
XLVII
There is another division of them made to which I cannot agree. They
are, according to the assertion of some, either constant or limited
or deferred. The constant are those whose prognostication extends all
over life, not merely intimating a single occurrence, but embracing the
series of coming events through the whole subsequent life. This is the
kind of bolt that occurs first after entrance on an inheritance, or
when an individual or a city has entered on a new phase of existence.
Limited ones answer exactly to a definite date. Deferred are those
whose threats may be delayed, though they cannot be averted and
completely avoided.
XLVIII
I will now state my reasons for disagreeing with this division. One 1
is that even the bolt which is called constant lasts for a limited
period. Such bolts correspond no less than others to a definite date.
Nor do they cease to be limited because the period they signify is a
long one. So, too, what is thought to be deferred is limited. For by
the admission of the advocates of this division the period for which
delay can be procured is a definite one. Bolts that relate to private
matters cannot, according to them, be delayed longer than ten years,
those relating to public affairs not more than thirty. So this class,
as well as the first, is limited, as it includes the date beyond which
the prognostication cannot be deferred. There is thus a fixed period 2
for bolts and results of every kind. For of what is uncertain there
could be no distinct knowledge. Then, too, these people talk in too
vague and general terms about the points to be noted in lightning. They
ought rather to divide them according to the scheme of the philosopher
Attalus, who had specialised in this department. The inspection
should determine where the lightning occurred, when, to whom, in what
connection, of what kind, of what amount. If I were to attempt to
arrange and classify all these, I should just be committing myself to
an endless task.
XLIX
Let me now glance at the names of the lightning adopted by Caecina, 1
and explain my own opinion of them. He calls one kind imperative, as
it demands the re-establishment of sacrifices neglected or informally
offered. Admonitory is the second kind, giving information of what
must be guarded against. Pestilential is a kind that portends death or
exile. Deceptive is that which, under guise of some benefit, inflicts
injury; for example, it gives the consulship to some one whose ruin 2
the office will prove, or bestows an estate the profit of which
must be compensated by some great loss. The avertible, again, bring
an appearance of danger without real danger. The destructive remove
the threats of previous lightning. The attested signify an agreement
with former lightning. The earth-borne occur in a covered place. The
overwhelming strike what was previously struck without due atonement
having been made. The royal smite either the election ground or the 3
government quarter of a free city; their prognostication threatens a
free state with an absolute monarchy. Infernal are when fire issues
from the ground. Hospitable summon or, to use a more polite word,
invite Jupiter to share a sacrificial feast with us. If he happen to
be angry with his host when he is invited, then his coming, Caecina
says, is fraught with danger to his entertainers. Auxiliary come by
summons too, but bring good to the summoner.
L
But how much simpler is the division employed by our distinguished 1
Stoic, Attalus, who combined skill in the Etruscan lore with all the
subtlety of Greek thought! Of the different kinds of lightning, he
says, one gives intimation of something that concerns us, another kind
intimates either a thing of no importance or something whose meaning
does not reach us. Of the significant lightning there are several
varieties--one is favourable, one unfavourable, a third neither one
nor other. Of the unfavourable there are all these forms--the evils 2
portended may be either unavoidable or avoidable, or such as may be
mitigated, or such as may be delayed. Again, the benefits foretold
by the favourable may be either abiding or transient. The mixture of
favourable and unfavourable may either consist of half and half, good
and ill; or ill may be turned by them into good, or good into ill.
The lightning that is neither unfavourable nor favourable gives us
intimation of some action by which we need neither be terrified nor
elated, for example, a journey abroad from which there is nothing
either to fear or hope.
LI
Let me revert for a moment to the lightning that portends something,
but a something that does not concern us; for instance, whether the
same kind of lightning as has occurred will again occur in the same
year. Sometimes lightning contains no indication at all, or one whose
grasp eludes us; as, for example, those manifestations of it that are
scattered through the spaces of the sea or in lonely deserts. Their
indication, if any, is lost.
LII
I have still a few remarks to add in order to show more fully the 1
force of lightning in various ways, for its power is not always
displayed in just the same way in every kind of material. For instance,
the stronger bodies are shattered with greater violence on account of
their resistance; it sometimes passes through the yielding ones without
doing any damage. With stone and iron and all the hard substances
it enters into conflict, because in its impetuous course it must
find a way through them; so it makes a way by which to escape. The
more flexible and thinner substances, though they seem very suitable
material for flames, it spares, mitigating its fury when it encounters
no obstacle to its passage. And so, as I said at a previous point,
coin is found fused, while the purse that contained it is untouched;
the extremely thin fire runs through the invisible interstices of the
latter. But whatever solidity it meets in a beam it subdues as being
refractory. For, as I have just said, its fury does not always 2
take the same form; the nature of the force in each case is revealed
merely by the kind of the damage, and you can tell the species of the
lightning by its effect. Again, the force of the same flash produces
many varieties of damage in the same material. For example, in a tree
it scorches any portion that is very dry; what is firm and hard it
bores through and smashes; the outer bark it scatters, the inner layers
nearer the centre it bursts and cuts up, the leaves it lashes and
strips off. Wine is frozen, iron and copper fused.
LIII
It is a strange fact that when wine that has been thus frozen is used 1
after it returns to its liquid state, it either kills or drives mad
those who have drunk of it. When one inquires why this effect should be
produced, the suggestion presents itself that the lightning contains
a pestilential force, some taint of which probably is left in the
liquid it has condensed and frozen. Indeed, the substance could never
have been solidified had not some bond of cohesion been introduced.
Moreover, in oil and every kind of unguent there is a foul smell
after lightning has touched them. Whence it is manifest that this 2
subtle fire, driven in a direction contrary to its nature, contains a
pestilential power, for not only its blow but even its mere breath is
overwhelming. Moreover, wherever lightning has struck there is sure
always to be a smell of sulphur, a substance which, being naturally
poisonous, causes delirium if breathed too freely. But we shall return
to this point when we are more at leisure. For I should like some day
to prove the extent to which the world is indebted to philosophy, the
parent of the arts, for knowledge of all such matters. She it was that
first both investigated the causes of things and noted their effects.
She performed a service far more valuable than the inspection of
lightning in thus comparing results with the principles from which they
are derived.
LIV
I will at this point revert to Posidonius’ opinion of the cause of 1
thunder. From the earth and its confines are exhaled certain elements,
partly moist, partly dry and smoke-like. The latter element remains in
the sky as material for lightning, while the former falls in rain. The
dry smoky particles that reach the atmosphere will not allow themselves
to be enclosed in clouds, but burst their envelope. Thence comes the
report which we name thunder. Besides this, anything in the atmosphere
itself that is rarefied is at the same time dried and heated up. This
also, if it is enclosed, seeks an exit with equal eagerness, and 2
causes a report as it escapes. On one occasion it makes a complete
burst, and the thunder is consequently the more violent; on another it
escapes by degrees in small portions. Air of this kind, then, by either
bursting or flying through the clouds, produces peals of thunder. The
rolling of the air enclosed in a cloud is the most potent cause of
setting fire to what is struck.
LV
Thunder is, in short, simply the report of explosions of dry air, 1
which cannot occur unless there is either friction or a rent in a
cloud. Posidonius adds that if the clouds merely collide with each
other, the kind of blow needed to produce an explosion is given,
but not completely; clouds do not meet through their whole extent,
but only part with part. And again, soft substances do not resound
unless knocked against hard ones; a wave is not heard unless when it
beats on the hard shore. But fire, which is soft, says an opponent,
when let into water, also a soft substance, produces sound in being
extinguished. Well, suppose it is so, it makes for the opposite view 2
which I urge. For it is not really the fire that makes the sound,
but the air escaping through the water that is quenching it. Granted
that fire is both produced and extinguished in the cloud, it arises
from air and friction. Well then, it is urged, may not some of the
shooting stars plunge into a cloud and be extinguished? Even supposing
that such a thing can and sometimes does occur, it does not remove
the difficulty. It is not the occasional chance cause but the natural
normal one that we are in search of. Suppose I admit the truth of your
contention that occasionally after thunder fires gleam in the heavens
much like shooting and falling stars. Yet this does not prove that 3
the thunder was caused by them; it merely shows that the thunder
occurred simultaneously with this other phenomenon. Clidemus asserts
that a lightning flash is an empty reflection, and not real fire; for
in the same way after nightfall a gleam appears from the motion of oars
in water. His illustration is not on all fours with the phenomenon. In
the latter case the gleam is seen actually within the water; in the
former, in the atmosphere, it bursts and leaps out of its element.
LVI
Heraclitus is of opinion that the flash of lightning is the first 1
attempt of a fire to kindle; just as on earth when the flame is at
first unsteady, now dying down and now darting up again. The ancients
used to call this summer lightning. We now say in the plural thunder
peals (_tonitrua_); the ancients said either thunder (_tonitruum_,
sing.) or merely peal (noise, _tonus_). The foregoing remark I 2
find in Caecina, an eloquent man, who would have had a considerable
reputation as such had he not been overshadowed by Cicero’s towering
form. Besides, the ancients had other variants of a similar kind. They
employed with the penult short the word that we use with it long; we
say _fulgēre_ (to lighten) just as we do _splendēre_ (to gleam). But in
order to denote this sudden burst of light from the clouds their usage
was to shorten the middle syllable so as to make it _fulgěre_.
LVII
What do I think myself about the matter, you ask. For up to this 1
point I have been reproducing the opinions of others. Well, I will tell
you. There is lightning when light bursts out suddenly and widely.
This occurs when the atmosphere has been changed, by the rarefaction
of the clouds, into fire, which has not gathered strength to issue to
any considerable distance. There is, I presume, no cause for surprise
either that movement rarefies air or that rarefaction kindles fire.
In the same way a leaden bullet is liquefied when discharged from a
sling, and falls in drops by reason of atmospheric friction just as
it would do through fire. Bolts of lightning are more numerous in 2
summer, for the reason that there is most heat at that season. Fire
naturally starts more readily when the friction is in warmer air. A
flash of lightning which merely gleams and a bolt which is discharged
are produced in exactly the same way. But there is less force in the
former case and less fuel. To put my opinion on the point shortly: a
bolt is just lightning in its most intense form. So then, when a body 3
of the nature of heat or smoke is exhaled from the earth and, meeting
with clouds, is for a long time rolled about in their hollows, at last
it bursts out. Since it possesses no strength, it is merely a flash.
But when lightnings have more material and burn with fiercer glow, they
not merely become visible, but also fall to the earth.
LVIII
Some writers are firmly convinced that the lightning bolt always 1
returns to the clouds. Others hold that the bolt settles in the
ground, at least when its fuel is heavy, and when it has comparatively
little force in its stroke as it glides down. But why, it may be
asked, does the bolt make its appearance suddenly, and is there not a
continuous trail of fire? It is on account of the extreme rapidity of
its motion; it fires the air at the same moment as it bursts through
the cloud. By and by when the motion ceases, the flame subsides. For
the course of the air that forms the bolt is intermittent, which 2
prevents continuity in the fire. As often as the air by its more
violent agitation sets itself on fire it conceives an impulse toward
flight. When the internal conflict has been ended by its escape, it is
afterwards for the same reason sometimes carried down as far as the
earth, and sometimes, if urged down with less force, it is dissipated
in air. Why, again, is the course of the lightning oblique? The
reason is that the air current of which it is composed is oblique and
tortuous. Nature summons fire upward, violence presses it downward, 3
and so it begins to be zigzag. Sometimes, when neither force gives way
to the other, the fire is at the same moment urged toward the upper and
depressed toward the nether regions. Why are the peaks of mountains
frequently struck by it? Because they are exposed to the clouds, and
objects falling from heaven to earth must pass by way of them.
LIX
I know quite well what you have long been anxious to say and what you 1
demand. I had rather, you say, get rid of fear of thunderbolts than
learn all about them. So you may reserve for others your instruction
regarding their origin. Let me be delivered from fear of them rather
than be informed of their nature. Well, I will follow your invitation,
for I quite allow that some moral should be attached to all studies
and all discourse. As we dive into the secrets of nature and treat 2
of things in the heavens, the soul must be delivered from its errors
and from time to time reassured. Even the learned who devote themselves
exclusively to this pursuit require such reassurance; not in order to
escape the arrows of fortune, for her missiles are hurled on us from
every side, but in order to bear them with resolution and constancy.
Unvanquished we may be, unassailed we cannot be, though meantime the
hope sometimes insinuates itself that even this is possible. How? you
exclaim. Despise death and then everything that leads to death is 3
despised, be it war or shipwreck, or the jaws of wild beasts, or the
weight of roofs rushing down with sudden fall. What more can they do
than part the body from the soul? And this parting no care can shun, no
good fortune can remove, no power can prevent. Other features in human
lot are variously assigned; to death’s call all are alike subject. 4
Whether heaven is propitious or wrathful, die we must.
Let courage be derived from our very despair. The most cowardly of
animals which nature has created for flight, if they find no way of
escape open to them, show fight with their unwarlike body. In fact, no
foe is more deadly than one into whom a tight corner has put courage.
Far more violent resistance is offered to death through necessity
than through valour. A desperate soul shows as much daring as a 5
courageous, probably more. Let us assume that, so far as concerns
death, we are given over to it; and so we are. The fact is so,
Lucilius; we are all destined to death. All this nation that you see,
all the people you can anywhere suppose to exist, will some day soon
be recalled by nature to the grave. There is no question of the fact,
only of the day. Sooner or later we must all go to the one place. Well,
then, does not he seem to you the most fearful and silliest of men 6
who by great entreaty seeks to delay death? Would you not despise a
man who was set in a company of those appointed to death if he asked
by way of favour to be allowed to be the last to lay his head upon the
block? We do the same in setting such store upon a little delay in the
time of death. Capital punishment is the sentence on all mankind, and
the sentence is most just. We possess what is wont to be regarded as 7
the greatest consolation that those sentenced to the extreme penalty
could enjoy; the circumstances of all being the same, our fate is the
same. If handed over by a judge or magistrate to execution, we should
follow and render obedience to our executioner; what difference does it
make whether it is by order of another or of our own accord that we go
to death?
How foolish you must be, how forgetful of your feebleness if you are
afraid of death every time it thunders! Does your abiding safety really
depend on this? Will life be secure if you escape the lightning? You 8
will be a victim of the sword, of a stone, of a fever. The lightning
is not the most serious of dangers, it is only the most conspicuous.
Your fate, I should think, would not be a bad one if the inconceivable
rapidity of your death prevented any sense of it, if your death was
the occasion of sacrificial ceremonies, if even when you breathe your
last, you are not quite a superfluity, but remain as a sign of some
great event. Your fate is surely not bad if you are buried along 9
with the bolt of lightning. And yet you are in panic at a crash in the
sky, you tremble at the sound of a hollow cloud; as often as there is
a flash you are ready to give up the ghost. Well then, is it in your
judgment more creditable to die of sheer chicken-heartedness than to be
killed by lightning? Rather, say I, confront all the more resolutely
the threats of the heavens, and when the universal world is in flames
around you, consider that in such a mighty mass you have nothing to
lose. But if you can bring yourself to believe that that wreck of 10
heaven, that conflict of the stormy winds, is aimed at you, if it is on
your account that the clouds are piled up and collide and roar, if it
is for your destruction that such a mass of fire is scattered abroad,
then you may surely regard it as some consolation that your death has
cost so dear! But there will then be no room for such a reflection.
The fate of one struck by lightning removes all fear. Among other
advantages it includes this, that it anticipates your expectation; no
man ever was afraid of lightning except one who had escaped it.
BOOK III
WHICH TREATS OF THE DIFFERENT FORMS OF WATER
PREFACE
I am not unaware, my dear friend Lucilius, of the greatness of the 1
edifice whose foundations I am laying in my old age, when I resolve to
survey the universe, to unearth its motives and secrets, and to reveal
them to the knowledge of others. When shall I ever manage to cover
such a field, gather together such widely-spread material, behold with
clear vision such profound secrets? Old age presses hard on the rear,
upbraiding me with the years bestowed on vain pursuits. We must ply our
task all the more vigorously, and toil must now make good the loss of a
lifetime withdrawn from its true purpose. Night must be added to day,
engagements cut short, care abandoned of property that lies far away 2
from its owner. The mind must be wholly set free from other thoughts,
and at least at the moment of its flight from earth must bestow itself
in self-contemplation. It shall do so, and shall urge itself on, and
each day it shall measure the brief span of time left. What has been
lost shall be repaired by diligent use of the remainder of life. The
surest pledge of virtue is repentance and amendment. I may exclaim in 3
the words of an illustrious poet:
High is the courage that inspires me, great the work, but short
The time in which to plan.
I should say the same were I planning it in boyhood or in youth. No
period could be anything but narrow in face of such an undertaking. As
it is, when the midday of life is past, I have entered upon a task that
is serious, difficult, limitless. Let me act as people generally do 4
in a journey--those that are late in starting make up for the delay by
their speed. I must hurry on, and without further excuse on the score
of age proceed to tackle my problem--undoubtedly a vast, possibly an
insuperable, one. My mind swells with pride when I survey the magnitude
of my undertaking and reflect how much is unaccomplished of my plan,
though not of my life.
Some writers have wasted their efforts in narrating the doings of 5
foreign kings, and in telling, as the case may be, the sufferings
or the cruelties of nations. Surely it is wiser to try to end one’s
own ills than to record for a coming generation the ills of others.
How much better to make one’s theme the works of the gods than the
robberies of Philip, or Alexander, or the other conquerors who earned
their fame by the destruction of mankind! Such men were as truly
scourges of humanity as a flood by which a whole plain has been
inundated, or a conflagration by which the greater part of its living
creatures has been burnt up. The historians tell us how Hannibal 6
crossed the Alps, how he suddenly transferred into Italy a war rendered
more formidable by Roman disasters in Spain; how, when his fortunes
were shattered, more determined still, even though the fate of Carthage
was sealed, he wandered through all kingdoms, offering to be leader
against Rome, and begging for an army; how he never ceased even in
his old age to seek to rouse up war in every corner of the world. He
could, it was plain, endure to be without a country, but not without a
foe.
How much better is it to inquire what ought to be done than what 7
has been done, and to teach those who have entrusted their state to
fortune that nothing she gives is stable, but that all her gifts are
more fickle than the very air! For she cannot rest, her delight is to
match sadness with joy, and to mingle smiles with tears. Therefore in
the day of prosperity let no man exult, in the day of adversity let no
man faint: the successions of fortune alternate. Why should you boast
yourself? The wave meantime bears you aloft on its crest; but where 8
it may strand you, you cannot tell. Its end will be of its own choice,
not of yours. Or why, again, do you despond? You have been carried
down to the nadir; now is the chance of rising again. Adversity alters
for the better, success for the worse. Changes of the kind must be
anticipated, not merely in private families, which are affected by a
slight cause, but also in sovereign houses. Dynasties rising from the
gutter have ere now established themselves above the ruling powers,
while ancient empires have fallen when in the very heyday of their 9
power. The number cannot be reckoned of the kingdoms that have been
overthrown by other kingdoms. God now makes it His special aim to exalt
some and to overthrow others; nor does He let them gently down, but
dashes them from their pinnacle, so that no remnant of them is left. A
great sight it is; we think it so only because we are ourselves small.
There are many departments in which the standard is not derived from 10
the actual size of the objects, but from our own littleness.
What, I ask, then, is the principal thing in human life? Not to have
filled the seas with fleets, nor to have planted the standard of the
nation on the shores of the Red Sea, nor, when land has been exhausted,
to have wandered for the injury of others over the Ocean in quest of
the unknown. Rather it is to have grasped in mind the whole universe,
and to have gained what is the greatest of all victories, the mastery
over besetting sins. There are hosts of conquerors who have had cities
and nations under their power, but a very few who have subdued self.
What is the principal thing? I say again. To raise the soul above the
threats and promises of fortune; to consider nothing as worth hoping
for. For what does fortune possess worth setting your heart upon? 11
Why, as often as you lapse from converse with what is divine back to
what is human, your eyes will be blinded just like the eyes of those
who have returned from bright sunlight into gross darkness. What is
the principal thing? To be able to endure adversity with joyful heart;
to bear whatever betide just as if it were the very thing you desired
to happen. For you would have felt it your duty to desire it, had
you known that all things happen by God’s decree. Tears, complaints,
lamentation, are rebellion. What is the principal thing? A heart 12
in face of calamity resolute and invincible; an adversary, yea, a
sworn foe, to luxury; neither anxious to meet nor anxious to shun
peril; a heart that knows how to fashion fortune to its will without
waiting for her; which can go forth to face ill or good dauntless and
unembarrassed, paralysed neither by the tumult of the one nor the
glamour of the other. What is the principal thing? Not to admit evil 13
counsel into the heart, and to lift up clean hands to heaven; to seek
for no advantage which some one must give and some one lose in order
that it may reach you; to pray--a prayer that no one will envy--for
purity of heart; as for other blessings which are highly esteemed by
the world, even should some chance bring them to your home, to regard
them as sure to depart by the same door by which they entered. What
is the principal thing? To lift one’s courage high above all that 14
depends upon chance; to remember what man is, so that whether you be
fortunate, you may know that this will not be for long; or whether you
be unfortunate, you may be sure you are not so if you do not think
yourself so.
The principal thing is to have life on the very lips, ready to
issue when summoned. This makes a man free, not by right of Roman
citizenship, but by right of nature. He is the true freeman who has
escaped from bondage to self. That slavery is constant, from it there
is no deliverance; it presses us day and night alike, without pause,
without respite. To be a slave to self is the most grievous kind 15
of slavery; yet its fetters may easily be struck off, if you will but
cease to make large demands upon yourself, if you will cease to seek a
personal reward for your services, and if you will set clearly before
you your nature and your time of life, even though it be the bloom of
youth; if you will say to yourself, Why do I rave, and pant, and sweat?
Why do I ply the earth? why do I haunt the forum? Man needs but little,
nor needs that little long.
To this end it will be profitable for us to examine the nature of the
universe. In the first place we shall rise above what is base; in
the second, we shall set the spirit free from the body, imparting to
it that courage and elevation of which it stands in need. Besides,
subtlety of thought practised on the hidden mysteries of nature wil 16
prove no less efficacious in problems that lie more on the surface.
And nothing is more on the surface than these salutary lessons we are
taught as safeguards against the prevailing vice and madness--faults we
all condemn, but do not abandon.
I
Let us enter then on an investigation of forms of water, and let us 1
trace the causes that produce them; whether, as Ovid says:
There was a fountain silvery clear with gleaming wavelets;
or, as Virgil says:
Whence through nine mouths with mighty roar of the mountain
The sea issues in broken waves, overspreading the fields with its
resounding flood;
or, as I find it in your own poem, my dear Lucilius:
The stream of Elis wells up from Sicilian fountains.
Let us inquire by what method the waters are supplied; how it is that
day and night unceasingly so many huge rivers roll down their course; 2
why some are swollen by the rain of winter, some increase in summer
when all the other streams fail. Meantime let us separate the Nile
from the common crowd; it is a river of peculiar and unique character.
We shall give it its turn by and by. At present we will confine our
treatment to the common waters, cold as well as hot. In regard to
the latter we must inquire whether the heat is due to natural or
artificial causes. We shall discuss other waters too which are rendered
remarkable by taste or some special virtue. Some, for example, I may
explain, alleviate affections of the eyes, some, those of the sinews, 3
some effect complete cure of chronic maladies given up by doctors as
hopeless. Some again heal sores, some by being drunk ease internal pain
and relieve complaints of the lungs and bowels. Some staunch the flow
of blood; in fact their individual uses are as varied as their taste.
II
All waters are classed as either standing or running; they are either
gathered in one or occupy different channels underground. Some of them
are sweet, others have pungent flavours of different kinds, among them
salt, bitter, medicinal. Belonging to the last class one may name
sulphur, iron, alum waters. The taste shows the quality. Waters of
different kinds have many other differences. First there is touch, hot
and cold; then weight, light and heavy; then colour, pure, muddy, dark
blue, yellowish; then wholesomeness, wholesome and useful, or deadly or
capable of petrifaction. Some waters are thin, some thick; some give
nourishment, others pass through the system without benefiting it at
all; the use of some removes barrenness.
III
The lie of the ground makes water either stand or run; on a slope it
flows down, a plain keeps it in, causing it to stagnate. Sometimes
under pressure of air it is forced uphill; it is then driven, it does
not flow. Surface water comes from rain; spring water from a natural
fountain. There is, however, nothing to prevent surface and spring
water in the same spot. This we see in Lake Fucinus, into which the
streams drain all the rainfall of the surrounding mountains, while
there are also large springs concealed under the surface of the lake
itself. So, even when the torrents discharge into it in winter, it
preserves its appearance unaltered.
IV
Let us inquire therefore, in the first place, how the earth can contain
sufficient water to maintain the unbroken flow of the rivers, and where
such a vast quantity of water comes from. We are surprised that the
ocean is not sensible of the additional water derived from rivers. It
is no less surprising that the earth is not sensible of the loss of all
the water that issues from it. What is it that has so filled it up that
it can from its hidden recesses furnish such quantities and continually
make good the loss as it does? Whatever explanation we give regarding a
river must apply also to streams and springs.
V
Some are of opinion that the earth receives back all the water it has
lost. The sea, therefore, does not get larger, because it does not
assimilate the water that runs into it, but forthwith restores it to
the earth. For the sea water returns by a secret path, and is filtered
in its passage back.[50] Being dashed about as it passes through the
endless, winding channels in the ground, it loses its salinity, and,
purged of its bitterness in such a variety of ground as it passes
through, it eventually changes into pure, fresh water.
[50] The ordinary text, as Koeller saw, is evidently wrong. It runs:
“For by a secret path the sea water enters the ground and becomes
visible, and returns stealthily, and is filtered, etc.” No author can
be supposed to have written such a sentence. The restoration must be
conjectural. I have adopted what seems simplest and most in keeping
with the context.
VI
Some suppose that all the water that the earth drinks in from rain is
sent out again into the rivers. They set down by way of proof the fact
that there are fewest rivers in the localities where there is least
frequent rain. On that account, they say, the deserts of Ethiopia are
destitute of streams, and few springs are found in the interior of
Africa, because there is always a blazing sky and almost perpetual
summer. Therefore there are ugly stretches of sandy waste, without tree
and without inhabitant, sprinkled at rare intervals by showers that
they immediately swallow up. On the other hand, it is well known that
there are abundant streams and rivers in Germany and Gaul and next to
them in Italy, because they enjoy a moist climate, and even the summer
is not without rainfall.
VII
A great deal can obviously be urged in reply to this. First of all, 1
as a diligent digger among my vines, I can affirm from observation
that no rain is ever so heavy as to wet the ground to a depth of
more than 10 feet. All the moisture is absorbed in the upper layer of
earth without getting down to the lower ones. How, then, can rain,
which merely damps the surface, store up a supply sufficient for
rivers? The greater part of it is carried off at once into the sea by
river-channels. But a small portion is absorbed by the ground, and even
that is not retained. For the ground is either dry and so uses up at 2
once the water poured into it; or else it is saturated and throws off
what of the rainfall it does not require. This is the reason why rivers
do not rise with the first rainfall; the thirsty ground absorbs it all.
And then, again, how are we to explain the fact that some rivers burst
out from rocks and mountains? What contribution can be made to them
by rains that are carried down over the bare crags and have no earth
into which to sink? Besides, wells sunk in the very driest localities 3
to a depth of 200 or 300 feet reveal rich springs of water at a depth
to which rain water does not penetrate. One may be sure there is no
rain water there nor any gathering of moisture, but living (= spring)
water as it is usually called. The opinion in question is disproved by
this other argument, too; some springs well up in the very summit of a
mountain. It is plain, therefore, that the water in them is forced up
or forms on the spot, since all the rain water runs off.
VIII
Some writers think there is an exact parallelism between the external
and the internal distribution of water in the earth. On the outer
surface are huge marshes, great navigable lakes, and seas covering
immense tracts of earth and pouring over its hollows. So in the
interior of the earth there is abundant store of fresh water, which
overflows great spaces no less than the Ocean and its gulfs above
ground; in fact, still more extensively, as the depth of the earth
extends farther down than that of the sea. From that supply in the
deeps, therefore, those rivers of which we have spoken issue. And
why should one be surprised that the earth is not sensible of their
withdrawal since the sea is not sensible of their addition?
IX
Some approve the following explanation: The earth contains, they 1
assert, many hollow recesses and a great quantity of air. This air,
under pressure of the gross darkness, of necessity freezes. Then
remaining sluggish and unmoved it ceases to circulate and turns into
water. Just as on earth a change in the density of the atmosphere
produces rain, so beneath the earth the change of density starts a
river or a stream. In the former case the air above our heads cannot
long remain sluggish and heavy; for sometimes it is rarefied by
the sun’s heat, sometimes expanded by the wind’s force. There are,
therefore, long intervals between falls of rain. But underground 2
the forces, whatever they are, that turn air into water, are
constant--perpetual darkness, everlasting cold, inert density; they
can, therefore, supply without a break the sources of fountain or
flood. We Stoics are satisfied that the earth is interchangeable in
its elements. So all this air that she has exhaled in her interior,
since it is not taken up by the free atmosphere, condenses and is
forthwith converted into moisture.
X
There you have the first cause of the origin of underground water. 1
You may add the more general principle that all elements arise from
all: air comes from water, water from air; fire from air, air from
fire. So why should not earth be formed from water, and conversely
water from earth? If the earth is capable of transmutation into other
elements, water must be one of them, in fact, the most suitable of
them. The two things are cognate; both are heavy, condensed, both
driven by nature down to the very confines of the universe. Earth is
formed from water; why not water from earth in like manner?
But, you say, the rivers are too large to be accounted for in this way.
Well, after you have considered the size of the rivers, just look at
the size of the reservoir whence they issue. Are you surprised that a 2
fresh supply of water is always forthcoming for them, since they flow
on for ever, some even rushing down their channel with impetuous haste?
Surely you might as well be surprised, when the winds drive hither
and thither the whole atmosphere, that the supply of air does not
fail, but flows on day and night unceasingly. And the wind, remember,
is not confined to a definite channel, as rivers are, but goes with
wide sweep over the broad expanse of heaven. You might well, too,
be surprised that after so many breakers have spent their force, any
succeeding wave is left. The truth is, nothing is ever exhausted that
returns upon itself (_i.e._ is self-supported). All the four elements 3
return alternately upon one another; what is lost in one is conserved
by passing into another. Nature, too, weighs her parts as if with
nice adjustment in the balance, lest their just proportion should be
disturbed and the world topple over into ruin (= lose its equilibrium).
All elements are in all. Air not only passes into fire, but it is never
without fire. Deprive it of its heat and it will grow stiff, stagnant,
hard. Air passes into moisture, but nevertheless contains moisture.
Earth yields both air and water, and is never at any time devoid 4
of water any more than it is of air. The mutual transition is the
easier, because there is already an admixture of the element to which
the transition is to be made. So (1)[51], then, the earth contains
moisture, which it forces out. (2)[51] It contains air, which the
darkness of its wintry cold condenses so as to form moisture. (3)[51]
By nature, too, it has itself the power of changing into moisture: this
power it habitually exerts.
[51] The numerals here have no counterpart in the original.
XI
You have still a difficulty, you say. If the causes giving rise to 1
rivers and fountains are constant, why are their waters sometimes
dried up? and why do they sometimes appear in places where they did
not exist before? Their routes, I should reply, are often disturbed by
earthquakes; the channel is cut off by a fall of rock or earth, and
the water being held back seeks a fresh exit, which it forces with a
certain measure of violence; or merely by the earth’s vibration the
course is shifted from one place to another. On the surface of the
earth one may observe that rivers that have lost their channels are
first of all dammed back, but afterwards, in lieu of the course they
have lost, force a new one. Theophrastus affirms that an incident of 2
the kind took place in the Corycian Mount,[52] where, after a slight
shock of earthquake, a fountain burst out from a fresh source.
[52] In Cilicia.
But some writers are of opinion that other causes too are at work to
call up water in other ways, or to drive or turn it from its course.
Mount Haemus was once destitute of water; but after a tribe of the
Gauls, being hard pressed by Cassander, took refuge there, and felled
the woods, an immense supply of water appeared. No doubt the woods had
attracted it for their nourishment previously. When they were uprooted,
the moisture, ceasing to be used up by their roots, overflowed.
Theophrastus affirms that the same thing happened near Magnesia. 3
But with all respect to Theophrastus, this is not a very likely story.
Everything that is most shady tends most to gather water. But that
would not be the case if trees drained off water. Roots draw their
nourishment from their immediate vicinity; but the volume of river
water flows from recesses far down, and is derived from a source deeper
than roots can penetrate. Besides, when trees are cut down, more
moisture than before is required; the stumps suck up a supply, not
merely for life, but for new growth.
Theophrastus tells us, too, that round Arcadia, which was a city in 4
the island of Crete, the wells and lakes disappeared, because the land
ceased to be tilled after the destruction of the city; but after it had
got back its tillers, it recovered its waters also. He sets down as the
cause of the dryness, that the earth had got hidebound and quite hard,
and not being stirred could not transmit to the underground reservoirs
the rain that fell. But if this is true, how comes it that we see
springs in great plenty in the most desert ground? In fact, one finds 5
a great deal more ground that began to be tilled on account of the
abundance of water than that began to have an abundant supply of water
because it was tilled. You may be quite sure that it is not mere rain
water that is carried down in our greatest rivers, navigable by large
vessels from their very source,[53] as is proved by the fact that the
flow from the fountain-head is uniform winter and summer. Rainfall may
cause a torrent, but it cannot maintain the steady, constant flow of a
full river. Rains cannot produce, they can only enlarge and quicken, a
river.
[53] The text seems to be at fault, but the argument is quite clear.
XII
Let us, if you please, go into the matter a little more deeply, and 1
you will soon see that you have no cause to put further questions, once
you reach the true origin of rivers. A river is, of course, formed by
a supply of water that is always constant. If you ask me, therefore,
how water is produced, I will ask in my turn how air or earth is
produced. If there are four elements in nature, you are not entitled
to ask where water, one of them, comes from; it _is_ the fourth part
of nature. Why, therefore, are you surprised that so great a portion 2
of nature can furnish a perpetual supply of liquid from itself? Just
as the atmosphere, which is likewise a fourth part of the universe, is
the source of winds and breezes, so is water, of streams and rivers.
If wind is atmosphere in motion, so is a river water in motion. I have
given it strength enough in saying that it is one of the four elements.
You must be aware that what has an element as its source can never run
short.
XIII
Water is, according to Thales, the most powerful of the elements. 1
He thinks it was the first of them, and that all the others sprang
from it. We Stoics, too, are also of the same opinion; or perhaps I
should rather say that we think it is the last.[54] For we say that it
is fire that lays hold upon the world and changes all things into its
own nature. We suppose that fire eventually fades and sinks, and that,
when the fire is quenched, nothing is left in nature save moisture, in
which lies the hope of the world that is to come. So fire is the end,
moisture the beginning, of the world. Can you wonder that rivers may
always issue from this, which was before all things, and from which all
things have been formed? In the separation of the elements [at the 2
beginning] the moisture was reduced to a fourth part, and was placed in
such a situation that it could furnish a sufficient supply for rivers,
streams, and fountains. The next opinion expressed by Thales is a
silly one. The whole earth, he says, is upborne by water, and floats
just like a boat; when it is spoken of as trembling, it is rolling by
the movement of the water. It is no wonder, then, that there should be
abundance of water to pour forth in rivers, since the world is itself
wholly set in water. You should put out of court such an antiquated,
unscientific idea. There is no ground for believing that the water
comes in through the chinks in the earth’s sides, and forms bilge-water
in her centre.
[54] _I.e._ that to which all others may be reduced: the text seems
corrupt, and the meaning is more or less conjectural. Gercke’s text
reads, “are also of the same or an analogous opinion.”
XIV
The Egyptians have recognised four elements also; and they then form
each into two, male and female. The atmosphere they consider male where
it is windy, female where it is cloudy and sluggish. They call the sea
manly water, every other kind of water they call womanly. Fire they
call masculine where a flame is burning, and feminine where there is
a glow that is harmless to touch. The firmer kinds of earth, such as
boulders and crags, they call male, reserving the term female for the
parts that are amenable to cultivation.
XV
There is but one sea, which has so existed no doubt from the 1
beginning of things. It has sources of its own, from which its impulses
and tides are derived. As with the raging sea, so with this gentler
kind of water, there is a vast supply[55] in secret, which no river
course can drain dry. The exact explanation of its reserve strength
has not yet been discovered. It is only the superfluous portion of
it that is released. Now, there are some of these beliefs to which 2
we may safely subscribe; but I hold this further opinion. My firm
conviction is that the earth is organised by nature much after the
plan of our bodies, in which there are both veins and arteries, the
former blood-vessels, the latter air-vessels. In the earth likewise 3
there are some routes by which water passes, and some by which air. So
exactly alike is the resemblance to our bodies in nature’s formation
of the earth, that our ancestors have spoken of veins (= springs) of
water. Again, in our bodies there is not merely blood, but many other
kinds of moisture, some essential to life, others tainted and somewhat
thick--brain in the head, marrow in the bones, mucus, saliva, tears,
and a kind of lubricating substance that suffuses the joints, and
enables them to turn more quickly (= synovial fluid).
[55] All the texts give _via_ = way. The obvious correction is _vis_
= amount, supply. Gercke confirms this correction.
So, too, in the earth there are several different kinds of moisture.
There are some kinds that grow hard when fully formed. Hence arises 4
all the metalliferous soil, from which our avarice seeks gold and
silver. Then there is the kind which turns from liquid into stone. In
some localities the earth and its moisture combine to form a liquid
like bitumen and other substances of the same kind. There, then, we
find the cause of waters produced according to the law and will of
nature. But as in our bodies, so in the earth, humours often contract 5
taints of various kinds. A blow, or some shock, or exhaustion of the
ground, or cold or heat injures the natural vigour. A vein of sulphur,
too, may solidify the moisture, lasting for a longer or shorter time.
Therefore, as in our bodies, when a vein is cut, the flow of blood
lasts till the blood is exhausted or the incision in the vein has
closed up and stopped it, or until some other cause has staunched the
blood; in like manner in the ground, when the seams have been loosened
and laid bare, a stream or river rushes forth. The way in which the 6
water is used up depends on the extent of the opening in the seam. At
one point its flow is checked by some obstacle; at another it heals up,
so to speak, into a scar and chokes the path it had made; at another
the power of transmutation, which we have said the earth possesses,
reaches its limit and cannot longer supply material that may be
liquefied: sometimes the exhausted source is replenished, now by energy
self-recruited, now by a supply drawn from external sources. For I
ought to say that often dry objects placed opposite to wet attract the
moisture to them. Earth itself, which easily assumes another form, 7
often wastes away, and is dissolved in moisture. The same phenomenon
occurs under the earth as above it in the clouds; becoming too dense
and heavy to retain longer its own character, solid begets liquid.
There is often a gathering of thin, scattered moisture like dew, which
from many points flows into one spot. The dowsers call it sweat,
because a kind of drop is either squeezed out by the pressure of the
ground or raised by the heat. This slender trickle scarce suffices to
form a spring. But if the sources are great and the gatherings great,
rivers issue. Sometimes they flow gently if the water merely descends
by its own weight, sometimes with violence and loud roar if air be
intermingled and eject the water.
XVI
Another peculiarity requires explanation: some wells are full for 1
six hours and dry for six alternately: why is this so? It is hardly
necessary to name the rivers individually which are at certain months
broad, at certain narrow, and to give separate causes of this, seeing I
can give a common explanation that applies to all. An ague returns at
the same hour, gout always keeps its appointment, the custom of women,
unless interrupted, observes its stated period, birth is ready at the
proper month. In like manner waters have their intervals of recurrence,
at which to withdraw and at which to return. Now, some intervals are
shorter, and the more striking on that account; some are longer, 2
but no less certain. And what is strange in that, when you see that
the succession of events, and all nature, by decree preserve their
appointed order? Winter has never mistaken its time. Summer has always
blazed forth in its season. The changes of spring and autumn have
occurred according to their wont. Solstice and equinox alike have kept
their appointed days.
Beneath the earth likewise there are laws of nature, less familiar to
us, but no less fixed. Be assured that there exists below everything
that you see above. There, too, there are antres vast, immense
recesses, and vacant spaces, with mountains overhanging on either
hand. There are yawning gulfs stretching down into the abyss, which 3
have often swallowed up cities that have fallen into them, and have
buried in their depths their mighty ruins. These retreats are filled
with air, for nowhere is there a vacuum in nature; through their
ample spaces stretch marshes over which darkness ever broods. Animals
also are produced in them, but they are slow-paced and shapeless; the
air that conceived them is dark and clammy, the waters are torpid
through inaction. Most of these creatures are blind, such as moles and
underground rats, which have no sense of sight, since it is unnecessary
for them. From these depths fish are, according to Theophrastus, dug up
in certain localities.
XVII
At this point many pleasantries will occur to you to apply to my 1
incredible narrative, which you will politely call a good story. A man
will no longer go to fish with net and hook, but with his mattock!
The next thing will be for some one to go out hunting at sea. Now
what reason is there, I ask, why fish should not cross the land if we
can cross the sea and change our abodes? You are surprised at this
happening. How much more incredible are the achievements of luxury
as often as it either counterfeits or vanquishes nature? Fish are to
be found swimming in the dining couch; one is caught right under the
table, to be transferred immediately to the table. A mullet is not
thought fresh enough unless it expires in the hand of the banqueter. 2
These fish are handed round enclosed in glass jars, and their colours
are observed while they expire; death paints many hues on them as they
draw their last struggling breath. Others are pickled alive and killed
in the sauce. These are the people who think one is romancing who
asserts that a fish can live underground and instead of being caught
can be dug up! How inconceivable it would sound to them to hear that a
fish swam in sauce and was killed during dinner, but not to be served
at dinner; that first it was long admired, and that the eyes were
feasted on it before the gullet was!
XVIII
Suffer me here to lay aside my subject, and to apply the scourge to 1
luxury! Commend me for a beautiful sight, says one, to an expiring
mullet. In the death-struggle, as its life ebbs away, first a ruddy
glow, then a pallor suffuses it. How symmetrical are the variations as
it changes from tint to tint between life and death! Our somnolent,
jaded luxury gets a long respite by means of this.[56] It was late
in waking up to find how cruelly it had been circumscribed in being
cheated of such a pleasure! Hitherto only fishermen have been able
to enjoy this grand and beauteous sight. But why should we at the 2
banquet be satisfied with a cooked, a lifeless fish? Let him expire
on the very tray. We used to be surprised at the fastidiousness of
our epicures in refusing to touch fish unless it had been caught on
the same day, when, as the saying goes, it smacked of the briny. It
used for that reason to be delivered post haste--way had to be made
for the breathless porters as they hurried along shouting. To what 3
lengths have refinements now been pushed? A fish killed to-day has
come to be considered as already stinking. “He was taken out of the
water this day, I assure you.” “I cannot trust you in a matter of such
moment. I must have the evidence of my own senses; let the creature be
brought here and breathe out his life before my eyes.” Such a pitch of
fastidiousness has the gourmands’ palate reached that they will not
taste a fish unless they have seen it swimming and throbbing in the
very banqueting room.
[56] The passage is almost hopelessly corrupt. The meaning of this
sentence seems to be that luxury gets some respite from the fatigues
of the table by watching the mullet’s death-struggle. Ruhkopf
suggests an emendation which would give the sense: Our somnolent,
jaded luxury has taken a long time to discover this new enjoyment.
That would certainly be well in keeping with the following sentence.
The more skill our jaded luxury has had placed at its disposal, 4
the more refined and elegant the devices that in its frenzy it day
by day invents; it spurns everything that is common. We used to hear
the remark, “Nothing can surpass a mullet caught on the rocks”; but
now it runs, “Nothing equals the beauty of an expiring mullet. Let
me hold in my own hands the glass vase, to see him jump and quiver.”
After long and fulsome praise has been lavished on him, he is taken 5
out of his transparent pond. Then each guest shows off his experience
of such scenes by pointing out the hues to his fellows. “Look how the
red bursts forth, deeper than any carmine; look at the veins he has
along his sides: see, you would think his belly was covered with blood;
what a gleam of dark blue shot forth just under the brow! Now he is
stretching himself out, and sinking to a uniform pallid hue!” Not one
of these selfish fellows would sit by a dying friend’s bedside, none
of them can endure the sight of a father’s death--a sight they have
dearly longed for. How few will attend the funeral of a relative! The 6
last hour of brothers and friends is shunned by them; they are all in a
hurry to be in at the death of a mullet! For he has a delicate beauty,
don’t you know, that nothing can surpass. My impatience makes me
sometimes exceed the bounds of decency and use words at random. These
drivellers are not satisfied to bring teeth, and palate, and stomach to
the revel; they make their very eyes partners in the gluttony.
XIX
But to return to my subject. Here is a proof I have to give you 1
that in the underground recesses are concealed great quantities of
water which abound in filthy fish. Any time that the water bursts
out, it brings in its train a huge crowd of creatures foul to sight,
disgusting and noxious to taste. At any rate, once, near the city of
Hydissus in Caria, a flood of underground water threw up to the light
of day a number of strange fishes, and all who ate them died. And no
wonder. Their bodies were full of oil from their long inactivity; 2
they had been fattened in the darkness without exercise, and deprived
of that light whence health is derived. A further proof that fish may
be produced in those depths of earth is afforded by the breeding of
eels in shady places; they also are a heavy diet through their want of
exercise, especially if a considerable depth of mud has hidden them
quite out of sight. So then the earth contains not only veins of water 3
by the union of which rivers may be formed, but also streams of very
great size. In some cases their channel is concealed throughout, until
they are swallowed up in some cavern; others of them well up in the
bottom of some lake. Everybody knows that some marshes have no bottom.
What is the point of my argument? It shows plainly that mighty rivers
have here unending supplies whose limits are incalculable, just as is
the duration of rivers and fountains themselves.
XX
For the variety of taste in water there are four causes. The first is 1
the kind of soil through which it flows. The second also depends on the
soil when the water arises from transmutation of it. The third is from
air which has been transformed into water. The fourth comes from some
taint which water often contracts when injuriously affected by foreign
bodies. These causes impart to water, first, variety of taste, then 2
medicinal power, its heavy pestilential smell, its lightness and
heaviness, its heat and its excessive astringency. It is affected by
its passage through ground full of sulphur, or nitre (= saltpetre),
or bitumen. If the water is tainted in this way, the drinking of it
endangers life. This is the explanation of a passage in Ovid:
The Ciconians have a river a draught of whose waters turns into stone.
The bowels; which mantles in marble all that it touches.
The river in question has medicinal properties, its mud being of 3
the kind that glues together and hardens the bodies it encounters.
Just as the dust at Puteoli becomes stone if it touches water, so,
contrariwise, if the water of this river touches a solid body, it
adheres and gets firmly affixed to it. This is the reason why objects
thrown into the same lake[57] are constantly found to be turned to
stone when they are taken out. This occurs at several places in Italy;
you may put into the water a twig or bough and a few days after you
can take out a stone. The mud surrounds the object and gradually 4
coats it over. This will seem the less surprising if you have remarked
that the Albula, and, generally speaking, all water charged with
sulphur, deposit a coating of it on the banks of their channels and
streams. Some one or other of the foregoing causes accounts for the
peculiarities of those lakes, whereof who tastes with the lips, in the
words of the same poet,
[57] The allusion is not quite evident.
Goes raving mad or endures a sleep of wondrous depth.
The effect is like that of strong drink, only more violent. Drunken- 5
ness is madness until its effects pass off; with a weight like lead
it bears down its victim into sleep. In the like manner the strong
infusion of sulphur in this water contains a sort of poison that is
more potent owing to the noxious atmosphere, and either goads the mind
to madness or weighs it down in deep sleep. The river in Lyncestis
likewise possesses this baleful power:
For whoso with intemperate lips has drained a draught,
Staggers as if having drunk deep of wine undiluted.
XXI
There are certain caves a glance down into which has cost people their
life. So swift is their destructive power that it kills in flight the
birds that cross them. That is the kind of air and the kind of place
from which waters of death escape. If the infection of the air and
place is less severe, the damage is less fatal too, merely affecting
the sinews like men overpowered by intoxication. I am not at all
surprised that place and air infect water and render it similar in
character to the tract through which and from which it proceeds.
Similarly, milk shows the taste of the cow’s fodder, the quality of
the wine comes out even in the vinegar it yields. There is, in fact,
nothing that does not bear marks of its origin in the same way.
XXII
There is another species of water which we Stoics are satisfied must be
coeval with the world. If the latter has existed from all eternity, so
must it too. If the world has had some beginning, then the water was
assigned its place at the creation. You want to know what kind of water
I mean? I mean the Ocean and all its seas that wash the continents of
the earth. Some philosophers are convinced that the rivers likewise
whose nature is inexplicable, date from the creation of the world; such
are the mighty rivers Danube and Nile, too remarkable to be supposed by
any possibility to have the same origin as other rivers.
XXIII
Such is the division of various kinds of water, as it presents itself
to some minds. After that come waters of the sky, which the clouds pour
down from the upper regions. Of terrestrial waters, they say, there are
some that overflow, so to speak, and creep along the surface; others
are concealed underground. I have already explained all these.
XXIV
Several explanations are given of the temperature of water. Some- 1
times it is hot, sometimes it boils so fiercely that it cannot be
used until it has given off its steam in the open, or is tempered
by mixing cold water with it. Empedocles is of opinion that as there
are fires concealed in many places beneath the earth, water is heated
when they happen to lie beneath the ground through which it has to
flow. Let me use an illustration. We are in the habit of constructing
serpentines,[58] and cylinders, and vessels of several other designs in
which thin copper pipes are laid in descending spiral coils. The object
is to make the water meet the same fire over and over again, and flow
through a space sufficient for heating it up; so, entering as cold it
comes out hot. Empedocles supposes something of the same kind to take 2
place underground. People who have their baths heated without fire may
well believe that he is right. In this case air from the heated furnace
is introduced. The air glides along the passages, warming up the walls
and vessels of the bathroom just as if fire had been directly applied.
In short, all the cold water in these instances is changed into hot by
merely passing through a heated medium; and inasmuch as it is conveyed
in an enclosure there is no evaporation to impart a flavour to it.[59]
Others, again, suppose that the water contracts heat by issuing from
or passing through ground charged with sulphur; the heat is imparted
by the properties of the material, to which also smell and taste bear
witness. All substances, I may say in general terms, tend to reproduce
the qualities of the medium by which they have been warmed. If you are
surprised at sulphur warming water, you have only to pour water over
quicklime; it will at once evolve heat.
[58] The technical name is “worm.”
[59] There is considerable doubt regarding the correct text and
meaning.
XXV
Some waters are fatal, although they give no indication of this 1
either by smell or taste. In Arcadia, near Nonacris, the river called
by the people there the Styx lures strangers to ruin, as its appearance
and smell rouse no suspicion. This is like the drugs of accomplished
poisoners, which cannot be detected save by their fatal effects. The
water I mentioned a little above brings destruction with amazing
swiftness, and allows no opportunity of applying a remedy. It hardens
immediately it is drunk, and, much like chalk under the influence ofcccc 2
water, it sets and binds fast the bowels. There is a poisonous water
in Thessaly, near Tempe, shunned by all cattle and wild beasts. It
comes out through seams of iron and copper, and contains the power of
softening the very hardest material. It does not nourish any trees
either, and it kills grass. Certain rivers possess a peculiar and
strange power. Some there are whose draught dyes whole flocks of
sheep. Within a short time those that were black have white fleeces;
in other cases those that came white go away black. This is what two
rivers in Boeotia do, one of which from its effect is called Melas
(Blackwater). Both the rivers issue from the same lake, to go on their
opposite missions. So, too, in Macedonia, Theophrastus asserts there 3
is a river to which shepherds who desire to turn their sheep white
bring them. If the sheep drink it for any length of time, their colour
changes as if they had been dyed. But if those people want a dark wool,
they have a dyer ready at hand who charges nothing; they have merely
to drive the same flock to the river Peneus. I have recent authorities
for the statement that there is a river in Galatia that has the same
power of changing the colour in all animals, while in Cappadocia there
is one which if drunk changes the colour of horses but not of any other
animal; their skin is dappled with white spots.
It is well known that there are lakes whose waters bear up those 4
who cannot swim. There used to be a pool in Sicily, there still is
one in Syria, in which brickbats float, and no objects thrown in,
however heavy, will sink. The cause of it is obvious. Weigh any object
and compare it with water while they are equal bulk for bulk. If the
water is the heavier, it will bear the object that is lighter than
itself, and will raise it above its surface to a height proportionate
to its lightness; objects heavier than the water will sink in it.
But if the weight of water and of the object compared with it in 5
respect of weight be equal, the object will neither go to the bottom
nor yet will it stick up; it will just be in equipoise with the water.
It will float, it is true, but almost submerged and without any part
projecting. The differences in weight give the reason why some logs
float almost entirely above water, while some sink to their centre, and
some go down until they are in equipoise with the water. For it always
holds good that, when the weights of the two are equal, neither yields
to the other; but objects heavier than water sink, those lighter are
upborne.
Now heavy and light do not refer to our judgment of weight, but are 6
relative to the medium by which an object is to be supported. So when
water is heavier than the human body or than a stone, it does not allow
the inferior weight to sink. So it comes to pass that in some lakes
even stones will not go to the bottom; I mean hard solid stones. There
are many light pumice stones, of which in Lydia whole islands that
float are composed. Theophrastus is my authority for the statement. I
have myself seen a floating island in the lake near Cutiliae. Another
is carried about in the Vadimonian Lake, another in the lake by
Statonia. The island at Cutiliae contains trees and grows grass, and 7
yet it is borne up by the water, and is wafted now in this direction,
now in that, not merely by wind, but even by a mere air. So light the
breath that moves it that night and day it never remains stationary in
one spot. There are two reasons for it: first, there is the weight of
the water, which is medicated and therefore heavy; and then there is
the portable material of the island itself, which contains no solid
body, although it supports trees. Perhaps in the first instance the 8
thick liquid laid hold upon and made fast light trunks and boughs
scattered over the surface of the lake. So also whatever rocks are
in the island, you will find porous and hollow. They resemble those
formed of moisture that has hardened especially near the banks of
medicinal springs; in such cases the scourings of the spring coalesce
and the foam is solidified. It is necessarily light, being formed by
concretions of windy, empty material.
There are other peculiarities attaching to waters of different kinds, 9
of which no explanation can be offered. For example, why should Nile
water make women more fruitful? So effective is it in this respect that
in some instances wombs shut up in prolonged barrenness have relaxed
so as to render conception possible. Or why should certain waters in
Lycia prevent miscarriage, being sought after by ladies who are subject
to this frailty? For my own part I set these down among vulgar errors.
It is firmly believed by people that certain waters, whether applied
outwardly or taken inwardly, affect the body with scab, certain with
leprosy and foul blotches over the skin. Water gathered from dew,
they say, has this fault. Wouldn’t any one suppose that water that 10
turns into ice is the heaviest of all? The truth is just the opposite
of this. The change takes place in the thinnest water, which for that
very reason is most easily congealed by the cold. The origin of the
stone that resembles ice is plain from the very name used for it by
the Greeks. They apply the term crystal (κρύσταλλος) equally to the
transparent stone and to the ice from which the stone is supposed to be
formed. Rain water, which contains very little solid matter, once it is
frozen becomes more and more condensed through the persistence of the
longer cold until all the air is expelled, and it is compressed to the
last degree; then what was once moisture is changed into stone.
XXVI
Some rivers rise in summer like the Nile, of which I will give an 1
account later on. Theophrastus makes himself responsible for the
statement that in Pontus likewise certain rivers rise in the summer
season. Four different causes are assigned for this. First, the earth
is at that period most readily changed into moisture. Second, there are
in the remote districts heavier rains, the water from which, finding
its way by secret channels, comes unnoticed to swell the volume of the
rivers. A third explanation is that the estuary is exposed to more
frequent winds, and is lashed by the sea waves; the river is checked
and seems to increase because it cannot discharge freely. The fourth
reason connects itself with the heavenly bodies. These bodies by 2
their more severe pressure during certain months drain the rivers; when
they retire to a greater distance, the waste and drain are less. What
was previously lost now accrues by way of increase. Certain rivers
fall visibly into some grotto or other, and thus are withdrawn from
sight; some are gradually wasted and disappear. They return, however,
at some distance off and recover their name and course. The reason is
plain enough. There is vacant space underground. All liquid naturally 3
is carried to the lower level and to the unoccupied space. The rivers
received into these recesses have run their course there in secret. But
as soon as any solid obstacle blocks the way, they burst through the
part that offers the slightest obstruction to their escape and regain
their channel above ground.
So when Lycus has been swallowed up by the yawning earth,
He comes forth far thence, and is born from another source.
So is now drunk up, now gliding with silent stream,
Is restored to its Argolic waves the mighty Erasinus.
In the East as well as the West this happens. The Tigris is absorbed 4
by the earth and after long absence reappears at a point far removed,
but undoubtedly the same river. Some fountains cast out their scourings
at a fixed period; the fountain Arethuse does so every fifth summer
during the Olympic festival. Thence comes the belief that the Alpheus
makes its way right from Achaia to Sicily, stealing under sea by secret
sluice, and reappearing only when it reaches the coast at Syracuse. On
that account, during the days on which the Olympic festival is taking
place, the dung of the victims offered in sacrifice being thrown into
the stream of the river (Alpheus) turns up in quantity away in Sicily.
You have yourself told the story, my dear Lucilius, in your own poem, 5
and so has Virgil, who says in his address to Arethuse:
So when thou glid’st beneath Sicilian seas,
Never may sea nymph mingle bitter salt waves with thine.
In the Carian Chersonese there is a fountain of the Rhodians which at
long intervals sends up from its depths certain foul excretions of mud,
until it is set free of them by being cleaned out. At certain places 6
wells throw up not merely mud but also leaves, and bits of crockery
and any other filthy things that have accumulated in them. The sea
does the same everywhere, its nature being to drive ashore all filthy
impurities. In the neighbourhood of Messana and Mylae as it boils and
tosses in storms it throws up on the beach something actually like
ordure, which has a vile smell too. Whence comes the fable that the
oxen of the sun are stalled in that neighbourhood. In certain cases of
this kind it is difficult to reach the true explanation, especially
when the time of the occurrence in question has not actually been
observed and is therefore doubtful. But though the immediate and 7
special cause cannot be discovered, there is a general one worth
mentioning; all waters when standing and enclosed tend to throw off
impurities. In water that has a current the impurities cannot settle,
as they are carried down and expelled by the mere force of the stream.
The waters which do not throw off foreign bodies that settle in them
always boil more or less. As for the sea, it drags from its lowest
depths dead bodies, refuse of vegetation, and all kinds of wreckage,
and purges itself of them, not merely when its billows rage in a storm
but likewise in its calm and peaceful moments.
XXVII
The occasion reminds me of a wider question. When the fated day of 1
deluge comes, after what fashion will the earth for the most part
be overwhelmed by the waves? Will it be by the strength of Ocean
and the rise of the outer sea against us? Or will the rain descend
uninterruptedly, and will summer be cut out of the year while
persistent winter bursts its clouds and pours down endless masses of
water? Or will earth herself open new reservoirs and shed forth 2
rivers more abundantly? Or will a single cause be insufficient to
produce such a catastrophe, and all the methods conspire together, the
rains descending and the river floods rising, and the seas hurrying
in hot haste from their place--all agencies in concert bent upon the
one aim, the destruction of the human race? The last is the truth.
Nature finds no difficulties in compassing her ends, especially when
she hastens to make an end of herself. At the creation of things she
economises her efforts, putting forth her energy in small imperceptible
increase: for destruction she comes with sudden and irresistible might.
How long a time is needed to bring the embryo child to the birth! How 3
great the toil called for in rearing the tender infant! How careful the
nurture through which the frail body is at length brought to manhood!
But how insignificant the effort needed to undo it all! Cities take
centuries to establish: an hour brings their ruin. Ages rear the
forest: a moment turns it to ashes. To its stability and vigour this
universe of things calls for great and constant protection; quickly and
suddenly dissolution comes. Deviation by nature from her established 4
order in the world suffices for the destruction of the race.
So when that day of fate comes, many causes will be at work in
fulfilling its decrees; and as some, including Fabianus, think, such
a change will not come without a shock to the whole universe. In the
first instance there will be excessive rainfall, a dull leaden sky with
never a glimpse of the sun. The clouds will be unbroken, the gathering
moisture will cause thick darkness, and there will be no winds to lick
it up. Hence the crops will be diseased, the grain ere it be grown 5
will wither without fruit. All tillage of man’s hand will be ruined;
marsh grass will spring up over all the plains. Presently the stronger
plants feel the strain; their roots are loosened, and the pollard elms
fall forward, carrying their vines with them. All shrubs lose their
hold on the soil, which has become soft and flabby. Soon the ground is
so saturated that it can support neither grain nor fruitful pasture.
The stress of famine is felt, and recourse is had to the ancient
sustenance of berries. The fruit is shaken from ilex and oak, and any
other tree that has been able to keep its ground by the support of the
clefts of the rocks in the mountains. Roofs are sodden and rickety;
the rain has penetrated to the depths, and the foundations sink. The 6
ground is all a marsh. It is vain to seek supports to the tottering
houses; every foundation is set on slippery ground, and in the muddy
soil nothing is firm. After the storm-clouds have more and more densely
massed, and the accumulated snows of centuries have melted, a cataract
sweeps down from the lofty mountains carrying before it the woods now
insecure in their place, tearing off boulders from their fastenings,
and whirling them down in fierce career. It washes off the country 7
houses, and takes down with it flocks of sheep among the _débris_. The
smaller hamlets it carries off as it passes, but at length it leaves
its course and rushes in fury upon the larger homesteads. It draws in
its career whole cities, inhabitants, and buildings all mixed together:
people know not whether to complain of a catastrophe or a shipwreck. So
utterly crushed are they and at the same time submerged by its coming.
By and by, as it advances, the cataract is swollen by the absorption
of other torrents, and in devastating course roams through the whole
plain. Finally, it holds universal sway; it has earned a title by the
widespread destruction of the world which it carries as its burthen.
The rivers, too, originally large, have been so hurried down by 8
the storms that they have left their channels. The Rhone, the Rhine,
the Danube, even when confined within their banks, have an impetuous
torrent. What, suppose you, are they now that they have overflowed
and made themselves new banks, and, cutting through the soil have all
wandered from their wonted course? With what headlong rush they roll
down! The Rhine overspreads the plains, but the wideness of the space
causes no slackening of its energy; it pours its waters in full force
over the whole extent as if it were rushing through a gorge. The Danube
no longer washes the base, or even the middle, of the mountains; it 9
lashes the very summits, bearing down with it the mountain sides it has
flooded, the crags it has overturned, the beetling promontories through
whole provinces; it undermines their foundations, and carries them far
off from the mainland. And, after all, the river finds no exit--for it
had closed up every passage against itself--but returns in a circuit,
and envelops in one vast whirlpool the huge expanse of lands and cities.
Meantime the rains continue, the sky becomes still more threatening,
and thus, for long, disaster is heaped upon disaster. What was once
cloud is now profound night, and that, too, dread and terrible, with 10
gleams of lurid light between. For frequent flashes show, and squalls
disturb the sea. Then for the first time, feeling the increase from
the rivers, and too narrow to contain itself, the main advances its
shores. Its own bounds cannot contain it, and yet the torrents from
land prevent its escape, and drive back its waves. Still, the greater
part of the torrents detained by their narrow mouth recoil in pools,
reducing the fields to the aspect of a continuous lake. Now everything,
far as the eye can reach, is a waste of waters. Every hill is hidden
in the abyss, everywhere is fathomless depth of water. Only in the 11
highest mountain tops are there shallows. To these heights men have
fled with wives and children, and have driven up their cattle. All
intercourse and communication have been cut off among the wretched
survivors; for all the lower ground has been filled by the waves. The
remnants of the human race cling to every lofty peak. Brought to the
last shift, they have this one solace, that apprehension has passed
into stupor. Astonishment so fills them that there is no room for
fear. Even grief finds no place; for it loses its force in one 12
whose wretchedness has passed beyond perception of suffering. So there
are only mountain tops that appear like islands above the water, and
increase the number of the scattered Cyclades, as that accomplished
poet finely says; with an exaltation of language too in keeping with
his theme, he exclaims:
All was sea; to the sea there was no shore.
It is a pity he reduced that burst of genius and his splendid subject
to childish twaddle by adding:
The wolf has to swim among the sheep, the wave carries tawny lions.
There is too little seriousness in making sport in this way when the 13
earth has been swallowed up. He expressed a fine thought and caught a
vivid picture of the utter confusion when he said:
Through the open plains the rivers wander at their will,
... The towers totter and sink beneath the flood.
That was splendid, if he had not minded what the wolf and the sheep
were doing. Could anything, in fact, swim amid such deluge and
destruction? Was not every hoof drowned in the same torrent as carried
it off? You conceived a worthy image, Ovid, when all the world was
overwhelmed, and the sky itself descended upon earth. Keep it up. You
will know what it ought to be if you reflect that the whole world was
afloat. Now we must return to our discussion.
XXVIII
There is a section of philosophers who hold that while the earth may 1
be greatly harassed by excessive rains, it cannot be overwhelmed by
them. By a mighty blow this mighty earth must be smitten. Rain will
spoil the crops, hail will knock off the fruit; but the rivers will
only be swollen above their banks, and will subside again. Some, again,
are satisfied that the cause of the widespread destruction will be
derived from the movements of the sea. The great shipwreck of the world
cannot, they think, arise from injury by cataract, river, or rain. I am
willing to grant that when that day of destruction is at hand, and 2
Heaven is resolved to create a new race of men, the rain will pour down
incessantly, and there will be no limit to the floods, the north and
other dry winds will cease to blow; the south will bring up in plenty
clouds and rain and stream.
But hitherto only damage has been inflicted.
The crops are laid low, and to the grief of the farmer,
All hope of increase is abandoned; the toil of the long year is
wasted and vain.
But for our purpose the earth must be more than damaged, it must be
submerged. In fact, the disasters described are merely the prelude
to destruction. After that, the seas swell far beyond their wonted
bounds, sending out their waves far above the farthest high-water
mark of the most violent tempest. The winds will urge them on from
the rear, rolling up huge billows that will break far inland out of 3
sight of the highest shore. In course of time the shore will thus be
shifted forward, the deep will be established in a realm that is not
its own; the mischief will come nearer, and from its new base the tide
will issue still from the deepest recesses of the main. For just like
atmosphere and ether, this element, sea, has a large reserve, and in
its depth is far more copious than appears to the eye. This reserve,
moved by fate, not merely by tides--for tides are but the agency of
fate--raises and drives before it a gulf of vast extent. Then in 4
wondrous wise it rears its crest, and overtops all man’s refuges
of safety. Nor do the waters find this a hard task, since, if the
heights were calculated, it would be found that the sea mounts from an
elevation equal to that of earth. The surface of the sea is of uniform
level; for the earth itself as a whole is uniformly level. Hollows and
plains are everywhere below the general level.
But the whole globe is as a matter of fact formed into a regular
sphere, while in part of it is the sea, which unites to form the unity
of a single ball. But just as when one looks out across a plain, the 5
ground that sinks gradually deceives the eye, so we are not aware of
the sea’s curvatures, and all that is visible is a plain. But being on
a level with the earth, the sea does not require to raise itself to
any great height in order to overflow. In order to overtop what is on
a level with it, it need make only a slight rise. Besides, the flow
of it does not proceed from the shore where it is lower, but from mid
ocean where the heap in question stands. Therefore, as the tide at the
equinox soon after the conjunction of moon and sun rises to a height 6
greater than at any other time of year; in like manner this one that is
sent out to seize upon the earth must exceed in violence the highest
of ordinary tides, and bear a far greater volume of water; nor does
it begin to ebb until it has swollen above the peaks of the mountains
that are its objective. Some localities have at present a tide that
runs up inland for a hundred miles in ordinary course harmlessly. It
flows up to its normal limit and then ebbs again. But when the time of
deluge comes, the tide, freed from all restraint, will set no limit 7
to its advance. In what way? you say. Just in the same way as the great
conflagration is destined to take place. Both will take place when God
has seen fit to end the old order, and bring in a better. Fire and
water are lords of the earth. From these it took its rise, and in these
it will find its grave. So when a new creation of the world has been
resolved upon by Heaven, the sea will be let loose on us from above;
or it may be the raging fire, if another variety of destruction is
Heaven’s will.
XXIX
Some suppose that in the final catastrophe the earth, too, will be 1
shaken, and through clefts in the ground will uncover sources of
fresh rivers which will flow forth from their full source in larger
volume. Berosus, the translator of [the records of] Belus, affirms
that the whole issue is brought about by the course of the planets. So
positive is he on the point that he assigns a definite date both for
the conflagration and the deluge. All that the earth inherits will, he
assures us, be consigned to flame when the planets, which now move in
different orbits, all assemble in Cancer, so arranged in one row that a
straight line may pass through their spheres. When the same gathering
takes place in Capricorn, then we are in danger of the deluge.
Midsummer is at present brought round by the former, midwinter by the
latter. They are zodiacal signs of great power seeing that they are 2
the determining influences in the two great changes of the year. I
should myself quite admit causes of the kind. The destruction of the
world will not be determined by a single reason.
But I should like to apply in this connection as well, a principle
which we Stoics adopt in regard to a conflagration of the universe.
Whether the world is a soul, or a body under the government of nature,
like trees and crops, it embraces in its constitution all that it is
destined to experience actively or passively from its beginning right
on to its end; it resembles a human being, all whose capacities are
wrapped up in the embryo before birth. Ere the child has seen the 3
light the principle of beard and grey hairs is innate. Albeit small
and hidden, all the features of the whole body and of every succeeding
period of life are there. In like manner the creation of the world
embraces sun and moon, stars with their successive phases, and the
birth of all sentient life; and no less the methods of change in all
earthly things. Among the latter is flood, which comes by a law of
nature just as winter and summer do. So, that catastrophe will not be
produced simply by rain, but rain will contribute: nor by inroads 4
of the sea, but these inroads will contribute: nor by earthquake, but
earthquake will contribute. All elements will aid nature, that nature’s
decrees may be executed. The chief cause of its inundation will be
furnished by the earth herself, which, as has been already said, is
subject to transmutation, and may dissolve in moisture.
Therefore, there will one day come an end to all human life and 5
interests. The elements of the earth must all be dissolved or utterly
destroyed in order that they all may be created anew in innocence, and
that no remnant may be left to tutor men in vice. There will be more
moisture then than there ever was before. At present the elements are
all carefully adjusted to the parts they have to fulfil. To destroy
the equipoise in which the balance stands, there must be some addition
to one or other of them. The addition will be to moisture. It has,
at present, power to surround, but not to overwhelm the earth. Any
addition to it must of necessity overflow into ground that does not now
belong to it.[60] So the earth as the weaker is bound to yield to sea
which has gathered unnatural strength. So it will begin to rot, then
to be loosened and converted into moisture, and to waste away by the 6
continuous drain. Rivers will then issue forth beneath mountains,
shaking them to the foundations by their fury; then they will flow on
in silence without a breath of air. The soil will everywhere give forth
water; the tops of mountains will pour it out, just as disease corrupts
what is sound, and an ulcer taints its whole vicinity. The nearer the
part is to the soil that is being liquefied, the more quickly will
it be washed off, dissolved, and finally carried away. The rock will
everywhere gape in fissures, and the fresh supplies of water will leap
down into the gulfs, and unite in forming one great sea. There will be
no Adriatic any longer, no strait in the Sicilian Sea, no Charybdis, no
Scylla. All the fabulous dangers will be swallowed up in the new sea; 7
the existing Ocean which surrounds the fringes of the earth will come
into the centre.
[60] The text is uncertain, but the meaning fairly obvious.
Nor will this be all. As if this were not enough, winter will seize
upon months that are not his, summer will be stopped, the heat of
every heavenly body that dries up earth’s moisture will be quenched
and cease. All these names will be obliterated--Caspian and Red
Sea, Ambracian and Cretan Gulfs, the Pontus and the Propontis. All
distinctions will disappear. All will be mixed up which nature has 8
now arranged in its several parts. Nor will walls and battlements
afford protection to any. Temples will not save their worshippers, nor
citadels their refugees. The wave will anticipate the fugitives, and
sweep them down from their very stronghold. Some enemies will hasten
from the west, others from the east. A single day will see the burial
of all mankind. All that the long forbearance of fortune has produced,
all that has been reared to eminence, all that is famous and all that
is beautiful, great thrones, great nations--all will descend into the
one abyss, will be overthrown in one hour.
XXX
Nature, as I have said, finds no task hard, and especially one 1
resolved upon from the beginning, to which she does not come of a
sudden, but of which long warning has been given. From the world’s
first morning, when out of shapeless uniformity it assumed this form it
wears, nature’s decree had fixed the day when all earthly things should
be overflowed. Nay, from of old the seas have practised their strength
for this purpose, lest at any time destruction as a strange work might
be found difficult to compass. Do you not see how the breaker dashes
against the beach as if it wished to leave its element? Do you not
see how the tide sometimes crosses its bounds and instals the sea in
possession of the land? Do you not see how unceasing is the war it 2
wages against its barriers? But what special apprehension need there
be of the sea, the place where you see such turmoil, and of the rivers
that burst forth in such fury? Where has nature not placed water? She
can attack us on all sides the moment she chooses. I can give my own
word of honour for it that water meets us as we turn up the soil; every
time our avarice sends us down a mine, or any other motive induces us
to sink a shaft deep in the earth, the end of the excavation is always
a rush of water.
Remember, too, that there are huge lakes hidden deep in the earth, 3
great quantities of sea stored up, and many rivers that glide through
the unseen depths. On all sides, therefore, will be causes of deluge;
for some waters flow in beneath the earth and others flow round it.
Though long restrained they will at last prevail, and will join stream
to stream and pool to marsh. The sea will fill up the mouth of every
fountain, and will open it out to wider extent. Just as the bowels
drain the body in the draught, or as the strength goes off into 4
perspiration, so the earth will dissolve, and though other causes
are inactive, it will find within itself a flood in which to sink.
All the great forces will thus, I should suppose, combine. Nor will
destruction tarry. The harmony is assailed and broken when once the
world has relaxed aught of its needed care. At once, from all sides,
open and hidden, above and beneath, will rush the influx of waters.
There is nothing like the letting loose of the sea’s full force, 5
for violence and ungovernable fury; it rises in rebellion and spurns
every restraint. It will make full use of its permitted liberty; as
its nature prompts, what it rends and surrounds it will soon fill
up. Just as fire that breaks out at different points will speedily
unite the flames and make one grand blaze, so the overflowing seas
will join forces in an instant. But the waves will not enjoy their
unrestrained liberty for ever. When the destruction of the human race 6
is consummated, and when wild beasts, whose nature men had come to
share, have been consigned together to a like fate, the earth will once
more drink up the waters. Nature will force the sea to stay its course,
and to expend its rage within its wonted bounds. Ocean will be banished
from our abodes into his own secret dwelling-place. The ancient order
of things will be recalled. Every living creature will be created 7
afresh. The earth will receive a new man ignorant of sin, born under
happier stars. But they, too, will retain their innocence only while
they are new. Vice quickly creeps in; virtue is difficult to find;
she requires ruler and guide. But vice can be acquired even without a
tutor.
BOOK IV
CONTAINING A DISCUSSION OF SNOW, HAIL, AND RAIN [THE NILE]
PREFACE
You tell me you are delighted, Lucilius, my most esteemed of friends, 1
with your peaceful government of Sicily. You will continue to be
delighted if you are willing to observe the bounds of moderation, and
do not try to turn into an empire what is merely a province. Nor do I
doubt that this will be your choice, knowing as I do that you are a
stranger to ambition, and a friend to a peaceful life of letters. Let
those who cannot bear their own company, long for a crowd of affairs
and of people! You are on the best of terms with yourself. It is
little wonder that few attain such a happy lot. We are always laying 2
commands upon ourselves to our own dispeace. We suffer at one moment
from love of, at another from weariness of, ourselves. Our unhappy soul
is now inflamed with pride, now inflated with passion. Sometimes we
relax it through indulgence, sometimes we consume it with anxiety. The
most pitiable thing of all is that we are never alone with ourselves.
So, where such a crowd of vices have to mess together, there must becccc 3
continual wrangling among them. Behave, therefore, my dear Lucilius, as
you are wont to behave. Separate yourself as far as possible from the
common herd, and expose no side to the attack of flattery. Flatterers
are adepts in spreading a net for their betters. However much you are
on your guard, you will be no match for them. If you allow yourself
to be caught, you will be delivering yourself up to betrayal, take my
word for it. Flattery has in it the inherent charm, that even when 4
spurned, it is not unpleasing: often shut out, it is at the last taken
to the bosom. Flattery accepts its rejection as a mark of attention;
even insults cannot subdue it.
What I am going to tell you may sound incredible, yet it is the simple
truth. Every man is most open to danger on the side on which he is 5
attacked. Perhaps, indeed, that is the very reason why he is attacked
on that side. You must, therefore, lay your account to recognise that,
do what you will, you cannot manage to be impervious to adulation. When
you have closed every loophole, it will still wound you through your
harness. One assailant will employ his flattery secretly and sparingly;
another, above board, openly, with an affectation of honest sincerity,
as if it were straightforward bluntness, not device. Plancus, the
greatest adept in the art before Vitellius’ time, used to say that
secret, dissembled flattery was not to be employed. Advances, quoth he,
are lost if they are not recognised. The flatterer makes most headway 6
when he is detected; still more, in fact, if an open rebuke brings the
blush to his cheek. You must assume that a public character like you
will encounter many Plancuses. It is no remedy against the inveterate
plague to refuse to be praised. I never knew a man more shrewd in every
practical matter than Crispus Passienus, and especially in diagnosing
and treating faults of character. He often used to say that we only
put-to the door against flattery, and do not shut it, much in the same
way as in the face of a mistress. If she gives it a shove, we are
pleased, still more so if she forces it open. I remember hearing that 7
distinguished man, Demetrius, remark to a certain powerful freedman
that he, too, had an easy road to riches on the day that he made up
his mind to renounce all virtuous resolutions. Nor will I grudge any
of you, said he, the knowledge of the art, but I will teach those
who regard gain as the one thing needful how they may attain their
object. They need not follow the doubtful fortune of the sea, nor the
competition of buying and selling: they need not place their faith in
the fickle proceeds of the ground, nor the still more fickle fortunes
of the exchange. I will teach them a means of making money not merely
easy, but positively so merry that the victims whom they fleece will
share the fun. Flattery shall be the means. If you have the stature 8
of the pigmy Thracian matched against Thracian in the arena, I will
swear that you are taller than Fidus Annaeus or Apollonius Pycta. I
will say that no fellow could be more liberal than you, nor shall I
lie, since you may be considered to have bestowed upon all whatever you
have not robbed them of.
The fact is, my dear Junior, the more open and shameless flattery is,
and the more completely it has brazened its own features and raised
the conscious blush in those of others, the more quickly it storms the
citadel. We have now reached such a pitch of madness that he who uses
flattery sparingly is considered niggardly. I used to tell you thatccccc 9
my brother Gallio--a man whom even his most ardent admirer cannot love
according to the measure of his deserts--was a stranger to other vices,
but this he positively loathed. You might assail him on every side.
One began by paying homage to his intellect, the greatest and worthiest
of all, which one had rather see consecrated to the service of heaven
than wasted in weak human effort; he ran away from one who talked thus.
Or one began to praise his thrift--he was so indifferent to money that
he seemed neither to possess it nor to condemn it--he cut short the
very first words of the panegyric.
Or, again, one would admire his _bonhomie_ and unaffected grace 10
of character, which charms even those it passes unnoticed--a service
to every one he meets, which costs the author nothing. No one in the
world, I may tell you, is such a favourite with his one chosen friend
as he is with all. At the same time so great is his natural amiability
that it is free from all savour of artifice or pretence. No one, you
would think, can refuse credit for a goodness in which all share. At
this point, too, he successfully resisted your blandishments, leading
you to exclaim that you had found a man absolutely impregnable to
assaults of the flattery which no one ever refuses to take to his
bosom. You were forced to admit that you respected his wisdom and 11
determination in escaping from that unavoidable plague, all the more
that you had hoped that your insinuating words would be received with
open ears because they were true. Yet all the more he saw that he must
resist your wiles. For when truth is attacked by falsehood, the attack
always seeks the aid of some measure of truth. Still, I would not have
the flatterer who tried his art upon my brother displeased with his
success, as if he had acted his part ill while the other suspected some
joke or trick. You had not been detected, your advances had simply 12
been rejected. Now do you, Lucilius, adapt yourself to this model.
When any flatterer approaches you, say to him: Do you wish to convey a
complimentary message such as passes between magistrates duly installed
in office? Do you think that I am prepared to return the compliment,
and willing, therefore, to listen to your long story? Neither do I wish
to dupe, nor can I be duped. I should like well enough to have the
praise of people like yourself if you did not praise the bad as well as
the good.
And yet, Lucilius, why is it necessary for you to come down to their
level, and allow them to attack you at close quarters? Keep a long
distance between you and them. When you desire to have genuine praise,
why should you be indebted to another for it? Yourself commend your own
efforts. Say thus: Though my poverty prompted another kind of career,
and tempted me to devote my talents to a field which promised to 13
application a quick return, yet I gave myself up to liberal pursuits.
I turned aside to the unremunerative domains of poetry, and bestowed
myself upon the wholesome study of philosophy. I have showed that
seeds of virtue are planted in every breast. I have surmounted the
difficulties of birth; measuring my powers, not by my lot, but by my
capacity, I have reached a position on a level with the highest. My
friendship with Gaetulicus did not sap my allegiance to the Emperor
Caius Caligula. Messalina and Narcissus, long enemies of the State
before they became enemies of one another, were unable to overturn 14
my resolve to be true to others whom it was a crime to love.[61] I
risked my head for my loyalty. No word was wrung from me that I could
not utter with a clear conscience. All my fears were for my friends,
none for myself, except the fear of not proving a true friend. No
womanish tears escaped me, nor did I cling as suppliant to the hands
of any ruler. I have done nothing unbecoming a man or a good man.
Rising superior to dangers, ready to face all they threatened, I 15
thanked fortune for affording opportunity of showing what a price I put
upon honour. Such an issue could not be lightly esteemed in my eyes.
The suspense was not of long continuance. The weights in the scale
were by no means equal--was it better for me to perish for honour’s
sake or for honour to perish for my sake? I did not rush headlong to
self-destruction, the refuge of despair, to rescue myself from the
mad rage of the rulers. In Caius’ time I saw tortures and fires of
persecution. Under his reign I recognised at one period that the lot of
humanity had sunk to such a depth of misery that the loss of one’s 16
life might be ranked among the deeds of mercy. Yet, I did not fall upon
my sword, nor leap open-mouthed into the sea: I would not have it seem
that death was the only service I could render for honour’s sake. Add,
now, that my soul has never stooped to bribes, amid the eager race for
wealth my hand has never reached forth to receive unjust gain. Add,
too, the thriftiness of my mode of life, the restraint of my speech, my
courtesy toward inferiors, my respect for superiors.
[61] The passage is evidently corrupt; the facts with which it deals
are in part unknown.
After these reflections, ask yourself, my friend, whether what you
have related of yourself be true or false. If it is true, you have a
most important witness to your character; if false, there will be no
witness to the derision you have earned. I may myself appear at 17
present to be either seeking to throw my net over you or trying to make
you rise to my fly. Take either supposition for true, and begin, from
the example I offer, to fear all flatterers. Meditate on Virgil’s words:
Nowhere is honour safe;
or on Ovid’s:
As far as earth extends, the savage Fury rules;
For crime, methinks, all have conspired;
or on this sentiment of Menander’s--for who has not put forth the
full strength of his indignation on this topic, in abhorrence of 18
mankind’s agreement in rushing toward vice? All are bad livers, says
the poet, presenting himself on the stage in the rude character of a
raw countryman. He excepts neither greybeard nor youth, neither man
nor woman. He adds to the charge that it is not individuals or small
numbers that sin, but that wickedness is now ingrained in society all
through. One must flee from the world and return to oneself, nay,
rather one must escape from oneself. Though you and I are separated by
the sea, I will endeavour to render you some service: placing my 19
hand in yours I will guide your doubtful steps along the more excellent
way. At this distance I will mingle my talk with yours, that you may
not feel the loneliness. We shall be united in our noblest part--the
spirit. We shall impart mutual counsel, and, as you hang upon the lips
of your monitor, I will lead you far away from that province of yours.
For I would not have you put too implicit trust in records of the
past, or become self-satisfied as often as you reflect: I have under
my jurisdiction a province here which both maintained and crushed 20
the armies of the mightiest states, when it was offered as a prize in
that colossal war between Carthage and Rome. It saw the strength of
four Roman generals, in other words, of the whole empire, massed in
one spot; it raised high the fortunes of Pompey, brought Caesar’s to
their culmination; transferred the power of Lepidus to his rivals, and
contained the fate of all. Sicily was an eye-witness of that great
spectacle which showed plainly to the world how rapid the descent 21
from highest to lowest could be, and in how many different ways great
power might be overthrown by fortune. For at one and the same time it
witnessed the downfall of Pompey and Lepidus from the pinnacle of power
in opposite ways; Pompey had to run from his enemy’s army, Lepidus from
his own.
I
Although Sicily, then, has many wonderful sights in and around it, I
will meantime withdraw your mind wholly from your own province, and,
passing by all questions relating to it, will direct your thoughts
to a far different scene. In your society I will resume the inquiry
postponed in my last book, why the Nile overflows in the summer months.
Now, let me remark that the philosophers have asserted the similarity
of the Danube to the Nile, because its source is unknown and it is
larger in summer than in winter. Both statements are clearly false.
We know for a fact that the Danube rises in Germany. Again, though
the rise of the Danube begins in summer, it is at a period when the
Nile still remains within its ordinary limits: the heat is then only
beginning, and the stronger sun toward the latter part of spring is
softening the snows, but it has to melt them before the Nile begins
to rise. During the remainder of the summer the Danube actually falls
until it reaches its winter size, from which in due course it begins
its rise again.[62]
[62] The meaning of the last clause is taken by some to be: and even
falls below it--a somewhat pointless remark.
II
But the increase of the Nile begins in the middle of the hot season, 1
before the rise of the dog-star, and continues till after the equinox.
Nature has raised up this noble river before the eyes of the world, and
has so ordered its inundation of the land of Egypt that it should occur
at the very time at which the ground is most parched with heat. The
earth thus drinks the more deeply, and imbibes sufficient to counteract
the drought of the whole year. In the part of Egypt that stretches
round Ethiopia, you must bear in mind, there is either no rain at all
or it occurs only at long intervals, and is insufficient to give much
relief to a land which ordinarily knows nothing of water from the
clouds. It is in the Nile, as you are aware, that Egypt reposes all 2
its hopes. According to the abundance or scantiness of its overflow is
the leanness or the fatness of its season. _None of its farmers regards
the sky_, are the words of your own poem. And why should I not crack
a joke with my dear poet friend, and retort with a verse from his
favourite Ovid?[63] who says:
Nor do the herbs make supplication to the rain-god Jupiter.
[63] The quotation is really from Tibullus.
If one could only ascertain at what point in the course of the river 3
the rise begins, the causes of the rise would also be discovered.
As it is, the river wanders through great deserts, spreads out into
marshes, among many scattered tribes, before it is for the first time
after its wandering, mazy course gathered into one near Philae. Philae
is a rugged island, precipitous on all sides; it is surrounded by the
two branches of the river before they unite to form the one river
which henceforth bears the designation Nile. The whole city of Philae
is surrounded by the Nile, which after leaving Ethiopia is a large
rather than rapid river.[64] Next in its course are the sandy deserts
through which passes the trade route to the Red Sea.[64] After that 4
the Nile enters the Cataracts, a spot famous for a wonderful sight.
The river rises over high crags that are at several points jagged.
The opposing rocks break up its course and rouse its utmost force;
as it struggles through the narrows, swirls show the points where it
conquers or is conquered. A smooth channel had hitherto conducted its
waters without uproar. Here for the first time they are roused, and the
turbulent cataract leaps down through the narrow passage quite unlike
its former self. Up to that point the stream was thick and muddy. 5
But once it enters the craggy gorge it breaks into foam. Its colour is
no longer the natural one, but derived from the ground through which
it has to force its way. When at length it has struggled through the
obstructions, suddenly deprived of support, it falls from a vast height
with a roar that resounds through all the surrounding regions. The
race planted in that savage place was indeed unable to endure the din;
their ears were deafened by the constant crash, and they were therefore
removed from the settlement.
[64] The text is very uncertain.
Among the wonderful sights of the river I have been told of a feat of
incredible daring performed by the inhabitants. Two of them embark in
a small boat, one steering, the other baling out the water. Forthwith
they are violently buffeted from side to side by the furious waves of 6
the rapid river, and at length reach the narrowest channels, through
which they thread their way till they escape from the craggy gorge.
Then they are carried down along with the whole volume of the stream,
guiding all the time by hand the rushing craft. At one moment they seem
to stand right on their head; the spectators are in great alarm; one
gives them up for lost, and believes they must be sunk and overwhelmed
by such a mass of water. But finally they are shot out like an arrow,
and are discovered afloat at a point far below where they had entered
the current. The waves in their fall do not swamp them, but pass them
on to smooth water.
The first rise of the Nile is observed near the island Philae which I 7
have just mentioned. A short distance from it the river is divided by
a rock in the centre, which the Greeks call the Inaccessible (Ἄβατος).
No foot approaches it save that of the priestly ministers. Those cliffs
first feel the increase of the river. Then along distance below that
two crags project, called by the natives the veins of the Nile. A
great quantity of water is shed out by them, but yet insufficient to
flood the land of Egypt. When the date of the sacred festival comes
round, the priests throw into these fountains a public offering, while
the magistrates offer gifts of gold. From this point the Nile, 8
obviously displaying the fresh energy it has gained, flows onward in
a channel of profound depth, but is restrained by mountain barriers
from spreading widely beyond its banks. Only when it reaches Memphis is
it released; and separating into numerous channels, it roams over the
champaign.
In order to regulate the supply, canals are constructed by hand, and
thus the water is distributed over all Egypt. At first near its bank
the stream is simply divided; by and by the waters extend till they
assume the aspect of a wide, swollen sea at rest. The extent of the
country flooded, which embraces the whole land of Egypt to right and
left, deprives the current of all its force. The height of the Nile’s 9
rise determines the expectation of growth for the year. The farmer
is never out in his reckoning; the fertility of the land answers
unfailingly to the measure of the river’s increase. It spreads a
coating of soil as well as water over the thirsty, sandy ground. As it
comes down swollen, it deposits all its sediment in the dry, gaping
cracks, and spreads over the parched soil all the rich mud it has
brought down. It thus renders a double service to the land--first, by
overflowing it, and then by coating it with slime. And so any portion
that it does not reach lies waste and unsightly. If the inundation 10
is unduly high, it does damage.
The river possesses this wonderful characteristic: while all other
rivers wash away and exhaust land, the Nile, though so much larger
than the rest, far from eating away or rubbing off soil, actually
adds to its vigour; it contains very little that injuriously affects
the soil,[65] for by the mud it brings down, it soaks and binds the
sands. Egypt, in fact, owes to the river not merely the fertility of
the soil, but also the soil itself. It is a beautiful sight when the 11
Nile has spread itself over all the fields. The plains are hidden, the
valleys have disappeared; only the towns stand out like islands. In the
interior of the country there is no communication except by boat. The
people are overjoyed the more, the less they can see of their country.
Even when the river has resumed its normal course, it discharges into
the sea by seven mouths, any one of them itself a sea. Moreover, it
sends out many less famous arms toward either bank.
[65] Or, its least service is that it tempers the soil.
And then when we look at the monsters it rears, they are equal to those
of ocean in size, and no less formidable. One may judge indeed of the 12
greatness of the river from the hugeness of the animals for whose
sustenance it provides food in abundance, and for whose free movements
it affords room. Balbillus, a most excellent man who has distinguished
himself in every walk of letters, has recorded that during his own
government of Egypt he himself saw in the largest mouth of the Nile,
the Heracleotic, the strange sight of what may be called a pitched
battle between dolphins, coming up from the sea, and crocodiles meeting
them in front from the river. The crocodiles were in the event 13
vanquished by the inoffensive animals with harmless bite. It happened
on this wise: The upper part of the crocodile’s body is hard, and
cannot be pierced by the teeth even of larger animals; but the lower
part is soft and tender. The dolphins dived in the fight and wounded
the belly of the crocodiles with the projecting spikes they carry
on their back; then driving home the stroke, they fairly cut up the
enemy. When a number of the crocodiles had been opened out in this 14
fashion, the remainder, to adopt military language, wheeled their line
and retreated. The battle was not to the strong, the fleeing creature
successfully resisted the daring, the most daring fled before the
timid! Nor is it by any peculiar virtue of stock or blood that the
islanders from Tentyra beat the crocodiles, but merely through pluck
and contempt of them. They take the offensive against them, and as the
crocodiles try to escape they lasso them and drag them ashore. At the
same time many of the hunters lose their lives through lack of nerve in
the chase.
Theophrastus assures us that the Nile has at times brought down sea
water. It is a well-established fact that for two successive years, 15
the tenth and eleventh of the reign of Cleopatra, there was no rise
in the river. People say that this was an intimation of the impending
fall of its two rulers. For as a matter of fact, the rule of Antony and
Cleopatra did fall. At an earlier period the Nile did not rise for nine
whole years, according to the statement of Callimachus.
But I must now go on to inquire into the explanations of the 16
occurrence of the rise of the Nile in summer; and I will begin with the
most ancient of them. Anaxagoras asserts that the snow melting on the
peaks of Ethiopia is constantly running down to the Nile. All antiquity
shared the same view, which is recorded by Aeschylus, Sophocles, and
Euripides. But many proofs make it plain that it is a mistaken 17
one. First of all, the blackened complexion of the people shows that
Ethiopia is exceedingly hot. So do the habits of the Troglodytes
(cave-dwellers), who for coolness have underground houses. The rocks
glow with heat as if a fire had been applied, and that, not only at
mid-day, but even toward nightfall. The dusty ground is so hot that
no foot of man can endure it. Silver is unsoldered.[66] The joints of
statues are melted. No coating of plated metal will stick on. The south 18
wind, too, coming from that tract of country, is the hottest of all
winds. None of the animals that go to earth in winter ever hibernates
there. Even in midwinter the serpent is seen above ground in the open.
At Alexandria, too, which lies far north of this excessive heat, snow
does not fall; but the upper regions have not even rain.
[66] Some render--is dissolved and gives off its lead.
How then, I ask, could a district exposed to such broiling heat receive
a snowfall sufficient to last through a whole summer? No doubt some of 19
the mountains in Ethiopia, as well as elsewhere, intercept snow;
but there can never be a greater fall than in the Alps, or the peaks
of Thrace, or the Caucasus. It is in spring, however, or early summer,
that the rivers that flow from the European mountains are swollen;
subsequently during winter time they decrease. The reason, of course,
is that the rains in spring wash off so much of the snow, and the
first heat of summer soon scatters the remnants. Neither the Rhine,
nor the Rhone, nor the Danube, nor yet the Caÿstrus is liable to the
catastrophe of an overflow in winter; their increase is in summer,
though in those northern peaks where they rise the snow lies very
deep. The Phasis, too, and the Dnieper would swell during summer 20
if snows had the power of raising the rivers high in spite of the
heat of that season. Besides, if this were the cause of the flooding
of the Nile, its stream would be fullest in early summer; for that is
the period when the snow is deepest and least impaired, and when from
its softness the thaw is quickest. The Nile, however, has a regular
increase to its stream during four months.
If one may believe Thales, the Etesian winds hinder the descent 21
of the Nile and check its course by driving the sea against its
mouths. It is thus beaten back, and returns upon itself. Its rise is
not the result of increase: it simply stops through being prevented
from discharging, and presently, wherever it can, it bursts out
into forbidden ground. Euthymenes of Marseilles bears corroborative
testimony: I have, he says, gone a voyage in the Atlantic Sea. It
causes an increase in the Nile as long as the Etesian winds observe
their season. For at that period the sea is cast up by pressure of the
winds. When the winds have fallen, the sea is at rest, and supplies 22
less energy to the Nile in its descent. Further, the taste of that sea
is fresh, and its denizens resemble those of the Nile. Now, if the
Etesian winds, as alleged, stir up the Nile, why, I should like to
know, does its rise begin before them and last after them? Moreover,
it does not rise higher in proportion to the violence of their blast.
Nor does it swell and fall according as they blow furiously or gently.
All which would happen if it derived from them the strength of its
increase. Then, again, the Etesian winds beat on the shore of Egypt, 23
and the Nile comes down in their teeth: whereas, if its rise is to be
traced to them, the river ought to come from the same quarter as they
do. Furthermore, if it flowed out of the sea, its waters would be clear
and dark blue, not muddy, as they are. Add to this that Euthymenes’
evidence is refuted by a whole crowd of witnesses. At such a time when
foreign parts were all unknown, there was opportunity for falsehood:
people like Euthymenes had scope for giving currency to travellers’
myths. But nowadays the whole coast of the sea beyond Gibraltar is
visited by trading vessels: none of the traders tell us that the Nile
rises there, or that the sea in the Atlantic tastes differently from
what it does elsewhere. The very nature of the sea forbids belief 24
in the story that it is fresh: the freshest water is always lightest,
and as such attracted by the sun in evaporation: the residuum, sea,
must be salt. Besides, why, on this theory, does the Nile not rise in
winter? The sea may be raised at that season by storms too, which are
considerably greater than the Etesians; the latter are comparatively
moderate in their force. Besides if the source were derived from the
Atlantic Ocean, Egypt would be flooded all at once; but, as a matter of
fact, the increase is very gradual.
Oenopides of Chios has another explanation: he says that in winter 25
heat is stored up under the ground; that is why caves are then warm,
and the water in wells is less cold. The veins of water are dried up by
this internal heat, he thinks. In other countries rivers swell through
rain: but the Nile, being aided by no rainfall, dwindles during the
rainy season of winter, and by and by increases in summer, a season
at which the interior of the earth is cold, and the frost returns
to the springs. Now, if that were true, rivers in general would 26
increase in summer, and all wells would then have greater abundance
of water. Besides, it is not true that there is an increase in the
heat underground in winter. Water and caves and wells are warm at that
season because they do not admit the frosty air from without. Thus,
they do not possess heat, they merely exclude cold. For the same reason
they are chilly in summer, because the air heated by the sun is drawn
off to a distance, and does not penetrate to them.
The next account is that of Diogenes of Apollonia. It runs thus: 27
The sun attracts moisture; the earth drained of it replenishes its
supply in part from the sea, in part from other water. Now, it is
impossible that one land should be dry and another overflowing with
moisture. The whole earth is full of perforations, and there are paths
of intercommunication from part to part. From time to time the dry
parts draw upon the moist. Had not the earth some source of supply,
it would ere this have been completely drained of its moisture.
Well, then, the sun attracts the waves. The localities most affected
are the southern.[67] When the earth is parched, it draws to it 28
more moisture. Just as in a lamp the oil flows to the point where
it is consumed, so the water inclines toward the place to which the
overpowering heat of the burning earth draws it. But where, it may be
asked, is it drawn from? Of course, it must be from those northern
regions of eternal winter, where there is a superabundance of it. This
is why a swift current sets from the Black Sea toward the Lower 29
Sea, without interruption, and not, as in the case of other seas,
with alternate flow and ebb of tide; there is always a descending
flood in the one direction. Unless this took place, and these routes
supplied the means whereby what is lacking may be bestowed on each
land, and what is superfluous may be given off, the whole earth would
ere now have been either drained or flooded. Now, one would like to ask
Diogenes, seeing the deep and all streams are in intercommunication, 30
why the rivers are not everywhere larger in summer. Egypt, he will
perhaps tell me, is more baked by the sun, and therefore the Nile rises
higher from the extra supply it draws; but in the other countries, too,
the rivers receive some addition. Another question--seeing that every
land attracts moisture from other regions, and a greater supply in
proportion to its heat, why is any part of the world without moisture?
Another--why is the Nile fresh if its water comes from the sea? No
river has a fresher and sweeter taste.
[67] The text is uncertain; the general meaning is, however, plain.
III
I should be somewhat too bold if I were to assure you as on oath that 1
hail is formed in the sky much in the way ice is with us, only that in
the former case a whole cloud is frozen. So I may regard myself as a
witness only in the second degree--one of those who say not that they
have actually seen but have been informed. Or, I may, for once, do as
the chroniclers do. After lying at large to their heart’s content,
they fix on some one point for which they refuse to vouch, adding:
Evidence of this will be found in the authorities. So, if you do not 2
believe me, Posidonius will vouchsafe to you his authority both for
the statement I have made, and for one that I am going to make. He
will assure you, as confidently as if he had witnessed the process of
formation, that hail is formed from a cloud that is charged with rain,
and has already turned into moisture. You can discover without a tutor
why the hail is round if you observe that drops of all kinds tend to
become globular. This is seen, for example, in looking-glasses, which 3
gather moisture from the breath, as well as in cups, and any other
smooth surface bedewed with it. So, too, in the leaves of grass or
trees, any drops that adhere take a circular form.
What is harder than rock, what softer than water?
Yet the hard rock is hollowed by drops of the soft water;
or, as another poet tells us:
The drip by its fall hollows the stone:
and this hollow is itself round. Whence it is evident that its shape 4
resembles this drip which hollows it out, sculpturing the spot to its
own form and character. Besides, the hail, even were it not of this
shape, might be rounded in its fall, and worn equally on all sides into
globular form as it is again and again whirled round in its descent
through the space of thick air it traverses. Snow, on the contrary,
cannot be affected thus, because it is not so solid, being indeed very
much scattered, and falling from no great height. It has its source
in the neighbourhood of the earth, and its descent is of no great
distance through the air, but starts from a point quite close by. Why
should I not allow myself the same licence as Anaxagoras in differing 5
from my authorities? Nowhere can equality of rights be claimed with
more propriety than among the philosophers. Hail is simply ice held
suspended in mid-air; snow is a floating congealed mass of the nature
of hoar-frost. I have already said that the difference between water
and dew is reproduced in the difference of hoar-frost and ice, and, in
like manner, in that between snow and hail.
IV
I might take leave of the question here, holding that I had finished 1
it. But I will give you good measure, and, having begun to trouble you
with my speculations, I will discuss everything connected with the
topic. One of the cognate questions is, why in winter there is snow but
no hail, while in spring, after the worst of the cold is over, there
are falls of hail. For let me be deceived for your benefit, though I
may say I am fully persuaded of the truth of what I am about to affirm.
I lend always a credulous ear to these trivial falsehoods; perhaps
they deserve to be punished by having one’s mouth stopped, but they 2
hardly call for the putting out of one’s eyes! In winter the atmosphere
is stiff, and is therefore not as yet capable of being converted into
water, but only into snow, to which the atmosphere is more akin. But
when spring begins, a greater variation of the atmosphere ensues, and,
the sky being warmer, the drops are larger. Therefore, as our poet
Virgil says:
When rain-charged spring descends,
there is a more violent change in the atmosphere, which everywhere
opens up and relaxes through the action of the mere warmth. For this
reason the clouds that are carried to earth are heavy and large 3
rather than lasting. Winter rain is thin and persistent. The fall often
occurs in the form of small, fine rain, with an admixture of snow.
We call it a snowy day when the cold is intense and the sky leaden.
Besides, when the north wind doth blow, producing its characteristic
sky, there may be fine rain. With south wind the rain is more
persistent, and the drops heavier.
V
One position held by the philosophers of my sect I neither venture 1
to adopt on account of its seeming weakness, nor yet can I pass it by
without mention. Where can be the harm of suggesting even an improbable
explanation when one has such an indulgent judge? If we are to apply
a test like the pyx to every argument, we shall soon cease to advance
any hypothesis at all and be reduced to dumbness. There are very few
statements that pass unchallenged. All the rest have to assert their
rights before they can win their case. Well, the assertion of the
Stoics is, that all the ice-bound region about Scythia and Pontus and
the northern quarter is released from its chain in spring; then the
frozen rivers resume their course, then the mountains melt the snows in
which they have been buried. It is quite conceivable, therefore, that
cool airs arise from this and mingle with the atmosphere of spring.
They add a proof which I have never tested nor have any intention of 2
testing. You, too, I fancy, however anxious you may be to ascertain the
truth, will be cautious about making such a trial of snow. The feet are
said to suffer less pain when one treads on hard, solid snow than if
the snow were slushy and half melted. Well, then, if the Stoics do not
lie, all the currents of air wafted from those northern parts, when the
snow has now been dislodged and the ice is breaking up, condense and
bind the atmosphere of the southern region which is already becoming
warm and moist. So what was going to be rain becomes, through the
violence done by the cold, hail instead.
VI
I cannot refrain from trotting out all the silly fancies of ourStoic 1
friends. The assertion in question is that there are some people
skilled in observing the clouds who foretell when a hail shower is
coming on. They gather this just from experience by marking the colour
of the clouds and noting which was on previous occasions followed
by hail. It seems incredible that at Cleonae there were hail-guards
(χαλαζοφύλακες) appointed by the state to look out for the approach
of hail. When they had given the signal that the hail was close at
hand, what do you think? that people ran off to get their overcoats
or cloaks? Nay, they each offered sacrifice as fast as they could, 2
one a lamb, another a chicken. Forthwith, those clouds after getting a
little taste of blood drew off in another direction. You smile! There
is something to make you smile more broadly. If one had not a lamb or
kid by, one laid hands upon oneself to an extent that could be done
without serious damage. You must not think the clouds greedy or cruel;
one merely pricked one’s finger with a well-sharpened style and made
atonement with this blood. The hail as invariably turned away from his
little plot as from the estate of the man who had prevailed upon it
through the offering of greater victims.
VII
Certain writers seek for a rational explanation of this practice. One 1
school, adopting the only line that comports with philosophy, deny
the possibility of making any bargain with hail and buying off storms
by paltry presents, true, though it be, that gifts overcome even gods.
Others affirm their suspicion that blood itself contains a virtue
potent enough to avert and repel a cloud. But how, I ask, should a
drop or two of blood possess a virtue to reach on high and influence
the clouds? Is it not much easier to say, the whole thing is a parcel
of lies? But Cleonae was strict in dealing with its warders who had 2
received charge of looking out beforehand for the storm, if it happened
that through their neglect the vineyards had been beaten down or the
crops laid. And among ourselves, too, at Rome the laws of the Twelve
Tables introduce safeguards against the blighting of a neighbour’s
crops by charms. Antiquity as yet untutored entertained the belief that
rain could be attracted or repelled by incantations. The impossibility
of such fancies is so evident that one need not enter a school of
philosophy in order to be taught how to disprove them.
VIII
I shall add one more remark which you will be very glad, I am sure, to
approve and applaud. It is asserted that snow is formed in the part
of the atmosphere near the earth. This layer has more heat than any
other, and that for three reasons. One is that all evaporation from
the earth, containing as it does much dry, glowing matter, is always
the hotter, the more recently it has left the ground. The second is
that the sun’s rays are reflected from the ground and return upon
themselves. Their reflection heats up the parts next the ground, which
thus have more warmth from getting the sun’s heat twice. The third
reason is that the upper regions are more subject to wind; but all
places that are sunk are less wind-swept.
IX
To the foregoing Democritus’ explanation falls to be added. Every body
receives heat more quickly and retains it longer in proportion to its
solidity. For example, if three vessels, of copper, glass, and silver
respectively, are set in the sun, the heat will penetrate the copper
one soonest and will remain in it longest. The reason why Democritus
is of this opinion may also be added. In the bodies, he says, that are
harder, more compact, and dense, the openings must of necessity be
smaller than in others, and in each of the openings the film of air
must be thinner. It follows that just as smaller baths and smaller
cylinders are heated more rapidly than others, so these concealed
apertures, so small as to elude the eye, both feel the heat more
quickly, and by reason of this same smallness of calibre give back more
slowly the heat they have received.
X
This long preamble leads up to the point we are now examining. All air
is the denser the nearer it is to the earth. In water and other liquids
the dregs are always at the bottom; in like manner in the atmosphere
the thickest portions settle down to the lowest part nearest the earth.
But it has already been proved that all things, in proportion as they
are denser and more compact in their consistency, guard more faithfully
the heat they have received. On the other hand, the more exalted the
air is, and the farther it is withdrawn from the pollutions of earth,
the less contaminated and the more pure it is; and so it does not
retain the sun’s rays, but transmits them as if through a vacuum; hence
it is less warmed by them.
XI
But contrariwise, certain persons assert that mountain peaks ought to 1
be warmer in the degree in which they are nearer the sun. Such people
seem to me, however, to be astray in supposing that the Apennines and
the Alps and other mountains famed for their exceeding height are so
greatly elevated that their size should enable them to feel in any
special way the sun’s proximity. No doubt those are lofty heights so
long as the standard of comparison is ourselves. But when one regards
the size of the universe, the lowness of them all becomes evident.
Compared with one another, mountains are surpassed or surpass in
height. But nothing on earth is elevated so high that even the 2
greatest of objects should be any[68] appreciable portion in comparison
with the whole universe. Were this not so, we should not be in the
habit of saying that the whole earth is a ball. The distinctive mark of
a ball is a certain uniform rotundity, much the same as the uniformity
seen in a football or cricket ball.[69] The seams and chinks constitute
no great objection to the ball being described as symmetrical on all
sides. As in a playing ball, those spaces do not in any way prevent 3
the appearance of roundness, no more, in the earth at large regarded as
a sphere, do lofty mountains, whose height is lost in a comparison with
the whole world. A person who says that a higher mountain ought to be
warmer from receiving the sun’s rays at a shorter distance, may just as
well say that a taller man should be heated sooner than a dwarf, and
his head sooner than his feet! But any one who will take the trouble 4
to judge the universe by its proper standard, and who will reflect
that this earth occupies but a single point in space, will not fail to
perceive that nothing on earth can be of such eminence as to be more
sensible than others of the influence of the heavenly bodies, as if it
had approached their neighbourhood. Those mountains at which we gaze
up, their summits weighed down with eternal snows, are none the less
but low and humble. While it is true that a mountain _is_ nearer the
sun than is plain or valley, yet it is in the same sense as javelin is
spoken of as thicker than javelin, tree as larger than tree, mountain
than mountain. Accordingly to that mode of speech of yours, one tree 5
must be said to be nearer the sky than another; which is false, because
among puny objects there cannot exist great differences except while
they are compared with one another. When one comes to compare such
objects with the mighty frame of things, it is immaterial how much the
one is bigger than the other, because the very small things, however
great the differences among them, are quite dwarfed by comparison with
the universe.
[68] The argument seems to require _ulla_ = any, instead of _nulla_ =
no.
[69] The specific references are not contained in the Latin words;
the modern counterpart of the Roman games of ball serves, however, to
bring out the meaning of the illustration.
XII
But to return to my main theme; for the reasons which I have detailed,
most authorities are satisfied that snow is formed in the part of the
atmosphere which is in the vicinity of the earth. It is less compacted
than hail because congealed through less intense cold. For the air near
us has at once too much cold to allow its passage into water and rain,
and at the same time too little to get hardened into hail. Through this
moderate but not too intense cold the water is massed and turns into
snow.
XIII
Why, I fancy I hear you say, do you pursue so laboriously those 1
frivolous explanations of yours, by which no one is made either more
accomplished or more virtuous? You tell us all about the formation of
snow; it would be far more to the point that we should be told why it
is a wrong thing for snow to be bought.[70] I see you wish to drag me
into a dispute with luxury, a quarrel of daily occurrence that never
leads to any tangible result. Let us withal brace ourselves for the
struggle; even if luxury win the day, it must find us fighting and
resisting to the death.
[70] _I.e._ the moral turpitude of sinking into such debased luxury
as to require snow should be set forth rather than mere theories of
the formation of snow; the ethical should take precedence of the
physical.
Well then! do you suppose that the examination of nature, irrelevant
as it may appear, makes no contribution to the object you have at
heart? When we inquire how snow is formed, telling that its character 2
resembles hoar-frost, containing more air than water, do you not think
that it is a reproach upon the epicures? If it is a scandalous thing to
buy water, they are still worse, for they do not get even water [but
chiefly air] for their money. Let us, I say, inquire rather how snow
is formed than how it is preserved. The means of preservation have
already been discovered; not content with racking wines of vintage,
arranging them by flavour and age, we have devised means of compressing
snow to overcome the power of summer, and of protecting it by the
coolness of the icehouses from the hotness of the season. And what have
we accomplished by all our anxious efforts? The privilege of buying 3
water that we might have got for nothing! We are vexed that we cannot
buy air and sunlight, and that the atmosphere all around streams in
easily and unbought upon the fastidious and the rich. How badly nature
treats us in leaving anything that is common property! Upon this other
element, water, which nature has allowed to flow for the free use
of mankind, and which she has given the whole world to drink, this
that she has shed forth with lavish prodigality for the service alike
of man and of beasts and birds and the very laziest of the animal
creation--upon this, luxury, with ill-conceived ingenuity, has 4
managed to put a price. In fact, nothing can please luxury unless it is
expensive. Water was the one thing that used to bring down the rich to
the level of the common herd, in which the wealthy could not surpass
the very poorest. Those who found their riches a burden have devised a
plan whereby water should become a luxury.
How it has come about that no running water should be thought cool
enough, I will now explain. As long as the stomach is healthy and is
able to relish wholesome food, with which it is satisfied and not
overloaded, it is quite content with the natural stimulants. But
when through daily indigestion it suffers from the heat not of the 5
season but of its own indulgence, when habitual drunkenness has taken
firm hold on the organs of life, and turns into bile which parches
the intestines, then it becomes necessary to seek out some means of
quenching the internal heat. Water merely inflames it, the disease
is aggravated by the remedies. Therefore, for this purpose they use
snow for drink, not only in summer, but even in the depths of winter.
The cause can be no other than the internal complaint. Digestion is
spoiled through indulgence; respite is never given it in which to rest.
Breakfast is heaped upon a supper prolonged till daylight. While the
revellers are literally bursting with the lavishness and variety of the
courses, heavy drinking plunges them still deeper in the mire.
Then the continuous excess causes heartburn from the food previously 6
consumed, and inflames the constant craving for some new stimulant.
So, though they protect the banqueting hall with draperies and windows,
and seek by roaring fires to banish winter’s colds, none the less the
languishing appetite, exhausted by its own heat, yearns for something
new to revive it. Just as we sprinkle cold water on people who have
lost consciousness through a fainting fit, in order to bring them back
to their senses; so the internal organs, numbed through excess, are
past feeling, unless they are smitten by the parching, as it were, of
more violent cold. Hence it is, I say, that not content even with 7
snow, they call for ice, as if the stimulant were the more certain from
its solidity, and melt it with repeated douches of water. The ice, too,
is not taken from the surface, but, that it may have greater virtue
and more lasting cold, it is dug out of the depths of the pile. Thus
it is not even of uniform price; but water actually has its hawkers
and--alas the day!--a varying price. The Lacedaemonians once banished
the perfumers from their city, ordering them to quit the country with
all speed, because they were wasting the oil supply. What would they
have done, I wonder, if they had seen cold stores for preserving snow 8
and such an army of beasts employed in carting water, whose colour and
flavour are often all spoiled by the straw in which it is kept?
Good heavens! how easy a thing it is to quench the thirst of health!
But what feeling can jaws retain that are deadened and numbed by
scalding food? These epicures can have nothing cold enough, neither
can they have anything hot enough. Mushrooms taken from the fire and
hastily dipped in their special sauce are crammed down the throat 9
almost boiling, and the heat has to be allayed by draughts chilled in
snow. One may see, I tell you, slender youths, rigged out in cloaks and
mufflers, pale and sickly, not merely sipping the snow, but actually
eating it, throwing little pieces of it into their glasses to prevent
them from getting warm during the intervals of drinking. Do you call
that honest thirst? It is fever, the more acute too as it cannot be 10
detected by the pulse or the wonted heat that overspreads the skin. The
very heart is dried up by that incurable malady, luxury, whose habitual
weakness and unsteadiness are turned into endurance and obstinacy.
Don’t you know that habit dulls the force of everything? The snow in
which you are now, so to speak, swimming[71] has through custom and the
daily slavery of the stomach come to occupy the place of water. You
must now search for something colder still; for a stimulant that is
habitual is no stimulant at all.
[71] Which you now use in your baths.
BOOK V
WHICH TREATS OF WINDS AND ATMOSPHERIC MOVEMENT IN GENERAL
I
Wind is the atmosphere in motion. Some have put the definition thus: 1
Wind is the atmosphere in motion in one direction. The latter seems the
more accurate, because the atmosphere is never so still as not to be in
agitation of some kind. In a similar way the sea is called calm when
it is only slightly moved and does not set in a particular direction.
Thus, if you read the verse:
When the winds slumbered and the sea was still,
you must bear in mind that the sea was not actually still, but heaved
gently; and that it is called calm in a comparative sort of way 2
because it receives no distinct impulse to this side or to that. The
same opinion is likewise to be adopted in regard to the atmosphere:
it is never absolutely motionless, even though it be still. This you
may gather from the following observation: When the sun pours into
any circumscribed space, one sees minute particles carried through
the air in different directions, some up, some down, meeting each
other in a great variety of ways. Therefore, if one say: a wave is 3
an agitation of the sea, one will very imperfectly express what is
meant, because even when at rest the sea is agitated. But one will
more than sufficiently safeguard oneself if the definition be: a
wave is an agitation of the sea in one direction. So in the subject
which at the moment forms our special topic, the definition will not
be unduly restricted if one is careful to say: wind is the atmosphere
flowing in one direction; or, wind is atmosphere flowing through some
impulse, or, is the force of the atmosphere going in one direction,
or, is a rush of the atmosphere more forcible than usual in some one
direction. I am aware of a criticism that may be made in regard to
the first definition. What need is there to add that it is in one 4
direction that the atmosphere flows? For surely whatever flows, flows
in one direction. No one says that water flows if there is simply
an internal movement of it, but only if it is borne in a particular
direction. So a substance may be in motion and yet not flow; but, on
the other hand, it cannot flow except in one direction. Well, if, on
the one hand, the shorter definition is free from cavil, let us employ
it; but if, on the other, any one is a stickler, let him not omit the
phrase whose addition will serve to preclude all ambiguity. Now that we
have sufficiently discussed our terms, let us come to grapple with our
problem at closer quarters.
II
Democritus avers that when there are many particles, which he calls
atoms, in a small empty space (_i.e._ vacuum), wind is the outcome.
But, on the contrary, when the space is large and the particles few,
there is a still peaceful condition of the atmosphere. To illustrate:
in the market square or in a side street as long as there is a
sprinkling of people there is no disturbance as one walks along it;
but when a crowd meets in a narrow space, then they jostle against each
other, and quarrelling arises. Similarly in this space which surrounds
our earth; when many bodies have crowded a very small portion, it is
unavoidable that they should jostle one another and be driven back
and forward, and be intertwined and squeezed. Hence results wind; the
particles that were struggling have had to give way, and after being
tossed about and remaining in suspense for a long time they at length
lean their weight toward one side. But when a few bodies occupy a large
roomy place, they can neither ram each other nor be jostled by one
another.
III
The falsity of this view may be inferred merely from the fact that 1
wind by no means invariably accompanies a cloud-laden atmosphere,
and yet more particles have gathered at that than at any other time
in a narrow space, where they produce condensation and heaviness in
the clouds. Besides, in the neighbourhood of rivers and lakes cloud
is frequent from the confinement and accumulation of particles, and
yet there is no attendant wind. Indeed, sometimes such a darkness
over-spreads the place that the view of objects in the immediate
vicinity is cut off; which would never happen unless numerous particles
were massed in a small space. Yet no period is more free from 2
wind than a period of cloud. Add now a consideration of an opposite
character: When the sun rarefies at his rising the thick dank morning
air, then a breeze springs up; the particles have got more room now,
and the thickly packed crowd of them is broken up.
IV
But how, you will say, are winds then formed, for you won’t deny that 1
they are formed? Not in any single way, I reply. Sometimes the earth
herself emits a great quantity of air, which she breathes out of her
hidden recesses. At other times a great and long-continued evaporation
drives the emissions from the depths up on high, where the change
which the mixed breath undergoes issues in wind. A suggestion has been
made which I cannot make up my mind to believe, and yet I cannot pass
over without mention. In our bodies food produces flatulence, the
emission of which causes great offence to one’s nasal susceptibilities;
sometimes a report accompanies the relief of the stomach, sometimes
there is a more polite smothering of it. In like manner it is 2
supposed the great frame of things when assimilating its nourishment
emits air. It is a lucky thing for us that nature’s digestion is good,
else we might apprehend some less agreeable consequences. Is it not,
then, nearer the truth to say that numerous particles are constantly
borne up from every part of the world; and when they are accumulated
and subsequently begin to be rarefied by the sun, wind starts up? It is
a general principle that anything contained in a narrow space when it
expands tries to get more room.
V
Well, then, do I ask you to believe that evaporation from land and 1
water is the sole cause of wind? Do I affirm that it produces a weight
in the atmosphere, the breaking up of which causes a rush of air? that
at that moment what was previously dense and stationary gets rarefied
and strives, as its nature requires, to obtain a wider space? I do
approve of this as sometimes the explanation. But there is a far truer
and more potent one, to wit, that the atmosphere by its constitution
possesses a native capacity of movement, this power not being derived
from an external source, but being like others of its powers inherent.
For can you suppose that we men have been endued with strength to 2
move about, while the atmosphere has been left sluggish and immovable?
Water, too, has its own motion, even though the winds are at rest;
otherwise it could not produce animal life. We see also forms of
vegetable life like moss produced by water, and certain kinds of
herbage floating on its surface.
VI
Well, then, I take it, in water there resides some vital principle. In
water, did I say? Why, fire, the universal destroyer, has a creative
function; it may not seem a likely thing, but all the same it is but
the truth that some animals are generated by fire. The atmosphere,
then, possesses some power of this kind; and that is why it sometimes
grows thick, sometimes expands and throws off impurities, sometimes
contracts, at others opens up and disperses. There is thus the same
difference between air and wind as between lake and river.[72] There
are occasions when the sun is the sole cause of wind, as he rarefies
the stiff atmosphere and opens it out from its thick contracted state.
[72] This remark would have been more apposite in Chap. I., above;
possibly that is its correct place.
VII
Having spoken of the winds in general, let us now proceed to the
discussion of individual winds. Perchance the discovery of the time and
place of their origin will conduce to the discovery of their manner of
formation. First, then, let us look at breezes before dawn, which are
borne either from rivers or hollow valleys or from some bay. None of
these winds lasts long, but falls when the sun has got stronger; nor
is it carried up out of sight of the earth. This class of wind sets
in in spring, and does not last beyond summer. It comes chiefly from
a quarter where there are spaces of water and mountains. Plains, for
instance, may have abundance of water, and yet they have no breeze; I
mean a breeze strong enough to be called wind.
VIII
How, then, is a blast of this kind, which is called by the Greeks 1
a gulf breeze (ἐγκολπίας), formed? This is the theory of them: All
the exhalations of marshes and rivers--and they are abundant and
constant--form by day the sun’s nourishment. By night, however,
there is no drain on them, and they are enclosed by the mountains
and accumulate in one quarter. When they have filled up this quarter
and can no longer find accommodation in it, but are squeezed out on
one side and move in a particular direction, then you have the wind.
It inclines, of course, toward the side to which it is invited by
the freer exit, and by the openness of the place toward which the
accumulated elements can rush. A proof of this is that a wind of 2
this kind does not blow in the early part of the night. At that time
the gathering only begins, but by daybreak it has reached the full,
and seeks relief by flowing off. It chooses its exit by preference
where there is the largest empty space and a great expanse of open.
It is stimulated by the rays of the rising sun striking on the chilly
air. Even before he makes his appearance his light of itself has an
influence. The sun does not at that stage, it is true, drive away the
atmosphere with his beams; still, he already attacks and harasses it by 3
the shafts of light he sends before him. When he comes out himself in
his power, part of the gathering is carried off to a greater altitude,
part is dissipated by his heat. Wherefore power is not granted to these
winds to continue longer than the morning. All their strength collapses
at sight of the sun. Even if their blast is somewhat violent, yet they
begin to subside as mid-day approaches; in fact, the breeze[73] never
lasts as long as noon. Any other variety of the breeze is weaker and
shorter in duration; they vary according as the causes to which they
owe their origin are more or less powerful.
[73] The precise meaning of this and the following sentence is
doubtful; one would suspect that the latter originally ran--varieties
of the breeze are longer or shorter in duration according as, etc.
IX
But why, again, are winds of this nature stronger in spring and 1
summer? For during the remainder of the year they are very light,
never rising sufficiently to fill the sails of a boat. The reason is
that spring is a wetter season. There is at that time more evaporation
going on, both from the abundance of water lying about, and from the
saturation of the ground to overflowing through the moist character of
the sky. And the reason why this wind is equally prevalent in summer
is that the heat of the day remaining after sundown and lasting during
a great part of the night draws out exhalations, and attracts more
forcibly any of them that are wont to be given off spontaneously by
the ground. But subsequently the heat has not sufficient strength to
use up what it drew out. This is the reason, I say, why the soil and 2
its moisture give off for a longer period [at certain seasons] the
particles derived from the earth’s wonted emanations and exhalations.
The sunrise produces wind by its stroke as well as by its warmth. For,
as I have already said, the light which precedes the sun does not as
yet heat up the atmosphere, but merely smites upon it; being smitten
the air retires to one side. And yet I cannot go so far as to admit
that the light is quite devoid of heat, inasmuch as it is derived from
heat. Probably it does not contain as great an amount as would appear
from its effect. Still, it accomplishes its own task by separating and
rarefying the dense exhalations. Moreover, places which through some 3
disservice of nature are so shut in that they cannot receive the direct
rays of the sun, even they, I say, are heated somewhat by the dull
cloudy light that can pierce to them and are less rigid during the day
than by night. Furthermore, all heat naturally dispels cloud and drives
it off from itself. Therefore the sun likewise has the same effect.
For that reason some people suppose that the blast must come from the
direction in which the sun lies. But this opinion is manifestly false,
seeing that the breeze sets in any direction, and one can sometimes
sail right toward the sunrise with all canvas set. That could not
happen if the wind were always coming from the direction of the sun.
X
The Etesian winds, too, which some drag into the discussion, do not 1
give much support to their contention. First, I will tell you what
their opinion is, and, secondly, why it is not mine. The Etesians, say
they, do not blow in winter, because at the season of the shortest days
the effect of the sun ceases before the cold is overcome. So, snow
accumulates then and freezes hard. In summer the Etesian winds begin
to blow at the time when the day is lengthened out and the sun’s rays
come down straight upon us. Probably, therefore, the snows smitten by
the greater heat exhale more moisture. The earth likewise breathes more
freely when uncovered and relieved of the snow. So more particles issue
from the northern portion of the heavens, and are wafted toward our 2
quarter, which lies lower and is warmer. From this the Etesians derive
their impulse; wherefore they begin at the summer solstice, and do not
blow strongly after the rise of the Dog-star, because by that time a
great part of the cold northern exhalations has been carried down to
our regions. But when the sun has changed his course he still directs
his beams straight down on our hemisphere; and one part of the air he
attracts, but another he thrusts before him.[74] Thus the blast of the
Etesians breaks the force of the summer heat, protecting us from the
full severity of the most broiling months.
[74] The meaning is very obscure. The text has been suspected, not
without cause: the words “he still ... hemisphere” are out of place,
to say the least of it.
XI
I must now, as I promised, tell you why the Etesian winds do not
give any assistance to their advocates nor contribute aught to their
argument. We have said that the breeze is stirred by the morning light,
but it no less surely subsides when the full sun has touched it. And
yet the Etesians are called by sailors sleepy-headed and dainty, for
the very reason that, as my brother Gallio puts it, they cannot get
up in the morning. They begin to show face at the time when even the
most persistent morning breeze has fallen. This would not occur if the
sun reduced the force of the Etesians as he does that of the morning
breezes. Add also that, if the cause of their rise was the lengthened
space of the day, they would blow even prior to the solstice when the
days are at their longest, and when the thaw of the snow is at its
height. By the month of July everything is clear of snow, or, at any
rate, very few places are still covered with it.
XII
There are some species of winds which issue from clouds that are rent 1
and pour down their contents. They are called by the Greeks cloud winds
(ἐκνεφίας). Their method of formation, as I suppose, is this: among the
particles given off by the earth’s vapour and carried aloft there is
great inequality and dissimilarity, some being dry and others moist.
When the particles have massed in one body there is great discord and
internal strife, which probably leads to the forming of certain hollow
clouds with narrow pipe-shaped spaces left between, much like a flute
in shape. In these gaps there is shut up rarefied air, which, being 2
buffeted about in the confined space and becoming heated, strives to
get more room. It expands and rends its envelope, breaking forth in
wind, which, as a rule, is squally, since it descends from above and
falls on us with fierce vehemence. It is not diffused, nor does it
come through a wide open space, but it struggles and opens up its way
by main force. As a rule, it is a brief gust. As it bursts through 3
the cloudy receptacle by which it was confined and overleaps the
battlements, it comes in tumultuous energy, sometimes not unattended
with fire and the sound of thunder in the heavens. Such winds are much
more violent and of longer duration if they have taken up in their
course other gusts proceeding from a like cause, and thus several
have conspired to form one. It is just like the flow of torrents of
moderate size, not serious as long as each has its separate course. But
when a number of them have combined their streams, they surpass in 4
size regular, constant rivers. The same thing may probably happen in
squalls; they are short-lived whenever they are alone. But when they
have joined forces, and the air expelled from several parts of the sky
at once has all combined in one, both force and duration are added to
them.
XIII
So, then, wind results from the breaking up of a cloud, which breach 1
is effected in several different ways. The accumulation of air is
burst sometimes by the internal struggle, as it seeks to gain an exit;
sometimes by the heat produced either simply by the sun or else by the
mutual ramming and friction of the roaming bodies.
At this point, if you have no objection, one may raise the question
why a whirlwind occurs. In rivers, when their course has been without
any obstacle for a long distance, the channel is a straight, uniform
one. But when they meet some boulder that juts from the bank, the 2
stream is driven back and whirls the waters in a circle without a way
of escape, so that in their revolution they are constantly sucked in
toward the centre to form a whirlpool. In like manner the wind pours
out in full force as long as no obstacle stands in the way. But when it
is reflected from some jutting projection, or is massed in a quarter
which combines to form a thin downward channel, then it revolves upon
its own axis, and produces an eddy similar to that in which, as we
have just said, the water revolves. This revolving wind, which 3
always traverses the same spot and is roused to fury by the mere giddy
whirling, is a whirlwind. If it is a very fierce one, and revolves
longer than ordinary, it ignites and causes what the Greeks call a
fire-wind (πρηστήρ), which is just a fiery whirlwind. The bursting of
such winds from the clouds produces almost all the disasters by which
herds are carried off and ships lifted, bodily, right out of the water.
Further, some winds produce different ones by dispersing the air and
driving it before them in other directions than that toward which they
themselves have bent their course.
It occurs to me at the moment to mention a parallel to wind that 4
may be drawn from drops of moisture. The single drops may begin to
incline downwards and be on the verge of giving way, but yet do not
manage to fall. When, however, several have united and the mass has
imparted strength, then they are said to flow and to move. So, as long
as there are slight movements of the atmosphere disturbed at several
points, they do not produce wind. The latter begins only when all those
movements are united and concentrated in a single effort. Air differs
from wind in degree alone. A more violent air is a wind; air in turn is
gently flowing atmosphere.
XIV
Let me now recall a remark that I had made early in this book, 1
namely, that wind issues from cave or inner recess of earth. The
whole earth is not of solid compact constitution down to its lowest
foundations, but at many points is hollow,
... hung over dark retreats.
In some places it contains voids that have no moisture. Though there
is no light there to show the distinctions in the air, yet I venture
to assert that cloud and mist settle in that gloom. Above ground 2
cloud and mist surely do not exist because they are seen; but, rather,
they are seen because they exist. Well, there too rivers none the less
exist that they are not seen. You must understand that down there
rivers flow equal in size to our own. Some glide gently, others resound
as they tumble down headlong over the broken ground. So must not you
equally allow that there are some lakes underground and some water
in pools without an exit? This being so, it is of necessity that 3
the air be charged with moisture, and that, being charged, it lean in
one direction, raising the wind by its propulsion. We must recognise,
therefore, that from those subterranean clouds blasts of wind are
raised in the dark, what time they have gathered strength sufficient
to remove the obstacles presented by the earth, or can seize upon
some open path for their exit, and from this cavernous retreat can
escape toward the abodes of men. Now it is obvious that underground 4
there are large quantities of sulphur and other substances no less
inflammable. When the air in search of a path of escape works its
tortuous way through ground of this nature, it necessarily kindles fire
by the mere friction. By and by, as the flames spread more widely, any
sluggish air there may be is also rarefied and set in motion; a way of
escape is sought with great roaring and violence. This point I will
elaborate in more detail when I go on to treat of earthquakes.
XV
You must now allow me to tell you a little story! Asclepiodotus 1
vouches for the tale. Once on a time a large party of miners was sent
down by Philip into an old mine, long since abandoned, to ascertain its
prospects and condition, and to see whether ancient avarice had left
anything for posterity to glean. Down they went with plenty of light to
last for days. In due time, when they were quite tired by the length
of the road, they saw a sight to make their hair stand on end--huge
rivers and vast reservoirs of sluggish waters, equal in size to any
above ground, not pressed down either with a weight of earth above, but
overarched with an open vault. I confess I felt lively satisfaction in
reading the story. It showed me that the vices from which our age 2
suffers are not new; they have been handed down from ancient days.
Nor is it in our age that avarice has for the first time ransacked
the reefs of soil and stone, searching in the dark for treasure badly
hidden. Those ancestors of ours, whom we are always vaunting, our
declension from whose standard we constantly bemoan, were also lured
by hope to cut down the mountains and stand beneath the ruins to gloat
over their filthy lucre.
Before the time of Philip of Macedon there were kings who pursued 3
treasure down to its deepest lurking-places; leaving the free air
and light of day behind, they lowered themselves into those caverns,
which no distinction of night from day could reach. What expectation
could lead them on? What necessity caused man, whose head points to
the stars, to stoop below, burying him in mines and plunging him in
the very bowels of innermost earth to root up gold? The quest for the
precious bane is no less perilous than its possession. For this he 4
drove shafts and crawled round his dirty, uncertain booty, forgetful of
day, forgetful of his better nature, which he abjured. On no dead man
does earth lie so heavily as it lies on those on whom insistent avarice
has cast earth’s weight, from whom it has withdrawn the light of day,
whom it has buried in the depths where that noxious poison lurks. They
had the hardihood to descend to a region where they found a new order
of nature, forms of overhanging earth and winds raving through the
blind void, where are dread fountains of waters whose streams none
drink, and night reigns deep and unbroken. And then, after all that has
come and gone, they dread the gods of the nether world!
XVI
But to return to the matter in hand; there are four winds, divided, 1
according to the cardinal points, into east, west, south, and north.
The rest of the winds, which are called by different names, are
attached to these:
Eurus has gone toward the dawn and the realms of Nebaioth
And Persia and the peaks that lie beneath the rays of morn.
Evening and the coasts that are warmed by the setting sun
Are close to Zephyrus. Scythia and the Great Bear
Are under the sway of dread Boreas. The land that faces these
Is bathed in unbroken cloud and rainy Auster.
Or, if you prefer a briefer enumeration, you may gather them in one 2
great storm--a physical impossibility, by the way:
Eurus and Notus (south) rush together, and with squall upon squall
Africus (south-west).
And we may add Aquilo (north), which has no place in the famous battle
of the winds to which Virgil refers. Some make the number of the winds
twelve. They divide the four quarters of heaven into three parts
each, adding two subsidiary winds to each of the principal ones. On
this principle that diligent author, Varro, classifies them. And 3
there is good ground for it; the other method, which refers them to
seasonal changes, is very unsatisfactory. For instance, the sun does
not always rise or set at the same point. He has one place of rising
at the equinox--indeed, the equinox occurs twice a year--another at
the summer, and still another at the winter, solstice. The wind which
sets in from the direction of sunrise at the equinoxes is with us
called Subsolane (near the sun); the Greeks call it ἀφηλιώτης (from
the sun). From sunrise in winter Eurus comes, named by our countrymen
Vulturnus (_i.e._ from Mt. Vultur in the S.E.). Livy also calls it 4
by this name, in connection with that famous battle of Cannae, which
proved so disastrous to Rome. Hannibal on that occasion managed to
get our army with its face to the rising sun and to the wind; by the
aid of the wind and the glare that dazzled the eyes of the enemy he
snatched the victory. Varro likewise uses the same name. But Eurus is a
name now naturalised, and has a place in our vocabulary that does not
suggest any foreign origin. The wind that is raised by sunrise at the 5
summer solstice was called by the Greeks καικίας;[75] we have no name
for it. Sunset at the equinox sends us Favonius, which even people
who cannot speak Greek will tell you is called the Zephyr. Corus,
which is by some called Argestes [from its clearness], comes from the
sunset at the summer solstice. I do not approve of the identification;
Corus is a vehement wind, rushing in one uniform direction, while
Argestes is, as a rule, a gentle wind, and blows impartially on
travellers coming and going along the same road (_i.e._ is constantly 6
shifting). From sunset in midwinter comes the rushing furious Africus
(African wind), named by the Greeks the Libyan (λίψ). In the northern
quarter the highest (_i.e._ most easterly) is Aquilo, the central
one is Septemtrio, the lowest Thracias,[76] for which there is no
corresponding word in Latin. In the southern region there is Euronotus,
then Notus, or in Latin Auster, then Libonotus, which has no Latin name.
[75] No explanation of this name of the nor’-easter is forthcoming.
[76] _I.e._ the Thracian; Thrace must have been N.W. of the region in
which the name had its origin.
XVII
We Stoics hold that there are twelve winds; not that there are 1
everywhere so many (the slope of the earth [_i.e._ of the earth’s axis]
excludes some), but because there are nowhere more than twelve. We
speak of six cases in the same way, not because every noun possesses
six, but because none has more than six. Those who assert the number
of the winds to be twelve adopt the principle that the number must be
the same as the divisions of the heavens. Now the heavens are divided
into five zones passing through the cardinal points of the world. These
are the northern, the solstitial, the equinoctial, the wintry, 2
the one that faces the northern. A sixth is added in the zone which
separates the upper part of the world from the lower. As you know,
there is always one-half the world above our head, and one-half beneath
our feet. This line which lies between the visible and the concealed
parts of the sky is called by the Greeks the Horizon (ὁρίζων = bounding
line): our school call it the Bounder; others, the Bounding [line].
To this must be added the meridian circle, which cuts the horizon 3
at right angles. Some of these zones run transversely, intersecting
others. Now there must necessarily be as many divisions of the heavens
as there are parts. So, then, the horizon or bounding circle cuts those
five zones, of whose position I have just spoken, making ten parts,
five to east and five to west. The meridian circle which meets the
horizon gives two additional divisions. Thus the air receives its 4
twelve divisions, and yields a like number of winds.
There are some of the winds that are peculiar to certain localities;
they do not carry far, but reach only the immediate vicinity. They do
not derive their impulse from a particular quarter of the world at
large. For example, the wind Atabulus haunts Apulia; the Iapygian,
Calabria; the Scironian, Athens; Cataegis, Pamphylia; Circius, Gaul.
To the last mentioned, though it shakes their houses, the people are
very grateful, believing they are indebted to it for the healthiness
of their climate. At any rate, the late Emperor Augustus, when he was
staying in Gaul, erected to it a temple he had vowed. My task would
never be done if I were to attempt to enumerate the individual winds.
There is hardly any district that has not some particular wind that
arises in it and falls not far from it.
XVIII
Wherefore among the other works of Providence this one must be 1
regarded as worthy of all admiration. Heaven had many purposes in view
in devising the winds and distributing them through all the varied
quarters of the earth. The first object was to prevent the atmosphere
from becoming gross; by their constant tossing the winds were meant to
render it beneficial, a source of life to those who were to breathe
it. In the second place, they were to supply the earth with rain, and
at the same time to restrain excess of rain. This they accomplish by 2
now gathering, now scattering the clouds, so that the rainfall should
be fairly distributed over the whole world. The south wind drives it
toward Italy, the north sends it back to Africa. The Etesian winds will
not suffer the clouds to settle in our quarter; but yet the whole of
India and Ethiopia are watered with constant rain during the period
of their prevalence. Moreover, crops could not be gathered in unless
the worthless elements were winnowed by the blast from the good grain
with which it is mixed. The breeze is needed, too, to rouse the seed
and bring to light the latent fruit, by causing it to burst through
its covering, those wrappings which the farmers call follicles.
Furthermore, the wind has established intercommunication among all 3
the different nations, and has united tribes far removed from each
other in place.
A great service is this that nature here renders, did not man’s
madness turn it to his own injury! As it is, the remark may be applied
to the winds which was commonly made regarding Caesar the Elder
(Julius), as recorded by Titus Livius (Livy); it was doubtful whether
his birth was a blessing or a curse to the state. In like manner
all the useful and necessary services performed by the winds cannot
outweigh the devices which man’s madness has through them framed for
his own destruction. But they do not cease to be inherently good, 4
even though, through fault of those who degrade their use, they are
turned to instruments of harm. Surely Providence and God, the great
Disposer of the world, had a beneficent aim in establishing the winds,
and diffusing them on every side, to wit, that the atmosphere might
be kept in motion by them, that no part of the world should become
unsightly through inactivity. His object was not that we might man our
fleet with armed soldiers to seize every quarter of the main, and that
we might go in search of foes either in or beyond the sea. What frenzy
goads us on, and matches us in strife for our mutual destruction? We
spread the sails to the winds to go in quest of war, and we run 5
risks of sea for the sake of meeting risks of battle! We tempt the
uncertainty of fortune, the force of tempests that no human effort can
overcome, death without hope of burial. The prize would not be worth
the toil if the voyage conducted us to peace. As it is, when we have
passed so many hidden rocks and hidden shoals of a treacherous sea;
when we have escaped the billows that rise like mountains above us,
into which the raging wind forces all voyagers; when we have passed
through days enveloped in mist, and nights rendered still more awful 6
by cloud and thunder, and by whirlwinds that rend the frail bark in
pieces; what reward shall we have for all the toil and anxiety? What
harbour will give us hospitable shelter, worn out as we are with so
many sufferings? War, I trow, will meet us, and an enemy ready prepared
on shore and tribes destined to cruel slaughter, but not without much
damage to the conqueror, and ancient cities in flames. Why do we press
whole nations into arms? Why do we enrol armies to marshal their lines
amid the billows? Why do we disquiet the seas? The land, I suppose, 7
is not wide enough to compass our death. Fortune deals too tenderly
with us: she has given us too hardy bodies, too sound health. No ravage
of plague cuts us off: each one may comfortably fill up the measure of
his years and reach the haven of old age. So let us launch upon the
deep and call toward us the loitering fates. Poor wretches, what is it
ye seek? Death, which is always too much with us? It will attack you,
even in your couch; well, see that the victims it attacks are innocent
of crime. It will seize you in your house; be sure it find you planning
no mischief.
But what can one call it but plain insanity actually to carry 8
destruction in your train, to rush in anger against men you never saw,
to lay waste without provocation all that comes in your path, and,
after the fashion of wild beasts, to kill a man you do not hate? We are
worse than beasts, for they bite only in retaliation or from hunger;
but we, utterly lavish of our own and others’ blood, harass the seas by
the vessels we launch, entrust our safety to the waves, and pray for
favouring winds, counting it our good fortune to be borne in safety
to the wars! To what lengths have our crimes hurried us criminals? It
is not enough to vent one’s madness within one’s own sphere. Your 9
stupid King of Persia must cross into Greece, filling it with an army
with which he has failed to conquer it. Your Alexander, leaving behind
Bactra and India, must needs seek to learn what lies beyond the great
sea, and will chafe that there is any point beyond which he cannot go.
Crassus in like manner will fall a prey to the Parthians through his
lust of gold. He will not dread the imprecations of the tribune who
calls him back, nor the storms of the tedious sea, nor the lightning
by Euphrates that foretold destruction, nor the resistance of heaven
itself. Through the wrath of man and God alike gold shall be sought. 10
Not without good cause, therefore, it may be said that nature would
have done better by us had she forbidden the winds to blow at all, had
she checked their roaming abroad in their fury, and ordered each one
to abide in his own land. If this had served no other end, at any rate
the mischief of each human life would have been restricted to itself
and its own nation. As it is, the ills of home are too little for us;
we must toil to share those abroad as well. No land is so far removed
from neighbours that it cannot send forth in some direction its evil
propensities. How do I know but that some ruler of a great nation 11
meantime concealed from view, swollen by fortune’s kindness, may choose
not to confine his arms within the boundaries of his own realm, but
with secret design may even now be fitting out his fleet against us?
How can I tell whether this wind or that shall convey war to me? It
would go far to ensure the peace of the world if the seas could be
shut up.
Still, as I said a little ago, we cannot put the blame on God, our
Author, if we corrupt His blessings and turn them into curses. He gave
us the winds to maintain the equable temperature of earth and sky, 12
to call forth or to repress the waters, to nourish the produce of field
and tree; the crops are brought to maturity, among other causes, by
their mere tossing in the wind, which attracts the nourishment to the
top, and by movement prevents the stagnation of decay. He gave the
winds that we might gain acquaintance with foreign lands. Man would
have been an untutored creature without much experience of the world if
circumscribed by the bounds of his native soil. He gave the winds 13
that the blessings of each region might become common to all; not to
convey across the sea regiments of horse and foot, nor arms for the
destruction of mankind. If we simply estimate nature’s boons by the
degraded uses to which they have been put, there is nothing that we
have not received for our own hurt. Who is aught the better of the
gift of sight? or of speech? To whom is life itself not a torment? I
defy you to find anything of such undoubted utility that it cannot by
misuse be converted into a curse. So it is with the winds: nature had
designed them for a boon; we have ourselves made them the opposite.
They all lead us to some disaster: one man has not the same motive 14
as his neighbour for putting to sea, but none has a good one. Diverse
temptations lead us to essay the way. Above all, we love to go to sea
in order to damage some one. Plato, with whose testimony I may close,
has observed, with great aptness, it is mere trifles that men purchase
with their lives. Yes, my dear Lucilius, if you estimate aright man’s
madness, in other words, our own--for we all wallow in the same
herd--you will be still more amused by the reflection that we amass for
life what in the end wears life out.
BOOK VI
WHICH TREATS OF EARTHQUAKES
I
We have just had news, my esteemed Lucilius, that Pompeii, the 1
celebrated city in Campania, has been overwhelmed in an earthquake,
which shook all the surrounding districts as well. The city, you know,
lies on a beautiful bay, running far back from the open sea, and is
surrounded by two converging shores, on the one side that of Surrentum
and Stabiae, on the other that of Herculaneum. The disaster happened in
winter, a period for which our forefathers used to claim immunity from
such dangers. On the 5th of February, in the consulship of Regulus 2
and Virginius, this shock occurred, involving widespread destruction
over the whole province of Campania; the district had never been
without risk of such a calamity, but had been hitherto exempt from it,
having escaped time after time from groundless alarm.
The extent of the disaster may be gathered from a few details. Part
of the town of Herculaneum fell; the buildings left standing are very
insecure. The colony of Nuceria had painful experience of the shock,
but sustained no damage. Naples was just touched by what might have
proved a great disaster to it; many private houses suffered, but
no public building was destroyed. The villas built on the cliffs 3
everywhere shook, but without damage being done. In addition, they
say, a flock of six hundred sheep was destroyed, and statues were split
open; some people were driven out of their minds, and wandered about in
helpless idiotcy. The plan of my present work demands a discussion of
the causes of this, and the disaster itself fits in with our present
inquiries (_i.e._ our discussion is opportune in view of the recent
disaster). We must seek solace for the anxious and dispel overmastering
fear. For what can any one believe quite safe if the world itself is
shaken, and its most solid parts totter to their fall? Where, indeed,
can our fears have limit if the one thing immovably fixed, which 4
upholds all other things in dependence on it, begins to rock, and the
earth lose its chief characteristic, stability? What refuge can our
weak bodies find? whither shall anxious ones flee when fear springs
from the ground and is drawn up from earth’s foundations? If roofs at
any time begin to crack and premonitions of fall are given, there is
general panic: all hurry pell-mell out of doors, they abandon their
household treasures, and trust for safety to the public street.
But if the earth itself stir up destruction, what refuge or help can 5
we look for? If this solid globe, which upholds and defends us, upon
which our cities are built, which has been called by some the world’s
foundation, stagger and remove, whither are we to turn? What comfort,
not to say help, can you gain when fear has destroyed all way of
escape? Where, I say, is there any protection you can trust? what is
there that will stand as sure defence either of oneself or of others?
An enemy I can drive off from my city wall. The mere difficulties of
approach to turrets set on the dizzy heights will stop the march even
of great armies. From storm the harbour shelters us; our roofs are 6
able to withstand the whole force of clouds let loose, and the endless
deluges of rain. Fire cannot pursue us if we run away from it. Against
heaven’s threats in thunder refuges underground and caverns dug out
in the depths of the earth are of avail--the fire of heaven does not
pierce the ground, but is beaten back by the tiniest portion of the
soil. In time of plague we may change our place of abode. No species of
disaster is without some means of escape. Lightning has never consumed
whole nations. A plague-laden sky has drained cities, but has never
blotted them out.
But this calamity of earthquake extends beyond all bounds, 7
inevitable, insatiable, the destruction of a whole State. Nor is it
only families or households or single cities that it swallows; it
overthrows whole nations and regions. At one time it hides them in
their ruins, at another consigns them to the deep abyss; it leaves not
a wrack behind to witness that what no longer is, once was. The bare
soil stretches over the site of the most famous cities, and no trace
is left of their former existence. Nor are there wanting those who
dread most of all this kind of death, in which they go down alive into
the pit, houses and all, and are carried off from the number of the
living: as if every form of death did not lead to the one goal. Among 8
nature’s righteous decrees this is the chief, that when we reach the
end of life we are all on a level. It makes no difference, therefore,
to me whether one stone wound me to death or I am crushed beneath a
whole mountain; whether the weight of one house come down on me, and
I expire beneath the dust of its humble mound, or whether the whole
world descend upon my head; whether I yield up this breath in the open
light of day or in the vast abyss of the yawning earth; whether I am
borne down to those depths all alone or along with a great throng of
perishing nations. To me it can make no difference how great is the 9
turmoil that accompanies my death; the thing is everywhere just the
same.
Wherefore, let us raise high our courage against that disaster, which
can neither be shunned nor yet foreseen. Let us cease to listen to the
people that have bid adieu to Campania since the time of this disaster,
and have removed to other districts, vowing they will never set foot
in that quarter again! Who can guarantee them more solid foundations
in whatever soil they choose? All the world is subject to the same 10
fate. If it has not yet suffered from earthquake, it may; perchance
this spot on which you stand in full security will be rent this night,
or even this day before night. How can one tell whether is better the
state of the places on which fortune has already spent her force or of
those which are upheld meantime, but only for some disaster to come?
We do greatly err if we suppose any quarter of the world wholly exempt
from this danger. All quarters are subject to the same law. Nature
framed nothing to be immovable. Different things will fall at different
times. Just as in large cities, now this house and now that leans 11
over and has to be shored up, so in the world as a whole, now this
part contains a flaw, now that. Tyre was once notorious for a disaster
of the kind. The province of Asia lost at a single stroke twelve of
its cities. Last year calamity overtook Achaia and Macedonia, now the
injury has fallen upon Campania, whatever be the nature of that force
which thus assails us. Fate makes a circuit, paying a second visit to
places she has long passed over. On some places her attacks are more
rare, more frequent on some. Nothing is suffered to be quite exempt 12
from injury. Not merely we men, whose life is frail and fleeting,
but cities too, and the earth’s coasts and shores, yea, the very sea
falls under bondage to fate. And in face of this we promise ourselves
permanence in the boons fortune bestows! we suppose there will be
stability and endurance in happiness, whose fickleness is greatest
of all things on earth! While men promise themselves all things 13
in perpetuity, it never enters their thoughts that the very earth on
which we stand is not permanent. The flaws of the ground are to be
found everywhere; they are not peculiar to Campania or Tyre or Achaia.
The earth coheres imperfectly, it suffers breach from many causes;
permanent as a whole, it is subject to collapse in its parts.
II
What am I doing? I had promised to offer comfort in face of danger, 1
and lo! I threaten its terrors on all sides. I tell you that there can
be no assured peace in what can suffer or cause destruction. But that
very fact I regard as a solace, and, indeed, the most powerful of all.
Fear is but folly when there is no escape from it. Philosophy delivers
the wise from fear; even the unlearned may derive great confidence
from despair. You must, therefore, regard the words addressed to those
amazed by sudden captivity amid fire and foe as addressed to the whole
human race:
The one safety of the conquered is to hope for none.
If you wish to fear nothing, think that everything is to be feared; 2
consider by how slight causes our life is dissipated. Neither food nor
drink, nor waking nor sleeping, is healthful, except in due measure.
One may soon realise that we are but puny, insignificant bodies, weak
and unstable, that small effort is needed to compass our destruction.
The only sufficiency of danger, doubtless, would be the earth’s
trembling, its sudden dissipation, the rending of its surface into
chasms!
Surely he sets a high value on his life who dreads only lightning, 3
and earthquakes with their yawning abysses; won’t he allow himself to
open his eyes to his frailty and be afraid of choking on his phlegm?
Such, forsooth, is our constitution by birth, such the powerful frames
we have obtained, such the size we have grown to, that we cannot perish
unless the four quarters of the world are moved, the heavens thunder,
and the earth subside! Why, a pain in a tiny nail, not even the whole 4
nail, but a little ragnail at the side, may finish us! And I must fear
only the trembling of the world, when too thick a spittle will choke
me! I am to await with dread the removal of the sea from its place,
or the overflowing of an abnormal tide with its excess of water; why,
some ere now have been strangled by a drink that took a wrong course
down the throat! What folly to be afraid of the sea when you know that
a single drop may kill you! There is no solace of death greater than 5
the very liability to death, no solace of all the terrors from without
equal to the thought that there are countless dangers within our own
bosom. What greater madness than to collapse at the sound of thunder,
and through fear of lightning to creep under the ground? What greater
folly than to stand in fear of the earth’s tottering and the sudden 6
fall of mountains, or inroads of the sea cast up beyond the shore,
when death is everywhere present and meets us on every side? Nothing
is so small as not to be strong enough to compass the destruction of
the human race. Great or unusual dangers ought not to unnerve us, as if
they implied more mischief than a common death; nay, rather when one
must quit the world and at last resign life, it should be a positive
joy to perish by some grand cause. Die we must somewhere, sometime. 7
The ground you tread may stand firm, it may confine itself within its
own bounds and not be tossed about by any violence; yet some day I
shall be beneath it. Does it really matter, then, whether I place it
on myself or itself do? It is rent by the irresistible force of some
disaster; it bursts and draws me into its immense depths. What then? Is
death easier on the earth’s level surface? What reason for complaint
have I if nature will not have me lie in a place unknown to fame? or
if she lays on me a portion of herself? My friend, Vagellius,[77] in 8
that famous poem of his, says finely:
If fall I must, I should desire to fall from the height of heaven.[78]
[77] The name is doubtful, as is, indeed, the quotation also.
[78] The sense may be: I would have the heavens fall along with me;
this meaning would suit the context better.
We may adopt the language. If fall I must, let the earth be shaken at
my fall; not that one ought to pray for a public disaster, but it is
a great solace of death to see that the earth is likewise subject to
death.
III
It will be useful also to be assured that none of these things is the 1
doing of the gods, and that the moving of heaven or earth is no work of
angry deities. Those phenomena have causes of their own. It is not by
special command that they put forth their rage, but, just as in our own
bodies, the disturbance arises from certain inherent imperfections; at
the moment when they seem to inflict injury, they sustain it. Through
our ignorance of the truth all these things are terrible, the more as
their infrequency increases our alarm. Familiar occurrences seem less 2
serious; the unusual causes greater terror. But why is anything unusual
in our estimation? The reason is that we grasp the meaning of nature
only superficially, and not rationally; we dwell too exclusively on
what she has done, and do not consider what she can do. Accordingly,
we pay the penalty of this neglect in our terror of things that we
suppose unprecedented, when they are not really unprecedented, but
merely unusual. For instance, are not superstitious fears inspired
both privately and even for the safety of the State, if either the sun
has been seen in eclipse or if the moon, whose obscuration is more
frequent, has partially or wholly been concealed? And is not this far 3
more so in the case of such sights as we have spoken of: torches driven
athwart the heavens, the sky on fire over the greater part of its
extent, comets, mock suns, stars appearing in the daytime, the sudden
passage of stars that mark their trail with a bright light? Our wonder
at these is in no case free from fear. As the cause of the fear is
ignorance, is it not worth while to gain the knowledge that will dispel
it? How much better it would be to inquire into the causes of the
alarming sights, to bend, in fact, our whole mind to the task? Nothing,
surely, could be found more deserving than that, of having the mind’s
energies not only lent to it, but devoted to it.
IV
Let us ask ourselves, therefore, what it is that stirs the earth to 1
its foundation, what moves a mass of such weight, what it is that is
stronger than the earth, and that in its violence can shake such a
load. Let us inquire why at one time the earth trembles, at another
is loosened and sinks, and again is divided into parts and opens a
chasm; or why on some occasions the intervals of destruction are
prolonged, on others are suddenly cut short. What is the cause why it
now consigns to its depths rivers of renowned greatness, and now causes
fresh rivers to issue? why does it sometimes open up springs of hot
water, sometimes freeze them with cold? and why at times are fires 2
caused to shoot out through some hitherto unknown opening in mountain
or crag, while sometimes well-known fires, that have been famous for
centuries, are suppressed? The earthquake produces a thousand strange
sights, changing the aspect of the ground, levelling mountains,
elevating plains, exalting valleys, raising new islands in the deep.
What are the causes that bring these things to pass? That is a subject
well worthy our discussion. What, you say, will be the reward of our
labour? That reward, I say, which surpasses all others, the knowledge
of nature. Among the many serviceable lessons to be derived from 3
such researches, no feature is more commendable than this, that man is
thereby made to dwell upon the sight of his own grandeur[79]; the study
is pursued, not in hope of gain, but from the wonder it excites. Let us
inquire, therefore, what it is that brings about all this. The inquiry
is so fascinating to me that although long ago in my youth I published
a volume on earthquakes, I am anxious to make another trial of my
powers, and to see whether age has added anything to my knowledge, or,
at any rate, to my industry.
[79] The meaning may rather be--the grandeur of the subject.
V
The cause of earthquakes has been assigned variously by different 1
authorities to water, fire, air, and to the earth itself; some assign
it to a combination of several of the causes, others, to a union of
them all. Certain writers have stated that it was plain to them that
some one of these causes produced the earthquake, but it was not plain
which. Let us look at the various opinions in detail. First of all, I
feel bound to say in general terms that the old views are crude and
inexact. As yet men were groping their way round truth. Everything was
new to those who made the first attempt to grasp it; only later were
the subjects accurately investigated. But all subsequent discoveries
must nonetheless be set down to the credit of those early thinkers.
It was a task demanding great courage to remove the veil that hid 2
nature, and, not satisfied with a superficial view, to look beneath the
surface and dive into the secrets of the gods. A great contribution
to discovery was made by the man who first conceived the hope of its
possibility. We must, therefore, listen indulgently to the ancients.
No subject is perfected while it is but beginning. The truth holds
not merely of the subject we are dealing with, the greatest and most
complicated of all, in which, however much may be accomplished, every
succeeding age will still find something fresh to accomplish. It holds
alike in every other concern; the first principles have always been a
long way off from the completed science.
VI
Water is the first cause alleged: more authors than one adopt this 1
view, but it is not stated by all in the same terms. Thales of Miletus
is convinced that the whole earth floats, and is upborne by moisture
lying beneath it, which you may call either Ocean or the great sea, or
still mere elemental water of a different character from the sea, the
simple ingredient, moisture. In these waves, in his opinion, the globe
is supported like some huge lumbering vessel in the water which bears
it. It is unnecessary for me to reproduce his reasons for supposing 2
that the heaviest part of the world cannot be sustained in such a rare
and nimble element as air: for the earth’s position is not the question
here but its movement. By way of argument, to prove that water is the
cause, he adduces the fact that in every considerable earthquake, as a
rule, new springs burst out. So if a boat leans over to one side away
from the straight, the result is that it ships water. And, generally
speaking, in the case of all objects which water supports, if they are
unduly sunk, the water either pours over them or at any rate rises to
right and left above its ordinary height.
Now, no lengthened consideration is needed to prove the falsity of 3
this view. Why, if the earth were supported by water, and from time to
time shaken by it, it would be in perpetual shock; the wonder would be
not that it was tossed about sometimes, but that it was ever at rest.
Then, again, it would be shaken all over and not at a single point:
we never find only half the ship tossed by the waves. But, according
to present experience, a shock never occurs over the whole earth
simultaneously, but is always felt at some particular spot. How, then,
can it be that what is carried as a whole is not shaken as a whole, if
the shock comes from the body by which it is carried?
But, it may be urged, why do waters burst out at the time of earth- 4
quakes? Well, in the first place, there has often been earthquake
without any fresh supply of water appearing. Secondly, if the supposed
cause of the water rushing forth were the true one, it would pour
all round the sides of the earth, as we see happening under similar
circumstances in sea and rivers: when boats sink, the increase of water
shows itself chiefly over the sides. Finally, the outburst of waters
which Thales describes would not be so small as he says, nor would it
ooze in like bilge-water through a chink, but from the exhaustless
reservoir that upbears all creation, a mighty deluge would ensue.
VII
Some, who, like Thales, attribute earthquake to the effects of water, 1
give a different explanation of its operation. There are, they say,
many kinds of waters running over the whole earth. In one place there
are constant rivers whose size renders them fit for navigation, even
without the aid of rains. There is the Nile, rolling down its huge
volume all summer long: here are the Danube and the Rhine separating
with their streams the peaceful from the hostile, the former checking
attacks from the Sarmatians and forming the boundary between Europe
and Asia, the latter keeping back the Germans, a nation ever keen for
war. Then there are lakes of very wide extent, great pools surrounded 2
by tribes mutually ignorant of each other, marshes that no boat can
struggle through, that cannot be passed even by the people that dwell
on their borders. Add, then, the multitude of fountains, and of river
sources that belch out of their recesses full-grown streams. Besides,
there are many rushing torrents that gather only for a time, whose
force is as shortlived as it is sudden. Now there are waters, in all
this variety of form and character, within as well as above the 3
earth. Away there below some are borne along in vast bulk, and tumble
their whole volume down the steep: others more sluggish are dammed back
in shallows, and flow with gentle, quiet stream. And can any one deny
that within those vast underground hollows waters are formed, and lie
sluggish and inactive in many places? It needs no long proof to show
that there must be many waters in the place where all waters are. The
earth would not be able to produce so many rivers unless it poured them
from a copious reserve.
This being so, sometimes below the earth a river must become swollen, 4
and leaving its banks assail with violence all obstacles that meet
it. So there will be a movement of some point on which the river has
made an onset, and which it will keep lashing until its waters fall.
Or it may happen that the constant wear of a stream may eat away some
quarter, dragging down thereby some mass above, by whose fall, in turn,
the surface which rested on it is shaken. Now surely a man trusts too 5
much to the sight of the eyes and cannot launch out his imagination
beyond, if he does not believe that the depths of earth contain a
vast sea with winding shores. I see nothing to prevent or oppose the
existence of a beach down there in the obscurity, or a sea finding its
way through the hidden entrances to its appointed place. There, too,
it occupies as much space as here, perhaps more, since the regions up
on earth have had to be shared with so many living creatures; but the
hidden regions being desert without inhabitant give freer scope to the
waves of the nether ocean. And who is there to hinder the sea from 6
swelling there and being tossed by all the winds that every interstice
of the earth, and every species of atmosphere can create? So, then,
when a storm greater than ordinary has arisen, it may beat upon some
one side of the earth with too great vehemence and move it. For on the
surface likewise, many places which had been far from the sea have
felt the violence of its sudden approach: villas almost out of sight
of it have been invaded by the waves which used only to be heard in
the distance. The nether sea, too, can approach and retire; neither of
which movements can take place without shock to the earth that stands
above it.
VIII
I do not, indeed, suppose that you will long hesitate to believe that 1
there are underground rivers and a hidden sea. From what other cause
could the rivers burst out and come to the surface unless the source
of the moisture were shut up within the earth? For instance, when one
sees the Tigris interrupted and dried up in the middle of its course,
not diverted as a whole, but gradually with imperceptible losses first
lessen and then waste away, where do you suppose it goes to if not to
the depths of the earth, especially as you see it emerge again not less
in volume than its former stream? And what are you to say when you 2
see the Alpheus, so celebrated by the poets, sink in Achaia and, having
crossed beneath the sea, pour forth in Sicily the pleasant fountain
Arethuse? And don’t you know that among the explanations given of the
occurrence of the inundation of the Nile in summer, one is that it
bursts forth from the ground, and is swollen not by rain from above but
by water given out from within the earth?
I have myself heard from their own lips the story told by the two 3
non-commissioned officers sent to investigate the sources of the Nile
by our good Emperor Nero, a monarch devoted to virtue in every form,
but especially solicitous for the interests of truth. The King of
Ethiopia had supplied them with assistance and furnished letters of
introduction to the neighbouring kings, and so they had penetrated
into the heart of Africa and accomplished a long journey. “We came 4
indeed,” I give their own words, “to huge marshes, the limit of which
even the natives did not know, and no one else could hope to know;
so completely was the river entangled with vegetable growth,[80]
so impassable the waters by foot, or even by boat, since the muddy
overgrown marsh would bear only a small boat containing one person.
There,” my informants went on, “we saw with our eyes two rocks from
which an immense quantity of water issued.” Now whether that is the
real source or only an addition to the river; whether it rises there 5
or merely returns to the surface after its previous course underground;
don’t you think that, whatever it is, that water comes up from a
great lake in the earth? The earth must contain moisture scattered in
numerous places and collected at depth in order to be able to belch it
out with such violence.
[80] The so-called “sudd.”
IX
Fire is the cause assigned by some for earthquakes, but they are not 1
agreed as to its method of action. First among them is Anaxagoras,
who is of opinion that pretty much the same cause produces concussion
in the earth as in the atmosphere. In the nether parts of earth, air
(gas) causes explosions of thick atmosphere massed in clouds with the
same violence as on earth clouds are wont to be burst. Fire is struck
out by this collision of clouds and by the rush of the atmosphere that
is forced out. This fire in seeking an exit meets obstructions and 2
bursts through all obstacles, until it has either found a way of escape
to the light through the narrow passages, or has made one for itself
by violence and destruction. Other writers who still believe the cause
to lie in fire do not suppose that this is its method of action: they
think the fire presents itself in more than one place and burns away
everything in the vicinity. Then if the parts eaten away fall in at
any time, a shock follows in the portions which are deprived of their
supports; they first totter and then collapse; nothing encounters them
to support their weight. Then chasms and vast gulfs are opened up, or 3
it may be, after hanging a long time in the balance, the ground settles
down over what is still left standing. We see the same thing happen
ordinarily as often as a part of the city suffers from a fire. The
joists are burnt through, or what gave support to the upper part of the
buildings is undermined. Then the roofs after tossing about for a long
time fall in; their swaying and oscillating continue until they find a
resting-place on solid ground.
X
Anaximenes affirms that the earth is itself the cause of the earth- 1
quake, and that nothing encounters it from without to give it a
shock. Within it, he thinks, certain parts of its substance fall of
themselves, either loosened by moisture, or eaten away by fire, or
shaken off by the violence of air. But even in absence of such active
cause there is not wanting sufficient to account for the loss or
removal of some portion of the earth. In the first place, all things
fall through age, for nothing is safe from the ravages of time, which
waste even the solidest and strongest edifice. In old buildings parts
fall without being knocked off, merely because they have more weight
than strength. So in the earth’s body as a whole it comes to pass 2
that portions are loosened by age, and being loosened, fall, causing
shock to the things above them. This they do primarily while they are
leaving their place; for nothing, especially if it is large, can be
wrenched off without movement of that to which it adhered. But further,
when the objects have fallen, they meet the solid earth and rebound
like a ball. When a ball falls, it jumps up and bounces repeatedly,
just as often, in fact, as it recoils from the ground for a new flight.
If the loosened objects within the earth are carried down into stagnant
waters, this accident of itself causes a shock to the vicinity through
the wave cast up by the weight of the objects shot suddenly down from a
great height.
XI
Some attribute these earthquakes to fire, but give different
explanations of its action. When fire causes intense heat at various
points beneath the earth, it must roll up a great cloud of vapour,
which can find no exit, and which dilates the air by its high
temperature. If the pressure of the vapour is excessive, it scatters
all obstructions; but if it is comparatively moderate, it merely causes
movement of the earth. We observe water smoke when fire is applied.
What the fire does to this water in a narrow pot, one may suppose is
done on a much greater scale when a violent and wide-spreading fire
causes immense extents of water to boil. It then by evaporation from
the overflowing waters shakes violently whatever it strikes.
XII
Many of the greatest authorities are persuaded that earthquakes are 1
to be attributed to air. Archelaus, who is well versed in the records
of antiquity, speaks thus: Winds are carried down into the earth’s
hollows and recesses. When they are all full, and the atmosphere is
condensed to the utmost extent, the air, which continues to come in,
forces and thrusts the former air, and with frequent blows first
compresses and then dislodges it. The air in its endeavour to find 2
room forces all the narrow passages and tries to burst its barriers.
Through the struggle of the air as it seeks for an escape it comes
to pass that the earth is moved. This explains why the approach of
an earthquake is preceded by still and quiet of the atmosphere; the
force of the air which is wont to rouse the winds is held in check in
its nether abode. Even on the present occasion of the earthquake in 3
Campania, although the season was winter, the atmosphere was perfectly
still and calm for several days before it.[81] Well, then, did an
earthquake never take place when there was a wind blowing? On very rare
occasions have there been two winds blowing simultaneously. Still, such
a thing is possible, and is wont to occur. But if we admit it as an
established fact that two winds can be in activity at one and the same
time, why shouldn’t it happen that [at times] one of them agitates the
upper air, the other the nether?[82]
[81] The text is uncertain, and the argument down to the end of the
chapter rather obscure.
[82] The argument seems to be: Two winds can blow simultaneously. One
may be beneath the earth (causing or during earthquake), one above.
Therefore, stillness of the upper atmosphere is not a necessary
concomitant of earthquake. The fact has at times been otherwise.
XIII
In this category you may rank Aristotle and his disciple Theo- 1
phrastus, a man of pleasant though not of superhuman eloquence, as
the Greeks considered him, and of easy, polished style. Let me unfold
in more detail what they hold in common: There is always evaporation
of some kind going on from the earth, which is at one time dry, at
another has an admixture of moisture. When this, rising from the lowest
parts of earth, has been raised to the utmost extent, and has no place
beyond into which to issue, it is borne back and returns upon itself.
The struggle of the air in its ebb and flow tosses to and fro all
obstructions it meets, and, whether its egress is stopped or whether
it escapes through the narrow openings, it causes movement of the
earth and uproar. To the same school of opinion belongs Strato, who 2
made a special study of this department of science, and was a diligent
student of natural philosophy. His verdict on the matter is this: Cold
and heat always move away from one another in opposite directions, and
cannot remain in the same place. Cold flows into the spot whence the
influence of heat has departed; and, conversely, there is heat in the
place whence cold has been banished. The statement is beyond doubt, but
the contrariety of the two may become plain to you from the following:
In the winter season, when there is cold on the earth’s surface, the 3
wells are warm, and caves and all underground retreats equally so. The
heat, yielding possession of the upper regions to the cold, retreats
down there. When it reaches the lower regions, and is accumulated there
to the utmost, the denser it is, the more powerful is it. To this a
further supply is added, to which what has already gathered, and is
compressed into a narrow space, of necessity gives way. The same thing
happens from the opposite cause when a greater quantity of cold is
borne down to these recesses. All the heat that lurks there gives way 4
to the cold, and retires to the narrow passages, and is driven onward
with great impetuosity. The nature of the two, as I have said, does not
allow agreement, or abode in the same place. In its flight, then, and
eager haste to escape at all hazards the air pushes back and tosses
about all that lies near it. This is why, previous to an earthquake,
a roaring is usually heard, through the tumult of the winds in the
earth’s bowels. For not otherwise, as our poet Virgil says, could 5
The earth bellow beneath our feet and the lofty peaks be moved,
were not this the work of the winds. In this contest again there are
ups and downs. There are cessations in the massing of the heat and, in
turn, in its emission. Then the cold, too, is restrained and gives way,
but some day soon it will be more powerful again. While, therefore,
the alternating forces rush to and fro, and the air moves hither and
thither, the earth is shaken.
XIV
There are some who think that, while air and no other cause produces 1
earthquake, it operates in a different way from that which Aristotle
supposed. Listen to what they say: Our body is irrigated with blood,
and with air which courses everywhere along its own routes. We have
some comparatively narrow vessels through which they cannot do more
than pass; some wider, in which they accumulate, and from which they
are distributed to the members. So this whole body of the earth at 2
large has passages alike for water, which performs the function of
blood, and for wind, which might be called simply the breath of its
life. These two encounter each other at some points, at some points
they are stationary. While in our bodies good health is enjoyed,
the movement of the veins preserves its rate undisturbed; but when
there is malady the pulse beats more rapidly, the deep breathing and
panting betoken laboured, wearied effort. In like manner the earth
remains unshaken while it maintains its natural position. But if any 3
flaw occur in it, there is a shaking, just as of a body suffering
from disease; for the air which flowed through it with regularity is
violently smitten, and causes its veins to quiver; but not, let me add,
in the way, described a little above,[83] imagined by those who will
have it that the earth is a living creature. In that case the earth,
just as an animal does, would feel the agitation equally all over. When
a fever seizes any of us, it does not delay for a time its attack upon
some parts, but with uniform regularity spreads over them all.
[83] There seems a slight lapse of memory here. Cf. pp. 126, 196.
Perhaps you had better assume, therefore, that air from the surround- 4
ing atmosphere enters the earth. As long as it has free egress, it
glides through it without doing harm; but if it meet some obstacle to
block its way, then it is, to begin with, weighted with the atmosphere
that pours in on the rear; by and by it escapes with difficulty
through some chink, and makes its way with the greater violence the
narrower the opening is. That cannot take place without a struggle,
and a struggle involves shaking of the earth. But if the confined
air cannot find even a chink by which to issue, it is massed and 5
becomes furious, and is driven round in this direction and in that,
overthrowing or bursting one thing after another. It is excessively
subtle, and at the same time exceedingly powerful; it can worm its way
into obstructions however great, splitting and scattering whatever it
enters. When this occurs, then there is a regular tossing of the earth.
For the earth either opens to give room to the wind, or, after giving
room, is deprived of its foundation and subsides into the very cavern
from which it allowed the wind to issue.
XV
Some entertain the following opinion: The earth is porous at many
points, possessing not merely those first shafts which it received
as ventilators at its creation, but many subsequently opened up by
various changes. In some places water has washed away the soil that
was on the surface; part has been eaten away by torrents, while parts
have been exposed by the disruptive action of great tides. Through the
interstices thus produced air enters. If it so happen now that the sea
has shut it in and driven it deeper, and the waves prevent its escape
by the same road, egress and regress being alike closed, the air rolls
about within the earth. Its natural tendency is to hurry straight
forward, but as that path is closed, it presses upward and lashes the
earth, whose weight lies heavy upon it.
XVI
I must further mention a view held by the majority of writers, which 1
probably I shall myself support. The earth does not lack air within;
that everybody knows. I do not mean merely the air which holds it
together and unites its parts, which exists even in stones and dead
bodies; but I mean that fresh vital air which supports all life. Unless
the earth possessed this store of air, how could she infuse it into so
many trees and crops, which derive their life from this and no other
source? How could she nourish all the different roots that sink into 2
the soil in one place and another, some merely attached to the surface,
others sunk deeper, had she not an abundant supply of the breath of
life, which produces so many varied growths and rears them with its
nourishing draught? These are the slighter arguments that I hitherto
urge. Why, all the heaven we see, which is shut in by fiery ether, the
highest portion of the universe, all these stars, whose number cannot
be conceived, all this concourse of heavenly bodies, and, to mention
only one more, this sun, that urges his course so close to us, many
times larger than the whole circuit of the earth--all these draw their
nourishment from materials of earth which they share among them, and
are sustained, of course, by nothing else than the breath of the 3
earth. This is their nourishment, this their pasturage. Now the earth
would be unable to nourish so many bodies of such size, larger even
than itself, unless it were full of breath, which it exhales from every
part of it day and night. For there must be a large reserve of that
from which so much is sought and taken; in fact, the supply to be drawn
from it is created for the occasion. The earth would not possess a 4
perennial supply of air sufficient for the wants of so many heavenly
bodies, unless the elements issued and returned alternately and were
transmutable into one another. But apart from this, it is necessary
that the earth be abundantly filled with it, and be able to draw it
forth from her hidden store. There is no doubt then that a great
quantity of air lurks in the interstices of the earth, and a widely
diffused atmosphere occupies the hidden spaces underground. If that is
true, of necessity the earth must often be moved, since it is full of
a most movable substance. No one, I suppose, can doubt that there is
nothing so restless, so capricious, so fond of disturbance as air.
XVII
It follows, therefore, that air should obey the law of its being; 1
what is wont to be moved will sometimes move other things. And when?
Whenever its free course is checked. As long as it is not hindered
it flows quietly along. When it is opposed and held back it becomes
furious, bursting all obstacles just like that
Araxes that ever spurned a bridge.
As long as the river has a free easy channel it rolls down its waters 2
in due and regular succession. But if through chance or by human agency
rocks are placed in its way to check its course, then it gathers fresh
strength from the barrier, and the more numerous the obstacles opposed
to it, the greater the force that it musters to overcome them. For all
the water that accumulates behind, constantly increases, and being at
last unable to bear its own weight manifests its violence through the
havoc it works in its descent, and escapes headlong down its channel,
bearing the very obstacles that blocked its path. The same thing
occurs with air, only that, in proportion to its greater strength 3
and mobility, it is the more rapidly carried onward, and bursts the
more violently all that encloses it. From this, of course, there is
a disturbance in the part of the ground under which the struggle
has occurred. The truth of this assertion may be proved from the
consideration that often when an earthquake has taken place, involving
a breach of only some part of the earth, wind has issued from it for
several days. This is recorded to have taken place in the earthquake 4
in which Chalcis suffered, as you will find in Asclepiodotus,
Posidonius’ pupil, in his discussion of my own topic of Physical
Inquiries. In other authors, too, you will find it stated that after a
chasm had opened up at one spot, in no long time wind issued from it,
having no doubt made for itself the way along which it travelled.
XVIII
The chief cause of earthquake, therefore, is air, an element 1
naturally swift and shifting from place to place. As long as it is not
stirred, but lurks in a vacant space, it reposes innocently, giving
no trouble to objects round it. But when any cause coming upon it
from without rouses it, or compresses it, and drives it into a narrow
space, in the first instance, to be sure, it merely retires and roams
about its enclosure. But when opportunity of escape is cut off, and
resistance meets it on all hands, then
... With deep murmur of the mountain
It roars around the barriers;...
which, after long battering, it dislodges and tosses on high, growing
the more fierce, the stronger the obstacle with which it has 2
contended. By and by, when it has traversed the whole space in which
it was enclosed, and has failed to find a way of escape, it recoils
from the side on which its impact was greatest. It is then either
distributed through the secret openings which the earthquake of itself
causes here and there, or escapes through a new rent. So uncontrollable
is this mighty power. No bolt can imprison wind; it loosens every bond,
bears with it every weight, and insinuating itself into the smallest
crannies wins its release; for by the invincible power of nature it is
free, especially when roused, and asserts its right for itself. Air is 3
a thing no man can tame; nothing will be found which,
When the winds struggle and the tempests roar,
Can restrain them by its sway and rein them by bonds and prison.
Doubtless the poets wished the place in which the winds lay pent up
underground to be considered a prison. But they did not perceive either
that what was shut up is no longer wind, or that what is wind can no
longer be shut up. What is shut up is at rest, and the atmosphere is at
a standstill; whereas all wind is in flight. Besides these arguments,
there is a consideration by which it becomes manifest that motion 4
is brought about by air, namely, that our bodies never tremble except
when some cause produces disturbance of the internal air,[84] which
is contracted by fear, grows sluggish in old age, languishes when the
veins are numbed, is checked with cold, or after some attack of fever
is quite driven from its wonted course. As long as it flows unimpeded,
and moves in its wonted fashion, there is no quivering of the body.
When anything intervenes to prevent its functioning, then being no
longer able to maintain what it upheld by its vigour, it fails, causing
a collapse of everything that it had sustained when unimpaired.
[84] Or spirit: there is almost a play upon the ambiguous meaning of
the term.
XIX
We must now hear what Metrodorus of Chios desires to urge by way of 1
opinion. I do not allow myself the liberty of passing over unnoticed
even opinions that I disapprove; it is better to have the largest
possible variety of views, and to condemn rather than omit what we do
not approve. Well, then, what has Metrodorus to say? He compares the 2
subterranean disturbances to the voice of a person who puts his head
into a barrel and begins to sing out. In that case there is a kind of
quavering as the voice extends and resounds through the whole hollow
space; slight as the movement is, it passes all round the vessel in
which it is enclosed, grazing its sides and causing disturbance all
through. In the same way the vast empty caverns that stretch down
beneath the earth have atmosphere of their own, on which other air
coming from above falls with violence. The agitation produced differs
in no wise from that of the empty vessels which I have just mentioned,
when they resound through shouting into them.
XX
Let us now go on to consider the authors who have alleged as causes 1
all the different factors mentioned, or, at any rate, several of them.
Democritus is one of those who think that several are concerned. He
asserts that the earthquake is produced sometimes by air, sometimes
by water, sometimes by both. He pursues the argument in the following
way: Some portion of the earth is hollow, in which a large quantity of
water has gathered. Part of this water is thinner and less dense than
the rest. When it is driven back by a heavy mass descending upon it
from above, it comes violently against the earth, causing a commotion
of it. The fluctuating movement of the water cannot take place without
corresponding movement of the body on which it impinges. Besides, what
we said a little above regarding air must be repeated in regard 2
water. When it is accumulated at one place, which becomes too small
to contain it, it inclines in some particular direction, and opens up
a passage for itself, at first by its mere weight, afterwards by the
gathering force of its current. Being long shut up it cannot escape
except down an incline, and it cannot drop straight down with any
gentleness, or without violent shaking of the parts through which
and on which it falls. Now, if after it has begun its rapid downward 3
movement it is checked at any point, and the force of the current
is thrown back upon itself, it is driven back on the earth which
encounters it, and attacks the earth at the point where it is most
insecure. Moreover, the ground is sometimes so saturated with the
moisture it has received into its heart that it subsides to a lower
level and its very foundation is destroyed. The pressure is then
exerted on the part toward which the weight of the descending waters
most inclines. Air, too, sometimes urges the water. If it presses with
some degree of violence, it naturally moves the part of the earth
toward which it has urged the gathering of the waters. Sometimes,
again, the air is driven into passages through the earth, and in its 4
search for a way of escape causes a general movement. The earth, as
we know, is pervious to wind; air is too subtle to be excluded, too
violent to be resisted when excited to rapid movement.
Turning from Democritus to Epicurus, we find the latter to assert
that all the foregoing may be causes of earthquake, but he tries
to introduce some additional ones. He criticises other authors for
affirming too positively that some particular one of the causes is
responsible, as it is difficult to pronounce anything as certain in
matters in which conjecture must be resorted to. As he says, then, 5
water is capable of producing earthquake by washing and rubbing off
certain portions, the weakening of which removes the support of what
was upborne by them when unimpaired. The force of air is also capable
of moving the earth. Perhaps the air within the earth is set in violent
agitation by other air entering from without. Or, perchance, it may
be that the earth receives an internal blow from the sudden fall of
some portion of it, and derives thence the shock. Or, perchance,
some portion of the earth is upheld, as it were, by certain pillars
and stakes, the injury or withdrawal of which causes a tremor to run
through the mass they support. Or, perchance, a quantity of hot air 6
turning to fire and assuming the character of lightning courses along
to the widespread destruction of all obstacles it encounters. Or,
perchance, some wind stirs the sluggish marshy waters, whose stroke in
consequence shakes the earth; or the tossing of the air, increasing to
violence through the mere movement, is carried from the lowest depths
right up to the surface of the earth. Still, Epicurus is satisfied that
there is no more potent cause of earthquake than air.
XXI
We Stoics also are convinced that it is only air that can attempt 1
such a feat as the production of an earthquake, for than it nothing in
the whole realm of nature is more powerful, more energetic; in absence
of it even the elements that are most violent lose their force. It is
by air that fire is kindled; if you withdraw wind, water is sluggish.
Water becomes impetuous only when the blast tosses it with violence.
This force it is that has power to scatter vast spaces of earth, to
raise from the depths new mountains, and to set in mid-ocean islands
hitherto unseen. Can any one doubt that There and Therasia and this 2
island which in our days under our very eyes rose out of the Aegean
Sea, were carried up to the light by the force of air?
Posidonius will have it that there are two different varieties in the
movements of the earth, each with its distinctive name. The one is a
quaking when the earth is shaken and moves up and down; the other is
a tilting when, like a ship, it leans over to one or other side. I
am of opinion that there is still a third variety, which we have a 3
special term to denote. Our forefathers had good reason for speaking of
a trembling of the earth, for it is unlike either of the other kinds
of movement. On such an occasion things are neither all shaken nor
all tilted, but they quiver. In a case of this kind no great damage
is usually done; while, on the other hand, a tilting is far more
destructive than a shock; for unless a contrary movement set in very
quickly from the other side to restore the level, downfall follows of
necessity.
XXII
These movements being dissimilar, their causes are likewise 1
different. Let us deal first with the shaking movement. If great loads
are being conveyed by a row of many waggons, and the wheels, under
the unusual strain, fall into the ruts of the road, one feels the
earth shaken. Asclepiodotus has put it on record that on one occasion
the fall of a rock that was torn off from the mountain-side caused by
the tremor the collapse of some houses in its vicinity. Just the same
thing may occur beneath the earth; parts of the overhanging crags may
be loosened and fall with great weight and noise upon the floor of the
cavern beneath, and with a violence proportionate to the weight of the
mass and the height of the fall. The whole roof of the subterranean
valley is disturbed by an occurrence of this kind. It is conceivable,
too, that rocks are not always wrenched off by their own weight; 2
when rivers roll over them, the constant moisture weakens the joints
of the stone, and day by day bears away part of its fastening, causing
abrasion, so to speak, of the skin in which the stone is enclosed.
The long waste of ages, through constant daily rubbing, by and by so
weakens the fastenings that they cease to be able to sustain their
burden. Then blocks of vast size fall down, then the crag hurled 3
headlong will not suffer anything to stand that it strikes in the
rebound from its fall, but
Comes away with a roar; and all things seem suddenly to rush headlong,
as our countryman Virgil says. Such must be the cause of the earthquake
that shakes the ground beneath. Now I must pass on to the second kind.
XXIII
The earth is naturally full of cavities, containing much empty 1
space. Through these cavities air roams. When an excessive quantity
has entered and cannot escape it shakes the earth. This explanation
is approved by others, too, as mentioned a little above. Perhaps the
crowd of witnesses will impress you. The view has the adhesion of
Callisthenes, and he is a man not lightly to be set aside. He was
endowed with a lofty intellect, and he dared to brave the wrath of a
king. His death is an eternal blot on the memory of Alexander, which
no valour and no success in war can ever remove. As often as it is
said, Alexander slew many thousands of the Persians, the retort will 2
be, And Callisthenes too. As often as it is said, He slew Darius,
in whose hands there was then a mighty kingdom, the retort will be,
Yes, and Callisthenes too. As often as it is said, He conquered all
lands right up to the Ocean, the Ocean likewise he essayed with fleets
strange to its waters, from a corner of Thrace he extended his empire
to the bounds of the East; it will also be said, Yes, but he slew
Callisthenes. Granted that he surpassed all former precedents of 3
generals and kings, yet of all that he did, nothing will match his
guilt in slaying Callisthenes.
Well, this Callisthenes, in the treatise in which he gives details
of the sinking of Helice and Buris, and discusses the disaster which
sent them into the sea, or the sea into them, says what I have said at
a previous point. Air, he says, enters the earth by hidden openings
under the sea, just as everywhere else. By and by, when the path is 4
blocked by which it had descended, and the resistance of the water in
the rear has cut off its retreat, it is borne hither and thither, and
encountering itself in its course it undermines the earth. That is the
reason why land over against the sea is most frequently harassed by
earthquakes; and hence it is that Neptune has been assigned this power
of moving the earth.[85] Any one who has learned the elements of Greek
knows that he is called among the Greeks Earthshaker (Ἐνοσίχθων).
[85] The usual reading, _maris_ = sea, contradicts the argument; it
cannot surely be right.
XXIV
I shall be ready to allow that air is the cause of this form of 1
destructive earthquake. But I shall have some criticism to offer as
to the method by which it enters the ground. Does it enter by fine
openings that the eye cannot detect, or by larger and more evident
ones? Does it come from the depths of the earth, or does it pass
through the surface too? The last-mentioned view seems inconceivable.
In our bodies the skin keeps out air, which finds no entrance except
that through which it is inhaled. And even when taken in by us, it
cannot settle except in the looser portion of the body. It does not
remain among the sinews or muscle, but in the bowels and the open 2
vessels of our internal organs. The same arrangement may be suspected
in regard to the earth’s interior from the very fact that the movement
in an earthquake is not on the surface of the earth or about the
surface, but beneath in the lowest parts. A proof of this is that seas
of immense depth are tossed up, no doubt from the movement of the
ground over which they spread. It is therefore probable that the earth 3
is moved in its depths, and that the air is formed there in the
immense caverns. Nay, says some critic, but just as when we shiver from
cold a trembling follows, so, too, the earth is shaken by air affecting
it from without. This I deny can by any possibility occur. Why, the
earth must get a chill in order to have the same happen to it as to
us, whom an external affection drives into a shuddering fit. I should
quite allow that the earth shows symptoms of much the same kind as 4
we do, but the cause is wholly different. An injury of a deeper kind,
more toward its centre, must affect it, the very strongest proof of
which may be found in the fact that when through violent earthquake the
soil is laid open in wide destruction, the chasm sometimes takes in and
buries whole cities. Thucydides tells us that, about the time of the 5
Peloponnesian War, the island of Atalanta, either wholly, or, at any
rate, for the most part, was swallowed up. You may take Posidonius for
witness that the same thing happened to Sidon. But we do not require
evidence of this. Within our own memory the earth has been torn by
internal movement, adjoining places have been rent asunder, whole
plains have disappeared. I will now explain how I suppose this sort of
thing to occur.
XXV
When air has completely filled a large vacant space within the earth, 1
and has begun to struggle and meditate escape, it lashes again and
again the sides of the enclosure within which it lurks, and right over
which, as it happens, cities are sometimes situated. The shaking is at
times so violent that buildings standing above the area of disturbance
are thrown down. Sometimes it goes to such lengths that the walls
by which the whole roof of the cavern is supported fall right down
into that vacant underground space, and cities sink entire into the
unfathomed depths. Long ago, if one may believe the story, Ossa and 2
Olympus were united; subsequently they were separated by an earthquake,
and the one great mountain was split into two. Then the Peneus made its
escape, draining the marshes with which Thessaly was overspread, and
drawing off the waters, which from want of exit had hitherto formed a
lake. It was an earthquake that let loose Ladon, the river which flows
between Elis and Magalenopolis. What, it is asked, do these facts go
to prove? Simply that air gathers in the spacious caves--for what 3
other name can I apply to the empty places under the earth? Were this
not so,[86] great spaces of the earth would be convulsed, and many of
them would totter to ruin at one and the same time. As it is, only
small portions suffer, nor does a shock ever extend as much as two
hundred miles. Look at the recent one, the marvellous tales of which
have filled the whole world; it did not pass beyond Campania. Need I
say that when Chalcis felt the earthquake shock Thebes did not fall? 4
when Aegium suffered, Patras, which is quite close by, only learned by
report about the earthquake? That mighty shock, which swallowed up the
two cities Helice and Buris, stopped short of Aegium. Plainly, then,
the movement extends only such distance as the empty space underground
stretches.
[86] _I.e._ were the air distributed all through the earth.
XXVI
To prove my point I might have used, somewhat unfairly perhaps, the 1
authority of the great writers who relate that Egypt never experienced
an earthquake shock, the reason they allege for it being that it is
all composed of mud. If one may believe Homer, Pharos used to be as
far from the mainland as a ship under full sail could reach in a day’s
voyage; but it has now become attached to the mainland. The Nile’s
swollen stream brings down great quantities of mud, and by adding it
from time to time to the existing land it has by an annual increase
constantly carried forward the coast of Egypt. The country thus is 2
composed of rich loamy soil without interstices, as it has become
solid just by the drying up of the mud. The composition of the mud was
close and firm, the particles of it being stuck together; no vacant
space could intervene, since the solid was always being added to by the
liquid and soft slime. But Egypt is, as a matter of fact, subject to
earthquake; and Delos, too, though Virgil bade it stand fast,
And granted that it should be a settled land of tillage, and should
laugh the winds to scorn.
The philosophers, too, a credulous set of people, relying on Pindar’s
authority, said that it did not experience movement. Thucydides asserts
that in former times it was unshaken, but sustained a shock about the
time of the Peloponnesian War. Callisthenes asserts that the same thing
happened on another occasion also. Among the numerous portents--these 3
are his words--by which warning was given of the overthrow of the two
cities Helice and Buris, the most remarkable were the appearance of
a huge pillar of fire and the earthquake shock in Delos. Yet he will
have it that the island is comparatively firm for the reason that it is
placed on the sea and has hollow crags and porous rocks, which afford a
way of escape to air imprisoned in them. For this reason, too, islands
have, he thinks, a firmer soil, and cities are safer in proportion 4
to their proximity to the sea. The falsity of such an opinion surely
Pompeii and Herculaneum learned to their cost. Add now the fact that
every sea-coast is particularly subject to earthquakes. Paphos, for
instance, was more than once ruined, and the famous Nicopolis is
already intimately acquainted with this mischief. Cyprus is surrounded
by a deep sea, but is subject to shocks. Tyre is as regularly shaken by
earthquake as it is washed by the waves. Such, then, are for the most
part the explanations that have been suggested for the trembling of the
earth.
XXVII
We must now essay an explanation of certain peculiar features which 1
are said to have occurred in the recent Campanian earthquake. A flock
of six hundred sheep is asserted to have been killed in the district
near Pompeii, and there is no reason to suppose that this happened to
the sheep through fright. We have said that after great earthquakes it
is usual for a pestilence to occur. And no wonder, since in the depths
of earth many deadly poisons lurk. In fact, the very atmosphere there, 2
being stagnant through some fault in the earth or the sluggish
movement and the everlasting darkness that prevails, is dangerous to
breathe. Or being poisoned by the fumes of the internal fires, when
it is released from its long inactivity, it taints and pollutes this
pure clear air above, and brings new forms of disease to those who
inhale the unwonted draught. You remember, too, that we found the water
lurking in the secret depths to be useless and even pestilential, since
activity never stirs it, and the free breath of heaven never ruffles
it. Being therefore thick and covered beneath gross eternal darkness 3
it contains only elements that are pestilential and injurious to our
bodies. So, too, the atmosphere, which mingles with it and lies amid
these marshes, scatters far and wide its poison when it issues out,
and kills those who breathe it. The flocks, which the pestilence is
wont to attack, feel the poisonous effects more readily, because they
are more greedy in feeding. They live for the most part in the open,
and they drink a great deal of water, which is chiefly responsible for
the pestilence. Sheep are of rather delicate constitution, and, as 4
they keep their heads close to the earth, I am not surprised at their
being attacked by the infection; they receive the blasts of tainted air
just as it issues from the ground. If it had issued in greater volume,
it would have injured man too. But the abundant supply of pure air
counteracted it before it could rise high enough to be breathed by any
human being.
XXVIII
Now you may infer that the earth contains many deadly elements from 1
the mere fact that so many poisons grow of themselves without being
sown; the soil no doubt contains seeds of evil as well as of good. Is
it not the case that, earthquakes apart, in several places in Italy a
pestilential steam is emitted through certain openings, which it is
not safe for either man or beast to breathe? Even birds, if they meet
it before it is neutralised by the purer breath of heaven, fall in
mid-flight; their bodies become livid, and their jaws swell just as
if they had been strangled. As long as this air is contained in the 2
earth and escapes by a narrow opening, it has no greater power than to
kill creatures that look down into, or voluntarily approach too near,
it. But when for centuries darkness has brooded over it, and the gloom
of the place has increased the infection, it becomes more dangerous
through mere lapse of time; the more sluggish it is, all the more
deadly does it become. Then when it has gained an exit it lets loose
all that mischief conceived in the cold shades through endless ages
of nether darkness, tainting with it the atmosphere of our realms of
earth. The better is ever conquered by the worse. Even that purer 3
air of heaven then changes to pestilential. Thence come sudden and
continuous deaths, and portentous forms of disease that spring from
unexampled causes. The disaster is long or short lived, according
to the strength of the sources of infection. Nor does the plague
cease until the freedom of heaven and the tossing of the winds have
banished[87] that fatal air.
[87] Or purified.
XXIX
Through fear some people have run about as if distracted or mad. For 1
fear, even when in moderation and confined to individuals, shatters
the mind’s powers. But when there is public alarm through fall of
cities, burying of whole nations, and shaking of earth’s foundations,
what wonder that minds in the distraction of suffering and terror
should have wandered forth bereft of sense? It is no easy matter in
the midst of overmastering evils not to lose one’s reason. So it is,
as a rule, the feeblest souls that reach such a pitch of dread as to
become unhinged. No one, indeed, has suffered extreme terror without 2
some loss of sanity; one who is afraid is much like a madman. But some
quickly recovering from the alarm regain self-possession. Others it
more violently disturbs and reduces to sheer madness. Hence during
times of war lunatics are to be met wandering about. On no occasion
will one find more instances of raving prophets than when mingled
terror and superstition have struck men’s hearts.
I am not surprised that a statue is split by an earthquake, after I
have recounted that mountains have been separated from mountains and
the ground itself burst asunder down to its depths.
These places, once convulsed by the force of vast ruin-- 3
Such the power of change in the lapse of lengthened ages!
Leaped asunder, they tell us, whereas hitherto both lands
Were one; into their midst rushed the deep with its mighty billows,
Cutting off the Italian from the Sicilian side; fields and cities
Were parted in sea-line and washed by the narrow tide that flowed
between.
One sees whole regions torn from their place, and what was once
contiguous, now lying beyond the sea. One sees a separation of cities
and nations when a part of nature is roused by internal motion, or
the sea or fire or air has assailed some point; for their force is
marvellous, since it has a boundless reserve from which to draw. Though
its rage is vented at but one point, yet it has the world’s whole 4
strength to reinforce its wrath. Thus it was that the sea tore away
Spain from the mainland of Africa. Thus it was by the flood, which the
greatest of poets have celebrated, that Sicily was cut away from Italy.
The movements that proceed from depth have much more force. They are
more energetic, as their effort is concentrated upon a narrow area.
Enough has now been said to show what mighty deeds these earthquakes
have wrought and what wondrous sights they have displayed.
XXX
Why, then, should one be amazed that the bronze of a single statue 1
is burst, and that, not even solid, but hollow and thin? as likely as
not air in seeking an escape has got enclosed in it. And does not every
one know that buildings are sometimes observed in time of earthquake to
split at the corners and be united again? Other things badly set upon
their base, and loosely and carelessly put together by the workmen,
have been known to be welded firmly together by the repeated shaking of
the earthquake. If it splits whole walls and whole houses, and rends 2
the sides of great towers, which are constructed of solid masonry, and
scatters the piles that support the foundations of great works, why
should one think it worthy of remark that a statue had been cut equally
into two from base to summit? But why, it may be asked, did the shock
last for several days? For Campania went on trembling continuously, 3
more gently it is true, but still causing great damage, because what it
shook was already shaken and crushed. Things stood so insecurely as to
require only a slight shake, but not a push, to bring them down. The
explanation of the prolonged shaking is no doubt that all the air had
not yet escaped, but though the greater part was discharged, a remnant
was still roaming about here and there.
XXXI
There is yet a further proof that you may unhesitatingly add to the 1
others that go to show that all these phenomena are the outcome of air.
After the most violent shock that cities and provinces can experience
has spent itself, another of like violence cannot immediately follow;
after the crisis there are only slight shocks, just because the most
violent one has opened a way of escape for the struggling winds. The
remains of the air that is left have not the same power, nor do they
require to struggle; they have now found a way of escape, and follow
the path by which the first and greatest shock issued.
I am of opinion, too, that the observations of a certain learned and 2
grave philosopher of my acquaintance deserve to be put on record; he
happened to be taking a bath when the earthquake occurred. He asserted
that he saw the tiles with which the floor of the bathroom was paved,
separate one from another and unite again. At one moment, when the
pavement opened, the water was taken in through the joints, the next,
when the pavement closed, it was forced out all bubbling. I have heard
the same learned man relate that he had seen soft materials undergo
more frequent but more gentle shocks than materials naturally hard.
XXXII
So much, my esteemed Lucilius, with respect to the mere causes of 1
earthquakes. Now we must adduce some considerations that will tend
to reassure us in face of the perils of earthquakes. After all, it
concerns us more closely to acquire resolution of mind than erudition,
and yet the former cannot be had without the latter. Assurance comes to
the mind from no source but elevating studies and the contemplation of
nature. Is there any one, I say, that reflects upon causes, who will
not be reassured and emboldened by this late catastrophe in Campania to
face disasters of all kinds? Why should I fear man or beast, bow or 2
lance? Far greater perils are ever lurking for me. Lightning and earth
shock, and all the great forces of nature, aim their blows at us. Death
must therefore be resolutely[88] challenged whether its attack be with
vast[88] overpowering onset or by ordinary means of daily occurrence.
It is of no moment how threatening its approach, or how great the
engine it brings up against us. The life it asks of us is a very little
thing. It will be taken from us by old age, or by a little pain in 3
the ear, or by a superabundance of tainted moisture within, by food
that the stomach cannot assimilate, or by a slight injury to one’s
toe. Man’s life is a paltry affair, but a mighty affair is the contempt
of life. He who can despise life may look unmoved upon the tossing of
the sea, even though all the winds have roused it, even though by some
upheaval of the world the tide has turned the whole Ocean bodily upon
the land. Unmoved he will behold the fierce forbidding aspect of the 4
thundering heavens, yes, though heaven itself be crushed and unite
its fires for the destruction of mankind and of itself first of all.
Unmoved he will behold earth’s framework rent and earth’s foundations
yawning beneath. Though the realms of the nether world be uncovered, he
will stand over the abyss still dauntless, and into the pit into which
he is doomed to fall he will perhaps leap. What is it to me how great
the powers by which I perish? To perish is itself no great matter.
[88] It would seem that _ingenti_ and _aequo_ have by some means got
transposed in the ordinary texts. Gercke reads _saevo_ for _aequo_.
Wherefore, if we desire to be happy, to be harassed by no fear 5
either of men, or gods, or circumstance, to despise fortune with her
superfluous promises and her contemptible threats, if we desire to live
the peaceful life, and to vie with the very gods in happiness, then
we must carry our life in our right hand. Whether snares or diseases
attack it, the swords of foes or the crash of falling tenements, or the
downfall of earth itself, or the violence of widespread fire enveloping
city and field in common disaster, let who will take it. What more do
I owe life than to encourage it on its journey, and to despatch it 6
with good wishes? _Go resolutely, go prosperously!_ There must be no
hesitation in rendering back life. It is merely a question of time, not
of fact. What you are doing must be done some day. Beseech not nor
fear, nor draw back as if starting to face some peril. Nature, who bore
you, waits your coming to a place better and safer than earth. There
is no earthquake there, friend, no winds clashing with loud noise of 7
cloudy sky, no fires to waste province and city, no fear of shipwreck
swallowing up whole fleets, no armies arrayed with opposing banners,
or common fury of hosts prepared for mutual destruction, no plague,
no pyres lit up around the promiscuous resting-place of slaughtered
nations. If death is a light affair, why fear it? If it is heavy, then
rather let it fall once for all than be always hanging over us. Should
_I_ fear to perish when earth must perish before me, when the powers 8
that shake are shaken, when they hasten to our destruction only through
their own? The sea received Helice and Buris entire; shall I fear for
one poor body? Ships sail over the site of two towns, aye, towns that
we know well, that the record preserved by letters has brought to our
intimate knowledge. How many others have been sunk in other places? how
many nations has either earth or sea engulfed? Shall I rebel against my
end when I know that I am not endless? nay, when I am fully assured 9
that all things come to an end, shall I fear my latest sigh?
Wherefore steel yourself, Lucilius, with all your might against fear of
death. This fear it is that drags us down; this it is that torments and
destroys the life it tries to preserve. It magnifies all those dangers,
earthquakes and lightnings, and the rest. You will be able to bear them
all resolutely if you but reflect that short and long in life make
no difference. It is but hours we lose. But suppose it is days, 10
or months, or years, what we lose is, surely, bound to perish. What
difference, pray, is it whether I manage to reach them or not? Time
flows on; it leaves behind those most eager to seize it. Neither what
is to be is mine, nor what was. I am poised upon a point of fleeting
time; it is a great thing to have been moderate in one’s ambitions.
Laelius the Wise made a neat retort once to a person who said, I
am sixty years old: you mean, said he, the sixty you no longer 11
_are_.[89] We show our failure to grasp the terms of this elusive life
of ours, and the conditions of time that is never our own, in reckoning
up as ours years that are now lost. Let us fix this in our minds, and
constantly remind ourselves, I must die. When? What matter is that to
you? Death is a law of nature; death is a tribute and a duty imposed
on mortals; it is the remedy of all ills. Whoever now fears it will
one day long for it. Giving up all else, Lucilius, make this your one
meditation, not to dread the name death. By long reflection make death
an intimate friend, that, if so required, you may be able even to go
forth to welcome it.
[89] It is almost impossible to express in English the play on
_habeo_ = have; French is more amenable. “J’ai soixante ans!
Parlez-vous des soixante ans que vous n’avez plus?”--NISARD.
BOOK VII
WHICH TREATS OF COMETS
I
No man is so utterly dull and obtuse, with head so bent on earth, 1
as never to lift himself up and rise with all his soul to the
contemplation of the starry heavens, especially when some fresh
wonder shows a beacon-light in the sky. As long as the ordinary
course of heaven runs on, custom robs it of its real size. Such is
our constitution that objects of daily occurrence pass us unnoticed
even when most worthy of our admiration. On the other hand, the sight
even of trifling things is attractive if their appearance is unusual.
So this concourse of stars, which paints with beauty the spacious 2
firmament on high, gathers no concourse of the nation. But when there
is any change in the wonted order, then all eyes are turned to the
sky. The sun has no observer unless he is in eclipse. No one watches
the moon unless she suffer obscuration. But then whole cities cry out,
groundless superstition drives every one into panic. And yet how much
greater are the ordinary movements of the sun! He takes, so to speak, 3
as many steps as there are days, completing the year in his circuit.
From the summer solstice he turns back to the lessening days, from the
solstice he slopes his rays,[90] and gives more room to the nights; he
occults the planets; though so much larger than the earth he does not
burn it up, but cheers it by his heat, which he so regulates as to make
it alternately more intense and more subdued. He never fills up with
light, nor yet obscures, the moon, except when she is right opposite 4
to him. All this we allow to pass unnoticed as long as the usual order
is preserved. But if there is any disturbance or any extraordinary
light displayed in the sky, we gaze at it, ask questions, and point
it out to our neighbours. So natural is it to admire what is strange
rather than what is great.
[90] There is some corruption in the text, but no probable
restoration has been suggested. From the Latin words it would appear
that this clause is merely an explanation of the previous one,
inserted by some officious copyist and therefore spurious.
The same thing holds in regard to comets. If one of these infrequent
fires of unusual shape have made its appearance, everybody is eager to
know what it is. Blind to all the other celestial bodies, each asks
about the newcomer; one is not quite sure whether to admire or to 5
fear it. Persons there are who seek to inspire terror by forecasting
its grave import. And so people keep asking and wishing to know whether
it is a portent or a star. But, by my honour, no one could embark on a
more exalted study, or master a more useful branch of knowledge than
that which treats of the nature of the stars and planets. Are they a
concentration of flame as our vision avers, and as the very light that
streams from them,[91] and the heat that descends from them suggest? 6
Or are their orbs not of flame, but, as it were, solid bodies of earth
that glide through tracts of fire, and having no light of their own
draw thence their brightness and heat? That is an opinion that has been
held by great men who have believed the stars to be compact of hard
material, and to be nourished by fire that is not their own. Flame by
itself, they argue, would be dissipated and would have nothing to hold
or to be held by. If it were merely massed and not attached to a solid
body, the universe would assuredly long since have scattered it in its
impetuous whirl.
[91] The common reading, _aliis_ = others, seems an error for _illis_
= them.
II
In view of this inquiry it will be well to ask whether comets are 1
wholly analogous to stars and planets. They seem to have certain
elements in common with them--for example, rising and setting--as well
as their general form, although comets are more scattered, and end in
a longer tail. They are alike, too, in their fiery bright appearance.
So, if all the stars are earthy bodies, comets must share the same
lot. But if the stars are pure fire and nothing else, remaining for 2
six months at a time unbroken by the rapid whirl of the universe, then
comets, too, may consist of some rarefied material, which is not broken
up by the constant revolution of the sky. It will also tend to clear up
this point if we endeavour to ascertain whether the earth stands still
while the universe revolves round it, or whether the converse is the
truth, the universe standing still while the earth revolves. There have
been persons who made bold to say that it is we that all unwitting are
borne round by the frame of things, that risings and settings are not
produced by a movement of the heavens, but that we ourselves rise and
set. The subject well deserves our study, if we are to know where we 3
really stand, whether the abode we have obtained as ours is the most
sluggish or the swiftest of motion, whether God causes all things to
revolve round us or causes us to revolve. Now, for this it is essential
that we have a record of all the appearances of comets in former times.
For, on account of their infrequency, their orbit cannot as yet be
discovered or examined in detail, to see whether they observe periodic
laws, and whether some fixed order causes their reappearance at the
appointed day. Such a development of astronomy is recent, having been
lately introduced into Greece.
III
Democritus, the most acute of all the ancient philosophers, says he 1
suspects there are several stars whose orbits are erratic. But he has
given neither their number nor their names, as the motions of the five
planets were not in his time understood. Eudoxus was, in fact, the
first to import from Egypt into Greece the knowledge of these motions,
though he says nothing about comets. From this it becomes plain
that, even among the Egyptians, the people that bestowed most care
on observation of the sky, the portion of astronomy that relates to
comets had not been worked out. Subsequently Conon, who was himself a 2
careful investigator, made a record of the sun’s eclipses that had been
observed by the Egyptians; but he made no mention of comets, though he
would certainly not have omitted anything definite on the subject that
he had learned in Egypt. So much is certain; two authors, Epigenes and
Apollonius of Myndus, the latter highly skilled in casting horoscopes,
who say that they studied among the Chaldaeans, are at variance in
their accounts. The latter asserts that comets are placed by the 3
Chaldaeans among the number of the wandering stars (_i.e._ planets),
and that their orbits have been determined. Epigenes, on the contrary,
asserts that the Chaldaeans have ascertained nothing regarding comets,
which are thought by them to be fires produced by a kind of eddy of
violently rotating air.
IV
In the first place, if it like you, let us set down the views of the 1
last-mentioned author and refute them. He supposes that the planet
Saturn has most influence in determining all motions of the heavenly
bodies. When it presses upon the constellations next Mars, or crosses
to the neighbourhood of the moon, or encounters the rays of the sun,
being naturally cold and windy, it contracts and masses the atmosphere
at more than one place. By and by, if Saturn absorb all the sun’s rays,
there is thunder and lightning. If he has Mars in agreement, the 2
lightning is forked. Moreover, he continues, forked and sheet lightning
contain different materials. Evaporation from water or other moisture
produces only gleams that threaten but stop short of striking. The
hotter and drier exhalation of the earth forges the bolts of forked
lightning. Beam meteors and torches, which differ from one another 3
only in size, are produced in this same way. When any ball of air--what
we call a whirlwind--encloses moist earthy matter, wherever it rushes
it presents the appearance of an extended line of fire, which lasts
just so long as the mass of air remains, which carries within it the
supply of moist earthy matter.
V
This account of Epigenes is a tissue of falsehoods. To begin with the 1
nearest one, the last, it is not true that torch and beam meteors are
due to the violent action of a whirlwind. The whirlwind is formed in
the neighbourhood of the earth, and there it runs its course. This is
the reason why it tears up trees by the roots, and wherever it swoops
down it lays bare the soil, carrying off in the meanwhile woods and
roofs of houses; as a rule, it is lower than the clouds, and assuredly
never higher. But, on the contrary, it is the more exalted part of
heaven that displays beam meteors, and so they never intervene between
us and the clouds. Besides, a whirlwind is borne along more swiftly
than any cloud, and rotates as on a pivot. And in addition to this, it 2
ceases all of a sudden, bursting by its own force. “Beams,” on the
contrary, do not run or fly across, like torches, but remain shining
for some time in the same quarter of the sky. Charimander, too, in the
book he wrote on comets, asserts that a great and unusual light in
the sky of the size of a large beam was once seen by Anaxagoras, and
continued to shine for a long period. Callisthenes puts it on record
that a similar appearance of a trail of fire was observed before the
sea swallowed up Buris and Helice. Aristotle says it was not a “beam,” 3
but a comet; the characteristic dispersion of the fire was not seen
at first on account of its excessive brightness, but, in process of
time, when the glare began to die down, it recovered the distinctive
appearance of a comet. In this fiery phenomenon there were many points
worthy of remark, none more so than this, that, immediately it shone in
the sky, the sea came over Buris and Helice. Did Aristotle, then, one 4
may ask, believe that not merely that beam but all beams are comets?
Surely not, for there is this difference, that beams have their fire
continuous, while in the other bodies it is dispersed. Beams have a
regular flame, not interrupted or dull at any point, while in the end
parts it is condensed, just like what Callisthenes describes the one to
have been, to which I referred a moment ago.
VI
There are, Epigenes goes on to say, two classes of comets. One kind 1
sheds its light on all sides without changing its position; the other
extends a loose kind of fire in one direction, after the fashion of
hair, and passes through among the stars; of the latter kind were the
two seen in our own days. The former variety, with hair on all sides,
that do not move, are usually low down, and arise from the same causes
as beams and torches, that is, from a distempered thick atmosphere that
carries in it many of the earth’s exhalations, both dry and moist. Air
driven out through narrow apertures is capable of setting on fire 2
the atmosphere situated over it, which is full of elements suitable
for feeding a fire; and it is able after that to drive it forward from
the clear space, lest from any cause it should fall back and relax its
force. After that, it can rise again on the next and following days
and set fire to the same spot. As presumptive proof of this, we see
winds return during several days at their set time. Rain, too, and
storms in other forms recur according to appointment. His opinion may
be briefly expressed by saying that he supposes comets to be formed 3
pretty much in the same way as fires excited by whirlwind. There is
this one difference, that those whirlwinds are pressed down to earth
from a higher region, while these others are raised from earth to the
upper regions.
VII
A great deal can be urged against this view. First of all, if wind 1
were responsible, a comet would never make its appearance without wind.
As a matter of fact, it appears when the air is perfectly still. In the
next place, if it were due to wind, it would fall with the wind; and
if it began through wind, would increase with increase of wind, and
would be the brighter the more furious the wind was. This point, too,
has to be added to the foregoing: while the wind impels many parts of
the atmosphere, a comet appears in one spot. The wind does not mount
up high, but comets are seen higher up than the winds are permitted
to go. Epigenes afterwards goes on to speak of the comets that, he 2
says, have a more definite resemblance to stars, traversing an orbit
and passing through the zodiacal signs. He attributes their origin to
the same causes as produce those that he called lower comets, the only
difference being that the earth’s exhalations in this case contain many
dry elements, and therefore seek the higher region, and are driven by
the north wind toward the more exalted portions of the heavens. But,
surely, if the north wind urged them, they would always be borne toward
the south, whither this wind urges its course. And yet, as a fact, they 3
have had different movements, some to east, others to west, all in
a curved path, a direction which the wind could not impart. Besides,
if the impulse which produced the comet carried up on high those north
winds from the earth, comets would not arise when other winds blew; yet
they do arise.
VIII
Let us now refute this other explanation of Epigenes, for he employs 1
two. He believes that when all the moist and dry exhalations of the
earth unite, the mere discord of the different bodies turns the air
into whirlwind. Then the force of that wind as it revolves sets fire by
its rapid motion to all that it embraces in itself, and raises it on
high. The gleam of the fire that is thus extracted remains as long as
there is sufficient nutriment; when the fuel fails, the fire subsides
too. Now, one who talks thus pays no attention to the nature of the 2
course of whirlwinds as compared with that of comets. The career of
the former is swift and violent, more rapid than the winds themselves.
But a comet’s movement is so gradual as to render imperceptible the
space traversed during a day and a night. Besides, whirlwinds have
an erratic, disorderly, and, to use a word of Sallust’s, eddying,
motion. Comets have a regular course, which observes the appointed
track. Surely none of us will believe that either the moon or the
five planets are carried by the wind or spun round by the whirlwind.
I trow not. And why? Just because they have not an irregular and 3
unrestrained motion. Let us apply the principle to comets. They do not
move in confusion or irregularity so as to justify the belief that they
are impelled by unruly and fickle forces. Besides, even if those eddies
could enclose moist earthy elements, and had power to raise them from
the depths to the heights, still they could not carry them up higher
than the moon. All their force is spent when they reach the region of
clouds. But as for the comets, we see them sailing through the upper
regions, mingling with the very stars. It is, therefore, improbable
that a whirlwind could persist over such a long distance, for the
greater it is, the more rapidly is it spent.
IX
Let Epigenes, therefore, make his choice of the two alternatives: 1
if the force is small, it cannot reach so high; if it is great and
violent, it will the more quickly break up. But further, according to
the opinion of people like Epigenes, these lower comets do not mount
higher because they have too much earthiness in them. Their weight
keeps them in the neighbourhood of earth. And yet these other comets,
which are higher and last longer, must have a more abundant material.
For they could not last so long were their supplies not replenished
from a larger stock. I said a moment ago that the whirlwind’s eddy 2
could not long endure, nor could it mount higher than the moon, or as
far as the place of stars. Of course, the whirlwind is caused by the
mutual struggle of several winds, and the contest cannot be kept up
for any long time. When the wandering uncertain air assumes a rotatory
form, in the last instance the force of all the winds yields to the
single strongest one. No hurricane lasts long. The more strength 3
squalls have, the shorter their duration. When winds reach their
maximum, they quickly abate all their violence. By that headlong speed
they must needs hasten to their own destruction. So no one has ever
seen a whirlwind last a whole day, or even an hour. Its velocity is
astonishing, its brevity no less astonishing. Moreover, on the earth
and near it, its rotation is swifter and more violent; the higher it 4
is, the less condensed and compact is it, and that is the reason of
its more rapid dissipation. Add the fact, too, that even if it reached
the highest region where the stars’ path lies, it would most certainly
be broken up by the motion which causes the universe to revolve. For
what can compare in rapidity with the revolution of the world? Thereby
the strength of all the winds combined in one would be shattered, aye,
and the strong solid chain that binds the earth, not to say a wisp of
whirling air.
X
Again, a fire carried along by a whirlwind cannot remain on high 1
unless the whirlwind also remain. But then what is so inconceivable as
any prolonged duration in a whirlwind? Above all, the whirlwind motion
is neutralised by the opposite motion of the heavens. That region on
high to which it is alleged to mount has an eddying motion of its own,
which carries onward the sky,
And drags the lofty stars, and turns them in rapid whirl.
And even though one grant some duration to whirlwinds, which is quite
contrary to the fact, yet what is to be said of the comets that have
continued in sight for six months? Then, as hinted above, there 2
must be two motions in the same spot--one that constant motion of
the heaven, accomplishing its task without intermission, the other a
strange new motion conveyed by the whirlwind. The one must inevitably
obstruct the other. And yet that motion we see of the moon in her
orbit, and of the other heavenly bodies that pass above the moon, is
irrevocable. It nowhere falters or stops, nor does it convey to us
the slightest suggestion of an obstacle being ever placed in its way.
It is utterly beyond belief that a whirlwind, the most violent and 3
unruly species of storm, should reach the very centre of the ranks of
the stars, and should find a sphere for its boisterous activity in that
ordered peace of heaven. Supposing that the revolution of a whirlwind
kindles fire, which is shot up to the heights, furnishing apparent
ground for the belief that what we see is a trail of fire; yet surely
the shape of the fire ought to be something like that which produces
it. Now a whirlwind is round in appearance; it remains in the same 4
track, and revolves after the fashion of a rotating pillar. The fire,
therefore, that is enclosed ought to resemble it in shape. But in
reality it is a trail of scattered fire, and resembles anything rather
than fire gathered into a ball.
XI
Let us now say good-bye to Epigenes, and proceed to examine the 1
opinions of other writers. But before beginning to set them forth, I
must first, by way of preface, remark that comets are not observed only
in one part of the sky, nor merely in the zodiac, but in the east as
well as in the west, more frequently, however, toward the north. Nor is 2
their shape uniform. The Greeks, indeed, distinguished three classes
of them: those from which the flame hangs down, after the fashion of
a beard; those that shoot out what looks like hair round them on all
sides; and those which have a scattered kind of fire, which, however,
stretches toward an apex.[92] But all the classes have a common
characteristic, and are rightly called comets (_i.e._ long-haired). As
the different shapes present themselves only at long intervals, it is
difficult to compare them with one another. Even at the time of their
appearance spectators are not agreed as to their shape. According 3
as one’s eyesight is keener or duller, one asserts that the comet is
brighter or redder, and that its hair is compressed toward the interior
of the star, or spread out toward its sides. But whether or not there
are any differences in comets, they must all be produced by the same
method. The one fact about which there ought to be agreement is, that 4
a star of strange unwonted appearance is beheld which drags along with
it scattered fire. Some of the ancients are convinced of the truth of
this explanation: When one of the planets has come into conjunction
with another, the light of the two blends in one, producing the
appearance of a more elongated star. This happens not merely when star
touches star, but even when one approaches another. The space between
the two is in that case lit up by both, and seems aflame, producing the
trail of fire.
[92] _I.e._ are cone-shaped.
XII
Our first answer to this theory is that the number of moving stars 1
(planets) is fixed. It is quite usual for them and comets to appear
at the same time; whence it is manifest that the comet is not due to
the conjunction of planets, but is a distinctive independent star.
Besides, it is a matter of frequent occurrence for a star to come under
the orbit of a more elevated star. Saturn, for example, is sometimes
above Jupiter; Mars looks down in a straight line on Venus or Mercury.
But yet no comet is formed from this movement whereby the one planet 2
approaches the other. Were it otherwise, there would be a comet every
year, for every year there are planets in the same constellation.
Again, if the approach of star to star produced a comet, the latter
would cease to be in a moment. The transit of stars takes place with
the utmost rapidity, thence all eclipse of heavenly bodies is of brief
duration; by the same motion they are as swiftly separated as they
were brought together. The sun and the moon, as we see, part company 3
within a brief space after the eclipse has begun. How much swifter
must be the separation of stars, which are so much smaller? Yet comets
last for six months at a time, which would not happen if they sprang
from the union of two stars. The stars cannot stick to one another
for any long time, and the law of their swift motion must ever drive
them asunder. Besides, those stars appear to us to be close to one 4
another, but in reality are separated by immense distances. How, then,
could the one star transmit fire to the other so that the two should
seem in union, when they are thus parted by an immense tract? The light
of the two stars, it is replied, mixes, furnishing the appearance of
one. I suppose this means that the phenomenon is much the same as when
a cloud takes a ruddy colouring from the rays of the sun striking on
it, or as when there is the golden glow of evening or morning, or as
when the bow is painted in its varied hues, but only in sunshine.
Well, my first criticism is that all the instances mentioned are the 5
result of great force. It is the sun that lights them up. The stars do
not possess anything like the same power. My second remark is that none
of the phenomena arises except below the moon in the vicinity of the
earth. The upper regions are pure and spotless, always retaining their
own colour. I remark further, that if anything of the kind did occur,
it would not last but would speedily disappear, as halos which surround
the sun or moon fade in a very brief space of time. Even the rainbow 6
does not long remain. If there was anything of the kind supposed, to
unite the space between the two stars, it would disappear with equal
rapidity. In any case it would not remain as long as comets are in the
habit of doing. The planets have their orbits within the zodiac, they
lie near this circle; but comets are seen in all parts of the sky.
Their time of appearance is no more certain than the limits of the
space which they may not exceed.
XIII
In reply to arguments like mine it is urged by Artemidorus that the 1
five planets are not the only stars with erratic courses, but merely
the only ones of the class that have been observed. But innumerable
others revolve in secret, unknown to us either by reason of the
faintness of their light, or the situation of their orbit being such
that they become visible only when they reach its extremities. It is
thus, he says, that certain new stars enter our field of vision, 2
mingling their light with the fixed stars, but displaying a brightness
greater than is usual in stars. This is the least serious of his lies:
his account of the universe is from end to end a shameless tissue of
lies. For instance, if we are to believe him, the upper regions of
heaven are perfectly solid--a lofty thick vault, as hard as the roof
of a house, formed by the accumulation of masses of atoms. The surface
immediately above it is of fire so compact that it cannot be broken
up or altered. Nevertheless, it has certain ventilators, and, as 3
it were, windows through which portions of the fire stream from the
outer part of the universe, but not so large as to cause commotion
in the inner; and again the fires pass from the world back into the
outer spaces. These extraordinary appearances, therefore, Artemidorus
supposes, have streamed in from that mass of matter which lies outside
the world. To set about disproving such a theory is nothing short of
beating the air for the sake of exercising the muscles!
XIV
Still, I will descend to the task. Let the man who has placed such a 1
solid roof on the world tell me what reason there is for believing his
statement that the heavens have such a thickness. What was it that took
all these solid bodies up there and kept them there? Then, a firmament
of such thickness must necessarily be of immense weight too. How is
it that heavy bodies remain aloft? How is it that the huge mass does
not come down and smash itself by its own weight? It is, I imagine, a 2
physical impossibility that such a vast weight as Artemidorus has
brought to the support of the heavens should hang suspended, or be
supported by a slight foundation. Nor can it be alleged that there are
stays[93] of some kind outside by which it is prevented from falling.
Nor again can there be any support in the centre[94] to receive and
prop up the threatening mass. And again, no one will venture to
assert that the universe is being constantly carried down through the
immensities of space, falling all the time, though it is not evident
that it falls, because its headlong course is to all eternity, having
no final obstacle with which to collide. This is indeed a statement
people have made about the earth, when they could discover no 3
explanation for a mass standing poised in air. It is borne down, say
they, for ever; but it is not evident that it falls because the space
into which it falls is endless.
[93] The word is usually applied to a flexible fastening, hawser,
cable, or the like.
[94] Or, between the earth and it.
Well, what argument[95] then justifies the assertion that it is not
merely the five planets that move, but that there are many such in many
quarters of the universe? Or if there is no probable proof of this,
one may rejoin: What is there to prevent one from saying either that
all the stars move or that none of them does? Besides, your argument 4
is in no way helped by that crowd of stars which you assume to be
everywhere roaming about! For the more there are of them, the oftener
will they meet with others; whereas comets are rare, and for that
reason marvellous. And will not every age give evidence against you by
noting and recording for the use of posterity the emergence of such
stars?
[95] The argument is resumed from the beginning of XIII. after the
digression about the “firmament.”
XV
After the death of Demetrius, king of Syria, whose kingdom was 1
divided by his sons Demetrius and Antiochus, a little before the
Achaean War, a comet blazed forth not inferior to the sun in size.
Its orb was at first fiery red, and emitted a bright light sufficient
to dispel the darkness of night. By and by its size was gradually
reduced and its brightness waned. Finally it went completely out. How
many stars, suppose you, would require to combine to make up such a
huge mass? You might collect in one a thousand of them without ever 2
matching the size of the sun. In the reign of Attalus a comet appeared,
moderately small in size to begin with. By and by it mounted up and
spread out and moved as far as the equator, equalling in the extent of
its immense length the whole quarter of the sky which we call the Milky
Way. How many planets must have combined to occupy with an unbroken
line of fire such a long tract of the sky?
XVI
I have refuted the argument; I must now discredit its authors. It 1
requires no great effort to strip Ephorus of his authority; he is a
mere chronicler. Some of his class seek to recommend their narrative by
incredible stories, and by their marvels try to interest the reader,
who would probably soon find some other occupation if he were called
on to wade through their tedious narrative of ordinary events. Some,
again, are too credulous, some too careless, some are deluded, some
delighted, by falsehood. The former do not shun it, the latter go in
quest of it. The whole clan of them have this in common; they fancy 2
their work cannot merit approval, and become popular unless they freely
interlard it with lies. Ephorus is not a person of any scrupulous
honour; he is often duped, often he tries to dupe. For example, he
asserts that the great comet which, by its rising, sank Helice and
Buris, which was carefully watched by the eyes of the whole world since
it drew issues of great moment in its train, split up into two stars;
but nobody besides him has recorded it. Who, I wonder, could observe
the moment at which the comet broke up and was resolved into two 3
parts? And if there is any one who saw it split up into two, how is it
that no one saw it first formed out of the two? And why did Ephorus not
add the names of the two stars into which it was broken up, since they
must have been some of the five planets?
XVII
Apollonius of Myndus differs in his view from Epigenes. He asserts 1
that a comet is not one star made up of many planets, but that
many comets are planetary. A comet, he goes on, is not an illusion
nor a trail of fire produced on the borders of two stars, but is a
distinctive heavenly body, just as the sun or the moon is. Its shape
is not limited to the round, but is somewhat extended and produced
lengthwise. On the other hand its orbit is not visible. It cuts 2
(=intersects) the upper part of the universe, but only emerges when
at length it reaches the lowest portion of its course. There is no
reason to suppose that the same comet reappears; for instance that the
one seen in the reign of Claudius was the same as the one we saw in
the reign of Augustus; or that the recent one which appeared during
the reign of Nero Caesar--which has redeemed comets from their bad
character--was similar to the one which burst out after the death of
the late Emperor Julius Caesar, about sunset on the day of the games to
Venus Genetrix. Comets are as varied as they are numerous. They are 3
unequal in size, unlike in colour. Some are ruddy without any light;
others are bright with a pure clear light; others are flame-coloured,
but the flame is not a pure thin flame, but is enveloped in a mass
of smoky fire. Some are blood-stained and threatening, bringing
prognostication of bloodshed to follow in their train. They wax and
wane like other planets. They are brighter when they come down toward
us, and show larger from a nearer point, smaller when they depart from
us, and dimmer when they retire to a greater distance.
XVIII
The reply is ready to this last statement, that the same thing does 1
_not_ happen in comets as in the other stars. Some comets attain their
maximum on the very first day of their appearance. But, according to
the argument, they ought to increase the nearer they approach. As it
is, their first aspect remains until they begin to fade. Besides, what
has been said in reply to former authorities applies here too: If the
comet had an erratic orbit, and were a true planet, it would move
within the limits of the zodiac, within which all the planets confine
their orbits. Again, a star is never seen through another star. 2
Our sight cannot pierce through the centre of a planet so as to view
through it what lies beyond. But through a comet the further regions
are discerned as through a cloud. Whence it is evident that it is no
planet but an insubstantial, irregular fire.
XIX
The following is the opinion of our Stoic sage Zeno. He is convinced 1
that the stars act in concert, and unite their rays with one another--a
partnership in light which creates the image of a more elongated star.
Therefore some persons suppose that comets have no real existence, and
that it is only the appearance of them that is reproduced through the
reflection of neighbouring stars or the union of stars that stick 2
together. Some, again, say that comets are true stars, but with orbits
of their own, and that after certain periods they come out into the
view of mankind. Some allow their existence but refuse them the title
of stars, because they glide out of sight without long duration, and
within a brief space are scattered to the winds.
XX
Most of our Stoic brethren entertain another view, which they do not 1
regard as inconsistent with fact. Let me explain it. We observe many
species of fire engendered on high, now the heavens ablaze, now
Long glistening trains of flame behind,
now huge torches of fire being hurried along. The lightning itself,
whose velocity is so marvellous that it at once blinds, and at the
same instant restores, the sight, is fire arising from the friction
of air that suffers more violent internal pressure than usual. That
is why it does not remain long, but glides off once it issues from 2
the cloud, forthwith perishing. But other fiery appearances remain for
a considerable time, and do not break up until all the fuel on which
they fed has been used up. Here belong the strange sights recorded
by Posidonius--pillars and shields all ablaze, and other flames of
marvellous strangeness. They would attract no attention if they ran
their course after customary laws; but now the sight of them sends all
men agape. They bring down sudden fire from the heights of heaven, 3
sometimes producing a flash which is gone in a moment, sometimes
compressing the air, which is forced into a glow; it is a miracle all
the same. Yes, and is not sometimes a gulf opened in the ether, which
seems to retire on all sides, with a great glare of light in the hollow
centre? You are ready to cry out. What is this?
... I see the very centre of heaven open,
And the stars wandering in the sky....
These stars sometimes do not wait for night to show their light, but
burst out in the full light of day. The reason, however, for the stars
showing at a time not their own is different from that alleged; it 4
is well known that they are there all the time, though hidden. Many
comets, too, we cannot see because they are obscured by the sun’s rays.
Posidonius, in fact, tells us that during an eclipse of the sun a comet
once appeared which the sun’s proximity had hitherto concealed. Often,
when the sun has just set, straggling fires[96] are seen close to him.
No doubt the nucleus of the comet is bathed in sunlight, and therefore
cannot be discerned; but the tail escapes the effect of the sun’s rays.
[96] _I.e._ the tail of a comet.
XXI
Our Stoic friends, therefore, are satisfied that, like trumpet meteors 1
and beams, and other portents of the sky, comets are formed by dense
air. They appear in greatest number toward the north, because there
is most of the sluggish air there. Why, then, you naturally ask,
does the comet not remain stationary, but advance in the sky from
day to day? Let me explain. The comet, according to this account,
pursues its fuel just as fires do. Although its tendency is to rise
to the upper regions, still, if material fail it, it retrogrades and
sinks. In the air, too, it does not pursue a direct path to right or
left. It has no particular route assigned to it; wherever the supply 2
of its fuel leads it, thither it crawls; it does not advance in its
orbit as a star, but feeds as a fire. Why, then, does it appear for a
long period, and why is it not quickly extinguished? For the recent
one which we saw during this joyous reign of Nero displayed itself to
view for six months, revolving in the opposite direction to the former
one in Claudius’ time. That one rising from the north up toward the
zenith made for the east, always growing dimmer. This one began in the
same quarter, but making toward the west, turned finally toward the
south, where it withdrew from view. No doubt the former found moister
elements, more suitable for its fire, and pursued them; the latter 3
in turn chose a richer and more substantial district. So they descend
toward the direction in which they are invited by their material, and
not by a definite path, which in the two we have seen was different,
since the one moved off toward the right and the other toward the left.
Now all stars[97] have their orbit in one direction, namely, contrary
to the motion of the universe. The latter moves from east to west,
the stars go from west to east. For this reason they have a double
motion,--one, their own proper motion; the other, which carries them
round along with the heavens.
[97] Planets may be specially referred to; the Latin word is the
generic one, _stella_.
XXII
I do not agree with my school here, for I cannot think a comet is a 1
sudden fire, but I rank it among Nature’s permanent creations. First of
all, everything that the atmosphere creates is short-lived; such things
arise in an element that is fugitive and changeable. How can anything
continue the same for long in the air, which itself never remains the
same? It is always in a state of flux, and its quiet is short-lived. It
changes within a brief moment to another condition from that in which
it had been. It is now rainy, now clear, now alternates from one to 2
the other. The clouds, so intimately connected with it, into which it
collects and from which it is released again, now gather, now disperse,
but never remain at rest. Fire cannot possibly abide securely in a
volatile body, nor can it keep its place so persistently as does a fire
that Nature has fixed never to be dislodged. Further, if the fire stuck
close to its fuel, it would always sink. For the air is the thicker, 3
the nearer it is to the earth. But a comet is never depressed to the
lowest strata of the atmosphere, nor does it ever approach the ground.
Besides, fire either goes in the direction its nature prompts, that is,
upwards, or else in the direction in which it is drawn by the material
on which it has fastened, and on which it feeds.
XXIII
In none of the ordinary fires in the sky is the route curved; it 1
is distinctive of a star (planet) that it describes a curve in its
orbit. Whether other comets had this circular orbit I cannot say.
The two in our own age at any rate had. Again, everything kindled by
a temporary cause quickly gives out. Thus torches gleam only while
they flit across the sky; thus lightning has strength for just one
stroke; thus so-called shooting and falling stars fly past, cutting
through the air. No fires have any considerable duration unless 2
their strength is inherent. I mean the divine fires which the universe
maintains eternally, because they are its parts and works. These, I
say, are always active; they have an orbit the even tenor of which they
preserve, and they are uniform. They would on alternate days be larger
or smaller if the fire was merely casual, the sudden outcome of some
accidental cause. Such a fire would be greater or less according as it
was fed more abundantly or more scantily. I said a moment ago that no
fire could be lasting which arose from some defect in the atmosphere. I
have now to add further, that it can by no means be fixed and steady. 3
Both torch and lightning and shooting star, and any other kind of fire
forced out of the air by pressure, are in flight; none of them is
visible save in the course of its fall. But a comet has its own settled
position. For that reason it is not expelled in haste, but steadily
traverses its course; it is not snuffed out, but takes its departure.
If it were a wandering star (_i.e._ planet), says some one, it would
be in the zodiac. Who, say I, ever thinks of placing a single bound to
the stars? or of cooping up the divine into narrow space? These very 4
stars, which you suppose to be the only ones that move, have, as every
one knows, orbits differing one from another. Why, then, should there
not be some stars that have a separate distinctive orbit far removed
from them? What reason is there why there should not be passages into
the heavens at some part of them?[98] But if you are convinced that
every star (planet) cannot but touch the zodiac, then I say the comet
might have such a wide orbit that at some point it may coincide with
the zodiac. This is not necessary, but it is possible.
[98] The meaning seems to be, there may be passages--inlets and
outlets--by which occasional visitants like comets may temporarily
enter the heavens as we know them, and subsequently pass out of them.
The text is doubtful.
XXIV
Consider whether it is not more in keeping with the size of the 1
universe that it be supposed to be divided into many routes, and do not
keep this one beaten track while every other portion is a waste. Do
you suppose that in this great and fair creation, among the countless
stars that adorn the night with varied beauty, never suffering the
atmosphere to become empty and sluggish, there are only five stars that
are allowed to move freely, while all the rest stand still, a fixed,
immovable crowd? Should any one here ask me: Why, then, has their 2
course not been observed like that of the five planets? my answer to
him shall be: There are many things whose existence we allow, but whose
character we are still in ignorance of. We shall all admit that we have
a mind, by whose behest we are urged forward and called back; but what
that mind is which directs and rules us, no one can explain any more
than he can tell where it resides. One will say that it is breath;
another, a kind of harmony; another, a divine force and part of God;
another, subtlest air; another, disembodied power. Some will even be
found to call it blood, or heat. So far is the mind from being clear on
all other subjects that it is still in search of itself.
XXV
Why should we be surprised, then, that comets, so rare a sight in the 1
universe, are not embraced under definite laws, or that their beginning
and end are not known, seeing that their return is at long intervals?
It is not yet fifteen hundred years since Greece
Counted the number of the stars and named them every one.
And there are many nations at the present hour who merely know the 2
face of the sky and do not yet understand why the moon is obscured in
an eclipse. It is but recently indeed that science brought home to
ourselves certain knowledge on the subject. The day will yet come when
the progress of research through long ages will reveal to sight the
mysteries of nature that are now concealed. A single lifetime, though
it were wholly devoted to the study of the sky, does not suffice for
the investigation of problems of such complexity. And then we never
make a fair division of the few brief years of life as between study
and vice. It must, therefore, require long successive ages to unfold
all. The day will yet come when posterity will be amazed that we 3
remained ignorant of things that will to them seem so plain. The five
planets are constantly thrusting themselves on our notice; they meet us
in all the different quarters of the sky with a positive challenge to
our curiosity. Yet it is but lately we have begun to understand their
motions, to realise what their morning and evening settings mean, what
their turnings when they move straight toward us, why they are driven
back from us. We have learned but a few years ago whether Jupiter would
rise or set, or whether he would retrograde--the term that has been
applied to his retirement from us. People have been found bold enough 4
to say to us: You are mistaken in thinking that any star ever stops or
wheels in its course. The heavenly bodies may not stand or turn away.
All advance; once the signal is given they start on their race. Their
career will end only with their existence. This eternal creation has
motions that suffer no recall. Should they once be arrested, they will
encounter obstacles in front which are meantime held in place by the
ordered, regular march of the universe.
XXVI
What then is the reason, you may ask, for the apparent retrogression 1
of some heavenly bodies? The appearance of slowness in their motion
is caused by their encountering the sun, as well as by the character
of their paths and the position of their orbits, which are at certain
periods calculated to deceive the eye. Ships in the same way moving
under full sail seem withal to be stationary. Men will some day be
able to demonstrate in what regions comets have their paths, why their
course is so far removed from the other stars, what is their size and
constitution. Let us be satisfied with what we have discovered, and
leave a little truth for our descendants to find out.
We cannot, Apollonius says, see through the stars what is beyond, but
sight passes easily through the comets. Well, in the first place, if 2
that is the case, it is not so in the part of the body which consists
of dense solid fire, but only where the dispersed glow extends as it
breaks up into the appearance of hair. One can see through the gaps in
the fire and not through the fire itself. Stars again, it is said, are
all round, comets extended; whence it is plain that they are not true
stars. But who, pray, will allow that comets are long? Their tendency
like that of other stars is to a globe shape, only the light from them
is prolonged. The sun shoots out his rays far and wide, but has himself
a shape different from that of the light that streams from him. So
in comets, the body is rounded, but the glow from them presents the
appearance of being longer than that of the other stars.
XXVII
Why is this so, you ask. Do you tell me first why the light the 1
moon receives is wholly unlike the sun although she receives it from
the sun. Why is it now ruddy, now pale? why is her colour ashen or
black when she is cut off from the sun’s view? Or tell me why all the
stars have aspects to some extent dissimilar to one another and all as
different as possible from the sun. It is no hindrance to their being
true stars that they are not all alike; so there is nothing to prevent
comets from being permanent through all time, sharing the same destiny
as the other stars, even though they have not an appearance like
theirs. Besides, is not the universe, if you will only examine it 2
carefully, made up of contrarieties? Why is it that the sun should be
always blazing hot in Leo, scorching the ground with his fierce glow,
while in Aquarius he brings winter’s chain and closes the rivers with
ice? The one constellation is subject to the same law as the other,
though its characteristics and influence are so different. Aries again
rises in a moment, Libra lifts its scales very slowly; yet the one
sign is of the same nature as the other, though that one mounts in a
brief space, this comes forth very deliberately. Do you not see, too,
how contrary the elements are to one another? They are heavy and 3
light, cold and hot, moist and dry. The whole concord of the universe
is a harmony of discords. You say a comet is not a star, because its
form does not correspond to the type, but is unlike other stars. You
can see, no doubt, how very like that star that returns to its place
after thirty years is to this which revisits its haunt within the
year! Nature does not turn out her work according to a single pattern;
she prides herself upon her power of variation. She has made some 4
things larger, some swifter than others; some stronger, some more
limited in power; some she has separated from the crowd, that their
splendid isolation might render their progress conspicuous; some she
has consigned to a place in the common herd. He has little conception
of nature’s power who thinks that she may not do exceptionally what
she does not do repeatedly. She does not often display comets; she
has assigned them a different place, different periods from the other
stars, and motions unlike theirs. She wished to enhance the greatness
of her work by these strange visitants whose form is too beautiful to
be thought accidental, whether you consider their vastness or their
brightness that surpasses in size and brilliance all other stars. Their
appearance has, in truth, an exceptional distinction; they are not
cribbed and cabined within narrow bonds, but let loose to roam freely,
to range over the region of many stars.
XXVIII
According to Aristotle, comets give indications of storm and disturb- 1
ances that bring wind and rain. Well, then, are you of opinion it is
not a star because it foretells what is coming? True the comet is not
a sign of storm in the same way as it is a sign of coming rain when
The oil splutters, and rotten fungus covers the wick;
or in the same way as it is a forecast of a raging sea--if
the sea
Coots[99] sport on land; her haunts in the marshes
Are deserted by the heron, and she soars above the heights of cloud:
[99] Perhaps cormorants: the identity of the bird is difficult to
determine.
but in the same way as the equinox is a sign of the turn of the year 2
toward cold or heat, or as the predictions of the Chaldaean soothsayers
who tell what sorrow or joy is determined at birth by the natal star,
are indications of coming events. To convince you of the truth of this,
I must warn you that the rising of a comet does not convey a threat of
wind and rain in the immediate future, as Aristotle says, but casts
suspicion over the whole year. Hence it is plain that the comet has not
derived prognostications from its immediate surroundings to reveal for
the immediate future, but that it has them stored up and buried deep
within by the laws of the universe. The comet which appeared in the
consulship of Paterculus and Vopiscus fulfilled the anticipations of
this kind entertained by Aristotle, and for that matter by
Theophrastus; for there were everywhere severe and prolonged storms, 3
while in Achaia and Macedonia cities were overturned by earthquakes.
The slowness of the comets’ motion, Aristotle says, is a proof that
they are rather heavy, containing much earthy matter. So are their
orbits too, for they are usually confined to the neighbourhood of the
poles.
XXIX
Both statements are false. Let me take them in their order. Well, it 1
is asserted, is it, that all bodies are heavy that move more slowly?
What! is the planet Saturn, which accomplishes its circuit most slowly
of all the planets, heavy? It has, in fact, a proof of lightness
in being higher than all the rest. But, you say, it takes a wider
sweep, and does not go more slowly than the others, but only a longer
distance. Let me suggest that I can make the same statement of the
comets; even if their course is more sluggish, they have farther to go.
But it is a falsehood to assert that they move more slowly. For this 2
last comet traversed within six months half the span of heaven; the
previous one withdrew from sight in a shorter period. But again, it is
urged, on account of their weight, they are borne down lower. Well, in
the first place, a comet is not borne down, but round. In the second,
this recent one began its motion in the north, and passing by way of
the west, reached the southern quarters, and was elevating its orbit
when it faded from sight. That other one, in Claudius’ reign, also 3
first appeared in the north, and continued without intermission to rise
straight up to a higher elevation until it disappeared. Such are the
matters relating to comets which have had weight with others and with
myself. Whether they are true or not, those who attain knowledge of the
truth must decide. We are permitted only to conjecture and grope in the
dark, with no assurance of discovery, and yet not without hope.
XXX
Aristotle has finely said that we should never be more reverent 1
than when we are treating of the gods. We enter a temple with all
due gravity, we lower our eyes, draw up our toga, and assume every
token of modesty when we approach the sacrifice. How much more is all
this due when we discuss the heavenly bodies, the stars, the nature
of the gods, lest in ignorance we make any assertion regarding them
that is hasty, or disrespectful; or lest we wittingly lie. Let us not 2
be surprised that what is buried so deeply should be unearthed so
slowly. Panaetius and others, who will have it that a comet is not an
ordinary star but the mere counterfeit of a star, have bestowed careful
treatment on the question whether all seasons of the year are equally
fitted to produce comets, and whether all quarters of the sky are
equally suitable for their creation. They have inquired, too, whether
they can be formed in all regions through which they can pass, and
have discussed other points of a like kind. But all these questions
are foreclosed by my statement that they are not accidental fires, but
inwoven in the texture of the universe, directed by it in secret, but
not often revealed. And how many bodies besides revolve in secret, 3
never dawning upon human eyes? Nor is it for man that God has made all
things.[100] How small a portion of His mighty work is entrusted to us?
But He who directs them all, who established and laid the foundations
of all this world, who has clothed Himself with creation, and is the
greater and better part of His work, He is hidden from our eyes, He can
be perceived only by thought.
[100] Another reading runs: Nor has God revealed all things to man.
XXXI
Many things, moreover, akin to highest deity or holding power near 1
it, are still obscure. Or, perhaps, one may be still more surprised to
find that they at once fill and elude our sight. Either their subtlety
is too great for human vision to grasp, or such exalted majesty
conceals itself in the holier sanctuary, and rules its kingdom, which
is itself, without permitting access to any power except the spirit.
What that is, without which nothing is, we cannot know: and when God,
the greatest part of the universe, is an unknown God, we are surprised,
are we, that there are some specks of fire we do not fully understand?
How many animals we have come to know for the first time in our own 2
days! Many, too, that are unknown to us, the people of a coming day
will know. Many discoveries are reserved for the ages still to be,
when our memory shall have perished. The world is a poor affair if it
do not contain matter for investigation for the whole world in every
age. Some of the sacred rites are not revealed to worshippers all at
once. Eleusis retains some of its mysteries to show to votaries on
their second visit. Nature does not reveal all _her_ secrets at once.
We imagine we are initiated in her mysteries: we are, as yet, but
hanging around her outer courts. Those secrets of hers are not opened 3
to all indiscriminately. They are withdrawn and shut up in the inner
shrine. Of one of them this age will catch a glimpse, of another, the
age that will come after.
When, then, it may be asked, will all these things come to our full
knowledge? Great schemes mature slowly, especially if effort is
relaxed. There is one object we are bent on, heart and soul,--to be
as wicked as possible--and we have not yet attained perfection. Vice
is still making progress. Luxury is constantly discovering some new 4
outlet for its madness, indecency some new form of insult on itself.
Dissolute effeminacy and corruption are constantly discovering some
more refined and delicate means of self-destruction. We have not yet
wholly cast off our vigour. We are still doing our best to extinguish
any spark of virtue that is left. By the smoothness and polish of our
bodies we men have outdone the refinements of women; we have adopted
the colours of harlots, that even an honest woman would not put on.
With delicate mincing step we check our gait; we do not walk, with 5
measured pace we go. We adorn our fingers with rings. A precious stone
sparkles on every joint. Day by day we devise means of wronging and
degrading our manhood, vexed that we cannot strip it off. One becomes
a eunuch, another assumes the scandalous part of a gladiator, and,
hired for death, arms for disgrace. The very pauper selects a victim on
whom to sate his morbid lust.
XXXII
Do you wonder that wisdom has not yet attained her perfect work? Why, 1
vice has not wholly revealed itself. It is still in its infancy, and
yet on it we bestow all our efforts; our eyes and our hands are its
slaves. Who attends the school of wisdom now? Who thinks it worth while
to have more than a bowing acquaintance with her? Who has regard for
philosophy or any liberal pursuit, except when a rainy day comes round
to interrupt the games, and it may be wasted without loss? And so the
many sects of philosophers are all dying out for lack of successors. 2
The Academy, both old and new, has left no disciple. Who is there to
hand down the precepts of Pyrrho? That famous school of Pythagoras,
despised of the rabble, can find no master. The new sect of the Sextii,
which contained the vigour of Rome, started with great enthusiasm, but
on the very threshold of its career is also dead.
But what anxious care we bestow that the name of no actor may be 3
lost! The house of Pylades and Bathyllus stands in a long line of
successors. For arts of that kind there are plenty of pupils and
plenty of teachers. The actor’s platform resounds in every private
house in the whole city. On it men and women alike practise the ballet
step. Husbands and wives vie in paying court to actors. By and by,
when the brow is rubbed smooth by long wearing of the mask, the
transition to the brothel is easy and natural. Philosophy gets never 4
a thought. And so it comes to pass that, far from advance being made
toward the discovery of what the older generations left insufficiently
investigated, many of their discoveries are being lost. But yet, on my
soul of honour, if we urged on this task with all our powers, if our
youth in sobriety braced themselves to it, if the elder taught it and
the younger learned it, even then scarce should we reach the bottom
of the well in which truth lies. As it is, we search for her on the
surface, and with a slack hand.
NOTES ON SENECA’S “QUAESTIONES NATURALES”
By Sir ARCHIBALD GEIKIE, K.C.B., Pres.R.S.
The treatise of which the present volume is a translation possesses
a twofold interest. In the first place, it is probably the last
literary work of a man who filled a large space in the Roman world of
his day. After a varied career as philosopher, barrister, politician,
statesman, courtier, and man of letters, he at last incurred the
implacable enmity of Nero, to whom he had been tutor. Having in his
youth paid some attention to physical inquiries, he had then been
led to prepare and publish a book on earthquakes. But in subsequent
years the absorbing cares of State probably left him little leisure to
continue these studies, for which, however, he had retained his taste.
Hence, when in his last days he sought in retirement to devote himself
to philosophical pursuits, he naturally turned to some of the physical
problems that had interested him in earlier life. The earthquake
which on 5th February A.D. 63 had done much damage to the towns of
Campania, revived his youthful enthusiasm for the investigation of
such phenomena, and may possibly have suggested to him the preparation
of another volume dealing with this and other scientific matter. We
know at least from the book itself that he wrote a part, if not the
whole, of it after that date (221, 230),[101] and that he took pains
to collect information about the catastrophe. As he was in the habit
of sojourning on the shores of the Bay of Naples, he probably visited
the scene of destruction himself for the purpose of his book. We learn
from Tacitus that it was immediately after his return from Campania
to his villa near Rome, bringing with him, we may suppose, his nearly
completed manuscript, that Seneca received the Emperor’s order to
commit suicide.
[101] The numbers within parentheses throughout these Notes refer to
the pages of the Translation.
In the second place, Seneca’s work on _Natural Questions_ stands out as
one of the few treatises on physical science which have come down to us
from antiquity. It is interesting alike for the quotations it contains
from the works of previous authors, some of which have not survived,
and for the criticisms and opinions which he himself expresses on
the various subjects of which he treats. It can hardly, however, be
regarded as an original contribution to science. Its author’s life had
been spent in other and widely different pursuits, which led him far
away from scientific inquiry. But as a summary of the general state
of knowledge in his day, made by a man of strong intellect, who had
been trained in the legal and philosophical schools of the time, and
had read widely and reflected much on these matters, the book may be
taken to afford a fair presentation of the manner in which a number
of questions in astronomy, meteorology, and physical geography were
regarded by thoughtful minds in the first century of our era.
In judging of the intrinsic merit of such a work as the present, the
modern reader finds a difficulty in realising from the broad platform
of natural knowledge which, after the labours of the intervening
centuries, has now been laid, how exceedingly narrow was the circle
of ascertained fact available to the student two thousand years ago.
The spirit of scientific observation and experiment had not then been
developed, yet the familiar phenomena of everyday life pressed, as
they still do, for explanation. Man’s knowledge of nature was then too
limited to furnish a basis for distinguishing what was fact from what
was mere guesswork. In the infancy of our race, as in the childhood
of the individual, the tendency of the human mind is to perceive
resemblances rather than differences. Analogies are readily observed
and, in default of knowledge of the facts involved, are mistaken for
identical sequences of cause and effect. Throughout the interpretations
of natural phenomena given by the philosophers of antiquity, it is
remarkable to what a large extent the meaning of one appearance is
explained by comparing it with another to which in reality it may bear
no resemblance. Seneca’s volume abounds in examples of this use of
analogy.
The authority of great names exercised a wonderful fascination on the
minds of the early investigators of nature. Generation after generation
of writers were led to accept with little or no modification the dicta
of eminent philosophers who had preceded them. An observer might
sometimes recognise the erroneousness of the opinion of a predecessor,
and yet lack the means of detecting the falsity of his own, which
nevertheless he propounded with full assurance of its truth. In such
circumstances criticism had no secure foundation, while credulity,
rampant in the world outside, could hardly fail to show itself in
philosophic circles. Even the most cautious and truth-seeking inquirer
might easily and almost inevitably be led to accept statements which
did not seem to him unreasonable, and which no previous experience of
his own or others warranted him to disbelieve or even to suspect.
It behoves us, therefore, to be on our guard lest, from our much higher
standard of knowledge, we may be tempted to look with amused contempt
on the puerile conceptions of nature to be met with in the writings of
the ancients--the grave assertion of absurdities as actual facts, the
inept analogies, the confident explanations which are no explanations
at all, and the complete absence of any attempt to test by examination
or experiment the validity of statements which with but little trouble
could have been disproved.
These evidences of the exceedingly imperfect knowledge of his time
are fully illustrated in Seneca’s chapters. He quotes some two dozen
of previous writers who had dealt with the same or cognate subjects.
It is needless to say that they were Greeks, no place having yet
been found in Latin literature for treatises on Science. The author
most frequently cited by him is Aristotle, whose _Meteorologica_
he had evidently studied with care. He gives frequent quotations
from that work, but even where he does not specifically quote, his
views generally accord with those of the great philosopher and
naturalist.[102] Almost the only quotations from the works of his own
countrymen are verses from some of the poets, especially from Virgil
and Ovid. It is remarkable that he makes only one quotation from
Lucretius, although he would have found in that poet’s noble work many
passages more apposite to his subject than those which he has taken
from the _Aeneid_, the _Georgics_, and the _Metamorphoses_. We may
suppose that these works were favourites with him, and that he knew
much of them by heart, but that he was less familiar with the _De Rerum
Natura_.
[102] Seneca’s indebtedness to Aristotle is emphatically expressed
by Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire in the Dissertation prefixed to his
translation of the _Meteorologica_ (_Météorologie d’Aristote_, 1863,
pp. lxix-lxx).
It is manifest from the present volume that its author, like Lucretius
before him, had a lofty conception of the dignity and moral influence
of the study of nature. This pursuit seemed to him to raise us above
the sordid things of life and to withdraw the mind from the body--a
dissociation so eminently beneficial to our higher aspirations. He
believed that in the study of the hidden phenomena of the universe a
mental alacrity is developed which will be found to be not without
practical utility in the conduct of affairs that lie nearer the surface
(113).
With this clear recognition of the importance of his theme he resolved
in his old age to enter upon a task which other less worthy pursuits
had hindered him from pursuing. He would now attempt to survey the
universe, unravel its secrets, and give the results of his studies to
the world (109). It was not, however, his aim to compose a systematic
treatise on Natural Philosophy, but rather to take up some special
subjects and deal with them in the light of what had already been
written upon them, and of what his own reflections suggested. His
undertaking assumed the form of a series of epistolary essays addressed
to his friend Lucilius Junior, procurator of Sicily. The literary shape
thus selected allowed the use of an unconstrained, almost colloquial,
style which would not have been suitable to a more ambitious work.
Had Seneca designed to prepare a formal or methodical treatise, he
would doubtless have planned it to include the three sections which he
regarded as comprising every inquiry that can arise as to the nature
and constitution of the Universe (_Universum_)--celestial, atmospheric,
and terrestrial (_Caelestia, Sublimia, Terrena_, 51). The world
(_Mundus_) in his view comprehends all things that come or can come
within our cognisance (54). Instead of entering upon a full discussion
of any one of his three sections, he selected from them a few topics
which had probably more particularly engaged his attention. Most of
these belong to the second or atmospheric division of his scheme of
arrangement, to which he devotes six of his seven books, the remaining
one being given to the discussion of some celestial phenomena. Certain
subjects which we should naturally range in the terrestrial series,
such as the source and flow of rivers and the nature and origin of
earthquakes, he explicitly includes among his atmospheric phenomena
(51).
It appears to be probable that Seneca had neither finished nor revised
his manuscript at the time of his death. Parts of the work are
obviously incomplete, though some of these gaps may be due to defects
of transcription or to the subsequent loss of parts of the text. The
obscurities of language, which are not infrequent, may likewise have
partly arisen from lack of the author’s revision of his original copy.
His discussion of the problem of the rise of the Nile suddenly breaks
off in such an abrupt manner as to suggest the loss of a portion of the
original volume. One of the most important omissions is the absence of
any account of the phenomena of volcanoes. The author does indeed refer
in several places to this subject, but with Aetna before him, of which
so many Greek and Latin poets had sung, and which had so often been
referred to in the writings of the philosophers, he could hardly have
meant to offer no commentary on so notable a feature in the geography
and history of his own country. We know indeed that he was keenly
interested in this mountain, and that he wrote to Lucilius to ascend
the volcano and send him particulars about it. In the letter conveying
this request he alludes to some of the Roman poets who had sung of its
wonders, and urges that a description of Aetna should form part of a
poem on which his correspondent appears to have been then engaged.[103]
Another important subject in physical geography finds no place in
Seneca’s volume--the Sea. Of the outer ocean it was not to be expected
that he could have had much to say, but we can hardly suppose that he
would have considered his essay complete without some discussion of the
various phenomena presented by the Mediterranean Sea.
[103] Seneca, _Epist._ lxxix.
A century before Seneca’s prime, the immortal _De Rerum Natura_ of
Lucretius had appeared at Rome, wherein the origin and constitution
of the world were sung with the intense earnestness, brilliant
imagination, and resounding cadence of a great poet and with the grasp
and penetration of a great philosopher. In this splendid work some of
the problems discussed by Seneca were considered, and explanations
were given of them with the usual undoubting confidence of olden
time. In literary quality the two writers stand far apart, yet it is
not uninteresting to compare their respective views of nature. The
vivid and often majestic diction of the one is not more diverse from
the somewhat familiar and conversational tone of the other than are
their respective creeds. Lucretius was a convinced and enthusiastic
Epicurean, and in accordance with the teachings of his master denied
the existence of any divine co-operation in the plan and government of
the Universe,
nequaquam nobis divinitus esse paratam
naturam rerum,[104]
[104] _De Rerum Natura_, v. 198.
although no writer either of ancient or modern time has had a more
overpowering sense of the beauty, majesty, and order of this world. It
was his earnest purpose to show men how, by a contemplation of the face
and ordered scheme of nature, they could free themselves from the bond
of religious superstition and the fear of death.[105]
[105]
rursus in antiquas referuntur religiones
et dominos acres adsciscunt, omnia posse
quos miseri credunt, ignari quid queat esse,
quid nequeat, finita potestas denique cuique
quanam sit ratione atque alte terminus haerens.--_Op. cit._ v. 86.
hunc igitur terrorem animi tenebrasque necessest
non radii solis neque lucida tela diei
discutiant, sed naturae species ratioque.--i. 146.
Seneca, on the other hand, held the Stoic belief in an all-wise and
omnipotent Creator. In an eloquent exordium to his volume, and in a
peroration near its end, he affirms his conviction that this Divine
Being is all in all, at once within and without his works; He has
clothed himself with creation, but is hidden from our eyes and can
be perceived only by thought (3, 7, 305). Our philosopher could not
conceive of anything more beautiful, more orderly, and more consistent
everywhere in plan than the world around us. That such a world should
have resulted from the tumult of chaos, by the mere chance collocation
of atoms, appeared to him the madness of vulgar error. Yet it was
only too true, though it might be thought hardly credible, that even
philosophers had been tainted with this pernicious doctrine. Hence it
would be in the author’s judgment a profitable task to inquire into the
truth concerning these matters. To explore this world, he remarks, is
far more than enough for a single lifetime. Whether what we may be led
to believe regarding it shall be true must be decided by those who may
attain the knowledge of the truth; we can but examine and conjecture,
with no certain assurance of discovery, yet not without hope (304).
It behoves us to be ever watchful against forming conclusions rashly,
disrespectfully, or ignorantly, and of being knowingly untrue. In this
quest after knowledge, while much may be found out which will be of
practical usefulness, we are encouraged to advance, not by any hope
of gain, but by the wonder with which the inquiry fills the soul. To
obtain a knowledge of Nature is the highest reward to which the mind of
man can aspire (230, 304). Seneca’s practical conclusion was thus much
the same as that of Lucretius. He does not, however, attempt in this
volume to enforce it with the solemn earnestness shown by the poet,
though he loses no opportunity of inveighing against the follies and
vices of his time. In discussing natural phenomena his first desire is
to explain them, and in so doing to animadvert on the explanations of
previous writers, with perhaps a not unnatural wish to show his own
ability as a critic and expositor.
It was in due accordance with the principles of his school, as well as
with his own natural temperament, that Seneca should continually be led
to draw ethical lessons from the physical phenomena which he discussed.
The interpolation of some of these reflections may occasionally seem
to a modern reader rather irrelevant and far-fetched, but there can be
no question as to the spirit of reverence with which he approached his
subject. Like other philosophers who had preceded him, he maintained
this spirit, while at the same time he had discarded the crowded and
confused polytheism of the prevalent mythology. But he here keeps
this antagonism in due restraint, only occasionally expressing his
dissent from the popular creed. He would not admit that even the old
philosophers could have been so foolish as to credit the gods with some
of the acts which had been popularly attributed to them. He refused to
believe that the guardian and ruler of the Universe hurled thunderbolts
with his own hand. Still less could he suppose that the gods had
lighter bolts with which they amused themselves in play. His expression
(fulminibus lusoriis, 91) recalls the bitter irony of Lucretius and the
sarcasm of his question whether, when the gods aim at lonely places or
at the sea, they are only at practice to strengthen their arms.[106]
But Seneca held with Lucretius that in the contemplation of nature we
obtain the courage and elevation of mind which fit us for the trials
of life and the coming of death (113).
[106] an tum bracchia consuescunt firmantque lacertos?--vi. 397.
In the treatment of scientific problems Seneca displays the same
unhesitating assurance of the truth of his opinions, which was
characteristic of the philosophers of antiquity. These writers had
hardly a glimmering conception of nature’s infinite complexity, of
the extreme diversity and intricacy of natural processes, of the
unbroken and endlessly ramifying relations of cause and effect, of
the long and patient investigation by which alone these relations
could be unravelled, and of the caution and diffidence with which
conclusions regarding them should at least for a time be formulated.
Seneca frequently passes caustic criticisms on the views expressed by
his predecessors. He styles the philosophers, as a body, “a credulous
folk.” Some of them he even goes so far as to accuse of perpetrating
deliberate falsehoods (276, 286, 289). Nor does he hesitate to banter
his brethren of the Stoic School, whose “absurdities,” as he calls
them, he cannot refrain from quoting.
Yet when his own opinions are examined in the light of the present
day, they are found to be in many cases no nearer the truth than those
which he rejected with contempt. It is, indeed, sometimes difficult to
realise the mental position of a man who could adopt and propound them.
In many cases he accounts for a phenomenon by the analogy of another
to which it has no real affinity, as where he explains halos by the
circular undulations produced on a surface of water into which a stone
is thrown (13). He sometimes suggests an experiment to prove the truth
of his assertion, but if he had made the experiment he would have found
how completely it failed to support him, as, for instance, when he
states that a large pond of water reflects only one image of the sun,
but that, if it is divided into several smaller ponds by the insertion
of partitions, it will show as many images as there are divisions
(18). Striking also and numerous are the examples of his credulous
acceptance of statements which, had it occurred to him to test them
by actual examination, he could easily have found to be erroneous.
He affirms, for instance, more than once, that while lightning melts
metals, it freezes wine, and he gravely alleges that when the wine is
thawed and imbibed, it either kills or drives mad those who partake
of it (79, 97). He asserts that the waters of certain rivers have the
power of dyeing whole flocks of sheep, black fleeces being changed
into white, and white into black (137), that some waters are so dense
that even the heaviest objects will not sink in them (138); that the
heat of the sun in the Nile valley is so great as to melt silver and
the joints of statues (173). When he proceeds to explain the reason of
such abnormalities he expresses no hesitation, but delivers his opinion
with the assurance of a professor who has obtained the experimental
demonstration in his laboratory.
It is remarkable that although some progress had been made in
astronomy, especially by Greek philosophers, before the beginning
of the Christian era, the conclusions arrived at by these observers
regarding the relations of the earth to the other heavenly bodies met
with but little acceptance for many centuries, even among reflecting
minds. Lucretius, for example, still believed the earth to be the
centre of the Universe to which all the heavier materials had
converged, while the fire-laden ether escaped to the outer boundaries
of space, sun, moon, and stars occupying an intermediate place. He did
not think that the sun can be much larger than it looks to be to our
senses, nor was he quite sure whether it is the same sun which, passing
under the earth, reappears in the morning, or if at the close of each
day the sun is extinguished and a new collection of fires makes a
fresh sun in the morning. He was quite aware of the different views of
Chaldaean sages and astronomers, but in such questions he could see no
reason why one theory should be better than another.[107]
[107] _De Rer. Nat._ v. 564, 650, 680, 727.
Seneca, however, had, on the whole, a more advanced appreciation of
the relations of the earth to the heavenly bodies. He believed the sun
to be larger than our globe, and that a thousand stars might be put
together without equalling his mass (284, 288). He thought the heavens
to be so vast as to afford space for the swiftest of the planets to
rush along with uninterrupted speed during full thirty years (7). He
showed his enlightened outlook upon astronomical possibilities when he
surmised that comets may have orbits that carry them far beyond the
Zodiac, and when he conjectured that other planets than those then
known remained to be discovered (296–299). And yet, sharing these more
enlarged conceptions, he clung with curious pertinacity to some of the
old childish faith which was natural in the infancy of mankind. He
knew that some philosophers held that it is the earth which revolves
and not the heavens, and though he does not deliberately reject this
opinion, it is evident that he still held that the heavens circle
round the earth.[108] Again and again he expresses his conviction that
the force which sustains the energy of the sun and the stars consists
of the exhalations that arise from the surface of the earth. These
exhalations, he says, are the pasturage of the heavenly bodies, the
breath of the world. It would be impossible, he asserts, for the earth
to furnish so ample a store of nourishment to bodies larger than itself
unless it were full of breath which is passing off from every part of
its surface both by day and night. To the obvious objection that the
supply of this energy would soon become exhausted, he has the reply
that this exhaustion would certainly take place were it not that the
elements are in a condition of continual transformation, issuing in
one form, passing into each other, and returning to their original
positions, thence to begin their cycle anew (55, 198, 244–5). In this
universal transmutation water passes into air, air into water; air
likewise is changed into fire, fire into air, while earth is formed
from water, and water from earth (120).
[108] See _postea_, Notes on Book VII.
In his general conception of the universe, Seneca, as a Stoic
philosopher, recognised a principle of evolution. He believed that the
world embraces in its constitution everything that it is destined to
experience from its beginning to its end. As a human embryo contains
the germ of the future man, so at the first creation of the universe,
sun and moon, the changes of the stars, and the birth of living things
were all embraced. And there were likewise included the forces whereby
the earth is affected, and which will ultimately lead to the final
destruction of the globe (151).[109]
[109] Lucretius, too, had his views on evolution, which are well
expressed in four lines of verse:
mutat enim mundi naturam totius aetas,
ex alioque alius status excipere omnia debet,
nec manet ulla sui similis res: omnia migrant,
omnia commutat natura et vertere cogit.
--_De Rer. Nat._ v. 828.
With regard to the earth itself, whether it is to be regarded as a
soul or as an organised body, Seneca announced his conviction that it
has been constructed much after the plan of our human bodies. As in
these bodies, veins and arteries are provided for the reception of
blood and breath, so in the earth there are passages, some for the
transport of water, others for the flow of air (126). He was sure,
also, that everything on the surface of the earth has its counterpart
beneath--caves, mountains, lakes, and rivers.
BOOK I
In this part of his Essay the author has grouped together a variety of
phenomena, some of which are meteorological (in the modern sense of
that word), and belong therefore to his class of Sublimia, while others
are astronomical, and would be properly placed among his Caelestia.
They all have reference to light in some form, and doubtless for that
reason were considered as a series. Seneca, largely swayed by the
opinions expressed in Aristotle’s _Meteorologica_, agrees with that
philosopher in the belief that the earth gives forth various kinds of
exhalations, among which some contain the seeds of fire. He thought
that high up in the air, among dry and hot elements, these fires may
be kindled by the sun’s rays, and further, that when the atmosphere
becomes violently disturbed its friction may give rise to fires (9, 10,
39).
With these ideas, which he held as established truths, it is easy
to understand that he should have regarded as extremely foolish the
notion that any of the lights which move rapidly across the sky are of
celestial origin. Had such been their source, he felt sure that by this
time there would have been none left in the firmament; yet although
no night passes when some of them may not be seen, each star in the
sky is found to maintain its place and its size. Hence he confidently
concluded that the meteors, which are seen at night, and sometimes even
by day, have their birth far below the stars, and are soon extinguished
in their course because they have no solid and abiding resting-place.
Single aerolites and even showers of stones had been recorded in Roman
literature as having fallen from heaven, but it had not yet occurred to
any observer to connect them with the shooting stars which gleam across
the nocturnal sky, and are now recognised to be due to meteorites of
different sizes, entering our atmosphere with planetary velocity, there
breaking up with varying luminosity, and remaining visible for shorter
or longer intervals of time.
The author appears to have regarded as akin to these meteors the
star-like balls of light, which in stormy weather are sometimes seen
on the masts of vessels at sea, and which before his time had been
observed on the points of the spears of an army in the field. This
luminous appearance, regarded by the Romans as a sign of the friendly
presence of Castor and Pollux, is entirely atmospheric, and has no
connection with shooting stars. It is now known as St. Elmo’s Fire, and
has been shown to be a gentle continuous electric discharge from the
earth towards a cloud.
Seneca next describes in some detail a series of optical appearances
connected with the sun and moon. Until the laws of the reflection and
refraction of light had been discovered, it was obviously impossible
to account for these phenomena. There is, therefore, much interest in
following the lines of thought by which the old philosophers attempted
to explain them. Seneca clearly perceived that the halos and coronae
seen round the sun and moon in certain states of the atmosphere do
not belong to these luminaries, but to our own air, and may furnish
indications of coming weather. He remarks shrewdly enough that
appearances akin to those seen in the sky may sometimes be observed in
the thick moist air of a bathroom. But when he confidently proceeds to
explain the meteorological phenomena he betakes himself to analogy, as
he is so fond of doing. He remarks that when a stone is thrown into a
pond a succession of circles is produced on the surface of the water,
which continually widen from the point of impact until they lessen and
disappear. In like manner he believes that when the light of the sun or
moon strikes the cloudy air it produces a similar effect, for as every
kind of light is round in shape, the air is thus driven into a circular
form. His love of analogy generally, as in this instance, leads him far
away from the truth, and prevents him from seeing the palpable flaws in
his reasoning. But the apparent similarity of appearances, which are in
reality entirely dissimilar, contents him with his explanations.
His discussion of the rainbow (16–33) is one of the most detailed
and vivacious in the whole volume. It takes the form of a sustained
argument, in which the author cites various authorities, and replies
to objections brought by a supposed opponent to his thesis, which is
that the rainbow is unquestionably an image of the sun received in a
very moist cloud which has the shape of a round concave mirror (20,
27). He quotes with apparent approbation the opinion that in a shower
of rain each falling drop is a mirror reflecting an image of the sun,
and that when an observer stands directly between the sun and the
shower he sees the reflections of the countless drops blended into one
continuous semicircle. But as the discussion proceeds the writer denies
that the cloud consists of separate rain-drops, and he maintains
that even if it did they would not unite to give one unbroken image.
In proof of his contention he urges the fallacious assertion that if
a number of mirrors are joined together and a man is placed before
them, each gives its own reflection, and thus a single man becomes
multiplied into a crowd. If he had ever tried the experiment or had
visited the shop of a mender of mirrors, he would have seen that the
separate pieces, if strictly arranged on the same plane, reflect a
single image. His imaginary antagonist asks for an explanation of the
rainbow-like colours displayed by the spray from a burst water-pipe,
or the splash from an oar, which are, of course, cases strictly
parallel to the falling shower of rain (24). The resemblance is at
once granted, but is explained away on the ground that the drops fall
so quickly that they cannot form reflections of the sun, and that to
produce such reflections the medium must be at rest. The objector once
more strikes in with a reference to the rainbow colours to be seen in
a glass rod which is placed obliquely in the path of the sun’s rays
(30). These prismatic tints, as has long been known, are due to the
same decomposition of white light, as in the rainbow. But Seneca claims
the illustration as furnishing additional arguments in his favour. He
maintains that no colour is really produced in the rod, but only a
false appearance of colour, his idea being apparently that unless the
colour is inherent in an object apart from direct sunlight, it is only
apparent and not real. The glass, he says, tries to reproduce the sun’s
image, but fails because of its unsymmetrical form, the reflections
being crowded together and confused into the appearance of a single
band of colour. In regard to the falling drops of rain in a shower he
contends that they receive the colour but not the image of the sun, and
he is led away by the false analogy of the varying tints of a peacock’s
neck as the bird tosses its head (25). At one part of the discussion
he affirms that the colours of the rainbow come partly from the sun
and partly from the moist cloud (21). Further on, however, he agrees
that they proceed from the sun, but are only apparent, for if another
cloud comes across the face of the luminary they at once vanish (29).
The greater diameter of the rainbow compared with that of the sun as
seen by us he accounts for by the analogy of a concave mirror, which
greatly enlarges the objects reflected from it. At the conclusion of
the discussion he repeats his belief that the rainbow and the corona
or halo have no definite material inherent in them, but are like a
mirror which reveals only a deception, the mere phantoms and empty
imitations of real bodies, which certainly do not exist in the mirror,
and therefore cannot come out of it (41).
In Chapters XVI. and XVII. the author indulges in one of his favourite
moralising episodes, suggested by the topics he has been discussing
in the previous pages. He takes the existence of reflecting surfaces
as his text, and from the calm surface of still water passes on to
artificial mirrors, contrasting the manners and morals of early
mankind, who had only pools and lakes in which to see their faces, with
the luxury and vice of later ages, when the use of metals led to the
invention of metallic mirrors. In this retrospect, however, he places
the discovery of the use of iron before that of the other metals. The
priority of bronze and the reason for it are accurately stated by
Lucretius:
et prior aeris erat quam ferri cognitus usus,
quo facilis magis est natura et copia maior.[110]
[110] _De Rer. Nat._ v. 1287.
BOOK II
In this division of his work the author discusses various aspects of
the atmosphere and offers an explanation of the phenomena which he
describes. He distinguishes between the very bright ether on high,
and the moist, denser atmosphere which underlies it, but thinks that
they must pass insensibly into each other (66). The atmosphere he
regards as a continuous non-composite body, capable of great range in
tension, and forming the vehicle through which the exhalations from
the earth pass outwards to the sky. It does not everywhere possess
the same qualities. In its lower parts next the earth it is dense and
misty, owing to the terrestrial exhalations, and is there warmed by the
earth’s breath, by the reflection of the sun’s rays from the ground,
and from the fires, artificial and subterranean, as well as from the
warmth communicated by living animals and plants, for life cannot exist
without heat. The highest portions of the atmosphere are exceedingly
dry, hot, and attenuated, owing to their nearness to the eternal fires
and the heat of the heavenly bodies. The middle parts, on the contrary,
are intermediate in character, but colder than what lies above and
below them (60, 61). It is the lower portions that are subject to the
greatest changes, for they receive the earthly elements which involve
such constant turmoil. The instability of the air arises also in part
from the motions of the earth and from those of the sun, moon, and
stars, to which cold, rain, and other atmospheric disturbances are due
(56, 61).
Seneca, in passing on to discuss the nature and origin of thunder and
lightning, divides the phenomena into three kinds--lightning-flashes,
thunderbolts, and thunderings (62). After citing and commenting on the
opinions of various philosophers he proceeds to give his own views
regarding these appearances. The lightning flash (_fulguratio_) he
looks upon as fire widely spread out, the thunderbolt (_fulmen_) as
fire condensed and hurled with violence (66). The difference between
the two is in force rather than character; a flash is a bolt without
strength enough to reach the earth, while a thunderbolt is lightning
in its most intense form (69). With regard to the origin of the fire
he points out that fire may be artificially produced in two ways:
either by percussion, as when stones are struck; or by friction, as
when two bits of wood are rubbed against each other. He thinks that
probably in both of these ways clouds may emit fire, and that in the
violence of storms a source of energy is supplied whereby the warm or
smoky exhalations from the earth may be kindled and fall with a fierce
glow to the earth (70, 101). These exhalations contain dry and moist
bodies, to which heavier elements may be added. A combination of such
materials will form a thicker and more solid cloud than one of pure
air, and such a cloud may burst with a loud report (78). There can be
no peal of thunder unless the hollow clouds are broken up with great
violence (76). The characteristic path of the thunderbolt is determined
by the oblique current of air in which, while the natural tendency of
the fire is upward, the violence of its discharge presses it downwards
and compels it to take up a zig-zag course. The peculiar ozone odour
noticed during thunderstorms, and long popularly known as the smell of
sulphur, is alluded to by Seneca (69, 97) and by Lucretius.[111]
[111] Similar views on thunder and lightning are expressed in the _De
Rerum Natura_:
semina quod nubes ipsas permulta necessust
ignis habere.--vi. 206.
post ubi conminuit vis eius et impetus acer,
tum perterricrepo sonitu dat scissa fragorem.--_Ibid._ 128.
... notaeque gravis halantis sulpuris auras.--_Ibid._ 221.
The discussion of these subjects leads on to a disquisition on the
portents that may be drawn from different kinds of thunder and various
forms of lightning. Seneca infers from the effects produced by it that
lightning possesses an inherent divine power. Among these effects he
enumerates some in which he seems to have thoroughly believed, such,
for instance, as the smashing of a wine jar already quoted, and the
freezing of the wine for the space of three days thereafter. He is
thus disposed to attach credit to the opinion that future events are
foretold by both lightning and thunder. Yet he cannot change his Stoic
faith that fate, that is, the necessity for the happening of all things
and all actions, can be set aside by no force, can be altered by no
portents, nor averted by any prayer or sacrifice. Though he admits that
vows and supplications may be useful to the worshippers, he knows that
even these also are included in the decrees of fate.
These reflections lead the philosopher to a characteristic peroration
on the moral lessons to be derived from the subjects he has been
discussing. From the dangers incident to thunderstorms he passes to
the enforcement of the Stoic doctrine that death must be despised, and
everything which leads to death will then cease to have any terror.
BOOK III
The subjects comprised in this section of the treatise have reference
chiefly to the springs and rivers which appear on the surface of the
earth or flow underneath it. The Book begins with a preface, which
may have been originally designed to stand at the beginning of the
volume. It bears internal evidence of having probably been written at
the time of the author’s resolve to take up the discussion of physical
problems, as it speaks of old age pressing upon him and leaving him but
a short while to cover the immense field which he wished to survey. The
years lost among vain pursuits must be repaired by diligence in the
task now undertaken; night must be added to day, and every social or
business care which can possibly be set aside must be abandoned. The
contemplation of the work before him then leads the philosopher into
his moralising mood, wherein he inquires what should be the principal
object of human life, concluding with the reflection that the best
thing a man can set before himself, among the ups and downs of this
world, is courage to accept them calmly and to be ready to meet death
boldly whenever summoned. To the acquisition of such a courage a
contemplation of nature will greatly conduce.
Seneca begins his discussion of the various forms of water by grouping
them into two chief classes, standing in collected sheets, as in lakes,
or running in channels, as rivers above ground and springs underneath.
After a brief enumeration of various qualities of water, he inquires
whence the vast volume of water comes that is carried down by rivers
to the sea, and how it happens that neither is the earth sensible of
this daily loss, nor does the ocean show any perceptible gain. He
merely notices the opinion which some philosophers had expressed that
the sea does not get larger because it restores to the earth as much
water as it receives, allowing its own saline water to sink through
endless subterranean winding passages wherein it is purged of its
saltness and rises on the land as pure fresh water.[112] Another view,
that most of the water supplied by rain eventually finds its way into
the rivers, is approximately that at which modern research has arrived,
but it meets with our philosopher’s strong opposition. His first
objection is derived from his own observation. He tells us that, as a
diligent digger among his vines, he can confidently affirm that even
the heaviest rain does not penetrate to a depth of more than ten feet
from the surface. What is not absorbed by the upper crust of the ground
runs at once into river channels, and thence into the sea. He next
asks how rain, which immediately flows off the surface of naked rocks,
can possibly be the source of the springs and rivers that issue from
bare crags, or how springs that appear on the very summit of mountains
can be due to rain. Though he could not but be aware of the close
connection everywhere observable between evaporation, rainfall, and the
volume of springs and rivers, he does not seem to have reflected on
its meaning--how in seasons of drought the surface waters fail first,
how by degrees the springs begin to lessen and even to cease, how the
rivers dwindle until in many cases their beds become almost or quite
dry, and yet how, when welcome rains set in, the springs and rivers
gradually resume the bulk they had before the dry weather impoverished
them. He had made no study of the way in which rain percolates through
the soil, subsoil, and rocks underneath, though there are places, such
as his vineyard may have been, where, from some impervious material,
only a feeble or inappreciable flow of moisture descends beyond a few
feet from the surface. Nor was he aware of the innumerable lines of
joint by which the most solid rocks are traversed, and which serve
as passages for the descent and ascent of water. Had he climbed many
mountains, he would have failed to find a spring on the summit of any
one of them, unless there had been a sufficient area of higher ground
at hand to serve for the supply of the water.
[112] This is the view expressed by Lucretius:
... ut in mare de terris venit umor aquai,
in terras itidem manare ex aequore salso;
percolatur enim virus, retroque remanat
materies umoris et ad caput amnibus omnis
confluit, inde super terras redit agmine dulci.
--_De Rer. Nat._ vi. 633.
The origin of underground water is regarded by Seneca as due to
three causes. The earth itself contains moisture which it forces out
at the surface; it includes also air which in the darkness of the
subterranean wintry cold is condensed into moisture; by the principle
of interchangeability, whereby one element passes into another, the
earth in its interior resolves itself into moisture. If it be urged
that the rivers are too vast to draw their supplies from these sources,
the ready answer comes that the internal reservoir is quite spacious
enough for the purpose, and that it might as well be matter of surprise
that, with all the winds that constantly blow, the supply of air does
not fail, or that a single wave of the sea should be left to follow
so many breakers. If the questioner, still unsatisfied, should demand
to know how water is produced, he is met with the query how air is
produced on earth. There are in nature four elements, and he is not
entitled to ask where one of them comes from. Each is a fourth part of
nature, and it is obvious that what has an element as its source cannot
fail. Hence the philosopher in pronouncing water to be an element has
given it enough, and more than enough, of strength. In short, rain may
give rise to a torrent, but not a river flowing steadily between its
banks. Heavy rains will swell such a river, but cannot produce it.
Having, as he believed, cleared the ground in this way, Seneca proceeds
to consider the distribution of water within the earth. He opines that
as in our body, so in the earth, there are channels by which both air
and liquids flow. He states his conviction that the earth contains not
only veins of water, but also large streams, and in a later part of the
volume he speaks of both underground rivers, huge lakes, and a hidden
sea from which rivers at the surface are supplied (154, 233, 235).
He is aware that some of these subterranean reservoirs contain fish,
about which he has some incredible tales to tell. He makes mention
of rivers that sink underground and reappear, as if a matter for
great astonishment. But examples of it may be found in many limestone
districts, where the solution of the rock by underground water has
given rise to tunnels, passages, and caverns into which, when their
roofs give way, surface streams may be engulfed, to break out again
from other openings at lower levels (141). The author concludes this
part of his argument by asking if anybody is ignorant that there are
some standing waters which have no bottom, whence, he contends, it is
shown that this water is the perpetual source of large rivers.
The various kinds of taste possessed by natural waters are then
discussed, and some marvellous illustrations are given of their
effects. Allusion is made to medicinal springs, to petrifying
waters, to some with extraordinary dyeing properties, and to others
with neither taste nor smell, but rapidly fatal to the drinker by
immediately hardening and binding the intestines. Reference is also
included to certain kinds of springs, of which the volcanic tracts of
Italy supply good examples. Such were those which killed visitors who
peered down into the caverns where their waters lurk, and suffocated
birds that flew over them. Doubtless many tales were told of the
effects of such emanations of carbonic acid gas, like that of the
Grotto del Cane which, near Naples, still preserves their classic
reputation (134, 261). Again, the same volcanic districts furnished
instances of warm, sometimes even boiling, springs, and in alluding to
them the author quotes the opinion of Empedocles, who was doubtless
familiar with them in Sicily. To complete his record of marvels, the
author cites some lakes on which islands float to and fro, of which
good illustrations, due to a matted growth of vegetation, were then
well known in the Vadimonian Lake (Lago di Bassano),[113] and he
mentions other lakes in which he had equal faith, with water so heavy
that brickbats would float upon it, and nothing, however heavy, not
even hard solid stones, would go to the bottom.
[113] Pliny, _Hist. Nat._ ii. 96. Pliny the Younger, _Epist._ viii.
20.
Seneca is inclined to agree with some philosophers that certain rivers
of peculiar and inexplicable character were created along with the
world, and he specially cites the Danube and Nile as examples, these
vast streams being too remarkable to have had the same origin as other
rivers. Accordingly he reserves the Nile for consideration in a later
part of his volume (166). There is another kind of water which, with
his Stoic brethren, he places at the beginning of the world--the great
ocean and every sea that flows from it between the lands. Yet he found
no place in any part of the treatise for a discussion of the phenomena
of the ocean.
The Book closes with a vivid description of the probable catastrophe
by which the end of the world will be brought about. That the present
condition of things will be swept away to make room for another and
better race of men he assumes as a matter of certainty, and he tries
to picture by what physical means the destruction will probably be
effected. He is certain that it will be by no one agency, but that
all the energies of the world will be called forth to compass the
destruction of the human race, nothing being difficult to nature,
especially when she is hurrying towards her end. The picture which
is given of the progress of the great deluge forms by far the
most striking piece of writing in the volume. It ends somewhat
inartistically in some gibing criticism of a quotation from Ovid. But
the poetic afflatus had not been quite quenched. The author immediately
returns to the subject in the succeeding and final chapters, and after
enumerating the different agencies that may be called out to effect the
destruction of the world, he draws a lurid scene when a single day will
see the burial of the whole human race.[114] After this act of divine
wrath has been accomplished, the waters will disappear below ground,
the sea will retire to its own abode, and on the renovated earth every
animal will be created afresh, and a new race of men will be installed,
ignorant of sin and born under better auspices.
[114] So Lucretius:
... maria ac terras caelumque--
una dies dabit exitio.
--_De Rer. Nat._ v. 92, 94.
BOOK IV
This section of the treatise begins with a denunciation of flattery
and ends with another against luxury. Neither the preface nor the
concluding chapter have any obvious connection with the text between
them. It is curious to note that while Seneca here warns his friend
Lucilius against flatterers, and inculcates how their approaches are
to be met, he himself in this very volume perpetrates four pieces of
flattery to the despicable but all-powerful Nero. He quotes a prosaic
line from a poem of the emperor’s, which he characterises as “most
elegant” (_disertissime_, 25). He refers to Nero as most devoted to
truth as well as to the other virtues (235); he refers to the advent
of a comet which appearing in Nero’s reign had redeemed these heavenly
bodies from their evil repute (290), and he describes that reign
as “most joyous” (_laetissimus_, 294). The old courtier, so long
habituated to the language of flattery, was perhaps hardly conscious
that he was here making use of it, or he may naturally have reflected
that at a time when the emperor had ceased to bear him any good will,
the absence of the customary adulation might cause as much offence as
if a direct insult were intended.
When from his ethical lecture he turns to resume his physical
disquisitions, it is the mysterious Nile to which he devotes attention.
After a brief contradiction of the statement of some philosophers that
the Nile and the Danube are similar in their characters, he enumerates
some of the well-known peculiarities of the river of Egypt. A problem
which greatly exercised the minds of the philosophers of antiquity, and
which has only been finally solved in our own day, was the cause of
the annual rise of the Nile on which the fertility of Egypt depended.
Seneca says with justice that if the point of the river could be
ascertained where the rise begins the question would be settled. He
does not appear to have known much about the river, for he believed
that the water is for the first time collected into a single channel at
Philae. In his account of that place and of the cataract there (168,
169), he speaks of the river’s egress from Ethiopia, and of deserts
which are crossed by the trade route to the Red Sea. In a subsequent
part of the treatise he gives the interesting and important information
that he had himself seen and conversed with two centurions who had
been despatched by Nero to discover the source of the Nile (235). From
them he learnt that they had penetrated far into the heart of Africa,
and had reached a region of illimitable marshes where the river was so
covered and impeded with vegetation that neither on foot nor by boat
could it be ascended. There can be no doubt that these enterprising
explorers had come to the _sudd_, which in recent years has been found
so serious an impediment to navigation. They informed Seneca that in
the marsh region they had seen with their own eyes “two rocks from
which an enormous body of the river came out.” There are apparently no
rocks along the course of the Nile in the present marsh region, which
is a vast flat, and it is therefore difficult to conjecture to what
the two military surveyors allude. Possibly they saw the mouth of some
affluent of the main stream such as the Khor Adar, or the _sudd_ may
have extended further north than it does now.
Seneca’s account of the Nile derived from travellers and previous
writers gives a clear summary of what was then known about the river,
but of more interest is his discussion of the opinions that had been
propounded before his time as to the cause of the annual rise. He
first quotes the view of Anaxagoras, shared by the Greek tragedians
and widely accepted, that this rise was due to the melting of snow on
the uplands of Ethiopia. This idea he cogently combats by adducing
various kinds of evidence of the great warmth of the climate in those
southern regions. Some of these proofs, indeed, are exaggerations, as
where he affirms that silver is unsoldered or melted. But one of his
proofs, drawn from the habits of the animals of the country, is worthy
of notice. He remarks that no hibernating creature is found there, and
that even in midwinter the serpent is seen above ground. He argues that
in Africa, as in Europe, melting snow would swell the rivers in spring
and early summer, whereas the Nile flood continues to rise later during
four months.
In a subsequent part of this treatise (235) allusion is made to an
explanation which had been given of the rise of the Nile, that it is
due not to the fall of rain from above but to the outflow of water
from within the earth, and it is in connection with this opinion that
he cites the experience of Nero’s two centurions above referred to, as
if he were disposed to believe that what these explorers saw was really
a vast body of water issuing from underground.
The opinion of Thales is next criticised that the Etesian or northerly
winds drive the waters of the Mediterranean against the mouths of the
Nile and consequently pond back the waters of the river. This view was
of course entirely erroneous, but though Seneca rejects it, he does not
seem to have quite understood it, for he argues that, coming from the
same quarter as the winds, the Nile water should not have been turbid,
but clear and blue, like that of the sea. In commenting upon the futile
support given by Euthymenes of Marseilles to the idea of Thales, Seneca
throws light on the wide extent to which the coasts of the outer sea
had then been made known by trading vessels.
In rejecting another explanation proposed by Oenopides of Chios, the
author shows that he is aware of the fact that caves and wells are
warm in winter and cool in summer, and that he has partly divined the
reason, when he states that in winter they are warm since they do not
admit the frosty air from without and in summer they feel cold because
the warm air from outside has not penetrated into their recesses. He
returns to this subject in Book VI. (241).[115]
[115] The various ancient interpretations of the cause of the Nile’s
annual rise are succinctly given by Lucretius (_De Rer. Nat._ vi.
712–37), but he does not indicate a preference for any one in
particular, though he devotes most space to the influence of the
Etesian winds.
After mentioning and dismissing a grotesque suggestion of Diogenes
of Apollonia, Seneca suddenly drops the discussion of the Nile and
passes on to the subject of hail. It is obvious that there is here a
serious gap in the text. It is not probable that he meant to leave off
his examination into the probable sources of the Nile without stating
his own view of a matter which had been so long the subject of wonder
and debate. Either, therefore, he never completed this section of his
treatise, or a portion of the work has been lost.
The remainder of Book IV. is taken up with a desultory discussion of
the subjects of hail and snow, written when the author must have been
in a somewhat frivolous mood. He begins by telling Lucilius that if
he were to assert that hail is produced as ice is with us, a whole
cloud being frozen, he would be rather audacious. So he will imitate
the chroniclers, who after they have told a great many lies, refuse
to be responsible for some one statement, and refer for its truth
to the authorities. If, therefore, his friend doubts his word, he
will call in Posidonius, who will tell him that hail is formed from a
watery cloud just turned into liquid. No teacher is needed to explain
why pellets of hail are round, for all drops take that shape. Hail is
nothing else than suspended ice, and snow is suspended hoar-frost.
In this light vein Seneca thinks he has finished the subject and
might dismiss it, but he cannot resist the temptation to continue the
persiflage a little further. He quotes in a bantering style some of the
opinions of his brother Stoics, and after this long preamble begins
an inquiry into the distribution of density and temperature in the
atmosphere.
It would have been interesting had he seriously and fully stated what
was known or surmised on this last topic, but he dismisses it in three
short chapters. We learn from these that he regarded the air to be
densest next the earth, and that as all things retain heat better
the denser and more compact they are, so the air becomes less warm
in proportion to its height (184).[116] The opinion of some persons,
that the air on mountain summits ought to be warmer because they are
nearer the sun, is sagaciously controverted, and the insignificance
of all inequalities on the surface of the earth in comparison with
the distance from the earth to the sun is forcibly expressed and
illustrated.
[116] This view hardly agrees with what is expressed in Book II. (60,
61), but it more accurately expresses the fact.
The subject of snow and hail is briefly reintroduced at the end of the
Book, probably for the purpose of affording a convenient introduction
to the invective against luxury which fills the concluding chapter. The
preservation of snow in ice-houses, and its use in the reparation of
jaded appetites by cooling drinks, calls forth a denunciation of the
young rakes of his day, which closes the discussion.
BOOK V
The movements of the atmosphere form the subject of discussion in
this part of the treatise. In the first chapter the author seeks
for an exact definition of the term “Wind” (_ventus_), and ends by
adopting one which is obviously inaccurate--“wind is air flowing in
one direction,”--for as he afterwards speaks of whirlwinds he was
well aware that the movement may be in every direction, or vorticose.
Dismissing the opinion of Democritus as to the origin of wind, he
states that in his judgment wind may arise from four different causes.
First; The earth itself breathes forth a vast amount of air from its
interior, where there are large rivers and lakes, and where the moist
air naturally gives rise to blasts of wind. Second; Long-continued
evaporation carries the terrestrial emanations aloft, where the
intermingling of the breath results in wind. Third; Much more important
is the fact that the air in its very constitution possesses an innate
power of motion; we cannot imagine that while we ourselves are endowed
with a capacity of movement--and water has this power also--the
atmosphere should be left inert and immovable (197). Fourth; Sometimes
the sun is itself the cause of wind, when he loosens and expands the
thick air (198).
In this enumeration allusion is made to one or two features of natural
history which the author appears to accept as fact. He thinks there
must be some vital force in water, otherwise it could not bring forth
animals and plants, as we know it does. But not only water; fire, too,
which devours everything, possesses this generative capacity, for,
unlikely as it might be thought, it is nevertheless true that fire
gives birth to some animals. The air, too, has some vital energy, as it
alternately thickens, contracts, and expands, and rids itself of its
impurities. The portion of it contained within the earth is asserted
in a later part of the volume to be the source of the life of the
vegetation at the surface (244).
The local winds, now known as “land and sea breezes,” are next
discussed (198). Instead of the simple explanation which in our own day
has shown these aerial currents to be beautiful examples of the results
of diurnal variations of atmospheric pressure, the ancient theory
represented that during the day the exhalations from the land are borne
on high to supply the sun with nourishment, while at night, as they are
not needed for that purpose, they accumulate until they have filled
up a given space enclosed by mountains. When in such a space there is
no more room, they move towards the quarter to which they can most
easily escape; hence the wind. It is curious, however, to note that
Seneca only describes the land breeze, which falls away as the morning
advances. He does not specially refer to the equally characteristic
sea breeze, which springs up after the other dies down, and continues
during the day, until in the evening it is again replaced by the land
breeze.
The important Etesian or northerly winds, with all their important
local modifications in the Mediterranean basin, must have been a
subject of constant observation to the Greeks and Romans. There was
a general belief that as these winds reappeared regularly in summer,
they were in some way connected with the position of the sun in the
firmament. Seneca, after briefly stating this opinion, dissents
from it on the ground that, as the sun reduces the strength of the
morning or land breeze, it cannot be through his influence that the
Etesian winds then begin to blow. But he does not explain how he would
himself account for their occurrence. They are now known to be further
illustrations of the influence of atmospheric pressure. In summer, when
the hot region of the Sahara becomes a vast area of low pressure, the
air streams into it from the north across the Mediterranean basin.
The account given of cloud winds (203) is an excellent illustration
of the utter ignorance of the philosophers of antiquity of the very
rudiments of meteorology, and, at the same time, of the confidence
with which they offered their explanations of the phenomena of the
atmosphere. Even now, after prolonged investigation, the laws that
regulate the production of furious winds and gusts connected with
clouds are far from being fully understood. The boldest meteorologist
of to-day, with all his detailed experience, would hesitate to express
his opinion as dogmatically as is done in the text. The idea that air
accumulating either above ground or below acquires a vast disruptive
force, obtained wide credence in early times. It was this pent-up
accumulation which was supposed to burst clouds asunder and produce
thunder-storms, while the same energy in caverns under ground led to
earthquakes and the eruptions of volcanoes.
The occurrence of whirlwinds is explained by Seneca from the analogy
of eddies in a river. As the water meets with impediments in its flow,
it is driven back and made to whirl round before it can continue the
onward current, so the wind, as long as it meets with no obstacle,
sweeps on, but when it is thrown back by any projection in its course,
or is collected together into a highly inclined narrow pipe, it whirls
round upon itself like the eddies of a river. But the cause of the
vorticose movement where there is no visible impediment is, of course,
left unaccounted for.
In the fifteenth chapter of this Book a story is told of Philip of
Macedon, who sent down a party of miners to examine an old mine. The
men brought back to daylight a wonderful tale of vast caverns with high
over-arching roofs, and filled with huge rivers and vast lakes. If the
author’s intention was to connect the spaciousness of these underground
chambers with the operations of ancient miners, he was sadly mistaken,
since at no time has metal-mining led to the excavation of huge
caverns; on the contrary, it has always been pursued in narrow shafts
and passages. If the report brought back to the king was veracious,
his emissaries had only come upon a series of natural grottos and
tunnels, such as are of common occurrence in limestone districts, and
which have no connection whatever with mining.[117] But the narrative
served Seneca’s purpose, since it furnished him with the occasion
for a diatribe against the cursed love of gold, which had apparently
been rampant in days long before those of Philip, and allowed him to
supply from his own imagination some additional lurid horrors of the
underground world.
[117] It is possible that these ancient mines were driven in search
of metal seams or veins traversing limestone, like those of lead
among the caverned limestones of Derbyshire.
When he gets back to his subject, he enters upon an enumeration of the
various winds known to the ancients. He himself thinks that as the
heavens are divided into twelve sections, so there are twelve distinct
winds, not all felt everywhere, but never exceeding that number. He
does not attempt, however, to account for them. In his reference to
the names given to the various winds, he gives a quotation from Ovid’s
_Metamorphoses_, in which the more conspicuous winds from the different
quarters are mentioned. To this quotation he adds a line from Virgil’s
graphic picture of the storm in the first book of the _Aeneid_, where
Aeolus opens his cave and the south-east, south, and south-west winds
rush out in fury upon the sea. Seneca remarks, in passing, that such a
collocation of winds as Virgil enumerates could never have happened in
a single tempest. The poet, however, has made no mistake. In a great
cyclonic storm the wind veers round with the compass from south-east
by south to south-west. And even if Virgil had added the north wind,
which the philosopher says he left out, he would only have followed
the invariable course of the winds in the cyclones of the northern
hemisphere, which circle round towards the north as the storm area is
passing eastward.
In conclusion, the author points out the teleological significance
of the winds, and is thence led to repeat the time-honoured reproach
against human iniquity which turns the winds from their beneficent
intention to purposes of war.
BOOK VI
This is, perhaps, the most valuable part of the volume, for it contains
more of the author’s own observations than the rest of the work. It
deals more particularly with the great earthquake of 5th February
A.D. 63, which occurred in his own country, and about which he could
collect information at first hand. As already mentioned, the subject
of earthquakes had long fascinated him, and he had published, in his
youth, a volume about it. The calamity which brought so much injury
to the towns of Campania was more especially likely to enlist his
vivid interest, for the region that had been convulsed was with him a
well-known and favourite part of Italy, where he often came to spend,
on the shores of the Bay of Naples, such leisure as the life in Rome
allowed him. Besides, it was the native district of Lucilius, to whom
the volume was addressed, and whose town of Pompeii had suffered
from the shock.[118] Hence he here plunges at once into details of
the damage caused by this particular earthquake. As a prelude to his
inquiry into the whole question of the origin of such catastrophes,
he indulges in reflections on their appalling nature. Some of the
unfortunate residents in the convulsed district had fled from it,
vowing never to return. But where, the writer asks, can they be sure
of safety, seeing that no quarter of the world is exempt from this
form of danger? He urges that it is at least some consolation to be
assured that such calamities are not the work of angry gods, as was
popularly believed, but are traceable to their own special causes in
the processes of nature (228).
[118] In Seneca’s letters, frequent reference is made to his visits
to the district. He seems generally to have taken a villa at Baiae,
or some adjacent place on that western part of the coast. He
appears to have been a poor sailor, glad to make for the nearest
landing-place between Baiae and Naples, so as to escape from the
pangs of sea-sickness. On one of his excursions he revisited Pompeii,
and was set into a reverie of his youth there. See his _Letters_, 49,
51, 53, 55, 57, 70, 77.
He then considers the various opinions entertained on this subject by
earlier writers, which, on the whole, he regards as crude and inexact.
The cause of earthquakes had been found in water, fire, air, and the
earth itself, or in a combination of several of these agencies, or even
in the co-operation of the whole of them. As regards the action of
water, he dismisses the opinion of Thales (231), but in the statements
of other authors, who maintain the power of internal water in causing
earthquakes, he sees a greater probability of truth. He fully admits
the existence of large rivers and extensive lakes inside the earth, and
that in these dark uninhabited regions flooded rivers undermining their
banks, and a swollen sea lashed into fury by the subterranean winds,
may communicate shocks to the surface of the earth (234).
That fire is the origin of earthquakes had been held by various
philosophers, who, however, differed as to the manner in which the
fire acts. Anaxagoras thought it was by explosions caused from the
collision of underground clouds (236); others held that the immense
mass of vapour produced by the subterranean conflagrations as it
accumulates may exert such a pressure as to disrupt all obstructions;
or when the pressure is less may cause no more than a heaving of the
surface. The idea that the shock of an earthquake results from the
removal of material underneath, whereby the stability of the overlying
portion is undermined, and a collapse of the ground ensues, was held in
various forms. Some thought that this destruction arose from extensive
combustion within the earth. Anaximenes supposed that just as at the
surface, rocks and old buildings yield to the ravages of time and fall
down, so in the interior of the earth similar landslips may occur and
cause shocks to the districts above them (237).[119]
[119] The collapse of the roofs or sides of underground caverns may
undoubtedly be in some instances the cause of local earthquakes. This
origin is enforced by Lucretius:
terra superne tremit magnis concussa ruinis,
subter ubi ingentes speluncas subruit aetas.
--_De Rer. Nat._ vi. 544.
But the favourite opinion of antiquity regarded earthquakes as
primarily due to the violent commotion of air. Seneca comments on the
views of various philosophers, and more especially Aristotle’s, as to
the way in which the air acts, and he then proceeds to deliver his own
judgment. He has no doubt that, though some of the other agencies may
co-operate, the chief motive force in earthquakes is air. By no part
of nature, he affirms, is such violent energy displayed as by air; it
kindles fire, tosses the surface of the waters into waves, destroys
large tracts of the earth, uplifts new mountains, and raises in the
midst of the sea islands never seen before. Not only does air exist
above ground, but it also fills the hollows and interstices of the
interior of the earth, into which it freely enters from the surface.
Nothing in nature is so restless as air, and the earth cannot but be
affected by the movements of the air included in its inside. The author
agrees with the general opinion that when the air begins to be agitated
in a subterranean cavern which it has filled, pressed by that which is
still entering, it struggles to escape, and, when it does so, emerges
with a violence proportionate to the narrowness of the passage for
its exit. But if unable to make its way out, it becomes furious, acts
like a swollen impetuous river, and that overthrows everything in its
path.[120]
[120] Lucretius gives a picturesque recital of these views (_De Rer.
Nat._ vi. 535–607).
It is not difficult to realise how this explanation should have been
accepted in antiquity, and should have held its ground down even into
modern times. The violence of the commotions of the atmosphere was a
familiar feature on the surface of the earth, although its physical
causes, variously guessed at, were utterly unknown. To minds that had
no conception of the very rudiments of meteorology, there seemed to
be no reason why air inside the earth should not be affected by as
violent hurricanes as the air outside. And as such hurricanes were the
most powerful natural agencies known, their action was not unreasonably
invoked to account for the phenomena of earthquakes. Assuming that
the air in a large subterranean cavern would behave as the free open
atmosphere does, the old philosophers did not find themselves under the
necessity of explaining what was to set the air in motion within the
subterranean recesses and lash it into fury there, any more than they
had to account for tempests above ground.
Obviously, if the air found its way from the outside into the internal
parts of the earth, it must have had equal facilities for egress. And
in the convulsions of an earthquake it might be supposed to issue with
violence through some of the previous openings or from the rents made
at the time. In corroboration of the truth of the prevalent opinion, it
was asserted that after an earthquake air was found to issue from the
ground, but no account appears to have been preserved of any violent
outrush of air. As a further evidence that it is to the force of air
that all these internal disturbances are due, the author remarks that
after a violent earthquake another shock of equal violence cannot
occur, because the first has opened a passage for the struggling winds.
The progress of investigation has, in modern times, thrown a flood of
light on the phenomena of earthquakes, though there still remain many
problems in the subject which await solution. It is needless to say
that no foundation whatever has been found for the ancient faith that
the air plays the chief part in these subterranean commotions.
Seneca discusses the nature of earthquake motion. He recognises three
kinds of movement--quaking (_succussio_), tilting (_inclinatio_),
and trembling (_vibratio_)--and he gives illustrations of the kind
of causes to which they may be referred (252). He believes that the
extent of country convulsed by an earthquake depends upon the area of
the subterranean cavern in which the wind performs its exploits, and
as these internal cavities do not continuously underlie vast tracts of
the earth’s surface, no large spaces of that surface are simultaneously
shaken. In his day there appears to have been no record of a shock
affecting the whole basin of the Mediterranean Sea. He thinks that no
earthquake ever extends as much as two hundred miles. He cites the
recent calamity in Campania, which did not pass beyond that district,
though marvellous tales about it had spread far and near, and he gives
other examples of the markedly local character of the phenomena, so
far as then known. He affirms that maritime districts are those most
frequently shaken (255, 257), in proof of which he gives various
instances, including the late disaster to Pompeii and Herculaneum in a
region which had never been known to be shaken before.
He had received information about the Campanian shock, and the
narrative in which he embodies it has the interest of being the most
detailed account of an earthquake that has come down to us from
antiquity. First of all, as already mentioned, he states that the
movement was confined to the district of Campania, no mention being
made of its having been felt even so near as Rome. He notices the
injury done to Herculaneum and to Naples by the damage of public and
private buildings; bronze statues were split open and some people
were driven out of their minds. He records that Campania continued
to tremble for some days after the great shock. He had heard that a
flock of six hundred sheep was said to have been killed near Pompeii.
Accepting the report as true, he sees no reason to suppose that the
animals died of fright, but thinks it not unlikely that they were
poisoned by the ascent of pestilential vapours from the ground. This
conjecture of his receives perhaps some support from the fact that
in this volcanic district, after an eruption of Vesuvius, so much
carbonic acid gas has been said to escape from the ground as to
suffocate hundreds of hares, pheasants, and partridges. But the most
vivid experience of the earthquake which he narrates is that of a grave
philosophic friend who, when in his bath, saw the tiles of the floor
separate from each other, allowing the water to sink through the opened
joints, while the next moment, as the pavement closed again, the water
was forced out all bubbling. A better illustration of the transit of a
wave of shock could not be desired.
Seneca was prepared to believe that great changes had been wrought by
earthquakes on the face of the land. He cites in support of this view
some remarkable examples which had occurred within the times of human
history, such as the sinking of the towns of Buris and Helice, the
disappearance wholly or partially of the island of Atalanta, and the
subsidence of Sidon (256). He refers also to various striking features
of landscape in different regions which had been popularly assigned to
the work of earthquakes, such as the separation of Ossa and Olympus,
the disruption of Sicily from the Italian shore, and the severance of
Spain from the continent of Africa (263).
That the phenomena of earthquakes are closely connected with those of
volcanoes was the general belief in antiquity, and continued to be
accepted up to the middle of last century. It was believed in early
days that just as the collision of clouds during storms produces the
fire seen in lightning, so during the tempestuous agitation of the air
within the earth, such heat is generated as to set fire to beds of
sulphur or other combustible materials, and thus that rocks are melted
and are forced up to the surface by the vast energy of the escaping
air.[121] It is to be regretted that Seneca has not left an account of
his own opinions on this subject, but from the allusions in the present
treatise he may be inferred to have held the prevalent opinion. He
alludes in various passages to volcanic eruptions that had taken place
in his own time, or not long before, in the Mediterranean basin. An
eruption of Etna is briefly noticed, when the mountain was in violent
eruption, ejecting such a quantity of fine burning sand and dust as
to turn day into night, accompanied with much thunder and lightning
(77). This may have been the eruption alluded to in similar language by
Cicero, who adds that for two days nobody could see his neighbour.[122]
Seneca further cites two eruptions in the Aegean Sea, one of which had
taken place in his own time, when a new island was upraised “by the
force of air.” He alludes to Thera and Therasia, and the interesting
account given by Posidonius of the uprise of an island in the same sea,
with attendant circumstances closely resembling those of the eruptions
at Santorin in modern times (73, 252). According to Asclepiodotus, the
fire, after overcoming the resistance of the thick mass of sea, shot up
above sea-level to a height of two hundred paces.
[121] This view of the nature of volcanic energy is graphically
expressed by Lucretius (_op. cit._ vi. 639–702).
[122] _De Nat. Deor._ ii. 38. See also Lucretius (_ib._ vi. 641), who
describes the more conspicuous features of an eruption, and concludes
with the line
ne dubites quin haec animai turbida sit vis (693).
From a consideration of the causes of earthquakes the author is led
by his accustomed train of thought to draw the ethical lessons which
the subject suggested to him. He repeats his belief that against the
perils of earthquakes, as against all the other dangers and fears of
life, the only assurance is to be obtained from elevating studies and
a contemplation of nature (265). It matters not when or in what form
we shall quit life, whether from some trifle or from a world-wide
catastrophe. To be happy without fear of anything that may befall us,
we must carry our life in our hands, steeling ourselves against fear,
and prepared even to welcome death as the advent of a friend.
BOOK VII
After a brief introduction, marked by no little elegance and literary
skill, the author introduces the subject of the heavenly bodies, and
more especially of Comets which he is to discuss in this Book. He
proposes at the outset to endeavour to ascertain whether the earth
stands still while the universe revolves round it, or if it is the
universe that remains at rest while the earth revolves. But he is led
on from one topic to another, without having arrived at a definite
solution of this problem when the volume comes to an end. From various
expressions, however, it may be inferred that he adhered to the
primitive belief that it is the universe which goes round the earth.
Thus in Chapter IX. he speaks of the movement that drags the universe
along and asks what is swifter than that revolution (281). The heavenly
bodies may not stand or turn aside, they all move onward with the
irrevocable movement of this eternal creation (299).
The opinions of various philosophers on comets are quoted and
criticised. He is especially severe in his comments on Epigenes, who
thought that comets are produced somewhat as fires are excited by
whirlwinds. The Greek threefold classification of comets is cited, and
then Artemidorus comes in for his share of vituperation; to disprove
his theory of the firmament being a solid roof to the world would be,
in the author’s opinion, nothing but beating the air. Ephorus fares no
better, being briefly dismissed as often deceiving and often deceived.
Apollonius of Myndus held that many comets are distinct planetary
bodies, which wax and wane like the planets, being brightest when
they are nearest us and growing dimmer as they recede to a greater
distance. But Seneca refuses to admit that they have the character of
true planets; in his view they are insubstantial irregular fire (291).
But he does not agree with his Stoic brethren in regarding them as
generated in dense air and pursuing their course according to where
they can find fuel to sustain them (292–4). He conceives that they are
not mere sudden and transient fires, but belong to the eternal works
of nature. They steadily traverse their course, and he can understand
that they may have such wide orbits as to carry them far beyond the
limits of the Zodiac (296). He can see no reason why the five planets
then known should be the only stars that move across the sky, though
others had not yet been discovered. Astronomy, he remarks, is in its
infancy, many mysteries of nature remain still to be discovered, and
the day will come when posterity will marvel at our ignorance of things
which will then appear to be so evident. Some future observer will
demonstrate the paths of the comets, why they wander so far from the
other stars, and what is their size and constitution. We may be content
with what we have found out, and leave something for posterity to
discover.
In a tone of sad pessimism he brings his volume to a close. From a
contemplation of the glories that might be achieved by mankind in
searching out the marvels of creation he turns to his own age and his
own country, only to see on every side proofs of decadence. No one now
cared for the pursuit of wisdom. Philosophy and every liberal study
were neglected. The schools of philosophy were dying. If his countrymen
even now would set themselves with all their energy to the task, if the
young would give their sober attention and the elders would teach them,
they would scarcely succeed in reaching the bottom of the well in which
truth lies. Meanwhile they were searching merely on the surface of the
ground and with but a slack hand.
NOTES BY TRANSLATOR
“AIR”
The word “air” occurs in the text over 200 times, but not always as
a translation of the same Latin word. With a term so elastic and
so ambiguous it would have been mere pedantry to attempt a uniform
rendering; and indeed such uniform rendering would have been more
misleading than the course adopted of rendering according to the
context, which the idiom of our language seemed to demand.
Seneca has two main terms for air--_aër_ and _spiritus_. _Aër_
means, generally speaking, either air generically, or the atmosphere
specifically. _Spiritus_, on the other hand, denotes air under certain
conditions of tension, or strain, or pressure, when it is capable
of exerting force or violence; to its influence are attributed many
effects due in reality to gases, or other causes. On p. 52, l. 1, we
have the definition “air (_spiritus_) is the atmosphere (_aër_) in
violent motion”; and on p. 205 the concluding words of V. xiii. are
“air differs from wind in degree alone. A more violent air is a wind;
air in turn is gently flowing atmosphere,” where again _spiritus_ is
“air” and _aër_ “atmosphere.”
Again, in the _Aetna_, l. 212, we read, “The winds when inflated
are called _spirit_; when in subsidence, _air_” (Professor Ellis’s
translation), where the same terms _spiritus_ and _aër_ are
employed.[123]
[123] For a discussion of the meaning of the term _spiritus_ and the
parallelisms in its use by Seneca and the author of the _Aetna_, see
Professor Ellis’s edition of that poem, Prolegomena, pp. xl-xliii.
Now if our author had been consistent in the use of the words, there
would have been a strong case for a uniform adoption of “air” and
“atmosphere,” whenever they occurred. But numerous passages might be
cited to show that he interchanges the words without apparent motive,
just as we do “air” and “atmosphere.” For example, on p. 69, l. 2, “So
fire will pass into air (_spiritus_),” while on p. 71, l. 9, “the air
(_aër_), which is interchangeable with fire.” Again, on p. 75, l. 6,
“When the clouds have enclosed air” (_spiritus_); l. 26, “atmosphere
(_aër_) shut up in a hollow cloud.” A still more conclusive case,
though the passage is probably in other respects corrupt, occurs in the
last sentence of c. xxix. p. 77, where the first “air” is _spiritus_,
the second, a mere synonym or variant, is _aër_. Cf. p. 187, l. 27, and
the passages cited below from pp. 245, 249, 251, 259, 260.
The translator has little choice. He must follow his author, and,
where the latter makes a distinction, must endeavour to reproduce it;
otherwise he must, as the author did, observe the idiom of his own
language.
In accordance with this principle _aër_ is usually translated
“atmosphere,” and _spiritus_ “air”; but circumstances have rendered
unavoidable a considerable number of exceptions.
The discussion of phenomena in which air plays a part is contained
chiefly in Books II. and VI., and here the distinction of terms in
English has been, so far as practicable, maintained. In Book II. “air”
is a translation of _aër_ about a dozen of times out of a total of over
fifty times that “air” occurs, and in Book VI. about half a dozen out
of a total of nearly seventy.
The following is a list of the places in which “air” translates _aër_:--
Book I. throughout.
Book II. pp. 56, ll. 20, 21; 57, ll. 17, 22; 58, l. 3; 59, l. 26; 61,
l. 18; 66, l. 12; 71, l. 9; 72, l. 22; 77, 1. 17; 98, l. 26; 101, l. 28.
Book III. pp. 120, ll. 8, 9 (four times); 121, ll. 11–20 (five times);
123, l. 28; 129, l. 3; 134, ll. 26, 28; 135, l. 1; 140, l. 29.
Book IV. pp. 176, ll. 6, 9; 184, l. 2; 186, l. 16.
Book V. pp. 195, l. 32; 196, l. 7; 198, l. 3; 199, l. 16; 202, l. 6;
205, l. 11; 206, l. 3; 211, ll. 14, 20.
Book VI. pp. 245, l. 28; 249, l. 10; 251, ll. 8, 9; 259, l. 7; 260, ll.
26, 29.
Book VII. throughout, with _three exceptions_, viz. pp. 277, l. 26;
279, l. 16; 281, l. 4.
In a few cases “air” occurs as a more explicit representation of a
pronoun or an adjective which implies it: in these instances the
context is generally a sufficient guide. _Spiritus_, too, has sometimes
quite a different rendering, _e.g._ breath.
On pp. 111, 139, 152, “air” is used of a very slight breeze, the very
gentlest breath of wind, and represents _aura_--a good illustration of
the ambiguity of language.
QUOTATIONS
Seneca is fond of illustrating his subject by passages from the
poets. His favourites are Virgil and Ovid, and only once does he
quote Lucretius, whose work was much more analogous to his own.
The quotations are apparently from memory and betray occasional
inaccuracies, as even the best memories will.
The following is a list of the references:--
Book I. Pref., 8 (p. 6). Virg. _Aen._ iv. 404.
i. 4 (10). Virg. _Aen._ v. 528.
iii, 4 (17). Ovid, _Metamorp._ vi. 65. 7.
v. 6 (25). Nero in an unknown poem: one or two other tags of that
versatile tyrant have been preserved.
vi. 1 (28). Virg. _Georg._ i. 380. 1.
xi. 2 (35). Virg. _Georg._ ii. 95. 6.
xiv. 2 (38). Virg. _Georg._ i. 367. (cf. VII. xx. 1).
xvii. 5 (45). Virg. _Eclog._ ii. 25. 6.
Book II. i. 2 (51). Ovid, _Metamorp._ i. 55.
xliv. 1 (91). Ovid, _Metamorp._ iii. 305–7.
Book III. Pref., 3 (109). Origin unknown: a somewhat similar sentiment
occurs in _Aetna_, 24.
i. 1 (114). Ovid, _Metamorp._ iii. 407.
i. 1 (114). Virg. _Aen._ i. 245. 6.
i. 1 (114). Lucilius, to whom the _Q.N._ was addressed. If he was the
author of _Aetna_, as seems not improbable, he may have
written other poems on Sicilian topography.
xx. 2 (133). Ovid, _Metamorp._ xv. 313. 4 (cf. _Ibid._ xi. 3 _sqq._).
xx. 4 (134). Ovid, _Metamorp._ xv. 321.
xx. 5 (134). Ovid, _Metamorp._ xv. 330. 1.
xxvi. 3 (142). Ovid, _Metamorp._ xv. 273–6.
xxvi. 5 (142). Virg. _Eclog._ x. 4. 5.
xxvii. 12 (147). Ovid, _Metamorp._ i. 292.
xxvii. 12 (147). Ovid, _Metamorp._ i. 304.
xxvii. 13 (148). Ovid, _Metamorp._ i. 285. 290.
xxviii. 2 (148). Ovid, _Metamorp._ i. 272.
Book IV. Pref., 17 (165). Virg. _Aen._ iv. 373.
Pref., 17 (165). Ovid, _Metamorp._ i. 241. 2.
ii. 2 (168). Tib. _Eleg._ I. vii. 26.
iii. 3 (178). Ovid, _Ars Amat._ i. 475. 6.
iii. 3 (178). Lucret. _De Rerum Nat._ i. 313.
iv. 2 (179). Virg. _Georg._ i. 313.
Book V. i. 1 (193). Virg. _Eclog._ ii. 26.
xiv. 1 (206). Ovid, _Metamorp._ i. 388.
xvi. 1 (208). Ovid, _Metamorp._ i. 61–6.
xvi. 2 (209). Virg. _Aen._ i. 85.
Book VI. ii. 1 (225). Virg. _Aen._ ii. 354.
ii. 8 (227). Both quotation and author are doubtful: another reading
attributes the poem to A. Gellius.
xiii. 5 (241). Virg. _Aen._ vi. 256.
xvii. 1 (246). Virg. _Aen._ viii. 728.
xviii. 1 (247). Virg. _Aen._ i. 55. 6.
xviii. 3 (248). Virg. _Aen._ i. 53. 4.
xxii. 3 (253). Virg. _Aen._ viii. 525.
xxvi. 2 (258). Virg. _Aen._ iii. 77.
xxix. 3 (262). Virg. _Aen._ iii. 414–9.
Book VII. x. 1 (282). Ovid, _Metamorp._ ii. 71.
xx. 1 (292). Virg. _Georg._ i. 367 (cf. I. xiv. 2).
xx. 3 (293). Virg. _Aen._ ix. 20. 1.
xxv. 1 (298). Virg. _Georg._ i. 137.
xxviii. 1 (302). Virg. _Georg._ i. 392.
xxviii. 1 (302). Virg. _Georg._ i. 362.
SOME OF GERCKE’S READINGS
Rendering in the Text. Translation of Gercke’s Text.
I. p. 5, §7, the Strymon. the Danube and the Balkans.
8, 1, the explanation ... my opinion.
Philosophy.
9, 2, such as ... answer which each knows the other
me. cannot answer.
20, 10, an oar ... water. an oar is covered with
shallow water and presents
a broken appearance.
37, 1, _Bothynae_ (cave- _putei_ (well-like...).
like...).
40, 3, one has seen ... what is struck by them we
(= star-struck). call smitten with a flash,
that is, struck without
lightning-bolt, what the
Greeks call ἀστερόπληκτα
(= star-struck).
40, 4, of which more anon. of which we have spoken.
41, 7, For we judge ... But we judge that it is the
foreign body. deceptive appearance of
a mirror, which merely
gives a counterfeit repre-
sentation of a foreign
body.
II. 51, 2, After “rain, snow,” add “winds, earthquakes,
lightnings.”
56, 2, hold together as one be subject to tension.
body.
63, 4, on account of ... when it has accumulated,
clouds. is thrust violently upward
by the massing of the
clouds.
75, 2, and it might ... and which might with
bladder. greater accuracy be called
harsh, because it emits a
sound like that heard
when a bladder.
95, 2, a third neither. a third mixed, a fourth
neither.
98, 1, (c. lv.) dry air. air in rapid motion.
III. 122, 3, when trees are cut when trees are full of sap
down. and not cut down.
123, 1, air is produced. Gercke places c. xiv. immediately
after this.
132, 3, concealed throughout, after “throughout” insert
until. “in others they run above
ground for some distance.”
142, 5, you have yourself ... you, my dear Lucilius, believe
Virgil. the story as (I said)
in the first part [of my
book], and so does Virgil.
149, 4, nor do the waters, nor do the waters find this
etc. a hard task since the sea
mounts from an elevation
equal to that of the earth
(or land). If the heights
be calculated (or if the
average be taken over
the heights), it will appear
that the surface of the
sea is of uniform level.
IV. 161, 8, the stature ... the text and meaning are
arena. somewhat conjectural.
Gercke reads “the stature
of an ape matched against
a Thracian in the arena.”
For “Apollonius Pycta”
he reads “A. the boxer.”
173, 19, nor yet the Caÿstrus nor the Caÿstrus which lies
... deep. beneath Mount Tmolus
increases in summer, and
yet deep snow lies there
constantly as is natural
in those northern regions.
“_Tmolo_” is an ingenious
and probable emendation.
IV. 186, 1, no one ... virtuous. by which one may become
only more lettered and
not more virtuous.
VI. 232, 2, and, generally if the boats are unduly
speaking ... sunk, the water uses the
whole force of the burthens
it upbears, in order
either to pour over them,
or at any rate to rise to
an unwonted height to
right and left.
244, (c. xv.) to hurry to blow where it lists.
straight forward.
258, 2, philosophers. scholars, [or philologists].
265, 2, (c. xxxi.) soft mate- walls undergo more frequent
rials ... hard. but more gentle shocks
than the nature of hard
material allows.
VII. 296, 4, every star cannot but no star can traverse its
the zodiac, then I say a
comet may have a different
kind of orbit and yet
some point in it may coincide
with the zodiac.
INDEX TO THE “QUAESTIONES NATURALES”
^_a_ prefixed to a name indicates authorities used by Seneca.
^_a_ Academy, 307. School and followers of Plato.
Achaia, 142, 224, 225, 235, 288 (adj.), 303. District in N.W. of
southern part of Greece (Morea).
Actors, regard for, 307.
Adriatic, 153.
Adversity, to be faced with joy, 111, 112.
Aegean (Sea), 73, 252. Eastern part of the Mediterranean.
Aegium, 257 (2). A leading town in Achaia on the Gulf of Corinth.
^_a_ Aeschylus, 172.
Africa, 117, 212, 236, 263.
Africus (Wind), 210.
Air, tension of, 58;
wide diffusion of, 60;
transformed into water, 119, 121;
transformed into fire, 120, 121, 205;
kindled by friction, 205, 206, 277;
kindled within the earth, 236, 251;
the cause of earthquakes, 239–48, 251, 254, 255;
enters interior of earth, 254, 255.
Albula, 134. Small stream flowing into the Arno near Tibur (Tivoli)
some 16 miles E. of Rome.
Alexander (the Great), 110, 215, 254 (2).
Alexandria, 273.
Alpheüs, 142 (2), 235. River in Elis in Southern Greece.
Alps, 110, 173, 184.
Ambracian (Gulf), 153. On W. of Greece (Gulf of Arta).
Ammon; _see_ Jupiter.
Amphitheatre, jets of water in, 59.
^_a_ Anaxagoras, 63, 68, 172, 178, 236, 276. Celebrated Ionian
philosopher, 500–428 B.C.
^_a_ Anaximander, 67. Ionian philosopher, 610–547 B.C.
^_a_ Anaximenes, 67, 237. Ionian philosopher about 500 B.C.
Animals, blind in subterranean waters, 129.
Animals, new forms of, discovered in Seneca’s time, 305;
many still to be found out, 305.
Antiochus, 288. King of Syria, 137–128 B.C.
Antony (Mark), 172.
Ants, mankind compared to, 6.
Apennines, 184.
Apollonia, 12, 68, 176. Town in Illyria.
^_a_ Apollonius (of Myndus), 274, 290, 300. Said to have flourished
about the time of Alexander the Great (330 B.C.). There may
be some confusion in the text between him and the celebrated
Pythagorean philosopher, A. of Tyana, who was born shortly before
the Christian era.
Apollonius Pycta (or pyctes = the boxer), 161. Unknown otherwise;
apparently a gladiator.
Apulia, 211. District in S.E. of Italy.
Aquarius (sign of the Zodiac), 301.
Aquilo (Wind), 209.
^_a_ Aratus, 37. Of Cilicia, astronomical poet, flourished 270 B.C.
Araxes, 246. River in Armenia (Aras).
Arcadia, 122, 137. District in centre of Southern Greece.
^_a_ Archelaus, 239. Philosopher, flourished about 450 B.C. Pupil and
partly disciple of Anaxagoras.
Arethusa, 142 (2), 235. Celebrated fountain in Syracuse in Sicily.
Argestes (Wind), 210.
Argolic, 142. Argolis is a district in N.E. of Southern Greece.
^_a_ Aristotle, 8, 9, 10, 19 (2), 33, 63, 240, 242, 276, 277, 302 (2),
303 (2), 304. See Introduction.
^_a_ Artemidorus (of Parium), 22, 286 (2), 287. Not otherwise known.
^_a_ Asclepiodotus, 74, 77, 207, 246, 253. Not otherwise known.
Asia, 224, 233. Province on the W. coast of Asia Minor, or generic
name for area E. and N.E. of Europe.
Astronomy (_Caelestia_), scope of, 51;
of Egyptians, 274;
of Chaldaeans, 275;
of Greeks, 298.
Atabulus (Wind), 211.
Atalanta, 256. Small island between Euboea and mainland of Greece.
The channel now bears the name Talanta, which is likewise that of
a neighbouring town.
Athens, 211.
^_a_ Attalus, 94, 95. Stoic philosopher, one of Seneca’s teachers.
Attalus, 288. King of Pergamus, 241–197 B.C.
Atlantic Ocean, 174, 175 (2).
Atlantic Ocean, growth of trade to ports on shores of, 175.
Atmosphere, friction of, produces fires, 9, 39;
upper portion dry and hot, 39, 60, 65, 78;
possesses unity or continuity, 52, 57;
place of, in universe, 54;
earthy elements of, 56, 60;
tension of, 56;
lowest portion dense and dark, 60, 184;
and warmer than the rest, 183;
distribution of temperature in, 60, 184;
causes of movements of, 61;
relation of, to the ether, 65, 66;
adapted to transmit sound, 77;
rarefied, kindles fire, 100, 205;
by violent movement sets itself on fire, 102;
proof that it is never absolutely motionless, 193;
possesses a native capacity of movement, 197.
Atoms, the world a fortuitous concourse of, 7.
Augury, kinds of, 79, 80, 82.
Augustus, 9, 12, 42, 211, 290.
Auster (Wind), 210.
^_a_ Authorities (various, not specified by name, but spoken of as
“certain,” “some,” etc.), 18, 31, 35, 57, 63, 67, 73, 75, 93, 101,
110, 116, 118, 119, 122, 135, 148 (2), 150, 182, 184, 186, 230,
233, 236, 238, 239, 242, 243, 244, 283.
Avarice, denounced, 207.
Bactra, 215. In Central Asia (Balkh).
^_a_ Balbillus, 171. Governor of Egypt in Nero’s reign, 53.
Balkan Mountains; _see_ Haemus.
Baths, heating of water of, 136;
effect of Campanian earthquake on tiled floor of, 264.
Bathyllus, 307. A native of Alexandria, freedman at Rome during reign
of Augustus; perfected a pantomimic or ballet dance.
Bear (Great), 208.
Belus, 151. Babylonian deity.
^_a_ Berosus, 151. Priest of Belus, about 250 B.C.
Black Sea; _see_ Pontus.
Boeotia, 137. District in Central Greece.
Boreas (Wind), 208.
Bothynae (meteors), 37.
Breezes, morning, 195, 198.
Buris; _see_ Helice.
^_a_ Caecina, 86, 94, 95, 100. A friend and correspondent of Cicero,
about 48 B.C.
Caesar (Julius), 166, 213, 290.
Caius (Emperor Caligula), 163, 164.
Calabria, 211. District in extreme S.E. of Italy.
^_a_ Callimachus, 172. Grammarian and poet; chief librarian of
Alexandrine library, 260–240 B.C.
^_a_ Callisthenes, 254 (6), 258, 276, 277. Relative and pupil of
Aristotle, friend and victim of Alexander the Great.
Cambyses, 78. King of Persia, 529–522 B.C.
Campania, 221 (2), 224 (2), 225, 239, 257, 259 (adj.), 264, 265.
District in Italy containing Capua, Naples, etc.
Cancer (sign of the Zodiac), 151.
Cannae, 209. In Apulia.
Cannon, ancient types of, 67.
Capitol, 91.
Cappadocia, 138. Centre of Asia Minor.
Capricorn (sign of the Zodiac), 151.
Caria, 132, 142 (adj.). S.W. of Asia Minor.
Carthage, 110, 166.
Caspian, 153.
Cassander, 122. Son of Antipater, regent of Macedonia; eventually
king of Macedonia; died 297 B.C.
Castor and Pollux, 11. Constellation and sign of the Zodiac (Gemini).
Cataegis (Wind), 211.
Cataracts (Nile), 168.
Caucasus, 173.
Caves with noxious air, 134;
felt to be warmer in winter than in summer, 176, 241.
Caÿstrus (or Caÿster), 173. River in W. of Asia Minor flowing into
the sea near Ephesus.
Chalcis, 246, 257. Chief town of Euboea on Strait at narrowest point.
^_a_ Chaldaeans, 81, 275 (3), 302.
^_a_ Charimander (or Charmander), 276. Otherwise unknown.
Charms, laws against, 182.
Charybdis, 153. Whirlpool in Strait of Messina.
Chasmata (meteors), 38.
Chersonese (= peninsula), 142. Carian or Rhodian on S.W. of Asia Minor.
Chios, 175. Island and town (Scio) off coast of Asia Minor.
^_a_ Cicero, 100.
Ciconians, 133. Tribe in Thrace.
Circius (Wind), 211.
Claudius (Emperor), 290, 294, 304.
Cleonae, 181, 182. Town in Argolis.
Cleopatra, 172 (2). Antony’s celebrated partner.
^_a_ Clidemus, 99. A philosopher anterior in date to Aristotle.
Clouds, as sources of lightning and thunder, 10, 62, 63, 64, 75, 203;
invisible when we are within them, 24;
composition of, 24;
compression of, causes thunder, 67;
produce fire, 70, 74, 100;
must be burst before they emit sound, 76, 98;
not necessarily connected with wind, 195;
as sources of wind, 203, 204.
Cloud-winds, 203.
Colours (in rainbow), origin of, 21, 25, 30, 31.
Comets, infrequency of, 272, 288, 301;
what are they? 272;
points of resemblance of, to planets, 273;
resemblance to meteors, 275, 276;
classes of, 276, 290;
not due to wind, 278, 279–282;
curved path of, 279;
long visibility of, 282;
distribution and shape of, 283;
Greek classification of, 283;
different from the planets, 284;
examples of, 288, 290;
vast orbits of, 290, 297, 302;
vary in apparent size as they advance or retreat, 291;
transparency of, 291, 300;
Stoic opinions regarding, 291–294;
directions of, 294, 303, 304;
Seneca’s opinion, 295, 305;
form of, 300;
portents from, 302.
^_a_ Conon, 274. Astronomer; born at Samos; lived at Alexandria about
250 B.C. Said to have been a friend of Archimedes.
Constellations, 301.
Contentment, duty of, 112.
Continuity or unity, defined, 53.
Corus (Wind), 210.
Corycian (Mt.), 122. The district round Corycus in Cilicia was famous
for saffron.
Crassus, 215. Celebrated Roman, slain in battle in Mesopotamia,
53 B.C.
Crete, 123, 153 (adj.).
Crispus Passienus, 160. Stepfather of Nero. Consul in 42.
Crocodiles and dolphins, fight between, 171;
chase of, 172.
Cutiliae, 139 (2). In the Sabine country, N.E. of Rome.
Cyclades, 147. Group of islands in Grecian Archipelago.
Cyclopes, 91. Jove’s fabled armourers with workshops beneath Etna,
Stromboli, etc.
Cyprus, 259.
Dacian, 5.
Danube, as a political boundary, 5, 233;
alleged remarkable character of, 135;
floods of, 146;
contrasted with the Nile, 166;
not swollen in winter, 173.
Darius, 254. King of Persia, 521–485 B.C.
Death, to be faced without fear, 103, 223, 226, 265–268;
equalises mankind, 223;
the introduction to a better place than earth, 267.
Delos, 258, 259. Perhaps the most famous of “the isles of Greece.”
Deluge, that is to destroy the earth, 143.
^_a_ Demetrius, 161. Cynic philosopher, contemporary of Seneca.
Demetrius (father and son), 288. Kings of Syria between 162 and
125 B.C.
^_a_ Democritus, 183 (2), 194, 249, 250, 276. The optimist or
“laughing philosopher” of Abdera in Thrace; said to have lived
460–361 B.C.
^_a_ Diogenes (of Apollonia in Crete), 68, 176, 177. Pupil of
Anaximenes, lived in fifth century B.C.
Dnieper (Borysthenes), 174.
Dog-star, 202.
Dolphins and crocodiles, fight between, 171.
Doris, translated “sea nymph” in the quotation from Virgil, 142.
Dowsers, 127.
Drops, globular form of, 178.
Drunkenness, 134, 188.
Earth, material of, formed from water, 120, 121.
Earth as a whole, place of the, in universe, 55;
formed after the plan of our bodies, 126, 151, 242, 255;
final destruction of, 143;
itself the cause of earthquakes, 237;
whether it or the universe revolves, 273.
Earth’s interior, water supply in, 119, 206, 233, 234;
cold temperature of, 119, 121;
like surface above ground, 128, 206;
blind animals in waters of, 129;
origin of wind within, 206, 239, 243, 244, 254;
landslips in, 238, 249, 251;
store of vital air in, 244, 245.
Earthquakes, causes of, 51, 229, 230, 236, 249;
effects of, 121, 221, 229, 257, 259, 262, 263;
Campanian (of A.D. 63), 221, 257, 259, 262, 264;
influence of, on the human mind, 222, 262;
widespread destruction produced by, 223;
not the work of angry gods, 228;
Seneca’s youthful work on, 230;
water as the origin of, 231;
fire as the origin of, 236, 238;
air as the origin of, 239–248, 251, 255, 256, 264;
mixed sources of, 249;
varieties of movement in (_inclinatio_, _succussio_, _tremor_), 252;
most frequent near the sea, 255;
cause of local extent of, 257;
features of the Campanian, 259–264;
the first shock of, the most violent, 264.
Eclipses, 35, 274, 284, 293.
Egypt, 6, 167–177 (_passim_);
great heat in, 173;
said not to be visited by earthquakes, 258.
^_a_ Egyptians, ideas of, as to the elements, 125;
astronomy of, 274.
Elements, interchangeability of, 120, 121, 245;
four in number, 123;
contrariety of, 301.
Eleusis, 306. In Attica, N.W. of Athens about 12 miles; scene of the
great Eleusinian mysteries.
Elis, 114, 257. District in S.W. of Southern Greece.
Emanations, terrestrial, feed the sun and stars, 55, 198, 244;
cause thunder, lightning, and commotion of the air, 63, 275;
dry and moist, 63, 78.
^_a_ Empedocles, 136 (2). Philosopher of Agrigentum in Sicily,
flourished about 444 B.C.
^_a_ Ephorus, 289 (3). Greek historian of some repute about 340 B.C.
^_a_ Epicurus, 250. Born 342, died 270 B.C.
^_a_ Epigenes, 274, 275, 276, 277, 278, 279, 280 (2), 283. A Greek
astronomer of Byzantium of uncertain date.
Erasinus, 142. River of Argolis.
Etesian (Winds), 174 (4), 175, 201 (4), 202 (4), 212.
Ether, characters of the, 65;
descent of force from the, 68.
Ethiopia, 6, 117, 167, 168, 172, 173, 212, 235. Term was applied very
loosely to all the hinterland of Africa, only the Mediterranean
coast and a portion of the Nile basin being known to the Greeks.
Etna, 77.
^_a_ Etruscans (or Tuscans), 79, 88, 92, 95 (sing.). Etruria lay
immediately N. of the Tiber.
^_a_ Eudoxus, 274. Astronomer of Cnidus in Caria, pupil of Plato,
flourished about 366 B.C.
Euphrates, 5, 215.
^_a_ Euripides, 173.
Euronotus (Wind), 210.
Europe, 173 (adj.), 233.
Eurus (Wind), 208, 209.
^_a_ Euthymenes (of Marseilles), 174, 175 (2). Geographer, probably
about 150 B.C.
Evaporation from the earth, 198, 200, 240.
Expiation, the reason for, 83, 84.
Eyesight swifter than hearing, 64.
^_a_ Fabianus (Papirius), 144. Distinguished Stoic, one of Seneca’s
teachers.
Falernian (wine), 35. District famous for wine in N. of Campania.
Fate, unalterable, 83;
nature of, 84, 91;
uncertainty of visitations of, 225.
Favonius (Wind), 210.
Fear, how to be combated, 103, 225, 229, 265, 266, 267;
arises from ignorance, 229;
leads to loss of reason, 262.
Fidus Annaeus, 161. Apparently a gladiator of gigantic stature.
Fire, kindled in atmosphere, 39, 62, 64, 70, 100, 102;
passes into air, 120;
artificial modes of producing, by percussion or friction, 70;
naturally rises, 71, 102;
endowed with the power of producing some animals, 197;
as the cause of earthquakes, 236, 238;
produced in the earth’s interior, 251;
kindled by air, 251.
Fires, celestial, 8, 39, 294, 295, 296.
Fish in underground waters, 129, 132.
Flattery, counsel against, 159.
Floods, the earth to be finally destroyed by, 143, 144.
Fortune, vicissitudes of, 111.
Fountains, discharges from, 142.
Fucinus, 116. Large lake in Sabine country E. of Rome.
Gaetulicus, 163. Cn. Cornelius Lentulus G., put to death by
Caligula 39.
Galatia, 138.
Gallic, 6.
Gallio, 161, 202. See Introduction.
Gaul, 117, 122 (pl.), 211.
Geography (_Terrena_), scope of, 51, 52.
Germanicus, 9. Nero Claudius Drusus, brother of the Emperor Tiberius,
died 10 B.C.
Germans, 233.
Germany, 5, 117, 166.
Gibraltar, 175.
Glass, globe of, filled with water magnifies objects, 29;
cause of iridescence in, 30.
God, nature of, 3, 4, 7, 8, 91, 305;
sends portents, 80;
unchangeable, 84;
to Him everything is present, 84;
His design in creating the winds, 213, 216.
Gods, dread of infernal, 208;
do not disturb heaven or earth, 228;
not to be feared, 266.
Gold, lust for, denounced, 5, 208, 215.
Greece, 215, 274 (2), 298.
Greek, 58, 95, 210, 255.
^_a_ Greeks, 12, 13, 15, 34, 39, 40, 140, 169, 198, 203, 205, 209
(2), 210, 211, 240, 255, 283.
Gusts of wind, origin of, 203.
Gylippus, 12. Spartan commander against Athenians at Syracuse,
414 B.C.
Haemus (Balkan Mountains), 122.
Hail, 177, 181;
falls more in summer than winter, 179;
prognostications of, 181.
Halos (crowns), round sun and moon, 12, 14, 34, 41.
Hannibal, 110, 209. Famous Carthaginian general in Second Punic War,
219–201 B.C.
Happiness, how to be gained, 5, 266.
Heavenly bodies, influence of, on rivers, 141;
on weather, 275;
apparent retrogression of some, 299.
Heavens, extent of the, 7;
contemplation of the starry, 271;
divisions of the, 210;
supposed by Artemidorus to be a solid vault, 286.
Helice and Buris (or Bura), 254, 257, 259, 267, 276, 277, 289. Towns
in Achaia swallowed by earthquake 373 B.C.
Heracleotic (mouth of the Nile), 171. Most westerly and largest, not
far from Alexandria.
^_a_ Heraclitus, 100. Ancient representative of pessimism, “the
weeping philosopher,” of Ephesus, toward end of sixth century B.C.
Herculaneum, 221 (2), 259.
^_a_ Homer, 258.
Horizon, 211.
Hostius Quadra, 42. Unknown save for Seneca’s unfortunate mention of
him.
Hydissus, 132. Orthography of this Carian town is uncertain; Gercke
reads Idumus.
Hydraulic organs, 56.
Iapygian (Wind), 211.
Ice, 140.
India, 7, 212, 215.
Intermittent action, 128.
Iron, discovery of, 45;
money made of, 46.
Islands, floating, 139.
Ister (or Hister), a name of the Danube, _which see_.
Italy, 110, 117, 133, 212, 261, 262 (adj.), 263.
Junior, _see_ Lucilius, 168.
Jupiter (Jove), temple of, in African desert (Ammon), 78;
his thunderbolts, 88, 89, 91, 92;
affords lessons to earthly rulers, 90;
other names for, 91, 92.
Jupiter, the planet, 284, 299.
Lacedaemonians, 189. Lacedaemon, or Sparta, was in Laconia, the
district in the S.E. of Southern Greece.
Ladon, 257. River in Arcadia, tributary of Alpheus.
Laelius, 268. Friend of the younger Scipio Africanus, consul 140 B.C.
Chief interlocutor in Cicero’s Dialogue on Friendship.
Lakes, with dense water, 138, 139;
underground, 154;
wide extent of some, 233.
Land and sea breezes, 198.
Landslips, 238, 249, 251;
effects of, 253.
Latin, 210 (2).
Leo (sign of the Zodiac), 301.
Lepidus, 166 (3). Formed with Augustus and Antony the Second
Triumvirate after Caesar’s assassination in 44 B.C.
Libonotus (Wind), 210.
Libyan (Wind), 210.
Life, the proper conduct in, 112, 159, 266;
uncertainty of, 226;
to be carried in our hand if we desire to live happy and without
fear, 266.
Lightning, 62, 66, 69, 86, 87, 100;
effects of, 78, 87, 88, 96;
portents indicated by, 79, 81, 82, 86, 92, 94, 95, 215;
possible pestilential power in, 97;
cause of zigzag course of, 102;
moral lessons to be derived from a consideration of, 104;
safe retreats from, 223;
blinding effects of, 292;
connected with the planets, 275.
^_a_ Livy (Titus Livius), 209, 213. Roman historian, 59 B.C.-17.
Lower Sea; _see_ Propontis.
Lucilius Junior, 1, 103, 109, 114, 142, 159 (2), 161, 162, 163, 217,
221, 265, 267, 268. See Introduction.
Luxury, introduction of, 45, 46;
growth of, 47, 188;
illustrations of, 129, 187;
denunciation of, 130, 187, 306.
Lycia, 140. District S.W. of Asia Minor.
Lycus, 142. River, probably of Phrygia in Asia Minor, flowing into
the Maeander.
Lydia, 139. District in W. of Asia Minor.
Lyncestis, 134.
Macedonia, 138, 207, 224, 303.
Magnesia, 122. Town of Lydia.
Mankind, compared to ants, 6;
early ages of, 45, 46;
final destruction of, 147, 152;
re-creation of, after the deluge, 155;
world not made only for, 305.
Marmora or Marmara (Sea of); _see_ Propontis.
Mars, the planet, 10, 275, 284.
Marseilles, 174.
Marshes, 233;
of the Nile, 236.
Magalenopolis (or Megalepolis or Megalopolis), 257. Town in Arcadia.
Melas, 137. River of Boeotia in Central Greece.
Memphis, 170. Great Egyptian city a little above Cairo.
^_a_ Menander, 165. Athenian comic poet, 342–291 B.C.
Mercury, the planet, 284.
Messalina, 163. Third wife of Emperor Claudius;
put to death by Narcissus, 48.
Messana (Messina), 142.
Metalliferous veins, 126.
Metals, melted by lightning, 78, 96;
denunciation of the search for the precious, 207, 215.
Meteorology (_Sublimia_), scope of, 51.
Meteors, 8–11, 37, 38, 40, 275, 276, 292, 293, 296.
^_a_ Metrodorus (of Chios), 248 (2). Philosopher who flourished about
330 B.C. “Sceptic.” Disciple of Democritus, perhaps.
Milky Way, 289.
Mind, the human, its nature and seat unknown, 297.
Mines, water in, 154;
ancient, explored by Philip of Macedon, 207.
Mirrors, 22, 23, 24, 27, 41, 42, 44, 45, 47.
Mock-suns, 35.
Moon, eclipse of, 298;
varying colour of, 300.
Moral reflections, Seneca’s, 1–8, 42, 44–47, 102–105, 109–114,
130–132, 143–156, 159–166, 186–190, 207, 213–217, 222–229, 254,
265–268.
Mountains, insignificance of height of, compared with the whole mass
of the earth, 184.
Mushrooms, 189.
Mylae, 142. Town on N. coast of Sicily, near Messina.
Myndus, 274, 290. Town in Caria.
Naples, partly damaged by earthquake of A.D. 63, 221.
Narcissus, 164. Freedman of Claudius, put to death by Agrippina, 54.
Natural Philosophy, 3, 8.
Nature, influence of, 3;
origin of, 7;
as a synonym for God, 92;
advantage of the study of, 113, 265;
finds no task hard, 144, 154;
inadequate conceptions of, 228;
study
of, the highest pursuit, 230;
power of variation in, 301;
inexhaustibility of, 306;
still most imperfectly known, 306.
Naval wars denounced, 213.
Nebaioth, 208. An Arabian people, put for East in general. Latin form
is Nabataei.
Neptune (Earthshaker), 255.
^_a_ Nero Caesar, 25, 235, 290, 294; probably referred to, though
not named, 90 (last two sentences).
Nicopolis, 259. City in W. of Greece at entrance to Ambracian
Gulf. The word means “city of victory,” something like our
oft-recurrent “Victoria.”
Nile, unusual character of, 114, 135, 166;
physiological effect of water of, 140;
rise of, 141, 167, 169, 172;
course of, 168, 170, 233;
cataracts of, 168;
mode of descent of, 169;
delta of, 170, 171;
canalisation of, 170;
deposit of, 170, 258;
inundation of, 171;
supposed underground supply of, 235;
Nero’s expedition to the, 235;
transport of sediment by, 258.
Nonacris, 137. Town in Arcadia.
Notus (Wind), 209.
Nuceria, 221. Town in Campania.
Ocean, 6 (2), 112, 119, 135, 143, 153, 155, 231, 254 (2), 266.
^_a_ Oenopides (of Chios), 175. Mathematician and astronomer,
probably contemporary of Anaxagoras, fifth century B.C.
Olympic, 142 (2). Olympia was in Elis.
Olympus, 257. High mountain in Thessaly, Northern Greece.
Omens, arranged by Providence, 80;
from lightning, 82.
Organs (hydraulic), 56.
Ossa, 257. Mountain in Thessaly, Northern Greece.
Ostia, 41. Town at mouth of Tiber; port of Rome.
^_a_ Ovid, 114, 133, 148, 165, 168. Latin poet, 43 B.C.-18.
Parhelia, 35.
Pamphylia, 211. District on S. of Asia Minor.
^_a_ Panaetius, 304. Stoic philosopher of Rhodes, friend of Laelius
and the younger Scipio Africanus; died 111 B.C.
Paphos, 259. Town on W. of Cyprus.
Parium, 22. Town in Mysia on N.W. of Asia Minor.
Parthians, 5, 215.
Paterculus, 303. His consulship is said to have been in the year 60.
Patras, 257. Town at entrance of Gulf of Corinth.
Paulus, 9. L. Aemilius P., consul 181 and 168 B.C.
Peacock, analogy from colours of, 25.
Peloponnesian (War), 256, 258. Lasted 431–404 B.C. between Athens and
Sparta.
Peneüs, 138, 257. Great river draining the plain of Thessaly and
flowing through vale of Tempe between Olympus and Ossa; now
called Salambria.
Perseus, 9. Last king of Macedonia, 178–168 B.C.
Persia, 208, 215.
Persians, 254.
Pestilential vapours emitted from the ground, 260, 261.
Pharos, 258. Island off Alexandria with famous lighthouse, united to
mainland by Alexander the Great.
Phasis, 174. River of Colchis at E. of Black Sea.
Philae, 168 (3), 169. Island in the Nile, just below First Cataract.
Seneca seems to confuse it with the so-called island of Meroë, at
the junction of the Blue Nile and Atbara.
Philip, 110, 207 (2). Father of Alexander the Great; king of
Macedonia 359–336 B.C.
Philosophers, debt due to the early, 230;
credulous folk, 258;
severe criticisms of, 125, 175, 288, 289.
Philosophy, divisions of, 3;
pleasures of, 4, 5;
benefits conferred by, 97;
delivers its votaries from fear, 225;
rewards of, 229;
decadence of, 307, 308.
^_a_ Pindar, 258. Greek poet, 522–442 B.C.
Pithitae, or pithiae (meteors), 38, 40.
Plancus, 160. L. Munatius P., a prominent actor in the civil wars,
48–31 B.C.
Planets, colours of, 10;
enumerated, 275;
fixed number of, 284;
orbits of, 285;
motions of, 288;
possibly greater number of, 297;
conspicuous movements of, 298.
^_a_ Plato, 216.
Pollux, 11; _see_ Castor.
Pompeii, 221, 259 (2).
Pompey, 166 (3). Defeated by Caesar 48 B.C., and assassinated shortly
after.
Pontus (district in N.E. of Asia Minor), 141.
Pontus (Black Sea), 153, 176, 180 (?).
Portents from meteors, 9, 228, 259;
lightning, 79, 86, 93, 94, 95, 215;
eclipses, 228;
comets, 272, 290, 302.
^_a_ Posidonius, 26, 27, 73, 74, 98 (2), 177, 246, 252, 256, 292,
293. A very distinguished Stoic philosopher, president of that
school. Instructor for a time and friend of Cicero. Prosecuted
physical investigations with great success. Native of Syria.
Lived 135–51 B.C.
Posterity, great increase of knowledge to be attained by, 298.
Predestination, 85.
Prognostications; _see_ Portents.
Propontis (Sea of Marmora), 153, 176 (Lower Sea).
Providence, 92, 213.
Puteoli, 133. On coast of Campania.
Pylades, 307. A Cilician; a dancer like Bathyllus.
Pyrenees, 5.
^_a_ Pyrrho, 307. Founder of the sect of the Sceptics, native of
Elis; flourished about fourth century B.C.
^_a_ Pythagoras, 307. Flourished in second half of sixth century B.C.
Pyx, trial of, 180.
Rain, Seneca’s observation on descent of, into soil, 117;
share of, in final destruction of the world, 143, 144, 149;
seasonal variations of, 179;
supposed to be influenced by incantations, 182.
Rainbow, 16–33.
Rainless countries, 167, 173.
Red Sea, 112, 153, 168.
Regulus, 221. Consul 63.
Reverence, duty of, 304.
Rhaetian, 35. The reference is to wine grown in the N. of Italy
(Cisalpine Gaul).
Rhine, 146 (2), 173, 233.
Rhodians, 142. Island of Rhodes was at S.W. of Asia Minor.
Rhone, 146, 173.
Rivers as political boundaries, 5, 233;
sources of supply of, 116;
underground, 132, 141, 206, 207, 233, 235;
summer rise of, 141, 173.
Roman, 5, 12, 46, 110, 113, 166.
Rome, 110, 166, 182, 209, 307.
Roots, disruptive force of, 57.
Rulers, counsel to, 90.
Sacrifice cannot alter fate, 84;
to keep off hail, 181.
St. Elmo’s Fire, 11, 37.
^_a_ Sallust, 279. Roman historian, 86–34 B.C.
Sarmatian, 5, 233 (pl.). Roughly speaking, the S. part of Russia.
Saturn, the planet, 275 (2), 284, 303.
Scipio, 46 (2). The elder Sc. Africanus, victor of Hannibal at Zama,
202 B.C.
Scironian (Wind), 211.
Scylla, 153; _see_ Charybdis.
Scythia, 180, 208. Term used very loosely of region in Central and
Northern Asia, but at times extending to Europe, as far west as
the Danube. Sarmatia of one age was part of Scythia of another.
Sea, unity of the, 125;
coeval with the world, 135;
throws ashore ill-smelling deposits, 142;
share of, in final destruction of the earth, 143, 150;
current of, from Black Sea, 176;
subterranean, 234.
Sea and land breezes, 198.
Seafaring, condemned, 216.
Sea-water, purged of its salt within the earth, 116.
Sejanus, 9. Notorious instrument of Tiberius; put to death 31.
Sela (gleams in the sky), 39.
Self, bondage of slavery to, 113.
Septemtrio (Wind), 210.
^_a_ Sextii, 307. Father and son in the time of Augustus and Nero
respectively; taught a combination of Stoic and Pythagorean
doctrines.
Sheep, destruction of, during Campanian earthquake of A.D. 63, 259.
Sicily and Sicilian, 114, 138, 142 (2), 153, 159, 166 (2), 235, 262,
263.
Sidon, 256.
Snow, melting in Ethiopia erroneously supposed to be the cause of the
annual rise of the Nile, 173;
supplies some European rivers, 173;
on European mountains, 173;
origin of, 178, 179, 182, 186;
said to feel colder to the feet when dry and hard than when slushy
and half melted, 180;
artificial use of, 187.
^_a_ Sophocles, 172.
Soul, divine origin of, 6;
to be rescued from error and fear of death, 103.
Sound less rapid than light, 64.
Spain and Spanish, 6, 7, 110, 263.
Springs, 118, 121, 127, 136, 142.
Squalls, origin of, 204;
short duration of, 281.
Stabiae, 221. Small town on coast of Campania.
Stars, fed by emanations from the earth, 55, 198, 244;
influence of, in human affairs, 81;
nature of, 273;
transits of, 284;
supposed small size of, 288;
place of, in sky, 297;
varying colours of, 300.
Stars, falling, 10, 11, 37, 99, 296.
Statonia, 139. Town in Etruria, about 15 miles from the coast.
Stoics, 32, 40, 58, 66, 95, 119, 124, 135, 151, 180, 181 (2), 210,
251, 291, 292, 293, 295 (my school).
^_a_ Strato, 240. Succeeded Theophrastus as head of the Peripatetic
school in 288 B.C. Native of Lampsacus in Mysia on the Hellespont.
Streaks in the sky, 33.
Strymon, 5. River of Thrace and Macedonia (Struma). The text of the
passage is very doubtful.
Styx, 137. River in Arcadia.
Submergence of Helice and Buris, 254, 257, 259, 267, 276, 289;
of Atalanta, 256;
of Sidon, 256;
of other cities and nations, 267.
Subsolane (Wind), 209.
Sudd, 236 n.
Sulphur, baneful effects of, in water, 134;
supposed to warm water, 136;
exists in large quantity underground, 206.
“Sulphur smell” produced by lightning, 69, 97.
Sun, size of, 20, 288;
eclipse of, 35, 274, 284, 293;
draws his sustenance from the earth, 55, 198, 244;
movements of, 271;
among the constellations, 301.
Superstition, 271.
Surrentum, 221. Town on promontory in Campania.
Syracuse, 12, 142.
Syria, 138, 288.
Tempe, 137. Vale or gorge in Thessaly; _see_ Peneüs.
Temperature of atmosphere, 60, 183, 184;
of various waters, 136.
Tension, effects of, 56, 58.
Tentyra, 172. Island in the Nile (Denderah), not far from Thebes.
^_a_ Thales, 124, 125, 174, 233. Of Miletus; may be considered the
father of Greek philosophy, 636–546 B.C.
Thebes, 257. Capital of Boeotia. There was a more ancient city of
the same name in Upper Egypt on whose site are the modern Luxor,
Karnak, etc.
^_a_ Theophrastus 122 (3), 129, 138, 139, 141, 172, 240, 303. Of
Lesbos, favourite pupil and successor of Aristotle, head of
Peripatetic school, 322–287 B.C.
Therasia and There (Thera), 252. Small volcanic islands in the group
called Sporades, S. of Cyclades.
Thessaly, 137, 257.
Thrace and Thracians, 5, 161, 173, 254.
^_a_ Thucydides, 256, 258.
Thunderings, 62, 67;
different kinds of, 75;
causes of, 98.
Tiberius Caesar, 41.
Tigris, 142, 235.
Time, wasting influence of, 238, 253;
fleetingness of, 268.
Trade to Atlantic ports, 175.
Transmutation of the elements, 120, 121.
Troglodytes, 173. Cave-dwellers, specially applied to tribes on W. of
Red Sea.
Tuscans; _see_ Etruscans.
Tyre and Tyrian, 27, 224, 225.
Unity or continuity, defined, 53.
Universe, defined, 54;
impetuous whirl of, 273;
ceaseless revolution of, 281, 294, 299;
a harmony of discords, 301.
Vacuum, non-existent in nature, 128.
Vadimonian (Lake), 139. In Etruria, not far from the Tiber, the Lago
di Bassano, now dried up.
^_a_ Vagellius, 227. Name unknown, probably corrupt.
Valerius Asiaticus, 74. Consul, for the second time, in 46.
^_a_ Varro, 209 (2). Famous grammarian, antiquarian, etc., 116–28 B.C.
Venus, the planet, 284.
Vice, conquest of, leads to highest happiness, 5;
continued progress of, 46, 187, 306, 307.
^_a_ Virgil, 28, 35, 114, 142, 165, 209, 241, 253, 258.
Virginius, 221. Consul 63.
Vitellius, 160. Name doubtful; may refer to father of Emperor
Vitellius, who flourished under Caligula and Claudius, being
consul in 34.
Volcanic eruptions, 73, 74, 77, 252.
Vopiscus, 303. Consul 60.
Vultur, 209. Mountain on borders of Apulia.
Vulturnus (Wind), 209.
Wars, denunciation of, 213, 214.
Water, forms of, 114, 115, 233;
transformed into air, 120;
formed from earth, 120;
as one of the four elements, 124;
Thales’ opinions on, 124, 231;
underground sources of, 126, 233, 234, 235;
various tastes of, 133;
petrifying powers of, 133;
varying temperatures of, 136;
artificial heating of, 136;
baneful kinds of, 137;
dyeing properties of some kinds of, 137;
varying densities of, 138;
supposed physiological effects of some, 140;
in mines, 154;
produces animal and plant life, 197;
as the cause of earthquakes, 231, 233, 234.
Watergalls and sun-dogs, 33.
Weather indications, 11, 14, 15, 28, 37, 39, 75, 181, 275, 302, 303.
Wells and their water-supply, 118, 123, 128;
warm winter temperature of, 176, 241.
Whirlwinds, 204, 275, 276, 278, 279, 280, 281, 282.
Will, freedom of the, 85, 86.
Wind, definition of, 193;
Democritus’ view of origin of, 194;
origin of, 196, 200, 203, 204;
within the earth, 205, 206, 239, 243, 244;
number and names of the winds, 208–212;
teleological design of, 212, 216;
misuse of, by man, 216;
beneficial influences of, 216;
disruptive energy of, 252.
Winds, 208–211. The following are specified: Africus, Aquilo,
Argestes, Atabulus, Auster, Ἀφηλιώτης (= Subsolane), Boreas,
Cataegis, Circius, Corus, Etesian, Euronotus, Eurus, Favonius,
Iapygian, Καικίας, Libonotus, Libyan, Notus, Scironian,
Septemtrio, Subsolane, Thracias, Vulturnus, Zephyrus.
Wine, frozen by lightning, 79, 97.
World, revolution of, 20.
^_a_ Zeno, 291. Native of Cyprus, founder of the Stoic philosophy,
lived between middle of fourth and third centuries B.C.
Zephyrus (Wind), 208.
Zodiac, 285, 291, 296.
THE END
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.Project Gutenberg
Physical science in the time of Nero : $b being a translation of the Quaestiones naturales of Seneca
Seneca, Lucius Annaeus
Chimera48
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