MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS was born on April 26, A.D. 121. His real name was M. Annius Verus, and he was sprung of a noble family which claimed descent from Numa, second King of Rome. Thus the most religious of emperors came of the blood of the most pious of early kings. His father, Annius Verus, had held high office in Rome, and his grandfather, of the same name, had been thrice Consul. Both his parents died young, but Marcus held them in loving remembrance. On his father's death Marcus was adopted by his grandfather, the consular Annius Verus, and there was deep love between these two. On the very first page of his book Marcus gratefully declares how of his grandfather he had learned to be gentle and meek, and to refrain from all anger and passion. The Emperor Hadrian divined the fine character of the lad, whom he used to call not Verus but Verissimus, more Truthful than his own name. He advanced Marcus to equestrian rank when six years of age, and at the age of eight made him a member of the ancient Salian priesthood. The boy's aunt, Annia Galeria Faustina, was married to Antoninus Pius, afterwards emperor. Hence it came about that Antoninus, having no son, adopted Marcus, changing his name to that which he is known by, and betrothed him to his daughter Faustina. His education was conducted with all care. The ablest teachers were engaged for him, and he was trained in the strict doctrine of the Stoic philosophy, which was his great delight. He was taught to dress plainly and to live simply, to avoid all softness and luxury. His body was trained to hardihood by wrestling, hunting, and outdoor games; and though his constitution was weak, he showed great personal courage to encounter the fiercest boars. At the same time he was kept from the extravagancies of his day. The great excitement in Rome was the strife of the Factions, as they were called, in the circus. The racing drivers used to adopt one of four colours—red, blue, white, or green—and their partisans showed an eagerness in supporting them which nothing could surpass. Riot and corruption went in the train of the racing chariots; and from all these things Marcus held severely aloof.
Marcus Aurelius Antoninus was born on April 26, 121 CE. His birth name was M. Annius Verus, and he came from a noble family claiming descent from Numa, Rome's second king. This lineage connected the most religious of emperors to the most pious of early kings. His father, Annius Verus, held high office in Rome, and his grandfather, also named Annius Verus, had been Consul three times. Both parents died young, but Marcus cherished their memory. After his father's death, Marcus was adopted by his grandfather, the former Consul, and they shared a deep bond. Marcus credits his grandfather for teaching him gentleness, meekness, and emotional control. Emperor Hadrian recognized the boy's exceptional character, nicknaming him "Verissimus" (most truthful) instead of Verus. Hadrian granted Marcus equestrian rank at age six and made him a member of the ancient Salian priesthood at eight. Marcus's aunt, Annia Galeria Faustina, was married to the future Emperor Antoninus Pius. As Antoninus had no son, he adopted Marcus, gave him his well-known name, and betrothed him to his daughter Faustina. Marcus received a thorough education from the best teachers, focusing on Stoic philosophy, which he loved. He was taught to dress modestly and live simply, avoiding luxury. Despite a weak constitution, he built physical strength through wrestling, hunting, and outdoor activities, showing great courage in facing fierce boars. While Rome was consumed by the excitement of chariot racing factions—red, blue, white, and green—which often led to riots and corruption, Marcus deliberately avoided these excesses, staying true to his principles.
In 140 Marcus was raised to the consulship, and in 145 his betrothal was consummated by marriage. Two years later Faustina brought him a daughter; and soon after the tribunate and other imperial honours were conferred upon him.
In 140, Marcus was appointed consul. Five years later, he married his betrothed. In 147, Faustina gave birth to their daughter. Shortly after, Marcus was granted the tribunate and other prestigious imperial titles.
Antoninus Pius died in 161, and Marcus assumed the imperial state. He at once associated with himself L. Ceionius Commodus, whom Antoninus had adopted as a younger son at the same time with Marcus, giving him the name of Lucius Aurelius Verus. Henceforth the two are colleagues in the empire, the junior being trained as it were to succeed. No sooner was Marcus settled upon the throne than wars broke out on all sides. In the east, Vologeses III. of Parthia began a long-meditated revolt by destroying a whole Roman Legion and invading Syria (162). Verus was sent off in hot haste to quell this rising; and he fulfilled his trust by plunging into drunkenness and debauchery, while the war was left to his officers. Soon after Marcus had to face a more serious danger at home in the coalition of several powerful tribes on the northern frontier. Chief among those were the Marcomanni or Marchmen, the Quadi (mentioned in this book), the Sarmatians, the Catti, the Jazyges. In Rome itself there was pestilence and starvation, the one brought from the east by Verus's legions, the other caused by floods which had destroyed vast quantities of grain. After all had been done possible to allay famine and to supply pressing needs—Marcus being forced even to sell the imperial jewels to find money—both emperors set forth to a struggle which was to continue more or less during the rest of Marcus's reign. During these wars, in 169, Verus died. We have no means of following the campaigns in detail; but thus much is certain, that in the end the Romans succeeded in crushing the barbarian tribes, and effecting a settlement which made the empire more secure. Marcus was himself commander-in-chief, and victory was due no less to his own ability than to his wisdom in choice of lieutenants, shown conspicuously in the case of Pertinax. There were several important battles fought in these campaigns; and one of them has become celebrated for the legend of the Thundering Legion. In a battle against the Quadi in 174, the day seemed to be going in favour of the foe, when on a sudden arose a great storm of thunder and rain the lightning struck the barbarians with terror, and they turned to rout. In later days this storm was said to have been sent in answer to the prayers of a legion which contained many Christians, and the name Thundering Legion should be given to it on this account. The title of Thundering Legion is known at an earlier date, so this part of the story at least cannot be true; but the aid of the storm is acknowledged by one of the scenes carved on Antonine's Column at Rome, which commemorates these wars.
Antoninus Pius died in 161, and Marcus became emperor. He immediately made L. Ceionius Commodus, whom Antoninus had adopted as a younger son alongside Marcus, his co-ruler, giving him the name Lucius Aurelius Verus. The two became imperial colleagues, with the junior being groomed as a successor. As soon as Marcus took the throne, wars erupted on all sides. In the east, Vologeses III of Parthia launched a long-planned revolt, destroying an entire Roman Legion and invading Syria in 162. Verus was dispatched to quell this uprising but indulged in drunkenness and debauchery, leaving the war to his officers. Soon after, Marcus faced a more serious threat at home: a coalition of powerful tribes on the northern frontier. These included the Marcomanni, the Quadi (mentioned in this book), the Sarmatians, the Catti, and the Jazyges. Rome itself suffered from pestilence brought by Verus's legions and famine caused by floods that destroyed vast quantities of grain. After exhausting all options to alleviate the famine and meet pressing needs—even selling imperial jewels for funds—both emperors set out to confront a struggle that would persist throughout most of Marcus's reign. Verus died in 169 during these wars. While we lack detailed accounts of the campaigns, it's clear that the Romans ultimately succeeded in defeating the barbarian tribes and establishing a settlement that made the empire more secure. Marcus served as commander-in-chief, and victory was attributed to both his leadership and his wise choice of lieutenants, notably Pertinax. These campaigns saw several significant battles, including one famous for the legend of the Thundering Legion. During a battle against the Quadi in 174, the tide seemed to be turning against the Romans when a sudden storm of thunder and rain erupted. Lightning struck the barbarians, terrifying them and causing them to flee. Later, this storm was said to have been sent in response to the prayers of a legion containing many Christians, leading to the name "Thundering Legion." While this title predates the event, making that part of the story implausible, the storm's assistance is acknowledged in a scene carved on Antonine's Column in Rome, which commemorates these wars.
The settlement made after these troubles might have been more satisfactory but for an unexpected rising in the east. Avidius Cassius, an able captain who had won renown in the Parthian wars, was at this time chief governor of the eastern provinces. By whatever means induced, he had conceived the project of proclaiming himself emperor as soon as Marcus, who was then in feeble health, should die; and a report having been conveyed to him that Marcus was dead, Cassius did as he had planned. Marcus, on hearing the news, immediately patched up a peace and returned home to meet this new peril. The emperors great grief was that he must needs engage in the horrors of civil strife. He praised the qualities of Cassius, and expressed a heartfelt wish that Cassius might not be driven to do himself a hurt before he should have the opportunity to grant a free pardon. But before he could come to the east news had come to Cassius that the emperor still lived; his followers fell away from him, and he was assassinated. Marcus now went to the east, and while there the murderers brought the head of Cassius to him; but the emperor indignantly refused their gift, nor would he admit the men to his presence.
The peace agreement following these conflicts might have been more effective if not for an unexpected rebellion in the east. Avidius Cassius, a talented commander renowned for his Parthian campaign victories, was then the chief governor of the eastern provinces. For reasons unknown, he had planned to declare himself emperor upon the death of Marcus, who was in poor health at the time. When false news of Marcus's death reached Cassius, he acted on his plan. Upon hearing this, Marcus quickly arranged a peace settlement and returned home to face this new threat. His greatest sorrow was the necessity of engaging in civil war. He commended Cassius's qualities and sincerely hoped Cassius wouldn't harm himself before Marcus could offer a pardon. However, before Marcus could reach the east, Cassius learned that the emperor was still alive. His supporters abandoned him, and he was assassinated. When Marcus arrived in the east, Cassius's killers presented him with Cassius's head. The emperor angrily refused this offering and denied the men an audience.
On this journey his wife, Faustina, died. At his return the emperor celebrated a triumph (176). Immediately afterwards he repaired to Germany, and took up once more the burden of war. His operations were followed by complete success; but the troubles of late years had been too much for his constitution, at no time robust, and on March 17, 180, he died in Pannonia.
During this expedition, Faustina, his wife, passed away. Upon returning, the emperor celebrated a triumph in 176. He then immediately set off for Germany, resuming the challenges of war. His military efforts were entirely successful. However, the strains of recent years had taken their toll on his already fragile health. On March 17, 180, he died in Pannonia.
The good emperor was not spared domestic troubles. Faustina had borne him several children, of whom he was passionately fond. Their innocent faces may still be seen in many a sculpture gallery, recalling with odd effect the dreamy countenance of their father. But they died one by one, and when Marcus came to his own end only one of his sons still lived—the weak and worthless Commodus. On his father's death Commodus, who succeeded him, undid the work of many campaigns by a hasty and unwise peace; and his reign of twelve years proved him to be a ferocious and bloodthirsty tyrant. Scandal has made free with the name of Faustina herself, who is accused not only of unfaithfulness, but of intriguing with Cassius and egging him on to his fatal rebellion, it must be admitted that these charges rest on no sure evidence; and the emperor, at all events, loved her dearly, nor ever felt the slightest qualm of suspicion.
The emperor faced his share of family troubles. Faustina bore him several children, whom he adored. Their innocent faces can still be seen in many sculptures, contrasting with their father's pensive expression. Tragically, all but one of his children died before him—the sole survivor being his weak and unworthy son, Commodus. Upon Marcus's death, Commodus succeeded him and quickly undid years of military progress with a hasty, ill-conceived peace treaty. His twelve-year reign revealed him to be a cruel and bloodthirsty tyrant. Rumors circulated about Faustina, accusing her of infidelity and even conspiracy with Cassius, allegedly encouraging his ill-fated rebellion. However, these claims lack solid evidence. The emperor, for his part, remained deeply in love with Faustina and never doubted her loyalty.
As a soldier we have seen that Marcus was both capable and successful; as an administrator he was prudent and conscientious. Although steeped in the teachings of philosophy, he did not attempt to remodel the world on any preconceived plan. He trod the path beaten by his predecessors, seeking only to do his duty as well as he could, and to keep out corruption. He did some unwise things, it is true. To create a compeer in empire, as he did with Verus, was a dangerous innovation which could only succeed if one of the two effaced himself; and under Diocletian this very precedent caused the Roman Empire to split into halves. He erred in his civil administration by too much centralising. But the strong point of his reign was the administration of justice. Marcus sought by-laws to protect the weak, to make the lot of the slaves less hard, to stand in place of father to the fatherless. Charitable foundations were endowed for rearing and educating poor children. The provinces were protected against oppression, and public help was given to cities or districts which might be visited by calamity. The great blot on his name, and one hard indeed to explain, is his treatment of the Christians. In his reign Justin at Rome became a martyr to his faith, and Polycarp at Smyrna, and we know of many outbreaks of fanaticism in the provinces which caused the death of the faithful. It is no excuse to plead that he knew nothing about the atrocities done in his name: it was his duty to know, and if he did not he would have been the first to confess that he had failed in his duty. But from his own tone in speaking of the Christians it is clear he knew them only from calumny; and we hear of no measures taken even to secure that they should have a fair hearing. In this respect Trajan was better than he.
As a soldier, Marcus proved both capable and successful, while as an administrator he was prudent and conscientious. Despite his deep philosophical knowledge, he didn't try to reshape the world according to an idealized vision. Instead, he followed the path of his predecessors, focusing on fulfilling his duties and combating corruption. However, Marcus made some questionable decisions. Sharing imperial power with Verus was a risky move that could only work if one of them stepped back. This precedent later influenced Diocletian's division of the Roman Empire. Marcus also erred by centralizing too much power in his civil administration. The strength of his reign lay in his administration of justice. Marcus introduced laws to protect the vulnerable, improve slaves' conditions, and support the fatherless. He established charitable foundations for educating poor children, protected provinces from oppression, and provided aid to disaster-stricken areas. The major stain on his reputation, which is difficult to explain, is his treatment of Christians. During his reign, Justin in Rome and Polycarp in Smyrna became martyrs, and many faithful died in provincial outbreaks of violence. It's no excuse to claim ignorance of these atrocities; it was his duty to know, and he would have been the first to admit his failure if he didn't. His own words about Christians suggest he knew them only through slander, and there's no evidence he ensured they received fair treatment. In this respect, Trajan was more just than Marcus.
To a thoughtful mind such a religion as that of Rome would give small satisfaction. Its legends were often childish or impossible; its teaching had little to do with morality. The Roman religion was in fact of the nature of a bargain: men paid certain sacrifices and rites, and the gods granted their favour, irrespective of right or wrong. In this case all devout souls were thrown back upon philosophy, as they had been, though to a less extent, in Greece. There were under the early empire two rival schools which practically divided the field between them, Stoicism and Epicureanism. The ideal set before each was nominally much the same. The Stoics aspired to ἁπάθεια, the repression of all emotion, and the Epicureans to ἀταραξία, freedom from all disturbance; yet in the upshot the one has become a synonym of stubborn endurance, the other for unbridled licence. With Epicureanism we have nothing to do now; but it will be worth while to sketch the history and tenets of the Stoic sect.
For a thoughtful person, Roman religion offered little fulfillment. Its myths were often childish or implausible, and its teachings barely touched on morality. Roman religion essentially operated as a transaction: people performed certain sacrifices and rituals, and the gods granted favors regardless of right or wrong. Consequently, all devout individuals turned to philosophy, as they had in Greece, though to a lesser extent. Under the early empire, two competing schools of thought dominated: Stoicism and Epicureanism. Both nominally pursued similar ideals. The Stoics aimed for apatheia, the suppression of all emotion, while the Epicureans sought ataraxia, freedom from all disturbance. Yet over time, one became synonymous with stubborn endurance, the other with unrestrained indulgence. We won't delve into Epicureanism here, but it's worth examining the history and principles of the Stoic school of thought.
Zeno, the founder of Stoicism, was born in Cyprus at some date unknown, but his life may be said roughly to be between the years 350 and 250 B.C. Cyprus has been from time immemorial a meeting-place of the East and West, and although we cannot grant any importance to a possible strain of Phœnician blood in him (for the Phoenicians were no philosophers), yet it is quite likely that through Asia Minor he may have come in touch with the Far East. He studied under the cynic Crates, but he did not neglect other philosophical systems. After many years' study he opened his own school in a colonnade in Athens called the Painted Porch, or Stoa, which gave the Stoics their name. Next to Zeno, the School of the Porch owes most to Chrysippus (280—207 b.c.), who organised Stoicism into a system. Of him it was said,
Zeno, Stoicism's founder, was born in Cyprus sometime between 350 and 250 BCE. Cyprus has always been a crossroads of Eastern and Western cultures. While his potential Phoenician ancestry is insignificant (as Phoenicians weren't known for philosophy), Zeno may have encountered Far Eastern ideas through Asia Minor. He studied under the Cynic philosopher Crates but explored other philosophical systems as well. After years of study, Zeno established his own school in Athens at a colonnade called the Painted Porch, or Stoa, which gave the Stoics their name. Besides Zeno, the School of the Porch owes much to Chrysippus (280-207 BCE), who systematized Stoic philosophy. It was said of him,
'But for Chrysippus, there had been no Porch.'
"Without Chrysippus, Stoicism would not exist."
The Stoics regarded speculation as a means to an end and that end was, as Zeno put it, to live consistently (ὁμολογουμένος ζῆν), or as it was later explained, to live in conformity with nature (ὁμολογουμένος τῇ φύσει ζῆν). This conforming of the life to nature was the Stoic idea of Virtue. This dictum might easily be taken to mean that virtue consists in yielding to each natural impulse; but that was very far from the Stoic meaning. In order to live in accord with nature, it is necessary to know what nature is; and to this end a threefold division of philosophy is made—into Physics, dealing with the universe and its laws, the problems of divine government and teleology; Logic, which trains the mind to discern true from false; and Ethics, which applies the knowledge thus gained and tested to practical life.
The Stoics saw philosophical inquiry as a tool for achieving a specific goal: to live consistently, as Zeno described it, or as later interpreted, to live in harmony with nature. This alignment of one's life with nature was the Stoic concept of Virtue. While this principle might be misunderstood as simply giving in to natural urges, that was far from the Stoic intention. To truly live in accordance with nature, one must first understand what nature is. To this end, the Stoics divided philosophy into three branches: 1. Physics: exploring the universe, its laws, and questions of divine governance and purpose. 2. Logic: training the mind to distinguish truth from falsehood. 3. Ethics: applying the knowledge gained and verified through the other branches to practical, everyday life.
The Stoic system of physics was materialism with an infusion of pantheism. In contradiction to Plato's view that the Ideas, or Prototypes, of phenomena alone really exist, the Stoics held that material objects alone existed; but immanent in the material universe was a spiritual force which acted through them, manifesting itself under many forms, as fire, æther, spirit, soul, reason, the ruling principle.
The Stoic view of physics combined materialism with elements of pantheism. Unlike Plato, who believed that only abstract Ideas or Prototypes truly existed, the Stoics argued that only physical objects were real. However, they proposed that a spiritual force permeated the material universe, working through physical objects and manifesting in various forms such as fire, ether, spirit, soul, reason, and the governing principle.
The universe, then, is God, of whom the popular gods are manifestations; while legends and myths are allegorical. The soul of man is thus an emanation from the godhead, into whom it will eventually be re-absorbed. The divine ruling principle makes all things work together for good, but for the good of the whole. The highest good of man is consciously to work with God for the common good, and this is the sense in which the Stoic tried to live in accord with nature. In the individual it is virtue alone which enables him to do this; as Providence rules the universe, so virtue in the soul must rule man.
The universe is God, with popular deities being its manifestations. Legends and myths are symbolic representations. The human soul originates from this divine source and will eventually return to it. The divine principle orchestrates everything for the greater good of the whole. Humanity's highest purpose is to consciously collaborate with God for the common good, which is how Stoics aimed to live in harmony with nature. For individuals, virtue is the only means to achieve this alignment. Just as Providence governs the universe, virtue must guide the human soul.
In Logic, the Stoic system is noteworthy for their theory as to the test of truth, the Criterion. They compared the new-born soul to a sheet of paper ready for writing. Upon this the senses write their impressions (φαντασίαι), and by experience of a number of these the soul unconsciously conceives general notions (κοιναὶ ἔννοιαι) or anticipations (προλήψεις). When the impression was such as to be irresistible it was called (καταληπτικὴ φαντασία) one that holds fast, or as they explained it, one proceeding from truth. Ideas and inferences artificially produced by deduction or the like were tested by this 'holding perception.' Of the Ethical application I have already spoken. The highest good was the virtuous life. Virtue alone is happiness, and vice is unhappiness. Carrying this theory to its extreme, the Stoic said that there could be no gradations between virtue and vice, though of course each has its special manifestations. Moreover, nothing is good but virtue, and nothing but vice is bad. Those outside things which are commonly called good or bad, such as health and sickness, wealth and poverty, pleasure and pain, are to him indifferent (ἀδιάφορα). All these things are merely the sphere in which virtue may act. The ideal Wise Man is sufficient unto himself in all things (αὐταρκής); and knowing these truths, he will be happy even when stretched upon the rack. It is probable that no Stoic claimed for himself that he was this Wise Man, but that each strove after it as an ideal much as the Christian strives after a likeness to Christ. The exaggeration in this statement was, however, so obvious, that the later Stoics were driven to make a further subdivision of things indifferent into what is preferable (προηγμένα) and what is undesirable (ἀποπροηγμένα). They also held that for him who had not attained to the perfect wisdom, certain actions were proper. (καθήκοντα) These were neither virtuous nor vicious, but, like the indifferent things, held a middle place.
In Logic, the Stoic system is notable for its theory on the test of truth, called the Criterion. They likened the newborn mind to a blank sheet of paper. On this, the senses write their impressions, and through experience, the mind unconsciously forms general notions or anticipations. When an impression was irresistible, it was called "one that holds fast," or as they explained it, one stemming from truth. Ideas and inferences produced by deduction were tested by this "holding perception." Regarding ethics, the Stoics believed the highest good was a virtuous life. Virtue alone brings happiness, and vice leads to unhappiness. Taking this to the extreme, Stoics argued there were no gradations between virtue and vice, though each has its unique manifestations. Only virtue is good, and only vice is bad. External factors commonly labeled as good or bad, such as health, wealth, or pleasure, were considered neutral. These merely provide the context in which virtue can act. The ideal Wise Man is self-sufficient in all things. Knowing these truths, he would be happy even under torture. It's likely that no Stoic claimed to be this Wise Man, but rather each strived towards it as an ideal, much like a Christian aims to emulate Christ. Recognizing the obvious exaggeration in this stance, later Stoics further divided neutral things into "preferable" and "undesirable" categories. They also held that for those who hadn't attained perfect wisdom, certain actions were "proper." These actions were neither virtuous nor vicious but occupied a middle ground, like neutral things.
Two points in the Stoic system deserve special mention. One is a careful distinction between things which are in our power and things which are not. Desire and dislike, opinion and affection, are within the power of the will; whereas health, wealth, honour, and other such are generally not so. The Stoic was called upon to control his desires and affections, and to guide his opinion; to bring his whole being under the sway of the will or leading principle, just as the universe is guided and governed by divine Providence. This is a special application of the favourite Greek virtue of moderation (σωφροσύνη), and has also its parallel in Christian ethics. The second point is a strong insistence on the unity of the universe, and on man's duty as part of a great whole. Public spirit was the most splendid political virtue of the ancient world, and it is here made cosmopolitan. It is again instructive to note that Christian sages insisted on the same thing. Christians are taught that they are members of a worldwide brotherhood, where is neither Greek nor Hebrew, bond nor free and that they live their lives as fellow-workers with God.
Two key aspects of Stoicism deserve highlighting. First is the careful distinction between what we can and cannot control. Our desires, dislikes, opinions, and emotions are within our power, while health, wealth, status, and similar external factors generally aren't. Stoics are expected to master their internal states, aligning their entire being with their will or guiding principle, much like the universe is governed by divine Providence. This concept echoes the Greek virtue of moderation and has parallels in Christian ethics. The second aspect is a strong emphasis on the unity of the universe and humanity's role within it. This expands on the ancient world's admiration for public spirit, elevating it to a global scale. Interestingly, Christian thinkers stressed similar ideas. Christians are taught they belong to a worldwide community that transcends cultural and social boundaries, and that they work alongside God in their daily lives.
Such is the system which underlies the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. Some knowledge of it is necessary to the right understanding of the book, but for us the chief interest lies elsewhere. We do not come to Marcus Aurelius for a treatise on Stoicism. He is no head of a school to lay down a body of doctrine for students; he does not even contemplate that others should read what he writes. His philosophy is not an eager intellectual inquiry, but more what we should call religious feeling. The uncompromising stiffness of Zeno or Chrysippus is softened and transformed by passing through a nature reverent and tolerant, gentle and free from guile; the grim resignation which made life possible to the Stoic sage becomes in him almost a mood of aspiration. His book records the innermost thoughts of his heart, set down to ease it, with such moral maxims and reflections as may help him to bear the burden of duty and the countless annoyances of a busy life.
This system forms the foundation of Marcus Aurelius's Meditations. While some understanding of it is necessary to fully grasp the book, our main interest lies elsewhere. We don't turn to Marcus Aurelius for a Stoicism textbook. He's not an academic leader laying out doctrines for students; he doesn't even expect others to read his writings. His philosophy isn't driven by intellectual curiosity, but rather by what we might call spiritual sentiment. The rigid principles of Zeno or Chrysippus are mellowed and reshaped by passing through a respectful, tolerant, gentle, and sincere nature. The grim acceptance that made life bearable for Stoic philosophers becomes, in Marcus Aurelius, almost a mindset of aspiration. His book captures his deepest thoughts, written down for personal catharsis, along with moral guidelines and musings to help him cope with his duties and the many frustrations of a hectic life.
It is instructive to compare the Meditations with another famous book, the Imitation of Christ. There is the same ideal of self-control in both. It should be a man's task, says the Imitation, 'to overcome himself, and every day to be stronger than himself.' 'In withstanding of the passions standeth very peace of heart.' 'Let us set the axe to the root, that we being purged of our passions may have a peaceable mind.' To this end there must be continual self-examination. 'If thou may not continually gather thyself together, namely sometimes do it, at least once a day, the morning or the evening. In the morning purpose, in the evening discuss the manner, what thou hast been this day, in word, work, and thought.' But while the Roman's temper is a modest self-reliance, the Christian aims at a more passive mood, humbleness and meekness, and reliance on the presence and personal friendship of God. The Roman scrutinises his faults with severity, but without the self-contempt which makes the Christian 'vile in his own sight.' The Christian, like the Roman, bids 'study to withdraw thine heart from the love of things visible'; but it is not the busy life of duty he has in mind so much as the contempt of all worldly things, and the 'cutting away of all lower delectations.' Both rate men's praise or blame at their real worthlessness; 'Let not thy peace,' says the Christian, 'be in the mouths of men.' But it is to God's censure the Christian appeals, the Roman to his own soul. The petty annoyances of injustice or unkindness are looked on by each with the same magnanimity. 'Why doth a little thing said or done against thee make thee sorry? It is no new thing; it is not the first, nor shall it be the last, if thou live long. At best suffer patiently, if thou canst not suffer joyously.' The Christian should sorrow more for other men's malice than for our own wrongs; but the Roman is inclined to wash his hands of the offender. 'Study to be patient in suffering and bearing other men's defaults and all manner infirmities,' says the Christian; but the Roman would never have thought to add, 'If all men were perfect, what had we then to suffer of other men for God?' The virtue of suffering in itself is an idea which does not meet us in the Meditations. Both alike realise that man is one of a great community. 'No man is sufficient to himself,' says the Christian; 'we must bear together, help together, comfort together.' But while he sees a chief importance in zeal, in exalted emotion that is, and avoidance of lukewarmness, the Roman thought mainly of the duty to be done as well as might be, and less of the feeling which should go with the doing of it. To the saint as to the emperor, the world is a poor thing at best. 'Verily it is a misery to live upon the earth,' says the Christian; few and evil are the days of man's life, which passeth away suddenly as a shadow.
Comparing the Meditations with the Imitation of Christ reveals similar ideals of self-control. Both texts emphasize the importance of overcoming oneself and growing stronger daily. They agree that peace of mind comes from resisting passions and purging oneself of them. Both works advocate for continuous self-examination. The Imitation suggests daily reflection, either in the morning or evening, to review one's words, actions, and thoughts. However, the Roman perspective promotes modest self-reliance, while the Christian approach favors humility, meekness, and reliance on God's friendship. Romans scrutinize their faults severely but without the self-contempt that makes Christians feel "vile in their own sight." Both philosophies encourage detachment from worldly things, but the Christian focus is more on contempt for the world and rejecting earthly pleasures. Both disregard human praise or blame, but Christians appeal to God's judgment, while Romans look to their own conscience. Both views advocate for magnanimity in the face of petty annoyances and injustices. The Christian approach emphasizes patience and sorrow for others' malice, while the Roman perspective is more inclined to distance oneself from offenders. The concept of suffering as a virtue is unique to the Christian viewpoint and absent from the Meditations. Both recognize humanity's interconnectedness, but Christians emphasize zeal and avoiding lukewarmness, while Romans focus on duty and action over emotion. Ultimately, both the saint and the emperor view the world as inherently flawed. The Christian perspective sees life on Earth as miserable, with human existence being brief and troublesome, passing quickly like a shadow.
But there is one great difference between the two books we are considering. The Imitation is addressed to others, the Meditations by the writer to himself. We learn nothing from the Imitation of the author's own life, except in so far as he may be assumed to have practised his own preachings; the Meditations reflect mood by mood the mind of him who wrote them. In their intimacy and frankness lies their great charm. These notes are not sermons; they are not even confessions. There is always an air of self-consciousness in confessions; in such revelations there is always a danger of unctuousness or of vulgarity for the best of men. St. Augus-tine is not always clear of offence, and John Bunyan himself exaggerates venial peccadilloes into heinous sins. But Marcus Aurelius is neither vulgar nor unctuous; he extenuates nothing, but nothing sets down in malice. He never poses before an audience; he may not be profound, he is always sincere. And it is a lofty and serene soul which is here disclosed before us. Vulgar vices seem to have no temptation for him; this is not one tied and bound with chains which he strives to break. The faults he detects in himself are often such as most men would have no eyes to see. To serve the divine spirit which is implanted within him, a man must 'keep himself pure from all violent passion and evil affection, from all rashness and vanity, and from all manner of discontent, either in regard of the gods or men': or, as he says elsewhere, 'unspotted by pleasure, undaunted by pain.' Unwavering courtesy and consideration are his aims. 'Whatsoever any man either doth or saith, thou must be good;' 'doth any man offend? It is against himself that he doth offend: why should it trouble thee?' The offender needs pity, not wrath; those who must needs be corrected, should be treated with tact and gentleness; and one must be always ready to learn better. 'The best kind of revenge is, not to become like unto them.' There are so many hints of offence forgiven, that we may believe the notes followed sharp on the facts. Perhaps he has fallen short of his aim, and thus seeks to call his principles to mind, and to strengthen himself for the future. That these sayings are not mere talk is plain from the story of Avidius Cassius, who would have usurped his imperial throne. Thus the emperor faithfully carries out his own principle, that evil must be overcome with good. For each fault in others, Nature (says he) has given us a counteracting virtue; 'as, for example, against the unthankful, it hath given goodness and meekness, as an antidote.'
The key difference between the two books is their intended audience. The Imitation is written for others, while the Meditations is a personal reflection. The Imitation reveals little about its author's life, aside from assuming he practiced what he preached. In contrast, the Meditations vividly portrays the author's mindset, with its charm lying in its intimacy and honesty. These notes aren't sermons or confessions, which often risk being self-conscious, unctuous, or vulgar. Unlike St. Augustine or John Bunyan, who sometimes exaggerate minor faults, Marcus Aurelius is neither vulgar nor self-righteous. He's honest without malice, never posing for an audience. While he may not be profound, he's always sincere, revealing a noble and serene soul. Marcus seems untouched by common vices, focusing instead on subtle personal flaws. He strives to serve his inner divine spirit by staying free from intense passions, evil feelings, rashness, vanity, and discontent. He aims for unwavering courtesy and consideration, believing one must remain good regardless of others' actions. He advocates for empathy and gentleness, even towards offenders, seeing them as needing pity rather than anger. He believes in continuous self-improvement and views not becoming like one's enemies as the best revenge. These aren't just words; the story of Avidius Cassius shows Marcus living by his principle of overcoming evil with good. For Marcus, nature provides virtues to counter others' faults. He sees goodness and meekness as antidotes to ungratefulness, embodying his philosophy of using positive traits to combat negative ones.
One so gentle towards a foe was sure to be a good friend; and indeed his pages are full of generous gratitude to those who had served him. In his First Book he sets down to account all the debts due to his kinsfolk and teachers. To his grandfather he owed his own gentle spirit, to his father shamefastness and courage; he learnt of his mother to be religious and bountiful and single-minded. Rusticus did not work in vain, if he showed his pupil that his life needed amending. Apollonius taught him simplicity, reasonableness, gratitude, a love of true liberty. So the list runs on; every one he had dealings with seems to have given him something good, a sure proof of the goodness of his nature, which thought no evil.
Someone so kind to an enemy was bound to be a great friend. His writings are filled with heartfelt appreciation for those who helped him. In his First Book, he lists all he owes to his family and mentors. From his grandfather, he inherited a gentle nature; from his father, modesty and bravery. His mother taught him piety, generosity, and sincerity. Rusticus' efforts weren't wasted if he showed his student how to improve his life. Apollonius instilled in him simplicity, rationality, gratitude, and a love for true freedom. The list goes on, with everyone he encountered seemingly offering something valuable—a clear indication of his good character, which saw no ill in others.
If his was that honest and true heart which is the Christian ideal, this is the more wonderful in that he lacked the faith which makes Christians strong. He could say, it is true, 'either there is a God, and then all is well; or if all things go by chance and fortune, yet mayest thou use thine own providence in those things that concern thee properly; and then art thou well.' Or again, 'We must needs grant that there is a nature that doth govern the universe.' But his own part in the scheme of things is so small, that he does not hope for any personal happiness beyond what a serene soul may win in this mortal life. 'O my soul, the time I trust will be, when thou shalt be good, simple, more open and visible, than that body by which it is enclosed;' but this is said of the calm contentment with human lot which he hopes to attain, not of a time when the trammels of the body shall be cast off. For the rest, the world and its fame and wealth, 'all is vanity.' The gods may perhaps have a particular care for him, but their especial care is for the universe at large: thus much should suffice. His gods are better than the Stoic gods, who sit aloof from all human things, untroubled and uncaring, but his personal hope is hardly stronger. On this point he says little, though there are many allusions to death as the natural end; doubtless he expected his soul one day to be absorbed into the universal soul, since nothing comes out of nothing, and nothing can be annihilated. His mood is one of strenuous weariness; he does his duty as a good soldier, waiting for the sound of the trumpet which shall sound the retreat; he has not that cheerful confidence which led Socrates through a life no less noble, to a death which was to bring him into the company of gods he had worshipped and men whom he had revered.
If he possessed the honest and true heart that embodies the Christian ideal, it's even more remarkable given his lack of faith that typically strengthens Christians. He could say, "Either there is a God, and all is well; or if everything is governed by chance, you can still use your own judgment in matters that concern you directly, and that's good." Or, "We must acknowledge that there's a force governing the universe." However, he sees his role in the grand scheme as so small that he doesn't hope for personal happiness beyond what a serene soul can achieve in this life. He muses, "My soul, the time will come when you'll be good, simple, more open and visible than the body that encloses you." But this refers to the calm contentment with one's lot in life that he hopes to attain, not an afterlife free from bodily constraints. To him, the world, fame, and wealth are all fleeting. He believes the gods might have some concern for him, but their primary focus is on the universe as a whole, which he finds sufficient. His gods are more engaged than the aloof Stoic gods, who remain detached and uncaring about human affairs. Yet, his personal hope isn't much stronger. He doesn't dwell on this topic, though he often alludes to death as a natural end. He likely expected his soul to eventually merge with the universal soul, believing that nothing comes from nothing and nothing can be destroyed. His attitude is one of determined weariness; he fulfills his duty like a good soldier awaiting the retreat signal. He lacks the cheerful confidence that guided Socrates through an equally noble life to a death he believed would unite him with the gods he worshipped and the people he admired.
But although Marcus Aurelius may have held intellectually that his soul was destined to be absorbed, and to lose consciousness of itself, there were times when he felt, as all who hold it must sometimes feel, how unsatisfying is such a creed. Then he gropes blindly after something less empty and vain. 'Thou hast taken ship,' he says, 'thou hast sailed, thou art come to land, go out, if to another life, there also shalt thou find gods, who are everywhere.' There is more in this than the assumption of a rival theory for argument's sake. If worldly things 'be but as a dream, the thought is not far off that there may be an awakening to what is real. When he speaks of death as a necessary change, and points out that nothing useful and profitable can be brought about without change, did he perhaps think of the change in a corn of wheat, which is not quickened except it die? Nature's marvellous power of recreating out of Corruption is surely not confined to bodily things. Many of his thoughts sound like far-off echoes of St. Paul; and it is strange indeed that this most Christian of emperors has nothing good to say of the Christians. To him they are only sectaries 'violently and passionately set upon opposition.
Despite Marcus Aurelius's intellectual belief that his soul would lose consciousness upon absorption, he occasionally felt the emptiness of such a creed, as do all who hold it. In these moments, he blindly searched for something more fulfilling. "You've boarded a ship," he says, "sailed, and reached land. Disembark. If to another life, you'll find gods there too, for they are everywhere." This suggests more than just arguing a rival theory; it hints at the possibility of awakening to a greater reality beyond our worldly existence. When discussing death as a necessary change, and noting that all useful things require change, he may have been considering the transformation of a grain of wheat, which must die to bring forth new life. Surely nature's remarkable ability to create anew from decay isn't limited to physical matters. Many of his thoughts seem to echo St. Paul's teachings, making it all the more puzzling that this most Christian-like emperor had nothing positive to say about Christians. To him, they were merely sectarians "violently and passionately opposed" to the established order.
Profound as philosophy these Meditations certainly are not; but Marcus Aurelius was too sincere not to see the essence of such things as came within his experience. Ancient religions were for the most part concerned with outward things. Do the necessary rites, and you propitiate the gods; and these rites were often trivial, sometimes violated right feeling or even morality. Even when the gods stood on the side of righteousness, they were concerned with the act more than with the intent. But Marcus Aurelius knows that what the heart is full of, the man will do. 'Such as thy thoughts and ordinary cogitations are,' he says, 'such will thy mind be in time.' And every page of the book shows us that he knew thought was sure to issue in act. He drills his soul, as it were, in right principles, that when the time comes, it may be guided by them. To wait until the emergency is to be too late.
While not deeply philosophical, Marcus Aurelius's Meditations reveal his genuine understanding of human experience. Traditional religions primarily focused on external practices: perform the required rituals, and you please the gods. These rituals were often trivial and sometimes even contradicted morality. Even when deities supported righteousness, they prioritized actions over intentions. Marcus Aurelius, however, recognized that a person's actions stem from their thoughts. He states, "Your mind will become like your regular thoughts." Throughout his work, he demonstrates his belief that thoughts inevitably lead to actions. He trains his mind in sound principles, ensuring it will be guided by them when needed. Waiting for a crisis to develop these principles is too late.
He sees also the true essence of happiness. 'If happiness did consist in pleasure, how came notorious robbers, impure abominable livers, parricides, and tyrants, in so large a measure to have their part of pleasures?' He who had all the world's pleasures at command can write thus 'A happy lot and portion is, good inclinations of the soul, good desires, good actions.'
He truly understands the nature of happiness. "If happiness were simply about pleasure, why would notorious criminals, depraved individuals, murderers, and tyrants experience so much of it?" The man who had access to all the world's pleasures concludes, "True happiness comes from a virtuous soul, noble aspirations, and good deeds."
By the irony of fate this man, so gentle and good, so desirous of quiet joys and a mind free from care, was set at the head of the Roman Empire when great dangers threatened from east and west. For several years he himself commanded his armies in chief. In camp before the Quadi he dates the first book of his Meditations, and shows how he could retire within himself amid the coarse clangour of arms. The pomps and glories which he despised were all his; what to most men is an ambition or a dream, to him was a round of weary tasks which nothing but the stern sense of duty could carry him through. And he did his work well. His wars were slow and tedious, but successful. With a statesman's wisdom he foresaw the danger to Rome of the barbarian hordes from the north, and took measures to meet it. As it was, his settlement gave two centuries of respite to the Roman Empire; had he fulfilled the plan of pushing the imperial frontiers to the Elbe, which seems to have been in his mind, much more might have been accomplished. But death cut short his designs.
In a twist of fate, this gentle and kind man, who longed for peace and tranquility, found himself leading the Roman Empire during a time of great peril from both east and west. For years, he personally commanded his armies. While camped near the Quadi, he wrote the first book of his Meditations, demonstrating his ability to find inner calm amidst the chaos of war. The pomp and glory he disdained were his by right; what most would consider the height of ambition was, for him, a series of exhausting duties driven only by his unwavering sense of responsibility. Yet, he excelled in his role. His military campaigns, though slow and arduous, proved successful. With a statesman's foresight, he anticipated the threat posed by northern barbarian hordes to Rome and took steps to counter it. His efforts bought the Roman Empire two centuries of relative peace. Had he realized his apparent plan to extend the imperial borders to the Elbe, even more might have been achieved. However, death cut short his ambitions.
Truly a rare opportunity was given to Marcus Aurelius of showing what the mind can do in despite of circumstances. Most peaceful of warriors, a magnificent monarch whose ideal was quiet happiness in home life, bent to obscurity yet born to greatness, the loving father of children who died young or turned out hateful, his life was one paradox. That nothing might lack, it was in camp before the face of the enemy that he passed away and went to his own place.
Marcus Aurelius had a unique chance to demonstrate the power of the mind over circumstance. A peaceful ruler who longed for quiet domestic happiness, he was destined for greatness despite his preference for a simpler life. His existence was full of contradictions: a loving father whose children either died young or became detestable. In a final twist of fate, he died in a military camp, facing his enemies, before departing this world.