research – Classical Studies

Seeing with the Soul

Cicero did not equate disability with incapability, argues Samantha Ritschel (’26).

I have lived life as a disabled person for over a decade. I was not born disabled. My disease, Friedreich’s Ataxia, began affecting me when I was eleven. So many doors that were previously open for me, suddenly shut, and I needed to find a new path forward. For me, that path led me to the world of the Classics. Classical Studies renewed something in me; it gave me a purpose, and with purpose comes the drive to succeed.

A tattoo on my right arm: one black beta fish and one white beta fish circling each other to form a yin yang symbol with the quote nec umquam philosophum audivi (“I never listened to a philosopher,” Petronius, Satyrica 71.12).

Throughout my academic career, ancient philosophers have occupied a great deal of the subject matter of my studies. I hate philosophy. I have never listened to a philosopher, and quite frankly, I don’t think I ever will. My experiences and the way I must live my life due to my disability cannot be mapped on to the philosophies that I am taught. Call me a pessimist if you must, but I prefer the term realist. To know oneself is the best thing that someone can do for themself, and for me that means accepting limitations and carving a path for myself, even though it will never be easy. And sometimes, to know yourself, you have to make a statement.

There is debate among the disabled community about disability first language and its use to refer to someone. I respect the opinions of others, but let me make mine clear. To use the language “person with a disability” erases who you are at your core. I am a disabled person. There is no taking the disability out of me. I am aware of the fact that when people meet me for the first time, the first thing they see is my wheelchair; they see the wheelchair rather than the person on the initial meeting. I am not saying that disability is what makes you who you are, I am saying that disability is part of you, whether you like it or not. There is no sense in chaining yourself with self-doubt and concern about how others may perceive you. I’m not saying that you are not allowed to be anxious, worried, or angry at the fact that you are not considered a typical person. But it is important to not let that consume you. Life is about the experiences that you have and the path that you forge for yourself. As a disabled person, I needed to forge a realistic path. I am aware how inconsistent I sound. Is this not philosophy? Is my thought process not the same type of doctrine that I despise? And you would be right, I am many things, and self-aware is one of them. This type of philosophy, one in which disability does not equate to incapability, is one that I hold close to my heart.

As I said earlier, I have learned to love the Classics, especially the Latin language. It is from this love of the Classics that I found an idea for my research project: the treatment of the disabled in ancient Rome. My original thought was to research physical disability in Rome, but I realized that it was too broad. I decided to research the treatment of the blind in Rome. I did this partly because of my father and partly because of my love of the Latin poet, Catullus. My dad runs a company that researches gene therapy for blindness caused by rare genetic diseases, Atsena. This, in combination with a few poems written by Catullus that state a variation of “I love you more than my own eyes,” led to this project. I would like to take a moment to acknowledge and appreciate Jason Morris (Dickinson ’00), who helped me throughout this project. If not for him, I would have never thought to look at the treatment of blind individuals in Rome from a philosophical perspective. I hate philosophy because it cannot be mapped on exactly to my life as a disabled person, therefore it never occurred to me, that perhaps a philosopher in antiquity tackled the issue of disability. Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations tackles philosophy from a Stoic point of view, which is interesting, but the most interesting content can be found in Book 5. Book 5 provides examples and analysis of how disability not only does not equate to incapability but also does not affect one’s ability to live a happy and virtuous life.

Book 5 teaches that virtue itself is sufficient for living happily (as Cicero himself summarizes it in De divinatione 2.2, docet enim ad beate vivendum virtutem se ipsa esse contentam). Cicero is firm during his defense of virtue as the key to happiness (Barney, 16). Virtue in Rome has multiple facets; it does not have a singular definition meaning that virtue is subjective to an individual’s experience. This is evident in the Latin language. The word for virtue is virtus which has a myriad of definitions. The main definitions of virtus are manliness and courage. Typically, virtue is defined in terms of one’s strength, specifically their physical strength. Most of the time virtus is used to describe manliness or warrior-like courage. However, virtue cannot be defined as just physical characteristics. If virtus refers to manliness, then does that make a person virtuous? The third definition for virtus is more ethical. Virtue can be based on the character of an individual. A virtuous person, someone who embodies virtus is courageous in both spirit and fortitude. A virtuous man can be judged on his manliness and battle, but it is the goodness of his spirit, and his relentless drive to improve himself that makes him worthy of the word. In terms of the disabled population in Rome, virtus could not be achieved via manliness or battle-based courage. For them, virtus was based on the goodness of their character, and the courage it took them to advocate for themselves and become a functioning member of society. The blind in Rome demonstrated courage daily by existing in an inaccessible world and attempting to lead the life of a happy man. The Disputations, specifically book five, teach that an individual has nothing to fear as long as they pursue a virtuous life by facing the challenges of life courageously (Barney, 13).

Cicero had a unique perspective regarding the blind. He argues it is the soul which receives the objects we see (animus accipit quae videmus, 5.111). His point is that a blind man sees through his soul, not his eyes, which implies that the lack of vision does not determine an individual’s capability to enrich his soul, which would metaphorically enrich his vision. He clarified this further by stating “Now the soul may have delight in many different ways, even without the use of sight; for I am speaking of an educated and instructed man with whom life is thought; and the thought of the wise man scarcely ever calls in the support of the eyes to aid his researches” (ibid.).

The use of animus is as interesting as his argument. The definition of animus can be interpreted as soul, mind, or spirit. It can be translated any of these three ways, meaning that Cicero made a choice to use such an ambiguous term to speak about blindness. The use of such an ambiguous term implies that Cicero wanted his readers to decide which definition fits best. He speaks of the education and pursuit of knowledge that blind man is capable of. In this context, the translation of animus as “mind” rather than “spirit” or “soul” is more relevant. However, the impact of translating animus as soul or spirit makes for a stronger statement. If a blind man is still able to enrich his soul and manipulate his spirit through the ways of philosophy and education, then perhaps they are not meant to be ridiculed in society as they were typically. Furthermore, an individual who was blind is still able to be virtuous utilizing their animus to fortify their virtus. A blind man’s soul can be enriched with courage from their mental fortitude and spiritual strength rather than a body capable of typical Roman virtus (manliness). This argument is uniquely Cicero’s, as most of Roman society typically found no use for disabled individuals.

The Stoic Diodotus, who was blind, lived for many years at my house. Now whilst—a thing scarcely credible—he occupied himself with philosophical study even far more untiringly than he did previously, and played upon the harp in the fashion of the Pythagoreans, and had books read aloud to him by night and day, in the study of which he had no need of eyes, he also did what seems scarcely possible without eyesight, he went on teaching geometry, giving his pupils verbal directions from and to what point to draw each line. (Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.113)

The language used in this section of Book 5 is extremely positive; there are no obvious negative connotations. The tone of the passage is not only admiring Diodotus but makes sure not to diminish his value simply because he is blind. Cicero emphasized his learnedness by claiming that he kept himself occupied with the study of philosophy and the study of music, both of which are seen as signs of a learned Roman. He also included a mention of his ability to teach geometry to students. That is pertinent, as it signifies that Diodotus not only had a strong education, but also that his patrons consisted of elite Romans. This is clear because, primarily, the elite and wealthy Romans were able to afford classes on theoretical mathematics such as geometry (Asper, 108).

Although his emphasis on learning clarifies the type of man Cicero admired, what is more interesting is how he discusses disability. The approach to blindness is clear: with reasonable accommodation, a blind man has no need for his eyes. Cicero wrote explicitly that Diodotus did not require vision as long as someone read to him during his personal time for study. He also stated that as a teacher, Diodotus was able to give instructions verbally to his students. Therefore, he was still capable of teaching without needing to have his eyesight. Using Diodotus as an example, Cicero argued that educated blind men are capable of not only participating in Roman society but also thriving.

The typical attitude toward blindness and any disability in Rome is reminiscent of how today disability is treated. There were extreme restrictions on career opportunities for blind Roman citizens. Furthermore, there were many jokes made at their expense. Luckily, the Romans were not Christian at this time otherwise, like me, a random lady would pull out a rosary at a grocery store and start praying at them in pity. The prevalence of pity and uncomfortableness with disability has not changed from antiquity to now. However, Cicero was a breath of fresh air that I hadn’t ever considered before. I have read many of his works, but his philosophical work related to disability gave me some hope for philosophy in general. He believed that blind individuals were just as capable as those who could see. Cicero did not ridicule nor demean disabled individuals. In fact, he admired them for having the strength and resolve to do something with their lives. Cicero uses Diodotus, the blind Stoic, as an example of how disability did not equate to incapability; if accommodations were provided, a disabled the individual was just as capable as any other Roman.

References

Asper, M. 2009. “The two cultures of mathematics in ancient Greece.” In E. Robson, and J. Stedall (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the History of Mathematics. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Barney, R. 2025. “The Aims and Argument of the Tusculan Disputations,” in Brittain, Charles, James Warren, eds., Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Rings: Loyalty or Lies

Jilliyn Iannace (’26) shows how Ovid’s poem about the ring he has given to his beloved (Amores 2.15, Latin text at PHI; English translations by H.T. Riley 1885, and A.S. Kline 2001) begins by drawing on the ring a symbol of loyalty, but quicky veers off into a playful and risqué fantasy.

When you see a ring, what do you think of? The first thing that comes to many people’s minds is engagement. Rings have been a symbol of loyalty between two people for thousands of years, yet engagement rings did not become the symbol that we consider them until the rise of Christianity. Roman poets of the early first century discuss their love and desire for their girlfriends, but hesitate to give them gifts. Only Ovid dares to write a poem giving a ring to his girlfriend to show his loyalty to her. This is a part of his collection of love poetry called the Amores. The Amores are part of a larger genre called elegiac poetry which is defined by the distinctive elegiac meter of the poem and the content; typically discussing personal topics like love (Hinds & Kenney, 2015). While Ovid expresses all good intentions, his (and his girlfriend’s) infidelity undermines the meaning of loyalty of the poetic persona and leads the audience to question the devotion of other elegiac poets. The use of loyalty is ironic in the context of elegiac poetry.

Gold ring with carnelian intaglio: Eros with flaming torch. 1st century BCE- 1st century CE.Ring. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. — Gold ring with carnelian intaglio: Eros with flaming torch. 1st century BCE- 1st century CE. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. 74.51.4233. The ring which Ovid gave his girlfriend would have looked something like this. Ovid does not specify the engraving featured on the gem but considering the sexual content of the poem an engraving of Eros would be very fitting.

Ovid claims that the ring is made from materials “in which nothing ought to be assessed except the love of the giver” (censendum nil nisi dantis amor, 2.15.2) to assert that the worth of the gift is dependent on the giver. Ovid intends the real gift to be the poem (James, 226) and his loyalty. The poem goes with the ring to outline the reasons that Ovid has sent it. In addition to this, he stresses the connection between his girlfriend and the ring, calling it “lucky” (felix, 2.15.7) because it will touch her. The ring’s function is to win over the beloved with flatteries and convince Ovid’s girlfriend to accept his loyalty. On the surface, Ovid does not appreciate the distance between him and his girlfriend, but it really allows him to express his desire and loyalty for her through the poem and fantasy. Ovid will undergo a metamorphosis, becoming the ring, which allows him to express his loyalty and the physical relationship that will come after her promise.

The first thing that Ovid does when he turns into a ring is come and fall into her breast (inque sinum mira laxus ab arte cadam, 2.15.14). Now Ovid is able to use the ring as more than a symbol of his loyalty. He can exert his agency and touch the beloved for his pleasure. With the metamorphosis, Ovid shows his true estimation of his loyalty. A poem previously serious becomes playful through the ring metamorphosis fantasy, and erotic through Ovid’s physical connection with his girlfriend as a ring. These ideas change the mood of the poem to one that is intended to thrill the audience.

Next, Ovid switches back into his promises of loyalty, revealing that the ring is a signet ring. Signet rings were used to seal documents and identify individuals with different engravings (Weingarten, 2021). Ovid, as the ring claims, that he will seal “secret tablets” (arcanas tabellas 2.15.15), meaning love letters sent by his girlfriend (McKeown, 323). However, Ovid makes it clear that he will “not sign a message painful to [him]” (ne signem scripta dolenda mihi, 2.15.18), meaning love letters sent to other men. At this point in the poem, Ovid has shown that he wants to be loyal to his girlfriend, although he has not explicitly stated that this is the purpose of the gift. Now he begins to ask loyalty from her in return. Ovid’s refusal to seal a message would require his girlfriend to be faithful by not allowing her correspondence with other men. Ovid also claims that, “if [he] will be given to put in the box, [he] will refuse to go” (si dabor ut condar loculis, exire negabo, 2.15.19). If Ovid is put in a jewelry box, he cannot see what the beloved is up to. Ovid wants to be with his lover always because he is loyal. But furthermore, he also wants to test his lover’s loyalty by seeing her interactions with other men when he is worn throughout the day. If she keeps and wears the ring, she will be faithful to him, but if she puts him in her jewelry box, she is seeing other men.

Martial, a poet who writes short poems used as gift tags, writes from the perspective of a jewelry box, , “often a heavy ring slips from greasy fingers, but your ring will find safety in my trust” (saepe gravis digitis elabitur anulus unctis / tuta mea fiet sed tua gemma fide, Epigrammata 14.123). The giver wishes that the recipient will use their gift and that the bond between the two individuals will benefit from the gift. This is the role of any gift: to express appreciation for a relationship between two individuals, whether platonic or romantic. Ovid uses the modest cost of the ring to argue for its continuous presence on the beloved’s finger (McKeown, 325). He claims that “[his girlfriend’s] tender finger would not refuse to bear [his] weight” (tener digitus ferre recuset onus, 2.15.22). Ovid says this mainly to keep himself out of the jewelry box, but also to claim that his love will not be oppressive. He also claims that “[he] would not be repulsive to you, [his] life” (non ego dedecori tibi sum, mea vita, futurus, 2.15.21). The ring, although as discussed above, did not cost much, would have been well-made and beautiful for the beloved to wear. In Rome, a guild of craftsmen created different rings for jewelers to sell (Kiernan & Henz, 998), but throughout the empire, even local ring makers selling cheaper jewelry made from copper alloys created fashionable rings. Ovid transitions back into a sexual content, suggesting that his girlfriend wear him as the ring “when [she] bathe[s] [her] body in warm showers” (cum calidis perfundes imbribus artus, 2.15.23). With the removal of her clothes, the sexual fantasy takes over the poem. Next, Ovid states that “[he] think[s], [his] limbs would rise with lust at [her] nakedness/ and [he], as that ring, will fulfill the man’s role” (puto, te nuda mea membra libidine surgent/ et peragam partes anulus ille viri, 2.15.25). This is a very vivid image, even for the Amores. This description is the climax of the poem and stresses Ovid’s wish for this poem to be received lightly before he changes back into a man and returns to the address of the ring.

After returning to his human form, Ovid tells the ring to “go, small gift” (parvum proficiscere munus, 2.15.27). He has one last request for the ring, which is to make sure his girlfriend knows the meaning of the poem and gift. In the last line, he summarizes the purpose: “let her feel that my loyalty is given with you” (illa datam tecum sentiat esse fidem 2.15.28). Ovid’s loyalty to his girlfriend is the reason for the gift.

While Ovid makes a claim for loyalty in this poem, he is certainly not throughout the corpus of the Amores. Two of his poems are dedicated to Cypassis, a maid of Ovid’s girlfriend. When she discovers their secret, Ovid asks “Yet surely I did not blush? Surely, I did not slip in any word to surrender a guilty mark of our secret sex?” (num tamen erubui? num, verbo lapsus in ullo/furtivae Veneris conscia signa dedi? 2.8.7). While Ovid asks his beloved for loyalty and promises his own in this poem, his loyalty might be circumstantial. Ovid’s girlfriend is also found to be unfaithful when Ovid tells her “I do not object, that you do not transgress, since you are beautiful/ but that it should not be necessary for miserable me to know it/ I am not a censor who orders you to become chaste/ but nevertheless I ask, that you try to conceal it” (non ego, ne pecces, cum sis formosa, recuso/ sed ne sit misero scire necesse mihi/ nec te nostra iubet fieri censura pudicam/ sed tamen, ut temptes dissimulare, rogat, 3.14.1). While Ovid asks for his girlfriend’s loyalty, he is aware that she cannot fully give it. In the same way, his loyalty cannot be fully given because he himself is unfaithful. Even so, he tells his beloved that the ring is a symbol of his love, and by promising loyalty, even conditionally, he demonstrates his playful take on elegiac poetry.

Ovid takes loyalty the most trivially out of all the elegiac poets. Propertius, an elegiac poet and predecessor of Ovid, rebukes a woman who tries to flirt with him, telling her that she cannot break the loyalty he has for his girlfriend, “and the more by which you fight to weaken our love/ the more it fails with this loyalty having been undertaken by both of us” (quo magis et nostros contendis solvere amores/ hoc magis accepta fallit uterque fide, Propertius 1.4.15). Propertius makes the same claim as Ovid, that both he and his girlfriend are loyal to each other. However, when presented with the opportunity to have sex with another woman, Propertius turns it down. In contrast, and as discussed before, Ovid is willing to sleep around, even with his girlfriend’s maid. Instead of focusing the whole poem on loyalty, Ovid focuses on a sexual fantasy in order to thrill his girlfriend as well as readers of the poem.

This poem was written to incite readers with its erotic content. Ovid stakes his claim on literary criticism and allows himself to trivialize the ring and the loyalty that goes with it. Catullus, a predecessor and model for Ovid and Propertius’ poetry, states that well-written “[poems] are able to incite longing” (et quod pruriat incitare possunt, Catullus, Carmina, 16.9). The distance between Ovid and his girlfriend creates a desire that is explored through Ovid’s fantasy as a ring. The sexual aspects of the poem are surely meant to incite desire and intrigue the audience. The ring is a symbol of loyalty, but one that is not taken too seriously through the sexual scenes in the poem. Ovid, as a lover and a poet, understands the nuances of his relationship with his girlfriend. Playfulness allows Ovid to come and go to the beloved as he pleases, and the ring will always be a reminder of loyalty but never a burdensome one.

Bibliography

James, Sharon L. “The Economics of Roman Elegy: Voluntary Poverty, the Recusatio, and the Greedy Girl.” The American Journal of Philology 122, no. 2 (2001): 223–53.

Kenney, Edward John, and Stephen Hinds. “Elegaic poetry, latin.” Oxford Classical Dictionary. 22 Dec. 2015; Accessed 18 Dec. 2025. Kenney, https://oxfordre.com/classics/view/10.1093/acrefore/9780199381135.001.0001/acrefore-9 780199381135-e-2376.

Kiernan, Philip, and Klaus-Peter Henz. “Rings from the Forbidden Forest: The Function and Meaning of Roman Trinket Rings.” Journal of Roman Archaeology 36, no. 1 (2023): 73–95. https://doi.org/10.1017/S1047759423000211.

McKeown, J. C. and Ovid. Ovid, Amores : Text, Prolegomena, and Commentary. ARCA, Classical and Medieval Texts, Papers, and Monographs 20. F. Cairns, 1987.

Weingarten, Judith. “seals, sealstones, and signet rings.” Oxford Classical Dictionary. 7 Mar. 2016; Accessed 17 Dec. 2025. https://oxfordre.com/classics/view/10.1093/acrefore/9780199381135.001.0001/acrefore-9 780199381135-e-5776.

Three Lessons from Plutarch

Maia Lindsay (Dickinson ’28) reads Plutarch’s Lives of Caesar and Cicero and finds that, for all the flaws in the “great man” view of history, stories like those told by Plutarch do have some merit. They show what a single person is capable of, for good or for ill, and remind us that we’ll never be remembered for all the things we don’t do.

In Homer’s Iliad, the warriors and women of the tale inhabit a world practically unrecognizable to us today, one where rivers talk, wealth is measured in tripods, and claiming descent from a god is the equivalent of having the last name Smith. These people are not even physically like us, we are told – they are greater and stronger than we will ever be. In a typical passage, the warrior Ajax easily hurls a stone “so enormous that a man could scarcely lift it, even with both hands, even a very sturdy, strong young man – of modern times.” (Iliad 12.468–71).

Denarius, 44 B.C. Obverse: Head of Caesar. Inscribed: CAESAR DICT PERPETVO. Getty Museum.

It might be tempting to think of the men of Plutarch’s Lives in the same way as Homer’s warriors: remote, mythologized, and larger than life. The names of Caesar and Cicero have remained so familiar to us over the years that their names have practically outlasted their humanity. Unlike some of Homer’s heroes, however, these men were not half-god. And quotes about history repeating itself aside, human nature has not changed all that much in 2,000 years. Plutarch wrote his Lives – biographies of the greats of the ancient world – to record history, but also to pass down the lessons that could be learned from others’ successes, and perhaps just as importantly, failures. Two men who were overtaken by ambition and died by murder may not be the role models we seek in the modern age, but we can still find questions (and answers) in Plutarch’s text that resonate with us today.

Can being too trusting of others be a weakness?

Any discussion of misplaced trust in ancient Rome should probably begin with one of the most famous betrayals in history, immortalized for us today by the words, Et tu, Brute? (Shakespeare, Jul. Caes. 3.1 85). While Plutarch’s Caesar does not speak, the betrayal is hardly less dramatic: “Some say that Caesar fought back against all the rest, darting this way and that to avoid the blows and crying out for help, but when he saw that Brutus had drawn his dagger, he covered his head with his toga and sank down to the ground.” (Plut. Caes. 66). We cannot know whether Caesar actually exclaimed something or played dead like a possum, but in each variation of this story, one thing is the same: of all the betrayals Caesar faced on that day, the knife of Brutus was the one he couldn’t endure.

“Fate, however, seems to be not so much unexpected as unavoidable,” Plutarch remarks as he begins his account of Caesar’s assassination on the Ides of March (Caes. 63). One does not have to believe in the ancient understanding of fate to understand the message: someone with eyes could have seen what was to come. Brutus had not begun as a great ally of Caesar, and his rise to be “a person in whom Caesar had particular trust” (62) was fast and unlikely.

Four years before Caesar’s assassination, Brutus had been among the army facing down Caesar at the Battle of Pharsalus. After a victory that would prove to decide the civil war, Caesar walked into the enemy camp with the lives of many prominent Romans in his hands. As throughout the war, however, he chose not to be a vengeful victor. He freely gave out pardons that day, including to the man who would one day end his life. Reportedly, he even sought him out especially: “It is said that Caesar was very distressed when Brutus was not to be found, and that he was particularly delighted when, in the end, he was brought to him alive and well.” (46)

Forward several years, to the end of the war in 45 BCE, and Caesar’s mercy proved to extend beyond sparing lives. In the aftermath of the U.S. civil war, it’s hard to imagine Ulysses S. Grant appointing former Confederate generals to his Cabinet, but that was what Caesar chose to do. Brutus and another former adversary Cassius were made praetors that year, and Brutus was on track to be consul in three years, the highest office in the old Roman hierarchy (62).

Caesar apparently desperately wanted Brutus to be on his side and allowed that want to deceive him as to the reality. Indeed, Brutus did resist efforts to pull him into a plot at first, torn by all he owed to Caesar – his life, most of all – but in the end, he had the quality the Romans were most looking for: “[h]e was thought to be, on his father’s side, a descendant of the Brutus who had abolished the monarchy.” (62) They needed a king-killer, and here was their man. By the time Caesar walked into the senate on the Ides of March, those who were inciting Brutus against him had won, and he was none the wiser.

Cicero, too, experienced his share of betrayals. The politician and demagogue Clodius appears as a dark smudge across a number of Plutarch’s Lives, notably causing Caesar’s divorce from his second wife, Pompeia (Caes. 10). Clodius was, in fact, a friend of Cicero’s, but when Clodius went on trial for “perjury, fraud, bribing the people and seductions of women,” Cicero abandoned him and testified against him (Cic. 29). Clodius won acquittal anyway (likely through bribery), but he did not forgive the betrayal. Once he won election to a tribunate, he had a position from which to act and began his mission to bring Cicero down. Cicero, seeing that the winds were against him, sought a way to get out of Rome until Clodius’ term finished. Before he could skip town, however, Clodius intervened. He wanted a reconciliation, or so he claimed: “[he] made the most friendly remarks about him, giving the impression that he[…] had nothing against him except a few minor complaints which one friend might make of another.” (30) Cicero fell for the bait, and he declined his post on Caesar’s campaign to Gaul. Too late, he realized the trap laid for him. Clodius made Cicero’s life miserable in Rome before driving him into exile for real, with an “edict that he should be refused fire and water and that no man should give him shelter within 500 miles of Italy.” (32) Cicero managed to return to Italy after 16 months, but one would expect that a lesson had been learned.

Instead, one might say that Cicero laid the second trap for himself. In the aftermath of Caesar’s assassination, the dictator’s right-hand man Antony was on the ascendant, who was wary of Cicero and alarmed by his continued influence in Rome. Reassured by the election of the sympathetic consuls Hirtius and Pansa, however, Cicero chose once again not to leave Rome when it would have been wiser for him to do so (43). Then when Caesar’s heir and Antony’s natural competitor Octavian arrived in Rome, Cicero saw his chance. He could oppose Antony and wield this young man’s power to his own advantage with a simple bargain: “Cicero was to use his powers of oratory and political influence on Caesar’s behalf in the senate and before the people, and Caesar with his wealth and armed forces was to guarantee Cicero’s security.” (44) The deal worked – for a time. Once Cicero had helped Octavian win the consulship, however, he soon became disposable. He had “allowed himself to be carried away by the words of youth,” and now he realized, too late, “that he had ruined himself and betrayed the liberty of his country.” (46)

Octavian now ran into the arms of his former enemy Antony, as well as Lepidus, and the three together “divided the government[…] as though it were a piece of property.” (46) In their three-day conference near Bononia, they drafted the infamous proscriptions, with “more than 200 men who were to be put to death.” (46) Antony’s very first demand, unsurprisingly, was for the death of Cicero. Like Brutus before him, Octavian initially resisted, but when he weakened on the third day Cicero’s fate was sealed. “[A]ll considerations of humanity,” Plutarch says, “were swept aside by their rage and fury.” (46) Even when Cicero got wind of the proscriptions, however, he seemed reluctant to believe it of the young man who had reportedly called him “father.” (45) Describing his hesitation to flee and fateful delays, Plutarch wonders if “he had not yet entirely lost his faith in Caesar.” (47) Whatever faith he had, it proved fatal.

I would like to be able to disagree with the lesson imparted here. No one wants to be cynical, and unwilling to trust their fellow humans. However, as I myself have made the error of giving back my trust to a friend who had not earned it back, I can very well understand the risks. I have since learned caution, and I think that is a good thing.

On the other hand, trust is necessary to any sort of compromise, without which no government or society can properly function. Both Caesar and Cicero achieved much of what they did by acting with moderation and being open to cooperation with their political adversaries. A middle course, then, must be necessary: trust others, but be wary of those who have not actually done anything to earn the trust placed in them. The histories of Brutus, Clodius, and Octavian all should have been cause for reasonable doubt – however, as I can attest, this is easier said from a distance. Sometimes, the only way to learn is through mistakes – even fatal ones.

When is it right to give up freedom for stability?

Fans of Jean-Jacques Rousseau or other Enlightenment-era thinkers may be familiar with the concept of the social contract, the founding principle of governments, whereby individuals give up some part of their freedom in exchange for the protection of laws.

More than a millennium separated Rousseau from Plutarch, but the recurrence of this question goes to show just how fundamental it has been for human history. Plutarch was not concerned with the origin of government, however, but with the nature of government. Rome, unlike almost every other civilization before or after up to the last 200 years, was not a monarchy. Ask any Roman, and they’d tell you they very much wanted to keep it that way. Rome was not free from the institution of absolute power, however, as within their constitution they had a system in place for times of crisis, where a “dictator” would be appointed for a short period (usually six months) and bring the stability of one-man rule until things settled down.

The general Roman answer, then, was that freedom sometimes had to be ceded in the short term in the interest of stability, but with the expectation that constitutional norms would be restored in time. The problem, as Rome crept ever closer to civil war, was that adherence to constitutional norms was growing increasingly rare. Even elections, the very foundation of the system, were failing, as “candidates for office quite shamelessly bribed the electorate, actually counting out the money in public, and the people who had received the bribes went down to the forum not so much to vote for their benefactors as to fight for them with bows and arrows and swords and slings.” (Caes. 28)

The current governmental system was clearly nearing collapse, and so the question at that point was whether the ruling class would be willing to sacrifice its own power to save it. It was not clear that anyone appointed dictator at that point would give back power once it was handed to him – Rome’s powerful men had grown too powerful to trust in their goodwill. But “intelligent people,” as Plutarch reports, “could only be thankful if, after such a mad and stormy period, things ended in nothing worse than a monarchy.” (28) Many eyes were on the great general Pompey, who, Plutarch claims, “put on a show of declining the honor, but in fact did more than anyone else to get himself made dictator.” (28) Cato, one of the most ferocious republicans in the senate, sought a slightly more palatable solution and successfully had Pompey appointed sole consul instead, hoping that would be enough to hold Rome together without the senate having to abandon its power (28).

It was not. One powerful man might be a recipe for peace, but two is not, and Caesar was still on the loose. Civil war arrived when the senate was unable to produce an agreement for mutual disarmament between Pompey and Caesar (30). Idealism was rapidly abandoned as everyone was driven into the arms of one would-be dictator or another: Cicero, who reluctantly took the side of Pompey, “said he would rather follow in Caesar’s triumphal procession, if only matters could be settled satisfactorily.” (Cic. 37) And when the war ended with Caesar’s victory, the war-weary Romans largely “accepted the bit” (Caes. 57) – if this was what was necessary to have peace, they would take it. The man might be different, but their logic was the same as it had been with Pompey: “The rule of one man would give them, they thought, a respite from the miseries of the civil wars, and so they appointed him dictator for life.” (57)

As it happened, the civil wars ended not with Caesar but with his heir, Octavian, who was first to claim the imperial throne, and thus brought about the final demise of the republic. Rome was secure again, if not quite as free as they had been.

The imperial experiment worked out extremely well for Rome – the nation that had been on the verge of collapse went on to survive for another 500 years. (If you count the Byzantine Empire as the successor to Rome, you could even argue it lasted another 1500 years.) Rome has not been the only nation to make this bargain, either. England had an 11-year republican experiment after its own civil war, but as soon as the government fell into disarray, the people invited their monarch back. Nevertheless, the abandonment of a free government for absolute rule by an individual is a sacrifice that many people today (including myself) would not applaud. Can there be a lesson here, then? Perhaps. In Plutarch’s world, those who were willing to accept this compromise succeeded. We can decide whether they succeed in ours.

Can justifiable fear be worthwhile?

For this question, the two figures of Caesar and Cicero offer perfect counterpoints to each other, as they are each shown to have very different relationships to fear.

According to Plutarch, Cicero’s “reputation for courage among the people of Rome was not in any case a very high one.” (Cic. 19) Plutarch describes a particular incident where Cicero was serving as the defense for a man named Milo, who was being prosecuted for a prominent murder (35). Under directions from the senate to ensure no disturbances happened at the trial, the general Pompey had his soldiers posted around the forum the night before the trial. Milo knew that Cicero “lacked courage at the sight of armed men,” (35) and so he convinced him to be carried in on a litter so he would not see them and lose his confidence to speak. He spotted them anyway as he emerged from the litter, and, as Plutarch reports, “his body shook, his voice faltered and he could scarcely begin his speech.” (35)

On another occasion, when elections were being held during Cicero’s term in office, he showed up to preside wearing a breastplate under his clothes out of the fear of electoral violence (14). Plutarch even reports, shockingly for one with such a great reputation as an orator, that Cicero was “always timid at the beginning of a speech and in many trials scarcely stopped quivering and trembling even when he had really got going and was at the height of his eloquence.” (35)

Finally, there are the events leading up to Cicero’s death. After the news of the proscriptions reached him, Cicero wasted days in indecision, moving to flee, then retreating, and then turning to flee again. Plutarch suggests that some of this, or perhaps all of it, may have been motivated by fear. The night before what was to be his final move, to his estate at Caieta, Plutarch tells us that “he passed a night with his mind full of terrible thoughts and desperate plans. He actually decided to go secretly to Caesar’s home and kill himself there on the hearthstone, so as to bring a curse from Heaven upon him; but fear, the fear of torture, turned him from this course also.” (47) The next morning, he left for good, but it would be too late.

For most of his life, Caesar was the complete reverse of Cicero. He seemed to hold very little fear for his life, or at least was able to control it well. The Life of Caesar is full of examples of his daring on the battlefield, where “he showed that there was no danger which he was not willing to face.” (Caes. 17) He did not hesitate to fight at the frontline of battle alongside his men, on foot, putting himself in as much peril as any of them. The most dramatic example of this is from a battle against the Nervii tribe in Gaul, where “[i]n all probability the Romans would have been destroyed to the last man if Caesar himself had not snatched up a shield, forced his way through to the front of the fighting, and hurled himself on the natives; and if the tenth legion, seeing his danger, had not charged down from the high ground and cut their way through the enemy’s ranks.” (20) In civilian life and government he behaved no differently, and indeed “when Caesar’s friends advised him to have a bodyguard, many of them volunteering to serve in it themselves, Caesar refused to have anything to do with it.” (57)

The contrast between the two men could not be greater, then. However, the Life of Cicero shows Cicero acting courageously exactly once, and that was when the game was up and his death was all but certain. When his designated assassins caught up to him, Plutarch tells us that “[h]e himself, in that characteristic posture of his, with his chin resting on his left hand, looked steadfastly at his murderers.” (Cic. 48) Contrast this with Caesar, who Plutarch describes as spending his lasts moments like a cornered wild animal, “darting this way and that to avoid the blows and crying out for help.” (Caes. 66) Whatever “cowardice” Cicero may have shown in the rest of his life, he made up for it in the dignity of his death.

Still, we end where we began: in the end, both men were murdered. And that, I believe, is precisely the point. Cicero achieved no net gain for being more cautious with his life than Caesar. Caesar’s lack of a guard did not save his life, but neither did Cicero’s hidden breastplate save his. For every outcome that we can prepare for, there are ten more that we can’t.

I don’t believe this should be taken as an argument for anyone to stop wearing their seatbelts or bike helmets, but it’s certainly a reminder that sometimes living in fear only takes away from our enjoyment of the years that we do have. It’s certainly a lesson that I myself would do well to learn. As a younger person, I would have quoted a fictional character here: “My philosophy is that worrying means you suffer twice.” (Fantastic Beasts) However, I think Caesar, through Plutarch, expresses it just as well: “It was better, he said, to die once than to always live in the fear of death.” (Plut. Caes. 57)

That quote, I believe, sums up the argument I would make for every one of the questions I have discussed here. Trusting others might turn around to hurt us, and we should show some caution in who we offer our trust to, but we all have to trust someone, sometime, for society to function. The rule of a single person with absolute power may offer temporary stability, but it requires compromising a hundred other things for the sake of perceived security. Fear can be a useful mechanism for keeping ourselves safe, but no amount of worry will save us in the end.

What then? We focus on the actions that matter, not the consequences that we risk. If death is inevitable, we shouldn’t waste our lives trying fruitlessly to stop it. Caesar and Cicero did not make it into the pages of Plutarch’s Lives for doing otherwise. They didn’t always make the right choices, but they made them. They didn’t always do the right things, but they did them. A Caesar who did not cross the Rubicon would not be a Caesar. A Cicero who didn’t jeopardize his life working against Antony would not be a Cicero.

For all the flaws in the “great men” view of history, stories like those told by Plutarch do have some merit. They remind us what a single person is capable of, for good or for ill. They remind us that we’ll never be remembered for all the things we don’t do.

So, get out there and do something.

Katrina Faulkner: Elizabeth Jane Weston, The Pidgeon and the Painting (1606)

Elizabeth Jane Weston (1582-1612) was one of the most accomplished Latin poets of the early modern period. Among her published works is a collection of Aesopic fables rendered into Latin elegiac couplets. Katrina Faulkner (Dickinson ’23) reads, translates, and discusses one of them here, “The Pidgeon and the Painting,” comparing it to Greek and Medieval Latin versions of the same fable.

Columba et Tabula Picta (The Pidgeon and the Painting)

From Elizabeth Jane Weston, Parthenica (Prague: Paulus Sessius, ca. 1606) vol. 2, fol. B6a.

Ex nimio multum sitiens ardore columba

viderat appensam parietibus tabulam,

hydria qua fuerat tam vivo picta colore,

et specie falsum dissimulante liquor.

Unde sinistra suis circumdans pocula pennis,

optatae infelix approperavit aquae.

Et pictam contra praeceps allapsa tabellam,

collisā periit praecipitata gulā.

A dove who was thirsting greatly from excessive heat had seen a painted tablet hanging on a wall, where a water jug had been painted with very vivid color, and counterfeit liquid with a deceptive appearance. And so, wrapping around the injurious cup with her wings, the unfortunate dove flew toward the desired water. And flying headlong against the painted tablet, she perished, having collided at high speed, her throat crushed.

Vocabulary & Notes

sitiens, sitientis: thirsty

ardor, ardoris, m: heat, burning heat.

columba, columbae, f.: a dove, a pigeon.

appendo, apprendere, appendi, appensum: to hang something upon something, to suspend on.

paries, parietis, m.: a wall.

tabula, tabulae, f.: a painted tablet or panel, a painting, a picture.

hydria, hydriae, f.: a water-pot or a jug.

qua: on which side, at or in which place, in what direction, where, by what way, i.e. qua hydria, “where a jug…”

vīvus, vīva, vīvum: lively, vivid.

pingo, pingere, pinxi, pictum: to paint, stain, color.

dissimulo, dissumulavi, dissimulatum: to feign that a thing is not that which it is; to dissemble, disguise; to hide, conceal, keep secret.

liquor, liquōris: a fluid, a liquid

sinister, sinistra, sinistrum: unlucky, injurious, adverse, unfavorable, ill, bad

circumdo, circumdare, circumdedi, circumdatum: to put, set, place, or wrap around.

poculum, poculi, n.: a drinking vessel, a cup, goblet, bowl, beaker.

penna, pennae, f.: a wing.

opto, optāre, optāvi, optātum: to choose or select

infelix, infelīcis: unfortunate, unhappy, miserable.

appropero, approperāre, appropāvi, apprropātum: to hasten, accelerate or to fly, to hurry somewhere.

praeceps, praecipitis: headlong, hasty, rash, precipitate.

allabor, allabi, allapsus sum: to glide to or toward something, to come to, to fly, fall, slow, slide, and the like

tabella, tabellae, f.: a painted tablet, a small picture or painting.

collīdo, collīdere, collīsi, collīsum: to clash, strike, dash, beat, or press together

praecipito, -āre, praecipitavi, praecipitatum: to hasten or rush down, to throw oneself down, rush headlong, sink rapidly, to fall, i.e. at high speed.

gula, gulae, f.: the gullet, throat.

Similar Aesopic Fables

ΠΕΡΙΣΤΕΡΑ ΔΙΨΩΣΑ (The Thirsty Pidgeon)

From K. Halm, Fabulae Aesopicae Collectae (Leipzig: Teubner, 1854) #357, p. 176.

περιστερὰ δίψει συνεχομένη ὡς ἐθεάσατο ἔν τινι πίνακι κρατῆρα ὕδατος γεγραμμένον, ὑπέλαβεν ἀληθῆ εἶναι. διόπερ πολλῷ ῥοίζῳ ἐνεχθεῖσα ἔλαθεν ἑαυτὴν τῷ πίνακι ἐντινάξασα. συνέβη οὖν αὐτῇ τῶν πτερῶν περιθραυσθέντων ἐπὶ τὴν γῆν καταπεσοῦσαν ὑπό τινος τῶν παρατυχόντων συλληφθῆναι.

οὕτως ἔνιοι τῶν ἀνθρώπων διὰ σφοδρὰς ἐπιθυμίας ἀπερισκέπτως τοῖς πράγμασιν ἐπιχειροῦντες ἑαυτοὺς εἰς ὄλεθρον ἐμβάλλουσιν.

A pigeon distressed by thirst, when she saw a water bowl depicted on a tablet of wood assumed that it was genuine. And so, rushing at it with high speed, she unintentionally smashed into the painted tablet. Thus, with her wings having been broken, she fell to the ground and was captured by a passerby.

Thus, some people, because of intense desires, thoughtlessly embark on affairs and hurl themselves into destruction. [trans. Christopher Francese]

Columba et Hydria Picta (The Pidgeon and the Painted Water Jar)

From Laura Gibbs, Mille Fabulae et Una: 1001 Aesop’s Fables in Latin (Morrisville, NC: Lulu Publishers, 2010), #512, p. 163.

Columba, siti compulsa, aquam ut inveniret, huc illuc ambulaverat. Conspecta deinde picta in pariete hydria, vas aqua plenum se invenisse credens, celeri impetu petiit potum. Sed semianimis illisa parieti concidit humi. Morti ergo vicina, sic secum locuta est, “Infelix ego et misera, quae, aquae nimis appetens, non cogitaram vitae periculum.”

A pigeon, having been compelled by thirst, had traveled to and fro so that she might find water. Finally, with the water pitcher painted on the wall having been seen, believing that she had found a vessel full of water, she thrust at the drink with a quick charge. But having collided with the wall she fell down to the ground half-alive. Therefore, with death close, she spoke to herself as follows, “I am a wretch and miserable, who, excessively greedy for water, had not considered the danger to my life.”

Discussion

Elizabeth Jane Weston’s fable, “Columba et Tabula Picta” or “The Pigeon and the Painted Tablet,” follows a similar course as other fables in the Aesopic tradition, including “The Pigeon and the Water Jug Painting” or “Columba et Hydria Picta” and “The Thirsty Pigeon” or “Περιστερᾶ διψῶσα.” While it is unknown what specific texts Weston used as source material it is clear that she had access to at least one previously existing version of this fable. Each of these three fables follows a thirsty pigeon in search of water who encounters a painting of a water jug and believes it to be legitimate. All three result in the same tragic ending: the pigeon crashes into the painting, painted on a solid wooden tablet, and perishes upon impact.

Both Latin versions, Elizabeth Jane Weston’s “Columba et Tabula Picta” as well as that from Syntipae Philosophi Persae Fabulae, “Columba et Hydria Picta,” differ somewhat from the Ancient Greek version. Notably, the Greek version ends with the pigeon being captured by a human passerby. Further, the Greek version provides a distinct moral at the end: “Thus, some people, because of intense desires, thoughtlessly embark on affairs and hurl themselves into destruction.” Similarly, “Columba et Hydria Picta” ends with the moral more directly implied than seen in Weston’s fable, having the pigeon speak her final words which convey the ultimate meaning of the fable. Weston’s fable shies away from the direct providing of meaning and moral, though indirect, it is still apparent.

The Greek version, “Περιστερᾶ διψῶσα”, places emphasis on foresight, with the pigeon’s thoughtlessness being her downfall, conveying a moral against thoughtless pursuit of desires. “Columba et Hydria Picta” places special emphasis on greed, with the pigeon describing herself as “nimis appetens” meaning “excessively greedy,” and also conveys a similar emphasis on thoughtlessness, “non cogitaram vitae periculum” meaning “I had not considered the danger to my life”. Similar to “Columba et Hydria Picta,” Weston uses “nimio,” in this case paired with “ardore” meaning “excessive heat”. Weston’s use of nimio seems to portray the pigeon’s harsh conditions rather than portray her intense greed. Much of her fable places particular emphasis on the deception of the painting, saying “specie falsum dissimulante liquor” (liquid with a disguising appearance, a forgery) and “sinistra…pocula” meaning “injurious cup” or as Cheney translates, “false cup.” This seems to shift the blame away from the bird and onto the false image. Weston’s version seems to lack the same level of condemnation of foolishness and thoughtlessness that is present in both other versions. That said, the fable still ends with the death of the pigeon, implying a definite moral backing. Further, Weston’s depiction of the pigeon’s death could be considered the most gruesome of the three. The Greek text implies the death as the bird is carried off by a passerby, the alternative Latin text describes death approaching “Morti ergo vicina” and ends with the pigeon’s last words. Weston’s version instead describes the pigeons throat, “gulā,” being crushed upon impact with the painting. Weston’s text still seems to, much like the other two versions, emphasize the desire of the pigeon. With “optatae aquae” (the desired water), Weston directly references the idea of desire and denounces greed. Further, with “praeceps” meaning “headlong,” “hasty,” or “rash,” Weston conveys the thoughtlessness of the pigeon. Weston’s “Columba et Tabula Picta” conveys a message promoting self-restraint and modesty as well as denouncing greed.

Elizabeth Jane Weston wrote for the upper class; thus, her fate was in their hands. She had first-hand experience with the ups and downs of court life with her stepfather having been a controversial figure and falling out of favor. Her speech given to Lord Heinrich von Pisnitz for his birthday shows her applying this principle of modesty and restraint which she preaches. Weston was well aware that her station was not secure and was nervous of being seen as greedy by those who helped her, lest they cease their patronage. This fable is especially cognizant of this as it warns against striving above your station and puts forth morals of modesty and restraint. Interestingly, this fable, in all three versions, seems especially targeted towards the lower classes with the pigeon struggling and the message meaning to suppress attempts to quench that suffering. Yet “Columba et Tabula Picta”, as with all of Weston’s writing, was targeted towards the upper classes. Perhaps it was meant to concur with upper class sentiments, those which likely wanted to maintain their social standing and therefore suppress those below them or perhaps the fable was simply written in order to reinforce Weston’s modest depiction of herself to her patrons. Elizabeth Jane Weston is perceived by historians to have been an especially ambitious figure. It seems that the other two variations of this fable warn distinctly against ambition, or at the very least against ambition without careful thought to drive it. Weston’s version, with more emphasis on the falsehood that is the image, seems to have a further warning against striving for that which one does not fully understand, rather than simply advising against ambition as a whole. Further, rather than wholeheartedly attacking ambition, Weston uses “Columba et Tabula Picta” more so to condemn greed.

Works Cited

Cheney, D., B. Hosington, and D. Money. Elizabeth Jane Weston: Collected Writings. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000.

Gibbs, L. Mille Fabulae et Una: 1001 Aesop’s Fables in Latin. Morrisvill, NC: Lulu Publishers, 2010.

Halm, K. Fabulae Aesopicae Collectae. Leipzig: Teubner,1852.

Matthaeus, C.F. Syntipae Philosophi Persae Fabulae. Leipzig: Christiani Rudiger 1781.

This edition was completed as the final project for Latin 234: Ovid, taught by Christopher Francese in Spring 2021. Prof. Francese modernized the Latin orthography.

The New Testament of Vergil: Vergilian Fulfillment and Transcendence in Vida’s Christiad

Marco Girolamo Vida’s Vergilian-style epic on the life of Christ does more than present the familiar story in epic dress, argues Carl Hamilton (’21), it successfully solves a key problem in Renaissance approaches to Vergil.

The Raising of Lazarus by Simon Bening (Flemish, about 1483 - 1561) — The Raising of Lazarus by Simon Bening (Flemish, about 1483 – 1561) Image: Getty Museum

Could Vergil, who died 19 years before Christ’s birth, have been a Christian? Had he somehow read the Old Testament? Was he unwittingly a vessel for Christian ideas? Many Renaissance readers idolized the beauty and eloquence of the poet but were uneasy about his pre-Christian origin. They tried to find ways to argue that Vergil’s poetry was consistent with, or even prophetically expressive of, Christian truth. Commentators used allegory to find hidden Christian messages in his works, especially the Eclogues and the Aeneid.

No author reconciled Vergil and Christianity better than Marco Girolamo Vida in his 1535 work the Christiad (The Epic of Christ). The Christiad dramatically narrates the life of Christ from Holy Week until Pentecost in 6,000 Latin hexameter lines in the style of Vergil’s Aeneid. When published, some scholars, such as Bartolomeo Botta, saw the work as the final overthrow of Vergil. Students could now learn proper Latin and Christianity at the same time, without the immoral pagan content. But since Mario Di Cesare’s 1964 landmark work, Vida’s Christiad and Vergilian Epic, scholars have begun to appreciate Christiad’s unique synthesis of Classical and Christian ideas.[1]

The language of the Bible, especially of the Gospels, is basic. It lacks the poetic flourish of Cicero or Vergil so beloved by Renaissance readers. This lack of polish in the Bible proved troublesome for many previous Christians, such as Saints Augustine and Jerome. The well-known story of Christ’s raising of Lazarus from the dead is told quite simply in St. John’s Gospel (11: 33–43 Douay- Rheims):

Jesus, therefore…groaned in the spirit, and troubled himself…And Jesus wept. The Jews therefore said: Behold how he loved him. But some of them said: Could not he that opened the eyes of the man born blind, have caused that this man should not die? Jesus therefore again groaning in himself, cometh to the sepulchre… And Jesus lifting up his eyes said: Father, I give thee thanks that thou hast heard me…because of the people who stand about have I said it, that they may believe that thou hast sent me. When he had said these things, he cried with a loud voice: Lazarus, come forth.

But Vida uses this simplicity to his artistic advantage. He transforms the journalistic recounting of John into a scene of high drama (Book 1, lines 262–280, trans. Gardner):

From all the neighboring mountains the entire population …filled the city…The hero [Christ] stood motionless in the very center, his hands and eyes raised to heaven, and in the silence of prayer he called to his Father. In equal silence and tension the townspeople observed him, wondering what he might command… Twice his face went white. Twice he groaned in his breathless chest and nodded his noble head. And lo, the doors of the tomb suddenly seemed to tremble. All at once, a sudden fear froze the blood in each of the onlookers and a chill invaded the depths of their hearts. Finally, the son of God addressed these words on high: “Father in heaven, until now you have never denied my prayers…This great populace [has] seen how vast your power is. Now, you servants…remove the marble lid of the tomb.”

The dialogue of the Jews in John become visual cues, as frozen blood and a chill fills the onlookers. Vida capitalizes on Christ’s double groaning in John to express His complete grief in face, chest and head “twice…twice.” Most dramatically, the silent prayer of Christ mirrors the silence of the onlookers, as if time, too tense to move, has stopped for a brief moment. But notice that, for all the heightened tension, Vida retains the moral content of John. Christ is not a sensationalist miracle-worker, but the pious Son of God. We see him suffer and groan, as in John. This pain continues throughout the Christiad to emphasize the cruelty of the Savior’s Passion. Vida thus successfully transmits a Christian message through a dramatic, Vergilian medium.

It was not enough for Vida merely to imitate Vergil. In fact, his age demanded more. Vida lived in a time of peculiar balance in Italy, where the intellect and the faith were both held in high esteem. His Italy was modern enough that the learning of the ancients was no more an immediate threat to Catholic orthodoxy, but traditional enough that no challenge to the Magisterium would be tolerated.

In the religious realm, Protestantism was nascent, and Pope Leo X, Vida’s patron, condemned Luther’s heresies in the 1520 bull Exsurge Domino. In the intellectual community, scholars, although enamored with Vergil, struggled to make his writings wholly consonant with Christianity.

One such scholar, Christoforo Landino, said there were two theologies present, the ancient and Christian, theologica prisca and theologica nostra. According to Landino, these were “two branches of the same stream.” The job of the commentator was to reconcile them. This reconciliation came mostly through allegory, where Vergilian concepts were said to represent Christian ideas. Vergil’s poem Eclogue 4, called “Messianic” by some Christians because of its apparent prediction of Christ’s birth, was the center of this analysis (Eclogue 4.4–10 trans. Fairclough in the Loeb):

Now is come the last age of the Cumaean song; the great line of the centuries begins anew. Now the Virgin returns, the reign of Saturn returns; now a new generation descends from heaven on high. Only do you, pure Lucina, smile on the birth of the child, under whom the iron brood shall at last cease and a golden race spring up throughout the world! Your own Apollo now is king!

According to the common Christianizing allegorical reading, the Virgin mentioned is the Virgin Mary; the descent from heaven represents the incarnate God-Man Christ sent by God the Father; and the golden race (gens aurea) represents the Christians. But this reading is blind to the poem’s context. Even St. Jerome in the late 300s called it childish. Renaissance commentators were eventually forced to admit the failure of attempts to Christianize Vergil. The Aeneid, after all, posits reincarnation of souls in Book VI, a wholly non-Catholic doctrine.

In the Christiad, Vida boldly reverses the method of the commentators who tried to use Christianity as a means of understanding Vergil—a doomed project due to the differences between the two. Instead, Vida uses Vergil as a means to understand Christianity. We see this change when Vida puts these famous lines from Eclogue 4 into the mouth of Mary before the Annunciation. Here Mary recalls her thoughts before the Angel Gabriel visits her (Book 2, lines 303-312):

For my part I kept recalling the teachings of the ancient prophets. But one above all remained fixed in my mind, placed there surely by some higher power. All the prophets had predicted that a royal virgin, who was without taint of the marriage bed and remained, astonishingly, a virgin, would bring into the light of the world a king of angels; and that, immediately upon his coming, there would be happiness everywhere and a golden age would arise throughout creation.

Mary’s talk of “the teachings of the ancient prophets” and the “royal virgin” points firmly toward the foretelling of the virgin in Isaiah 7:14 and its fulfillment through Jesus’ birth in Matthew 1:23. But the quote of Vergil from Eclogue 4 in the final line forces a reconsidering of the preceding lines. Now, “all the prophets” become pagan poets, and the virgin who will bear Christ becomes the virgin of Eclogue 4. By speaking these words, Vida has Mary become a prophetic vessel herself. She embodies Eclogue 4’s prophesy of the golden age, and in so doing eliminates need for the allegorizing commentator. Vergil’s words are now Christian words, as are his prophesies. Vergilian scholar Craig Kallendorf calls this melding “a true fusion of Christian and pagan.” The connection between Vergil’s words and Christian meaning becomes explicit. Both Old Testament and Vergilian prophecy become fulfilled in Christ.

After Mary’s speech, Vida goes on to describe what exactly Eclogue 4’s fulfillment looks like in practice, namely the elevation of the Church over pagan Rome. In Book VI of Aeneid, Aeneas, the mythic founder of Rome, and the Sibyl, his guide, visit the underworld. While there, they receive prophecies from Aeneas’ father Anchises. He tells them that Rome’s mission is to “spare the conquered and subdue the proud.” In Christiad, Christ likewise receives a prophecy from God His Father before His death which clarifies what the “golden age” will be. The Father says that “Even Rome, that proud city laden with empire … will subject to you her fasces and the reins with which she rules the world.”

By using the word “proud,” as Vergil did, Vida implies that Rome, instead of having to conquer the proud, has become proud itself because of its conquering. This inversion of the word “proud” forces us to recognize what J. Christopher Warner, a scholar of biblical epic, calls “the gulf that is continuously asserted between [the Christiad] and its poetic model.” Vida’s gulf here posits that the proud pagan Rome failed, so it is the Church’s place to fill the void. By filling this void, Vida thus asserts that the Church’s Rome has fulfilled Anchises’ prophesy, and by extension Vergil’s, better than Vergil’s own Rome ever could.

In Book VI, Vida ends his poem by quoting Eclogue 4 one last time (Book 6, lines 985-986):

A golden race now rose up throughout the world

And the most beautiful age of all was just beginning

Where Vergil said “will spring up” (surget), Vida here says “now rose up” (surgit). How appropriate that this present tense verb reflects both cause and effect: because Christ is risen, the new race now rises with him. Instead of making an allegory out of Vergil, Vida here realizes his words. The Church is now definitively the fulfillment of Rome, and Christ’s disciples are the golden race.

Vida’s Christiad solves the problem of the Renaissance commentators. The narrative progression of the work, from prophecy (Book I) to fulfillment (Book VI), tracks the convergence of ancient and Christian theology into one stream. Instead of settling for the theological impasse and casting off Vergil, Vida instead crafted a poem which makes Vergil essential to its vision. He accomplished a rare feat: not only the enjoyment, but the understanding of his own work depends upon that of another. The greater the knowledge of not only Vergil, but also the Bible, one has before reading the Christiad, the more fulfilling a reading of the text will be. To close with a quote of Saint Paul, “We see now through a glass in a dark manner; but then face to face.” Vida has transformed Vergil’s prophecies, seen before in a riddling way, into face to face, or page to page, realizations of Christian truth.

[1] Mario Di Cesare, Vida’s Christiad and Vergilian Epic (New York: Columbia University Press, 1964).

Catullus 63: Looking at the Data of the Diction

The diction of Catullus 63 is elevated and poetic, but at certain key moments become notably plain and prosaic, as can be seen through a statistical look at the words he uses, argues Tessa Cassidy (’20)

Cybele, Goddess of Civilization, from the Goddesses of the Greeks and Romans series (N188) issued by Wm. S. Kimball & Co. 1889. Metropolitan Museum.

The sixty-third poem in Catullus preserved collection deals with the story of Attis, a follower of the Anatolian mother goddess Cybele. At the climax of the poem Attis castrates himself to become one of the Cybele’s priests. While the subject matter in itself is interesting, as it causes you to wonder what could drive someone to do such a thing, looking at the combination and use of diction are also very interesting. Catullus, while using poetic word choice throughout, does not stick to one certain theme. Rather, we see Greek and “Asian” diction (i.e., Greek associated with Asia Minor, present day Turkey, Cybele’s homeland) along with diction that evokes the imagery of the wild animals. This raises the question as to what it means when Catullus deviates from the poetic structure he creates throughout the whole poem. I will attempt to address this question using R.G.G. Coleman’s explanation of poetic diction in context of the poetic register, along with research compiled on the relative poeticism scores of synonyms, a project that I worked on with Beth Eidam.

Critics have taken various views on the structure and key themes of Catullus 63. For Gerald N. Sandy, the constant imagery throughout the poem is centered around that of herds and wild beasts. Sandy looks at the specific diction used to describe Attis and the environment to draw this conclusion.[1] The reason for this, Sandy writes, is because the idea of the “herd-predator may very well be rooted in the cult traditions of Cybele.”[2] John P. Elder focuses more broadly on the poem, asserting that there should be emphasis on Catullus’ general curiosity and the intrigue of writing about such a wild subject in the Roman poetic context. Elder focuses at one point on the how the use of speeches in poem act as good transition points and emphasis on the emotion.[3] This idea is what has caused me to narrow my focus onto Attis’ second speech, where he reflects and laments the dire consequences of his castration. It is in this speech that we see a deviation in the general structure of the poem and what allows to see the emotional anguish of Attis. I think that this idea works with Sandy’s point of the generally wild imagery of the poem, because without this imagery as a backdrop Attis’ second speech would not stand out as much.

All scholars and commentators note the unusually high degree of high poetic diction and Grecism in this poem. Beth’s and my statistical research on the use of Latin synonyms can help quantify and qualify this picture, and help us better understand the poeticism of Catullus 63. R.G.G. Coleman makes the point that the poetic register cannot be defined by looking for characteristics that are only present in poetry, but one will find the definition by comparing the diction, devices and meter to that of prose.[4] “It is not just the presence of this or that linguistic item that is definitive, but rather the texture a whole passage, formed from the accumulation of other ingredients summarized in the concluding paragraphs,” such as meter, special vocabulary, archaism, Grecism, metaphor, and other poetic devices.[5]

It is through the idea that you must look at poetic diction in relation to prose that inspired the more data driven end of this research project. That is the goal to compile a set of synonyms from Döderlein’s Hand-book of Latin Synonyms, using Opera Latina’s LASLA database. The LASLA database, which is a system that has complied the works of nineteen different Latin writers, allows you to get the number of occurrences through works of those nineteen writers. We used this database to calculate the relative poeticism of a word. Here is a visual example of what exactly the equation we used to make create a poeticism score using AMO (to love) as the example:

calculation used to create poteicism scores

As you can see, amo, amare has the poeticism score of .90 which puts it very high on the poeticism scale, the highest score being 1.0, which would mean zero occurrences of the word in prose. We kept track of the scored synonyms using a spreadsheet, which also completed the calculations for us.

Coleman’s article does not use such data, but his discussion helps put the data in context. He makes the point that the words of Catullus 85 are common and devoid of blatant poeticism, but it still an incredibly moving poem in spite of its plainness.

Odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.

nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

I hate and I love. You may well ask, why I do so.

I do not know, but I feel it and suffer. (trans. C.H. Sisson, 1967)

Coleman notes that there is nothing poetic about the vocabulary in the poem as it is generally pretty plain, however it still conveys an incredibly deep and poetic tone.[6] I thought that given this assertion it would be interesting to use the poeticism scale to see if it matched up with Coleman’s view of the plainness of the vocabulary. Below I have taken the verbs from the poem and provided a table with the poeticism score calculations along with their synonyms to compare.

Poem verb	odi	amo	facio	requiro	nescio	fio	sentio	excrucior
Poeticism score	.81	.90	.59	.69	.71	0.58	.68	.81
Synonym	invideo	diligo	gero	rogo	ignoro	no synonyms	cognosco	No synonyms
Poeticism score	.70	.49	.57	.57	.47		.37
Synonym			ago				intellego
Poeticism score			.59				.17

As you can see, the numbers don’t automatically prove Coleman’s point. Most of the verbs in the poem our well over the .50 line. Even when you compare the synonyms to each other, Catullus’ choices evidently seem more poetic. However, this does not negate the point Coleman makes, for you have to take the relative commonness of the verbs into account. Odi (I hate) and amo (I love) are both more common than their synonyms, it should also be considered that verbs of feeling especially around love might be more prevalent in poetic works due to the subject matter. Requiro (“ask”) is an outlier, as rogo is much more prosaic in comparison. But their poeticism scores are not entirely different. Sentio and fio are different, because while there are potential synonyms to compare to, synonyms relative definitions do arcuately convey Catullus’ meaning.

This does not take away from Coleman’s argument, but strengthens it, since Coleman does not believe that we can define the poetic register in isolation and especially not just through vocabulary. If anything, the scores proves the importance of the looking at the sentence as whole. Even though the words are more poetic on the scale, they are not exotic, but instead words that one might use when describing the torment of emotion, and it is this simplicity that make makes it effective. Everyone is able to understand the feeling of love and hate, and the torturing ambiguity that those feelings can bring. If we had simply looked at the verbs and in the context of the poeticism scale, the meaning would have been lost from the poem and from Coleman’s argument that relatively common diction can still be used in a poetic context. With all of this in mind it is time to use the same methodology I used to analyze Catullus 85 and delve into Catullus 63.

At certain points of Attis’ lament the relatively plain vocabulary and structure makes the consequences of such a bizare subject approachable to Catullus’ Roman audience and thus create a connection through the translatable tragedy. For this purpose, I will not go over the entire speech but focus on two lines that nicely represent Catullus’ use of plain diction within the speech. Let us look then at lines 59–60: “patria, bonis, amicis genitoribus abero?/Abero foro, palaestra, stadio et gymnasiis?” (Will I be absent from the father land, good things, friends and family? / Will I be absent from the forum, the palestra, the stadium and the gymnasium? )

Poem Word	patria	bonus	amicus	gens	forum	palaestra	stadium	gymnasium
Poeticism Score	.63	.52	.68	.66	.51	.87	.25	.75

The diction in these lines in general is, statistically speaking, not very poetic, and some parts again seems to reference Rome. Palaestra and gymansium stand out a little, but they still conjure up normal parts of Greek social life.[7] Stadium too should fit in with palaestra and gymansium, but the common use of it in measurement contexts seems to have skewed the score toward prose. The reason for the relatively plain score for the words could mean that Catullus was trying to bring this image into a more translatable context, similar to that of Catullus 85. That is, he does not need to pepper these lines with poetic diction to show Attis’ despair and loss, rather the plainness seems to augment his lament. Imagine the lament of an exiled college student: “Will I be away from the classroom, my stuff, my friends and my roommates? Will I be away from the dining hall, the football games, and the library?” The words are simple, and because of this the aguish of the exile from them would also be easily understood and felt.

Through the analysis of Catullus 63 with the poeticism scale, we can come to understand a key technique that Catullus uses in order to convey a deep poetic meaning, similar to that of Catullus 85. In a complex manner he builds up a poem with distinctly standard and highly poetic structure. It is with this structure as a backdrop, that Catullus draws the most on emotion to emphasize the tragedy and torment of Attis’ situation through his deviation. On the topic of why Catullus chooses this poem, I like Elders’ explanation the most: the topic of emasculation shown through the cultic practices of the priests of Cybele would have been horrifying and intriguing, leaving the only safe route to explore the situation, through literary works. Catullus then explores the plight of a Greek character but using Roman nuances to make the story translatable to his audience.

[1] Gerald N Sandy, “The Imagery of Catullus 63,” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 99 (1968): 389–399, at 390.

[2] Sandy, “The Imagery of Catullus 63,” 399.

[3] John P. Elder, “Catullus’ Attis,” The American Journal of Philology 68, no. 4 (January 1, 1947): 375.

[4] R.G.G. Coleman, “Poetic Diction, Poetic Discourse and the Poetic Register” Proceedings of the British Academy (1999): 22.

[5] Coleman, “Poetic Diction,” 92.

[6] Coleman, 55.

[7] Ruurd Nauta, “Catullus 63 In a Roman Context.” Mnemosyne 57, no. 5 (2004): 624.

Classical Studies at Dickinson College in the Nineteenth Century

Over the course of the nineteenth century classical ideals of eloquence and erudition endured in new guises as rote memorization and recitation of Latin and Greek texts receded, argues Drew Kaplan (’20)

Hand written title page of a Latin graduation speech given by a student at Dickinson in 1847. — Hand written title page of a Latin graduation speech given by a student at Dickinson in 1847 (Dickinson Archives)

In 1841, incoming Dickinson College sophomore Charles Stinson wrote to his father expressing doubts about his academic abilities. After meeting with college president John Durbin, Stinson “passed an examination, and the conclusion is, as I expected, that I am wholly unprepared to enter the Sophomore class. So here I was without knowing scarcely what to do.” Stinson’s progress in the ancient languages was well behind his peers, his abilities akin to that of a freshman. He suggests that, if his father approves, he should purchase extra lessons and continue his education despite these troubles, or else return home to work on the family farm.[1] Stinson was not atypical, and in this period of expanding college access many students arrived under-prepared for the established course with its heavy emphasis on Latin and Greek. By 1874, Professor of Modern Language William Trickett was reporting to the Trustees that “majority of applicants for admission to the College fell below the usual requirements” in Greek, both in their understanding of the grammar and reading abilities. Frustrated with teaching unqualified students, Trickett proposes a “change [of] methods of teaching [… w]ith improved best books, with better selections from … the modern languages.”[2]

From the late 18^th to early 20^th centuries, American higher education went through a period of tremendous change, both in curriculum and teaching methods. In the late 18^th and early 19^th centuries, emphasis on the classical languages, and what moral lessons could be gleaned from classical texts, formed a major portion of the college curriculum.[3] Latin and Greek texts were taught by recitation, in which students would be required to repeat memorized passages to their professors and peers in the original language and answer questions on grammatical and other points of detail. Classical texts were valued as models of eloquence, and for many years a Latin oration was required of every student at graduation. Students were not required, nor expected, to conduct research into a particular sub-field, or even specialize during their studies. The summation of the course of study was a course in moral philosophy, typically taught by the president of the college. This era of American education was that of generalism, but this general education involved far larger doses of classical languages than even the most dedicated of classical studies majors encounter today.

As the nineteenth century progressed this system began to change. New topics, such as the physical sciences and modern languages entered the curricula, while the emphasis on the classics began to fade. Although some elements of traditional classicism were abandoned, an emphasis remained on the cultivation of eloquence. What had changed was the eloquence itself, or, more properly, what constituted eloquence. It was not that the colleges and universities stopped teaching eloquence and erudition. Instead, those values were shifted more towards English, French, and German literature. An 1849 student publication at Dickinson, The Collegian, the virtues of reading widely in works designed to induce “poetic fire.” The purpose of literary reading, according to the Collegian, was foster a sense of fellowship and “to stir the slumbering powers of a young man, to nerve his inactivity, to inflame his ambition, and fire his genius.”[4] The fourth issue featured extracts from Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound, followed immediately by a discussion of the life and philosophy of Percy Bysshe Shelley, author of Prometheus Unbound (1820).[5] The fact that the issue included translations from both a Greek tragedian Aeschylus and a discussion of the related but more contemporary lyrical drama by Shelley is a sign of the shift toward including modern literature beside classical in the definition of eloquence and erudition.

Arthur Cohen observes that college life during the 19^th century was understood “as a system for controlling the often exuberant youth and for inculcating within them discipline, morals and character.”[6] Classical texts, along with religious training, were the principal means to this end, with the emphasis in the case of the classics on civic and political aspects of virtue. Winterer observes the drawing of a parallel between the United States, Greece and Rome during the period; when the leaders of these classical societies had exhibited civic virtue, exemplified by both knowledge of their histories and the ability to make convincing arguments with rhetoric, their democratic and republican systems of government had triumphed. Rule by the people “depended upon the civic virtue of their citizenry to withstand corruption, private ambition and dependence, the relentless forces of decay.”[7]

The “Course of Study” documents preserved in the Dickinson Archives articulate the educational ideals of the time and chart the process of curricular change. One catalog from the 1830s notes that the purpose of its educational endeavor “is to excite, rather than to pretend to satisfy, an ardent thirst for information; and to enlarge the capacity of the mind.”[8] In 1823, incoming first year students would be instructed in geography, algebra and English literature. However, the primary focus is on classical texts; first years would begin with Xenophon and Sallust followed by Homer, while sophomores would read texts such as Livy, the juniors Demosthenes, and the seniors Tacitus and select tragedies of Sophocles and Aeschylus, among others.[9] From these authors students could glean virtues such as the discipline of Ajax, the cunning of Odysseus, vigorous democratic oratory in from Demosthenes[10] and in Republican self-sacrifice from the Roman historians, and poetic eloquence from the Greek tragedians. In addition, students would learn rhetoric both from classical speeches and by means of a dedicated class on the topic.[11] Cohen notes that such a strong emphasis on the classics “could be justified as practical training for all careers.” Because college educated individuals were expected to enter “the higher reaches of their professions, [… a] knowledge of rhetoric and Greek and Latin could certainly be justified as useful.”[12]

Rote recitation and an obsessive focus on grammar, however, could provide barrier to imbibing the higher lessons contained in the ancient texts. At Dickinson, where the primary method of instruction was the recitation,[13] students were expected to be able to recite texts and discuss elements from their work with the professors or fellow students.[14] Winterer remarks that the teaching system for classical languages was “so laborious and unpleasant for students that it became synonymous with much that was wrong with the colleges at the time.”[15] In 1836, college president John Durbin[16] noted that an unnamed student appreciated his method of instruction as it was “encouraging challenge and debate, even letting the young men believe they had lured him away from the routine of presentation and recital.”[17] However, other students held views differing from the student referenced by Durbin. Writing in 1848, Dickinson College student Christian Humrich reflected that his Latin Professor lacked the same flare as Durbin in his instruction, while his Greek professor was inspiring. Humrich consequently fell behind in his knowledge of Latin.[18] Moreover, in 1847, student Henry Clay Dallam asked a friend to buy him a translation of the plays of Sophocles. This was so that he could pass his recitations without doing his own translations.[19] Indeed, Winterer observes that the model of recitation and memorization often failed to instill any real degree of knowledge into students; many graduated with little ability in the classical languages.[20]

Cohen observes that the practicality of a classical education had come into doubt by the mid-19^th century.[21] The United States was changing, affected economically by the industrial revolution, and as the college-going population increased and broadened, topics such as the physical sciences, English literature, and foreign languages were added the college curricula.[22] Ellen Lyon, daughter of a Dickinson College trustee, remarked in 1840 that the purpose of higher education was no longer just to prepare individuals for a career in public service. Although a knowledge of history is important to Lyon as “[i]t shows the evil effects of vice and the superiority of virtue,” that knowledge must be counterbalanced with knowledge in other fields.[23]

The curricula themselves were slow to adapt. In 1823, students only studied a rudimentary level of non-classical subjects; there was some mathematics and some science. The overwhelming portion of what students studied consisted of classical literature; there was no modern foreign language and what was taught on the English language focused on grammar rather than literature.[24] Dickinson College had not much changed which authors were read until the later part of the century. In the 1850s, juniors still read Demosthenes and first years still read Xenophon just as in 1823. What had was the addition of French to the course of study, alongside the option for a small level of Spanish or Italian.[25] By 1879 though, students were instructed in a wide selection of mathematical topics, inorganic chemistry, physics, the literature of Shakespeare, the history of Guizot, and the French and German languages.[26] Moreover, the classical texts had to some degree been swapped. Sallust, Livy, and Xenophon remained, but they were now supplemented by Ovid, Seneca, Horace, and notably, Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound.[27]

Alongside these changes came the advent of literary societies, student run organizations centered around fostering a common interest in literature. These societies aimed towards the same ends as the colleges but tended towards the use of modern rather than classical literature. Dickinson College had two, Belles Lettres and Union Philosophical Society (UPS). Cohen calls societies of this type “colleges within colleges.” Many issued their own diplomas to students upon graduation from the college. Both UPS and Belles Lettres did this. Belles Lettres had first come to the college in 1795 and offered lessons on public speaking. Eventually the membership of Belles Lettres and UPS encompassed nearly the whole student body.[28] The societies also boasted impressive libraries, with the library of each society individually containing more works that the library of the college by 1874. Moreover, the 1850s witnessed the first instance of student journalism at the college. Far from journalism in the modern sense, The Collegian, published by the cooperation of UPS and Belles Lettres, is more akin to a literary magazine containing works intended for student interest. The first issue, published in March 1849, contained among other works a translation of the Hymn to Jupiter of Cleanthes, alongside contemporary literary compositions.[29] Among students, there had remained an emphasis on the study of the virtue of the classical world. Students, however, could seek this in a forum separate from the college curriculum, and especially in a forum where they would not be required to recite the texts in the original as a precondition for learning from them.

Higher education remained an essential element of professional preparation, but, to some extent, the students took this process of higher education on themselves in the model Basil Gildersleeve termed “cultured erudition,” and which became the guiding principle of the modern liberal arts curriculum that developed in the early 20^th century. The moral lessons and eloquence of Sophocles will still be available to him, but without the additional effort of translation. Students of the college remained interested in erudition and eloquence throughout the period, with the classics becoming just one of many routes students could take to this end. The evolution of the classical curriculum at the college, and the experiences of the students, well evidences the persistence of classical ideals in American higher education at small colleges gradually shorn of the rigors of classical pedagogy. The values of erudition and eloquence remained, even as the strict focus on classical grammar was giving way to the cultivation of these values by other subjects. But as always, substantial curricular change was slow indeed. Dickinson College would not come to make the classical languages optional until 1947.[30]

[1] Letter from Charles Stinson to His Father. Dickinson Archives, I-DayL-1972-1.

[2] Faculty Report to the Board of Trustees, Dickinson Archives, RG1-2_2.2.35 Languages.

[3] Caroline Winterer, The Culture of Classicism: Ancient Greece and Rome in American Intellectual Life, 1780-1910 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004) 3.

[4] “Editor’s Table,” The [Dickinson] Collegian, March 1849.

[5] “Extract from the Prometheus Chained to Aeschylus” and “Shelly.” The Collegian, June 1849.

[6] Arthur M. Cohen, The Shaping of American Higher Education: Emergence and Growth of the Contemporary System (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass Publishers, 1998), 23.

[7] Winterer, The Culture of Classicism, 19.

[8] “Course of Study.” Catalogue of the Officers & Students of Dickinson College, (1834 – 1835) 12

[9] “Course of Study.” Catalogue of the Officers & Students of Dickinson College, (1823 – 1824), 7–13.

This should not be read as an all-inclusive list of topics studied by students during the period. Rather, it is a selection.

[10] Specifically, the speech De Corona.

[11] “Course of Study.” Catalogue of the Officers & Students of Dickinson College, (1834 – 1835) 15–16.

[12] Cohen, The Shaping of American Higher Education, 29.

[13] One such source for this is the diary of Horatio Collins King, a 19^th century Dickinson College student. He refers to his daily recitations in various subjects. King, Horatio Collins. Diary, 1854-1858. MC 1999.9, Horatio Collins King Family Papers, Archives and Special Collections, Dickinson College, Carlisle, PA.

[14] This system is similar to the tutorial system used by some institutions, amongst them the University of Oxford.

[15] Winterer, Culture of Classicism, 33.

[16] At the time, the college president often taught a senior capstone course in moral philosophy.

[17] Charles Coleman Sellers, Dickinson College; a History (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1973), 203.

[18] Christian Humrich to Samuel Davis. May 1848. I-Original-undated-15. Record Group 2/2, Archives and Special Collections, Dickinson College, Carlisle, PA. In the letter, Humrich spells “Xenophon” using the Greek. I have chosen to instead present the name translated.

[19] Henry Dallam to W. Boyd Williams. 5 October 1847. I-WilliamsW-1957-1. Record Group 2/2, Archives and Special Collections, Dickinson College, Carlisle, PA.

[20] Winterer, The Culture of Classicism, 36.

[21] Cohen, The Shaping of American Higher Education, 51.

[22] Ibid., 38, 63.

[23] Ellen Lyon, “What Branch of Study is Most Important in the Education of a Young Lady.” I-Original-undated-16. Archives and Special Collections, Dickinson College, Carlisle, PA.

[24] “Course of Study.” Catalogue of the Officers & Students of Dickinson College, (1823 – 1824) 7–13.

[25] “Course of Study.” Catalogue of the Officers & Students of Dickinson College, (1853 – 1854) 15–16.

[26] “Course of Study.” Catalogue of the Officers & Students of Dickinson College, (1878 – 1879) 14– 16.

[27] “Course of Study.” Catalogue and Register of Dickinson College for the Academical Year. (1879 – 1880) 20 –23.

[28] Sellers, Dickinson College: a History, 93.

[29] “A Translation of Cleanthes’ Hymn to Jupiter.” The Collegian, March 1849.

[30] Sellers, Dickinson College; a History, 550.

Searching for Poeticism in Latin Synonyms

Close study of synonyms can reveal much about the language and thought of the ancient Romans, argues Beth Eidam (’20), using the example of words revolving around the concept of “shame”

Illustration: Max Klinger, Shame (from the series A Love) 1887–1903 — Max Klinger, Shame (from the series A Love) 1887–1903. Metropolitan Museum, New York.

Some words are innately more poetic than others. Imagine if Robert Frost had opened his iconic poem with “two highways separated in a yellow forest.” Swapping out just a few words for less lovely synonyms changes the entire tone. The line no longer reads like a thoughtful poem but rather a lost traveler describing their predicament. This is the power of vocabulary.

Latin synonyms operate the same way. Ensis (“blade”) serves as the poetic counterpart to prosaic gladius (“sword”), amnis (“torrent”) to flumen (“river”), and virgo (“maiden”) to puella (“girl”). Non-native speakers of Latin (which means all of us) naturally have a hard time hearing these tones and nuances without many years of reading. Modern data science, however, can allow us to immediately perceive and even quantify the level of poeticism in Latin words, thus allowing for a richer appreciation and understanding of Latin texts.

Tessa Cassidy and I created a database of Latin synonyms based on Johann Döderlein’s Handbook of Latin Synonyms (1858), and then added frequency data collected over many years by a Belgian research project called the Laboratory for the Statistical Analysis of Ancient Languages (Laboratoire d’Analyse Statistique des Langues Anciennes or LASLA). Here is a typical entry in Döderlein’s book, discussing the adjectives acer (“keen”) and vehemens (“very eager”):

ACER; VEHEMENS. Acer (ὠκύς) denotes eagerness in a good sense, as fire and energy, in opp. to frigidus, like ὀξύς): but vehemens (ἐχόμενος) in a bad sense, as heat and passion, in opp. to lenis; Cic. Or. ii.49, 53, like σφοδρός. (iv. 450.)[2]

Each synonym is listed with its Greek equivalent and additional Latin words that clarify its meaning when applicable, with English explanations and citations from Latin authors that exemplify the specific meaning he describes. Tessa and I took on the entries in the first half of Döderlein’s handbook, each of us taking responsibility for one quarter of the whole book. My section came out to 546 words.

We then used the LASLA’s Opera Latina interface to query their database and find out how many times each word occurs in prose and poetic texts. LASLA’s database is not totally comprehensive but is nonetheless extensive, containing 2,104,866 word forms, each carefully examined by a scholar to determine which dictionary headword (or “lemma”) it derives from. This made sure, for example, that no instances of the noun acer meaning “maple tree” were mixed up with the instances of acer the adjective meaning “keen.” The LASLA data derives from 154 works by nineteen authors.[3] With the help of LASLA’s lemma search tool, Tessa and I gathered numbers on total uses, prose uses, and poetry uses in the LASLA corpus for each synonym. A sample entry from our data spreadsheet below illustrates how we organized our findings:

Doederlein lemma	Logeion lemma	LASLA 1	LASLA 2	LASLA 3	total count	prose count	raw poetry count	adjusted poetry count	poeticism score (0-1)
ABESSE	ab-sum, abesse, āfuī, āfutūrus	ABSVM			727	509	218	972	0.66

The first column lists the form of the dictionary head word (lemma) as listed by Döderlein, the second a full dictionary form as found at the dictionary site Logeion, the third lists the form or forms used by LASLA, followed by the numbers retrieved by searching the lemma(s) in LASLA’s Opera Latina database.

The LASLA database contains more prose than poetry. 1,719,608 word forms derive from prose texts like Cicero’s speeches, while 385,258 are from works, like Vergil’s Aeneid, written in verse. This discrepancy means that the frequency of words in the two genres cannot be compared by the raw numbers. To reconcile this difference, we multiplied the raw number of poetic uses of a word by 4.46, the ratio of total prose uses over poetic in the LASLA corpus. We then used this adjusted poetry count to create a “poetic score” for each word. The score for every word falls between zero and one. A score of one indicates that a word is purely poetic and has no recorded prose uses in the LASLA corpus. The poetic score has allowed us to quickly identify which synonyms were used more often in poetry and which in prose; then the task becomes finding explanations for differences between synonyms.

Although synonyms have overlapping definitions, each conveys a certain nuance and is more apt to be used in different contexts. Acies basically means “a sharp edge,” but has a wide range of definitions, from “sharpness” to “keenness of mind,” “a piercing look,” even “pupil of the eye”; other extensions of the notion of “edge” have a military flavor, such as “a single battle line,” “the whole army,” and “battlefield.” Acies is common, with 654 total uses in the LASLA corpus, evenly distributed in poetry and prose. Its poetic score of 0.50 does not indicate any special poetic or prosaic value. Its synonyms, though rarer in the corpus, have much higher poetic scores. Cacumen carries a more specific sense of “sharpness” with definitions of “peak” and “summit” and has a score of 0.79. Acumen, drawing on the mental nuance of “cunning” or “wit,” has a poetic score of 0.77. Here we see the generality of acies diminishing its poetic score while its synonyms that have more specific senses to their definitions appear more poetic.

This is a phenomenon I observed generally: the breadth or specificity of definitions greatly influence the poeticism of Latin words. Authors all have goals in writing, sometimes to make an argument or tell a story. Whatever the goal, authors choose language that helps achieve their goals. Poets write to convey very specific thoughts and evoke certain emotions, as such, synonyms with more specific qualities to their definition are more useful in poetry than more general counterparts.

Iter is a common word meaning “a going,” “walk,” or “way.” These definitions can expand to “a march,” “a legal right of way,” and “method” or “course.” iter is at home in military writings, legal speeches, and even Horace’s poetic “Journey to Brundisium,” and scores 0.53 on our scale. The more specific synonyms are rarer and more poetic, such as Trames, a “crossroad” (only 29 total uses in the LASLA corpus compared to iter’s 958, but a poetic score of 0.89); and semita, “narrow footpath,” has a poetic score of 0.84. These synonyms were more valuable in poetry as they painted a clearer picture in the reader’s mind than iter with its broad range of definitions. Poets paint vivid images and express very specific ideas in their writing, so it makes sense that words with a stronger ability to convey precise ideas have greater poetic value.

We can use this data to uncover the delicate differences between Latin synonyms for “shame” and clarify the role that these words played in both literature and the value system of Rome. Pudor and its associated adjectives are the key terms for what we call shame. But the terms are culturally specific. According Robert Kaster, the Roman concept of pudor “denotes displeasure with oneself caused by vulnerability to just criticism of a socially diminishing sort.”[4] This kind of shame is reliant on an internal sense of doing what is right and an external force holding individuals accountable. True pudor can only exist with this balance of internal and external pressures. Without an internal moral compass one would only feel shame out of coercion, and without external standards to meet shame would just be a glorified form of self-regard.[5] Pudor is the force that pressures individuals to remain modest and decent, and also the shame that arises from immoral behavior.

Pudor itself has a score of 0.76, which reflects its relatively wide use in prose, compared to the highly poetic adjectival variant pudibundus (1.0). Pudens (“modest,” “bashful”) is neutral (0.49). Pudens represents shame as it is related to reputation.[6] It is applied to individuals who have “a due sense of what one’s position requires” (OLD). Useful in legal cases where character is often an integral feature of a defense or prosecution, pudens is used frequently in Cicero’s speeches (out of 34 total uses of pudens in the LASLA corpus, 26 occur in court speeches of Cicero). In Pro Flacco, a first-century BCE defense of Roman praetor Lucius Valerius Flaccus, Cicero employs the antithesis of pudens and impudens to question the morality of the selected witnesses.[7] Cicero alludes to a rigged trial, calling the selected witnesses impudentes, “dishonorable,” while many other “learned and honorable men were not called to this trial.”[8] Cicero doubts the morality of the trial witnesses, and implies that they do not possess the personal responsibility that pudens evokes. Pudens, therefore, expresses the positive qualities of shame in its ability to produce responsible and respectable individuals. The utility of pudens in legal cases might explain its poetic score of 0.49, the lowest of all the synonyms and the only one with a lower poetic score than pudor.

Seneca the Younger’s play Hercules Furens details the turbulent life of Hercules constantly battling Juno’s hatred. At the climax of the play Hercules is driven to madness by divine power and kills his own wife and children. When his sanity returns to him, Hercules laments the carnage around him and begs his father, Amphitryon, and friend, Theseus, to explain what happened

cur meos Theseus fugit

paterque vultus? ora cur condunt sua?

differte fletus; quis meos dederit neci

omnes simul, profare. quid, genitor, siles?

at tu ede, Theseu, sed tua, Theseu, fide.—

uterque tacitus ora pudibunda obtegit

furtimque lacrimas fundit. in tantis malis

quid est pudendum?

Why do Theseus and my father avoid my sight?

Why do they hide their faces?

Put off your tears. Speak out, who gave

all my (family) to death at once – why are you silent, father?

Then you, Theseus, tell me – by your loyalty, Theseus.

Each man silently covers his ashamed face and

pours out secret tears. What is shameful in such evils? [9]

Pudibundus (1.0) appropriately conveys the intense emotion of this scene in highly poetic terms. Since the adjective expresses a personal shame incited by displeasure in one’s own actions it would be easy to assign it to Hercules, who will spend the rest of the play overwhelmed by shame and guilt. However, Seneca deliberately focuses on the shame of the onlookers. While Amphitryon and Theseus are certainly ashamed on Hercules’ behalf, they are also displeased with themselves. Amphitryon has just witnessed the murders of his grandchildren. Theseus stood by as his friend descended into madness and compromised his honor. Their pudibunda ora show the internal shame they will carry forever from being helpless to intervene. This shame is emotional, personal, and irreparable. The emotional weight of pudibundus explains its only six total uses in the LASLA corpus, all poetic. Poets only employed pudibundus when they wished to convey very specific, personal shame.

Pudicus (“chaste,” and “subdued”) is highly poetic as well, with a score of 0.94. It has connotations of sexual purity. It is applied to bashful and modest individuals uncomfortable in the gaze of others.[10] Pudicus could best be categorized as a derivative of pudicitia, “sexual respectability.”[11] For Roman women especially, it was critical to preserve one’s reputation by being pudica. Conveniently, there were clear social guidelines in Rome on how to be a sexually respectable man or woman.[12] If one simply obeyed social expectations and gender roles, pudicus should be an easily maintainable label. The authors in the LASLA corpus who use it most often are Plautus and Ovid, which makes sense considering Ovid’s often raunchy content. In the Amores, Ovid’s narrator seems unsure that women can truly be pudica, but nonetheless asks that his interests at least feign that kind of modesty.

Non ego, ne pecces, cum sis formosa, recuso,

sed ne sit misero scire necesse mihi;

nec te nostra iubet fieri censura pudicam,

sed tamen, ut temptes dissimulare, rogat.

Since you are beautiful I do not ask that you not err,

but that it not be necessary for me, a wretch, to know;

nor does my censure demand that you become chaste,

but nevertheless, I ask that you attempt to not let it show.[13]

Ovid assumes that the object of his affection cannot truly be pudica because of her appearance, but he does not seem to care. If her reputation is intact it does not matter what she has done. Ovid’s concern further emphasizes that all kinds of shame in Rome were deeply intertwined with reputation and illustrates the role of external accountability in Kaster’s definition of pudor. Ovid declares that pudicus is determined not only by one’s actual actions, but by how others see and judge those actions. An individual can only be pudicus if the public regards them as such.

Another adjective meaning “possessed of shame” is castus (0.93). If pudicus is in the eye of the beholder, castus, as defined by Döderlein, refers to “chastity as a natural quality of the soul.”[14] It is a cousin of careo, the verb meaning “to be free from,” and castus the much rarer noun meaning “abstinence.”[15] Castus includes the sexual implications of pudicus but intertwines those nuances with personal character, not social reputation as pudicus does. Not only is a castus individual pure in a sexual sense, but they are clean of any moral stain by nature. In this way castus is almost the perfect combination of the nuances of pudicus and pudens.

Ovid and Propertius employ castus frequently, which is not surprising considering the focus of their poems on love and relationships. Propertius describes a happy couple in his Elegies, “O Postumus, [you are] blessed three and four times over in Galla’s chastity.”[16] The poem continues to praise Galla’s purity and inability to be corrupted in any way, even describing her as pudica a few lines down.

The value of shame in Rome was demanding yet vague. Individuals were expected to uphold a certain set of standards, but those standards could not be clarified by one word. The general nature of pudor’s definition begs for synonyms to clarify each facet of the value. Pudens, pudibundus, pudicus, and castus exemplify the value that nuance in synonyms had in literature, but they also reveal a greater poetic tendency to favor synonyms that convey a more specific sense of the general concept.

[2] Johann Döderlein. Döderlein’s Book of Latin Synonymes. Trans. by Rev. H.H. Arnold. Andover: Warren Draper, 1858. 3.

[3] Prose authors: Caesar, Cato, Curtius, Petronius, Plinius (the Younger), Sallustius, Seneca (Apocolocyntosis through De Vita Beata), Tacitus, Cicero. Poetry authors: Catullus, Horatius, Juvenalis, Lucretius, Ovidius, Persius, Plautus, Propertius, Seneca (Hercules Furens through Hercules Oetaeus), Tibullus, Vergilius

[4] Kaster, 4.

[5] Kaster, 8.

[6] Döderlein, 34.

[7] Pro Flacco, 9.8.

[8] Pro Flacco, 9.8. “…docti, pudentes, qui ad hoc iudicium deducti not sunt.” Author’s own translation.

[9] Hercules Furens, 1178. Author’s own translation.

[10] Döderlein, 34.

[11] Kaster, 9-10.

[12] Kaster, 10.

[13] Amores, 3.14.3. Author’s own translation.

[14] Döderlein, 34.

[15] Thesaurus Linguae Latinae.

[16] Elegiae, 3.12.15. “ter quater in casta felix, o Postume, Galla” Author’s own translation.