[ p. 100 ]
THE religious history of Rome was in many respects strikingly like that of Greece. It began, of course, in the universal primitive belief that all objects are animated by resident or roving spirits. But the chief of these spirits were of a peculiar type in Rome, being not tribal but family deities. That was because the early Romans were a farming folk divided not into large units like tribes, but into small families. Naturally enough, the primal aim of the religion was the perpetuation of these small families; and the principal spirits, therefore, were those which guarded the home. Each man was believed • to have what was called a Genius, a spirit personifying his virility; and each woman had what was called a Juno, a spirit personifying her power to conceive. (The early Romans, like most other primitive peoples, were driven by their constant struggle against extinction to consider the power of reproduction a miraculous and [ p. 101 ] highly divine thing.) The threshold of every house had its guardian spirit called Janus, just as the hearth had its Vesta, the storeroom had its Penates, and the farm had its Lares.
The favor of these spirits was courted with simple ceremonies on fixed holy days, each family having its own altar on its own land, and its own priest in the person of the pater familias, the father of the family. Some of the spirits were also worshipped with minor rites observed in everyday life. For instance, after every midday meal a sort of “grace” was offered to Vesta by throwing a salt cake into the hearth-fire.
But this simple family cult had to give way in time to. a less primitive form of religion. Harried by continual attacks of enemy tribes, the little family groups were forced to consolidate into the city-state of Rome; and then a state religion arose. It centered chiefly around a god of war who was called Mars (it was just like the Romans to make a god of war their chief deity), and included the worship also of other gods, especially a sky-god, Jupiter, the Roman version of the Greek Zeus-pater. The king of the city-state was the highpriest of this newer Roman religion, and numerous minor priests aided him at the state altars. But there was no great fervor in the cult, for it was far more a political than a religious institution. It was a formal, civic affair, and though many festivals were listed in its elaborate calendar, no demands were made on the people to take a passionate part in them. Most of those festivals must have antedated the state religion, for they were marked by magic rites of evident primitiveness. There was, for instance, the Lupercalia, a festival at which the worshippers [ p. 102 ] smeared themselves with sacrificial blood from a dog or goat, sponged themselves with milk-soaked wads of wool, clad themselves in goat-skins, and then danced through the streets of the city, striking the women they met with bits of skin to make them fertile. . . . Then there was the Saturnalia, celebrated on the 25th of December, the signal for more wild dancing, and especially for giving gifts and lighting many candles. . . .
But the old family religion still persisted, despite the institution of this state cult. The worship of the hearth spirits still went on, and still a great concern was felt about evil ghosts and demons. For protection, firebrands used to be tied to the tails of foxes, who were then let loose in the fields to frighten away the cropdevouring demons. For further protection, men and cattle were passed through fire so that they might be magically purified. Taboos of a thousand varieties to ward off as many sorts of danger were scrupulously observed in every house in the growing town. The religion of the city-state of Rome was only supposed to be the new state cult; actually the people still clung to the family cult of earlier days. . . .
A distinct change did occur, however, about the sixth century B. C. It came as an after-effect of the invasion of the Etruscans, a race with apparently higher capacities for civilization than the original Romans. They took over the state religion and made it a thing of far greater importance than ever it had been before. New gods were introduced; Minerva, Diana, and others. A college of priests was founded, and the priesthood was organized under a chief who was called Pontifex Maximus. For the first time in the history of Rome temples were built [ p. 103 ] and images of the gods were placed in them and worshipped. …
But even then the state religion remained m large part a formal affair. It had too little emotional drive, too slight a relation to fear and hope, ever to be able to enter deep into the life of the people. The priests were more or less civic officials who were left to attend to the gods much as in constitutional monarchies the chamberlains are left to attend to the kings. The gods demanded that the vows the people made to them should be most scrupulously observed; but they insisted on very little else. They were not immoral or. venal, like the gods of the Olympian religion, but neither were they puritanically moral or tyrannically strict, like, for instance, the God of the Hebrews. They seemed to be quite content with purely formal obeisance. . . .
OF course, such a religion, clean but not very exciting, proper but not very compelling, could not persist for long. Between 500 and 200 B. C. it deteriorated and sank into almost complete bankruptcy. The whole structure rotted away from corruption, and finally toppled to the ground. And with it toppled the family religion. Rome by that time had become a vast empire; rich mighty, and not a little dissolute. Roman citizens had gone forth as soldiers or traders to the farthest ends of the known world, and had come back spoiled. The old Roman family, which had been so important a factor of social health In the early life of the people, fell into decay; and with it the old family gods went into the limbo. The priests became grafting politicians, and [ p. 104 ] their training colleges mere political clubs. And then the old order ended.
But as fast as the old gods fell away; new gods arose. For the most part they were the savior-gods of the Orient, those lusty relics of the savage past which were immortal in more than myth. The Roman legions had gone out to conquer all the world, only to come back conquered by all its gods. The mysteries that had spread like a plague throughout Greece in the days of its decay now found similar soil in which to flourish in Rome. As early as 200 B. C. the cult of Cybele, “the Great Mother of the Gods,” was brought to the city. Imported from Asia Minor, where it may have developed out of the old Babylonian worship of Ishtar, this mystery found its chief sanctuary on the Vatican Hill — almost on the precise spot where the basilica of St. Peters now stands. There, and wherever else in the empire the cult had a following, spring festivals of almost incredible bestiality were held. The people gathered around altars erected under sacred trees, and amid the thundering of drums, the screeching of flutes, and the clashing of cymbals, they wildly sought salvation of their goddess. First the lower priests, excited by the barbaric music, would begin to whirl themselves around convulsively. With mad eyes and streaming hair they would whirl themselves around until, rapt in a frenzy and insensible to pain, they would begin to hack at their own flesh — hack and slash at their own bodies until both altar and tree were red with their spurting blood. And then the spectators, caught up and swept out of their minds by the tumult, would suddenly join in the dance. A mad light would leap into their eyes at the sight of the blood [ p. 105 ] and the sound of the throbbing music; jaws would open wide in their waggling heads, and limbs would swing out flail-like to the beat-beat of drums and cymbals. And then first one, then another, would suddenly tear off all his clothes, and with a manic shout would seize a sword from the heap ready at hand. Howling with ecstasy he would hack at himself until, exhausted at last, he fell and lay bleeding in a ditch.
Of course, such self-mutilation was not the ordinary act of devotion in the cult of Cybele. Only those of the extremest faith, those who desired to become actual priests of the goddess, ever went to such excesses. But even the common followers, the ordinary first-degree initiates, went through rites which were more than adequately gruesome. There was, for example, the rite called the Tauroboleum. The candidate was placed in a pit and then washed in the blood of a bull slaughtered over his head. He had to lave himself in the warm blood as it came dripping through the crevices between the planks covering the pit; he had to crane up avidly and receive it on his face, in his ears, his eyes, even his mouth. And thus he was initiated into the mystery. . . . Madness? No, merely logic gone wild because based on a wild hypothesis. The first axiom of primitive magic held that any quality could be acquired merely by consuming the proper part of a creature already possessing that quality. For instance, a man could take on his enemy’s strength merely by eating his enemy’s liver; he could acquire his father’s cunning simply by consuming his father’s eyes. So to acquire his god’s immortality it seemed only necessary to quaff that god’s blood — a feat not at all impossible because the god was usually [ p. 106 ] imagined to be incarnate in some sacred human being or animal. Such was the logic, false but plausible, which led to blood-guzzlings like those in the cult of Cybele. Such was the reasoning, cracked but intensely human, which led men in Rome to seek salvation through the Tauroboleum.
Closely associated with this orgiastic worship of Cybele there was also the worship of her lover, Attis. This god Attis was believed to have been conceived immaculately in the womb of a virgin, and was said to have died of self-immolation at the base of a tree. Attis was of course but another version of Tammuz, Adonis, Dionysus, Orpheus, and Osiris, a god of vegetation who died and was reborn every year. His “passion” was enacted every spring in Rome, much as the “passion” of Osiris was enacted annually in Egypt. The festival began with a “day of blood” — the pagan Black Friday — commemorating the death of the young god; and after three days it reached a climax in the “day of joy,” commemorating the god’s resurrection. . . . But Attis was by no means the only one of the savior-gods to be imported into Rome. The Greek Dionysus, renamed Bacchus by the Latins, also had his myriads of followers, as did the Egyptian Osiris. Nor was Cybele the only mother-goddess, for many of the Romans preferred to worship Isis, or Ma, or Bellona, or some other of those whoring fertility- spirits common in all of the Orient. Indeed, it is quite impossible to give a definitive account of all the mystery gods and goddesses whose cults were permitted to flourish in imperial Rome.
[ p. 107 ]
OF course, none of these mysteries could make any great appeal to the learned among the Romans. The higher classes in the republic were forced to drift along without any faith whatsoever. The old state religion had long lost its power to hold them, and they looked on the ancient gods of Rome as either patent frauds or mere figures of speech. Among the higher classes even as much as among the lower, the old state religion seemed as dead as a carcass three days old. . . . But it was not A spark of life still lingered in it, and in time there came a man with the will and power to breathe it into flame again. That man was Augustus, one of the outstanding figures in Roman history. In the year 31 B. C he took hold of a republic in a state of advanced corruption, and by intrigue and shrewdness converted it into a sound and flourishing empire. It was solely in order to make that empire firm that he. set himself the task of reviving the old religion. He could not possibly use the alien mysteries to attain that end, for those mysteries were in their very nature a divisive and not a cohesive force. They addressed themselves primarily to the individual, not to the group; they promised individual, not social, salvation. Besides, they had little concern with this world and its upstart empires. They were concerned only with the other world and its eternal joys. So Augustus saw no reason to favor the mysteries. On the contrary, he sought to drive them out of existence by lending all his power and prestige to the moribund state religion. He built great temples everywhere, equipping them with beautiful idols of the old gods. [ p. 108 ] He thoroughly reorganized the priesthood, making himself its head. Then he went further — a long, long way further. He realized that, though there were already many gods, each with his own following in the empire, there was no imperial God to whom all might pay homage. So to supply the need he nominated himself! By a decree of his own as Emperor, he made himself the Deity Supreme! He commanded that the guardian spirit of his own person, his “Genius,” be worshipped in every city throughout the empire; and poets and writers were hired to invent legends telling how he, Augustus, had been originally fashioned in heaven and miraculously brought to the world to save it. And as long as he lived, this religion he built around himself flourished everywhere in the empire — everywhere save, of course, in Palestine, where dwelt the Jews.
But even the revival under Augustus could not stay the debacle of the old religion. On the contrary, it may perhaps have hastened it. It but opened the way for one more corroding element: the human gods. Succeeding emperors emulated Augustus, deifying themselves, and sometimes also their wives, their mistresses, even their lewd boy-companions. In time there were almost forty names on the roster of these monstrous gods! . . . And meanwhile more and more of the gods of the East came pouring into the imperial city. . . .
There seemed to be but one sane element left, the Cynics. The word cynic — with a small “c” — now connotes a disillusioned, sneering, hopeless individual; but in the days when its initial letter was capitalized the word connoted an altogether different sort of man. The Cynics of that time were preaching philosophers, exalted [ p. 109 ] souls who felt themselves called upon to drag the people out of the sinkholes of superstition in which they floundered. These Cynics stood on the corners of the market-place, or on temple steps, and harangued the people to abjure the wild existences they were leading and go back to the simple, natural life. They assured them there was but one way of Salvation: common sense. They summoned the people to be brave and wise; to he virtuous; above all, to be calm and exercise good horse sense! . . .
BUT, despite all their devotion and eagerness, it was impossible for those Cynics to work any profound change in their fellow-men. The people could not be satisfied with the little joys afforded by common sense. They were tired, exhausted. Their forbears had wandered off to all the ends of the earth, traversing seas and mountains and deserts and swamps, invading, besieging, despoiling, and laying waste. For centuries on end they had been running to and fro across the face of the globe. And now the stock was run out. Their decadent offspring were in no mood for calm common sense; they had no appetite for staid virtue. They wanted passion, excitement! . . . And so now even more than before they took to the mysteries. It is true that the cults of Cybele, Isis, and Bacchus began to wane a little in their popularity; but that was only because a new cult had come to take their places. It was the cult of Mithras, imported from Persia, where it had arisen out of those primitive elements which the prophet Zoroaster had failed to stamp out. It had spread since from one land to another, from Persia to Babylonia, from Babylonia [ p. 110 ] to the Ionian Isles, and from the Ionian Isles finally to Rome. It entered there about the first century B. C., and so ready were the Romans to receive it that soon it was almost dominant in the empire.
The root of the mystery was an ancient Persian legend which told of a divine hero named Mithras whose miraculous birth had been witnessed only by a few shepherds come from afar with gifts to adore the wonder-child. Mithras grew up to be the most strenuous champion of the sun-god in his war against the god of darkness, and the climax of his career was a life-anddeath struggle with a mythical sacred bull. By finally slaying this bull and letting its blood flood the earth, Mithras gave life to the soil, and earned immortality for himself. Straightway he was exalted to the abode of the Immortals, and there he dwelt as the divine protector of all the faithful on earth. . . .
Long before the advent of Christianity we find a significant religion and an elaborate ritual crystallizing around that legend of Mithras. To this day there exist along the Danube and in Northern Africa certain subterranean caves in which are statues and carvings depicting scenes in the tale. Those caves were the secret churches of the Mithraists, and in them all manner of magic rites were once performed. Three times a day, with especial elaborateness on the Sun-day and the twenty-fifth of December, the Mithras priests offered services in the caves. Libations were poured, bells were rung, hymns were chanted, and many candles were burnt. Above all, holy sacraments were administered to the initiated. The flesh of a sacrificial animal was eaten, and its blood was drunk, and thus the celebrants [ p. 111 ] were thought to take on the divinity and immortality of their blessed lord, Mithras. By a primitive process of reasoning which we have already described in connection with the Cybele cult, the Mithraists galloped to the comforting conclusion that the mere consumption of the supposed flesh and blood of the god assured them of life everlasting. When they died on this earth they expected to ascend to Heaven through seven gates, unlocked by seven keys which the Mithras priests possessed, and in Heaven they hoped to dwell with Mithras until the final Judgment Day. All the unbaptized, both living and dead, were to be totally annihilated on that Judgment Day. Only the redeemed were to be saved, and Mithras, come to earth a second and final time, would administer to each of them a last sacrament, and then cause them to inherit the world in peace and blessedness forevermore. .
Such in brief was the theology and ritual of Mithraism. It was in all respects a purer mystery than those that had proceeded it. It had a distinct ethical content, and showed little tendency to encourage riotous and orgiastic practices. As a result it showed promise of persisting far longer than the other cults. Though equally fervent, it was less hysterical than its rivals; though just as certain of its validity, it was far less given to emotional excess. By the first century A. D. it loomed up as the foremost religion in the Empire; by the second century it seemed destined to become the lasting religion of all the Western world. And perhaps it would have actually fulfilled that destiny — had it not been for Christianity. . . .
But again, that is another story. . . .
[ p. 112 ]
AND with Mithraism in Rome we close this book of the religions of the ancient world. There were other religions that had their beginnings in that ancient world; but we shall have to tell of them later, for unlike the ones already described, they lived on. Neither the decay of civilizations nor debacle of empires could destroy those other religions. Again and again they were rent and broken; again and again they were well-nigh wiped out. Century after century they were changed almost beyond recognition. But nevertheless they lived on. And that is why we have to leave their stories to be told separately and at greater length. . . .
As for these religions whereof we have already spoken — they died. They did not entirely disappear, of course. No, fragments of them survived. Isolated rites, festive days, theological notions, even some of their god-names, persisted. They took up their abode — albeit furtively, clandestinely — in the religions that endured. And there they persist to this day. . . . For that reason one cannot well refer to those cults of Babylon, Egypt, and the rest as the “dead religions.” Actually they are not dead at all, for the echo of their ancient thunder is still to be heard reverberating in almost every form of faith existing today. They are dead only in name. …
But that is not their only, nor their most urgent, claim on our attention. Those ancient cults would deserve to be studied even if not one of their rites or myths still survived in the world. For the development of those cults marked the development of an entirely novel idea in religion. Until the advent of the Osirian [ p. 113 ] and the other mysteries, the whole aim of religion was the wresting of terrestrial favors from the gods. Primitive man uttered spells and offered oblations solely because he desired to make his life here on earth less fearful and insecure. But when man advanced beyond the primitive, and for the first time paused to consider just what chances he really had of satisfying his desire, he slowly began to realize how naive and foolish he had been. And then despair overwhelmed him. Like a day-dreaming boy suddenly brought face to face with the harsh, sharp, exigent realities of life, his heart sank and he stood ready to give up the fight. It was hopeless, he told himself. This world was irredeemable and this life utterly vain. There, was no chance, not the slightest, of ever attaining peace and security here on earth. All the spells and prayers and sacrifices imaginable could be of no worth in this vale of tears. …
But still he could not surrender utterly. The hunger for self-preservation was still mighty in the bones of man, and he could not possibly lie down and let himself be annihilated. No, instead he was forced to fly back to his old illusions, assuring himself that despite all realities he still could attain peace and joy. Only now man began to look for those blessings not in this life but in some other. Bowing to what seemed the insuperable tyrannies governing the natural world, he now comforted himself with the tale that his triumph must come in a super-natural world. With that inevasible life-lust which is at once the sorriest vice and the mightiest virtue of mankind, our ancestor incontinently transferred all his hopes from a tangible earth to a hypothetical heaven! . . .
[ p. 114 ]
The social effect of that great religious change can hardly be overestimated. For one thing, it made it possible for the few to exploit the many with unprecedented ease and impunity. So long as the credulous masses were content to look to some other world for their triumph, the crafty few were safe to enjoy their triumph in this one. So long as the meek were concerned only over their treasures in heaven, the strong were left free to steal all the treasures of the earth. And to such an egregious degree has this other- world hope fattened the crafty at the expense off the simple during these last two thousand years, that nowadays there are some who maintain it was from the very first simply a stratagem devised by the crafty to attain that very end. Of course, such a theory cannot be taken seriously. It is obviously pure romance to imagine so human a hope to have been deliberately foisted on humanity by a handful of greedy priests or princes. Undoubtedly such men did take all possible advantage of the hope — once it had come into being. But that was all. They no more created that belief in another world than they created the belief in ghosts or gods. The poor man’s dream of heaven was but one more of those wild clutches after security which make up the whole spiritual history of the race. And it was as unpremeditated, as thoroughly natural and inevitable, as the thirsty bedouin’s sight of a mirage, . . .
But all that is a matter of secondary importance. Our main concern is the nature, not the origin or even the effect, of this other- world hope. Quite clearly it differed in kind, not merely in degree, from the mofe primitive hope confined to this world. Perhaps it was even due [ p. 115 ] to a different impulse. The Celt was driven to religion by fear; but the “civilized” Greek and Roman was moved rather by despair. The former wanted to know merely how to keep alive on earth; but the latter desired rather to know the answer to the question why. Even the exploited pleb sweating in the slums of Rome was advanced enough to wonder what it was all about. Why was he here on earth? Where was he going? What did it all mean anyway? . . .
And therein lies the one truly fundamental advance marking the development of religion in the ancient world. The whole impulse to believe took on a changed character. Men were no longer driven to the gods by the common animal hunger for self-preservation; they were moved rather by the high human yearning for self-pacification.
And that was no slight advance. . . .