Aristotle (c. 384-322 BCE), the famous philosopher and mentor of Alexander the Great (r. 336-323 BCE), acknowledged that open and accessible societies could face threats and danger from the presence of foreigners. Some of these dangers included the accumulation of land by foreign buyers, cultural clashes in centers of commerce, foreign interference in government, and other forms of troublesome machinations. Despite the recognition of these concerns, Aristotle was in no way a xenophobe. Instead, he openly criticized people who exhibited inhospitable and malicious reactions to foreigners. Countering this, Aristotle advocated that a person should show a kind disposition toward guests in one’s lands. In his text, The Politics, Aristotle wrote, “harshness to strangers is, I think, quite wrong; one ought not to behave thus to anyone, and fierceness is not a mark of natural greatness of mind except towards wrongdoers” (Aristotle, The Politics, Bekker page 1327b). Curiously, Aristotle’s pupil, Alexander the Great, seemed to take the message of cultural tolerance to heart. Rather than look at foreigners as barbarians, Alexander welcomed them both culturally and intimately. The polygamous king kept a mistress named Barsine, daughter of the Persian satrap Artabazus II, and he went on to marry Roxana, daughter of the Persian vassal, Oxyartes, and also married Stateira and Parysatis, daughters of the Persian kings Darius III and Artaxerxes, respectively. Alexander tried to bridge the cultural divide between the Greeks and the peoples of the new lands he had conquered. In this regard, he experimented with hybridizing his royal court’s fashion and ceremonial processes, much to the dislike of his longest serving lieutenants. Such cultural clashes with unhappy Greeks ultimately led Alexander to execute his disgruntled biographer and propagandist, Callisthenes (d. 327 BCE)—who, ironically, was a nephew and fellow student of Aristotle.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Cropped section of Orestes and Pylades Disputing at the Altar, Painted By Pieter Lastman (c. 1583-1633), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Rijksmuseum).
Sources
The Politics by Aristotle, translated by T. A. Sinclair and revised by T. J. Saunders. London: Penguin Classics, 1962, 1992.
The Campaigns of Alexander by Arrian, translated by Aubrey de Sélincourt. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971.
This blue painting, by the American artist Henry Ossawa Tanner (1859-1937), re-creates a storied scene from the early life of Moses, the famous Hebrew prophet and leader featured in the biblical Book of Exodus. As the story goes, Moses was born at a time when the pharaoh of Egypt was ordering all male Hebrew newborn children in his realm to be put to death. Instead of following this order, Moses’ family opted to leave the child by the bank of the Nile, releasing him into the care of fate and nature. Yet, they also increased Moses’ odds of survival by timing the child’s abandonment to coincide with the known bathing schedule of the pharaoh’s sympathetic daughter. As described in the Book of Exodus:
“When she [Moses’ mother] could hide him no longer she got a papyrus basket for him and plastered it with bitumen and pitch; she put the child in it and placed it among the reeds on the bank of the river. His sister stood at a distance, to see what would happen to him. The daughter of Pharaoh came down to bathe at the river, while her attendants walked beside the river. She saw the basket among the reeds and sent her maid to bring it. When she opened it, she saw the child. He was crying, and she took pity on him. ‘This must be one of the Hebrews’ children,’ she said.” (Exodus 2: 3-6, New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition (NRSVUE) translation).
It is this scene of the pharaoh’s daughter discovering Moses in the water that Henry Ossawa Tanner re-creates in his painting. Yet, the tale did not end there, for Moses’ sister boldly injected herself into the scene to ensure that her family retained some connection to the baby’s upbringing. The author of the Book of Exodus continued:
“Then his sister said to Pharaoh’s daughter, ‘Shall I go and get you a nurse from the Hebrew women to nurse the child for you?’ Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, ‘Yes.’ So the girl went and called the child’s mother. Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, ‘Take this child and nurse it for me, and I will give you your wages.’ So the woman took the child and nursed it. When the child grew up, she brought him to Pharaoh’s daughter, and he became her son. She named him Moses, ‘because,’ she said, ‘I drew him out of the water.’” (Exodus 2: 7-10, New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition (NRSVUE) translation).
Henry Tanner’s choice of a blue color palette set his painting apart from other notable artworks of the same scene. Similar “Finding of Moses” paintings by Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836–1912) and Sébastien Bourdon (c. 1616-1671), for instance, depicted daytime scenes of color, vibrance, and realistic figures, whereas Tanner’s more abstract subjects, bathed in blue hues, seem to find Moses during a moon-lit night. Given the clandestine nature of Moses’ abandonment, and the pain and gloom of surrendering one’s own child into the care of a stranger, the shades of blue are a fitting touch by the artist.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Sources:
The New Oxford Annotated Bible: New Revised Standard Version With The Apocrypha (Fifth Edition, Fully Revised), edited by Michael D. Coogan and associates. Oxford University Press, 2018.
The Oxford Companion to the Bible, edited by Bruce M. Metzger and Michael D. Coogan. Oxford University Press, 1993.
“Men, upon too many occasions, do not give their own understandings fair play; but, yielding to some untoward bias, they entangle themselves in words and confound themselves in subtleties.”
From The Federalist No. XXXI, by Alexander Hamilton, in The Federalist Papers. Republished by the Henry Regnery Company (Chicago, Illinois, 1948).
This narrated video essay examines the ancient and medieval tale of Bishop Bricius of Tours (r. 397-444) and the troubled relationship he had with his suspicious community. Enjoy the audio and visual presentation of this curious story, involving scandals, miracles, and an ordeal by fire in a long saga that spanned from ancient France to Rome.
Saint Bricius (or Brice) was a peculiar bishop who oversaw the bishopric of Tours between the years, 397 and 444. His immediate predecessor and mentor in Tours was Saint Martin, who was bishop of the region from 371 to 397. Unfortunately, Bricius was far from an ideal understudy, as he gained a reputation as a moody, skeptical, overly sarcastic and jealous man, especially toward his mentor, while St. Martin lived. Their curious relationship was discussed by Gregory of Tours, a later 6th-century bishop of the region, who wrote in his Ten Books of Histories, also commonly known asThe History of the Franks, that “the Saint used very frequently to rebuke him for spending too much of his time on trivial matters” and “Even when he had been ordained as a priest, Bricius continued to cause pain to the Saint by his sarcastic remarks” (The History of the Franks, Book II, Chapter 1). Despite these red flags, Bricius was ordained as a priest and, for whatever reason, St. Martin named him as heir to the bishopric of Tours.
Despite St. Martin’s faith in his successor, Bricius received barely a lukewarm reception from the people he was meant to be shepherding. He coexisted with his community for decades, but he never really inspired any noticeable trust, respect, or camaraderie, leaving his career a proverbial powder keg. Bricius’ unstable relationship with his congregants eventually shattered completely when he was one day accused of being the father of a washwoman’s newborn boy. The people of Tours were so ill disposed against their bishop that they immediately believed the accuser, and the unruly mob quickly pushed for Bricius to be stoned to death. On this, Gregory of Tours reported, “A woman to whom his servants used to give his clothes to wash, and who for religious reasons had herself given up wearing lay garments, became pregnant and bore a child. At this news the entire population of Tours rose in its anger. They laid the whole guilt on their Bishop and as one man wanted to stone him to death” (The History of the Franks, Book II, Chapter 1). The bishop, however, was given a chance to defend himself against the accusation. For his defense, he ultimately decided to rely upon a signature move of ancient saints—miracles—to prove his innocence.
According to Gregory of Tours, Bricius had the washwoman’s baby brought before him, in view of all the townspeople. Summoning all of his clerical power, the bishop commanded the newborn, in the name of Jesus, to proclaim for the congregation whether or not Bricias was his father. If the local tradition of Tours is to be believed, the baby was indeed compelled to tell the truth and, even though he could not yet talk, the newborn eloquently exclaimed, “you are not my father” (Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, Book II, chapter 1). After miraculously stating this short sentence, the baby lost the power of speech and once more took on the characteristics of the average newborn baby.
Talking baby aside, what looks like a miracle to one person can also look like a trick or an illusion to another. In Tours, the town’s dislike for Bricius made them skeptical of the miraculous baby. Rather than take the baby’s words as proof of the bishop’s innocence, the people of Tours instead accused Bricius of using diabolical magic to make the child speak. Consequently, the bishop now needed to clear himself of an additional accused crime, one that was more serious than the first. Upon this realization, he decided to perform a second miracle. Once more, Bricius gathered the congregation to witness something spectacular. According to Gregory of Tours, Bricius, “placed burning coals in his cassock and pressed them against his body and went in procession with the whole mob to the tomb of Saint Martin. When he reached the tomb he dropped the coals on the ground, but his cassock had no marks of burning on it…” (The History of the Franks, Book II, Chapter 1). Bricius triumphantly pointed out that he, too, was unscathed, without a scorch to be seen on his body. The bishop, however, was held in such little esteem that these miracles were dismissed as flukes. After these peculiar events, the result of the trial was bittersweet. On a positive note, he managed to escape death by stoning, but, on the other hand, the people of Tours went on to sentence Bricius to exile.
Following the bizarre trial, the exiled bishop fled to Rome. He somehow ingratiated himself with successive popes, presumably coinciding with the reigns of Popes Celestine I (who ruled between 422 and 432) and Sixtus III (reigning from 432 to 440). Back home, the people of Tours elected for themselves two successive bishops, named Justinian and Armentius. Curiously, Bricius was still technically the bishop, as Justinian and Armentius were considered illegitimate by the Roman popes. Our medieval source for this tale, the aforementioned bishop and historian, Gregory of Tours, also agreed that Bricius was the rightful bishop. After the death of Armentius, the city of Tours finally accepted Bricius back into the community and let him awkwardly resume his role as bishop of the region until his death in the year 444.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Popes during the time of Bricius:
*Pope/Saint Siricius (r. 384 to 399)
*Pope/Saint Anastasius I (r. 399-401)
*Pope/Saint Innocent I (401-417)
*Pope/Saint Saint Boniface I (r. 418-422)
*Pope/Saint Celestine I (r. 422 to 432)
*Pope/Saint Sixtus III (r. 432-440)
*Pope Leo I (reigned 440–461)
Book Sources:
The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971.
Aristotle (c. 384-322 BCE), in his influential text, The Politics, wrote about different types of governments and state constitutions, as well as what he deemed to be beneficial or destructive to each model. In his arguments, Aristotle referred to examples from history, citing different kinds of Greek city-state constitutions. He even commented on the ways of foreign governments, such as the great North African realm of Carthage. Aristotle was impressed by several aspects of the Carthaginian government and society. For one, he admired Carthage’s social initiatives for the poor and destitute. The philosopher was impressed by reports about Carthaginian programs in which impoverished people were provided with land, as well as job assistance. On this, Aristotle wrote, “It has been by running their constitution on some such lines that the Carthaginians have secured the goodwill of their people. From time to time they send some of them to live in the outlying districts and turn them into men of substance” (Aristotle, The Politics, Bekker page 1320a). Aristotle would remember this program when he decided to write about what causes stability and instability in societies.
Democracies were one of the many government types that Aristotle discussed in The Politics. In his assessment, key components for a stable democracy entailed a healthy economy, fair taxes, ethical use of law and order, and for the democratic constitution and government to have public support. In regard to a prospering economy and public support, Aristotle viewed Carthaginian-style social programs as a boon for public opinion and popular good will. Therefore, in a chapter of his text that envisioned an ideal, stable democracy, Aristotle made sure to note that his ideal democratic state would have social programs for the poor. Aristotle wrote:
“For the duty of the true democrat is to see that the population is not destitute; for destitution is a cause of a corrupt democracy. Every effort therefore must be made to perpetuate prosperity. And, since that is to the advantage of the rich as well as the poor, all that accrues from the revenues should be collected into a single fund and distributed in block grants to those in need. If possible in lump sums large enough for the acquisition of a small piece of land, but if not, enough to start a business, or work in agriculture” (Aristotle, The Politics, Bekker page 1320a).
Such was Aristotle’s appreciation of the Carthaginian program. At the most cynical level, the plan would placate the poor and cultivate good will for the government. Economically, the scheme could reduce poverty and potentially lead to more economic and industrial prosperity. All in all, Aristotle was in favor of Carthaginian social programs.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Sarcophagus with a Greek Physician, made in Ostia, Rome, c. 4th century, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the MET).
Source:
The Politics by Aristotle, translated by T. A. Sinclair and revised by T. J. Saunders. London: Penguin Classics, 1962, 1992.
This painting, attributed to the Italian artist Antonio da Vendri (16th century), draws inspiration from the ancient Greek mythological tale of the Judgment of Paris. Prince Paris of Troy’s judgment would be the catalyst that would lead to the legendary Trojan War. Curiously, despite the pivotal causal nature of the Judgment of Paris incident, the poet Homer (flourished c. 700 BCE) only made the faintest reference to the event, vaguely alluding to the myth in the final pages of The Iliad. Namely, Homer alleged that Paris’ actions during the Judgment tale left a certain group of deities embittered and wrathful, and their anger extended to the Trojans, in general. Homer wrote, “[Troy held] no appeal for Hera, Poseidon, or grey-eyed Athene. These hated sacred Ilium and Priam and his people just as much now as when Paris first committed that act of blind folly at the judgment in his shepherd’s hut, when he humiliated Hera and Athene by preferring Aphrodite—whose reward was his fatal lust for women” (Homer, The Iliad, Book 24, approximately lines 27-30).
So what did Paris do? In the poetic epics of Homer, the reader learns no more, and is only left with the sentiment that he spurned Hera and Athene (or Athena) by siding with Aphrodite, who promised him a lusty reward. Yet, there is much more to the tale, including mischief from the goddess of discord, Eris, and a fateful beauty contest of the Greek goddesses, each willing to bribe the judge to achieve victory. Paris (also known by the names or epithets of Alexandros or Alexander) was the one who was selected to do the judging in the story. For a fuller ancient telling of the myth, one must turn to later mythographers, such as the scholar known as Pseudo-Apollodorus (c. 1st and 2nd century). On the Judgment of Paris (or Alexander), he wrote:
“Eris threw an apple in front of Hera, Athene, and Aphrodite as a prize for the most beautiful, and Zeus instructed Hermes to take them to Alexander of Mount Ida, to be judged by him for their beauty. They promised to give Alexander gifts; Hera promised him universal dominion if she were preferred above all other women, while Athene offered victory in war, and Aphrodite the hand of Helen. He decided in favour of Aphrodite, and sailed to Sparta…” (Apollodorus, Library, Epitome 3.2).
Paris, therefore, was put in the precarious position of deciding which powerful goddess was the fairest of them all, their prize being Eris’ coveted apple and, no doubt, a sense of pride. Hera and Athena tried to bribe the judge with various forms of power, whereas Aphrodite bought the winning vote by promising Paris that she would aid him in seducing Helen, the most beautiful woman on earth. In keeping with the multi-meaning title of the myth, it is safe to say that Paris’ Judgment proved poor and shortsighted. Paris decided in favor of Aphrodite and accepted her assistance in pursuing Helen, disregarding the fact that Helen was already married to the well-connected King Menelaus of Sparta. And the rest, as they say, is history—or, in this case, legend. Paris’ subsequent abduction of Helen would lead to the Trojan War, in which Menelaus’ allied Greek coalition waged war upon Paris’ family and their kingdom, leading to the destruction of Troy.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Sources:
Apollodorus, The Library of Greek Mythology, translated by Robin Hard. New York, Oxford University Press, 1997.
The Iliad by Homer, translated by E. V. Rieu and edited/introduced by Peter Jones. New York: Penguin Classics, 2014.
From Virgil’s Georgics (Book 3, approximately line 284), translated by Peter Fallon (The Gallery Press, 2004, and later Oxford World Classics, 2006, 2009).
Pope Innocent VIII (r. 1484-1492) was Pope of the Roman Catholic Church when Jacob (or James) Sprenger and Heinrich (or Henry) Kramer began formulating an idea about writing a treatise on witchcraft, witches, and how to investigate and prosecute witchcraft cases. Kramer and Sprenger were qualified authors on the subject, as they were university professors who were also Dominican friars and had experience as inquisitors involved in witchcraft trials. Pope Innocent VIII fully supported the proposed literary project of the inquisitors and formally blessed their endeavor in a Papal Bull (basically an authoritative decree) that was disseminated in 1484. In his decree, Pope Innocent gave a preview of the kind of content that would be in Kramer and Sprenger’s book. The pope included in his Papal Bull a detailed summary of 15th-century beliefs about witches, demons, spells, and their theoretical effects. Pope Innocent VIII stated:
“It has indeed lately come to Our ears, not without afflicting Us with bitter sorrow, that in some parts of Northern Germany, as well as in the provinces, townships, territories, districts, and dioceses of Mainz, Cologne, Trèves, Salzburg, and Bremen, many persons of both sexes, unmindful of their own salvation and straying from the Catholic Faith, have abandoned themselves to devils, incubi and succubi, and by their incantations, spells, conjurations, and other accursed charms and crafts, enormities and horrid offences, have slain infants yet in the mother’s womb, as also the offspring of cattle, have blasted the produce of the earth, the grapes of the vine, the fruits of trees, nay, men and women, beasts of burthen, herd-beasts, as well as animals of other kinds, vinyards, orchards, meadows, pastureland, corn, wheat, and all other cereals; these wretches furthermore afflict and torment men and women, beast of burthen, herd-beasts, as well as animals of other kinds, with terrible and piteous pains and sore diseases, both internal and external; they hinder men from performing the sexual act and women from conceiving, whence husbands cannot know their wives nor wives receive their husbands” (The Bull of Innocent VIII, dated 1484, trans. by Montague Summers).
Citing these medieval supernatural concerns, Pope Innocent VIII reaffirmed Kramer and Sprenger as Papal Inquisitors and bid them continue investigating, documenting, and prosecuting such cases as they went about their overarching goal of publishing their treatise on witches, witchcraft, and witch trials. In the aforementioned Papal Bull, Pope Innocent VIII wrote, “Our dear sons Henry Kramer and James Sprenger, Professors of Theology, of the Order of Friars Preachers, have been by Letters Apostolic delegated as Inquisitors of these heretical pravities, and still are Inquisitors…We decree and enjoin that the aforesaid Inquisitors be empowered to proceed to the just correction, imprisonment, and punishment of any persons…” (The Bull of Innocent VIII, dated 1484, trans. by Montague Summers). With their thorough theological education, their previous experience with witchcraft trials, and their continuing authority as re-appointed inquisitors, Kramer and Sprenger channeled their knowledge and experience into their influential text, the Malleus Maleficarum, which was published around 1487.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Tombstone monument of Pope Innocent VIII (r. 1484-1492), by Antonio Pollaiuolo, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the National Museum in Warsaw).
Sources:
The Malleus Maleficarum by Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger, translated by Montague Summers. New York: Dover Publications, 1971.
The Bull of Innocent VIII, in The Malleus Maleficarum by Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger, translated by Montague Summers. New York: Dover Publications, 1971.
This painting, by the Danish artist Nicolai Abildgaard (c. 1743 – 1809), was inspired by the peculiar ancient Roman tale of Fotis and Lucius, which was penned by the Roman writer, Apuleius (c. 125-170/180). As the title of the artwork gives away, Apuleius’ book was titled The Golden Ass, but it was also given a less crude title of Metamorphoses. The book, which reads like a comedic adventure novel, follows the odd life of a man named Lucius, who was cursed by an insatiable curiosity of the occult. His nosiness fatefully caused him to be magically transformed into a donkey—hence the titles of the book. It is this scene of Lucius’ transformation that is re-created in Nicolai Abildgaard’s painting.
Lucius, as the painting portrays, had come in contact with a woman named Fotis (or, Photis, as she is usually called) prior to the peculiar transformation seen above. Lucius gravitated to Photis because she was the maid of a suspected witch named Pamphile. Desperate to see the witch perform a magic spell, Lucius employed charm, charisma and seduction to begin an intimate relationship with Photis, hoping to eventually pressure her to let him witness Pamphile’s powers. Lucius had his wish, and he allegedly saw this scene that Apuleius described:
“Pamphile completely stripped herself; then she opened a chest and took out a small number of boxes. From one of these she removed the lid and scooped out some ointment, which she rubbed between her hands for a long time before smearing herself with it all over from head to foot. Then there was a long muttered address to the lamp during which she shook her arms with a fluttering motion. As they gently flapped up and down there appeared on them a soft fluff, then a growth of strong feathers; her nose hardened into a hooked beak, her feet contracted into talons—and Pamphile was an owl” (Apuleius, The Golden Ass, 3.21).
Lucius, understandably, was amazed and excited about the feat of shapeshifting that he had witnessed. Yet, Lucius’ overabundance of curiosity and interest in magic not only made him want to see magic—he also wanted to try it out for himself. Lucius, after some frantic pleas and encouragement, was able to convince Photis to fetch some of the ointment that had been used in the transformation spell. She successfully found some of it in Pamphile’s nearby stash, and brought it to her reckless lover. Even though Lucius did not have any instructions on how to use the ointment and did not know exactly what needed to be done or muttered during the spell, he decided, anyway, to make his own attempt of transforming into an owl by copying what he had seen. Lucius’ imitation of the ritual, nevertheless, did not go well. Apuleius (narrating from the viewpoint of Lucius) described the comical scene of the transformation that ensued:
“[T]hen very apprehensively she [Photis] slipped into the room and took the box out of the chest. I seized it and kissed it, praying that it would grant me good luck on the wing; then I tore off my clothes, and plunging my hands into it scooped out a generous portion of the ointment and rubbed it all over myself; then I flapped my arms up and down in imitation of a bird. But no down or feathers appeared; instead my hair became coarse and shaggy, my soft skin hardened into hide, my fingers and toes lost their separate identity and coalesced into hooves, and from the end of my spine there protruded a long tail. My face became enormous and my mouth widened; my nostrils dilated and my lips hung down; and my ears became monstrously long and hairy. The only redeeming feature of this catastrophic transformation was that my natural endowment had grown too—but how could I embrace Photis like this? In this hapless state I looked myself over and saw that I was now no bird, but an ass” (Apuleius, The Golden Ass, 3.24-25).
Such is the bizarre scene from the ancient tale that inspired Nicolai Abildgaard’s painting. Lucius’ accomplice, Photis, as a maid of a witch, quickly ran off to try to pull together ingredients that would hopefully cure Lucius from his unfortunate transformation. Yet, in a plot-driving turn of events, the transformed man (now completely a donkey) was stolen from the stables before he could be re-transformed back into a man. As a result, Lucius was stuck as a donkey for much of the remainder of Apuleius’ peculiar book. In the comedic chapters that followed, the donkey with a human mind was handed over from owner to owner, and was dragged from town to town in the Roman Empire due to each transaction. Poor Lucius, all the while, continued to desperately look for a cure to turn himself back into his human form as he was transported around the Mediterranean during his donkey odyssey.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Sources:
The Golden Ass or Metamorphoses by Apuleius, translated by E. J. Kenney. London: Penguin Books, 1998 and revised 2004.
