Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BCE)
“[T]he opportunity of rescuing the country, whatever the dangers that threaten it, does not come suddenly or when you wish it, but only when you are in a position which allows you to do so.”
Lucian of Samosata (c. 120-180+), a Greek-writing satirical author from Roman-controlled Syria, wrote a detailed scene of alleged ancient Syrian love-magic in one of his so-called Chattering Courtesans comedic dialogues. This specific literary conversation was told by the characters, Melitta and Bacchis, who discussed magical ways to meddle with the powers of love, hate, and relationships. Melitta, who wanted to use magic to lure back a former lover, was informed by Bacchis of a certain Syrian sorceress who could use supernatural powers to rekindle old sparks and snuff out new affections. Through the character of Bacchis, Lucian of Samosata described an incredibly specific account of what it might have been like to purchase magical aid for love, including details on pricing, a list of ingredients to bring to the sorceress, and some details on how the supposed magical rituals could be conducted. Lucian, in the character of Bacchis, wrote:
“Well, my love, there’s a terribly useful sorceress, Syrian by race…She doesn’t want a large fee, Melitta—a drachma and a loaf of bread; but in addition you have to leave out seven obols, sulphur, and a torch, along with salt. These she takes up, and she also has to have a bowl of wine mixed, to drink herself. She also needs to have something belonging to the man himself, like clothing or boots or a few hairs, or something of that sort…She hangs them on a peg and fumigates them with sulphur, sprinkling salt on the fire and pronouncing both your names. Then she produces a magic wheel from under her clothes and spins it round, while she glibly reels off an incantation full of fearful and outlandish names” (Lucian of Samosata, Chattering Courtesans 4, sections 4-5).
Such a ritual, according to the literary tale, would cause the targeted man to run back, physically and emotionally, to the woman for whom the spell was performed. If the client, perhaps, also wanted to compel the targeted individual to come to hate other rival love interests, the Syrian sorceress had further magical rituals for that, too. Bacchis, talking of her own lover, Phanias, and a rival named Phoebis, spoke of additional magic instructions given by the sorceress. Lucian’s character, Bacchis, stated, “the Syrian taught me this spell to make him hate Phoebis: to watch for any footprints she left, and to wipe them out by putting my right foot on her left footprint and my left on her right, saying, ‘I have stepped on you and I have got the better of you’” (Lucian of Samosata, Chattering Courtesans 4, section 5). Hearing these tales, Melitta quickly decided to seek out the sorceress’ services, and so ended the story.
It should be reiterated, Lucian of Samosata’s story was literature, and comedic literature, at that. His tale should not be taken as an accurate historical account of sorcery or supernatural powers, and the text is in no way an ancient manual of magic. Nevertheless, the comedic dialogue gives a window into how Lucian and his 2nd-century audience might have envisioned the way love magic worked and how the buyers and sellers of the supernatural product may have operated.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Circe Punishes Glaucus by Turning Scylla into a Monster, by Eglon van der Neer in 1695, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Rijksmuseum).
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If one delves into the galleries of museums, libraries, and other similar institutions of art and photography, it is likely that the person perusing the collections may come across curious antique photographs of human faces being poked with electrified rods, causing their facial muscles to contract into odd expressions. These peculiar images were created by professional photographers, notably Adrien Tournachon (c. 1825 – 1903), at the direction of Guillaume-Benjamin-Amand Duchenne de Boulogne (c. 1806-1875), a French physician and neurologist who specialized in studying and treating neuromuscular disorders. Duchenne was also an innovator and inventor—he was a pioneer in the field of medical photography and also produced electrotherapy/diagnosis equipment, as well as a device that was a precursor to modern biopsy tools. Duchenne’s peculiar images of his subjects’ shocked faces were produced as a result of the physician’s medical photography studies into nerves, muscles, and how faradic stimulation (induced by the electrified rods) affects the muscular system.
Guillaume-Benjamin-Amand Duchenne de Boulogne took pictures of several different human subjects for his series of facial expression photographs, but his favorite (and the subject that art museums and galleries are most likely to showcase) was a disheveled-looking older gentleman with a balding head and missing teeth. Unfortunately, Duchenne did not credit or name the models in his facial expression photography, and as a result the expressive older man featured in the photographs remains an unidentified figure. The Old Toothless Man, as he is sometimes rather rudely nicknamed, was likely a patient of Duchenne (who had a private practice in Boulogne from 1831-1842 and then in Paris from 1842-1875), or from a hospital ward that allowed Duchenne to study and photograph their charges. Duchenne published his facial expression images between 1860-1862, but institutions such as the Metropolitan Museum of Art believe the photographs were taken between 1854 and 1856, whereas other museums (such as the Getty Museum) widen the timeframe to between 1852-1856. As Guillaume-Benjamin-Amand Duchenne was operating from Paris at that time, the unidentified subjects of the photographs were probably Parisians, or from relatively nearby regions.
Duchenne’s facial expression photography was primarily medical and anatomical in nature, meant to display how common expressions were produced by the contraction of specific muscles. His photography collection, however, found interesting favor in the art community. On the one hand, Duchenne’s photography is a thought-provoking artistic experience, in itself. On the other, the medical photography can serve as an artistic reference for artists wishing to reproduce the complicated musculature of the human face. Whatever the reasons, the art world was drawn to Duchenne’s photography and copies of his work can be found in institutions such as the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Rijksmuseum, and the Getty Museum, to name a few. Debatable ethics of uncredited models and his use of patients as subjects aside, Guillaume-Benjamin-Amand Duchenne de Boulogne has gained a respected reputation as a foundational figure in his field of neuromuscular medicine and medical photography.
Below are many of the pictures that Duchenne took of the mysterious man. Be warned, some of the photographs can be a bit unnerving.
All of the photographs featured above come from the MET, the Rijksmuseum, or the Getty Museum, and were all labeled as Public Domain at the time of publishing this article.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Top Picture Attribution: (Left: portrait negative by Guillaume-Benjamin-Amand Duchenne de Boulogne (1806–1875), [Public Domain] via Getty. Center: Faradisation du muscle frontal, by Duchenne, [Public Domain] via the MET. Right: Fig 58 by Duchenne, [Public Domain] via Getty).
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Jean-Jacques Rousseau (c. 1712-1778)
“Free peoples, be mindful of this maxim: ‘Liberty may be gained, but can never be recovered.'”
Cicero (c. 106-43 BCE), the famous silver-tongued statesman of the Roman Republic, won his political race to become a powerful consul of Rome in 64 BCE and subsequently served his term in the high office during the year 63 BCE. A former governor named Lucius Sergius Catilina, usually shortened to Catiline, had competed and lost against Cicero in the election of 64 BCE. While Cicero was serving out his term as consul, Catiline ran for office in the 63 BCE consular election race, but an electoral defeat crushed his ambitions once again. Following this second election loss, Catiline decided to abandon the usual political process and plotted, along with a tribune named Manlius and other conspirators, to seize power through the use of assassination and armed rebellion.
Consul Cicero and the Roman government discovered the conspiracy around October of 63 BCE, and by November, indictments were issued against conspirators as the military was dispatched against Catiline’s rebel army (which had been secretly gathered by Tribune Manlius). Come December, several conspirators had been arrested in Rome and five were controversially executed without an adequate trial—a detail that hounded Cicero’s reputation and legacy. Nevertheless, as the year was coming to a close, it was about time for Cicero to relinquish his position as a consul of the Roman Republic.
Cicero, who lived for speeches, wanted to formally address the Roman masses in regard to his efforts to overcome Catiline’s conspiracy. Yet, to the statesman’s frustration, this wish for a formal speech was blocked by the tribunes, Bestia and Nepos. In response, Cicero found a loophole by splicing portions of his intended speech into a customary assembly oath he was required to give at the end of his term. In his work, The Republic, Cicero recalled, “As I was retiring from the consulship, I swore in a public assembly that the state had been saved by my actions” (Cicero, The Republic, chapter 8). Indeed, the early discovery of the conspiracy and the arrest of the conspirators who were still in Rome did save the Republic from a worse rebellion, but it is curious to note that Catiline and his forces in the field had not yet been defeated at that time. Catiline’s rebels were not militarily destroyed until 62 BCE. Unfortunately for Cicero, the Catiline conspiracy was a harbinger of things to come and the Republic was only granted the briefest of reprieves from existential crises. Julius Caesar and Pompey the Great soon put the Roman government in a stranglehold with the First Triumvirate in 60 BCE. Then they dragged the Romans into the Civil War of 49 BCE, which transitioned control away from the Roman Senate and put power irreversibly into the hands of authoritarian emperors. Cicero, himself, fell along with the Republic, as he was assassinated in 43 BCE on the orders of Mark Antony and Octavian (later known as Augustus, r. 32/27 BCE-14 CE).
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Bronze Roman statue of a camillus (acolyte), dated ca. 14–54 CE, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the MET).
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This painting, by the French artist Sébastien Bourdon (c. 1616-1671), envisions a scene from the early life of Moses—the famous Hebrew prophet and leader who is featured in the 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. What reportedly happened next was told in the Book of Exodus:
“But when she [Moses’ mother] could hide him no longer, she got a papyrus basket for him and coated it with tar and pitch. Then she placed the child in it and put it among the reeds along the bank of the Nile. His sister stood at a distance to see what would happen to him. Then Pharaoh’s daughter went down to the Nile to bathe, and her attendants were walking along the riverbank. She saw the basket among the reeds and sent her female slave to get it. She opened it and saw the baby. He was crying, and she felt sorry for him… and he became her son” (Exodus 2: 3-10, NIV translation).
It is this scene of the Pharaoh’s daughter retrieving baby Moses that Sébastien Bourdon re-creates in his artwork. Specifically, the child is in the process of being lifted out of the river and carried over to his future adoptive mother. According to tradition, Moses would go on to be raised and educated in Egyptian high society. Yet, he would eventually return to his roots, becoming one of the most influential prophets and leaders of the Hebrew people.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Franz Kafka (c. 1883-1924)
“It makes my head spin when I listen to you expressing your opinions, and compare what you say with the actual situation.”
Ancient Syracuse on the island of Sicily was a city prone to dynasties of authoritarian tyrants. A man named Gelon, previously the tyrant of Gela (r. 491–485), went on to seize control of Syracuse, tyrannically ruling the city from 485-478 BCE. His tyranny became a family affair, as Gelon left his brother and successor, Hiero, to oversee their family’s previous seat of power at Gela. Hiero, indeed, succeeded Gelon as the next tyrant of Syracuse, ruling from 478-467 BCE. Hiero’s successor, Thrasybulus—also a kinsman—proved to have a less successful reign. Thrasybulus ruled briefly between 467-466 BCE, before being ousted by a democratic revolution. Gelon and his successors only ruled for about two decades, but their family left a distinct legacy. From geopolitical military successes in Sicily to cultural flourishment within Syracuse, the reigns of these early tyrants made an impact. Yet, Gelon and his successors also gained a more shadowy reputation for how they maintained their tyrannical power—spies, lots of spies. Aristotle (c. 384-322 BCE), the famous intellectual, used Gelon’s family as a prime example to explain some of the methods that tyrants use to maintain control. Aristotle wrote, “a tyrant should endeavor to keep himself aware of everything that is said or done among his subjects: he should have spies like the ‘Tittle-Tattle Women’ of Syracuse, or the Eavesdroppers whom Hiero used to send to any place where there was a meeting or gathering of people. Men speak less freely for fear of such men, and if they do open their mouths, they are more likely to be detected” (Aristotle, Politics, Bekker page 1313b). The titles of the spies can vary from translation to translation, for example, the H. Rackham version (Harvard University Press, 1944) exchanges Tittle-Tattle Women and Eavesdroppers for provocatrices and sharp-ears. As for Syracuse, Thrasybulus would not be the last tyrant to rule the city. A new dynasty of tyrannical autocratic rulers would be started by the general, Dionysius, who ruled Syracuse from 405-367 BCE.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Section of Achilles and the Daughters of King Lycomedes, Painted Circa 1690 By Antonio Molinari (c. 1655-1704) and F. Gerardi, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons Webumenia).
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This tapestry, designed by Justus van Egmont (c. 1601–1674) and woven by the workshop of Willem van Leefdael (c. 1632–1688), purports to show Queen Cleopatra of Egypt (r. 51 BCE-30 BCE) enjoying a luxurious sea cruise on one of her pleasure barges. The most famous ancient description of a scene like this was written by the biographer, Plutarch (c. 50-120), who told of how the influential Roman general, Mark Antony (c. 83-30 BCE), was left awestruck by Cleopatra and her ornate ship at the Cydnus (Berdan) River. Plutarch wrote:
“She came sailing up the river Cydnus, in a barge with gilded stern and outspread sails of purple, while oars of silver beat time to the music of flutes and fifes and harps. She herself lay all along under a canopy of cloth of gold, dressed as Venus in a painting, and beautiful young boys, like painted Cupids, stood on each side to fan her. Her maids were dressed like sea nymphs and graces, some steering at the rudder, some working at the ropes. The perfumes diffused themselves from the vessel to the shore, which was covered with multitudes, part following the galley up the river on either bank, part running out of the city to see the sight. The market-place was quite emptied, and Antony at last was left alone sitting upon the tribunal” (Plutarch, The Parallel Lives, Life of Antony, chapter 26).
It is a pleasurable outing such as this that Justus van Egmont and Willem van Leefdael re-created in their tapestry. Cleopatra lived luxuriously off the ship, as well. The queen and her friends enjoyed throwing famously extravagant banquets and parties, to which Mark Antony was eventually invited, especially after the pair became a couple. Antony and Cleopatra’s fun and games were cut short, however, when they were defeated by the forces of their Roman rival, Octavian, in the year 30 BCE.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BCE)
“[T]hey argue, it is no business for a wise man to take over the reins, since he cannot check the mad, uncontrollable rush of the crowd; nor does it befit a free man to struggle with corrupt and uncivilized opponents, lashed with foul abuse and submitting to outrages which would be intolerable to a person of good sense—as if good, brave, and high-minded men could have any stronger reason for entering politics than the determination not to give in to the wicked, and not to allow the state to be torn apart by such people in a situation where they themselves would be powerless to help even if they wished to do so.”
