The Reception of Titus Pomponius Atticus in Restoration and

Enlightenment Britain: 1650-1800

Candidate Number: 52123

Contents

Introduction p. 2 Chapter 1: Atticus in Recent Ancient Historical Scholarship p. 4

Chapter 2: Nepos and Cicero in Britain: Transmission, p. 12 Readership, and Context

Chapter 3: The Philosophical and Political Backdrop: Epicurus p. 15 and Retirement Chapter 4: Atticus’s Reception in the Late Seventeenth and Early p. 31 Eighteenth Centuries

Chapter 5: Atticus’s Reception from the mid Eighteenth Century p. 52 Onwards

Chapter 6: The Implications of Atticus for Reception Theory p. 69

Conclusion p. 71

Bibliography p. 76

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I: Introduction

The reception of the prominent Roman eques Titus Pomponius Atticus (110-32 B.C.),

best known for his life-long friendship and correspondence with Marcus Tullius Cicero, is a

project as yet un-attempted within the boundaries of the recently established field of classical

reception studies. Indeed, although interest in the reception of Cicero has been steadily

increasing for decades, Atticus has been somewhat overshadowed in more recent historical

analysis, perhaps due to his very proximity to Cicero’s more dramatic presence. He has not,

however, been passed over entirely: in the ancient historical scholarship of the past half-

century, there have been several attempts to dislodge Atticus from his Ciceronian bedrock,

and establish, as far as possible, his character and behaviour. This thesis, therefore,

represents a parallel attempt to establish a presence for Atticus in the field of reception

studies: as will become evident, Atticus’s character was attractive in the past in ways which

are unfamiliar to us. In order to recover the many possibilities which Atticus had for our

predecessors, therefore, it will be necessary to engage closely both with the texts which they

have produced, and their own intellectual and personal contexts.

In undertaking any reception analysis, it is necessary to maintain a dual perspective,

with due focus both on the primary context, (i.e. in this case Atticus’s own context) and the

secondary context, that in which he is ‘received’. This is particularly important in a case such

as this, where the contexts are far removed from each other, both chronologically and

geographically. Intrinsic to this investigation, therefore, is an examination both of the

relevant ‘ancient’ texts, and also of written evidence from the British secondary context,

specifically the period 1650-1800. The chronological boundaries are not arbitrary: it was

during this period, almost exclusively, that the figure of Atticus was actively ‘received’ in

Britain, and that the vast majority of texts which concern him were published or created.

These texts, both ancient and modern, will form the core of evidence for this thesis. I should

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note that, unusually in the field of reception studies, I will not be restricting attention merely

to texts which might generally be termed ‘literary’, for in this context a wide range of genres

must be consulted. Indeed, while more conventional forms of texts, (such as rhetorical essays

and poetry) are relevant here, it is, however, often the genres of biography, translation, and

personal records (in particular diaries and correspondence) which bear the ripest fruit, in both

primary and secondary contexts.

In order to establish some order out of the degree of chaos which Atticus’s reception

presents, then, I shall attempt to delineate the several strands of the subject as carefully as

possible. My first chapter contains a preliminary review of the recent ancient historical

scholarship concerning Atticus: this will not merely act as an introduction to his persona, but

also to several of those issues surrounding his character, which will themselves become

highly relevant in the later ‘reception’ context. Following this, I shall, in the second chapter,

focus on our two ancient sources for Atticus’s life, Nepos’s biography, Life of Atticus, and

Cicero’s Epistulae ad Atticum, examining briefly their transmission through to the

seventeenth-century British context, and establishing, as far as possible, the extent and type

of readership which they received. In the third chapter, I shall provide some background

detail on the seventeenth-century and early eighteenth-century contexts, focusing particularly

on the philosophical and political factors which form the backdrop for the composition of our

core texts. In addition, I hope to concentrate here on what I shall describe as the ‘retirement

context’ which pervades a great deal of Atticus’s reception, and to situate this within and

around the controversial concept of the ‘Epicurean Revival’ of the late seventeenth century

and beyond. For, despite long-standing controversy concerning Atticus’s own philosophical

predisposition, many of his actions (his perceived non-participation in politics, for example)

were frequently interpreted throughout our period as in some way ‘Epicurean’.

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In chapters 4 and 5, I shall focus primarily on those texts from the mid seventeenth to

late eighteenth centuries, which comment upon the character of Atticus. In doing so, I hope

to throw some light on the vast multitude of philosophical, political, ethical and personal

reasons why Atticus was admired or indeed vilified during our period. We see in several of

our texts a process of self-identification with Atticus, which demands attention: I shall,

therefore, concentrate specifically on the ways in which men, and occasionally women, of

this period ‘received’ Atticus on a personal level. This approach, I feel, will suggest parallels

and conclusions, if any are appropriate, far more effectively than a more straightforward

analysis of the transmission of the ancient texts themselves. Finally, I shall consider the

implications of Atticus’s reception for the methodologies of classical reception studies in

general. In particular, I shall raise questions concerning the legitimacy of the commonly

assumed ideological distance between modern day ancient historical scholarship and

‘reception’ contexts. Indeed, both the case of Atticus’s reception, and my own practice as an

ancient and modern historian, have led me to conclude that, in fact, this artificial separation

should be replaced with an appreciation of a more or less unbroken tradition of scholarship

from at least the sixteenth century onwards.

II: Atticus in Recent Ancient Historical Scholarship

Whilst the main historical focus throughout this thesis will be firmly grounded on the

seventeenth and eighteenth-century contexts, it is nevertheless important to make a

preliminary exploration of those issues which present-day ancient historians consider to be of

importance in the scholarly appreciation of Atticus. In terms of evidence for Atticus’s life,

we are little better placed than the early moderns: the two staple ancient sources for Atticus’s

life, Cornelius Nepos’s Life of Atticus and Cicero’s Epistulae ad Atticum, were available then

as now. Indeed, very little relevant primary material has been discovered since the

Renaissance, and, unfortunately, there have been no archaeological discoveries which have

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been able to add to the available evidence with any surety.1 Furthermore, although Atticus

was himself a prolific writer and historian, these two sources preserve next to nothing from

his own pen. The fact that there has been no recent growth of evidence concerning Atticus,

then, has ensured that the issues with which the twenty-first scholar engages are not far

removed in essence from those with which Restoration and Enlightenment scholars grappled.

Neither Nepos’s nor Cicero’s accounts of Atticus’s character are straightforward, either

in genre or bias. Nepos’s biography causes particular difficulty, for it is somewhat unusual

even amongst his own work: although he composed over two hundred similar short

biographies, this is, as far as we are aware, the only piece to have been written with a Roman

eques (rather than a man of senatorial rank) as a subject. It is not clear, however, whether the

unique character of the biography specifically reflects Atticus’s individuality, or rather

Nepos’s own concerns. It would appear that he was on terms of some kind of friendship with

Atticus, and quite possibly also with Cicero, although it is difficult to judge how close either

relationship was. It is likely, however, that the acquaintance was more of an intellectual than

a personal nature: Nepos may possibly have published a De Vita Ciceronis, and quite

probably a compilation of his own Epistulae ad Ciceronem.2 This rather muddy background

behind the biography, therefore, makes it rather difficult to judge the value judgements

contained therein. Nevertheless, we cannot afford to treat Nepos’s Atticus as cautiously as it

perhaps deserves, for it is the only text which centres specifically on the person of Atticus,

and is by far the most coherent chronological narrative which we possess of Atticus’s life. 1 Whilst, for example, there exists a gymnasial inscription from Ephesus that refers to a Titus Pomponius Atticus as a praefectus of the deified Julius and of Octavian – and therefore holding a formal government position - there is no guarantee that the inscription refers to our Atticus. Furthermore, it need not imply political activity, perhaps merely a monetary donation. Indeed, as Jones notes (1989; p. 92) this inscription could be an example of Nepos’s rather curious statement (Nepos, Atticus, 6.4): multorum consulum praetorumque praefecturas delatas sic accepit, ut neminem in provinciam sit secutus, honore fuerit contentus, rei familiaris despexerit fructum: ‘though he accepted the prefectures offered to him by many consuls and praetors, he never accompanied them to their provinces, was content with the honour, and overlooked the pecuniary advantage to himself.’ 2 Aulus Gellius 15.28. corrects an error in Nepos’s De Vita Ciceronis, but this is generally acknowledged to be exaggerated (Horsfall (1989) xvi, Note 10). Lactantius, Div. Inst. 7. III.15. records an extract from Nepos’s Epistulae ad Ciceronem.

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Nepos begins with a relatively standard account of Atticus’s eminent family

background, brilliant school years, his popularity during his lengthy residence in Athens, and

the details of his return to Rome. At chapter six, however, Nepos’s main theme becomes

apparent: Atticus’s non-involvement in the usual channels of public life. Atticus’s life was

one of restraint and private activity, and there were many things which he did not do:

neque tamen se civilibus fluctibus committeret... honores non petiit... ad hastam publicam numquam accessit... neminem neque suo nomine neque subscribens accusavit... in ius de sua re numquam iit... iudicium nullum habuit.

He did not commit himself to the storms of civil disorder... he sought no offices... he never took part in a public auction... he accused no one, whether in his own name or as seconder... he never went to law on his own account... he never exercised jurisdiction.3

This tone continues throughout chapters 7-18: it was through inactivity and neutrality, and his

refusal to accept honours, for example, that Atticus succeeded in keeping on good terms with

both Pompey and Caesar during the civil wars.4 At the same time, however, Nepos

constantly emphasises Atticus’s devotion to his friends first and foremost, and his even-

handed generosity to all, regardless of political affiliation.

Id ex ipsis rebus ac temporibus iudicari potest, quod non florentibus se venditavit, sed aflicits semper succurrit.

It may be concluded from the facts and circumstances themselves that he did not sell himself to the successful but always helped those in trouble.5

Atticus’s humanitas is always at the forefront of Nepos’s mind: he was on good terms with

men of every generation, and his devotion to his family was unrivalled.6 More than this, he

was suitably patriotic: Moris...maiorum summus imitator fuit antiquitatisque amator: ‘He was

a strict imitator of the customs of our ancestors, and a lover of antiquity.’7

It has been largely agreed that Nepos’s themes here, of Atticus’s desire for Ἀταραξία

(the state of freedom from disturbance), and his desire to preserve his own reputation and that

3 Nepos, Life of Atticus, 6.1-34 Nepos, Atticus, 7.1-35 Nepos, Atticus, 11.46 Nepos, Atticus, 177 Nepos, Atticus, 18.1; 18.2

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of his friends, are philosophically of an Epicurean ‘tone’. Yet at no point does he label

Atticus an Epicurean: indeed he does not label his philosophical position at all, merely refers

vaguely on one occasion to his general philosophical knowledge.

Nam principum philosophorum ita percepta habuit praecepta, ut iis ad vitam agendam, non ad ostentationem uteretur.

For he had fixed in his mind the precepts of the greatest philosophers, so as to use them for the direction of his life, and not merely for ostentation.8

This omission may reflect Nepos’s own literary preferences: if we are to believe Nepos’s

comment to Cicero preserved in Lactantius, he considered philosophy a waste of space:

Tantum abest ut ego magistram putem esse vitae philosophiam beataeque vitae perfectricem, ut nullis magis existimem opus esse magistros vivendi quam plerisque qui in ea disputanda versantur.

So far am I from thinking that philosophy is the mistress of life and the means to achieving happiness that I believe that none need masters in their lives more than most of those who occupy themselves with discussing philosophy.9

Perhaps, in fact, Nepos was not quite sure how to express a specific philosophical stance in a

literary work, and provided instead a more general portrait: indeed, Nepos’s rationale for

Atticus’s abstention from public life, while admittedly largely Epicurean in tone, also

contains a certain number of Stoic-sounding phrases.10

The Ciceronian evidence unfortunately, complicates, rather than clarifies, this issue of

Atticus’s philosophical stance and the degree of his adherence to it. There are several

snippets in the Epistulae which relate to Atticus’s mode of life and his Epicurean tendencies,

but they lack overall coherence when set side by side, and often represent very little more

than teasing comments - the familiar tone between the two men can be difficult to penetrate.

And, although Cicero gave Atticus the Epicurean stance in two of his philosophical treatises

(De Legibus and Tusculan Disputationes) and dedicated De Amicitia (an ‘Epicurean’ theme)

to him, it does not logically follow that he considered his friend to be a strict adherent of 8 Nepos, Atticus, 17.39 Horsfall (1989) p. 32: Fragment 39. Latin at: Lactantius. Div. Inst. 3.15.1010 Nepos, Atticus, 6.2

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Epicureanism. Indeed, one could argue that, throughout the Ciceronian evidence, we learn

more about Cicero’s own vision of Atticus, and the attributes which Cicero wishes him to

possess in different contexts, than the ‘true’ nature of Atticus’s philosophical predisposition.

It is a pity indeed that Atticus’s letters to Cicero are not extant, or indeed Atticus’s letters to

other friends, such as Brutus or Hortensius: such evidence might have been able to redress the

rather awkward balance in favour of Atticus’s own views on the matter.

The ambiguity of the sources on this central issue of Atticus’s Epicurean tendencies has

led to a wide variety of scholarly interpretations over the past century and a half. In recent

decades, the general trend of scholarship has been a steady movement from a general

acceptance of Atticus as a relatively serious-minded Epicurean, to an increasingly widespread

scepticism concerning the degree of his philosophical attachment. The first interest in

Atticus’s activities, around the mid-point of the twentieth century, came from continental

scholars such as Carcopino, Nicolet, Boissier, and Ziegler, whose conclusions were generally

negative: Boissier, for example, viewed Atticus as ‘philosophically a fraud and morally a

cad,’ a man who used his philosophy as a lame excuse for being too cowardly to act on his

conservative principles.11 English scholars, however, tended to respond to Atticus in a more

positive fashion. Shackleton Bailey argued in his 1965 introduction to Cicero’s Epistulae ad

Atticum, that, while Atticus was had many opportunities to ‘join behind the scenes in the

political game of which he was a privileged spectator’, he rarely took advantage of them.12

Similarly, Leslie viewed Atticus as an exponent of what he called ‘Roman Epicureanism’: in

his opinion, Atticus ‘could never have considered seriously any complete retirement from

Roman affairs, or any complete disregard for those political, social and financial activities in

which his shrewd and energetic nature took such delight.’13

11 Boissier in Leslie (1950) p. 7112 Shackleton Bailey (1965-70) p. 913 Leslie (1950) p. 73

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Towards the 1980s, however, voices of scepticism became more numerous: Elizabeth

Rawson, in her Intellectual Life in the Late Roman Republic, declared that, ‘His adhesion to

the School was probably little more than a warrant for the cult of private life, simplicity and

friendship, and perhaps for a dislike of superstition.’14 More recently, scholars such as Fergus

Millar and Kathyrn Welch have attempted to fill out Atticus’s biographical details, often

using snippets from Cicero to generalise about Atticus’s political beliefs and business

activities. Welch, in particular, has constructed an imaginatively ‘alternative’ Atticus: a

brilliant businessman who deliberately conducted his political career behind the scenes:

‘Atticus should be seen as a discreet, diplomatic and constant political and financial brain

who sought at all times to be influential with the powerful.’15 She attaches great significance

to Cicero’s comment to Atticus in 55BC: nam tu quidem, etsi es natura πολιτικός, tamen

nullam habes propriam servitutem: ‘For you, though you are a political animal by nature, are

not subject to any peculiar servitude.’ 16 Welch’s Atticus is πολιτικός, but is not bound by the

ideological concerns or obligations which hampered others. ‘What really is the difference’,

she comments, ‘between private and public purposes... in the case of a man who...controlled

the private fortunes of many of the significant political and financial figures of his day?’ 17

Welch’s stance is not unreasonable: even a very small amount of reading between the

lines of Cicero’s Epistulae leads to the inevitable conclusion that some of Nepos’s claims as

to Atticus’s non-involvement in public life must have been exaggerated. However, this

imaginative type of response can, I would argue, be taken too far, for it does seem to

14 Rawson (2002) pp. 100-101. Rawson, incidentally, rests her suggestion on a comment of Cicero’s in a letter of 51 BC to his supposedly Epicurean friend Memmius, in which Cicero applies the insulting term ‘baro’ or ‘blockhead’ to Patro, then head of the Epicurean school at Athens. Griffin argues that Cicero is stereotyping for effect here: after all, she comments, neither Memmius nor Atticus were dogmatic Epicureans without appropriate balance and rigour: ‘The Memmius episode then provides no argument against the natural assumption that both Atticus’ abstention from public life and his energetic cultivation of personal friendships were connected with his Epicurean convictions.’ Griffin & Barnes (1997) p. 17

15 Welch (1996) p. 47016 Cicero, Epistulae ad Atticum, SB (Shackleton Bailey 1999) 83.1-217 Welch (1996) p. 453

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prioritise, above all, the disproval of the declarations of the sources themselves. The German

scholar Perlwitz, for example, in his recent examination of Atticus, is so concerned with

counteracting the Ciceronian bias that his use of evidence becomes unhistorical. On one

occasion, he conjectures, contrary to the accepted consensus concerning Atticus’s residence

in Athens during the period 86-71 BC – that it had intellectual and specifically philosophical

underpinnings – that his real intention there was money-lending. When Lucullus imposed a

maximum interest rate of 12% in 71, he suggests, ‘Atticus wird durch die Neuregelung

manche finanzielle Einbuße erlitten haben’, and as a result he had to return to Rome and

resort to land investment.18 Atticus, for Perlwitz, was a money-maker whose friendships with

the powerful enabled him to achieve his financial goals and remain concealed from the public

eye while doing so. This level of detail, however, while at first sight impressive, simply is

not warranted by the available evidence.

Therefore, on the combined issue of Atticus’s Epicureanism and political involvement

or lack of it, I would suggest a pragmatic and moderate conclusion. While it is apparent that

Atticus’s involvement in public life was substantial, it was still not intended to be overt.

Atticus was no Cicero, as Cicero himself pointed out at the early date of December 61:

mihi enim perspecta est et ingenuitas et magnitude animi tui, neque ego inter me atque te quicquam interesse umquam duxi praetor voluntatem institutae vitae.

I am perfectly aware of your large-minded indifference to personal profit, and I have never felt any difference between us except in the modes of life we have chosen.19

Despite the fact that Atticus was surrounded by actively minded men such as Cicero, and

therefore was part of the political drama of the age, nevertheless he made a concerted

attempt, for whatever reason, never to play a walk-on role. In this light, Cicero’s comment of

February 49 B.C. is particularly telling: scio equidem te in publicum non prodire, sed tamen

audire te multa necesse est: ‘I know you don’t go out in public, but still you must hear a

18 Perlwitz (1992) p. 4719 Cicero, Ad Atticum, SB 17.5

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lot.’20 After all, Atticus’s position in society was non-negotiable: the political activity of his

friends very probably made his efforts to remain politically neutral challenging.21 The fact

that his attempts sometimes failed, however, does not mean that he made none.

Whether these attempts were inspired by Epicureanism, it is very difficult for us to

judge. This is in part because we have very little information as to what extent, and in what

ways, Romans of Atticus’s era and position tended to adopt philosophical positions, and

particularly the degree to which they adhered to them in their day-to-day lives. The fact that

Nepos prefers not to label Atticus an ‘Epicurean’ may very well reflect not Atticus’s

philosophical predisposition, but a cultural atmosphere in which it was not customary to label

a man as ‘Epicurean’ or ‘Stoic’. After all, such considerations are, of course, culturally

relative. In Athenian circles, Atticus might have been considered a rather sloppy Epicurean,

but Rome was certainly not Athens. And, despite his affection for Greece, Atticus chose to

return to Rome for the rest of his life: according to Nepos, even when he was offered

citizenship of Athens, he preferred to remain a Roman. 22 Atticus, therefore, chose to reside

somewhere where philosophical activity was not always a respected pursuit: is it really

surprising that he appears to have adapted his ideals to his surroundings?

III: Nepos and Cicero in Britain: Transmission, Readership, and Context

It appears to be the case, then, that our ancient evidence cannot, unfortunately, provide

us with a coherent picture of the ‘authentic’ Atticus. In undertaking the reception of Atticus,

however, it is vital to bear these issues in mind, and to realise that our own analysis will be

preconditioned to an extent by these debates which are so familiar to ancient historians. On

the other hand, it should be pointed out that the search for the ‘real Atticus’ is in fact a rather 20 Cicero, Ad Atticum, SB 161.721 For a notable instance of this, see Cicero, Ad Atticum, SB 114-116, which contain Cicero’s version of the

affair of the Salaminian loan. Atticus’s loyalties to both Cicero and Brutus in his matter cause him difficulties, demonstrating that, although his favours to his friends may have been intended to be of a private nature, when they conflicted, the repercussions could not help but become, in a broad sense, at least, ‘political’.

22 Nepos, Atticus, 3.1

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recent phenomenon, specifically a late-twentieth century obsession, something which we

should not necessarily expect in interpretations before this date. This is not to say that

attitudes and responses to Atticus were not deeply felt or thorough throughout the period

under examination, but, rather, that we should not expect the same degree of engagement

with those controversies with which the current generation of scholars is concerned. Before

we examine these responses, however, it is important to establish the transmission of our

ancient sources, Nepos and Cicero, to their British readers.

The medieval and Renaissance manuscript traditions of both of our ancient sources are

both rather muddied, but of the two, that of Nepos’s Atticus is the more difficult to trace.

Interestingly, none of the extant work of Nepos is quoted in the whole of the surviving

classical corpus, and, as far as it is possible to tell, it appears to have survived through the

Middle Ages via a single manuscript, having been almost entirely unknown after late

Antiquity until at least the ninth century.23 This manuscript, termed Dan or Gif by scholars,

appears to have emerged during the twelfth century, and is believed to have been owned

during the sixteenth century by one of two humanists, Pierre Daniel or Gifanius. It is

conceivable that Daniel may have rescued it from the monastic library at Fleury in 1562, but

there are no catalogue entries, and it is as likely to have belonged to Gifanius, who quoted

Nepos in his work of 1624. The men were known to each other, so it is not impossible that

the manuscript passed between them. 24 Our version of the Atticus, however, survived in a

later copy, ‘A’, which, though technically an ‘inferior’ copy, is that from which the vast

majority of Italian fifteenth- and sixteenth- century manuscripts were copied.25

By comparison, the transmission of Cicero’s Epistulae ad Atticum has a relatively

straightforward narrative. As in Nepos’s case, it seems that there was very little use of the 23 Initially, the collection of twenty-three of Nepos’s Lives was mistakenly attributed in early manuscripts to Aemilius Probus, with the title De excellentibus ducibus exterarum gentium.24 Marshall (1977) p. 1125 For a full exposition and discussion of the manuscript tradition of Nepos, see Marshall (1977)

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letters to Atticus by any medieval writer. Petrarch, however, recorded his discovery of a

manuscript of the Epistulae ad Atticum in 1345 at the Chapter Library in Verona with

excitement and in great detail, and although both the Verona manuscript and Petrarch’s copy

have since disappeared, one copy survives from the late fourteenth century. 26 With the

invention of the printing press, printed editions multiplied from around 1470 onwards,

particularly within Italy. Indeed, it was undoubtedly during the Italian Renaissance that the

spread of both texts was most vociferous: the impetus for the production of copies lay most

often with Italian humanist scholars of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and it was these

copies which formed the basis of the first printed editions which were then transmitted

throughout the continent and beyond. The editio princeps of the Nepos collection was

published in Venice in 1471, followed by the edition Juntina of 1525 and the Utrecht edition

of 1542; the editio princeps of the Epistulae ad Atticum was also in Venice, 1470. The first

English translation of Nepos’s Atticus specifically was in 1677, although there had been some

earlier translations of other parts of the Vitae excellentium imperatorem in the first decade of

the seventeenth century. Almost incredibly, however, the first English translation of the

Epistulae was that of Guthrie in 1752.

It remains to be seen, however, how, precisely, these copies made their way across the

Channel to the British readership. Certainly, the transmission would have been a slow and

largely unconscious process at first. Individual scholars and other interested parties, keen to

follow the latest intellectual fashions, often made educational trips to Italy of several years’

duration: when they returned to Britain, they brought Italian copies of texts with them, and no

26 Petrarch’s overall response to these letters was one of dismay, prompting a passionate letter to Cicero himself: Epistolas tuas diu multumque perquisitas atque ubi minime rebar inventas, avidissime perlegi. Audivi multa te dicentem, multa deplorantem, multa variantem, Marce Tulli, et qui iampridem qualis preceptor aliis fuisses noveram, nunc tandem quis tu tibi esses agnovi: ‘Your letters I sought for long and diligently; and finally, where I least expected it, I found them. At once I read them, over and over, with the utmost eagerness. And as I read I seemed to hear your bodily voice, O Marcus Tullius, saying many things, uttering many lamentations, ranging through many phases of thought and feeling. I long had known how excellent a guide you have proved for others; at last I was to learn what sort of guidance you gave yourself.’ (Petrarch (1934) Vol. 3, XXIV.3, Ad Marcum Tullium Ciceronem, p. 225-6)

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doubt spread copies to their acquaintances. This process was in full flow throughout the

English Renaissance (i.e. the early sixteenth to early seventeenth centuries), creating an

atmosphere in which ‘literary culture was invigorated by renewed contact with classical and

other sources through translation and imitation, sometimes of a directly experimental kind.’27

Our texts, therefore, were actively sought out in an atmosphere which was hungry for new

classical texts, both in the original Latin or Greek and in translation, and which demanded

that no ancient text be left untouched. By the beginning of our period, the vast majority of

English public school curriculae were defined around classical ideologies and texts. Nepos,

interestingly, became a popular school author, especially throughout the eighteenth century,

alongside other introductory authors such as Suetonius and Sallust. This was largely because,

as Winnifrith notes, ‘his short sentences are easy to translate, and his brief lives of famous

Greeks and Romans were thought to provide valuable moral instruction.’28 Cicero, similarly,

was universally studied, although it was mainly his speeches and philosophical works, rather

than his letters, which formed the basis for education during this period.

The most important factor in the dissemination of classical learning throughout this

period, however, was the increase in demand for translations to the vernacular. In fact, the

period 1660-1790 was the great period of English translations, in which, as Gillespie

comments, ‘English writers of the very highest stature routinely devoted their best energies,

and many years of their artistic lives, to work of this kind.’29 The overall drive, it seems, was

towards creating a corpus of translations so excellent that knowledge of ancient languages

would no longer be a necessity, designed to attract ‘a broad rather than tightly defined

readership.’30 In the selection of texts for this thesis there will be a necessary focus on

27 Sowerby in Gillespie & Hopkins (2005) p. 2128 Winnifrith in Gillespie & Hopkins (2005) p. 28329 Gillespie in Gillespie & Hopkins (2005) p. 730 Wilson in Gillespie & Hopkins (2005) p. 47; New methods of production were also developed to widen readership during this period: compilations of classical quotations appeared, alongside translations produced in instalments, and the alteration of potentially sensitive ancient texts for female readership.

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translations, particularly of Nepos’s Life of Atticus. Far too often, translations have been

ignored as valuable sources of historical evidence because they do not fit into conventional

concepts of ‘literature’. Technically, however, translations are themselves acts of reception,

and, in the British context, the interest in translation went further than merely wanting to

possess an English version of the text. Indeed, it became an art-form in which classical

scholars could demonstrate their superior knowledge and display their individuality, and to

which they could attach extensive discussions of whatever they wished. When it comes to

analysis of the reception of a figure such as Atticus, therefore, the highly personal tone of

translations and the treatises attached to them allows the reception scholar far better access to

the mindset of their authors than many of those texts which more usually attract scholarly

attention.

IV: The Philosophical and Political Backdrop: Epicurus and Retirement

In order to be able to identify the origins of the ideas we come across in connection

with Atticus, however, it is necessary to do more than identify and examine those texts which

directly concern him. We have noted already the modern debate as to whether Atticus was a

practising Epicurean, the origins of which lie in the ambiguity of our ancient sources,

specifically in the apparent contradiction between the evidence of Nepos and Cicero. This

ambiguity, as I shall discuss in later chapters, is reflected closely in the wide variety of

responses to Atticus throughout the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. In order to

understand these responses fully, however, it is necessary to establish first the philosophical

background to the reception of Epicureanism itself during our period. To this end, I shall

examine briefly some of the key texts which formed what has been described as the

‘Epicurean Revival’ during the period 1650-1730, and place these responses in the wider

philosophical context of the late seventeenth century, particularly considering relevant

interactions between both neo-Epicurean and neo-Stoic ideologies of the period as a whole.

15

By engaging fully with the philosophical and political contexts from which our core ‘Atticus

texts’ grew, we can hope to understand those more general themes which form essential

background to the attitudes expressed in these texts.

The ‘Epicurean Revival’ is a suggestive, yet vague term, and one which has yet to be

well-defined in recent scholarship. In terms of chronology, it has generally been accepted

that, before 1650, perhaps even 1660, it had not yet begun. 31 Throughout the first half of the

seventeenth century, the most fashionable classical philosophy in England was Stoicism, and

it appears that interest in Epicureanism was not sufficient to warrant the description

‘popular’.32 The diarist John Evelyn, who produced the second English translation of

Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura, commented in his diary on the 12th May, 1656, that there was

not much enthusiasm in England for Epicureanism before this date.33 Indeed, it seems that in

early seventeenth-century Britain, understanding of Epicureanism was quite superficial,

largely restricted to the use of the term as an insult, referring specifically to any person fond

of excess living, pleasure-seeking, or corrupt morals - Epicurus himself was seen primarily as

a patronus voluptatis. There were, of course, exceptions to this general trend: Gillespie has

pointed to a ‘mixed and changing reputation attaching to Epicurean ideas’ in the pre-1650

Britain context, and lists a wealth of pre-1650 literary figures who are known to have read

Lucretius first hand: men such as Sir Thomas Browne, Ben Jonson, John Milton, Thomas

Stanley, Edmund Spenser, and Nicholas Hill. 34 Nevertheless, Jones’s conclusion is still

overwhelmingly valid, that, ‘During the sixteenth century and early seventeenth century,

31 Mayo’s early narrative of the revival (1934) erects chronological boundaries of 1650-1725; these have, however, been challenged in recent scholarship, particularly regarding the latter date. 32 Similarly, in the Italian Renaissance context, the spread of Epicurean texts was slow: for example, though Francesco Zabarella attempted to give Epicurus a balanced hearing in his De Felicitate (1400), his work was not published until 1640. Lorenza Valla’s De Voluptate (1431) also attempted to resurrect the ancient debate between Epicurean and Stoic, but with limited success. 33 Jones (1989) p. 18634 There are isolated pieces of evidence from this period, which demonstrate a degree of understanding of Epicurean physics: Sir John Davies, writing on the human soul towards the end of the sixteenth century, commented that ‘Epicures do make them swarmes of atomies.’ (Gillespie 2007 p. 243)

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Epicurus was known to the general English public almost exclusively in his medieval role as

the champion of sensual living.’ 35

It is only, then, after 1650 that we see ‘Epicurean texts’ appearing, and, with them, a

more balanced interpretation of Epicurean ethics in particular. During this period, we can

identify several types of responses to the Epicurean philosophy: some authors deliberately

present Epicurean tenets in the form of translations or epitomies of Epicurean texts, with a

degree of analysis of the subject matter alongside the text: the successive translations of

Lucretius’s De Rerum Natura, by John Evelyn, Thomas Creech, and John Dryden were

especially popular, each going into several editions within years of their original publication.

In addition to direct translations, there are also several works dedicated to expounding

Epicurean philosophy, most notably Charleton’s Epicurus’s Morals, published in 1656, and

Thomas Stanley’s extraordinarily lengthy entry on Epicurus in his History of Philosophy.

Translations from sympathetic French works were also common: in this category, we have

works such as Cooke’s The Divine Epicurus, from the French of Antoine Le Grand, and

Digby’s translation of Sarasin’s Epicurus’ Morals, with a translation of Sarasin’s

‘Vindication’ of Epicurus attached.36 More rarely, but most fascinatingly, there are also a few

texts which are not expressly didactic – most notably William Temple’s Upon the Gardens of

Epicurus, in which a personal and practical response to Epicurean ethics is visible.

The British enthusiasm for Epicureanism appears to have been kick-started by trends on

the continent, specifically in France, with the publication in 1647 of Pierre Gassendi’s De

Vita et Moribus Epicuri. Gassendi, a theologian and Catholic priest, devoted the whole of his

intellectual life to the study of Epicurus, and particularly to the task of adapting the Epicurean

philosophy to make it compatible with Christianity. The result, though somewhat dubious in

35 Jones (1989) p 18736 This work is commonly but mistakenly assumed to be by Saint-Evremond. See Mayo (1934) pp. 5-6 for a full explanation of the confusion.

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method, is striking: ‘From a purely materialist and mechanistic system in which divine power

is expressly denied a creative or operational role it has been transformed into one in which

the immaterial is preserved as an essential element and placed God at the very centre.’37

Significantly, in the same year as Gassendi published his De Vita et Moribus Epicuri, the

English scholar Walter Charleton immediately produced a work of his own, Epicurus’s

Morals: the first attempt by an British writer to combine the Epicurean ideal with the

cultivation of the highest Christian values. We should note, however, that Charleton was

aware that such a defence might attract criticism from a prejudiced audience: in his preface,

‘An Apologie for Epicurus’, he asserts that Epicurus was not a ‘Patron of Impiety, Gluttony,

Drunkennesse, Luxury and all kinds of Intemperance, as the common people (being mis-

informed by such learned men as either did not rightly understand, or would not rightly

represent his opinions) generally conceive him to be.’38

However, the considerable prejudice against atheism amongst Anglicans throughout

this period ensured that, even when Epicurus was allowed intellectual outings, he had to be

dressed up with suitably Christianised or Deistic doctrines. In particular, it seems to have

been essential that Epicurus be considered a ‘pious’ individual: his irreligiosity, interestingly,

tends to be entirely excused on grounds of his having lived at the wrong time and place:

Digby, for example, suggests that, ‘It is no wonder Epicurus who was a Pagan should be

without Light, being surrounded on all sides with palpable Darkness.’39 Most interestingly,

even the Epicurean philosophy itself is often given a Christian twist: in Cooke’s translation of

Le Grand’s The Divine Epicurus, the Epicurean ‘Wise Man’, who ‘resembles those Stars that

never change their lustre’ is represented as Jesus Christ.40 Furthermore, the Epicurean pursuit

of pleasure as an end in itself was frequently felt to be a most problematic concept from a

37 Jones (1989) p. 18038 Charleton (1656) Preface39 Digby (1712) Preface.40 Cooke/Le Grand (1676) p. 91

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Christian moral perspective: sometimes, therefore, it was redefined. Digby, for example,

presents Pleasure as ‘nothing else than the Satisfaction that arises from a peaceable and quiet

Conscience, that has no Remorse, nor Uneasiness from ill Actions.’41

However, despite such attempts at ‘Christianisation’, Epicureanism still drew a great

deal of polemical fire from Anglicans in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: the case

for Epicurus was certainly not aided by the fact that, after 1660 in particular, a great many of

the supporters of Epicurus’s atomist physics were also prominent members of the newly

established Royal Society of London. Attacking Epicureanism, in the volatile religious

atmosphere after the Restoration, quickly became an effective method of undermining the

power of those loosely ‘scientific’ men, who, even if they were not themselves atheists, could

easily be accused of undermining religion with their espousal of atomism.42 Men such as

Henry Percy, Duke of Northumberland, Thomas Hariot, Francis Bacon, and John Evelyn,

were in the firing line, along with scientists who were only on the fringes of the ‘revival’,

such as John Locke, Isaac Newton, Robert Boyle, Robert Hooke, and Thomas Hobbes, were

regularly accused of being sympathetic to Epicureanism, and therefore atheist, or vice versa.

Hobbes in particular faced sustained attacks, despite the fact that his philosophy was in no

sense ‘Epicurean’ in ethics or physics. But, as Mayo notes, his ‘affinities’ with Epicurus ‘as

a utilitarian, and in the physical, anthropological, and ethical departments of this thought’

ensured an Epicurean label.43

However, despite the more striking difficulties which Epicurean physics caused for

many of its adherents, it becomes clear from the tone of many of our texts that Epicurean

ethics produced a rather less conspicuously negative response. As Digby proclaims in his

preface: ‘Epicurus’s Errors in Physical Matters, are no Obstacle to the Integrity of his Morals;

41 Digby (1712) To the Right Honourable the Lord Scudamore.42 For further detail concerning these religious attacks, see Mayo (1934) Chapters XIII and IX43 Mayo (1934) p. 124

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he has prescrib’d Rules for the Felicity of Life, that are full of Severity and Wisdom.’44 What

rules were these, then, which were so attractive to the authors of these ‘Epicurean’ texts?

There is one theme in particular which is constantly debated and defended throughout our

texts, one which, as I shall demonstrate in later chapters, is directly relevant to the reception

of the figure of Atticus during this period. This is Epicurus’ position, stated in his first book,

On Life, that the wise man should not take any part in the public life of the state unless

absolutely necessary.45 The thinking behind this ideal was straightforward: involving oneself

in the chaotic and often corrupt world of public affairs would disturb the ease, quiet, and

independence which the Epicurean wise man should strive for - the ideal of Άταραξια.

However, this ideal, even in its original ancient context, encountered mockery and criticism,

particularly from Cicero. Indeed, not only were many of the arguments posited in his

dialogues biased against Epicurean thought, but he famously caricatures the philosophy

throughout his speech, In Pisonem, mocking in particular the Epicurean’s predisposition to a

unpatriotic life of retirement and, by implication, pleasure-seeking.46

One might assume, then, that, in the mid seventeenth century, the ataraxic ideal might

find a similarly negative reception in the British context. If any classical philosophy was

appropriate to the spirit of the Commonwealth, and to the prominence of the Puritan work

ethic during the mid-century period, it would not be Epicureanism, but Stoicism, with its

emphasis on the vita activa. And, indeed, around the mid-century mark, when the theme of

retirement was presented and analysed, it was often within the neo-Stoic framework. This

had been fronted in the late sixteenth century by Justius Lipsius, whose popular treatise, De

44 Digby (1712) Preface45 See Diogenes Laertius’s exposition of Epicurean ethical doctrines in his Lives of Eminent Philosophers, 119;14346 Cicero, In Pisonem.68-70; Cicero’s superficial name-calling cannot have improved Epicurus’ later reception: Piso is called an ex argilla et luto fictus Epicurus: ‘Epicurus of mud and clay’, and even Epicurus...ex hara producte: ‘Epicurus, product of the sty’ (In Pisonem, 59; 37). Cicero’s presentation of Epicureanism can be found in several of his philosophical dialogues, namely De Finibus, De Fato, De Natura Deorum, Tusculanae Disputationes.

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Constantia, successfully revived the ancient Stoic philosophy in a form fully compatible with

Christianity. It should, however, be emphasised that Lipsius’s chief source was not Cicero,

but Seneca, whose attitude towards Epicureanism in general was far less damning than is

often appreciated. Indeed, although Seneca proclaimed himself to be firmly a Stoic, one

receives the impression throughout his Epistulae Morales that it is not always Epicurean

ethics per se that Seneca finds offensive, but rather those who misuse them, ...velamentum

ipsos vitiorum suorum habituros existimant: ‘thinking that they will have in him a screen for

their own vices.’47 He himself, in fact, declares that he respects Epicurus: apud me Epicurus

est et fortis, licet manuleatus sit: ‘In my own opinion, however, Epicurus is really a brave

man, even though he did wear long sleeves.’48

Regarding the concept of retirement in particular, Seneca’s thinking leans in the

direction of Epicureanism: indeed, he seems to view the two doctrines as being merely at

different places along the same spectrum:

sed utraque ad otium diversa via mittit. Epicurus ait: “Non accedet ad rem publicam sapiens, nisi si quid intervenerit”; Zenon ait: Accedet ad rem publicam, nisi si quid impedierit.

They both direct us to leisure, but by different roads. Epicurus says: “The wise man will not engage in public affairs except in an emergency.” Zeno says: “He will engage in public affairs unless something prevents him.” 49

He then goes on to moderate this position even further, noting that, if the state is corrupt, if he

is lacking in influence, even if he is ill, then the wise man may establish himself in a safe

retreat.50 In his most lengthy discussion of retirement, De Tranquillitate Animi, Seneca

suggests, in a distinctly Epicurean vein, that:

Considerandum est, utrum natura tua agendis rebus an otioso studio contemplationique aptior sit, et eo inclinandum, quo te vis ingenii feret.

47 Seneca, Epistulae Morales, XXI.948 Seneca, Epist., XXXIII.249 Seneca, De Otio, 3.2-450 Ibid.

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You must consider whether your nature is better adapted to active affairs or to leisurely study and contemplation, and you must turn towards that course to which the bent of your genius shall direct you.51

It seems, then, that justification could be made, even by a Stoic, for a complete and virtuous

philosophical retreat. Indeed, I would suggest that Seneca’s frequent advocacy of retirement,

(which occurs not only throughout his Epistulae, but also De Otio, and De Tranquillitate

Animi) seems to be somewhat influenced by the Epicurean ataraxic ideal, and certainly is not

reluctant in its appreciation of it. 52

Given this ambiguity in Seneca and thereafter in Lipsius, it is unsurprising that

seventeenth-century responses to the idea of retirement were similarly varied in their

interpretations. If we examine both the comments concerning retirement in our ‘Epicurean’

texts, and add to that evidence the body of ‘retirement literature’ of the period, it becomes

apparent that, throughout the second half of the seventeenth century, the philosophical

balance underwent a subtle shift in favour of the idea of a more total Epicurean retreat, or at

least a more complex combination of both Stoic and Epicurean ideas. First, throughout our

original ‘Epicurean’ texts, the ideological relationship between Stoicism and Epicureanism is

demonstrably fraught. Sometimes, Epicurus is defended by the vociferous suggestion that the

Stoics are at fault for the misrepresentation of his philosophy: Digby, for example, declares

that, ‘The Stoicks are nothing more than vain ignorant Pretenders, and blind Guides, who

lead their Admirers on in a Wildgoose Chace, from which they have reaped nothing but

Confusion, and made themselves ridiculous to all Ages.’53 Often, however, adaptation seems

to be the chosen response to the Stoic threat. In the preface to Charleton’s work, for example,

Epicureanism is given an unnatural emphasis on virtue, a primary concern in Stoic rather than

51 Seneca, De Tranquillitate Animi, 7.252 Seneca also declares the vita activa to be full of vice: Relinque ambitum; tumida res est, vana, vantosa, nullum habet terminum, tam sollicita est, ne quem ante se videat, quam ne quem post se: ‘Abandon your quest for office; it is a swollen, idle, and empty thing, a thing that has no goal, as anxious to see no one outstrip it as to see no one at its heels’. (Seneca, Epist., LXXXIV.11). 53 Digby/Sarasin (1712) p. 185

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Epicurean ethics.54 Cooke even goes as far as to suggest that there was, in essence, little

difference between the two philosophies: ‘For did [the Stoics] take the pains to examine

Soveraign Good in its nature, they would find themselves in no disagreement at all with

[Epicurus], they seek that in effect which they blame in appearance, and are no otherwise

enemies to him, but in their way of expression.’55

This type of adaptation, or even assimilation, is particularly noticeable in the context of

the debate as to whether the true Epicurean should participate in public life. In Du Rondel,

we see a moderation of Epicurus’ original tenet: ‘Tis true’, he comments, ‘Epicurus advises

not to meddle with the Government of the Republick unless mov’d thereto, by some pressing

Cause: but then we must reflect he was informing his Wiseman, whose chief Employment

was to be that of Contemplation.’56 Instead, he places greater emphasis on the section in

which Epicurus advises that ‘the Good of every Person consists in what he delights in’, and

extends the meaning of this to defend his view that ‘As to those who are naturally ambitious

and covetous of Glory and Honour, ‘tis none of their Business to live conceal’d.’57 He goes

on to argue that there have been Epicureans of both the Sword and the Gown, giving

numerous examples of each, Atticus, interestingly, being one of the latter. Cooke comments

along similar lines: whilst he quotes at length Epicurus’ persuasion of the Wise Man to a

Retreat, contrasting this ‘shady Solitude’ to the corrupt atmosphere of the Court, he prefaces

this section with the idea that Prudence encourages men to do what they are suited for.58

These authors are both, it seems, trying to ‘normalise’ Epicurus’ rule concerning the absolute

retirement from public life of any man attempting to follow his philosophy, diluting it so that

it does not appear so ‘unpatriotic’ in the seventeenth-century context.

54 Charleton (1656) An Apologie for Epicurus55 Cooke/Le Grand(1676) p. 2256 Du Rondel (1686) xxvi.57 Ibid.58 Cooke/Le Grand (1676) p. 39

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In the retirement literature and poetry of late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries,

these tensions are again immediately visible, albeit on a larger scale. Indeed, as Pritchard

notes, ‘The middle and later 1660s was a time of particularly strong interest in the ancient

debate about the claims of the contemplative as opposed to the active life.’ 59 Particularly

throughout the Essays and poetry of the Abraham Cowley, there is, perhaps in accordance

with his own love of retirement, a degree of explicit approval of the Epicurean retreat. 60 In

his essay Of Obscurity, for example, he enthuses that, ‘Epicurus lived... very well, that is, lay

hid many years in his Gardens.’61 And again, in one of the verse sections of The Garden, he

extols the Epicurean garden and comments, ‘When Epicurus to the World had taught/That

pleasure was the chiefest good/(And perhaps i’th’ right, if rightly understood).’62 Similarly,

in Of Liberty, Cowley is prepared to admit that he hankers after the Epicurean lifestyle, and

even defends the Epicurean doctrine of pleasure against attacks: ‘By the Calumniators of

Epicurus his Philosophy was objected as one of the most scandalous of all their sayings;

which according to my charitable understanding may admit a very virtuous Sence.’ 63 In

Marvell’s The Garden, too, we find the supposedly ‘Epicurean’ lines, ‘Fair quiet, have I

found thee here/and Innocence thy Sister!/ Mistaken long, I fought you then/In busie

Companies of Men/Your sacred Plants, if here below/Only among the Plants will

grow/Society is all but rude/To this delicious Solitude.’ 64

Yet, though these snippets in both poets are suggestive, they cannot justify the

conclusion that either Cowley’s or Marvell’s work reflects Epicurean, as opposed to Stoic,

59 Pritchard (1983) p. 38260 Cowley was well-known for his love of the life of solitude: in the Preface to his Miscellaneous Works, we are told: ‘He was now weary of the vexation and formalities of an active condition... These were the reasons that moved him to forgo all Publick Employments, and... represented him the true delights of solitary Smiles, of temperature Pleasure, and of a moderate Revenue, below the malice and flatteries of Fortune.’ (Cowley (1681) Preface)61 Cowley (1681) p. 9662 Cowley (1681) p. 11763 Cowley (1681) p. 84.64 Marvell (1681) p. 49

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ideas. Indeed, Shifflet argues that Marvell’s poetry, at least, belongs instead within a neo-

Stoic framework, in which retirement is almost a form of cosmopolitanism, where, even in

retreat, business and virtue must be found.65 Indeed, in another of Marvell’s ‘retirement’

poems, Appleton House, he suggests that it is not an Epicurean, but a forced, Stoic, retirement

which Marvell has in mind, which he uses deliberately as a form of political action against

the virtue-shy world of late seventeenth-century politics.66 It appears, therefore, that any

specific analysis of classical influence here in Restoration retirement poetry is very

challenging, and that the identification of the idea of retreat as ‘Stoic’ or ‘Epicurean’ is often

subordinate to the requirements of the interpreter rather than the contents of the texts. Given

the aforementioned similarity between the Stoic and Epicurean concepts of retirement, this is

perhaps unsurprising. However, regardless of details, it is still evident here that the idea of

retirement, and indeed, often of a complete retreat from public life, was frequently extolled in

the poetry of the 1650s and beyond.

In the late 1660s, two scholars, George Mackenzie and John Evelyn, approached the

theme of retirement, and specifically the tension between the vita contemplativa and the vita

activa, in the form of a dialogue, Evelyn writing a reply to Mackenzie’s provocative treatise,

Preferring Solitude to Publick Employment.67 The arguments of both men were supported by

their experience of public life: Mackenzie, in particular, argues that those who intend public

service can never be free from unexpected falls from grace, particularly in England, ‘where

the way to preferment is so narrow, that we imagine no man can get by his neighbour, except

he run over him.’68 In contrast, there are few vices in solitude, few ways a man’s reputation

can be injured, for the pleasure to be gained from contemplation is almost holy: ‘Here

65 Shifflet (1998) p. 3766 Ibid67 In Evelyn’s case, his stance was antithetical to his own personal inclinations: indeed, at the time, he wrote to Abraham Cowley to reassure him that, ‘I am still of the same mind, and there is no person alive who does more honour and breathe after the life and repose you so happily cultivate and adore by your example.’ (Evelyn to Cowley, in Vickers (1986)Xiii). 68 Mackenzie (1665) p. 19

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Statesmen find their plots, learn’d men their knowledge, Poets their sublime fancies.’69

Interestingly, it is not in Mackenzie’s treatise but in Evelyn’s reply against solitude, that

Epicureanism makes an appearance. In order to make his attack, Evelyn immediately

associates the life-style of solitude with Epicurus, and accuses Mackenzie of Epicurean

sentiments, suggesting that he would have men not serving their country ‘till it were sinking;

as if a Statesman or a Pilot could be made on an instant and emerge a Politician.’70 Evelyn

also challenges the Epicurean argument by reference to a supposed admission by Epicurus

that the vita activa was preferable: ‘For when Epicurus (who chose the private life above all)

discourses of Publick Ministers, he is forc’d to acknowledge that to be at Helme, is better

than lying along in the Ship... because ‘tis’ more noble beneficium dare, quam accipere.’71 In

this dialogue, then, again, alongside a great enthusiasm for discussion of the claims of the

life-styles of public service versus a life of solitude, there is still a marked ambiguity

surrounding the role of the Epicurean retreat within the wider appreciation of ‘retirement’.

It remains to be seen, however, what precisely it was that attracted so many late

seventeenth-century individuals to the notion of retirement, whether of a temporary, more

‘Stoic’ nature, or a full Epicurean-style rural retreat. For, as Rǿstvig argues, by the late

seventeenth century, the idea of retirement was not merely a literary motif: the concept had

‘extended beyond the pages of the poetic miscellanies into life itself.’72 It is interesting to

note, first, that a great deal Restoration retirement poetry and literature was written by men of

Royalist background. However, care should be taken here: it is important that the reception

of Epicureanism and retirement themes are not simply equated with the hedonistic politics of

the period. In fact, it has been argued in recent historical scholarship that the traditional

picture of ‘Merrie England’ is, to a significant extent, one created by contemporaneous

69 Mackenzie (1665) p. 10170 Evelyn (1667) p. 10671 Evelyn (1667) p. 1572 Rǿstvig (1954) p. 18

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opponents: Spurr goes as far as to suggest that it was ‘largely the projection of the dissolute

court and a coterie of poets and playwrights.’73 Therefore, if this is in any sense accurate, we

can no longer afford to equate the appreciation of retirement with a vision of the loose-living

Royalist aristocrat. Even if many of these writers were politically royalist, this does not make

them hedonists: as Vickers comments, ‘we should guard against categorising the Royalists as

simply celebrators of leisure: many of them were wholly committed to the vita activa, and

after the Restoration of Charles II dedicated themselves once more to public service.’74

I would suggest, however, that the appreciation of retirement is not entirely

unconnected to the political atmosphere of the late seventeenth century. As can be imagined,

the experience of those who involved themselves in politics during this turbulent period was

often not a pleasant one: the political climate was unstable in almost every sense, and each

decade of the late seventeenth century was fraught with underlying tensions, both social and

religious. Charles II’s erratic personal behaviour also caused difficulties: as Tapsell notes,

during this classically informed period, ‘The personal failings of rulers and leading ministers,

it was firmly believed, would fundamentally undermine public life and prompt national

decline.’75 In addition, under both Charles and James in particular, power and influence were

gained primarily through personal proximity to the King and his faction. Spurr characterises

politics in the 1670s in particular as ‘not a pursuit of political principles through

parliamentary parties, (but)... the advancement of men and measures, the chase after profit

and honour, and the naked rivalry of ambitious men, and their connection.’76 Due to this

problem of narrow and unpredictable access to high politics, participation in public life was

therefore rather a precarious matter – and to make matters, worse, during the same period,

popular politics and the publication of political information was becoming ever easier.

73 Spurr (2000) p. 18074 Vickers (1986) xx75 Tapsell (2010) p. 176 Spurr (2000) p. 225

27

Indeed, as a result of the spread of political slander and rumours in the form of pamphlets,

(distributed through the increasingly popular coffee-house culture) the task of maintaining a

reputation as both an honest and successful politician was very challenging.

The attraction of many of the British educated elite to the idea of a retreat, and

increasingly to a complete Epicurean-style retreat, then, was, I would argue, a genuine and

personal response to a political atmosphere which must have been distasteful and difficult to

negotiate for many aspiring politicians of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries.

This response is reflected in some of our ‘Epicurean’ texts. Richard Bulstrode, for example,

envoy at the Court of Brussels during the reigns of both Charles II and James II, expresses in

his essay, Of Solitariness and Retirement, a desire to life in solitude: ‘To Retire for Quiet and

Thinking is commendable’, he comments, ‘so a Life led in sweet Tranquillity (which is the

work of Reason) is much preferable before all the great Successes which the World

admires.’77 He also refers explicitly to the Epicurean life-style as that which he most

recommends: ‘Many of the Epicurean Sect (who propos’d to themselves no other End but

their own contentment) did bereave themselves of all sensual Delights...for the only Pleasure

of Contemplation.’ 78 However, significantly, Bulstrode sees a full retirement as appropriate

only after a life of public service: ‘For it is a Right and Justice Men owe themselves, who

have given their most active and flourishing Age to the World, to give their declining Age to

Solitude and Retirement.’ 79 Bulstrode’s conception of retirement, then, while self-admittedly

influenced by classical ideals, and specifically the Epicurean retreat, is finely adjusted to

justify the pattern of his own life.

This degree of personalisation is also present in the work and life of the celebrated

statesman and essayist William Temple, who, in his own retirement, wrote an piece entitled

77 Bulstrode (1715) p. 9578 Bulstrode (1715) p. 9379 Bulstrode (1715) p. 112, My italics.

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Upon the Gardens of Epicurus, in which he demonstrates a full and overt demonstration of

support for the ataraxic ideal, and consciously cites it as the incentive for his own retirement

from political life. He has, he proclaims, taken to his own Garden, ‘where since my

Resolution taken of never entring again into any Publick Employments, I have passed Five

Years without ever going once to town, though I am almost in sight of it.’80 Temple’s

justification of this course of inaction is, indeed, linked closely to the regret he feels in the

context of his own career. Throughout the essay, he scorns the ambitious, who make ‘the

higher Flights after Honour and Power’, and take part in pursuits ‘which are usually covered

with the Pretence of serving a Mans Country, of Publick Good.’81 Then, searching for a

classical model, he argues that, out of all the ancient philosophies, the Epicureans are both

more intelligible and more fortunate in their Expression than the Stoics, and indeed, have

been wrongly attacked across the ages. Specifically, he suggests, Epicureans would refuse to

take part in the faults of the government, and particularly, ‘where Factions were once entred

and rooted in a State, they thought it madness for Good Men to meddle with Publick

Affairs.’82 Again, Temple’s ‘reception’ of Epicurean ideas of retirement is very much

tailored to the type of retreat which he feels emotionally attracted to: he forces his classical

model into a descriptive, rather than prescriptive, role.

It would appear, then, that, in order to understand the intellectual background of the

texts which have been termed ‘retirement literature’ (including those which simultaneously

formed part of the ‘Epicurean revival’), it is essential to recognise that these phenomena had

their specific origins, not in some isolated intellectual context, but in the lives and

experiences of seventeenth-century individuals. As Rǿstivig notes, the obsession for

retirement, was ‘no mere idle wish....but rather the expression of certain trends of thought

80 Temple (1685) p. 13781 Temple (1685) p. 78-9.82 Temple (1685) p. 93

29

which entered into the lives of many men and women in a decisive and uncompromising

fashion.’83 It is, therefore, insufficient to engage with texts and attempt to label them as either

‘neo-Stoic’ or ‘neo-Epicurean’, for in fact, in most cases, a sharp delineation between

classical influences in this way is both artificial and inappropriate – indeed, the ambiguity

present in our ancient sources, particularly Seneca, is reflected here. This ambiguity in

philosophical response is, after all, hardly surprising, for it reflects and parallels the tensions

and contradictions inherent in Restoration political life. Men were genuinely torn in two

directions: on one hand, they longed for glory; on the other, to escape from a world which

seemed to offer little but personal suffering and humiliation. No wonder that, in attempting

to justify such internal conflict, all classical philosophies which recommended any form of

retirement were explored, and indeed, ancient figures who had apparently followed them,

including, first and foremost, Titus Pomponius Atticus.

V: Atticus’s Reception in the late Seventeenth and early Eighteenth Centuries

Let us move on, then, to the reception of the figure of Atticus specifically. Who are

these writers who revere Atticus during this period? What kind of men are they, and why do

they write? And, most importantly, does their treatment of Atticus reveal anything about

their personal beliefs and circumstances? Can we generalise in any meaningful sense

concerning Atticus’s reception in this context? In order to answer these questions, it will be

necessary to examine the output of these writers chronologically, and, in addition, to establish

as far possible their cultural, intellectual, and, indeed, political contexts: only through a

combination of these two approaches can we hope to gain a rounded picture of their

intentions in ‘receiving’ Atticus. It is important, however, to bear in mind that, while the

main concentration here will be on British, largely English, texts, during one limited period,

we will also have to engage to an extent with Atticus’s reception on the continent, and

83 Rǿstvig (1954) p. 22

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specifically with relevant French scholarship. Indeed, the intellectual exchange between

Britain and France during this period was well-established: as we saw in the previous chapter,

direct translation of French treatises in the year of their publication was not uncommon. A

degree of comparison between these two contexts, therefore, is both necessary and

interesting, in order to establish whether the British attitude to Atticus was unique, or perhaps

partially reflective of continental trends.

Given this possibility of cross-cultural overlap, it is interesting to note that one of the

earliest discussions of Atticus, albeit a rather brief one, is in the work of the sixteenth century

French scholar Michel De Montaigne.84 In his essay, De l’utile et de l’honneste, Montaigne

defends neutrality and abstinence from too much involvement in the field of public affairs,

and, in doing so, contemplates the similarity of his own position with that of Atticus: ‘Fut-ce

pas Atticus, lequel se tenant au juste party, et au party, qui perdit, se sauva par sa moderation,

en cet universel naufrage du monde, parmy tant de mutations et diversitez?’85 Montaigne’s

use of Atticus appears in the context of an attempt to balance the competing demands of the

public and the private lives ideologically: for, although he feels that he personally is not one

of those men who is naturally ready to sacrifice his honour and his conscience for his

country, he still has some difficulty in attempting to emulate Atticus: ‘Aux hommes, comme

luy, privez’, he comments, ‘il est plus aisé...De se tenir chancelant et mestis, de tenir son

affection immobile, et sans inclination aux troubles de son Pays, et une division publique, je

ne la trouve ny beau, ny honneste.’86 Therefore, although we have here only a snippet

relating to Atticus, we could certainly speculate that there may be some contextual continuity

between the sixteenth-century French context and that which, as will become apparent, forms

84 Montaigne is generally accepted to have displayed Epicurean ‘influences’ consistently throughout his work, particularly in his essay Of Virtue, in which he praises freedom, simplicity, indifference and plainness of speaking and living.85 Montaigne (1739) Vol. 3, p. 30586 Montaigne (1739) p. 305

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the basis for our British ‘Atticus’ texts: the familiar battle of ideas between public and private

virtue, public employment versus retirement.

Atticus makes his first fully-fledged appearance in the British context almost a century

later, in 1677, in the first full English translation of Cornelius Nepos’s Life of Atticus, by the

Lord Chief Justice, Sir Matthew Hale. Attached to the translation are lengthy Observations,

and it is these which form the brunt of Hale’s own comment on Atticus’s character and

circumstances. He intends, he writes, to provide the reader with

The History of the Life and Death of Pomponius Atticus, and the various Concussions and Revolutions that happened in the Roman State and Government in his time; and the wise Methods which that excellent man used to preserve the Honour, Innocence and Safety of his Person from the Dangers that might occur by them.87

At first sight, Hale’s attitude towards Atticus, both in the Observations and his prefatory

Epistle to the Reader, appears to be relatively straightforward, displaying the classic

hagiographical style which one might expect to accompany a biography of this period. The

first chapter of his Observations gives the classic account of the fall of the Roman Republic,

with customary emphasis on the increase of corruption and faction; he then goes on to give

five definitions of faction, (of which it would be fair to say that he displays a somewhat

obsessive loathing), and then to concentrate on ‘Factions at Rome’. Following this somewhat

negative portrait, he introduces Atticus as a contrast, and devotes twelve of his remaining

thirteen chapters to a detailed demonstration of the unusual manner in which Atticus

approached faction, discussing methodically those expedients ‘that this wise man used, to

avoid the difficulties of the Times wherein he lived.’88

However, although Hale claims genuine admiration throughout his comments for

Atticus’s behaviour in protecting his own security in times of political strife, nevertheless he

shies from advising that his readers should follow his example. Indeed, in several places, he

87 Hale (1677) Epistle to the Reader.88 Hale (1677) p, 127

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goes out of his way to point out that, while his book may provide an innocent diversion, ‘it is

by no means applicable to the Kingdom, State and Countrey wherein thou livest’, and that

Atticus’s circumstances were ‘hardly to be match’d in any other Person, and therefore may

possibly in these respects rather give matter of admiration of his Fortune, than matter of

imitation of some of the Transactions of his Life.’ 89 The last chapter of his work, in fact, is

devoted entirely to a ‘Caution’ touching the practice of Atticus: for, although, as he

constantly emphasises throughout, Atticus had ‘fortune success under so dangerous

Adventures’, yet it cannot be allowed for other persons to run the risks he took, because it is

‘morally impossible’ that they should be in such fortunate circumstances.90 And, in addition

to this objection, Hale notes, perhaps with the air of a judge, that private citizens who

attempted, like Atticus, to aid those who were enemies of the State, would be behaving

illegally, and would be ‘subjected to the danger and inconvenience that ariseth from

violations of publick Laws.’91

Why does Hale feel a little uncomfortable with his subject? A hint, I would argue, is

displayed in the fact that Hale has given Atticus a shift in philosophical outlook: for, despite

the fact that the overall tone of the Observations endorses the Epicurean idea of the

avoidance of public employment, and the cultivation instead of friendships with all men,

some of the language which Hale uses to describe Atticus’s actions is more Stoic than

Epicurean in tone. And, indeed, after a particularly purple passage concerning Atticus’s

freedom from passion (a distinctly Stoic virtue) Hale concludes that Atticus ‘had abundantly

well learned the best Lesson of the Stoical philosophers, not to injure himself by Passion or

Perturbation, because another did him Wrong.’92 Furthermore, Hale now portrays Atticus’s

abstinence from the world of politics as a patriotic action in itself, and uses this idea almost as

89 Hale (1677) Epistle to the Reader90 Hale (1677) p. 23991 Hale (1677) p. 23192 Hale (1689) p. 7

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a shield from potential criticism: ‘And if any shall say it was a piece of pusillanimity for him

then to retire, when his Countrey stood in need of his advice, assistance and countenance, it is

easily answered, “The Whole City as then divided into those two Factions...he could have

done nothing”.’93 As demonstrated in the previous chapter, the notion of ‘retirement’ could be

constructed in many different ways, and indeed, the Stoic idea of a forced retirement was

often more socially acceptable in seventeenth-century circles than the idea of an Epicurean

ease, which could have connotations of indolence and loose living.

Therefore, even if Hale was aware of Atticus’s Epicurean reputation to an extent, he

may have been, for this reason, reluctant himself to embrace it. Whether fully conscious or

not, however, this shift in philosophical slant is important: for I would suggest that, in

addition to this consideration, an Atticus with Epicurean sympathies may not have been

suitable for Hale as a personal model. It is well-known that Hale possessed a thoughtful and

deep religious commitment: indeed, he composed a number of religious treatises, including

the four-volume work, Contemplations Moral and Divine. This distinctly religious bent may

have made it rather unlikely that Hale was predisposed to think of Atticus as an Epicurean:

for, although we are not aware of his opinions of Epicurean ethics, Baxter acquaints us of his

views of the Epicurean physics: while both he and Hale were both ‘much addicted’ to know

and read ‘the Platonists, the Peripateticks, the Epicureans (and especially their Gassendus)’,

they ‘greatly disliked the Principles of Cartesius and Gassendus... especially their Doctrine de

Motu, and their obscuring, or denying Nature itself, even the Principia Motus, the Virtutes

formales, which are the Causes of Operations.’94 Hale may very well, therefore, have had

objections to an Epicurean label for Atticus, which would conflict with his other

philosophical and theological beliefs.

93 Hale (1677) p. 13294 Baxter (1682) p. 5

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Nevertheless, the fact that he attempted a translation of the Atticus in particular (and

published no other classical translations), is surely reflective of Hale’s own feelings towards

public employment. Indeed, this specific emulation of Atticus is emphasised by his first

biographer, Gilbert Burnet:

He had read the Life of Pomponius Atticus, Writ by Nepos, and having observed, that he had passed through a time of as much Distraction, as ever was in any Age or State...without the least blemish on his Reputation, and free from any Considerable Danger, being held in great Esteem by all Parties, and courted and favoured by them; He set him as a Pattern to himself.95

Certainly, judging by the mode of his retirement described by his biographers, and the tone of

his Observations, it seems that the Epicurean life-style of retreat, with an emphasis on

devotion to learning and tranquillity of mind, appealed to Hale, and that he was very much

attracted to a life free from public responsibility. Burnet reproduces in his biography Hale’s

paraphrase of a section from Seneca’s Thyestes, Act 2, in which an autobiographical

component surely shines through: ‘As for me/Let sweet repose and rest my Portion be/Give

me some mean obscure Recess a Sphere/Out of the Road or Business...where I sweetly

may/My self and dear retirement still enjoy.’ And, a few lines later: ‘while I shall pass my

silent days/In shady privacy, free from the Noise and bustles of the mad World, then shall I/A

good old Innocent Plebeian Die.’96 Notably, despite his level of personal prestige, he seems

to have attempted to adopt a life-style which placed privacy and simplicity at the centre, and

to justify this philosophically: as Burnet comments, ‘As he would set up none of the new

Fashions, so he rather affected a Coarseness in the use of the old ones; which was more the

effect of his Philosophy than Disposition.’97

There does, however, appear to be an element of tension here between Hale’s chosen

career, and his attraction to Atticus’s life of retirement: indeed, we are told that, although,

95 Burnet (1700) p. 1796 Burnet (1700) pp. 56-797 Burnet (1700) p. 87

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both during the civil wars, and in his later years, he attempted to remain politically neutral,

his excellent reputation ensured that he was employed frequently by ‘the King’s Party’.98

Furthermore, some of his contemporaries felt that such a reputation for neutrality was

undeserved. Roger North, brother of Francis North, a contemporary of Hale, mentions his

translation in this context: ‘He took a fancy to be like Pomponius Atticus, or one that kept

about water in all times, and well esteemed by all parties. He published a short account of

that noble Roman’s life, and, at the entrance, a translation of the same in Cornelius Nepos.’99

North proceeds to give not only examples of the bad translation, but also of instances in

which he feels that Hale behaved with prejudice in his working life. These criticisms, which

are in part motivated by North’s defence of his brother’s career in opposition to Hale’s, need

not be taken too seriously. Nevertheless, they may explain in part the rather self-defensive

tone with which Hale attacks faction in his Observations. It is telling that one of the major

reasons why Hale claims to admire Atticus is that he achieved peace and quietness at the

same time as remaining ‘in great value and esteem with all Parties.’100 He may not have

taken public office, but ‘much assisted the Commonwealth of Athens with his private advice

and assistance’, and thereby was looked upon in Rome as ‘a very wise man in State-

Affairs.’101

Hale’s Atticus, then, is defined by the ideal citizen which Hale envisages, with whom

he hopes to be personally identified - even more so because he may very well have been

afraid that his reputation was not as neutral as he might wish. Unsurprisingly, Atticus, in

Hale’s text, seems to retain many of his supposed original qualities, but, notably, is very

difficult to pin down using any strict philosophical criteria. Certainly it is not a fully

Epicurean treatment: Hale emphasises that Atticus’s motivations were not private, but the

98 Burnet (1700) p. 1899 North, R. (1819) p. 123100 Hale (1677) p. 106101 Hale (1677) p. 120

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‘emanation of a noble and benign Soul, full of rivers of Goodness, Clemency and

Benifence.’102 Rather, I would argue that it is challenging, perhaps even inappropriate, to

attempt to identify Hale’s treatment of Atticus as either ‘Epicurean’ or ‘Stoic’, for it contains

elements of both philosophies, and indeed represents an ideal synthesis of both, adapted for

his own environment. Atticus has, therefore, been led by Hale to cross the boundary between

private and public virtue: and in the process, has become a staunch defender of justice against

the evils of factionalism. His interpretation of Atticus is both practical, and markedly

personal: it is, I would argue, primarily designed to convince his readers, not of Atticus’s

neutrality in political life, but his own. As shall become apparent in subsequent examples,

this type of mutative reception was not at all uncommon amongst our writers.

Following Hale’s contribution chronologically, the most important development in the

reception of Atticus’s legacy is the publication, in 1685, of Walker’s translation of a treatise

of the French polygraph César Vichard de Saint-Real, (colloquially known as L’abbé de

Saint-Real): Caesarion, or Historical, Political, and Moral Discourses. In stark contrast to

Hale’s overwhelmingly positive appreciation of Atticus, one full discourse of this work is

devoted to the systematic destruction of Atticus’s character. Saint-Real’s criticisms of

Atticus are presented in the form of the result of a conversation between a pupil and his

teacher, ‘Caesarion’, who, Dulong suggests, is almost certainly intended to represent the

views and indeed the character of Saint-Real himself. 103 Crucially, this is the first ‘Atticus

text’ to have taken full account of the copious amount of historical material in Cicero’s

Epistulae ad Atticum, and it would seem that many of those ideas and issues which scholars

have recently been concerning themselves with - for example, Atticus’s activities as a behind-

102 Hale (1677) p. 206103 Dulong (1921) p. 256; Interestingly, Saint-Real assumes that the majority of his readers will not be familiar with Cicero’s Epistulae and has the pupil proclaim that they provided him with a great deal of information ‘which I do not remember, to have read in the Greek nor Roman Historians, which wrote of those Times.’ (Saint-Real (1685) p. 86)

37

the-scenes businessman - seem to have their origin in this analysis.104 Indeed, Saint-Real

endorses Cicero’s characterisation of Atticus in Ad Atticum, SB 36.4 as a publicanus and

notes that Cicero ‘gives him an account of a Decree of the Senate against the Creditors of the

Free People, wherein Atticus himself was concern’d, because he had advanc’d great Sums of

mony for those of [Sicionia].105 Furthermore, he references another ‘French critick’ who

discovered that he ‘held a Bank at Rome at his own House, under the Name of Oppius’s...and

made a publick profession of it.’106

Saint-Real’s attitude towards Atticus, then, is diametrically opposed to Hale’s: in no

sense is his life-style portrayed as worthy of imitation; he is made out rather to be a fraud,

and Nepos, in consequence, to be ‘a down right Lyar... he took for currant all that his Hero

said to make himself be cry’d up; and relates, as undoubted truth, all that had heard spoken in

favour of Atticus, by Atticus himself.’107 As Dulong notes, ‘Césarion ne voit en Cornelius

Nepos qu’un plat panégyriste qui a menti effrontément pour complaire à son patron.’108 After

the attack on Nepos, Saint-Real proceeds to argue, using Ciceronian evidence, that Atticus’s

dealings with others were motivated entirely by selfishness. In particular, Cicero’s account

of a disagreement between Atticus and the historian Lucceius, proves to him that Atticus only

befriended others to serve his own purposes: in Atticus’s mode of life, he argues, ‘it is

requisite to appear a Friend equally alike to all sorts of persons, and not to be so truly to

anybody.’109 After a discussion of the ideal of friendship, there then follows another analysis

in which Saint-Real again uses the Ciceronian corpus to support his thesis that Atticus was a

bad friend to Cicero himself, going out of his way to disprove Nepos’s claim that, Ciceroni in

104 Although Hale referred vaguely to the possibility that Atticus had been a Farmer of the Vectigalia, (a tax collector) and therefore undertaking a public duty, he dismissed it out of hand as either untrue, or only a temporary employment of Atticus. (Hale (1677) p. 191)105 Saint-Real (1685) p. 124106 Ibid.107 Saint-Real (1685) p. 122108 Dulong (1921) p. 264109 Saint-Real (1685) p. 105

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omnibus eius periculis singularem fidem praebuit: ‘he had a perfect kindness for Cicero in all

his troubles.’110

Saint-Real’s view of Atticus’s selfishness is closely linked with Atticus’s deliberate

retirement from public affairs: one of his main objections to Atticus, indeed, is that he feels

he was a shirker of his patriotic duties. ‘’Tis a strange kind of Wisdom’, he comments, ‘to see

ones Country on the point of utter ruin, without concerning ones self one way or other,

although one has Extraordinary means and opportunities of serving it.’111 And, far from

miraculously avoiding the corruption of the times in which he lived, Saint-Real considers

Atticus to have been a dissembler, who fitted in well in an atmosphere where ‘the little, but

precious remainder, of ancient simplicity and integrity of former ages, being mixt with much

deceit and seeming virtue, become so much the more odious, as that it put on the resemblance

of truth itself.’112 Interestingly, in the context of his attack on Atticus’s departure for Athens,

Saint-Real labels Atticus’s philosophical stance: he declares that ‘one could not have defin’d

more favourable circumstances of becoming a perfect Epicure than these were, as he verifi’d

afterwards.’113 It is interesting that, in translation, Walker used the word ‘Epicure’, which

implies a more vulgar understanding of the philosophy: Saint-Real simply writes ‘un parfait

Epicurien’, which implies a deeper understanding on his part. In fact, he notes further in the

same context, somewhat vaguely, that ‘Je ne prétens point calumnier cette Secte: j’en sai,

comme vous, les veritable sentimens.’114 Despite the fact that Saint-Real’s view of

Epicureanism is somewhat unclear, then, we receive a hint here that Atticus was known, at

least in continental scholarship, as an Epicurean of sorts.

110 Saint-Real (1685) p. 126; Nepos Atticus 4.4111 Saint-Real (1685) p. 128112 Saint-Real (1685) p. 106, 113113 Saint-Real (1685) p. 127114 Saint-Real (1685) p. 127

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It is difficult to judge what effect, if any, these very strong French criticisms of Atticus

had upon the reception of Atticus in Britain. Certainly the fact that Saint-Real’s treatise was

translated at all attests to a degree of interest in the subject matter, for Saint-Real himself was

not widely read even within France, especially outside his main genre, the historical novel.

Saint-Real’s emphasis on the Ciceronian corpus, however, may be significant: for

Caesarion’s pupil, even though he was previously convinced of Nepos’s account, ends up

prioritising Cicero’s evidence unreservedly, declaring, ‘Cicero’s authority is of far greater

weight in this matter than that of Nepos.’115 However, the extent to which readers would

have been convinced of Saint-Real’s negative conclusions concerning Nepos and Atticus is

debateable, for it appears that he was well-known for a somewhat jaundiced writing style. He

had, according to his biographer, Dulong, ‘une haute opinion de soi-même, une extreme

mauvaise humeur de se voir réduit par les circonstances à une situation subaltern et peu

fortunée.’116 To modern eyes, therefore, and quite probably also to his contemporaries, his

attack on Atticus represented, in part, at least, a vociferous and rather thinly-veiled attack on

his own surroundings. ‘En réalité’, comments Dulong, ‘sous le nom d’Atticus, il nous a

dépeint un caractère que la société de son temps lui avait fait connaître.’117

It would be strange, however, if there was no response to what is, after all, a very

scathing attack on a figure whose reputation had previously appears to have been untarnished.

Within the French context, indeed, Saint-Real’s attack elicited a degree of outrage: as the

French philosopher and writer Bayle commented in his journal, Nouvelles de la république

des lettres, shortly afterwards, ‘Cette guerre déclarée à Pomponius Atticus tant de siècles

après sa mort choqua une infinité de gens.’118 One so offended was the numismatist Pierre

Reiussant, whose spirited response in defence of Atticus was published in Holland in the mid

115 Saint-Real (1685) p. 131116 Dulong (1921) p. 98117 Dulong (1921) p. 265118 Bayle in Dulong (1921) p. 270

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1680s alongside several other short treatises in a compilation called ‘Bigaurure curieuses’.119

The defence is thorough and lengthy, and deals with Saint-Real’s insults to Atticus one by

one, again with reference to the Ciceronian evidence, focusing particularly on the strength of

the friendship between Atticus and Cicero. In all the letters, he proclaims, ‘il n’y en a

presque pas une, où l’on ne trouve des preuves d’une parfait union, d’une estime et d’une

consiance mutuelle, fondée des deux parts sur le merite et sur la vertu.’120 Throughout his

analysis, indeed, there is a strong sense of indignation: how can Saint-Real possibly believe

that Atticus was a stranger to friendship, truth and justice? His own conclusion on the matter

is clear from the start: ‘A l’égard des charges, la verité est qu’Atticus s’en éloigna toujours,

parce que de son temps on ne pouvoit ni les obtenir sans brigue, ni les posseder sans risque de

voiler les loix.’121

Initially, however, we do not see any similarly detailed engagement with Saint-Real in

the late-seventeenth-century British context. It would seem, perhaps, that Atticus’s good

reputation was already established to such an extent on British soil, that Saint-Real’s

character assassination was not able to threaten it. Indeed, in general, the responses of British

writers, at least before the mid-eighteenth century, are almost overwhelmingly positive.

William Temple’s Upon the Gardens of Epicurus, introduced in the previous chapter, is a

case in point: although Temple enthuses about Atticus’s life-style, as an example of the great

ancient Epicurean, nevertheless he does not recognise any other interpretation than the typical

‘Neposian’ one. Atticus, he argues, was ‘one of the wisest and best of Romans’, who ‘passed

119 The compiler of Bigaurure curieuses’, Bayle, almost certainly sided with Reiussant against Saint-Real on the subject of Atticus’ character. Indeed, in his dictionary entry for Atticus, written around a decade later, he described Atticus as having ‘the Character of one of the most honourable Men in ancient Rome.’ Particularly impressive, he felt, was Atticus’ abstinence from the race for office: for ‘there was no attaining to Offices in those Times but by ill Practices.’ Somewhat amusingly, Bayle avoids mentioning Atticus’ philosophical disposition until the very end of the entry: ‘I forgot to mention, that Atticus was of the Sect of Epicurus, and that we may defy the most zealous Defenders of That Doctrine [as] among the greatest Bigots of Paganism.’ (Bayle (1734) Dictionary, p. 538; p. 540 (Note G); p. 541)120 Reiussant (1687) p. 43121 Reiussant (1687) p. 33

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safe and untouched through all the Flames of Civil Dissentions, that ravag’d his Country the

greatest part of His Life; and though He never entred into any Publick Affairs... yet He was

favoured, honoured and courted by them all.’122 Of course, the fact that Temple does not

record any known objections to Atticus does not necessarily mean that he was unaware of

them: to have dwelt on these would have significantly lessened the impact of his argument as

to the utter futility of public employment and the ideal state of retirement.123

The fact that most British responses to Atticus are positive in tone, however, does not

mean that they are uniform in any other sense. Specifically, Atticus’s ‘retirement’ is

presented quite differently by many of our authors, and indeed varies in emphasis, both

according to the ideological and personal framework in which the ‘receiver’ was situated

intellectually. Richardson Pack’s interpretation of Atticus, for example, written slightly later

in 1719, uses Atticus’s avoidance of politics in a rather different manner to his predecessors.

First, it appears that Pack, like Temple, and, to an extent, Hale, desires to emulate Atticus in

his life-style of retreat. In his Remarks on the Life of Atticus he declares that, ‘There can

scarce, I believe be found in all ancient, or Modern Story, a Character that may furnish us

with Matter for more delightful, or more profitable Reflection than this of Atticus.’124 He

then lists those aspects of Atticus’s character that he finds to be most appealing: first, his

natural ‘Graces of Art’ which ‘could not fail to gain him the Love, the esteem, and the

Veneration of all who knew him.’ He then considers his noble birth, education, genius,

manners, and charity, and having done so, remarks that ‘he appears, methinks, like some

122 Temple (1685) p. 91123 It is interesting to note that Temple’s predisposition towards a life of Epicurean retreat was well-known to his contemporaries and not necessarily disparaged. In one of Jonathan Swift’s first poems, Ode to the Hon. Sir William Temple, he works with Temple’s character to produce a figure worthy of praise in his retirement, and demonstrates a recognition (if not personal approval) of Temple’s predisposition towards retirement. Indeed, there are several thematic similarities between Swift’s Ode and Upon the Gardens of Epicurus, from which it is highly likely that Swift procured some of his material. 124 Pack (1735) p. 49

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Fortunate Planet arising upon a Tempest-beaten World, that by the Power of its friendly

influence repaired, everywhere in its glorious Course, the Ravage and Ruin of the Storm.’125

However, it becomes apparent on closer observation that Pack’s appreciation of Atticus

is based more specifically on what he describes as his ‘patriotism’: indeed, he declares, at one

point, ‘Happy was his Country in such a Patriot!’126 For Pack, however, Atticus is patriotic

specifically because he rises above that thing often despised during our period - faction. It is

not, therefore, Atticus’s retirement in itself which Pack appreciates, or his abstinence from

public affairs, but specifically his success in maintaining a constant presence amongst those

who were representative of many factions, without adhering to any particular side. It is,

therefore, not an Epicurean Atticus which Pack has in mind, a man who led a life of self-

interested retreat, but rather a man who would normally take an active part in Roman public

life, but who simply could not: ‘His Inaction therefore, during those Usurpations...was both

honourable and prudent, and the Assistance he gave to the Proscribed was an Argument of his

Courage, as well as an Instance of his Humanity.’127 In this sense, if we are to label Pack’s

viewpoint philosophically, it is certainly representative of the idea which we encountered in

the previous chapter, that of a ‘Stoic retirement’, forced by circumstances rather than

inclination. Certainly, his focus on Atticus’s supposed patriotism is a far cry indeed from

Saint-Real’s criticisms of Atticus’s neglect of public duty.

This somewhat unusual vision of Atticus, I would suggest, is reflective not of either a

‘Neposian’ or ‘Ciceronian’ interpretation, but rather of Pack’s own personal circumstances

and outlook. Indeed, it is significant that Pack produced his translations during the last nine

years of his life, on retirement from a vita activa of service in the British army. It is perhaps

as a result of this that there is a quiver of doubt in Pack’s writing as to Atticus’s suitability for

125 Pack (1735) p. 49126 Ibid.127 Pack (1735) p. 51-2

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the post of ‘Patriot’: he comments that, despite his admiration for Atticus, the ‘Distance

between that Age and Ours’ must be fully understood, ‘lest his Example should be pretended

to justify Principles and Actions very different from his own.’128 On the other hand, Pack’s

praise of Atticus is fully genuine, particularly concerning his supposed hatred of faction.

Indeed, his political neutrality, Pack suggests, is representative of the attitude that he expects

of a patriotic British citizen: ‘We are strictly to take Care that we do not, under the false

Colours of Humanity and Charity, serve the treacherous Purposes of Sedition, and Faction.’129

Given this moralistic statement, it is ironic that Pack himself becomes ostentatiously royalist

for the rest of the piece, arguing for a patriotic disengagement with the politics of the day,

while claiming, simultaneously, that ‘whoever is an Enemy to his Majesty’s Title...ought no

less to be reputed an Enemy to the Peace of the Kingdom.’130

Pack’s use of Atticus here, therefore, is undoubtedly complex: if his original intention

was a vociferous attack on those who opposed King George II, bringing Atticus into the fold

seems somewhat unnecessary. For, in fact, the rest of the Remarks are dedicated, not to

Atticus, but rather to the current state of political affairs in England. Pack is clearly much

distressed by the recent disaffection with King George, which has produced such ‘dismal

Effects...which, it were to be wished, could be burned in everlasting Oblivion’. Indeed,

despite the fact that he himself is firmly of a royalist disposition, he implies that there are few

good men in any party, either Tories, Whigs, or any other sect, for the scene is dominated by

‘the Ignorance of the Bigots and Incendiaries of one Side or other.’131 Every man, he

suggests, is motivated by fear of being overtaken by his rival. It was for this very reason, he

suggests, that Atticus ‘declined (and shewed his wisdom in so doing) to declare himself of

128 Pack (1735) p. 51129 Pack (1735) p. 52130 Ibid.131 Pack (1719) p. 53

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any Party.’132 Therefore, in order to understand Pack’s attitude to Atticus fully, we must

consider the political context of his discussion of Atticus’s character. For Pack, Atticus

seems to have achieved something, which he felt that very few men of his own era were able

even to approach: he had deliberately and bravely avoided siding with any of those influences

which were destroying his country, and had continued to behave alike to members of all

factions without becoming in any sense disillusioned by his circumstances.

The elevation of Atticus to the status of a talisman against faction was by no means an

isolated occurrence: the lawyer and writer Francis Manning also uses Atticus in a similar

fashion in his essay of 1735, Of Business and Retirement: A Poem Address’d to the British

Atticus. Here, again, Atticus comes to the fore in the context of the debate between public

and private virtue: whilst there are other ancient figures, such as Dioclesian and Timoleon,

whom Manning regards as having retired gracefully, Atticus’s retirement is for him the most

admirable. Specifically, when Rome had become a scene of ‘mad Dissension’, Atticus

nevertheless ‘wisely chose a calm Retreat/And scorn’d on Virtue’s Ruins to be

Great...Retir’d, and Independent, thus he past/a well-spent Life, Respected to the Last.’133

This attitude, interestingly, Manning likens to the way in which politics was conducted in

ancient Rome before the fall of the Republic: he alludes to a time when there was no

‘Flattery, Envy, or Disguise’, and when ‘Rome’s Dictators’ would shun any reward for their

public service, but, when praised, retreated and ‘withdrew to their farms.’134 Quite when he

envisages this idyllic state of affairs to have been current is unclear: the use of the word

‘Dictators’ certainly confuses the matter. Presumably, Manning is referring to the somewhat

legendary era of the early Republic following the fall of the Kings, before the res publica

became corrupted by Sallustian avaritia, luxuria, and ambitio. Regardless of the historical

132 Pack (1719) p. 225133 Manning (1735) p. 45134 Manning (1735) p. 34-5

45

details, however, it is clear that Manning is using Rome, and Atticus within it, as the starting

point for his vision of the perfect political system, a scene which, he laments, now exists only

in his own imagination.

Indeed, Manning’s attitude towards Atticus seems to parallel closely his rather grim

view of contemporary politics. While Pack concentrates on Atticus’s successful action

despite the corruption surrounding him, Manning appears to believe that this cannot be

achieved by any man, even by one so great as Atticus: ‘What Anguish must the Helm-

director bear...where endless Feuds and Party-Madness reign/Twixt jarring Powers a well-

pois’d Scale to form/or to divert with Skill each threatening Storm/To stem the Tide of

Faction.’135 No man, he argues, can control his own future if he takes part in political life:

‘Hoodwink’d Chance alone presides at Courts...Where Wheels unseen decide each Suitor’s

Fate/Mov’d or impell’d by secret springs of State/Some Party-Cause perhaps, or Strain of

Power.’136 What is Manning’s solution to such a sorry state of affairs? First, he seems to

suggest a similar solution to Pack, declaring that a man must ‘be firm to Truth, and be to

Party unattach’d, by None Controll’d.’137 It becomes clear, however, that Manning means

here not some sort of affected attempt at impartiality, but a genuine ‘retreat’. Indeed, he does

not imply, as do Pack and Hale, that a man should enter retirement only after he has earned it

through a life in public service, but rather accepts it as a mode of life in itself, which should

be taken up more often: ‘Hail sweet Retirement, uncorrupted Good/By most how prais’d, yet

by how few pursu’d!’138

Manning’s admiration for Atticus, therefore, is not based on any supposed patriotic

virtues which he may have possessed, but rather the nature of his ‘calm Retreat’, which he

presents as an end in itself, a virtuous choice in hard times such as those Atticus was living 135 Manning (1735) p. 17136 Manning (1735) p. 7137 Manning (1735) p. 8138 Manning (1735) p. 44

46

in. Manning, I would suggest, is hovering on the boundary between the Epicurean and Stoic

ideas of retreat here: while he is writing in circumstances which might suggest a somewhat

forced ‘Stoic’ retirement, his language suggests a more total, ‘Epicurean’ retreat. Indeed, in

addition to Atticus, Manning uses several other examples of ‘retiring’ figures. Dioclesian, he

notes, retired to his garden specifically: ‘Free from Cares, his Garden his Abode/Prun’d his

own Vines with more intense Delight/Than when he mow’d his Thousands in a Fight.’139

Similarly, he mentions other rulers (though not by name) who, finding their situation

unbearable, have ‘Preferr’d unforc’d a quiet Rural Life/To all the Pomp of Empire mix’d

with Strife.’140 Manning’s primary goal here, it seems, is not merely the avoidance of faction

and corruption, but, at the same time, a life in which the benefits of retirement itself provide

self-fulfilment and give pleasure. Addressing retirement, Manning declares: ‘In Thee our

long-lost Selves again we find/Health dwells with Thee, and cheerful Peace of Mind/and

Probity, that dignifies Mankind.’141

Was this longing for an almost Epicurean-style retreat heartfelt on Manning’s part?

Unfortunately, very few details concerning Manning’s life have survived to aid the historian:

we know little except that he spent his life working in the foreign service, and was appointed

minister to the Swiss Confederation in 1716. Would the emotions which Manning expresses

throughout this treatise be incompatible with a life of public service? It should be

remembered, however, that this essay was written three years before Manning’s death in

1738, presumably, then, during his own retirement, when, as we have seen in the case of both

Hale and Pack, men tended to look back on their careers and rue the time which they had

spent trying to fight the tide of politics. In addition, judging by the content of his other

works, we can see that Manning engaged frequently with the debate concerning private and

139 Manning (1735) p. 38140 Manning (1735) p. 37141 Manning (1735) p. 44

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public virtue, imitating a number of Horace’s Odes, many of which concentrate on the themes

of retirement. And, in an address to a friend in need, Of Levity and Steadiness, he cites

retreat ‘from Publick Care to Private Life’ as a possible honourable solution to his

companion’s problems.142 Therefore, given this background detail, limited though it may be,

I would suggest that Manning’s argument that no ‘power or place’ can replace ‘sweet

Repose’ should be taken at face value, and that his appreciation of Atticus should be

considered intricately connected with his appreciation of the idea of a full, possibly

Epicurean, retreat.143

What, then, can we conclude concerning the nature of Atticus’s reception during the

period 1650-1730 or thereabouts? First, it seems to be the case that, whenever Atticus is

mentioned, either in the context of remarks appended to a translation, or within another work

entirely, it is almost exclusively in a ‘retirement context’. In other words, he was admired or

vilified for one attribute in particular, his non-involvement or moderation in public affairs.

This may appear at first sight to be a rather static attribute, and indeed an obviously

Epicurean one, connected with the ataraxic ideal: in fact, however, even this one aspect of

Atticus’s behaviour could be interpreted in a variety of different ways, as demonstrated

particularly in the works of Hale, Temple, Pack and Manning. The perceived nature of

Atticus’s ‘retirement’ varies greatly according to the specific viewpoint of each author, and to

his own philosophical-rhetorical position. Sometimes, as is the case with both Temple and

Saint-Real, Atticus is assumed to have been an Epicurean, although, interestingly, the two

men differ wildly in their interpretations of the significance of this. Temple, who was already

sympathetic to Epicureanism as an ethical system, took Atticus’s Epicurean stance as read,

and, without question, glorified him as a personal model for his own retreat. Saint-Real, by

contrast, used Cicero’s letters to bring out a side of Atticus which was far less attractive,

142 Manning (1735) Of Levity and Steadiness p. 8143 Manning (1735) p. 17

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presenting his inaction as a symptom of cowardice and of an unhealthy willingness to betray

both his country and his friends in pursuit of his own business interests.

There is, at first, no explicit response to Saint-Real’s critical ideas in subsequent

British reception, but there does appear one very important trend which may represent, in a

sense, an unconscious response in British intellectual circles to the attacks of French scholars.

Specifically, what we encounter in the writing of Hale, Pack and Manning, is an attempt to

transform Atticus into a figure more straightforwardly acceptable and identifiable to their

readers. This does not necessarily entail a complete elimination of the ‘Epicurean’ Atticus –

in Manning’s portrait, in particular, he is still clearly recognisable – but rather a partial

‘Stoicising’ of his character to render him a more patriotic figure. In the context of

retirement literature of the late seventeenth- and early eighteenth centuries, this makes a great

deal of sense, for, as demonstrated in chapter 3, the ‘retirement’ which was often envisaged

(though not always) was a forced retirement, made necessary, most frequently, by long

experience and therefore weariness of the political circumstances of the day. Atticus, in

Pack’s eyes especially, morphs into a staunch patriot, whose retreat is not for his own benefit,

but for that of Rome and his fellow countrymen, caught in the clutches of factionalism.

Perhaps, indeed, there was a slight uneasiness concerning the self-interestedness of Atticus’s

conduct, which may have in itself prompted many of our writers to go further even than

Nepos in emphasising Atticus’s altruistic qualities.

It is important, however, to be mindful of the fact that this transformation of Atticus

was not a linear, nor always complete, one. Specifically, even though it might seem self-

evident that writers such as Hale, Pack, and Manning, were turning Atticus into an exemplar

of a ‘Stoic’ rather than ‘Epicurean’ retreat, this attempt was probably, in most cases, so

unconscious, that it is debateable whether it is appropriate for us to label it with such a well-

defined philosophical dichotomy. Indeed, to assume that these writers were discussing a

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forced retreat first and foremost fails to take account of the strength of feeling which these

men appear to have had personally on the subject of retirement, one which, in almost every

case, seems to have had relevance to their own experiences. After all, using Atticus as a

model would surely have been, during this period, hardly usual, and, indeed, to choose to

produce translations of and remarks upon Nepos’s Atticus, similarly, was most probably not a

popular occupation. This makes it all the more significant that many of these writers chose to

focus on Atticus, and to make use of his character as presented by Nepos in order to express

their own frustrations about the futility and corruption of public life, and to justify their own,

often heartfelt, longings for a peaceful retreat, especially in their later years. These men were

not, I would suggest, making use of Atticus in order to bolster any academic line of argument

in favour of retirement, but were attracted to him as a figure because he represented, to them,

something that which they felt they could not achieve in their own lives, which were often a

far cry from the ideal of the vita contemplativa.

The personal and idiosyncratic nature of these ‘receptions’ of Atticus, then, provides

the classical reception scholar with more than just the fact that there was a narrow, but quite

passionate, reception of Atticus during this period; it also points to some of the methods, if

we can call them such, which were used to respond to the classical past in the later

seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries in Britain. It is notable, indeed, that most of the

responses to Atticus which we have encountered so far are not grounded in any real

‘historical’ analysis: i.e. each writer takes Atticus as he himself would like to find him, and

seems to be almost entirely un-interested in what other writers have written about him. One

gets the feeling occasionally, from a phrase or two, that a writer may be on the defensive,

concerning Atticus’s lack of patriotism, for example, but otherwise there tends to be very

little recognition throughout our British texts (even following the English translation of Saint-

Real’s Caesarion) that Atticus may not have been the paragon of goodness which Nepos

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presents. Of course, to an extent, this may have been a simple result of the controversial

retirement context in which Atticus’s figure was employed: it may have represented a

deliberate move on the part of our writers to ignore any criticisms of Atticus’s character

which might have damaged his own literary aims.

I would suggest, however, that the overwhelmingly positive British attitude to Atticus

may also have been partly due to the fact that none of our writers appear to have read any text

concerning Atticus except Nepos’s biography: Cicero’s evidence, the only ancient source

which might directly prompt a critical view of Atticus, appears to have been spectacularly

ignored. This is indeed difficult to confirm, but it would explain, to an extent, why Atticus’s

figure was approached and adapted with such straightforward ease in the British texts: for

Nepos’s characterisation of Atticus, in itself quite simplistic and philosophically vague, might

indeed inspire a wide variety of interpretations, all positive (for Nepos does not have one

criticism of Atticus himself), yet still centring, like Nepos, not on Atticus’s achievements, but

his political inaction. This inaction itself was sometimes, in line with the differing

philosophical backgrounds and specific purposes of our writers, presented as even more of a

positive virtue than Nepos suggests, but nevertheless, in general, none of the British analyses

examined above stray dramatically in tone from Nepos, and certainly do not incorporate the

French criticisms of Saint-Real. During this period, then, I would suggest, it is very likely

indeed that there was a high degree of correlation between the style of Atticus’s ‘reception’,

and the level of appreciation (or lack of it) of those ancient texts which provide evidence for

the life and times of the ancient ‘Atticus’.

VI: Developments from the mid eighteenth century onwards

Having formed some provisional conclusions concerning Atticus’s reception in the first

half of our period, it is now necessary to consider whether there were in fact any changes in

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the content or style of his reception throughout the mid-to-late eighteenth century, taking into

account the significance which such changes may have had for the appreciation of Atticus

towards present day scholarship. It might be expected, given the Epicurean component in the

appreciation of Atticus, that, after the ‘Epicurean Revival’ of the late seventeenth and early

eighteenth centuries had died down, interest in Atticus as a model might also decrease.

Certainly, by the mid eighteenth century, the cultural-philosophical atmosphere in England

had undergone a substantial change, and the tendency towards an increasingly hedonistic

appreciation of Epicureanism became less inappropriate in a society which was speedily

becoming ideologically virtue-dominated – as Mayo describes it, ‘The age of Christian

reaction against materialistic egoism.’144 In this new moralising atmosphere, Mayo argues,

although several Epicurean texts were published, attention was generally hostile: the

philosophical tide was turning quickly against Epicurean expression, and leading

philosophers such as Shaftesbury and Bishop Berkeley were vociferous in their opposition -

Epicurean themes could not possibly flourish.

Mayo’s view, however, is not nuanced enough for our purposes: for, as was strongly

demonstrated in the previous chapter, Atticus stood for a great deal more than his

Epicureanism throughout the Restoration period, and indeed, the link between his political

independence and his philosophical predisposition was not always made explicit even in

those works which extolled either both or either. Rather, his figure was most frequently

connected with a more personal appreciation of the theme of retirement. And, although,

certainly, in the early- to mid-eighteenth century, the concept of retirement itself developed

with the times, nevertheless, it was still highly relevant: Rǿstvig cites several examples of

eighteenth-century works which concentrated specifically on the virtues of active versus

contemplative life, which, she argues, ‘suffice to suggest the widespread acceptance of the

144 Mayo (1934) p. 188

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philosophy of retirement in the early eighteenth century by large sections of English

society.’145 The philosophy was certainly less hedonistic in spirit than it had been in 1660,

yet this does not necessarily mean that it was less ‘Epicurean’ as a whole: indeed, themes of

friendship and rural retirement were continued, although, of course, the mode of expression

was, understandably, not identical. As Rǿstvig notes, ‘The more sober spirit of the age of

King William caused the Restoration emphasis on pleasure and on unmitigated ease to

diminish in favour of a more prudent emphasis on the virtues of a golden mean.’146

This golden mean, however, did not entirely exclude the model of a virtuous retirement:

and therefore it by no means excluded the appreciation of Atticus as such a model, whether

Epicurean or otherwise. It should come as no surprise, then, that, to all appearances, there

was no significant decrease in interest in Atticus in intellectual circles as the appreciation of

Epicureanism in England became once again an undercurrent rather than a mainstream

pursuit. Despite this, however, we can detect, again in tandem with the development of the

philosophy of retirement, a definite change in the style of Atticus’s reception throughout the

eighteenth century. Whilst there are slightly fewer works centring on Atticus alone, he

receives a wealth of comment in less specific works, which demonstrate an increased

enthusiasm for establishing his character through what we might call a more ‘historical’

means. This tendency towards ‘realism’, I would argue, was inspired primarily by increased

attention to the ancient texts, and in particular by an increase in awareness of the Epistulae

ad Atticum, particularly following Guthrie’s first translation into English in 1752. It appears,

incidentally, that the task had proved too difficult for any previous writer: Guthrie describes

the Epistulae as ‘a work more entertaining to read, but more difficult to translate, than any

literary composition of antiquity.’147

145 Rǿstvig (1958) Vol. II, p. 27146 Rǿstvig (1958) Vol. I, p. 397147 Guthrie (1752) Preface.i

53

I would suggest that this change in textual emphasis, while visible to an extent in the

work of Saint-Real and his French contemporaries, was in fact sparked in the British context

not by Guthrie’s translation, but Conyers Middleton’s Life of Cicero, and was spread to a

great extent by emulation of this widely influential work by a highly controversial and

readable author.148 Middleton’s personal bond with his subject was profound: throughout his

correspondence, he displays a high degree of self-identification with Cicero, both as a

statesman and a philosopher. Indeed, he claimed that he was writing his Life in Cicero in

order that he might prolong his own name by engrafting it on his: ‘For whatever our divines

dispute of the salvability of the Heathens, I desire no better company in this, or better lot in

the next life, than with him.’149 Furthermore, Middleton attempted in his work to reduce the

ideological distance between ancient Rome and his own British experience. This was

particularly evident in his earlier Letter from Rome (1729), in which he analysed at length the

superimposition of the Catholic religion upon pagan Antiquity, focusing specifically on the

ways in which pagan temples had morphed into Christian churches, and pagan heroes into

Christian saints. This approach, argues Trevor-Roper, created in his work a ‘vivid sense of

historical continuity across a great ideological chasm.’150 Arguably, this new comparative

approach was the base of the Life of Cicero’s appeal: with the distance between Rome and the

eighteenth-century present diminished, Middleton was able to present Cicero as a workable

model of good citizenship for those involved in the British parliamentary system.

One might expect that, given Middleton’s obsession with his model Cicero, that Atticus

might be squeezed out of his 4-volume work: this, however, is not the case. In fact, Atticus

receives much comment from Middleton: not only is he frequently mentioned as Cicero’s

correspondent, but also forms a subject for discussion in his own right. Middleton, however,

148 By far Middleton’s most successful work, the Life of Cicero ran into nine editions in the eighteenth century and several more in the nineteenth and beyond.149 Middleton to Hervey: in Trevor-Roper (2010) p. 93150 Trevor-Roper (2010) p. 76

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tends to view Atticus primarily in light of his friendship with Cicero, and of the influence he

had on Cicero’s political behaviour. Interestingly, he takes Cicero’s affection for Atticus as

read: ‘By the care which [Cicero] took after his return, to celebrate Atticus’s name in all his

writings, he has left the most illustrious testimony to posterity of his sincere esteem and

affection for him.’ 151 Indeed, Middleton’s Atticus holds the position of official adviser to

Cicero, even though, as he notes, Cicero was unable always to follow Atticus’s advice.

Referring to Ad Atticum SB 83.1, he comments that, ‘in [Cicero’s] answers to Atticus he

observes...that Atticus having no peculiar character, suffered no peculiar indignity; nothing

but was common to all the Citizens’, whereas he was unable to do either what he ought to or

what was best for him personally without either appearing mad or being a slave.152

Interestingly, however, Middleton seems to think that Atticus was right in moderating

Cicero’s impatience, because, ‘if to pay a particular court and observance to a man, was the

mark of slavery, those in power seemed to be slaves rather to him than he to them.’ 153

It appears then, that Middleton rather approves of Atticus’s moderating influence on

Cicero’s behaviour, and feels (and this is certainly in line with the work as a whole) that his

political independence was an ideal worth pursuing, in both Roman and British contexts. In

line with this approval, he also accepts without question that Atticus was an Epicurean, and

even details his aims in life: ‘that he might secure against all events the grand point, which he

had in view, the peace and tranquillity of his life.’154 As a result, he notes, Atticus had ‘all the

talents that could qualify a man to be useful to his society’, but ‘determined never to act

himself; or never at least so far, as to disturb his ease, or endanger his safety.’155 Atticus’s

Epicureanism does not in itself elicit a negative response from Middleton: indeed he seems to

151 Middleton (1741) Vol. 1, p. 372152 Middleton (1741) Vol. 1, p. 468153 Middleton (1741) Vol. 2, p. 207154 Middleton (1741) Vol. 2, p. 566155 Ibid.

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admire the way in which Atticus adhered to the philosophy he had chosen: ‘As to Atticus, the

difficulty of the times, in which he lived, and the perpetual quiet, that he enjoyed in them,

confirm...that he was a perfect Master of the principles of his sect, and knew how to secure

that chief good of an Epicurean life, his private ease and safety.’ 156 For possibly the first

time in British scholarship, then, Atticus’s Epicureanism was more than just alluded to in

passing, with a degree of embarrassment or negativity, but expanded upon in terms which

were not altogether pejorative.

Interestingly, however, because Middleton’s aim is to cast Atticus in a specific role as

Cicero’s political adviser, he has to modify his character in order to fit the characteristics of

the role. Indeed, Atticus is subtly assimilated to Cicero in ways which one might not expect.

The reader is led to believe, for example, that, in fact, the difference in philosophy is the only

difference between the two men: Atticus is described as having ‘the same love of his country,

and the same sentiments in politics with Cicero, whom he was always advising and urging to

act’, and, indeed, though he maintained friendships with his mortal enemies, Clodius and

Antony, he was above all ‘strictly united with Cicero, and valued him above all men.’157 And,

despite the fact that he suggests that Atticus’s ‘notion of virtue’ was theoretically flawed, he

seems to claim on one occasion that Atticus’s attachment to his Epicureanism was not

entirely unchangeable. Atticus, he comments, ‘whose philosophy was as incompatible as

ambition with all affections that did not terminate in himself, was frequently drawn by the

goodness of his nature to correct the viciousness-ness of his principle.’ 158 It seems then, that

Middleton is, like some of our late seventeenth-century authors, attempting to present Atticus

as a patriotic man at heart: someone who is similar enough to Cicero to be suitable for the

role of his best friend and adviser, but who also represented (though from a dubious

156 Middleton (1741) Vol 2, p. 580157 Middleton (1741) Vol. 2, p. 566158 Middleton (1741) Vol. 2, p. 301

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philosophical perspective) a mode of political independence which Middleton in fact wanted

to ascribe to Cicero himself.

One of the most striking aspects of Middleton’s Life of Cicero is his increasing

historical focus on the evidence provided by the Epistulae ad Atticum.159 Indeed, it seems

that, following the publication of the Life of Cicero, Atticus’s wider reception becomes more

dependent upon the Ciceronian evidence as well as (or often instead of) that of Nepos.

Middleton’s stance may very well have influenced this directly, for his opinion on the

survival of Atticus’s reputation is very distinctive: ‘But that [Atticus] still lives, in the fame

and memory of ages, is entirely owing to the circumstances, of his having been Cicero’s

friend: for this after all, was the chief honour of his life: and as Seneca truly observed, it was

the Epistles of Cicero, which preserved him from oblivion.’160 In the work of the classical

scholar and historian Thomas Blackwell, one of the foremost figures of the Scottish

Enlightenment, we find a similar sentiment. In the third chapter of his Memoirs of the Court

of Augustus, (1753), “The Fall of Rome”, he mentions Atticus as ‘one of the most

accomplished of the Roman Gentlemen, T.P. Atticus, who owes the Immortality of his Name

to his Friendship with Cicero, and especially to the elegant epistolary Correspondence that

was the Fruit of It.’161 Blackwell’s mention of Atticus is brief, but interesting in that, while

he seems to approve of Atticus as a whole, he has one complaint of him, that he ‘carried the

Principle of the Epicurean Philosophy which he professed, not to meddle with public affairs,

rather too far.’162 Blackwell’s Atticus, then, is judged partly by his philosophical stance, but

mostly by the tenor of his interactions with Cicero: like Middleton, he thinks of the two men

within the same ideological context.

159 Middleton did face some criticism from his contemporaries concerning his selective use of the Epistulae: Guthrie comments that every page of his own translation ‘carries in it a Refutation of what the Doctor has advanced.’ (Guthrie (1752) Preface.vi)160 Middleton (1741) Vol. 2, p. 582161 Blackwell (1753) p. 255162 Blackwell (1753) p. 255

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Hume, it appears, also judged Atticus primarily by his relationship with Cicero, but

from an entirely different perspective. He comments in his Of the Rise and Progress of the

Arts and Sciences on Atticus’s disposition in connection with Cicero’s manners towards him

in several of his dialogues:

That learned and virtuous Roman... whose dignity, though he was only a private gentleman, was inferior to that of no one in Rome, is there shewn in rather a more pitiful light than Philalethe’s friend in our modern dialogues. He is a humble admirer of the orator, pays him frequent compliments, and receives his instructions, with all the deference which a scholar owes to his master.163

Hume seems more than a little attracted to Atticus himself: for him, Atticus was undoubtedly

an Epicurean, and Hume is well-known for his sympathies towards Epicureanism as opposed

to more rigid Stoicism. Indeed, in his An enquiry concerning the principles of morals, he

argues that it just as virtuous as Stoicism, if not more so: ‘Whoever concludes...that those,

who make Profession of [Epicureanism] cannot possibly feel the true Sentiments of

Benevolence, or have any Regard for genuine virtue, will often find himself, in Practice, very

much mistaken. Probity and Honour were not Strangers to Epicurus and his Sect. Atticus

and Horace seem to have enjoy’d from Nature, and cultivated from Reflection, as generous

and friendly Dispositions as any Disciple of the austere Schools.’164 Hume, therefore, though

he considers Atticus in a Ciceronian context, does not overlook him, but rather leaps to his

defence.

It would appear, then, that, mid-eighteenth-century writers tend to focus less on

Nepos’s Atticus and therefore less on Atticus as a stand-alone figure, and more on his role as

a friend and correspondent of Cicero. This increased focus on the Ciceronian link does not

necessarily engender a negative response such as that of Saint-Real: indeed, as we saw in

Hume’s case, some authors felt that Atticus had been unfairly ignored, even maligned. We

should remember, indeed, that identification with Atticus was often undertaken on a personal

163 Hume (1758) p. 80164 Hume (1751) p. 13

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level, and did not necessarily remain static throughout an individual’s life – self-identification

was often a response to circumstances which elicited interest for a specific period of time.

The act of ‘reception’, after all, does not pertain to one moment in time: it represents a

process which may ebb and flow, disappear and perhaps reappear, even throughout the

experience of one individual. One writer who exemplifies this in connection with Atticus is

Elizabeth Montagu, prolific author and founder of the ‘Bluestocking’ salon, who was highly

influential in establishing the conversational epistolary eloquence of the many intellectuals

who surrounded her. In 1741, at the age of 22, shortly before she was married, we find in her

correspondence several letters which she wrote to female friends during a period of illness, in

which she discusses Atticus’s character.

Elizabeth was initially struck, like many before her, by Atticus’s retreat from public

life: ‘I have taken a great fancy to [Cicero’s] friend, Atticus’, she writes:

I love those virtues which, like the peaceful olive, bloom in the shade; I admire the strength of some understandings, but I love the elegance of his. He assisted all parties in distress, followed none in the pursuits of ambition, so that he was neither prompted by interest to what he ought, nor withheld by fear from what it was right to do... But perhaps I am partial to all those characters who have amused me in my time of distress.165

In a further letter of a fortnight later, she elaborates upon the reasons for her instinctive

appreciation: ‘I was pleased with him, because he appeared to me just, friendly, charitable,

and disinterested. I think a man who... has, for merely being good, stood fair in the rolls of

fame... must indeed have built his reputation upon the sure and fast foundation of virtue.’166

And, again, as we saw in the cases of Hale and Pack, Atticus is set up as the antidote to

faction: ‘I am more apt to trust to the character of a man, whom, being of no party, it was the

interest and business of no faction particularly to commend.’167 Her portrait, then, seems to

165 Montagu (1813) p. 148, To Anne Donnellan, Wednesday April 10, 1741166 Montagu (1813) p. 156, To Anne Donnellan, Wednesday April 20, 1741167 Montagu (1813) p. 156, To Anne Donnellan, Wednesday April 20, 1741

59

reflect Nepos’s Atticus closely, and indeed she declares to her friend in the same letter that,

for the ‘best information’ on Atticus, she should turn to Cornelius Nepos’s Life.

Montagu’s initial response to Atticus, then, is demonstrably instinctive and personal,

yet not naive. Indeed, she later demonstrates awareness of potential criticisms directed

towards Atticus, acknowledging, for example, that ‘Atticus’s virtue did him so much service

as might sometimes provoke the world to call it self-interest.’168 She also argues that he

cannot be considered a true patriot: ‘He applied himself not at all to the general care of the

republic, but only to the relief of particular persons’ calamity’ – as such he represented

merely ‘a general friend to his fellow-citizens.’169 Atticus is, for Montagu, then, not so much

a hero, but someone whose independence and generosity she could respect, and most

importantly, whom she could emulate. Indeed, as Bending notes, her correspondence is

frequently filled with discussions concerning retirement in connection with her country life.170

In this light, her view of Atticus seems even more indicative of her own situation: ‘I believe

him as eminently good as you will find any man who is void of ambition and desire of glory;

for it is to them we owe great and heroic acts.’171 Indeed, at this early point of her life,

Montagu certainly preferred Atticus to Cicero: despite her thorough reading of Middleton’s

Life of Cicero, published in the same year, she was not initially enamoured of Cicero himself,

and made an effort to counteract Middleton’s unreservedly positive appreciation by reading

Lyttelton’s more negative Observations on the Life of Cicero, and even Saint-Real’s

introduction to the Epistulae ad Atticum.

Tania Smith argues that Elizabeth’s early love of Atticus represents an attempt to find

for herself an ancient model whose behaviour she could reconcile with her own femininity:

‘Elizabeth’s early respect for the character of Atticus, and later for Cicero, also parallels her 168 Montagu (1813) p. 156-7, To Anne Donnellan, Wednesday April 20, 1741169 Ibid. 170 Bending (2006) p. 555171 Montagu (1813) p. 157

60

internal negotiation between culturally feminine and masculine, private and public rhetorical

identities.’172 This conclusion, I feel, however, is unnecessarily restrictive. In its

triumphalism concerning Montagu’s eventual identification with the ‘masculine’ model,

Smith in fact reduces Montagu’s original identity (that which she describes as ‘feminine’) to

a position of weakness. Certainly, it is interesting to consider that Montagu’s appreciation of

Atticus may have been connected with her gender identity, but there is certainly no evidence

(except that which is purely circumstantial) either for or against this argument. Perhaps

Elizabeth may at times have felt frustrated as to the constraints which prevented her from

holding public office, but this should be tempered by the observation that intellectually, at

least (as is demonstrated by her later career) her social position meant that she was hardly

held back in terms of personal achievement. It seems somewhat artificial, therefore, to

suggest that ‘Atticus’s character, though male, confirmed for Montagu the political and social

value of traits and rhetorical skills that were acceptable for women in her culture.’173

In fact, it is evident from Montagu’s comments concerning Atticus that, in fact, her

response is motivated by an entirely different ideological base. Indeed, her main focus is not

on the ‘privateness’ of Atticus’s station itself, but the moral significance of his political

independence. Tellingly, she initially sees Cicero as a hypocrite, and finds it difficult to

respect a man in which there is both vanity and timidity, both a ‘love of country’ and

‘submission to the tyrants of it.’174 This distrust of those who took part in the race for office

and aligned themselves to one particular party, was, as demonstrated in the late seventeenth-

century context, not uncommon – and, in Montagu’s own time, the public versus private

virtue debate was still very much alive. Montagu’s reception of Atticus is not necessarily

based on some undefined desperation on her part to find a niche for herself, but rather on

172 Smith (2008) p. 179173 Smith (2008) p. 187174 Montagu (1813) p. 198-9, To Anne Donnellan April 20, 1741

61

principles which she already held, which developed as she grew intellectually. Indeed,

although she very much admired Atticus at this early stage of her life, as she read Cicero’s

letters and Middleton’s biography in more detail, her attention became more focused on

Cicero himself, and more sympathetic to his circumstances. After all, the sources she had

available provided a hundred times as much information concerning Cicero than they could

for Atticus – perhaps her transition from one ancient figure to the other was less a matter of

personal inclination and more the result of the relative availability of interesting and relevant

literature.

Our last example from the eighteenth-century period is a writer who, again, approaches

Atticus through Cicero: the classical scholar William Melmoth in his 1773 translation of

Cicero’s De Senectute. Taking advantage of Cicero’s original dedication of the work to

Atticus, Melmoth provides, alongside his translation, a summary of continental ‘scholarship’

on Atticus to date. This is no intellectual exercise, however, for Melmoth’s mission is to

defend Atticus against his enemies, specifically Saint-Real: he asserts that ‘although

[Atticus’s] fame hath been thus transmitted through a long succession of ages, unsullied by

censure or suspicion’, a late critic has lodged ‘groundless cavils’ against him.175 In order to

counter this ‘unnecessary and officious zeal’, then, Melmoth proceeds to ‘examine by what

means and with what success, the Abbe St Real has been able to discover those secret spots in

the character of Atticus, which had lain concealed from every eye but his own.’176 For,

although he shares Saint-Real’s evidential basis, recognising that Cicero’s letters are capable

of providing valuable information about Atticus’s career, he argues fervently that they are

not, in fact, in contradiction to Nepos’s evidence. He suggests, indeed, that many of the

instances which Saint-Real selected to support his argument were ‘either produced from

175 Melmoth (1785) p. 132176 Melmoth (1785) p. 133

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passages of very ambiguous import, or founded upon readings which the most judicious

commentators have unanimously rejected.’177

Melmoth displays his classical scholarship fully in his rebuttal of Saint-Real, and the

evidence which he produces is usually apt: not only does he cite passages from Cicero’s

Letters to Atticus with accuracy and relevance, but he is even aware of the Nepos-Cicero

fragments to be found in Lactantius.178 Similarly, in the two examples which he uses to

demonstrate Saint-Real’s incompetence, the detail in his analysis is impressive. He takes first

the contradiction which Saint-Real identifies between Nepos’s evidence and Cicero’s

concerning Atticus’s position as a publicanus. He admits that Nepos indeed declares that

nullius res neque prase neque manceps factus est: ‘Atticus was never engaged in that sort of

pecuniary commerce which was carried on by the Roman knights, in farming the public

revenues.’179 Yet he finds the evidence which Saint-Real uses to counteract Nepos (the

phrase in SB 36.4 where Cicero writes, tu aliquid publicanus pendis) is in itself incorrect, for

the best editors, including Lambinus, agree in reading publicanis pendis, a reading that

‘utterly destroys the pretended inconsistency of Cornelius Nepos with Cicero.’180

Furthermore, against a complaint of the French critic Mogault, that Atticus did not do right

by Cicero when he was in exile, he comments that Mogault’s conclusion is ill-informed, as it

is based on a phrase in a letter, which was itself written when Cicero was in a ‘remarkably

dejected and querulous state of mind.’181 Melmoth’s judgement, here, therefore, demonstrates

that he possessed a thorough familiarity with the whole corpus of Ciceronian letters, rather

than just those which pose a threat to Atticus’s reputation.

177 Melmoth (1820) p. 86178 For the text of these fragments, see Horsfall (1989)179 Melmoth (1785) p. 134180 Melmoth (1785) p. 135181 Melmoth (1785) p. 143

63

Melmoth, then, takes on the challenge of competing with Saint-Real for Atticus’s

honour, and makes a convincing attempt at dismissing the legitimate concerns of Atticus’s

French critics through a detailed appreciation of the evidence of both Nepos and Cicero. It

remains to be seen, however, why Melmoth was so very keen to re-establish Atticus’s good

reputation. Was it simply an opportunity to discuss Atticus in an intellectual context? After

all, Melmoth was one of the foremost classical scholars and translators of his generation;

need there be any explanation for an interesting digression on the character of a lesser and

perhaps misunderstood classical figure? I would argue, however, that, alongside Melmoth’s

interest as a classical scholar, there lies also a more personal appreciation of Atticus. Indeed,

the fact that he chooses to discuss Atticus at length when the only mention of him in the

translation itself is in the dedication, is surely testimony to this. In addition, throughout the

vast majority of his Remarks, Melmoth’s tone is hardly disinterested: his comments are,

without exception, enthusiastic in their praise of Atticus, whom he introduces in glowing

terms: ‘There is not to be found, perhaps, in all the annals of history, a more memorable

person than this celebrated Roman...his character stands distinguished amongst the most

shining of his illustrious contemporaries.’182

Indeed, although a comparison between his own life and Atticus’s is not made explicit

in his remarks, it is nevertheless quite evident from Melmoth’s biographical background that

his choice lifestyle was one in which he may have found Atticus attractive as a model. Two

of his other works, indeed, seem to confirm that a retreat from public life was his personal

preference. In sections of his Letters on Several Subjects (which, though fictionalised under

the pseudonym ‘Sir Thomas Fitzosborne’, are nevertheless held to have autobiographical

reference), retirement is a frequently recurring theme. In one letter, ‘To Clytander’ of 1717,

the narrator declares that he has made his long-awaited retreat: ‘To say truth, my friend, the

182 Melmoth (1785) p. 131

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longer I lived in the high scenes of action, the more I was convinced that nature had not

formed me for bearing a part in them.’183 Looking back, he concludes that there is very little

way which he could now take part in public life with a clear conscience: ‘It is scarce possible,

I fear, to do any good in one’s generation (in publick life I mean) without listing under some

or other of those various banners.’184 The same theme is present in a second letter to

‘Palemon’- ‘Happiness in Retirement’ - in which he extols the pleasures of his country life at

length. Again, the author meditates on the what has gone before: ‘I look back upon those

scenes of turbulence wherein I was once engaged, with more than ordinary distaste; and

despise myself for ever having entertained so mean a thought as to be rich and great.’185

These are strong words, and surely sentiments with which Melmoth himself must have,

at some point, at least, sympathised. Indeed, they are echoed in his treatise, Of an Active and

Retired Life of 1735, which, though it gives credit to both sides of the traditional

public/private debate, is emotionally weighted in favour of retirement. Like many of the

seventeenth-century writers, Melmoth first pays lip-service to the active life, acknowledging

that ‘Patrius’, the ideal patriot, is praiseworthy:

In him a just Ambition stands confest;/It warms, but not inflames his equal Breast/.. No mean Attachments e’er seduc’d his Tongue/To gild the Cause his Heart suspected Wrong/But deaf to envy, Faction, Spleen, his Voice/Joins here or there, as Reason guides his Choice...All his Toils in Britain’s Interest end.186

However, after giving ‘Patrius’ his due, he then proceeds to demonstrate that such a life is not

the only commendable one: those who choose to ‘shun the publick Eyes’ also deserve to be

honoured, for ‘Retirement’s tranquil Pleasures’ bring substantial fruits. This, he argues, is

where Science and ‘true Philosophy’ sprang, where ‘evry Seed of ev’ry Art began/And all

that eases Life and brightens Man.’187 Arguing along the same lines as some of his

183 Melmoth (1749) Vol 1 p. 40, XX: To Clytander 184 Ibid185 Melmoth (1749) p. 66186 Melmoth (1735) p. 7187 Melmoth (1735) p. 9

65

seventeenth-century predecessors, then, Melmoth praises a more ‘Stoic’ life of retirement,

focusing on the many improving benefits which a life of retirement can bring. Yet he also

points out that that even a life of leisure is hardly easy, and that it must be approached, not

merely as a form of escape from business, but without any pride or hope, or passion: ‘He who

wou’d taste Retirement’s Joys refin’d/The fair Recess must seek with cheerful Mind’.188

Melmoth’s ideal retreat, here, then, is total: although it may be fruitful in its own way, any

ambition reminiscent of the public life must be left well behind.

Behind Melmoth’s remarks on Atticus, then, it seems not unwarranted to see a

substantial degree of personal appreciation of his character and indeed his life of inaction and

contemplative study. I would argue that, in Melmoth, there is an interesting blend of the

more personal style of reception of Atticus which we saw in the case of his seventeenth-

century predecessors, alongside an attempt at a more ‘historical’ appreciation of the ‘real’

ancient Atticus himself. Indeed, although Melmoth’s positive opinion of Atticus may very

well have been inspired by his own personal context and beliefs, his analysis is still far more

‘academic’ than those of Hale or Temple, for example, and he displays a far greater

awareness, both of the criticisms levelled against the evidence of Nepos, and the ways in

which they can be countered through correct use of the Ciceronian evidence, than do

Montagu, or even Middleton. It is interesting, to note, however, that Melmoth does not

entirely break free from tradition: when he seeks intellectual support in his own conclusion, it

is to Temple that he appeals, his predecessor by nearly a century. New ancient evidence (or

new awareness of it) did not, in this case, lead Melmoth to dissent from the already-

established positive spirit of Atticus reception, but rather to defend it.

It appears then, that Atticus’s reception throughout the mid to late eighteenth century

period was, unsurprisingly, perhaps, similar in tone to that which had gone before it. There

188 Melmoth (1735) p. 13

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were, however, a few specific developments in emphasis and methodology, the most striking

of which was the shift in emphasis caused by the wider dissemination of the Ciceronian

evidence. Indeed, during this later period, even when Atticus is discussed at length, the

pretext for his discussion tends to be Ciceronian in nature. This does not necessarily mean

that Cicero’s Epistulae were now always preferred above all other evidence for Atticus: some

writers, such as Montagu, continued to rely on Nepos alone, at least at first. Others, such as

Melmoth and Middleton, while fully engaged with the criticisms which had been levelled

against him, still chose to believe Nepos’s more coherent narrative over the rather partial and

unsatisfying snippets of Ciceronian letters. Indeed, despite the increase of familiarity with

Cicero’s Epistulae which accompanied the publication of Middleton’s Life of Cicero,

eighteenth-century British writers did not, despite Saint-Real’s example, use the letters to

vilify Atticus. Indeed, as demonstrated above in the cases of Montagu, Hume, Blackwell,

and Melmoth, although there was a degree of awareness of the late-seventeenth-century

continental criticism, the opinions of those who took an interest in Atticus in the British

context were overwhelmingly positive. Indeed, Melmoth, in particular, despite a full and

deliberate engagement with the attacks of Saint-Real and other French critics, returns with a

passionate defence of Atticus, from which he emerges with reputation restored.

Despite the continuing positive nature of Atticus’s reception during this period,

however, I would suggest that these later analyses, overall, were becoming gradually both

less politicised, and more balanced in terms of the evidence on which they relied. The latter

development was shaped, no doubt, by wider intellectual Enlightenment trends which placed

greater emphasis on direct involvement with classical texts. Indeed, in the work of Middleton

and Melmoth in particular, we see the beginnings of what we might call historical

‘scholarship’ of the early nineteenth century and beyond - opinions which did not engender

such a high degree of political feeling as many of our earlier texts. After all, though

67

retirement was still a very attractive and relevant concept throughout the second half of our

period, the atmosphere of personal desperation which surrounded late seventeenth-century

receptions, and the vehemence with which they used Atticus as a defence against faction, was

probably felt less by leading men of the mid to late eighteenth century. Nevertheless, as we

can see in the discussions of both Melmoth and Montagu, Atticus’s reception retained its

personal character during this period. Indeed, Atticus remained something of a specialist

interest, and, again, his character, still known only through two ancient texts, attracted a

following whose main mode of reception was self-identification. This is no less true of

Atticus’s reception in the late eighteenth century than in the 1670s, when Hale first translated

Nepos’s Life of Atticus into English.

VII: The Implications of Atticus for Reception theory

Having come to some conclusions concerning the nature of Atticus’s reception in

Britain during the period 1650-1800, it is important to consider briefly the repercussions

which these conclusions have for the methodologies of the discipline of classical reception

studies. One of the main difficulties encountered when focussing on the appreciation of a

classical figure is, I would suggest, one of terminology. When trying to describe the opinions

of our Atticus writers, the term ‘reception’ or even ‘act of reception’ is a rather inadequate

description of what was in reality taking place in their minds and writings. The image of

receiving is certainly itself appropriate, for it places emphasis on the thought processes of the

recipient rather than the imposition of a text, for example, on a passive reader. Yet the term

‘reception’ still elicits an unwelcome assumption as to ‘that which is being received’ – i.e.

that it is of a textual nature. Yet Atticus himself is certainly not text: as a human figure, he is

able to inspire the sort of imaginative response that ideas on a page cannot. Therefore, while

it is necessary to establish the reception history of those texts which focus on Atticus, to do so

is only a beginning: the writing of a text, after all, is not always fully conterminous with the

68

response to Atticus himself, and, indeed, we should recognise that there may be an added

layer of response on the part of those who ‘received’ him.

What, then, constitutes this response, and how can it possibly be identified? It is,

naturally, impossible to recover the historical ‘moments’ of those writers who were attracted,

for whatever reason, to Atticus. Yet, as Martindale notes, one aim of reception studies is ‘to

bring to consciousness the factors that may have contributed to our responses to the texts of

the past’, factors of which we may be inevitably ignorant, but, nevertheless, not necessarily

innocent.189 Indeed, it stands to reason that our own ‘moment’ is in some way connected with

the moments which are under analysis: if we are to have any chance of accessing these past

moments, then, we must attempt to engage as closely as possible with the dispositions and

circumstances of those who provide us with our evidence. In addition to analysing the words

in front of us, therefore, we must necessarily pay close attention to the unique structures and

the intellectual framework of the ‘receiver’, which prompt him to respond to classical motifs

in the way that he does. Indeed, although individuals may base their concepts of the classical

world on ancient texts, their response is not in any sense dictated by the content of these

texts: resistance to them, or indeed dramatic adaptation, can be as integral a part of that

response as straightforward appreciation and/or agreement.

A second methodological point presents itself in connection with Atticus’s reception.

Within the space of a century and a half, one can see certain developments in the ways

reception took place in the hands of our ‘Atticus’ writers. Significantly, these developments

are far from alien to our modern eyes: indeed, the ‘reception’ of Atticus to 1800 leads

naturally on to that which, since the early nineteenth century, we now designate as

‘scholarship’ concerning Atticus. This enables us to make an important point: that the

process of reception itself cannot be separated from the rest of scholarship, for it is that

189 Martindale & Thomas (2006) p. 5

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scholarship, simply in various past versions. Any boundaries which we erect between the

two, therefore, are artificial and entirely subordinate to our conception of the supposed

neutrality of own academic endeavours. As Martindale comments, ‘Modernity can be

modern only insofar as it postdates or supersedes the past, the embedded traces of which are,

indeed, the very proof of modernity.’190 An increased awareness of earlier ‘receptions’,

therefore, should, if at all possible, form the basis of any modern scholar’s own scholarship,

for it is only through this approach that we can hope to understand our own perspective

better. As Whitmarsh suggests, it is only through an increased awareness of our own

ideological positions, that we can hope to uncover ‘the more or less hidden ideologies of

modern Western scholarship.’191

This is particularly applicable in the case of Atticus’s reception. As demonstrated

above, many of the themes which monopolise classical scholarship today grew organically

from those which occupied writers in the late seventeenth century. One might, for example,

assume from the tone of those ancient historical scholars summarised in Chapter 1, that

attention to Atticus’s business activities was a relatively new topic of discussion, commenced

perhaps in the last few decades of the twentieth century. Nevertheless, as demonstrated by

the criticism of Saint-Real and those British writers who subsequently engaged with his

opinions, the idea of Atticus as publicanus originated on the continent in the late seventeenth

century. There was no date at which the focus on Atticus became suddenly ‘modern’ and

‘academic’: the increasingly ‘professional’ historians of the early nineteenth century, in fact,

still frequently looked to seventeenth-century editions of Nepos for information on Atticus.

In Berwick’s 1813 edition of Nepos’s Life of Atticus, for example, whilst the mark of the

early ‘professional’ historian is identifiable, Berwick is still very much affected by his

190 Martindale & Thomas (2006) p. 8191 Whitmarsh in Martindale & Thomas (2006) p. 104

70

predecessors, and recommends, above all others, Melmoth and Temple as further reading.192

This continuity, therefore, is something from which no twenty-first century classical scholar

can escape: as Porter notes, ‘One of the greatest ironies of classical studies is that they are

themselves a form of reception studies.’193

VIII: Concluding Remarks

The foregoing examination of Atticus’s reception during the period 1650-1800 points to

several important conclusions. First, that his reception was characterised by a marked degree

of ambiguity, which is epitomised in his somewhat puzzling (or perhaps simply Epicurean)

non-participation in public affairs. Even in his own historical context, it seems rather likely

that he was a somewhat vague and ethereal character: as concluded in the first chapter,

despite a great deal of enthusiastic discussion of Atticus’s activities, ancient historians have

been unable to reach a consensus upon what we might describe as the ‘real’, historical

Atticus. From a modern academic perspective, the sources available to us are too few and too

vague to be considered fully reliable evidence in such an endeavour. Furthermore, they

represent very different genres – biography, in Nepos’s case, and correspondence in Cicero’s.

One could hardly find two sources less comparable: the former is a highly artificial and

specific text focusing on Atticus alone, and the other a disparate collection of letters, which,

to complicate matters, centres on another figure entirely. And, to make matters worse, they

give very different accounts of Atticus, making any firm conclusion virtually impossible.

This state of affairs may be worrying to the modern generation of scholars, whose

historical aims are more narrow in scope, but it is in fact highly fortunate for the reception

scholar: for it is, I feel, this ambiguity itself which has allowed the wide variety of

‘receptions’ of Atticus throughout our period. Without too many constraints as to character,

192 Berwick (1813) pp. 147-8193 Porter in Hardwick & Stray (2008) p. 468

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writers adapted Atticus to their own contexts and circumstances, in some cases consciously,

but in others without much awareness that they were doing so. As a result, we see some

fascinating trends and developments throughout the period in question, first and foremost, the

fact that almost every one of our core texts considers Atticus’s most prominent characteristic

to be his deliberate avoidance of public affairs. Interestingly, in the French scholarly context,

this aspect of Atticus did not attract much focus, and, when it did receive comment, it led to a

negative construction of Atticus’s character: one of the main criticisms of Saint-Real, for

example, was Atticus’s demonstrated lack of patriotism. Yet, both during our reception

period, and, indeed in more recent scholarship also, British writers have tended to respond

more favourably to Atticus’s perceived ethics than have those on the continent.

This fact is, perhaps, not entirely coincidental: Atticus’s supposed predisposition to a

life of retreat fitted in particularly well with the specific character of the intellectual

retirement context in Britain during both the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

Importantly, the type of retirement with which Atticus is identified is not that hedonistic,

aristocratic, attitude which has been associated with ‘libertinism’. For, in fact, Atticus is, in

Nepos, quite the opposite of a libertine: a man who, to all appearances, managed not only to

maintain a successful retreat from the world of public affairs, but did so with his virtue intact.

Therefore, while Atticus was undoubtedly appreciated during our period by men who were in

a frame of mind to look to a life of retreat, their reasons for using him as a model were far

more complex than one might assume. Indeed, most of our writers had personal motives for

desiring retirement, ones which generally were related to their own negative experiences of

political life, particularly during the late seventeenth century, when the political atmosphere

made personal achievement very challenging. And so, for authors such as Hale, Pack,

Temple, and even Middleton and Melmoth to an extent, Atticus is not merely a model of

virtue in retirement, but becomes a talisman against faction: his apparent talent for

72

negotiating a corrupt and unjust world and emerging unscathed is perhaps one which these

men wished that they could possess themselves.

The degree of attention which is paid to Atticus’s philosophical stance is also,

interestingly, often dependent upon factors relating to the personal circumstances of our

writers. Atticus’s identification as an Epicurean during this period was not constant: those

writers who rely primarily on Nepos’s philosophically vague account, in particular, do not

necessarily label Atticus an ‘Epicurean’. Nevertheless, his Epicureanism does not seem to

have been entirely unknown: William Temple, at the forefront of the ‘Epicurean Revival’,

feels entirely comfortable declaring both Atticus’s Epicureanism, and a desire for a full, and

specifically Epicurean, retreat. The vast majority of our writers, however, adapt Atticus’s

philosophy to suit a cultural atmosphere which was only partially comfortable with the idea

of a life of retirement: sometimes, therefore, he becomes more representative of a ‘Stoic’,

more forced, retreat. In the eyes of Pack, Melmoth, and, to an extent Hale, indeed, Atticus’s

neutrality is justified by the argument that he lived in an atmosphere where it was impossible

to make a positive difference in public affairs: in such a way, he is allowed to remain a

patriot, and therefore a virtuous figure. The isolation of Atticus’s philosophical position in

our texts, therefore, is fraught with difficulty: and, in the end, it is perhaps more practical to

allow the presence of a spectrum, rather than a dichotomy, of classical philosophical

influence here.

Lastly, it is important to emphasise the degree of continuity which is evident

throughout the texts of our period, and indeed, beyond. Certainly, there are some

developments between 1650 and 1700: in particular, the tenor of Atticus’s reception seems to

shift slightly in the mid eighteenth century, when the Ciceronian evidence becomes more

widely available and alters the balance of ancient evidence away from the more traditional

view of Nepos. However, the unbroken thread which runs through the various ‘receptions’,

73

and indeed subsequent ‘scholarship’ post-1800, is evident: certain aspects of recent debates

undoubtedly had their origin in seventeenth-century speculations. Most importantly,

however, I would suggest that the main hallmark of Atticus’s reception is the degree of

personalisation and self-identification which his character seems to elicit: our writers, simply

by the act of writing, or indeed translating, go out of their way to make his character fully

relevant to their own circumstances. The factors behind their efforts are certainly difficult to

tease out of their own individual contexts: many of the trends which formed our writers’

‘moments’ are almost imperceptible. After all, enthusiasms for classical figures could be

dependent on the smallest of variables - on personalities, pre-existing ideologies, or even

political circumstances. Despite these difficulties, however, these receptions are undoubtedly

worth our scholarly attention: for it is only through a detailed examination of the relationships

which these ‘receivers’ created with figures such as Atticus, that our own relationship with

the classical past can be fully realised.

Word count: 24,956 excluding translations and Bibliography

Bibliography

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Ancient Texts:

Cicero, In Pisonem: Cicero in Twenty-Eight Volumes, Vol. XIV (transl. Watts, N.H.) (1979) (London)

Cicero, Letters to Atticus, transl. Shackleton Bailey, D.R. (1999) (London)

Cicero, Cicero's letters to Atticus ed. Shackleton Bailey, D.R. Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries (1965-70) (Cambridge)

Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, Vol. II (transl. Hicks, R.D.) (1979) (London)

Nepos, C. ‘Lucius Annaeus Florus, Epitome of Roman History, Cornelius Nepos’, (1929) transl. Hoh. C. Rolfe (London)

Seneca, Epistulae morales (transl. Gummere, R.M.) (London, 1979)

Seneca, De Otio: Seneca, Moral Essays, Vol. II (transl. Basore, J. W.) (1979) (London)

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Online Resources:

Robert Ker, (1624) Sonnet in Praise of a Solitary Life http://scotspoets.cath.vt.edu/select.php?select=Kerr.Rober

Jonathan Swift (1690) Ode to the Hon. Sir William Temple http://www.cosmolearning.com/books/ode-to-the-hon-sir-william-temple/

Oxford Dictionary of National Biography@ http://www.oxforddnb.com/

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