A Stoic Breviary: Classical Wisdom in Daily Practice

Building upon many years of privately shared thoughts on the real benefits of Stoic Philosophy, Liam Milburn eventually published a selection of Stoic passages that had helped him to live well. They were accompanied by some of his own personal reflections. This blog hopes to continue his mission of encouraging the wisdom of Stoicism in the exercise of everyday life. All the reflections are taken from his notes, from late 1992 to early 2017.

TEXT: Cicero, Tusculan Disputations (tr C.D. Yonge)

THE TUSCULAN DISPUTATIONS

CICERO (translated by C.D. Yonge, 1877)

INTRODUCTION.


In the year A.U.C. 708, and the sixty-second year of Cicero's age, his
daughter, Tullia, died in childbed; and her loss afflicted Cicero to
such a degree that he abandoned all public business, and, leaving the
city, retired to Asterra, which was a country house that he had near
Antium; where, after a while, he devoted himself to philosophical
studies, and, besides other works, he published his Treatise de
Finibus, and also this treatise called the Tusculan Disputations, of
which Middleton gives this concise description:

"The first book teaches us how to contemn the terrors of death, and to
look upon it as a blessing rather than an evil;

"The second, to support pain and affliction with a manly fortitude;

"The third, to appease all our complaints and uneasinesses under the
accidents of life;

"The fourth, to moderate all our other passions;

"And the fifth explains the sufficiency of virtue to make men happy."

It was his custom in the opportunities of his leisure to take some
friends with him into the country, where, instead of amusing themselves
with idle sports or feasts, their diversions were wholly speculative,
tending to improve the mind and enlarge the understanding. In this
manner he now spent five days at his Tusculan villa in discussing with
his friends the several questions just mentioned. For, after employing
the mornings in declaiming and rhetorical exercises, they used to
retire in the afternoon into a gallery, called the Academy, which he
had built for the purpose of philosophical conferences, where, after
the manner of the Greeks, he held a school, as they called it, and
invited the company to call for any subject that they desired to hear
explained, which being proposed accordingly by some of the audience
became immediately the argument of that day's debate. These five
conferences, or dialogues, he collected afterward into writing in the
very words and manner in which they really passed; and published them
under the title of his Tusculan Disputations, from the name of the
villa in which they were held.

       *       *       *       *       *




BOOK I.

ON THE CONTEMPT OF DEATH.


I. At a time when I had entirely, or to a great degree, released myself
from my labors as an advocate, and from my duties as a senator, I had
recourse again, Brutus, principally by your advice, to those studies
which never had been out of my mind, although neglected at times, and
which after a long interval I resumed; and now, since the principles
and rules of all arts which relate to living well depend on the study
of wisdom, which is called philosophy, I have thought it an employment
worthy of me to illustrate them in the Latin tongue, not because
philosophy could not be understood in the Greek language, or by the
teaching of Greek masters; but it has always been my opinion that our
countrymen have, in some instances, made wiser discoveries than the
Greeks, with reference to those subjects which they have considered
worthy of devoting their attention to, and in others have improved upon
their discoveries, so that in one way or other we surpass them on every
point; for, with regard to the manners and habits of private life, and
family and domestic affairs, we certainly manage them with more
elegance, and better than they did; and as to our republic, that our
ancestors have, beyond all dispute, formed on better customs and laws.
What shall I say of our military affairs; in which our ancestors have
been most eminent in valor, and still more so in discipline? As to
those things which are attained not by study, but nature, neither
Greece, nor any nation, is comparable to us; for what people has
displayed such gravity, such steadiness, such greatness of soul,
probity, faith--such distinguished virtue of every kind, as to be equal
to our ancestors. In learning, indeed, and all kinds of literature,
Greece did excel us, and it was easy to do so where there was no
competition; for while among the Greeks the poets were the most ancient
species of learned men--since Homer and Hesiod lived before the
foundation of Rome, and Archilochus[1] was a contemporary of
Romulus--we received poetry much later. For it was about five hundred
and ten years after the building of Rome before Livius[2] published a
play in the consulship of C. Claudius, the son of Cæcus, and M.
Tuditanus, a year before the birth of Ennius, who was older than
Plautus and Nævius.

II. It was, therefore, late before poets were either known or received
among us; though we find in Cato de Originibus that the guests used, at
their entertainments, to sing the praises of famous men to the sound of
the flute; but a speech of Cato's shows this kind of poetry to have
been in no great esteem, as he censures Marcus Nobilior for carrying
poets with him into his province; for that consul, as we know, carried
Ennius with him into Ætolia. Therefore the less esteem poets were in,
the less were those studies pursued; though even then those who did
display the greatest abilities that way were not very inferior to the
Greeks. Do we imagine that if it had been considered commendable in
Fabius,[3] a man of the highest rank, to paint, we should not have had
many Polycleti and Parrhasii? Honor nourishes art, and glory is the
spur with all to studies; while those studies are always neglected in
every nation which are looked upon disparagingly. The Greeks held skill
in vocal and instrumental music as a very important accomplishment, and
therefore it is recorded of Epaminondas, who, in my opinion, was the
greatest man among the Greeks, that he played excellently on the flute;
and Themistocles, some years before, was deemed ignorant because at an
entertainment he declined the lyre when it was offered to him. For this
reason musicians flourished in Greece; music was a general study; and
whoever was unacquainted with it was not considered as fully instructed
in learning. Geometry was in high esteem with them, therefore none were
more honorable than mathematicians. But we have confined this art to
bare measuring and calculating.

III. But, on the contrary, we early entertained an esteem for the
orator; though he was not at first a man of learning, but only quick at
speaking: in subsequent times he became learned; for it is reported
that Galba, Africanus, and Lælius were men of learning; and that even
Cato, who preceded them in point of time, was a studious man: then
succeeded the Lepidi, Carbo, and Gracchi, and so many great orators
after them, down to our own times, that we were very little, if at all,
inferior to the Greeks. Philosophy has been at a low ebb even to this
present time, and has had no assistance from our own language, and so
now I have undertaken to raise and illustrate it, in order that, as I
have been of service to my countrymen, when employed on public affairs,
I may, if possible, be so likewise in my retirement; and in this I must
take the more pains, because there are already many books in the Latin
language which are said to be written inaccurately, having been
composed by excellent men, only not of sufficient learning; for,
indeed, it is possible that a man may think well, and yet not be able
to express his thoughts elegantly; but for any one to publish thoughts
which he can neither arrange skilfully nor illustrate so as to
entertain his reader, is an unpardonable abuse of letters and
retirement: they, therefore, read their books to one another, and no
one ever takes them up but those who wish to have the same license for
careless writing allowed to themselves. Wherefore, if oratory has
acquired any reputation from my industry, I shall take the more pains
to open the fountains of philosophy, from which all my eloquence has
taken its rise.

IV. But, as Aristotle,[4] a man of the greatest genius, and of the most
various knowledge, being excited by the glory of the rhetorician
Isocrates,[5] commenced teaching young men to speak, and joined
philosophy with eloquence: so it is my design not to lay aside my
former study of oratory, and yet to employ myself at the same time in
this greater and more fruitful art; for I have always thought that to
be able to speak copiously and elegantly on the most important
questions was the most perfect philosophy. And I have so diligently
applied myself to this pursuit, that I have already ventured to have a
school like the Greeks. And lately when you left us, having many of my
friends about me, I attempted at my Tusculan villa what I could do in
that way; for as I formerly used to practise declaiming, which nobody
continued longer than myself, so this is now to be the declamation of
my old age. I desired any one to propose a question which he wished to
have discussed, and then I argued that point either sitting or walking;
and so I have compiled the scholæ, as the Greeks call them, of five
days, in as many books. We proceeded in this manner: when he who had
proposed the subject for discussion had said what he thought proper, I
spoke against him; for this is, you know, the old and Socratic method
of arguing against another's opinion; for Socrates thought that thus
the truth would more easily be arrived at. But to give you a better
notion of our disputations, I will not barely send you an account of
them, but represent them to you as they were carried on; therefore let
the introduction be thus:

V. _A._ To me death seems to be an evil.

_M._ What, to those who are already dead? or to those who must die?

_A._ To both.

_M._ It is a misery, then, because an evil?

_A._ Certainly.

_M._ Then those who have already died, and those who have still got to
die, are both miserable?

_A._ So it appears to me.

_M._ Then all are miserable?

_A._ Every one.

_M._ And, indeed, if you wish to be consistent, all that are already
born, or ever shall be, are not only miserable, but always will be so;
for should you maintain those only to be miserable, you would not
except any one living, for all must die; but there should be an end of
misery in death. But seeing that the dead are miserable, we are born to
eternal misery, for they must of consequence be miserable who died a
hundred thousand years ago; or rather, all that have ever been born.

_A._ So, indeed, I think.

_M._ Tell me, I beseech you, are you afraid of the three-headed
Cerberus in the shades below, and the roaring waves of Cocytus, and the
passage over Acheron, and Tantalus expiring with thirst, while the
water touches his chin; and Sisyphus,

    Who sweats with arduous toil in vain
    The steepy summit of the mount to gain?

Perhaps, too, you dread the inexorable judges, Minos and Rhadamanthus;
before whom neither L. Crassus nor M. Antonius can defend you; and
where, since the cause lies before Grecian judges, you will not even be
able to employ Demosthenes; but you must plead for yourself before a
very great assembly. These things perhaps you dread, and therefore look
on death as an eternal evil.

VI. _A._ Do you take me to be so imbecile as to give credit to such
things?

_M._ What, do you not believe them?

_A._ Not in the least.

_M._ I am sorry to hear that.

_A._ Why, I beg?

_M._ Because I could have been very eloquent in speaking against them.

_A._ And who could not on such a subject? or what trouble is it to
refute these monstrous inventions of the poets and painters?[6]

_M._ And yet you have books of philosophers full of arguments against
these.

_A._ A great waste of time, truly! for who is so weak as to be
concerned about them?

_M._ If, then, there is no one miserable in the infernal regions, there
can be no one there at all.

_A._ I am altogether of that opinion.

_M._ Where, then, are those you call miserable? or what place do they
inhabit? For, if they exist at all, they must be somewhere.

_A._ I, indeed, am of opinion that they are nowhere.

_M._ Then they have no existence at all.

_A._ Even so, and yet they are miserable for this very reason, that
they have no existence.

_M._ I had rather now have you afraid of Cerberus than speak thus
inaccurately.

_A._ In what respect?

_M._ Because you admit him to exist whose existence you deny with the
same breath. Where now is your sagacity? When you say any one is
miserable, you say that he who does not exist, does exist.

_A._ I am not so absurd as to say that.

_M._ What is it that you do say, then?

_A._ I say, for instance, that Marcus Crassus is miserable in being
deprived of such great riches as his by death; that Cn. Pompey is
miserable in being taken from such glory and honor; and, in short, that
all are miserable who are deprived of this light of life.

_M._ You have returned to the same point, for to be miserable implies
an existence; but you just now denied that the dead had any existence:
if, then, they have not, they can be nothing; and if so, they are not
even miserable.

_A._ Perhaps I do not express what I mean, for I look upon this very
circumstance, not to exist after having existed, to be very miserable.

_M._ What, more so than not to have existed at all? Therefore, those
who are not yet born are miserable because they are not; and we
ourselves, if we are to be miserable after death, were miserable before
we were born: but I do not remember that I was miserable before I was
born; and I should be glad to know, if your memory is better, what you
recollect of yourself before you were born.

VII. _A._ You are pleasant: as if I had said that those men are
miserable who are not born, and not that they are so who are dead.

_M._ You say, then, that they are so?

_A._ Yes; I say that because they no longer exist after having existed
they are miserable.

_M._ You do not perceive that you are asserting contradictions; for
what is a greater contradiction, than that that should be not only
miserable, but should have any existence at all, which does not exist?
When you go out at the Capene gate and see the tombs of the Calatini,
the Scipios, Servilii, and Metelli, do you look on them as miserable?

_A._ Because you press me with a word, henceforward I will not say they
are miserable absolutely, but miserable on this account, because they
have no existence.

_M._ You do not say, then, "M. Crassus is miserable," but only
"Miserable M. Crassus."

_A._ Exactly so.

_M._ As if it did not follow that whatever you speak of in that manner
either is or is not. Are you not acquainted with the first principles
of logic? For this is the first thing they lay down, Whatever is
asserted (for that is the best way that occurs to me, at the moment, of
rendering the Greek term [Greek: axiôma]; if I can think of a more
accurate expression hereafter, I will use it), is asserted as being
either true or false. When, therefore, you say, "Miserable M. Crassus,"
you either say this, "M. Crassus is miserable," so that some judgment
may be made whether it is true or false, or you say nothing at all.

_A._ Well, then, I now own that the dead are not miserable, since you
have drawn from me a concession that they who do not exist at all can
not be miserable. What then? We that are alive, are we not wretched,
seeing we must die? for what is there agreeable in life, when we must
night and day reflect that, at some time or other, we must die?

VIII. _M._ Do you not, then, perceive how great is the evil from which
you have delivered human nature?

_A._ By what means?

_M._ Because, if to die were miserable to the dead, to live would be a
kind of infinite and eternal misery. Now, however, I see a goal, and
when I have reached it, there is nothing more to be feared; but you
seem to me to follow the opinion of Epicharmus,[7] a man of some
discernment, and sharp enough for a Sicilian.

_A._ What opinion? for I do not recollect it.

_M._ I will tell you if I can in Latin; for you know I am no more used
to bring in Latin sentences in a Greek discourse than Greek in a Latin
one.

_A._ And that is right enough. But what is that opinion of Epicharmus?

_M._
    I would not die, but yet
    Am not concerned that I shall be dead.

_A._ I now recollect the Greek; but since you have obliged me to grant
that the dead are not miserable, proceed to convince me that it is not
miserable to be under a necessity of dying.

_M._ That is easy enough; but I have greater things in hand.

_A._ How comes that to be so easy? And what are those things of more
consequence?

_M._ Thus: because, if there is no evil after death, then even death
itself can be none; for that which immediately succeeds that is a state
where you grant that there is no evil: so that even to be obliged to
die can be no evil, for that is only the being obliged to arrive at a
place where we allow that no evil is.

_A._ I beg you will be more explicit on this point, for these subtle
arguments force me sooner to admissions than to conviction. But what
are those more important things about which you say that you are
occupied?

_M._ To teach you, if I can, that death is not only no evil, but a
good.

_A._ I do not insist on that, but should be glad to hear you argue it,
for even though you should not prove your point, yet you will prove
that death is no evil. But I will not interrupt you; I would rather
hear a continued discourse.

_M._ What, if I should ask you a question, would you not answer?

_A._ That would look like pride; but I would rather you should not ask
but where necessity requires.

IX. _M._ I will comply with your wishes, and explain as well as I can
what you require; but not with any idea that, like the Pythian Apollo,
what I say must needs be certain and indisputable, but as a mere man,
endeavoring to arrive at probabilities by conjecture, for I have no
ground to proceed further on than probability. Those men may call their
statements indisputable who assert that what they say can be perceived
by the senses, and who proclaim themselves philosophers by profession.

_A._ Do as you please: We are ready to hear you.

_M._ The first thing, then, is to inquire what death, which seems to be
so well understood, really is; for some imagine death to be the
departure of the soul from the body; others think that there is no such
departure, but that soul and body perish together, and that the soul is
extinguished with the body. Of those who think that the soul does
depart from the body, some believe in its immediate dissolution; others
fancy that it continues to exist for a time; and others believe that it
lasts forever. There is great dispute even what the soul is, where it
is, and whence it is derived: with some, the heart itself (_cor_) seems
to be the soul, hence the expressions, _excordes_, _vecordes_,
_concordes;_ and that prudent Nasica, who was twice consul, was called
Corculus, _i.e._, wise-heart; and Ælius Sextus is described as
_Egregie_ cordatus _homo, catus Æliu' Sextus_--that great
_wise-hearted_ man, sage Ælius. Empedocles imagines the blood, which is
suffused over the heart, to be the soul; to others, a certain part of
the brain seems to be the throne of the soul; others neither allow the
heart itself, nor any portion of the brain, to be the soul, but think
either that the heart is the seat and abode of the soul, or else that
the brain is so. Some would have the soul, or spirit, to be the
_anima_, as our schools generally agree; and indeed the name signifies
as much, for we use the expressions _animam agere_, to live; _animam
efflare_, to expire; _animosi_, men of spirit; _bene animati_, men of
right feeling; _exanimi sententia_, according to our real opinion; and
the very word _animus_ is derived from _anima_. Again, the soul seems
to Zeno the Stoic to be fire.

X. But what I have said as to the heart, the blood, the brain, air, or
fire being the soul, are common opinions: the others are only
entertained by individuals; and, indeed, there were many among the
ancients who held singular opinions on this subject, of whom the latest
was Aristoxenus, a man who was both a musician and a philosopher. He
maintained a certain straining of the body, like what is called harmony
in music, to be the soul, and believed that, from the figure and nature
of the whole body, various motions are excited, as sounds are from an
instrument. He adhered steadily to his system, and yet he said
something, the nature of which, whatever it was, had been detailed and
explained a great while before by Plato. Xenocrates denied that the
soul had any figure, or anything like a body; but said it was a number,
the power of which, as Pythagoras had fancied, some ages before, was
the greatest in nature: his master, Plato, imagined a threefold soul, a
dominant portion of which--that is to say, reason--he had lodged in the
head, as in a tower; and the other two parts--namely, anger and
desire--he made subservient to this one, and allotted them distinct
abodes, placing anger in the breast, and desire under the præcordia.
But Dicæarchus, in that discourse of some learned disputants, held at
Corinth, which he details to us in three books--in the first book
introduces many speakers; and in the other two he introduces a certain
Pherecrates, an old man of Phthia, who, as he said, was descended from
Deucalion; asserting, that there is in fact no such thing at all as a
soul, but that it is a name without a meaning; and that it is idle to
use the expression "animals," or "animated beings;" that neither men
nor beasts have minds or souls, but that all that power by which we act
or perceive is equally infused into every living creature, and is
inseparable from the body, for if it were not, it would be nothing; nor
is there anything whatever really existing except body, which is a
single and simple thing, so fashioned as to live and have its
sensations in consequence of the regulations of nature. Aristotle, a
man superior to all others, both in genius and industry (I always
except Plato), after having embraced these four known sorts of
principles, from which all things deduce their origin, imagines that
there is a certain fifth nature, from whence comes the soul; for to
think, to foresee, to learn, to teach, to invent anything, and many
other attributes of the same kind, such as to remember, to love, to
hate, to desire, to fear, to be pleased or displeased--these, and
others like them, exist, he thinks, in none of those first four kinds:
on such account he adds a fifth kind, which has no name, and so by a
new name he calls the soul [Greek: endelecheia], as if it were a
certain continued and perpetual motion.

XI. If I have not forgotten anything unintentionally, these are the
principal opinions concerning the soul. I have omitted Democritus, a
very great man indeed, but one who deduces the soul from the fortuitous
concourse of small, light, and round substances; for, if you believe
men of his school, there is nothing which a crowd of atoms cannot
effect. Which of these opinions is true, some God must determine. It is
an important question for us, Which has the most appearance of truth?
Shall we, then, prefer determining between them, or shall we return to
our subject?

_A._ I could wish both, if possible; but it is difficult to mix them:
therefore, if without a discussion of them we can get rid of the fears
of death, let us proceed to do so; but if this is not to be done
without explaining the question about souls, let us have that now, and
the other at another time.

_M._ I take that plan to be the best, which I perceive you are inclined
to; for reason will demonstrate that, whichever of the opinions which I
have stated is true, it must follow, then, that death cannot be an
evil; or that it must rather be something desirable; for if either the
heart, or the blood, or the brain, is the soul, then certainly the
soul, being corporeal, must perish with the rest of the body; if it is
air, it will perhaps be dissolved; if it is fire, it will be
extinguished; if it is Aristoxenus's harmony, it will be put out of
tune. What shall I say of Dicæarchus, who denies that there is any
soul? In all these opinions, there is nothing to affect any one after
death; for all feeling is lost with life, and where there is no
sensation, nothing can interfere to affect us. The opinions of others
do indeed bring us hope; if it is any pleasure to you to think that
souls, after they leave the body, may go to heaven as to a permanent
home.

_A._ I have great pleasure in that thought, and it is what I most
desire; and even if it should not be so, I should still be very willing
to believe it.

_M._ What occasion have you, then, for my assistance? Am I superior to
Plato in eloquence? Turn over carefully his book that treats of the
soul; you will have there all that you can want.

_A._ I have, indeed, done that, and often; but, I know not how it comes
to pass, I agree with it while I am reading it; but when I have laid
down the book, and begin to reflect with myself on the immortality of
the soul, all that agreement vanishes.

_M._ How comes that? Do you admit this--that souls either exist after
death, or else that they also perish at the moment of death?

_A._ I agree to that. And if they do exist, I admit that they are
happy; but if they perish, I cannot suppose them to be unhappy,
because, in fact, they have no existence at all. You drove me to that
concession but just now.

_M._ How, then, can you, or why do you, assert that you think that
death is an evil, when it either makes us happy, in the case of the
soul continuing to exist, or, at all events, not unhappy, in the case
of our becoming destitute of all sensation?

XII. _A._ Explain, therefore, if it is not troublesome to you, first,
if you can, that souls do exist after death; secondly, should you fail
in that (and it is a very difficult thing to establish), that death is
free from all evil; for I am not without my fears that this itself is
an evil: I do not mean the immediate deprivation of sense, but the fact
that we shall hereafter suffer deprivation.

_M._ I have the best authority in support of the opinion you desire to
have established, which ought, and generally has, great weight in all
cases. And, first, I have all antiquity on that side, which the more
near it is to its origin and divine descent, the more clearly, perhaps,
on that account, did it discern the truth in these matters. This very
doctrine, then, was adopted by all those ancients whom Ennius calls in
the Sabine tongue Casci; namely, that in death there was a sensation,
and that, when men departed this life, they were not so entirely
destroyed as to perish absolutely. And this may appear from many other
circumstances, and especially from the pontifical rites and funeral
obsequies, which men of the greatest genius would not have been so
solicitous about, and would not have guarded from any injury by such
severe laws, but from a firm persuasion that death was not so entire a
destruction as wholly to abolish and destroy everything, but rather a
kind of transmigration, as it were, and change of life, which was, in
the case of illustrious men and women, usually a guide to heaven, while
in that of others it was still confined to the earth, but in such a
manner as still to exist. From this, and the sentiments of the Romans,

    In heaven Romulus with Gods now lives,

as Ennius saith, agreeing with the common belief; hence, too, Hercules
is considered so great and propitious a God among the Greeks, and from
them he was introduced among us, and his worship has extended even to
the very ocean itself. This is how it was that Bacchus was deified, the
offspring of Semele; and from the same illustrious fame we receive
Castor and Pollux as Gods, who are reported not only to have helped the
Romans to victory in their battles, but to have been the messengers of
their success. What shall we say of Ino, the daughter of Cadmus? Is she
not called Leucothea by the Greeks, and Matuta by us? Nay, more; is not
the whole of heaven (not to dwell on particulars) almost filled with
the offspring of men?

Should I attempt to search into antiquity, and produce from thence what
the Greek writers have asserted, it would appear that even those who
are called their principal Gods were taken from among men up into
heaven.

XIII. Examine the sepulchres of those which are shown in Greece;
recollect, for you have been initiated, what lessons are taught in the
mysteries; then will you perceive how extensive this doctrine is. But
they who were not acquainted with natural philosophy (for it did not
begin to be in vogue till many years later) had no higher belief than
what natural reason could give them; they were not acquainted with the
principles and causes of things; they were often induced by certain
visions, and those generally in the night, to think that those men who
had departed from this life were still alive. And this may further be
brought as an irrefragable argument for us to believe that there are
Gods--that there never was any nation so barbarous, nor any people in
the world so savage, as to be without some notion of Gods. Many have
wrong notions of the Gods, for that is the nature and ordinary
consequence of bad customs, yet all allow that there is a certain
divine nature and energy. Nor does this proceed from the conversation
of men, or the agreement of philosophers; it is not an opinion
established by institutions or by laws; but, no doubt, in every case
the consent of all nations is to be looked on as a law of nature. Who
is there, then, that does not lament the loss of his friends,
principally from imagining them deprived of the conveniences of life?
Take away this opinion, and you remove with it all grief; for no one is
afflicted merely on account of a loss sustained by himself. Perhaps we
may be sorry, and grieve a little; but that bitter lamentation and
those mournful tears have their origin in our apprehensions that he
whom we loved is deprived of all the advantages of life, and is
sensible of his loss. And we are led to this opinion by nature, without
any arguments or any instruction.

XIV. But the greatest proof of all is, that nature herself gives a
silent judgment in favor of the immortality of the soul, inasmuch as
all are anxious, and that to a great degree, about the things which
concern futurity:

    One plants what future ages shall enjoy,

as Statius saith in his Synephebi. What is his object in doing so,
except that he is interested in posterity? Shall the industrious
husbandman, then, plant trees the fruit of which he shall never see?
And shall not the great man found laws, institutions, and a republic?
What does the procreation of children imply, and our care to continue
our names, and our adoptions, and our scrupulous exactness in drawing
up wills, and the inscriptions on monuments, and panegyrics, but that
our thoughts run on futurity? There is no doubt but a judgment may be
formed of nature in general, from looking at each nature in its most
perfect specimens; and what is a more perfect specimen of a man than
those are who look on themselves as born for the assistance, the
protection, and the preservation of others? Hercules has gone to
heaven; he never would have gone thither had he not, while among men,
made that road for himself. These things are of old date, and have,
besides, the sanction of universal religion.

XV. What will you say? What do you imagine that so many and such great
men of our republic, who have sacrificed their lives for its good,
expected? Do you believe that they thought that their names should not
continue beyond their lives? None ever encountered death for their
country but under a firm persuasion of immortality! Themistocles might
have lived at his ease; so might Epaminondas; and, not to look abroad
and among the ancients for instances, so might I myself. But, somehow
or other there clings to our minds a certain presage of future ages;
and this both exists most firmly, and appears most clearly, in men of
the loftiest genius and greatest souls. Take away this, and who would
be so mad as to spend his life amidst toils and dangers? I speak of
those in power. What are the poet's views but to be ennobled after
death? What else is the object of these lines,

    Behold old Ennius here, who erst
    Thy fathers' great exploits rehearsed?

He is challenging the reward of glory from those men whose ancestors he
himself had ennobled by his poetry. And in the same spirit he says, in
another passage,

    Let none with tears my funeral grace, for I
    Claim from my works an immortality.

Why do I mention poets? The very mechanics are desirous of fame after
death. Why did Phidias include a likeness of himself in the shield of
Minerva, when he was not allowed to inscribe his name on it? What do
our philosophers think on the subject? Do not they put their names to
those very books which they write on the contempt of glory? If, then,
universal consent is the voice of nature, and if it is the general
opinion everywhere that those who have quitted this life are still
interested in something, we also must subscribe to that opinion. And if
we think that men of the greatest abilities and virtues see most
clearly into the power of nature, because they themselves are her most
perfect work, it is very probable that, as every great man is
especially anxious to benefit posterity, there is something of which he
himself will be sensible after death.

XVI. But as we are led by nature to think there are Gods, and as we
discover, by reason, of what description they are, so, by the consent
of all nations, we are induced to believe that our souls survive; but
where their habitation is, and of what character they eventually are,
must be learned from reason. The want of any certain reason on which to
argue has given rise to the idea of the shades below, and to those
fears which you seem, not without reason, to despise; for as our bodies
fall to the ground, and are covered with earth (_humus_), from whence
we derive the expression to be interred (_humari_), that has occasioned
men to imagine that the dead continue, during the remainder of their
existence, under ground; which opinion has drawn after it many errors,
which the poets have increased; for the theatre, being frequented by a
large crowd, among which are women and children, is wont to be greatly
affected on hearing such pompous verses as these,

    Lo! here I am, who scarce could gain this place,
    Through stony mountains and a dreary waste;
    Through cliffs, whose sharpen'd stones tremendous hung,
    Where dreadful darkness spread itself around.

And the error prevailed so much, though indeed at present it seems to
me to be removed, that although men knew that the bodies of the dead
had been burned, yet they conceived such things to be done in the
infernal regions as could not be executed or imagined without a body;
for they could not conceive how disembodied souls could exist; and,
therefore, they looked out for some shape or figure. This was the
origin of all that account of the dead in Homer. This was the idea that
caused my friend Appius to frame his Necromancy; and this is how there
got about that idea of the lake of Avernus, in my neighborhood,

    From whence the souls of undistinguish'd shape,
    Clad in thick shade, rush from the open gate
    Of Acheron, vain phantoms of the dead.

And they must needs have these appearances speak, which is not possible
without a tongue, and a palate, and jaws, and without the help of lungs
and sides, and without some shape or figure; for they could see nothing
by their mind alone--they referred all to their eyes. To withdraw the
mind from sensual objects, and abstract our thoughts from what we are
accustomed to, is an attribute of great genius. I am persuaded, indeed,
that there were many such men in former ages; but Pherecydes[8] the
Syrian is the first on record who said that the souls of men were
immortal, and he was a philosopher of great antiquity, in the reign of
my namesake Tullius. His disciple Pythagoras greatly confirmed this
opinion, who came into Italy in the reign of Tarquin the Proud; and all
that country which is called Great Greece was occupied by his school,
and he himself was held in high honor, and had the greatest authority;
and the Pythagorean sect was for many ages after in such great credit,
that all learning was believed to be confined to that name.

XVII. But I return to the ancients. They scarcely ever gave any reason
for their opinion but what could be explained by numbers or
definitions. It is reported of Plato that he came into Italy to make
himself acquainted with the Pythagoreans; and that when there, among
others, he made an acquaintance with Archytas[9] and Timæus,[10] and
learned from them all the tenets of the Pythagoreans; and that he not
only was of the same opinion with Pythagoras concerning the immortality
of the soul, but that he also brought reasons in support of it; which,
if you have nothing to say against it, I will pass over, and say no
more at present about all this hope of immortality.

_A._ What, will you leave me when you have raised my expectations so
high? I had rather, so help me Hercules! be mistaken with Plato, whom I
know how much you esteem, and whom I admire myself, from what you say
of him, than be in the right with those others.

_M._ I commend you; for, indeed, I could myself willingly be mistaken
in his company. Do we, then, doubt, as we do in other cases (though I
think here is very little room for doubt in this case, for the
mathematicians prove the facts to us), that the earth is placed in the
midst of the world, being, as it were, a sort of point, which they call
a [Greek: kentron], surrounded by the whole heavens; and that such is
the nature of the four principles which are the generating causes of
all things, that they have equally divided among them the constituents
of all bodies; moreover, that earthy and humid bodies are carried at
equal angles by their own weight and ponderosity into the earth and
sea; that the other two parts consist, one of fire, and the other of
air? As the two former are carried by their gravity and weight into the
middle region of the world, so these, on the other hand, ascend by
right lines into the celestial regions, either because, owing to their
intrinsic nature, they are always endeavoring to reach the highest
place, or else because lighter bodies are naturally repelled by
heavier; and as this is notoriously the case, it must evidently follow
that souls, when once they have departed from the body, whether they
are animal (by which term I mean capable of breathing) or of the nature
of fire, must mount upward. But if the soul is some number, as some
people assert, speaking with more subtlety than clearness, or if it is
that fifth nature, for which it would be more correct to say that we
have not given a name to than that we do not correctly understand
it--still it is too pure and perfect not to go to a great distance from
the earth. Something of this sort, then, we must believe the soul to
be, that we may not commit the folly of thinking that so active a
principle lies immerged in the heart or brain; or, as Empedocles would
have it, in the blood.

XVIII. We will pass over Dicæarchus,[11] with his contemporary and
fellow-disciple Aristoxenus,[12] both indeed men of learning. One of
them seems never even to have been affected with grief, as he could not
perceive that he had a soul; while the other is so pleased with his
musical compositions that he endeavors to show an analogy betwixt them
and souls. Now, we may understand harmony to arise from the intervals
of sounds, whose various compositions occasion many harmonies; but I do
not see how a disposition of members, and the figure of a body without
a soul, can occasion harmony. He had better, learned as he is, leave
these speculations to his master Aristotle, and follow his own trade as
a musician. Good advice is given him in that Greek proverb,

    Apply your talents where you best are skill'd.

I will have nothing at all to do with that fortuitous concourse of
individual light and round bodies, notwithstanding Democritus insists
on their being warm and having breath, that is to say, life. But this
soul, which is compounded of either of the four principles from which
we assert that all things are derived, is of inflamed air, as seems
particularly to have been the opinion of Panætius, and must necessarily
mount upward; for air and fire have no tendency downward, but always
ascend; so should they be dissipated that must be at some distance from
the earth; but should they remain, and preserve their original state,
it is clearer still that they must be carried heavenward, and this
gross and concrete air, which is nearest the earth, must be divided and
broken by them; for the soul is warmer, or rather hotter, than that
air, which I just now called gross and concrete: and this may be made
evident from this consideration--that our bodies, being compounded of
the earthy class of principles, grow warm by the heat of the soul.

XIX. We may add, that the soul can the more easily escape from this
air, which I have often named, and break through it, because nothing is
swifter than the soul; no swiftness is comparable to the swiftness of
the soul, which, should it remain uncorrupt and without alteration,
must necessarily be carried on with such velocity as to penetrate and
divide all this atmosphere, where clouds, and rain, and winds are
formed, which, in consequence of the exhalations from the earth, is
moist and dark: but, when the soul has once got above this region, and
falls in with, and recognizes, a nature like its own, it then rests
upon fires composed of a combination of thin air and a moderate solar
heat, and does not aim at any higher flight; for then, after it has
attained a lightness and heat resembling its own, it moves no more, but
remains steady, being balanced, as it were, between two equal weights.
That, then, is its natural seat where it has penetrated to something
like itself, and where, wanting nothing further, it may be supported
and maintained by the same aliment which nourishes and maintains the
stars.

Now, as we are usually incited to all sorts of desires by the stimulus
of the body, and the more so as we endeavor to rival those who are in
possession of what we long for, we shall certainly be happy when, being
emancipated from that body, we at the same time get rid of these
desires and this rivalry. And that which we do at present, when,
dismissing all other cares, we curiously examine and look into
anything, we shall then do with greater freedom; and we shall employ
ourselves entirely in the contemplation and examination of things;
because there is naturally in our minds a certain insatiable desire to
know the truth, and the very region itself where we shall arrive, as it
gives us a more intuitive and easy knowledge of celestial things, will
raise our desires after knowledge. For it was this beauty of the
heavens, as seen even here upon earth, which gave birth to that
national and hereditary philosophy (as Theophrastus calls it), which
was thus excited to a desire of knowledge. But those persons will in a
most especial degree enjoy this philosophy, who, while they were only
inhabitants of this world and enveloped in darkness, were still
desirous of looking into these things with the eye of their mind.

XX. For if those men now think that they have attained something who
have seen the mouth of the Pontus, and those straits which were passed
by the ship called Argo, because,

    From Argos she did chosen men convey,
    Bound to fetch back the Golden Fleece, their prey;

or those who have seen the straits of the ocean,

    Where the swift waves divide the neighboring shores
    Of Europe, and of Afric;

what kind of sight do you imagine that will be when the whole earth is
laid open to our view? and that, too, not only in its position, form,
and boundaries, nor those parts of it only which are habitable, but
those also that lie uncultivated, through the extremities of heat and
cold to which they are exposed; for not even now is it with our eyes
that we view what we see, for the body itself has no senses; but (as
the naturalists, ay, and even the physicians assure us, who have opened
our bodies, and examined them) there are certain perforated channels
from the seat of the soul to the eyes, ears, and nose; so that
frequently, when either prevented by meditation, or the force of some
bodily disorder, we neither hear nor see, though our eyes and ears are
open and in good condition; so that we may easily apprehend that it is
the soul itself which sees and hears, and not those parts which are, as
it were, but windows to the soul, by means of which, however, she can
perceive nothing, unless she is on the spot, and exerts herself. How
shall we account for the fact that by the same power of thinking we
comprehend the most different things--as color, taste, heat, smell, and
sound--which the soul could never know by her five messengers, unless
every thing were referred to her, and she were the sole judge of all?
And we shall certainly discover these things in a more clear and
perfect degree when the soul is disengaged from the body, and has
arrived at that goal to which nature leads her; for at present,
notwithstanding nature has contrived, with the greatest skill, those
channels which lead from the body to the soul, yet are they, in some
way or other, stopped up with earthy and concrete bodies; but when we
shall be nothing but soul, then nothing will interfere to prevent our
seeing everything in its real substance and in its true character.

XXI. It is true, I might expatiate, did the subject require it, on the
many and various objects with which the soul will be entertained in
those heavenly regions; when I reflect on which, I am apt to wonder at
the boldness of some philosophers, who are so struck with admiration at
the knowledge of nature as to thank, in an exulting manner, the first
inventor and teacher of natural philosophy, and to reverence him as a
God; for they declare that they have been delivered by his means from
the greatest tyrants, a perpetual terror, and a fear that molested them
by night and day. What is this dread--this fear? What old woman is
there so weak as to fear these things, which you, forsooth, had you not
been acquainted with natural philosophy, would stand in awe of?

    The hallow'd roofs of Acheron, the dread
    Of Orcus, the pale regions of the dead.

And does it become a philosopher to boast that he is not afraid of
these things, and that he has discovered them to be false? And from
this we may perceive how acute these men were by nature, who, if they
had been left without any instruction, would have believed in these
things. But now they have certainly made a very fine acquisition in
learning that when the day of their death arrives, they will perish
entirely. And if that really is the case--for I say nothing either
way--what is there agreeable or glorious in it? Not that I see any
reason why the opinion of Pythagoras and Plato may not be true; but
even although Plato were to have assigned no reason for his opinion
(observe how much I esteem the man), the weight of his authority would
have borne me down; but he has brought so many reasons, that he appears
to me to have endeavored to convince others, and certainly to have
convinced himself.

XXII. But there are many who labor on the other side of the question,
and condemn souls to death, as if they were criminals capitally
convicted; nor have they any other reason to allege why the immortality
of the soul appears to them to be incredible, except that they are not
able to conceive what sort of thing the soul can be when disentangled
from the body; just as if they could really form a correct idea as to
what sort of thing it is, even when it is in the body; what its form,
and size, and abode are; so that were they able to have a full view of
all that is now hidden from them in a living body, they have no idea
whether the soul would be discernible by them, or whether it is of so
fine a texture that it would escape their sight. Let those consider
this, who say that they are unable to form any idea of the soul without
the body, and then they will see whether they can form any adequate
idea of what it is when it is in the body. For my own part, when I
reflect on the nature of the soul, it appears to me a far more
perplexing and obscure question to determine what is its character
while it is in the body--a place which, as it were, does not belong to
it--than to imagine what it is when it leaves it, and has arrived at
the free æther, which is, if I may so say, its proper, its own
habitation. For unless we are to say that we cannot apprehend the
character or nature of anything which we have never seen, we certainly
may be able to form some notion of God, and of the divine soul when
released from the body. Dicæarchus, indeed, and Aristoxenus, because it
was hard to understand the existence and substance and nature of the
soul, asserted that there was no such thing as a soul at all. It is,
indeed, the most difficult thing imaginable to discern the soul by the
soul. And this, doubtless, is the meaning of the precept of Apollo,
which advises every one to know himself. For I do not apprehend the
meaning of the God to have been that we should understand our members,
our stature, and form; for we are not merely bodies; nor, when I say
these things to you, am I addressing myself to your body: when,
therefore, he says, "Know yourself," he says this, "Inform yourself of
the nature of your soul;" for the body is but a kind of vessel, or
receptacle of the soul, and whatever your soul does is your own act. To
know the soul, then, unless it had been divine, would not have been a
precept of such excellent wisdom as to be attributed to a God; but even
though the soul should not know of what nature itself is, will you say
that it does not even perceive that it exists at all, or that it has
motion? On which is founded that reason of Plato's, which is explained
by Socrates in the Phædrus, and inserted by me, in my sixth book of the
Republic.

XXIII. "That which is always moved is eternal; but that which gives
motion to something else, and is moved itself by some external cause,
when that motion ceases, must necessarily cease to exist. That,
therefore, alone, which is self-moved, because it is never forsaken by
itself, can never cease to be moved. Besides, it is the beginning and
principle of motion to everything else; but whatever is a principle has
no beginning, for all things arise from that principle, and it cannot
itself owe its rise to anything else; for then it would not be a
principle did it proceed from anything else. But if it has no
beginning, it never will have any end; for a principle which is once
extinguished cannot itself be restored by anything else, nor can it
produce anything else from itself; inasmuch as all things must
necessarily arise from some first cause. And thus it comes about that
the first principle of motion must arise from that thing which is
itself moved by itself; and that can neither have a beginning nor an
end of its existence, for otherwise the whole heaven and earth would be
overset, and all nature would stand still, and not be able to acquire
any force by the impulse of which it might be first set in motion.
Seeing, then, that it is clear that whatever moves itself is eternal,
can there be any doubt that the soul is so? For everything is inanimate
which is moved by an external force; but everything which is animate is
moved by an interior force, which also belongs to itself. For this is
the peculiar nature and power of the soul; and if the soul be the only
thing in the whole world which has the power of self-motion, then
certainly it never had a beginning, and therefore it is eternal."

Now, should all the lower order of philosophers (for so I think they
may be called who dissent from Plato and Socrates and that school)
unite their force, they never would be able to explain anything so
elegantly as this, nor even to understand how ingeniously this
conclusion is drawn. The soul, then, perceives itself to have motion,
and at the same time that it gets that perception, it is sensible that
it derives that motion from its own power, and not from the agency of
another; and it is impossible that it should ever forsake itself. And
these premises compel you to allow its eternity, unless you have
something to say against them.

_A._ I should myself be very well pleased not to have even a thought
arise in my mind against them, so much am I inclined to that opinion.

XXIV. _M._ Well, then, I appeal to you, if the arguments which prove
that there is something divine in the souls of men are not equally
strong? But if I could account for the origin of these divine
properties, then I might also be able to explain how they might cease
to exist; for I think I can account for the manner in which the blood,
and bile, and phlegm, and bones, and nerves, and veins, and all the
limbs, and the shape of the whole body, were put together and made; ay,
and even as to the soul itself, were there nothing more in it than a
principle of life, then the life of a man might be put upon the same
footing as that of a vine or any other tree, and accounted for as
caused by nature; for these things, as we say, live. Besides, if
desires and aversions were all that belonged to the soul, it would have
them only in common with the beasts; but it has, in the first place,
memory, and that, too, so infinite as to recollect an absolute
countless number of circumstances, which Plato will have to be a
recollection of a former life; for in that book which is inscribed
Menon, Socrates asks a child some questions in geometry, with reference
to measuring a square; his answers are such as a child would make, and
yet the questions are so easy, that while answering them, one by one,
he comes to the same point as if he had learned geometry. From whence
Socrates would infer that learning is nothing more than recollection;
and this topic he explains more accurately in the discourse which he
held the very day he died; for he there asserts that, any one, who
seeming to be entirely illiterate, is yet able to answer a question
well that is proposed to him, does in so doing manifestly show that he
is not learning it then, but recollecting it by his memory. Nor is it
to be accounted for in any other way, how children come to have notions
of so many and such important things as are implanted, and, as it were,
sealed up, in their minds (which the Greeks call [Greek: ennoiai]),
unless the soul, before it entered the body, had been well stored with
knowledge. And as it had no existence at all (for this is the
invariable doctrine of Plato, who will not admit anything to have a
real existence which has a beginning and an end, and who thinks that
that alone does really exist which is of such a character as what he
calls [Greek: eidea], and we species), therefore, being shut up in the
body, it could not while in the body discover what it knows; but it
knew it before, and brought the knowledge with it, so that we are no
longer surprised at its extensive and multifarious knowledge. Nor does
the soul clearly discover its ideas at its first resort to this abode
to which it is so unaccustomed, and which is in so disturbed a state;
but after having refreshed and recollected itself, it then by its
memory recovers them; and, therefore, to learn implies nothing more
than to recollect. But I am in a particular manner surprised at memory.
For what is that faculty by which we remember? what is its force? what
its nature? I am not inquiring how great a memory Simonides[13] may be
said to have had, or Theodectes,[14] or that Cineas[15] who was sent to
Rome as ambassador from Pyrrhus; or, in more modern times,
Charmadas;[16] or, very lately, Metrodorus[17] the Scepsian, or our own
contemporary Hortensius[18]: I am speaking of ordinary memory, and
especially of those men who are employed in any important study or art,
the great capacity of whose minds it is hard to estimate, such numbers
of things do they remember.

XXV. Should you ask what this leads to, I think we may understand what
that power is, and whence we have it. It certainly proceeds neither
from the heart, nor from the blood, nor from the brain, nor from atoms;
whether it be air or fire, I know not, nor am I, as those men are,
ashamed, in cases where I am ignorant, to own that I am so. If in any
other obscure matter I were able to assert anything positively, then I
would swear that the soul, be it air or fire, is divine. Just think, I
beseech you: can you imagine this wonderful power of memory to be sown
in or to be a part of the composition of the earth, or of this dark and
gloomy atmosphere? Though you cannot apprehend what it is, yet you see
what kind of thing it is, or if you do not quite see that, yet you
certainly see how great it is. What, then? Shall we imagine that there
is a kind of measure in the soul, into which, as into a vessel, all
that we remember is poured? That indeed is absurd; for how shall we
form any idea of the bottom, or of the shape or fashion of such a soul
as that? And, again, how are we to conceive how much it is able to
contain? Shall we imagine the soul to receive impressions like wax, and
memory to be marks of the impressions made on the soul? What are the
characters of the words, what of the facts themselves? and what, again,
is that prodigious greatness which can give rise to impressions of so
many things? What, lastly, is that power which investigates secret
things, and is called invention and contrivance? Does that man seem to
be compounded of this earthly, mortal, and perishing nature who first
invented names for everything; which, if you will believe Pythagoras,
is the highest pitch of wisdom? or he who collected the dispersed
inhabitants of the world, and united them in the bonds of social life?
or he who confined the sounds of the voice, which used to seem
infinite, to the marks of a few letters? or he who first observed the
courses of the planets, their progressive motions, their laws? These
were all great men. But they were greater still who invented food, and
raiment, and houses; who introduced civilization among us, and armed us
against the wild beasts; by whom we were made sociable and polished,
and so proceeded from the necessaries of life to its embellishments.
For we have provided great entertainments for the ears by inventing and
modulating the variety and nature of sounds; we have learned to survey
the stars, not only those that are fixed, but also those which are
improperly called wandering; and the man who has acquainted himself
with all their revolutions and motions is fairly considered to have a
soul resembling the soul of that Being who has created those stars in
the heavens: for when Archimedes described in a sphere the motions of
the moon, sun, and five planets, he did the very same thing as Plato's
God, in his Timæus, who made the world, causing one revolution to
adjust motions differing as much as possible in their slowness and
velocity. Now, allowing that what we see in the world could not be
effected without a God, Archimedes could not have imitated the same
motions in his sphere without a divine soul.

XXVI. To me, indeed, it appears that even those studies which are more
common and in greater esteem are not without some divine energy: so
that I do not consider that a poet can produce a serious and sublime
poem without some divine impulse working on his mind; nor do I think
that eloquence, abounding with sonorous words and fruitful sentences,
can flow thus without something beyond mere human power. But as to
philosophy, that is the parent of all the arts: what can we call that
but, as Plato says, a gift, or, as I express it, an invention, of the
Gods? This it was which first taught us the worship of the Gods; and
then led us on to justice, which arises from the human race being
formed into society; and after that it imbued us with modesty and
elevation of soul. This it was which dispersed darkness from our souls,
as it is dispelled from our eyes, enabling us to see all things that
are above or below, the beginning, end, and middle of everything. I am
convinced entirely that that which could effect so many and such great
things must be a divine power. For what is memory of words and
circumstances? What, too, is invention? Surely they are things than
which nothing greater can be conceived in a God! For I do not imagine
the Gods to be delighted with nectar and ambrosia, or with Juventas
presenting them with a cup; nor do I put any faith in Homer, who says
that Ganymede was carried away by the Gods on account of his beauty, in
order to give Jupiter his wine. Too weak reasons for doing Laomedon
such injury! These were mere inventions of Homer, who gave his Gods the
imperfections of men. I would rather that he had given men the
perfections of the Gods! those perfections, I mean, of uninterrupted
health, wisdom, invention, memory. Therefore the soul (which is, as I
say, divine) is, as Euripides more boldly expresses it, a God. And
thus, if the divinity be air or fire, the soul of man is the same; for
as that celestial nature has nothing earthly or humid about it, in like
manner the soul of man is also free from both these qualities: but if
it is of that fifth kind of nature, first introduced by Aristotle, then
both Gods and souls are of the same.

XXVII. As this is my opinion, I have explained it in these very words,
in my book on Consolation.[19] The origin of the soul of man is not to
be found upon earth, for there is nothing in the soul of a mixed or
concrete nature, or that has any appearance of being formed or made out
of the earth; nothing even humid, or airy, or fiery. For what is there
in natures of that kind which has the power of memory, understanding,
or thought? which can recollect the past, foresee the future, and
comprehend the present? for these capabilities are confined to divine
beings; nor can we discover any source from which men could derive
them, but from God. There is therefore a peculiar nature and power in
the soul, distinct from those natures which are more known and familiar
to us. Whatever, then, that is which thinks, and which has
understanding, and volition, and a principle of life, is heavenly and
divine, and on that account must necessarily be eternal; nor can God
himself, who is known to us, be conceived to be anything else except a
soul free and unembarrassed, distinct from all mortal concretion,
acquainted with everything, and giving motion to everything, and itself
endued with perpetual motion.

XXVIII. Of this kind and nature is the intellect of man. Where, then,
is this intellect seated, and of what character is it? where is your
own, and what is its character? Are you able to tell? If I have not
faculties for knowing all that I could desire to know, will you not
even allow me to make use of those which I have? The soul has not
sufficient capacity to comprehend itself; yet, the soul, like the eye,
though it has no distinct view of itself, sees other things: it does
not see (which is of least consequence) its own shape; perhaps not,
though it possibly may; but we will pass that by: but it certainly sees
that it has vigor, sagacity, memory, motion, and velocity; these are
all great, divine, eternal properties. What its appearance is, or where
it dwells, it is not necessary even to inquire. As when we behold,
first of all, the beauty and brilliant appearance of the heavens;
secondly, the vast velocity of its revolutions, beyond power of our
imagination to conceive; then the vicissitudes of nights and days, the
fourfold division of the seasons, so well adapted to the ripening of
the fruits of the earth, and the temperature of our bodies: and after
that we look up to the sun, the moderator and governor of all these
things; and view the moon, by the increase and decrease of its light,
marking, as it were, and appointing our holy days; and see the five
planets, borne on in the same circle, divided into twelve parts,
preserving the same course with the greatest regularity, but with
utterly dissimilar motions among themselves; and the nightly appearance
of the heaven, adorned on all sides with stars; then, the globe of the
earth, raised above the sea, and placed in the centre of the universe,
inhabited and cultivated in its two opposite extremities, one of which,
the place of our habitation, is situated towards the north pole, under
the seven stars:

    Where the cold northern blasts, with horrid sound,
    Harden to ice the snowy cover'd ground;

the other, towards the south pole, is unknown to us, but is called by
the Greeks [Greek: antichthona]: the other parts are uncultivated,
because they are either frozen with cold, or burned up with heat; but
where we dwell, it never fails, in its season,

    To yield a placid sky, to bid the trees
    Assume the lively verdure of their leaves:
    The vine to bud, and, joyful, in its shoots,
    Foretell the approaching vintage of its fruits:
    The ripen'd corn to sing, while all around
    Full riv'lets glide; and flowers deck the ground:

then the multitude of cattle, fit part for food, part for tilling the
ground, others for carrying us, or for clothing us; and man himself,
made, as it were, on purpose to contemplate the heavens and the Gods,
and to pay adoration to them: lastly, the whole earth, and wide
extending seas, given to man's use. When we view these and numberless
other things, can we doubt that they have some being who presides over
them, or has made them (if, indeed, they have been made, as is the
opinion of Plato, or if, as Aristotle thinks, they are eternal), or who
at all events is the regulator of so immense a fabric and so great a
blessing to men? Thus, though you see not the soul of man, as you see
not the Deity, yet, as by the contemplation of his works you are led to
acknowledge a God, so you must own the divine power of the soul, from
its remembering things, from its invention, from the quickness of its
motion, and from all the beauty of virtue. Where, then, is it seated,
you will say?

XXIX. In my opinion, it is seated in the head, and I can bring you
reasons for my adopting that opinion. At present, let the soul reside
where it will, you certainly have one in you. Should you ask what its
nature is? It has one peculiarly its own; but admitting it to consist
of fire, or air, it does not affect the present question. Only observe
this, that as you are convinced there is a God, though you are ignorant
where he resides, and what shape he is of; in like manner you ought to
feel assured that you have a soul, though you cannot satisfy yourself
of the place of its residence, nor its form. In our knowledge of the
soul, unless we are grossly ignorant of natural philosophy, we cannot
but be satisfied that it has nothing but what is simple, unmixed,
uncompounded, and single; and if this is admitted, then it cannot be
separated, nor divided, nor dispersed, nor parted, and therefore it
cannot perish; for to perish implies a parting-asunder, a division, a
disunion, of those parts which, while it subsisted, were held together
by some band. And it was because he was influenced by these and similar
reasons that Socrates neither looked out for anybody to plead for him
when he was accused, nor begged any favor from his judges, but
maintained a manly freedom, which was the effect not of pride, but of
the true greatness of his soul; and on the last day of his life he held
a long discourse on this subject; and a few days before, when he might
have been easily freed from his confinement, he refused to be so; and
when he had almost actually hold of that deadly cup, he spoke with the
air of a man not forced to die, but ascending into heaven.

XXX. For so indeed he thought himself, and thus he spoke: "That there
were two ways, and that the souls of men, at their departure from the
body, took different roads; for those which were polluted with vices
that are common to men, and which had given themselves up entirely to
unclean desires, and had become so blinded by them as to have
habituated themselves to all manner of debauchery and profligacy, or to
have laid detestable schemes for the ruin of their country, took a road
wide of that which led to the assembly of the Gods; but they who had
preserved themselves upright and chaste, and free from the slightest
contagion of the body, and had always kept themselves as far as
possible at a distance from it, and while on earth had proposed to
themselves as a model the life of the Gods, found the return to those
beings from whom they had come an easy one." Therefore, he argues, that
all good and wise men should take example from the swans, who are
considered sacred to Apollo, not without reason, but particularly
because they seem to have received the gift of divination from him, by
which, foreseeing how happy it is to die, they leave this world with
singing and joy. Nor can any one doubt of this, unless it happens to us
who think with care and anxiety about the soul (as is often the case
with those who look earnestly at the setting sun), to lose the sight of
it entirely; and so the mind's eye, viewing itself, sometimes grows
dull, and for that reason we become remiss in our contemplation. Thus
our reasoning is borne about, harassed with doubts and anxieties, not
knowing how to proceed, but measuring back again those dangerous tracts
which it has passed, like a boat tossed about on the boundless ocean.
But these reflections are of long standing, and borrowed from the
Greeks. But Cato left this world in such a manner as if he were
delighted that he had found an opportunity of dying; for that God who
presides in us forbids our departure hence without his leave. But when
God himself has given us a just cause, as formerly he did to Socrates,
and lately to Cato, and often to many others--in such a case, certainly
every man of sense would gladly exchange this darkness for that light:
not that he would forcibly break from the chains that held him, for
that would be against the law; but, like a man released from prison by
a magistrate or some lawful authority, so he too would walk away, being
released and discharged by God. For the whole life of a philosopher is,
as the same philosopher says, a meditation on death.

XXXI. For what else is it that we do, when we call off our minds from
pleasure, that is to say, from our attention to the body, from the
managing our domestic estate, which is a sort of handmaid and servant
of the body, or from duties of a public nature, or from all other
serious business whatever? What else is it, I say, that we do, but
invite the soul to reflect on itself? oblige it to converse with
itself, and, as far as possible, break off its acquaintance with the
body? Now, to separate the soul from the body, is to learn to die, and
nothing else whatever. Wherefore take my advice; and let us meditate on
this, and separate ourselves as far as possible from the body, that is
to say, let us accustom ourselves to die. This will be enjoying a life
like that of heaven even while we remain on earth; and when we are
carried thither and released from these bonds, our souls will make
their progress with more rapidity; for the spirit which has always been
fettered by the bonds of the body, even when it is disengaged, advances
more slowly, just as those do who have worn actual fetters for many
years: but when we have arrived at this emancipation from the bonds of
the body, then indeed we shall begin to live, for this present life is
really death, which I could say a good deal in lamentation for if I
chose.

_A._ You have lamented it sufficiently in your book on Consolation; and
when I read that, there is nothing which I desire more than to leave
these things; but that desire is increased a great deal by what I have
just heard.

_M._ The time will come, and that soon, and with equal certainty,
whether you hang back or press forward; for time flies. But death is so
far from being an evil, as it lately appeared to you, that I am
inclined to suspect, not that there is no other thing which is an evil
to man, but rather that there is nothing else which is a real good to
him; if, at least, it is true that we become thereby either Gods
ourselves, or companions of the Gods. However, this is not of so much
consequence, as there are some of us here who will not allow this. But
I will not leave off discussing this point till I have convinced you
that death can, upon no consideration whatever, be an evil.

_A._ How can it, after what I now know?

_M._ Do you ask how it can? There are crowds of arguers who contradict
this; and those not only Epicureans, whom I regard very little, but,
somehow or other, almost every man of letters; and, above all, my
favorite Dicæarchus is very strenuous in opposing the immortality of
the soul: for he has written three books, which are entitled Lesbiacs,
because the discourse was held at Mitylene, in which he seeks to prove
that souls are mortal. The Stoics, on the other hand, allow us as long
a time for enjoyment as the life of a raven; they allow the soul to
exist a great while, but are against its eternity.

XXXII. Are you willing to hear then why, even allowing this, death
cannot be an evil.

_A._ As you please; but no one shall drive me from my belief in
mortality.

_M._ I commend you, indeed, for that; though we should not be too
confident in our belief of anything; for we are frequently disturbed by
some subtle conclusion. We give way and change our opinions even in
things that are more evident than this; for in this there certainly is
some obscurity. Therefore, should anything of this kind happen, it is
well to be on our guard.

_A._ You are right in that; but I will provide against any accident.

_M._ Have you any objection to our dismissing our friends the
Stoics--those, I mean, who allow that the souls exist after they have
left the body, but yet deny that they exist forever?

_A._ We certainly may dismiss the consideration of those men who admit
that which is the most difficult point in the whole question, namely,
that a soul can exist independently of the body, and yet refuse to
grant that which is not only very easy to believe, but which is even
the natural consequence of the concession which they have made--that if
they can exist for a length of time; they most likely do so forever.

_M._ You take it right; that is the very thing. Shall we give,
therefore, any credit to Pauæstius, when he dissents from his master,
Plato? whom he everywhere calls divine, the wisest, the holiest of men,
the Homer of philosophers, and whom he opposes in nothing except this
single opinion of the soul's immortality: for he maintains what nobody
denies, that everything which has been generated will perish, and that
even souls are generated, which he thinks appears from their
resemblance to those of the men who begot them; for that likeness is as
apparent in the turn of their minds as in their bodies. But he brings
another reason--that there is nothing which is sensible of pain which
is not also liable to disease; but whatever is liable to disease must
be liable to death. The soul is sensible of pain, therefore it is
liable to perish.

XXXIII. These arguments may be refuted; for they proceed from his not
knowing that, while discussing the subject of the immortality of the
soul, he is speaking of the intellect, which is free from all turbid
motion; but not of those parts of the mind in which those disorders,
anger and lust, have their seat, and which he whom he is opposing, when
he argues thus, imagines to be distinct and separate from the mind. Now
this resemblance is more remarkable in beasts, whose souls are void of
reason. But the likeness in men consists more in the configuration of
the bodies: and it is of no little consequence in what bodies the soul
is lodged; for there are many things which depend on the body that give
an edge to the soul, many which blunt it. Aristotle, indeed, says that
all men of great genius are melancholy; so that I should not have been
displeased to have been somewhat duller than I am. He instances many,
and, as if it were matter of fact, brings his reasons for it. But if
the power of those things that proceed from the body be so great as to
influence the mind (for they are the things, whatever they are, that
occasion this likeness), still that does not necessarily prove why a
similitude of souls should be generated. I say nothing about cases of
unlikeness. I wish Panætius could be here: he lived with Africanus. I
would inquire of him which of his family the nephew of Africanus's
brother was like? Possibly he may in person have resembled his father;
but in his manners he was so like every profligate, abandoned man, that
it was impossible to be more so. Whom did the grandson of P. Crassus,
that wise and eloquent and most distinguished man, resemble? Or the
relations and sons of many other excellent men, whose names there is no
occasion to mention? But what are we doing? Have we forgotten that our
purpose was, when we had sufficiently spoken on the subject of the
immortality of the soul, to prove that, even if the soul did perish,
there would be, even then, no evil in death?

_A._ I remembered it very well; but I had no dislike to your digressing
a little from your original design, while you were talking of the
soul's immortality.

_M._ I perceive you have sublime thoughts, and are eager to mount up to
heaven.

XXXIV. I am not without hopes myself that such may be our fate. But
admit what they assert--that the soul does not continue to exist after
death.

_A._ Should it be so, I see that we are then deprived of the hopes of a
happier life.

_M._ But what is there of evil in that opinion? For let the soul perish
as the body: is there any pain, or indeed any feeling at all, in the
body after death? No one, indeed asserts that; though Epicurus charges
Democritus with saying so; but the disciples of Democritus deny it. No
sense, therefore, remains in the soul; for the soul is nowhere. Where,
then, is the evil? for there is nothing but these two things. Is it
because the mere separation of the soul and body cannot be effected
without pain? But even should that be granted, how small a pain must
that be! Yet I think that it is false, and that it is very often
unaccompanied by any sensation at all, and sometimes even attended with
pleasure; but certainly the whole must be very trifling, whatever it
is, for it is instantaneous. What makes us uneasy, or rather gives us
pain, is the leaving all the good things of life. But just consider if
I might not more properly say, leaving the evils of life; only there is
no reason for my now occupying myself in bewailing the life of man, and
yet I might, with very good reason. But what occasion is there, when
what I am laboring to prove is that no one is miserable after death, to
make life more miserable by lamenting over it? I have done that in the
book which I wrote, in order to comfort myself as well as I could. If,
then, our inquiry is after truth, death withdraws us from evil, not
from good. This subject is indeed so copiously handled by Hegesias, the
Cyrenaic philosopher, that he is said to have been forbidden by Ptolemy
from delivering his lectures in the schools, because some who heard him
made away with themselves. There is, too, an epigram of Callimachus[20]
on Cleombrotus of Ambracia, who, without any misfortune having befallen
him, as he says, threw himself from a wall into the sea, after he had
read a book of Plato's. The book I mentioned of that Hegesias is called
[Greek: Apokarterterôn], or "A Man who starves himself," in which a man
is represented as killing himself by starvation, till he is prevented
by his friends, in reply to whom he reckons up all the miseries of
human life. I might do the same, though not so fully as he, who thinks
it not worth any man's while to live. I pass over others. Was it even
worth my while to live, for, had I died before I was deprived of the
comforts of my own family, and of the honors which I received for my
public services, would not death have taken me from the evils of life
rather than from its blessings?

XXXV. Mention, therefore, some one, who never knew distress; who never
received any blow from fortune. The great Metellus had four
distinguished sons; but Priam had fifty, seventeen of whom were born to
him by his lawful wife. Fortune had the same power over both, though
she exercised it but on one; for Metellus was laid on his funeral pile
by a great company of sons and daughters, grandsons, and
granddaughters; but Priam fell by the hand of an enemy, after having
fled to the altar, and having seen himself deprived of all his numerous
progeny. Had he died before the death of his sons and the ruin of his
kingdom,

    With all his mighty wealth elate,
    Under rich canopies of state;

would he then have been taken from good or from evil? It would indeed,
at that time, have appeared that he was being taken away from good; yet
surely it would have turned out advantageous for him; nor should we
have had these mournful verses,

    Lo! these all perish'd in one flaming pile;
    The foe old Priam did of life beguile,
    And with his blood, thy altar, Jove, defile.

As if anything better could have happened to him at that time than to
lose his life in that manner; but yet, if it had befallen him sooner,
it would have prevented all those consequences; but even as it was, it
released him from any further sense of them. The case of our friend
Pompey[21] was something better: once, when he had been very ill at
Naples, the Neapolitans, on his recovery, put crowns on their heads, as
did those of Puteoli; the people flocked from the country to
congratulate him--it is a Grecian custom, and a foolish one; still it
is a sign of good fortune. But the question is, had he died, would he
have been taken from good, or from evil? Certainly from evil. He would
not have been engaged in a war with his father-in-law;[22] he would not
have taken up arms before he was prepared; he would not have left his
own house, nor fled from Italy; he would not, after the loss of his
army, have fallen unarmed into the hands of slaves, and been put to
death by them; his children would not have been destroyed; nor would
his whole fortune have come into the possession of the conquerors. Did
not he, then, who, if he had died at that time, would have died in all
his glory, owe all the great and terrible misfortunes into which he
subsequently fell to the prolongation of his life at that time?

XXXVI. These calamities are avoided by death, for even though they
should never happen, there is a possibility that they may; but it never
occurs to a man that such a disaster may befall him himself. Every one
hopes to be as happy as Metellus: as if the number of the happy
exceeded that of the miserable; or as if there were any certainty in
human affairs; or, again, as if there were more rational foundation for
hope than fear. But should we grant them even this, that men are by
death deprived of good things; would it follow that the dead are
therefore in need of the good things of life, and are miserable on that
account? Certainly they must necessarily say so. Can he who does not
exist be in need of anything? To be in need of has a melancholy sound,
because it in effect amounts to this--he had, but he has not; he
regrets, he looks back upon, he wants. Such are, I suppose, the
distresses of one who is in need of. Is he deprived of eyes? to be
blind is misery. Is he destitute of children? not to have them is
misery. These considerations apply to the living, but the dead are
neither in need of the blessings of life, nor of life itself. But when
I am speaking of the dead, I am speaking of those who have no
existence. But would any one say of us, who do exist, that we want
horns or wings? Certainly not. Should it be asked, why not? the answer
would be, that not to have what neither custom nor nature has fitted
you for would not imply a want of them, even though you were sensible
that you had them not. This argument should be pressed over and over
again, after that point has once been established, which, if souls are
mortal, there can be no dispute about--I mean, that the destruction of
them by death is so entire as to remove even the least suspicion of any
sense remaining. When, therefore, this point is once well grounded and
established, we must correctly define what the term to want means; that
there may be no mistake in the word. To want, then, signifies this: to
be without that which you would be glad to have; for inclination for a
thing is implied in the word want, excepting when we use the word in an
entirely different sense, as we do when we say that a fever is wanting
to any one. For it admits of a different interpretation, when you are
without a certain thing, and are sensible that you are without it, but
yet can easily dispense with having it. "To want," then, is an
expression which you cannot apply to the dead; nor is the mere fact of
wanting something necessarily lamentable. The proper expression ought
to be, "that they want a good," and that is an evil.

But a living man does not want a good, unless he is distressed without
it; and yet, we can easily understand how any man alive can be without
a kingdom. But this cannot be predicated of you with any accuracy: it
might have been asserted of Tarquin, when he was driven from his
kingdom. But when such an expression is used respecting the dead, it is
absolutely unintelligible. For to want implies to be sensible; but the
dead are insensible: therefore, the dead can be in no want.

XXXVII. But what occasion is there to philosophize here in a matter
with which we see that philosophy is but little concerned? How often
have not only our generals but whole armies, rushed on certain death!
But if it had been a thing to be feared, L. Brutus would never have
fallen in fight, to prevent the return of that tyrant whom he had
expelled; nor would Decius the father have been slain in fighting with
the Latins; nor would his son, when engaged with the Etruscans, nor his
grandson with Pyrrhus have exposed themselves to the enemy's darts.
Spain would never have seen, in one campaign, the Scipios fall fighting
for their country; nor would the plains of Cannæ have witnessed the
death of Paulus and Geminus, or Venusia that of Marcellus; nor would
the Latins have beheld the death of Albinus, nor the Leucanians that of
Gracchus. But are any of these miserable now? Nay, they were not so
even at the first moment after they had breathed their last; nor can
any one be miserable after he has lost all sensation. Oh, but the mere
circumstance of being without sensation is miserable. It might be so if
being without sensation were the same thing as wanting it; but as it is
evident there can be nothing of any kind in that which has no
existence, what can there be afflicting to that which can neither feel
want nor be sensible of anything? We might be said to have repeated
this over too often, only that here lies all that the soul shudders at
from the fear of death. For whoever can clearly apprehend that which is
as manifest as the light--that when both soul and body are consumed,
and there is a total destruction, then that which was an animal becomes
nothing--will clearly see that there is no difference between a
Hippocentaur, which never had existence, and King Agamemnon, and that
M. Camillus is no more concerned about this present civil war than I
was at the sacking of Rome, when he was living.

XXXVIII. Why, then, should Camillus be affected with the thoughts of
these things happening three hundred and fifty years after his time?
And why should I be uneasy it I were to expect that some nation might
possess itself of this city ten thousand years hence? Because so great
is our regard for our country, as not to be measured by our own
feeling, but by its own actual safety.

Death, then, which threatens us daily from a thousand accidents, and
which, by reason of the shortness of life, can never be far off, does
not deter a wise man from making such provision for his country and his
family as he hopes may last forever; and from regarding posterity, of
which he can never have any real perception, as belonging to himself.
Wherefore a man may act for eternity, even though he be persuaded that
his soul is mortal; not, indeed, from a desire of glory, which he will
be insensible of, but from a principle of virtue, which glory will
inevitably attend, though that is not his object. The process, indeed,
of nature is this: that just in the same manner as our birth was the
beginning of things with us, so death will be the end; and as we were
noways concerned with anything before we were born, so neither shall we
be after we are dead. And in this state of things where can the evil
be, since death has no connection with either the living or the dead?
The one have no existence at all, the other are not yet affected by it.
They who make the least of death consider it as having a great
resemblance to sleep; as if any one would choose to live ninety years
on condition that, at the expiration of sixty, he should sleep out the
remainder. The very swine would not accept of life on those terms, much
less I. Endymion, indeed, if you listen to fables, slept once on a time
on Latmus, a mountain of Caria, and for such a length of time that I
imagine he is not as yet awake. Do you think that he is concerned at
the Moon's being in difficulties, though it was by her that he was
thrown into that sleep, in order that she might kiss him while
sleeping. For what should he be concerned for who has not even any
sensation? You look on sleep as an image of death, and you take that on
you daily; and have you, then, any doubt that there is no sensation in
death, when you see there is none in sleep, which is its near
resemblance?

XXXIX. Away, then, with those follies, which are little better than the
old women's dreams, such as that it is miserable to die before our
time. What time do you mean? That of nature? But she has only lent you
life, as she might lend you money, without fixing any certain time for
its repayment. Have you any grounds of complaint, then, that she
recalls it at her pleasure? for you received it on these terms. They
that complain thus allow that if a young child dies, the survivors
ought to bear his loss with equanimity; that if an infant in the cradle
dies, they ought not even to utter a complaint; and yet nature has been
more severe with them in demanding back what she gave. They answer by
saying that such have not tasted the sweets of life; while the other
had begun to conceive hopes of great happiness, and, indeed, had begun
to realize them. Men judge better in other things, and allow a part to
be preferable to none. Why do they not admit the same estimate in life?
Though Callimachus does not speak amiss in saying that more tears had
flowed from Priam than his son; yet they are thought happier who die
after they have reached old age. It would be hard to say why; for I do
not apprehend that any one, if a longer life were granted to him, would
find it happier. There is nothing more agreeable to a man than
prudence, which old age most certainly bestows on a man, though it may
strip him of everything else. But what age is long, or what is there at
all long to a man? Does not

    Old age, though unregarded, still attend
    On childhood's pastimes, as the cares of men?

But because there is nothing beyond old age, we call that long: all
these things are said to be long or short, according to the proportion
of time they were given us for. Artistotle saith there is a kind of
insect near the river Hypanis, which runs from a certain part of Europe
into the Pontus, whose life consists but of one day; those that die at
the eighth hour die in full age; those who die when the sun sets are
very old, especially when the days are at the longest. Compare our
longest life with eternity, and we shall be found almost as short-lived
as those little animals.

XL. Let us, then, despise all these follies--for what softer name can I
give to such levities?--and let us lay the foundation of our happiness
in the strength and greatness of our minds, in a contempt and disregard
of all earthly things, and in the practice of every virtue. For at
present we are enervated by the softness of our imaginations, so that,
should we leave this world before the promises of our fortune-tellers
are made good to us, we should think ourselves deprived of some great
advantages, and seem disappointed and forlorn. But if, through life, we
are in continual suspense, still expecting, still desiring, and are in
continual pain and torture, good Gods! how pleasant must that journey
be which ends in security and ease! How pleased am I with Theramenes!
Of how exalted a soul does he appear! For, although we never read of
him without tears, yet that illustrious man is not to be lamented in
his death, who, when he had been imprisoned by the command of the
thirty tyrants, drank off, at one draught, as if he had been thirsty,
the poisoned cup, and threw the remainder out of it with such force
that it sounded as it fell; and then, on hearing the sound of the
drops, he said, with a smile, "I drink this to the most excellent
Critias," who had been his most bitter enemy; for it is customary among
the Greeks, at their banquets, to name the person to whom they intend
to deliver the cup. This celebrated man was pleasant to the last, even
when he had received the poison into his bowels, and truly foretold the
death of that man whom he named when he drank the poison, and that
death soon followed. Who that thinks death an evil could approve of the
evenness of temper in this great man at the instant of dying? Socrates
came, a few years after, to the same prison and the same cup by as
great iniquity on the part of his judges as the tyrants displayed when
they executed Theramenes. What a speech is that which Plato makes him
deliver before his judges, after they had condemned him to death!

XLI. "I am not without hopes, O judges, that it is a favorable
circumstance for me that I am condemned to die; for one of these two
things must necessarily happen--either that death will deprive me
entirely of all sense, or else that, by dying, I shall go from hence
into some other place; wherefore, if all sense is utterly extinguished,
and if death is like that sleep which sometimes is so undisturbed as to
be even without the visions of dreams--in that case, O ye good Gods!
what gain is it to die? or what length of days can be imagined which
would be preferable to such a night? And if the constant course of
future time is to resemble that night, who is happier than I am? But if
on the other hand, what is said be true, namely, that death is but a
removal to those regions where the souls of the departed dwell, then
that state must be more happy still to have escaped from those who call
themselves judges, and to appear before such as are truly so--Minos,
Rhadamanthus, Æacus, Triptolemus--and to meet with those who have lived
with justice and probity![23] Can this change of abode appear otherwise
than great to you? What bounds can you set to the value of conversing
with Orpheus, and Musæus, and Homer, and Hesiod? I would even, were it
possible, willingly die often, in order to prove the certainty of what
I speak of. What delight must it be to meet with Palamedes, and Ajax,
and others, who have been betrayed by the iniquity of their judges!
Then, also, should I experience the wisdom of even that king of kings,
who led his vast troops to Troy, and the prudence of Ulysses and
Sisyphus: nor should I then be condemned for prosecuting my inquiries
on such subjects in the same way in which I have done here on earth.
And even you, my judges, you, I mean, who have voted for my acquittal,
do not you fear death, for nothing bad can befall a good man, whether
he be alive or dead; nor are his concerns ever overlooked by the Gods;
nor in my case either has this befallen me by chance; and I have
nothing to charge those men with who accused or condemned me but the
fact that they believed that they were doing me harm." In this manner
he proceeded. There is no part of his speech which I admire more than
his last words: "But it is time," says he, "for me now to go hence,
that I may die; and for you, that you may continue to live. Which
condition of the two is the best, the immortal Gods know; but I do not
believe that any mortal man does."

XLII. Surely I would rather have had this man's soul than all the
fortunes of those who sat in judgment on him; although that very thing
which he says no one except the Gods know, namely, whether life or
death is most preferable, he knows himself, for he had previously
stated his opinion on it; but he maintained to the last that favorite
maxim of his, of affirming nothing. And let us, too, adhere to this
rule of not thinking anything an evil which is a general provision of
nature; and let us assure ourselves, that if death is an evil, it is an
eternal evil, for death seems to be the end of a miserable life; but if
death is a misery, there can be no end of that. But why do I mention
Socrates, or Theramenes, men distinguished by the glory of virtue and
wisdom? when a certain Lacedæmomian, whose name is not so much as
known, held death in such contempt, that, when led to it by the ephori,
he bore a cheerful and pleasant countenance; and, when he was asked by
one of his enemies whether he despised the laws of Lycurgus, "On the
contrary," answered he, "I am greatly obliged to him, for he has
amerced me in a fine which I can pay without borrowing, or taking up
money at interest." This was a man worthy of Sparta. And I am almost
persuaded of his innocence because of the greatness of his soul. Our
own city has produced many such. But why should I name generals, and
other men of high rank, when Cato could write that legions have marched
with alacrity to that place from whence they never expected to return?
With no less greatness of soul fell the Lacedæmonians at Thermopylæ, on
whom Simonides wrote the following epitaph:

    Go, stranger, tell the Spartans, here we lie,
    Who to support their laws durst boldly die.[24]

What was it that Leonidas, their general, said to them? "March on with
courage, my Lacedæmonians. To-night, perhaps, we shall sup in the
regions below." This was a brave nation while the laws of Lycurgus were
in force. One of them, when a Persian had said to him in conversation,
"We shall hide the sun from your sight by the number of our arrows and
darts," replied, "We shall fight, then in the shade." Do I talk of
their men? How great was that Lacedæmonian woman, who had sent her son
to battle, and when she heard that he was slain, said, "I bore him for
that purpose, that you might have a man who durst die for his country!"
However, it is a matter of notoriety that the Spartans were bold and
hardy, for the discipline of a republic has great influence.

XLIII. What, then, have we not reason to admire Theodorus the Cyrenean,
a philosopher of no small distinction, who, when Lysimachus threatened
to crucify him, bade him keep those menaces for his courtiers? "To
Theodorus it makes no difference whether he rot in the air or
underground." By which saying of the philosopher I am reminded to say
something of the custom of funerals and sepulture, and of funeral
ceremonies, which is, indeed, not a difficult subject, especially if we
recollect what has been before said about insensibility. The opinion of
Socrates respecting this matter is clearly stated in the book which
treats of his death, of which we have already said so much; for when he
had discussed the immortality of the soul, and when the time of his
dying was approaching rapidly, being asked by Criton how he would be
buried, "I have taken a great deal of pains," saith he, "my friends, to
no purpose, for I have not convinced our Criton that I shall fly from
hence, and leave no part of me behind. Notwithstanding, Criton, if you
can overtake me, wheresoever you get hold of me, bury me as you please:
but believe me, none of you will be able to catch me when I have flown
away from hence." That was excellently said, inasmuch as he allows his
friend to do as he pleased, and yet shows his indifference about
anything of this kind. Diogenes was rougher, though of the same
opinion; but in his character of a Cynic he expressed himself in a
somewhat harsher manner; he ordered himself to be thrown anywhere
without being buried. And when his friends replied, "What! to the birds
and beasts?" "By no means," saith he; "place my staff near me, that I
may drive them away." "How can you do that," they answer, "for you will
not perceive them?" "How am I then injured by being torn by those
animals, if I have no sensation?" Anaxagoras, when he was at the point
of death at Lampsacus, and was asked by his friends, whether, if
anything should happen to him, he would not choose to be carried to
Clazomenæ, his country, made this excellent answer, "There is," says
he, "no occasion for that, for all places are at an equal distance from
the infernal regions." There is one thing to be observed with respect
to the whole subject of burial, that it relates to the body, whether
the soul live or die. Now, with regard to the body, it is clear that,
whether the soul live or die, that has no sensation.

XLIV. But all things are full of errors. Achilles drags Hector, tied to
his chariot; he thinks, I suppose, he tears his flesh, and that Hector
feels the pain of it; therefore, he avenges himself on him, as he
imagines. But Hecuba bewails this as a sore misfortune:

    I saw (a dreadful sight) great Hector slain,
    Dragg'd at Achilles' car along the plain.

What Hector? or how long will he be Hector? Accius is better in this,
and Achilles, too, is sometimes reasonable:

    I Hector's body to his sire convey'd,
    Hector I sent to the infernal shade.

It was not Hector that you dragged along, but a body that had been
Hector's. Here another starts from underground, and will not suffer his
mother to sleep:

    To thee I call, my once-loved parent, hear,
    Nor longer with thy sleep relieve thy care;
    Thine eye which pities not is closed--arise;
    Ling'ring I wait the unpaid obsequies.

When these verses are sung with a slow and melancholy tune, so as to
affect the whole theatre with sadness, one can scarce help thinking
those unhappy that are unburied:

    Ere the devouring dogs and hungry vultures...

He is afraid he shall not have the use of his limbs so well if they are
torn to pieces, but is under no such apprehensions if they are burned:

    Nor leave my naked bones, my poor remains,
    To shameful violence and bloody stains.

I do not understand what he could fear who could pour forth such
excellent verses to the sound of the flute. We must, therefore, adhere
to this, that nothing is to be regarded after we are dead, though many
people revenge themselves on their dead enemies. Thyestes pours forth
several curses in some good lines of Ennius, praying, first of all,
that Atreus may perish by a shipwreck, which is certainly a very
terrible thing, for such a death is not free from very grievous
sensations. Then follow these unmeaning expressions:

                                         May
    On the sharp rock his mangled carcass lie,
    His entrails torn, to hungry birds a prey!
    May he convulsive writhe his bleeding side,
    And with his clotted gore the stones be dyed!

The rocks themselves were not more destitute of feeling than he who was
hanging to them by his side; though Thyestes imagines he is wishing him
the greatest torture. It would be torture, indeed, if he were sensible;
but as he is not, it can be none; then how very unmeaning is this:

    Let him, still hovering o'er the Stygian wave,
    Ne'er reach the body's peaceful port, the grave!

You see under what mistaken notions all this is said. He imagines the
body has its haven, and that the dead are at rest in their graves.
Pelops was greatly to blame in not having informed and taught his son
what regard was due to everything.

XLV. But what occasion is there to animadvert on the opinions of
individuals, when we may observe whole nations to fall into all sorts
of errors? The Egyptians embalm their dead, and keep them in their
houses; the Persians dress them over with wax, and then bury them, that
they may preserve their bodies as long as possible. It is customary
with the Magi to bury none of their order, unless they have been first
torn by wild beasts. In Hyrcania, the people maintain dogs for the
public use; the nobles have their own--and we know that they have a
good breed of dogs; but every one, according to his ability, provides
himself with some, in order to be torn by them; and they hold that to
be the best kind of interment. Chrysippus, who is curious in all kinds
of historical facts, has collected many other things of this kind; but
some of them are so offensive as not to admit of being related. All
that has been said of burying is not worth our regard with respect to
ourselves, though it is not to be neglected as to our friends, provided
we are thoroughly aware that the dead are insensible. But the living,
indeed, should consider what is due to custom and opinion; only they
should at the same time consider that the dead are noways interested in
it. But death truly is then met with the greatest tranquillity when the
dying man can comfort himself with his own praise. No one dies too soon
who has finished the course of perfect virtue. I myself have known many
occasions when I have seemed in danger of immediate death; oh! how I
wish it had come to me! for I have gained nothing by the delay. I had
gone over and over again the duties of life; nothing remained but to
contend with fortune. If reason, then, cannot sufficiently fortify us
to enable us to feel a contempt for death, at all events let our past
life prove that we have lived long enough, and even longer than was
necessary; for notwithstanding the deprivation of sense, the dead are
not without that good which peculiarly belongs to them, namely, the
praise and glory which they have acquired, even though they are not
sensible of it. For although there be nothing in glory to make it
desirable, yet it follows virtue as its shadow; and the genuine
judgment of the multitude on good men, if ever they form any, is more
to their own praise than of any real advantage to the dead. Yet I
cannot say, however it may be received, that Lycurgus and Solon have no
glory from their laws, and from the political constitution which they
established in their country; or that Themistocles and Epaminondas have
not glory from their martial virtue.

XLVI. For Neptune shall sooner bury Salamis itself with his waters than
the memory of the trophies gained there; and the Boeotian Leuctra shall
perish sooner than the glory of that great battle. And longer still
shall fame be before it deserts Curius, and Fabricius, and Calatinus,
and the two Scipios, and the two Africani, and Maximus, and Marcellus,
and Paulus, and Cato, and Lælius, and numberless other heroes; and
whoever has caught any resemblance of them, not estimating it by common
fame, but by the real applause of good men, may with confidence, when
the occasion requires, approach death, on which we are sure that even
if the chief good is not continued, at least no evil is. Such a man
would even wish to die while in prosperity; for all the favors that
could be heaped on him would not be so agreeable to him as the loss of
them would be painful. That speech of the Lacedæmonian seems to have
the same meaning, who, when Diagoras the Rhodian, who had himself been
a conqueror at the Olympic games, saw two of his own sons conquerors
there on the same day, approached the old man, and, congratulating him,
said, "You should die now, Diagoras, for no greater happiness can
possibly await you." The Greeks look on these as great things; perhaps
they think too highly of them, or, rather, they did so then. And so he
who said this to Diagoras, looking on it as something very glorious,
that three men out of one family should have been conquerors there,
thought it could answer no purpose to him to continue any longer in
life, where he could only be exposed to a reverse of fortune.

I might have given you a sufficient answer, as it seems to me, on this
point, in a few words, as you had allowed the dead were not exposed to
any positive evil; but I have spoken at greater length on the subject
for this reason, because this is our greatest consolation in the losing
and bewailing of our friends. For we ought to bear with moderation any
grief which arises from ourselves, or is endured on our own account,
lest we should seem to be too much influenced by self-love. But should
we suspect our departed friends to be under those evils, which they are
generally imagined to be, and to be sensible of them, then such a
suspicion would give us intolerable pain; and accordingly I wished, for
my own sake, to pluck up this opinion by the roots, and on that account
I have been perhaps somewhat more prolix than was necessary.

XLVII. _A._ More prolix than was necessary? Certainty not, in my
opinion. For I was induced, by the former part of your speech, to wish
to die; but, by the latter, sometimes not to be unwilling, and at
others to be wholly indifferent about it. But the effect of your whole
argument is, that I am convinced that death ought not to be classed
among the evils.

_M._ Do you, then, expect that I am to give you a regular peroration,
like the rhetoricians, or shall I forego that art?

_A._ I would not have you give over an art which you have set off to
such advantage; and you were in the right to do so, for, to speak the
truth, it also has set you off. But what is that peroration? For I
should be glad to hear it, whatever it is.

_M._ It is customary, in the schools, to produce the opinions of the
immortal Gods on death; nor are these opinions the fruits of the
imagination alone of the lecturers, but they have the authority of
Herodotus and many others. Cleobis and Biton are the first they
mention, sons of the Argive priestess; the story is a well-known one.
As it was necessary that she should be drawn in a chariot to a certain
annual sacrifice, which was solemnized at a temple some considerable
distance from the town, and the cattle that were to draw the chariot
had not arrived, those two young men whom I have just mentioned,
pulling off their garments, and anointing their bodies with oil,
harnessed themselves to the yoke. And in this manner the priestess was
conveyed to the temple; and when the chariot had arrived at the proper
place, she is said to have entreated the Goddess to bestow on them, as
a reward for their piety, the greatest gift that a God could confer on
man. And the young men, after having feasted with their mother, fell
asleep; and in the morning they were found dead. Trophonius and
Agamedes are said to have put up the same petition, for they, having
built a temple to Apollo at Delphi, offered supplications to the God,
and desired of him some extraordinary reward for their care and labor,
particularizing nothing, but asking for whatever was best for men.
Accordingly, Apollo signified to them that he would bestow it on them
in three days, and on the third day at daybreak they were found dead.
And so they say that this was a formal decision pronounced by that God
to whom the rest of the deities have assigned the province of divining
with an accuracy superior to that of all the rest.

XLVIII. There is also a story told of Silenus, who, when taken prisoner
by Midas, is said to have made him this present for his ransom--namely,
that he informed him[25] that never to have been born was by far the
greatest blessing that could happen to man; and that the next best
thing was to die very soon; which very opinion Euripides makes use of
in his Cresphontes, saying,

    When man is born, 'tis fit, with solemn show,
    We speak our sense of his approaching woe;
    With other gestures and a different eye,
    Proclaim our pleasure when he's bid to die.[26]

There is something like this in Crantor's Consolation; for he says that
Terinæsus of Elysia, when he was bitterly lamenting the loss of his
son, came to a place of divination to be informed why he was visited
with so great affliction, and received in his tablet these three
verses:

    Thou fool, to murmur at Euthynous' death!
    The blooming youth to fate resigns his breath:
    The fate, whereon your happiness depends,
    At once the parent and the son befriends.[27]

On these and similar authorities they affirm that the question has been
determined by the Gods. Nay, more; Alcidamas, an ancient rhetorician of
the very highest reputation, wrote even in praise of death, which he
endeavored to establish by an enumeration of the evils of life; and his
Dissertation has a great deal of eloquence in it; but he was
unacquainted with the more refined arguments of the philosophers. By
the orators, indeed, to die for our country is always considered not
only as glorious, but even as happy: they go back as far as
Erechtheus,[28] whose very daughters underwent death, for the safety of
their fellow-citizens: they instance Codrus, who threw himself into the
midst of his enemies, dressed like a common man, that his royal robes
might not betray him, because the oracle had declared the Athenians
conquerors, if their king was slain. Menoeceus[29] is not overlooked by
them, who, in compliance with the injunctions of an oracle, freely shed
his blood for his country. Iphigenia ordered herself to be conveyed to
Aulis, to be sacrificed, that her blood might be the cause of spilling
that of her enemies.

XLIX. From hence they proceed to instances of a fresher date. Harmodius
and Aristogiton are in everybody's mouth; the memory of Leonidas the
Lacedæmonian and Epaminondas the Theban is as fresh as ever. Those
philosophers were not acquainted with the many instances in our
country--to give a list of whom would take up too much time--who, we
see, considered death desirable as long as it was accompanied with
honor. But, notwithstanding this is the correct view of the case, we
must use much persuasion, speak as if we were endued with some higher
authority, in order to bring men to begin to wish to die, or cease to
be afraid of death. For if that last day does not occasion an entire
extinction, but a change of abode only, what can be more desirable? And
if it, on the other hand, destroys, and absolutely puts an end to us,
what can be preferable to the having a deep sleep fall on us, in the
midst of the fatigues of life, and being thus overtaken, to sleep to
eternity? And, should this really be the case, then Ennius's language
is more consistent with wisdom than Solon's; for our Ennius says,

    Let none bestow upon my passing bier
    One needless sigh or unavailing tear.

But the wise Solon says,

    Let me not unlamented die, but o'er my bier
    Burst forth the tender sigh, the friendly tear.[30]

But let us, if indeed it should be our fate to know the time which is
appointed by the Gods for us to die, prepare ourselves for it with a
cheerful and grateful mind, thinking ourselves like men who are
delivered from a jail, and released from their fetters, for the purpose
of going back to our eternal habitation, which may be more emphatically
called our own; or else to be divested of all sense and trouble. If, on
the other hand, we should have no notice given us of this decree, yet
let us cultivate such a disposition as to look on that formidable hour
of death as happy for us, though shocking to our friends; and let us
never imagine anything to be an evil which is an appointment of the
immortal Gods, or of nature, the common parent of all. For it is not by
hazard or without design that we have been born and situated as we
have. On the contrary, beyond all doubt there is a certain power which
consults the happiness of human nature; and this would neither have
produced nor provided for a being which, after having gone through the
labors of life, was to fall into eternal misery by death. Let us rather
infer that we have a retreat and haven prepared for us, which I wish we
could crowd all sail and arrive at; but though the winds should not
serve, and we should be driven back, yet we shall to a certainty arrive
at that point eventually, though somewhat later. But how can that be
miserable for one which all must of necessity undergo? I have given you
a peroration, that you might not think I had overlooked or neglected
anything.

_A._ I am persuaded you have not; and, indeed, that peroration has
confirmed me.

_M._ I am glad it has had that effect. But it is now time to consult
our health. To-morrow, and all the time we continue in this Tusculan
villa, let us consider this subject; and especially those portions of
it which may ease our pain, alleviate our fears, and lessen our
desires, which is the greatest advantage we can reap from the whole of
philosophy.

       *       *       *       *       *




BOOK II.

ON BEARING PAIN.


I. Neoptolemus, in Ennius, indeed, says that the study of philosophy
was expedient for him; but that it required limiting to a few subjects,
for that to give himself up entirely to it was what he did not approve
of. And for my part, Brutus, I am perfectly persuaded that it is
expedient for me to philosophize; for what can I do better, especially
as I have no regular occupation? But I am not for limiting my
philosophy to a few subjects, as he does; for philosophy is a matter in
which it is difficult to acquire a little knowledge without acquainting
yourself with many, or all its branches, nor can you well take a few
subjects without selecting them out of a great number; nor can any one,
who has acquired the knowledge of a few points, avoid endeavoring with
the same eagerness to understand more. But still, in a busy life, and
in one mainly occupied with military matters, such as that of
Neoptolemus was at that time, even that limited degree of acquaintance
with philosophy may be of great use, and may yield fruit, not perhaps
so plentiful as a thorough knowledge of the whole of philosophy, but
yet such as in some degree may at times deliver us from the dominion of
our desires, our sorrows, and our fears; just as the effect of that
discussion which we lately maintained in my Tusculan villa seemed to be
that a great contempt of death was engendered, which contempt is of no
small efficacy towards delivering the mind from fear; for whoever
dreads what cannot be avoided can by no means live with a quiet and
tranquil mind. But he who is under no fear of death, not only because
it is a thing absolutely inevitable but also because he is persuaded
that death itself hath nothing terrible in it, provides himself with a
very great resource towards a happy life. However, I am not tolerant
that many will argue strenuously against us; and, indeed, that is a
thing which can never be avoided, except by abstaining from writing at
all. For if my Orations, which were addressed to the judgment and
approbation of the people (for that is a popular art, and the object of
oratory is popular applause), have been criticised by some people who
are inclined to withhold their praise from everything but what they are
persuaded they can attain to themselves, and who limit their ideas of
good speaking by the hopes which they conceive of what they themselves
may attain to, and who declare, when they are overwhelmed with a flow
of words and sentences, that they prefer the utmost poverty of thought
and expression to that plenty and copiousness (from which arose the
Attic kind of oratory, which they who professed it were strangers to,
though they have now been some time silenced, and laughed out of the
very courts of justice), what may I not expect, when at present I
cannot have the least countenance from the people by whom I used to be
upheld before? For philosophy is satisfied with a few judges, and of
her own accord industriously avoids the multitude, who are jealous of
it, and utterly displeased with it; so that, should any one undertake
to cry down the whole of it, he would have the people on his side;
while, if he should attack that school which I particularly profess, he
would have great assistance from those of the other philosophers.

II. But I have answered the detractors of philosophy in general, in my
Hortensius. And what I had to say in favor of the Academics, is, I
think, explained with sufficient accuracy in my four books of the
Academic Question.

But yet I am so far from desiring that no one should write against me,
that it is what I most earnestly wish; for philosophy would never have
been in such esteem in Greece itself, if it had not been for the
strength which it acquired from the contentions and disputations of the
most learned men; and therefore I recommend all men who have abilities
to follow my advice to snatch this art also from declining Greece, and
to transport it to this city; as our ancestors by their study and
industry have imported all their other arts which were worth having.
Thus the praise of oratory, raised from a low degree, is arrived at
such perfection that it must now decline, and, as is the nature of all
things, verge to its dissolution in a very short time. Let philosophy,
then, derive its birth in Latin language from this time, and let us
lend it our assistance, and bear patiently to be contradicted and
refuted; and although those men may dislike such treatment who are
bound and devoted to certain predetermined opinions, and are under such
obligations to maintain them that they are forced, for the sake of
consistency, to adhere to them even though they do not themselves
wholly approve of them; we, on the other hand, who pursue only
probabilities, and who cannot go beyond that which seems really likely,
can confute others without obstinacy, and are prepared to be confuted
ourselves without resentment. Besides, if these studies are ever
brought home to us, we shall not want even Greek libraries, in which
there is an infinite number of books, by reason of the multitude of
authors among them; for it is a common practice with many to repeat the
same things which have been written by others, which serves no purpose
but to stuff their shelves; and this will be our case, too, if many
apply themselves to this study.

III. But let us excite those, if possible, who have had a liberal
education, and are masters of an elegant style, and who philosophize
with reason and method.

For there is a certain class of them who would willingly be called
philosophers, whose books in our language are said to be numerous, and
which I do not despise; for, indeed, I never read them: but still,
because the authors themselves declare that they write without any
regularity, or method, or elegance, or ornament, I do not care to read
what must be so void of entertainment. There is no one in the least
acquainted with literature who does not know the style and sentiments
of that school; wherefore, since they are at no pains to express
themselves well, I do not see why they should be read by anybody except
by one another. Let them read them, if they please, who are of the same
opinions; for in the same manner as all men read Plato and the other
Socratics, with those who sprung from them, even those who do not agree
with their opinions, or are very indifferent about them; but scarcely
any one except their own disciples take Epicurus or Metrodorus into
their hands; so they alone read these Latin books who think that the
arguments contained in them are sound. But, in my opinion, whatever is
published should be recommended to the reading of every man of
learning; and though we may not succeed in this ourselves, yet
nevertheless we must be sensible that this ought to be the aim of every
writer. And on this account I have always been pleased with the custom
of the Peripatetics and Academics, of disputing on both sides of the
question; not solely from its being the only method of discovering what
is probable on every subject, but also because it affords the greatest
scope for practising eloquence; a method that Aristotle first made use
of, and afterward all the Aristotelians; and in our own memory Plilo,
whom we have often heard, appointed one time to treat of the precepts
of the rhetoricians, and another for philosophical discussion, to which
custom I was brought to conform by my friends at my Tusculum; and
accordingly our leisure time was spent in this manner. And therefore,
as yesterday before noon we applied ourselves to speaking, and in the
afternoon went down into the Academy, the discussions which were held
there I have acquainted you with, not in the manner of a narration, but
in almost the very same words which were employed in the debate.

IV. The discourse, then, was introduced in this manner while we were
walking, and it was commenced by some such an opening as this:

_A._ It is not to be expressed how much I was delighted, or rather
edified, by your discourse of yesterday. For although I am conscious to
myself that I have never been too fond of life, yet at times, when I
have considered that there would be an end to this life, and that I
must some time or other part with all its good things, a certain dread
and uneasiness used to intrude itself on my thoughts; but now, believe
me, I am so freed from that kind of uneasiness that there is nothing
that I think less worth any regard.

_M._ I am not at all surprised at that, for it is the effect of
philosophy, which is the medicine of our souls; it banishes all
groundless apprehensions, frees us from desires, and drives away fears:
but it has not the same influence over all men; it is of very great
influence when it falls in with a disposition well adapted to it. For
not only does Fortune, as the old proverb says, assist the bold, but
reason does so in a still greater degree; for it, by certain precepts,
as it were, strengthens even courage itself. You were born naturally
great and soaring, and with a contempt for all things which pertain to
man alone; therefore a discourse against death took easy possession of
a brave soul. But do you imagine that these same arguments have any
force with those very persons who have invented, and canvassed, and
published them, excepting indeed some very few particular persons? For
how few philosophers will you meet with whose life and manners are
conformable to the dictates of reason! who look on their profession,
not as a means of displaying their learning, but as a rule for their
own practice! who follow their own precepts, and comply with their own
decrees! You may see some of such levity and such vanity, that it would
have been better for them to have been ignorant; some covetous of
money, some others eager for glory, many slaves to their lusts; so that
their discourses and their actions are most strangely at variance; than
which nothing in my opinion can be more unbecoming: for just as if one
who professed to teach grammar should speak with impropriety, or a
master of music sing out of tune, such conduct has the worst appearance
in these men, because they blunder in the very particular with which
they profess that they are well acquainted. So a philosopher who errs
in the conduct of his life is the more infamous because he is erring in
the very thing which he pretends to teach, and, while he lays down
rules to regulate life by, is irregular in his own life.

V. _A._ Should this be the case, is it not to be feared that you are
dressing up philosophy in false colors? For what stronger argument can
there be that it is of little use than that some very profound
philosophers live in a discreditable manner?

_M._ That, indeed, is no argument at all, for as all the fields which
are cultivated are not fruitful (and this sentiment of Accius is false,
and asserted without any foundation,

    The ground you sow on is of small avail;
    To yield a crop good seed can never fail),

it is not every mind which has been properly cultivated that produces
fruit; and, to go on with the comparison, as a field, although it may
be naturally fruitful, cannot produce a crop without dressing, so
neither can the mind without education; such is the weakness of either
without the other. Whereas philosophy is the culture of the mind: this
it is which plucks up vices by the roots; prepares the mind for the
receiving of seeds; commits them to it, or, as I may say, sows them, in
the hope that, when come to maturity, they may produce a plentiful
harvest. Let us proceed, then, as we began. Say, if you please, what
shall be the subject of our disputation.

_A._ I look on pain to be the greatest of all evils.

_M._ What, even greater than infamy?

_A._ I dare not indeed assert that; and I blush to think I am so soon
driven from my ground.

_M._ You would have had greater reason for blushing had you persevered
in it; for what is so unbecoming--what can appear worse to you, than
disgrace, wickedness, immorality? To avoid which, what pain is there
which we ought not (I will not say to avoid shirking, but even) of our
own accord to encounter, and undergo, and even to court?

_A._ I am entirely of that opinion; but, notwithstanding that pain is
not the greatest evil, yet surely it is an evil.

_M._ Do you perceive, then, how much of the terror of pain you have
given up on a small hint?

_A._ I see that plainly; but I should be glad to give up more of it.

_M._ I will endeavor to make you do so; but it is a great undertaking,
and I must have a disposition on your part which is not inclined to
offer any obstacles.

_A._ You shall have such: for as I behaved yesterday, so now I will
follow reason wherever she leads.

VI. _M._ First, then, I will speak of the weakness of many
philosophers, and those, too, of various sects; the head of whom, both
in authority and antiquity, was Aristippus, the pupil of Socrates, who
hesitated not to say that pain was the greatest of all evils. And after
him Epicurus easily gave in to this effeminate and enervated doctrine.
After him Hieronymus the Rhodian said, that to be without pain was the
chief good, so great an evil did pain appear to him to be. The rest,
with the exceptions of Zeno, Aristo, Pyrrho, were pretty much of the
same opinion that you were of just now--that it was indeed an evil, but
that there were many worse. When, then, nature herself, and a certain
generous feeling of virtue, at once prevents you from persisting in the
assertion that pain is the chief evil, and when you were driven from
such an opinion when disgrace was contrasted with pain, shall
philosophy, the preceptress of life, cling to this idea for so many
ages? What duty of life, what praise, what reputation, would be of such
consequence that a man should be desirous of gaining it at the expense
of submitting to bodily pain, when he has persuaded himself that pain
is the greatest evil? On the other side, what disgrace, what ignominy,
would he not submit to that he might avoid pain, when persuaded that it
was the greatest of evils? Besides, what person, if it be only true
that pain is the greatest of evils, is not miserable, not only when he
actually feels pain, but also whenever he is aware that it may befall
him. And who is there whom pain may not befall? So that it is clear
that there is absolutely no one who can possibly be happy. Metrodorus,
indeed, thinks that man perfectly happy whose body is free from all
disorders, and who has an assurance that it will always continue so;
but who is there who can be assured of that?

VII. But Epicurus, indeed, says such things that it should seem that
his design was only to make people laugh; for he affirms somewhere that
if a wise man were to be burned or put to the torture--you expect,
perhaps, that he is going to say he would bear it, he would support
himself under it with resolution, he would not yield to it (and that by
Hercules! would be very commendable, and worthy of that very Hercules
whom I have just invoked): but even this will not satisfy Epicurus,
that robust and hardy man! No; his wise man, even if he were in
Phalaris's bull, would say, How sweet it is! how little do I regard it!
What, sweet? Is it not sufficient, if it is not disagreeable? But those
very men who deny pain to be an evil are not in the habit of saying
that it is agreeable to any one to be tormented; they rather say that
it is cruel, or hard to bear, afflicting, unnatural, but still not an
evil: while this man who says that it is the only evil, and the very
worst of all evils, yet thinks that a wise man would pronounce it
sweet. I do not require of you to speak of pain in the same words which
Epicurus uses--a man, as you know, devoted to pleasure: he may make no
difference, if he pleases, between Phalaris's bull and his own bed; but
I cannot allow the wise man to be so indifferent about pain. If he
bears it with courage, it is sufficient: that he should rejoice in it,
I do not expect; for pain is, beyond all question, sharp, bitter,
against nature, hard to submit to and to bear. Observe Philoctetes: We
may allow him to lament, for he saw Hercules himself groaning loudly
through extremity of pain on Mount Oeta. The arrows with which Hercules
presented him were then no consolation to him, when

    The viper's bite, impregnating his veins
    With poison, rack'd him with its bitter pains.

And therefore he cries out, desiring help, and wishing to die,

    Oh that some friendly hand its aid would lend,
    My body from this rock's vast height to send
    Into the briny deep! I'm all on fire,
    And by this fatal wound must soon expire.

It is hard to say that the man who was obliged to cry out in this
manner was not oppressed with evil, and great evil too.

VIII. But let us observe Hercules himself, who was subdued by pain at
the very time when he was on the point of attaining immortality by
death. What words does Sophocles here put in his mouth, in his
Trachiniæ? who, when Deianira had put upon him a tunic dyed in the
centaur's blood, and it stuck to his entrails, says,

    What tortures I endure no words can tell,
    Far greater these, than those which erst befell
    From the dire terror of thy consort, Jove--
    E'en stern Eurystheus' dire command above;
    This of thy daughter, Oeneus, is the fruit,
    Beguiling me with her envenom'd suit,
    Whose close embrace doth on my entrails prey,
    Consuming life; my lungs forbid to play;
    The blood forsakes my veins; my manly heart
    Forgets to beat; enervated, each part
    Neglects its office, while my fatal doom
    Proceeds ignobly from the weaver's loom.
    The hand of foe ne'er hurt me, nor the fierce
    Giant issuing from his parent earth.
    Ne'er could the Centaur such a blow enforce,
    No barbarous foe, nor all the Grecian force;
    This arm no savage people could withstand,
    Whose realms I traversed to reform the land.
    Thus, though I ever bore a manly heart,
    I fall a victim to a woman's art.
IX. Assist, my son, if thou that name dost hear,
    My groans preferring to thy mother's tear:
    Convey her here, if, in thy pious heart,
    Thy mother shares not an unequal part:
    Proceed, be bold, thy father's fate bemoan,
    Nations will join, you will not weep alone.
    Oh, what a sight is this same briny source,
    Unknown before, through all my labors' course!
    That virtue, which could brave each toil but late,
    With woman's weakness now bewails its fate.
    Approach, my son; behold thy father laid,
    A wither'd carcass that implores thy aid;
    Let all behold: and thou, imperious Jove,
    On me direct thy lightning from above:
    Now all its force the poison doth assume,
    And my burnt entrails with its flame consume.
    Crestfallen, unembraced, I now let fall
    Listless, those hands that lately conquer'd all;
    When the Nemæan lion own'd their force,
    And he indignant fell a breathless corse;
    The serpent slew, of the Lernean lake,
    As did the Hydra of its force partake:
    By this, too, fell the Erymanthian boar:
    E'en Cerberus did his weak strength deplore.
    This sinewy arm did overcome with ease
    That dragon, guardian of the Golden Fleece.
    My many conquests let some others trace;
    It's mine to say, I never knew disgrace.[31]

Can we then, despise pain, when we see Hercules himself giving vent to
his expressions of agony with such impatience?

X. Let us see what Æschylus says, who was not only a poet but a
Pythagorean philosopher also, for that is the account which you have
received of him; how doth he make Prometheus bear the pain he suffered
for the Lemnian theft, when he clandestinely stole away the celestial
fire, and bestowed it on men, and was severely punished by Jupiter for
the theft. Fastened to Mount Caucasus, he speaks thus:

    Thou heav'n-born race of Titans here fast bound,
    Behold thy brother! As the sailors sound
    With care the bottom, and their ships confine
    To some safe shore, with anchor and with line;
    So, by Jove's dread decree, the God of fire
    Confines me here the victim of Jove's ire.
    With baneful art his dire machine he shapes;
    From such a God what mortal e'er escapes?
    When each third day shall triumph o'er the night,
    Then doth the vulture, with his talons light,
    Seize on my entrails; which, in rav'nous guise,
    He preys on! then with wing extended flies
    Aloft, and brushes with his plumes the gore:
    But when dire Jove my liver doth restore,
    Back he returns impetuous to his prey,
    Clapping his wings, he cuts th' ethereal way.
    Thus do I nourish with my blood this pest,
    Confined my arms, unable to contest;
    Entreating only that in pity Jove
    Would take my life, and this cursed plague remove.
    But endless ages past unheard my moan,
    Sooner shall drops dissolve this very stone.[32]

And therefore it scarcely seems possible to avoid calling a man who is
suffering, miserable; and if he is miserable, then pain is an evil.

XI. _A._ Hitherto you are on my side; I will see to that by-and-by;
and, in the mean while, whence are those verses? I do not remember
them.

_M._ I will inform you, for you are in the right to ask. Do you see
that I have much leisure?

_A._ What, then?

_M._ I imagine, when you were at Athens, you attended frequently at the
schools of the philosophers.

_A._ Yes, and with great pleasure.

_M._ You observed, then, that though none of them at that time were
very eloquent, yet they used to mix verses with their harangues.

_A._ Yes, and particularly Dionysius the Stoic used to employ a great
many.

_M._ You say right; but they were quoted without any appropriateness or
elegance. But our friend Philo used to give a few select lines and well
adapted; and in imitation of him, ever since I took a fancy to this
kind of elderly declamation, I have been very fond of quoting our
poets; and where I cannot be supplied from them, I translate from the
Greek, that the Latin language may not want any kind of ornament in
this kind of disputation.

But, do you not see how much harm is done by poets? They introduce the
bravest men lamenting over their misfortunes: they soften our minds;
and they are, besides, so entertaining, that we do not only read them,
but get them by heart. Thus the influence of the poets is added to our
want of discipline at home, and our tender and delicate manner of
living, so that between them they have deprived virtue of all its vigor
and energy. Plato, therefore, was right in banishing them from his
commonwealth, where he required the best morals, and the best form of
government. But we, who have all our learning from Greece, read and
learn these works of theirs from our childhood; and look on this as a
liberal and learned education.

XII. But why are we angry with the poets? We may find some
philosophers, those masters of virtue, who have taught that pain was
the greatest of evils. But you, young man, when you said but just now
that it appeared so to you, upon being asked by me what appeared
greater than infamy, gave up that opinion at a word. Suppose I ask
Epicurus the same question. He will answer that a trifling degree of
pain is a greater evil than the greatest infamy; for that there is no
evil in infamy itself, unless attended with pain. What pain, then,
attends Epicurus, when he says that very thing, that pain is the
greatest evil! And yet nothing can be a greater disgrace to a
philosopher than to talk thus. Therefore, you allowed enough when you
admitted that infamy appeared to you to be a greater evil than pain.
And if you abide by this admission, you will see how far pain should be
resisted; and that our inquiry should be not so much whether pain be an
evil, as how the mind may be fortified for resisting it. The Stoics
infer from some petty quibbling arguments that it is no evil, as if the
dispute were about a word, and not about the thing itself. Why do you
impose upon me, Zeno? For when you deny what appears very dreadful to
me to be an evil, I am deceived, and am at a loss to know why that
which appears to me to be a most miserable thing should be no evil. The
answer is, that nothing is an evil but what is base and vicious. You
return to your trifling, for you do not remove what made me uneasy. I
know that pain is not vice--you need not inform me of that: but show me
that it makes no difference to me whether I am in pain or not. It has
never anything to do, say you, with a happy life, for that depends upon
virtue alone; but yet pain is to be avoided. If I ask, why? It is
disagreeable, against nature, hard to bear, woful and afflicting.

XIII. Here are many words to express that by so many different forms
which we call by the single word evil. You are defining pain, instead
of removing it, when you say, it is disagreeable, unnatural, scarcely
possible to be endured or borne, nor are you wrong in saying so: but
the man who vaunts himself in such a manner should not give way in his
conduct, if it be true that nothing is good but what is honest, and
nothing evil but what is disgraceful. This would be wishing, not
proving. This argument is a better one, and has more truth in it--that
all things which Nature abhors are to be looked upon as evil; that
those which she approves of are to be considered as good: for when this
is admitted, and the dispute about words removed, that which they with
reason embrace, and which we call honest, right, becoming, and
sometimes include under the general name of virtue, appears so far
superior to everything else that all other things which are looked upon
as the gifts of fortune, or the good things of the body, seem trifling
and insignificant; and no evil whatever, nor all the collective body of
evils together, appears to be compared to the evil of infamy.
Wherefore, if, as you granted in the beginning, infamy is worse than
pain, pain is certainly nothing; for while it appears to you base and
unmanly to groan, cry out, lament, or faint under pain; while you
cherish notions of probity, dignity, honor, and, keeping your eye on
them, refrain yourself, pain will certainly yield to virtue, and, by
the influence of imagination, will lose its whole force.--For you must
either admit that there is no such thing as virtue, or you must despise
every kind of pain. Will you allow of such a virtue as prudence,
without which no virtue whatever can even be conceived? What, then?
Will that suffer you to labor and take pains to no purpose? Will
temperance permit you to do anything to excess? Will it be possible for
justice to be maintained by one who through the force of pain discovers
secrets, or betrays his confederates, or deserts many duties of life?
Will you act in a manner consistently with courage, and its attendants,
greatness of soul, resolution, patience, and contempt for all worldly
things? Can you hear yourself called a great man when you lie
grovelling, dejected, and deploring your condition with a lamentable
voice; no one would call you even a man while in such a condition. You
must therefore either abandon all pretensions to courage, or else pain
must be put out of the question.

XIV. You know very well that, even though part of your Corinthian
furniture were gone, the remainder might be safe without that; but if
you lose one virtue (though virtue in reality cannot be lost), still
if, I say, you should acknowledge that you were deficient in one, you
would be stripped of all. Can you, then, call yourself a brave man, of
a great soul, endued with patience and steadiness above the frowns of
fortune? or Philoctetes? for I choose to instance him, rather than
yourself, for he certainly was not a brave man, who lay in his bed,
which was watered with his tears,

    Whose groans, bewailings, and whose bitter cries,
    With grief incessant rent the very skies.

I do not deny pain to be pain--for were that the case, in what would
courage consist?--but I say it should be assuaged by patience, if there
be such a thing as patience: if there be no such thing, why do we speak
so in praise of philosophy? or why do we glory in its name? Does pain
annoy us? Let it sting us to the heart: if you are without defensive
armor, bare your throat to it; but if you are secured by Vulcanian
armor, that is to say by resolution, resist it. Should you fail to do
so, that guardian of your honor, your courage, will forsake and leave
you.--By the laws of Lycurgus, and by those which were given to the
Cretans by Jupiter, or which Minos established under the direction of
Jupiter, as the poets say, the youths of the State are trained by the
practice of hunting, running, enduring hunger and thirst, cold and
heat. The boys at Sparta are scourged so at the altars that blood
follows the lash in abundance; nay, sometimes, as I used to hear when I
was there, they are whipped even to death; and yet not one of them was
ever heard to cry out, or so much as groan. What, then? Shall men not
be able to bear what boys do? and shall custom have such great force,
and reason none at all?

XV. There is some difference between labor and pain; they border upon
one another, but still there is a certain difference between them.
Labor is a certain exercise of the mind or body, in some employment or
undertaking of serious trouble and importance; but pain is a sharp
motion in the body, disagreeable to our senses.--Both these feelings,
the Greeks, whose language is more copious than ours, express by the
common name of [Greek: Ponos]: therefore they call industrious men
painstaking, or, rather, fond of labor; we, more conveniently, call
them laborious; for laboring is one thing, and enduring pain another.
You see, O Greece! your barrenness of words, sometimes, though you
think you are always so rich in them. I say, then, that there is a
difference between laboring and being in pain. When Caius Marius had an
operation performed for a swelling in his thigh, he felt pain; when he
headed his troops in a very hot season, he labored. Yet these two
feelings bear some resemblance to one another; for the accustoming
ourselves to labor makes the endurance of pain more easy to us. And it
was because they were influenced by this reason that the founders of
the Grecian form of government provided that the bodies of their youth
should be strengthened by labor, which custom the Spartans transferred
even to their women, who in other cities lived more delicately, keeping
within the walls of their houses; but it was otherwise with the
Spartans.

    The Spartan women, with a manly air,
    Fatigues and dangers with their husbands share;
    They in fantastic sports have no delight,
    Partners with them in exercise and fight.

And in these laborious exercises pain interferes sometimes. They are
thrown down, receive blows, have bad falls, and are bruised, and the
labor itself produces a sort of callousness to pain.

XVI. As to military service (I speak of our own, not of that of the
Spartans, for they used to march slowly to the sound of the flute, and
scarce a word of command was given without an anapæst), you may see, in
the first place, whence the very name of an army (_exercitus_[33]) is
derived; and, secondly, how great the labor is of an army on its march:
then consider that they carry more than a fortnight's provision, and
whatever else they may want; that they carry the burden of the
stakes,[34] for as to shield, sword, or helmet, they look on them as no
more encumbrance than their own limbs, for they say that arms are the
limbs of a soldier, and those, indeed, they carry so commodiously that,
when there is occasion, they throw down their burdens, and use their
arms as readily as their limbs. Why need I mention the exercises of the
legions? And how great the labor is which is undergone in the running,
encounters, shouts! Hence it is that their minds are worked up to make
so light of wounds in action. Take a soldier of equal bravery, but
undisciplined, and he will seem a woman. Why is it that there is this
sensible difference between a raw recruit and a veteran soldier? The
age of the young soldiers is for the most part in their favor; but it
is practice only that enables men to bear labor and despise wounds.
Moreover, we often see, when the wounded are carried off the field, the
raw, untried soldier, though but slightly wounded, cries out most
shamefully; but the more brave, experienced veteran only inquires for
some one to dress his wounds, and says,

    Patroclus, to thy aid I must appeal
    Ere worse ensue, my bleeding wounds to heal;
    The sons of Æsculapius are employ'd,
    No room for me, so many are annoy'd.

XVII. This is certainly Eurypylus himself. What an experienced
man!--While his friend is continually enlarging on his misfortunes, you
may observe that he is so far from weeping that he even assigns a
reason why he should bear his wounds with patience.

    Who at his enemy a stroke directs,
    His sword to light upon himself expects.

Patroclus, I suppose, will lead him off to his chamber to bind up his
wounds, at least if he be a man: but not a word of that; he only
inquires how the battle went:

    Say how the Argives bear themselves in fight?

And yet no words can show the truth as well as those, your deeds and
visible sufferings.

    Peace! and my wounds bind up;

but though Eurypylus could bear these afflictions, Æsopus could not,

    Where Hector's fortune press'd our yielding troops;

and he explains the rest, though in pain. So unbounded is military
glory in a brave man! Shall, then, a veteran soldier be able to behave
in this manner, and shall a wise and learned man not be able? Surely
the latter might be able to bear pain better, and in no small degree
either. At present, however, I am confining myself to what is
engendered by practice and discipline. I am not yet come to speak of
reason and philosophy. You may often hear of old women living without
victuals for three or four days; but take away a wrestler's provisions
but for one day, and he will implore the aid of Jupiter Olympius, the
very God for whom he exercises himself: he will cry out that he cannot
endure it. Great is the force of custom! Sportsmen will continue whole
nights in the snow; they will bear being almost frozen upon the
mountains. From practice boxers will not so much as utter a groan,
however bruised by the cestus. But what do you think of those to whom a
victory in the Olympic games seemed almost on a par with the ancient
consulships of the Roman people? What wounds will the gladiators bear,
who are either barbarians, or the very dregs of mankind! How do they,
who are trained to it, prefer being wounded to basely avoiding it! How
often do they prove that they consider nothing but the giving
satisfaction to their masters or to the people! for when covered with
wounds, they send to their masters to learn their pleasure: if it is
their will, they are ready to lie down and die. What gladiator, of even
moderate reputation, ever gave a sigh? who ever turned pale? who ever
disgraced himself either in the actual combat, or even when about to
die? who that had been defeated ever drew in his neck to avoid the
stroke of death? So great is the force of practice, deliberation, and
custom! Shall this, then, be done by

    A Samnite rascal, worthy of his trade;

and shall a man born to glory have so soft a part in his soul as not to
be able to fortify it by reason and reflection? The sight of the
gladiators' combats is by some looked on as cruel and inhuman, and I do
not know, as it is at present managed, but it may be so; but when the
guilty fought, we might receive by our ears perhaps (but certainly by
our eyes we could not) better training to harden us against pain and
death.

XVIII. I have now said enough about the effects of exercise, custom,
and careful meditation. Proceed we now to consider the force of reason,
unless you have something to reply to what has been said.

_A._ That I should interrupt you! By no means; for your discourse has
brought me over to your opinion. Let the Stoics, then, think it their
business to determine whether pain be an evil or not, while they
endeavor to show by some strained and trifling conclusions, which are
nothing to the purpose, that pain is no evil. My opinion is, that
whatever it is, it is not so great as it appears; and I say, that men
are influenced to a great extent by some false representations and
appearance of it, and that all which is really felt is capable of being
endured. Where shall I begin, then? Shall I superficially go over what
I said before, that my discourse may have a greater scope?

This, then, is agreed upon by all, and not only by learned men, but
also by the unlearned, that it becomes the brave and magnanimous--those
that have patience and a spirit above this world--not to give way to
pain. Nor has there ever been any one who did not commend a man who
bore it in this manner. That, then, which is expected from a brave man,
and is commended when it is seen, it must surely be base in any one to
be afraid of at its approach, or not to bear when it comes. But I would
have you consider whether, as all the right affections of the soul are
classed under the name of virtues, the truth is that this is not
properly the name of them all, but that they all have their name from
that leading virtue which is superior to all the rest: for the name
"virtue" comes from _vir_, a man, and courage is the peculiar
distinction of a man: and this virtue has two principal duties, to
despise death and pain. We must, then, exert these, if we would be men
of virtue, or, rather, if we would be men, because virtue (_virtus_)
takes its very name from _vir_, man.

XIX. You may inquire, perhaps, how? And such an inquiry is not amiss,
for philosophy is ready with her assistance. Epicurus offers himself to
you, a man far from a bad--or, I should rather say, a very good man: he
advises no more than he knows. "Despise pain," says he. Who is it saith
this? Is it the same man who calls pain the greatest of all evils? It
is not, indeed, very consistent in him. Let us hear what he says: "If
the pain is excessive, it must needs be short." I must have that over
again, for I do not apprehend what you mean exactly by "excessive" or
"short." That is excessive than which nothing can be greater; that is
short than which nothing is shorter. I do not regard the greatness of
any pain from which, by reason of the shortness of its continuance, I
shall be delivered almost before it reaches me. But if the pain be as
great as that of Philoctetes, it will appear great indeed to me, but
yet not the greatest that I am capable of bearing; for the pain is
confined to my foot. But my eye may pain me, I may have a pain in the
head, or sides, or lungs, or in every part of me. It is far, then, from
being excessive. Therefore, says he, pain of a long continuance has
more pleasure in it than uneasiness. Now, I cannot bring myself to say
so great a man talks nonsense; but I imagine he is laughing at us. My
opinion is that the greatest pain (I say the greatest, though it may be
ten atoms less than another) is not therefore short, because acute. I
could name to you a great many good men who have been tormented many
years with the acutest pains of the gout. But this cautious man doth
not determine the measure of that greatness or of duration, so as to
enable us to know what he calls excessive with regard to pain, or short
with respect to its continuance. Let us pass him by, then, as one who
says just nothing at all; and let us force him to acknowledge,
notwithstanding he might behave himself somewhat boldly under his colic
and his strangury, that no remedy against pain can be had from him who
looks on pain as the greatest of all evils. We must apply, then, for
relief elsewhere, and nowhere better (if we seek for what is most
consistent with itself) than to those who place the chief good in
honesty, and the greatest evil in infamy. You dare not so much as
groan, or discover the least uneasiness in their company, for virtue
itself speaks to you through them.

XX. Will you, when you may observe children at Lacedæmon, and young men
at Olympia, and barbarians in the amphitheatre, receive the severest
wounds, and bear them without once opening their mouths--will you, I
say, if any pain should by chance attack you, cry out like a woman?
Will you not rather bear it with resolution and constancy? and not cry,
It is intolerable; nature cannot bear it! I hear what you say: Boys
bear this because they are led thereto by glory; some bear it through
shame, many through fear, and yet are we afraid that nature cannot bear
what is borne by many, and in such different circumstances? Nature not
only bears it, but challenges it, for there is nothing with her
preferable, nothing which she desires more than credit, and reputation,
and praise, and honor, and glory. I choose here to describe this one
thing under many names, and I have used many that you may have the
clearer idea of it; for what I mean to say is, that whatever is
desirable of itself, proceeding from virtue, or placed in virtue, and
commendable on its own account (which I would rather agree to call the
only good than deny it to be the chief good) is what men should prefer
above all things. And as we declare this to be the case with respect to
honesty, so we speak in the contrary manner of infamy; nothing is so
odious, so detestable, nothing so unworthy of a man. And if you are
thoroughly convinced of this (for, at the beginning of this discourse,
you allowed that there appeared to you more evil in infamy than in
pain), it follows that you ought to have the command over yourself,
though I scarcely know how this expression may seem an accurate one,
which appears to represent man as made up of two natures, so that one
should be in command and the other be subject to it.

XXI. Yet this division does not proceed from ignorance; for the soul
admits of a twofold division, one of which partakes of reason, the
other is without it. When, therefore, we are ordered to give a law to
ourselves, the meaning is, that reason should restrain our rashness.
There is in the soul of every man something naturally soft, low,
enervated in a manner, and languid. Were there nothing besides this,
men would be the greatest of monsters; but there is present to every
man reason, which presides over and gives laws to all; which, by
improving itself, and making continual advances, becomes perfect
virtue. It behooves a man, then, to take care that reason shall have
the command over that part which is bound to practise obedience. In
what manner? you will say. Why, as a master has over his slave, a
general over his army, a father over his son. If that part of the soul
which I have called soft behaves disgracefully, if it gives itself up
to lamentations and womanish tears, then let it be restrained, and
committed to the care of friends and relations, for we often see those
persons brought to order by shame whom no reasons can influence.
Therefore, we should confine those feelings, like our servants, in safe
custody, and almost with chains. But those who have more resolution,
and yet are not utterly immovable, we should encourage with our
exhortations, as we would good soldiers, to recollect themselves, and
maintain their honor. That wisest man of all Greece, in the Niptræ,
does not lament too much over his wounds, or, rather, he is moderate in
his grief:

    Move slow, my friends; your hasty speed refrain,
    Lest by your motion you increase my pain.

Pacuvius is better in this than Sophocles, for in the one Ulysses
bemoans his wounds too vehemently; for the very people who carried him
after he was wounded, though his grief was moderate, yet, considering
the dignity of the man, did not scruple to say,

    And thou, Ulysses, long to war inured,
    Thy wounds, though great, too feebly hast endured.

The wise poet understood that custom was no contemptible instructor how
to bear pain. But the same hero complains with more decency, though in
great pain:

    Assist, support me, never leave me so;
    Unbind my wounds, oh! execrable woe!

He begins to give way, but instantly checks himself:

    Away! begone! but cover first the sore;
    For your rude hands but make my pains the more.

Do you observe how he constrains himself? not that his bodily pains
were less, but because he checks the anguish of his mind. Therefore, in
the conclusion of the Niptræ, he blames others, even when he himself is
dying:

    Complaints of fortune may become the man,
    None but a woman will thus weeping stand.

And so that soft place in his soul obeys his reason, just as an abashed
soldier does his stern commander.

XXII. The man, then, in whom absolute wisdom exists (such a man,
indeed, we have never as yet seen, but the philosophers have described
in their writings what sort of man he will be, if he should exist);
such a man, or at least that perfect and absolute reason which exists
in him, will have the same authority over the inferior part as a good
parent has over his dutiful children: he will bring it to obey his nod
without any trouble or difficulty. He will rouse himself, prepare and
arm himself, to oppose pain as he would an enemy. If you inquire what
arms he will provide himself with, they will be contention,
encouragement, discourse with himself. He will say thus to himself:
Take care that you are guilty of nothing base, languid, or unmanly. He
will turn over in his mind all the different kinds of honor. Zeno of
Elea will occur to him, who suffered everything rather than betray his
confederates in the design of putting an end to the tyranny. He will
reflect on Anaxarchus, the pupil of Democritus, who, having fallen into
the hands of Nicocreon, King of Cyprus, without the least entreaty for
mercy or refusal, submitted to every kind of torture. Calanus the
Indian will occur to him, an ignorant man and a barbarian, born at the
foot of Mount Caucasus, who committed himself to the flames by his own
free, voluntary act. But we, if we have the toothache, or a pain in the
foot, or if the body be anyways affected, cannot bear it. For our
sentiments of pain as well as pleasure are so trifling and effeminate,
we are so enervated and relaxed by luxuries, that we cannot bear the
sting of a bee without crying out. But Caius Marius, a plain
countryman, but of a manly soul, when he had an operation performed on
him, as I mentioned above, at first refused to be tied down; and he is
the first instance of any one's having had an operation performed on
him without being tied down. Why, then, did others bear it afterward?
Why, from the force of example. You see, then, that pain exists more in
opinion than in nature; and yet the same Marius gave a proof that there
is something very sharp in pain for he would not submit to have the
other thigh cut. So that he bore his pain with resolution as a man;
but, like a reasonable person, he was not willing to undergo any
greater pain without some necessary reason. The whole, then, consists
in this--that you should have command over yourself. I have already
told you what kind of command this is; and by considering what is most
consistent with patience, fortitude, and greatness of soul, a man not
only restrains himself, but, somehow or other, mitigates even pain
itself.

XXIII. Even as in a battle the dastardly and timorous soldier throws
away his shield on the first appearance of an enemy, and runs as fast
as he can, and on that account loses his life sometimes, though he has
never received even one wound, when he who stands his ground has
nothing of the sort happen to him, so they who cannot bear the
appearance of pain throw themselves away, and give themselves up to
affliction and dismay. But they that oppose it, often come off more
than a match for it. For the body has a certain resemblance to the
soul: as burdens are more easily borne the more the body is exerted,
while they crush us if we give way, so the soul by exerting itself
resists the whole weight that would oppress it; but if it yields, it is
so pressed that it cannot support itself. And if we consider things
truly, the soul should exert itself in every pursuit, for that is the
only security for its doing its duty. But this should be principally
regarded in pain, that we must not do anything timidly, or dastardly,
or basely, or slavishly, or effeminately, and, above all things, we
must dismiss and avoid that Philoctetean sort of outcry. A man is
allowed sometimes to groan, but yet seldom; but it is not permissible
even in a woman to howl; for such a noise as this is forbidden, by the
twelve tables, to be used even at funerals. Nor does a wise or brave
man ever groan, unless when he exerts himself to give his resolution
greater force, as they who run in the stadium make as much noise as
they can. The wrestlers, too, do the same when they are training; and
the boxers, when they aim a blow with the cestus at their adversary,
give a groan, not because they are in pain, or from a sinking of their
spirits, but because their whole body is put upon the stretch by the
throwing-out of these groans, and the blow comes the stronger.

XXIV. What! they who would speak louder than ordinary are they
satisfied with working their jaws, sides, or tongue or stretching the
common organs of speech and utterance? The whole body and every muscle
is at full stretch if I may be allowed the expression; every nerve is
exerted to assist their voice. I have actually seen the knees of Marcus
Antonius touch the ground when he was speaking with vehemence for
himself, with relation to the Varian law. For, as the engines you throw
stones or darts with throw them out with the greater force the more
they are strained and drawn back; so it is in speaking, running, or
boxing--the more people strain themselves, the greater their force.
Since, therefore, this exertion has so much influence--if in a moment
of pain groans help to strengthen the mind, let us use them; but if
they be groans of lamentation, if they be the expression of weakness or
abjectness, or unmanly weeping, then I should scarcely call him a man
who yielded to them. For even supposing that such groaning could give
any ease, it still should be considered whether it were consistent with
a brave and resolute man. But if it does not ease our pain, why should
we debase ourselves to no purpose? For what is more unbecoming in a man
than to cry like a woman? But this precept which is laid down with
respect to pain is not confined to it. We should apply this exertion of
the soul to everything else. Is anger inflamed? is lust excited? we
must have recourse to the same citadel, and apply to the same arms. But
since it is pain which we are at present discussing, we will let the
other subjects alone. To bear pain, then, sedately and calmly, it is of
great use to consider with all our soul, as the saying is, how noble it
is to do so, for we are naturally desirous (as I said before, but it
cannot be too often repeated) and very much inclined to what is
honorable, of which, if we discover but the least glimpse, there is
nothing which we are not prepared to undergo and suffer to attain it.
From this impulse of our minds, this desire for genuine glory and
honorable conduct, it is that such dangers are supported in war, and
that brave men are not sensible of their wounds in action, or, if they
are sensible of them, prefer death to the departing but the least step
from their honor. The Decii saw the shining swords of their enemies
when they were rushing into the battle. But the honorable character and
the glory of the death which they were seeking made all fear of death
of little weight. Do you imagine that Epaminondas groaned when he
perceived that his life was flowing out with his blood? No; for he left
his country triumphing over the Lacedæmonians, whereas he had found it
in subjection to them. These are the comforts, these are the things
that assuage the greatest pain.

XXV. You may ask, How the case is in peace? What is to be done at home?
How we are to behave in bed? You bring me back to the philosophers, who
seldom go to war. Among these, Dionysius of Heraclea, a man certainly
of no resolution, having learned fortitude of Zeno, quitted it on being
in pain; for, being tormented with a pain in his kidneys, in bewailing
himself he cried out that those things were false which he had formerly
conceived of pain. And when his fellow-disciple, Cleanthes, asked him
why he had changed his opinion, he answered, "That the case of any man
who had applied so much time to philosophy, and yet was unable to bear
pain, might be a sufficient proof that pain is an evil; that he himself
had spent many years at philosophy, and yet could not bear pain: it
followed, therefore, that pain was an evil." It is reported that
Cleanthes on that struck his foot on the ground, and repeated a verse
out of the Epigonæ:

    Amphiaraus, hear'st thou this below?

He meant Zeno: he was sorry the other had degenerated from him.

But it was not so with our friend Posidonius, whom I have often seen
myself; and I will tell you what Pompey used to say of him: that when
he came to Rhodes, after his departure from Syria, he had a great
desire to hear Posidonius, but was informed that he was very ill of a
severe fit of the gout; yet he had great inclination to pay a visit to
so famous a philosopher. Accordingly, when he had seen him, and paid
his compliments, and had spoken with great respect of him, he said he
was very sorry that he could not hear him lecture. "But indeed you
may," replied the other, "nor will I suffer any bodily pain to occasion
so great a man to visit me in vain." On this Pompey relates that, as he
lay on his bed, he disputed with great dignity and fluency on this very
subject: that nothing was good but what was honest; and that in his
paroxysms he would often say, "Pain, it is to no purpose;
notwithstanding you are troublesome, I will never acknowledge you an
evil." And in general all celebrated and notorious afflictions become
endurable by disregarding them.

XXVI. Do we not observe that where those exercises called gymnastic are
in esteem, those who enter the lists never concern themselves about
dangers? that where the praise of riding and hunting is highly
esteemed, they who practice these arts decline no pain? What shall I
say of our own ambitious pursuits or desire of honors? What fire have
not candidates run through to gain a single vote? Therefore Africanus
had always in his hands Xenophon, the pupil of Socrates, being
particularly pleased with his saying, that the same labors were not
equally heavy to the general and to the common man, because the honor
itself made the labor lighter to the general. But yet, so it happens,
that even with the illiterate vulgar an idea of honor is of great
influence, though they cannot understand what it is. They are led by
report and common opinion to look on that as honorable which has the
general voice. Not that I would have you, should the multitude be ever
so fond of you, rely on their judgment, nor approve of everything which
they think right: you must use your own judgment. If you are satisfied
with yourself when you have approved of what is right, you will not
only have the mastery over yourself (which I recommended to you just
now), but over everybody, and everything. Lay this down, then, as a
rule, that a great capacity, and lofty elevation of soul, which
distinguishes itself most by despising and looking down with contempt
on pain, is the most excellent of all things, and the more so if it
does not depend on the people and does not aim at applause, but derives
its satisfaction from itself. Besides, to me, indeed, everything seems
the more commendable the less the people are courted, and the fewer
eyes there are to see it. Not that you should avoid the public, for
every generous action loves the public view; yet no theatre for virtue
is equal to a consciousness of it.

XXVII. And let this be principally considered: that this bearing of
pain, which I have often said is to be strengthened by an exertion of
the soul, should be the same in everything. For you meet with many who,
through a desire of victory, or for glory, or to maintain their rights,
or their liberty, have boldly received wounds, and borne themselves up
under them; and yet those very same persons, by relaxing that
intenseness of their minds, were unequal to bearing the pain of a
disease; for they did not support themselves under their former
sufferings by reason or philosophy, but by inclination and glory.
Therefore some barbarians and savage people are able to fight very
stoutly with the sword, but cannot bear sickness like men; but the
Grecians, men of no great courage, but as wise as human nature will
admit of, cannot look an enemy in the face, yet the same will bear to
be visited with sickness tolerably, and with a sufficiently manly
spirit; and the Cimbrians and Celtiberians are very alert in battle,
but bemoan themselves in sickness. For nothing can be consistent which
has not reason for its foundation. But when you see those who are led
by inclination or opinion, not retarded by pain in their pursuits, nor
hindered by it from succeeding in them, you may conclude, either that
pain is no evil, or that, notwithstanding you may choose to call an
evil whatever is disagreeable and contrary to nature, yet it is so very
trifling an evil that it may so effectually be got the better of by
virtue as quite to disappear. And I would have you think of this night
and day; for this argument will spread itself, and take up more room
some time or other, and not be confined to pain alone; for if the
motives to all our actions are to avoid disgrace and acquire honor, we
may not only despise the stings of pain, but the storms of fortune,
especially if we have recourse to that retreat which was pointed out in
our yesterday's discussion; for, as if some God had advised a man who
was pursued by pirates to throw himself overboard, saying, "There is
something at hand to receive you; either a dolphin will take you up, as
it did Arion of Methymna; or those horses sent by Neptune to Pelops
(who are said to have carried chariots so rapidly as to be borne up by
the waves) will receive you, and convey you wherever you please. Cast
away all fear." So, though your pains be ever so sharp and
disagreeable, if the case is not such that it is worth your while to
endure them, you see whither you may betake yourself. I think this will
do for the present. But perhaps you still abide by your opinion.

_A._ Not in the least, indeed; and I hope I am freed by these two days'
discourses from the fear of two things that I greatly dreaded.

_M._ To-morrow, then, for rhetoric, as we were saying. But I see we
must not drop our philosophy.

_A._ No, indeed; we will have the one in the forenoon, and this at the
usual time.

_M._ It shall be so, and I will comply with your very laudable
inclinations.

       *       *       *       *       *




BOOK III.

ON GRIEF OF MIND.


I. What reason shall I assign, O Brutus, why, as we consist of mind and
body, the art of curing and preserving the body should be so much
sought after, and the invention of it, as being so useful, should be
ascribed to the immortal Gods; but the medicine of the mind should not
have been so much the object of inquiry while it was unknown, nor so
much attended to and cultivated after its discovery, nor so well
received or approved of by some, and accounted actually disagreeable,
and looked upon with an envious eye by many? Is it because we, by means
of the mind, judge of the pains and disorders of the body, but do not,
by means of the body, arrive at any perception of the disorders of the
mind? Hence it comes that the mind only judges of itself when that very
faculty by which it is judged is in a bad state. Had nature given us
faculties for discerning and viewing herself, and could we go through
life by keeping our eye on her--our best guide--there would be no
reason certainly why any one should be in want of philosophy or
learning; but, as it is, she has furnished us only with some feeble
rays of light, which we immediately extinguish so completely by evil
habits and erroneous opinions that the light of nature is nowhere
visible. The seeds of virtues are natural to our constitutions, and,
were they suffered to come to maturity, would naturally conduct us to a
happy life; but now, as soon as we are born and received into the
world, we are instantly familiarized with all kinds of depravity and
perversity of opinions; so that we may be said almost to suck in error
with our nurse's milk. When we return to our parents, and are put into
the hands of tutors and governors, we are imbued with so many errors
that truth gives place to falsehood, and nature herself to established
opinion.

II. To these we may add the poets; who, on account of the appearance
they exhibit of learning and wisdom, are heard, read, and got by heart,
and make a deep impression on our minds. But when to these are added
the people, who are, as it were, one great body of instructors, and the
multitude, who declare unanimously for what is wrong, then are we
altogether overwhelmed with bad opinions, and revolt entirely from
nature; so that they seem to deprive us of our best guide who have
decided that there is nothing better for man, nothing more worthy of
being desired by him, nothing more excellent, than honors and commands,
and a high reputation with the people; which indeed every excellent man
aims at; but while he pursues that only true honor which nature has in
view above all other objects, he finds himself busied in arrant
trifles, and in pursuit of no conspicuous form of virtue, but only some
shadowy representation of glory. For glory is a real and express
substance, not a mere shadow. It consists in the united praise of good
men, the free voice of those who form a true judgment of pre-eminent
virtue; it is, as it were, the very echo of virtue; and being generally
the attendant on laudable actions, should not be slighted by good men.
But popular fame, which would pretend to imitate it, is hasty and
inconsiderate, and generally commends wicked and immoral actions, and
throws discredit upon the appearance and beauty of honesty by assuming
a resemblance of it. And it is owing to their not being able to
discover the difference between them that some men ignorant of real
excellence, and in what it consists, have been the destruction of their
country and of themselves. And thus the best men have erred, not so
much in their intentions as by a mistaken conduct. What? is no cure to
be attempted to be applied to those who are carried away by the love of
money, or the lust of pleasures, by which they are rendered little
short of madmen, which is the case of all weak people? or is it because
the disorders of the mind are less dangerous than those of the body? or
because the body will admit of a cure, while there is no medicine
whatever for the mind?

III. But there are more disorders of the mind than of the body, and
they are of a more dangerous nature; for these very disorders are the
more offensive because they belong to the mind and disturb it; and the
mind, when disordered, is, as Ennius says, in a constant error: it can
neither bear nor endure anything, and is under the perpetual influence
of desires. Now, what disorders can be worse to the body than these two
distempers of the mind (for I overlook others), weakness and desire?
But how, indeed, can it be maintained that the mind cannot prescribe
for itself, when she it is who has invented the medicines for the body,
when, with regard to bodily cures, constitution and nature have a great
share, nor do all who suffer themselves to be cured find that effect
instantly; but those minds which are disposed to be cured, and submit
to the precepts of the wise, may undoubtedly recover a healthy state?
Philosophy is certainly the medicine of the soul, whose assistance we
do not seek from abroad, as in bodily disorders, but we ourselves are
bound to exert our utmost energy and power in order to effect our cure.
But as to philosophy in general, I have, I think, in my Hortensius,
sufficiently spoken of the credit and attention which it deserves:
since that, indeed, I have been continually either disputing or writing
on its most material branches; and I have laid down in these books all
the discussions which took place between myself and my particular
friends at my Tusculan villa. But as I have spoken in the two former of
pain and death, this book shall be devoted to the account of the third
day of our disputations.

We came down into the Academy when the day was already declining
towards afternoon, and I asked one of those who were present to propose
a subject for us to discourse on; and then the business was carried on
in this manner:

IV. _A._ My opinion is, that a wise man is subject to grief.

_M._ What, and to the other perturbations of mind, as fears, lusts,
anger? For these are pretty much like what the Greeks call [Greek:
pathê]. I might call them diseases, and that would be a literal
translation, but it is not agreeable to our way of speaking. For envy,
delight, and pleasure are all called by the Greeks diseases, being
affections of the mind not in subordination to reason; but we, I think,
are right in calling the same motions of a disturbed soul
perturbations, and in very seldom using the term diseases; though,
perhaps, it appears otherwise to you.

_A._ I am of your opinion.

_M._ And do you think a wise man subject to these?

_A._ Entirely, I think.

_M._ Then that boasted wisdom is but of small account, if it differs so
little from madness?

_A._ What? does every commotion of the mind seem to you to be madness?

_M._ Not to me only; but I apprehend, though I have often been
surprised at it, that it appeared so to our ancestors many ages before
Socrates; from whom is derived all that philosophy which relates to
life and morals.

_A._ How so?

_M._ Because the name madness[35] implies a sickness of the mind and
disease; that is to say, an unsoundness and an unhealthiness of mind,
which they call madness. But the philosophers call all perturbations of
the soul diseases, and their opinion is that no fool is ever free from
these; but all that are diseased are unsound; and the minds of all
fools are diseased; therefore all fools are mad. For they held that
soundness of the mind depends on a certain tranquillity and steadiness;
and a mind which was destitute of these qualities they called insane,
because soundness was inconsistent with a perturbed mind just as much
as with a disordered body.

V. Nor were they less ingenious in calling the state of the soul devoid
of the light of the mind, "a being out of one's mind," "a being beside
one's self." From whence we may understand that they who gave these
names to things were of the same opinion with Socrates, that all silly
people were unsound, which the Stoics have carefully preserved as being
derived from him; for whatever mind is distempered (and, as I just now
said, the philosophers call all perturbed motions of the mind
distempers) is no more sound than a body is when in a fit of sickness.
Hence it is that wisdom is the soundness of the mind, folly a sort of
unsoundness, which is insanity, or a being out of one's mind: and these
are much better expressed by the Latin words than the Greek, which you
will find the case also in many other topics. But we will discuss that
point elsewhere: let us now attend to our present subject. The very
meaning of the word describes the whole thing about which we are
inquiring, both as to its substance and character. For we must
necessarily understand by "sound" those whose minds are under no
perturbation from any motion as if it were a disease. They who are
differently affected we must necessarily call "unsound." So that
nothing is better than what is usual in Latin, to say that they who are
run away with by their lust or anger have quitted the command over
themselves; though anger includes lust, for anger is defined to be the
lust of revenge. They, then, who are said not to be masters of
themselves, are said to be so because they are not under the government
of reason, to which is assigned by nature the power over the whole
soul. Why the Greeks should call this mania, I do not easily apprehend;
but we define it much better than they, for we distinguish this madness
(_insania_), which, being allied to folly, is more extensive, from what
we call _furor_, or raving. The Greeks, indeed, would do so too, but
they have no one word that will express it: what we call _furor_, they
call [Greek: melancholia], as if the reason were affected only by a
black bile, and not disturbed as often by a violent rage, or fear, or
grief. Thus we say Athamas, Alcmæon, Ajax, and Orestes were raving
(_furere_); because a person affected in this manner was not allowed by
the Twelve Tables to have the management of his own affairs; therefore
the words are not, if he is mad (_insanus_), but if he begins to be
raving (_furiosus_). For they looked upon madness to be an unsettled
humor that proceeded from not being of sound mind; yet such a person
might perform his ordinary duties, and discharge the usual and
customary requirements of life: but they considered one that was raving
as afflicted with a total blindness of the mind, which, notwithstanding
it is allowed to be greater than madness, is nevertheless of such a
nature that a wise man may be subject to raving (_furor_), but cannot
possibly be afflicted by insanity (_insania_). But this is another
question: let us now return to our original subject.

VI. I think you said that it was your opinion that a wise man was
liable to grief.

_A._ And so, indeed, I think.

_M._ It is natural enough to think so, for we are not the offspring of
flints; but we have by nature something soft and tender in our souls,
which may be put into a violent motion by grief, as by a storm; nor did
that Crantor, who was one of the most distinguished men that our
Academy has ever produced, say this amiss: "I am by no means of their
opinion who talk so much in praise of I know not what insensibility,
which neither can exist, nor ought to exist. "I would choose," says he,
"never to be ill; but should I be so, still I should choose to retain
my sensation, whether there was to be an amputation or any other
separation of anything from my body. For that insensibility cannot be
but at the expense of some unnatural ferocity of mind, or stupor of
body." But let us consider whether to talk in this manner be not
allowing that we are weak, and yielding to our softness.
Notwithstanding, let us be hardy enough, not only to lop off every arm
of our miseries, but even to pluck up every fibre of their roots. Yet
still something, perhaps, may be left behind, so deep does folly strike
its roots: but whatever may be left it will be no more than is
necessary. But let us be persuaded of this, that unless the mind be in
a sound state, which philosophy alone can effect, there can be no end
of our miseries. Wherefore, as we began, let us submit ourselves to it
for a cure; we shall be cured if we choose to be. I shall advance
something further. I shall not treat of grief alone, though that indeed
is the principal thing; but, as I originally proposed, of every
perturbation of the mind, as I termed it; disorder, as the Greeks call
it: and first, with your leave, I shall treat it in the manner of the
Stoics, whose method is to reduce their arguments into a very small
space; afterward I shall enlarge more in my own way.

VII. A man of courage is also full of faith. I do not use the word
confident, because, owing to an erroneous custom of speaking, that word
has come to be used in a bad sense, though it is derived from
confiding, which is commendable. But he who is full of faith is
certainly under no fear; for there is an inconsistency between faith
and fear. Now, whoever is subject to grief is subject to fear; for
whatever things we grieve at when present we dread when hanging over us
and approaching. Thus it comes about that grief is inconsistent with
courage: it is very probable, therefore, that whoever is subject to
grief is also liable to fear, and to a broken kind of spirits and
sinking. Now, whenever these befall a man, he is in a servile state,
and must own that he is overpowered; for whoever admits these feelings,
must admit timidity and cowardice. But these cannot enter into the mind
of a man of courage; neither, therefore, can grief: but the man of
courage is the only wise man; therefore grief cannot befall the wise
man. It is, besides, necessary that whoever is brave should be a man of
great soul; that whoever is a man of a great soul should be invincible;
whoever is invincible looks down with contempt on all things here, and
considers them, beneath him. But no one can despise those things on
account of which he may be affected with grief; from whence it follows
that a wise man is never affected with grief: for all wise men are
brave; therefore a wise man is not subject to grief. And as the eye,
when disordered, is not in a good condition for performing its office
properly; and as the other parts, and the whole body itself, when
unsettled, cannot perform their office and business; so the mind, when
disordered, is but ill-fitted to perform its duty. The office of the
mind is to use its reason well; but the mind of a wise man is always in
condition to make the best use of his reason, and therefore is never
out of order. But grief is a disorder of the mind; therefore a wise man
will be always free from it.

VIII. And from these considerations we may get at a very probable
definition of the temperate man, whom the Greeks call [Greek: sôphrôn]:
and they call that virtue [Greek: sôphrosynên], which I at one time
call temperance, at another time moderation, and sometimes even
modesty; but I do not know whether that virtue may not be properly
called frugality, which has a more confined meaning with the Greeks;
for they call frugal men [Greek: chrêsimous], which implies only that
they are useful; but our name has a more extensive meaning: for all
abstinence, all innocency (which the Greeks have no ordinary name for,
though they might use the word [Greek: ablabeia], for innocency is that
disposition of mind which would offend no one) and several other
virtues are comprehended under frugality; but if this quality were of
less importance, and confined in as small a compass as some imagine,
the surname of Piso[36] would not have been in so great esteem. But as
we allow him not the name of a frugal man (_frugi_), who either quits
his post through fear, which is cowardice; or who reserves to his own
use what was privately committed to his keeping, which is injustice; or
who fails in his military undertakings through rashness, which is
folly--for that reason the word frugality takes in these three virtues
of fortitude, justice, and prudence, though it is indeed common to all
virtues, for they are all connected and knit together. Let us allow,
then, frugality itself to be another and fourth virtue; for its
peculiar property seems to be, to govern and appease all tendencies to
too eager a desire after anything, to restrain lust, and to preserve a
decent steadiness in everything. The vice in contrast to this is called
prodigality (_nequitia_). Frugality, I imagine, is derived from the
word _fruge_, the best thing which the earth produces; _nequitia_ is
derived (though this is perhaps rather more strained; still, let us try
it; we shall only be thought to have been trifling if there is nothing
in what we say) from the fact of everything being to no purpose
(_nequicquam_) in such a man; from which circumstance he is called also
_Nihil_, nothing. Whoever is frugal, then, or, if it is more agreeable
to you, whoever is moderate and temperate, such a one must of course be
consistent; whoever is consistent, must be quiet; the quiet man must be
free from all perturbation, therefore from grief likewise: and these
are the properties of a wise man; therefore a wise man must be free
from grief.

IX. So that Dionysius of Heraclea is right when, upon this complaint of
Achilles in Homer,

    Well hast thou spoke, but at the tyrant's name
    My rage rekindles, and my soul's in flame:
    'Tis just resentment, and becomes the brave,
    Disgraced, dishonor'd like the vilest slave[37]--

he reasons thus: Is the hand as it should be, when it is affected with
a swelling? or is it possible for any other member of the body, when
swollen or enlarged, to be in any other than a disordered state? Must
not the mind, then, when it is puffed up, or distended, be out of
order? But the mind of a wise man is always free from every kind of
disorder: it never swells, never is puffed up; but the mind when in
anger is in a different state. A wise man, therefore, is never angry;
for when he is angry, he lusts after something; for whoever is angry
naturally has a longing desire to give all the pain he can to the
person who he thinks has injured him; and whoever has this earnest
desire must necessarily be much pleased with the accomplishment of his
wishes; hence he is delighted with his neighbor's misery; and as a wise
man is not capable of such feelings as these, he is therefore not
capable of anger. But should a wise man be subject to grief, he may
likewise be subject to anger; for as he is free from anger, he must
likewise be free from grief. Again, could a wise man be subject to
grief, he might also be liable to pity, or even might be open to a
disposition towards envy (_invidentia_); I do not say to envy
(_invidia_), for that can only exist by the very act of envying: but we
may fairly form the word _invidentia_ from _invidendo_, and so avoid
the doubtful name _invidia;_ for this word is probably derived from
_in_ and _video_, looking too closely into another's fortune; as it is
said in the Melanippus,

    Who envies me the flower of my children?

where the Latin is _invidit florem._ It may appear not good Latin, but
it is very well put by Accius; for as _video_ governs an accusative
case, so it is more correct to say _invideo florem_ than _flori._ We
are debarred from saying so by common usage. The poet stood in his own
right, and expressed himself with more freedom.

X. Therefore compassion and envy are consistent in the same man; for
whoever is uneasy at any one's adversity is also uneasy at another's
prosperity: as Theophrastus, while he laments the death of his
companion Callisthenes, is at the same time disturbed at the success of
Alexander; and therefore he says that Callisthenes met with man of the
greatest power and good fortune, but one who did not know how to make
use of his good fortune. And as pity is an uneasiness which arises from
the misfortunes of another, so envy is an uneasiness that proceeds from
the good success of another: therefore whoever is capable of pity is
capable of envy. But a wise man is incapable of envy, and consequently
incapable of pity. But were a wise man used to grieve, to pity also
would be familiar to him; therefore to grieve is a feeling which cannot
affect a wise man. Now, though these reasonings of the Stoics, and
their conclusions, are rather strained and distorted, and ought to be
expressed in a less stringent and narrow manner, yet great stress is to
be laid on the opinions of those men who have a peculiarly bold and
manly turn of thought and sentiment. For our friends the Peripatetics,
notwithstanding all their erudition, gravity, and fluency of language,
do not satisfy me about the moderation of these disorders and diseases
of the soul which they insist upon; for every evil, though moderate, is
in its nature great. But our object is to make out that the wise man is
free from all evil; for as the body is unsound if it is ever so
slightly affected, so the mind under any moderate disorder loses its
soundness; therefore the Romans have, with their usual accuracy of
expression, called trouble, and anguish, and vexation, on account of
the analogy between a troubled mind and a diseased body, disorders. The
Greeks call all perturbation of mind by pretty nearly the same name;
for they name every turbid motion of the soul [Greek: pathos], that is
to say, a distemper. But we have given them a more proper name; for a
disorder of the mind is very like a disease of the body. But lust does
not resemble sickness; neither does immoderate joy, which is an elated
and exulting pleasure of the mind. Fear, too, is not very like a
distemper, though it is akin to grief of mind, but properly, as is also
the case with sickness of the body, so too sickness of mind has no name
separated from pain. And therefore I must explain the origin of this
pain, that is to say, the cause that occasions this grief in the mind,
as if it were a sickness of the body. For as physicians think they have
found out the cure when they have discovered the cause of the
distemper, so we shall discover the method of curing melancholy when
the cause of it is found out.

XI. The whole cause, then, is in opinion; and this observation applies
not to this grief alone, but to every other disorder of the mind, which
are of four sorts, but consisting of many parts. For as every disorder
or perturbation is a motion of the mind, either devoid of reason, or in
despite of reason, or in disobedience to reason, and as that motion is
excited by an opinion of either good or evil; these four perturbations
are divided equally into two parts: for two of them proceed from an
opinion of good, one of which is an exulting pleasure, that is to say,
a joy elated beyond measure, arising from an opinion of some present
great good; the other is a desire which may fairly be called even a
lust, and is an immoderate inclination after some conceived great good
without any obedience to reason. Therefore these two kinds, the
exulting pleasure and the lust, have their rise from an opinion of
good, as the other two, fear and grief, have from an opinion of evil.
For fear is an opinion of some great evil impending over us, and grief
is an opinion of some great evil present; and, indeed, it is a freshly
conceived opinion of an evil so great that to grieve at it seems right:
it is of that kind that he who is uneasy at it thinks he has good
reason to be so. Now we should exert, our utmost efforts to oppose
these perturbations--which are, as it were, so many furies let loose
upon us and urged on by folly--if we are desirous to pass this share of
life that is allotted to us with ease and satisfaction. But of the
other feelings I shall speak elsewhere: our business at present is to
drive away grief if we can, for that shall be the object of our present
discussion, since you have said that it was your opinion that a wise
man might be subject to grief, which I can by no means allow of; for it
is a frightful, miserable, and detestable thing, which we should fly
from with our utmost efforts--with all our sails and oars, as I may
say.

XII. That descendant of Tantalus, how does he appear to you--he who
sprung from Pelops, who formerly stole Hippodamia from her
father-in-law, King Oenomaus, and married her by force?--he who was
descended from Jupiter himself, how broken-hearted and dispirited does
he not seem!

    Stand off, my friends, nor come within my shade,
    That no pollutions your sound hearts pervade,
    So foul a stain my body doth partake.

Will you condemn yourself, Thyestes, and deprive yourself of life, on
account of the greatness of another's crime? What do you think of that
son of Phoebus? Do you not look upon him as unworthy of his own
father's light?

    Hollow his eyes, his body worn away,
    His furrow'd cheeks his frequent tears betray;
    His beard neglected, and his hoary hairs
    Rough and uncomb'd, bespeak his bitter cares.

O foolish Æetes! these are evils which you yourself have been the cause
of, and are not occasioned by any accidents with which chance has
visited you; and you behaved as you did, even after you had been inured
to your distress, and after the first swelling of the mind had
subsided!--whereas grief consists (as I shall show) in the notion of
some recent evil--but your grief, it is very plain, proceeded from the
loss of your kingdom, not of your daughter, for you hated her, and
perhaps with reason, but you could not calmly bear to part with your
kingdom. But surely it is an impudent grief which preys upon a man for
not being able to command those that are free. Dionysius, it is true,
the tyrant of Syracuse, when driven from his country, taught a school
at Corinth; so incapable was he of living without some authority. But
what could be more impudent than Tarquin, who made war upon those who
could not bear his tyranny; and, when he could not recover his kingdom
by the aid of the forces of the Veientians and the Latins, is said to
have betaken himself to Cuma, and to have died in that city of old age
and grief!

XIII. Do you, then, think that it can befall a wise man to be oppressed
with grief, that is to say, with misery? for, as all perturbation is
misery, grief is the rack itself. Lust is attended with heat, exulting
joy with levity, fear with meanness, but grief with something greater
than these; it consumes, torments, afflicts, and disgraces a man; it
tears him, preys upon his mind, and utterly destroys him: if we do not
so divest ourselves of it as to throw it completely off, we cannot be
free from misery. And it is clear that there must be grief where
anything has the appearance of a present sore and oppressing evil.
Epicurus is of opinion that grief arises naturally from the imagination
of any evil; so that whosoever is eye-witness of any great misfortune,
if he conceives that the like may possibly befall himself, becomes sad
instantly from such an idea. The Cyrenaics think that grief is not
engendered by every kind of evil, but only by unexpected, unforeseen
evil; and that circumstance is, indeed, of no small effect on the
heightening of grief; for whatsoever comes of a sudden appears more
formidable. Hence these lines are deservedly commended:

    I knew my son, when first he drew his breath,
    Destined by fate to an untimely death;
    And when I sent him to defend the Greeks,
    War was his business, not your sportive freaks.

XIV. Therefore, this ruminating beforehand upon future evils which you
see at a distance makes their approach more tolerable; and on this
account what Euripides makes Theseus say is much commended. You will
give me leave to translate them, as is usual with me:

    I treasured up what some learn'd sage did tell,
    And on my future misery did dwell;
    I thought of bitter death, of being drove
    Far from my home by exile, and I strove
    With every evil to possess my mind,
    That, when they came, I the less care might find.[38]

But Euripides says that of himself, which Theseus said he had heard
from some learned man, for the poet had been a pupil of Anaxagoras,
who, as they relate, on hearing of the death of his son, said, "I knew
that my son was mortal;" which speech seems to intimate that such
things afflict those men who have not thought on them before.
Therefore, there is no doubt but that all those things which are
considered evils are the heavier from not being foreseen. Though,
notwithstanding this is not the only circumstance which occasions the
greatest grief, still, as the mind, by foreseeing and preparing for it,
has great power to make all grief the less, a man should at all times
consider all the events that may befall him in this life; and certainly
the excellence and divine nature of wisdom consists in taking a near
view of, and gaining a thorough acquaintance with, all human affairs,
in not being surprised when anything happens, and in thinking, before
the event, that there is nothing but what may come to pass.

                      Wherefore ev'ry man,
    When his affairs go on most swimmingly,
    E'en then it most behooves to arm himself
    Against the coming storm: loss, danger, exile,
    Returning ever, let him look to meet;
    His son in fault, wife dead, or daughter sick;
    All common accidents, and may have happen'd
    That nothing shall seem new or strange. But if
    Aught has fall'n out beyond his hopes, all that
    Let him account clear gain.[39]

XV. Therefore, as Terence has so well expressed what he borrowed from
philosophy, shall not we, from whose fountains he drew it, say the same
thing in a better manner, and abide by it with more steadiness? Hence
came that steady countenance, which, according to Xantippe, her husband
Socrates always had; so that she said that she never observed any
difference in his looks when he went out and when he came home. Yet the
look of that old Roman, M. Crassus, who, as Lucilius says, never smiled
but once in his lifetime, was not of this kind, but placid and serene,
for so we are told. He, indeed, might well have had the same look at
all times who never changed his mind, from which the countenance
derives its expression. So that I am ready to borrow of the Cyrenaics
those arms against the accidents and events of life by means of which,
by long premeditation, they break the force of all approaching evils;
and at the same time I think that those very evils themselves arise
more from opinion than nature, for if they were real, no forecast could
make them lighter. But I shall speak more particularly on these matters
after I have first considered Epicurus's opinion, who thinks that all
people must necessarily be uneasy who believe themselves to be in any
evils, let them be either foreseen and expected, or habitual to them;
for with him evils are not the less by reason of their continuance, nor
the lighter for having been foreseen; and it is folly to ruminate on
evils to come, or such as, perhaps, never may come: every evil is
disagreeable enough when it does come; but he who is constantly
considering that some evil may befall him is loading himself with a
perpetual evil; and even should such evil never light on him, he
voluntarily takes upon himself unnecessary misery, so that he is under
constant uneasiness, whether he actually suffers any evil, or only
thinks of it. But he makes the alleviation of grief depend on two
things--a ceasing to think on evil, and a turning to the contemplation
of pleasure. For he thinks that the mind may possibly be under the
power of reason, and follow her directions: he forbids us, therefore,
to mind trouble, and calls us off from sorrowful reflections; he throws
a mist over our eyes to hinder us from the contemplation of misery.
Having sounded a retreat from this statement, he drives our thoughts on
again, and encourages them to view and engage the whole mind in the
various pleasures with which he thinks the life of a wise man abounds,
either from reflecting on the past, or from the hope of what is to
come. I have said these things in my own way; the Epicureans have
theirs. However, let us examine what they say; how they say it is of
little consequence.

XVI. In the first place, they are wrong in forbidding men to
premeditate on futurity and blaming their wish to do so; for there is
nothing that breaks the edge of grief and lightens it more than
considering, during one's whole life, that there is nothing which it is
impossible should happen, or than, considering what human nature is, on
what conditions life was given, and how we may comply with them. The
effect of which is that we are always grieving, but that we never do
so; for whoever reflects on the nature of things, the various turns of
life, and the weakness of human nature, grieves, indeed, at that
reflection; but while so grieving he is, above all other times,
behaving as a wise man, for he gains these two things by it: one, that
while he is considering the state of human nature he is performing the
especial duties of philosophy, and is provided with a triple medicine
against adversity--in the first place, because he has long reflected
that such things might befall him, and this reflection by itself
contributes much towards lessening and weakening all misfortunes; and,
secondly, because he is persuaded that we should bear all the accidents
which can happen to man with the feelings and spirit of a man; and,
lastly, because he considers that what is blamable is the only evil.
But it is not your fault that something has happened to you which it
was impossible for man to avoid. For that withdrawing of our thoughts
which he recommends when he calls us off from contemplating our
misfortunes is an imaginary action; for it is not in our power to
dissemble or to forget those evils which lie heavy on us; they tear,
vex, and sting us--they burn us up, and leave no breathing time. And do
you order us to forget them (for such forgetfulness is contrary to
nature), and at the same time deprive us of the only assistance which
nature affords, the being accustomed to them? For that, though it is
but a slow medicine (I mean that which is brought by lapse of time), is
still a very effectual one. You order me to employ my thoughts on
something good, and forget my misfortunes. You would say something
worthy a great philosopher if you thought those things good which are
best suited to the dignity of human nature.

XVII. Should Pythagoras, Socrates, or Plato say to me, Why are you
dejected or sad? Why do you faint, and yield to fortune, which,
perhaps, may have power to harass and disturb you, but should not quite
unman you? There is great power in the virtues; rouse them, if they
chance to droop. Take fortitude for your guide, which will give you
such spirits that you will despise everything that can befall man, and
look on it as a trifle. Add to this temperance, which is moderation,
and which was just now called frugality, which will not suffer you to
do anything base or bad--for what is worse or baser than an effeminate
man? Not even justice will suffer you to act in this manner, though she
seems to have the least weight in this affair; but still,
notwithstanding, even she will inform you that you are doubly unjust
when you both require what does not belong to you, inasmuch as though
you who have been born mortal demand to be placed in the condition of
the immortals, and at the same time you take it much to heart that you
are to restore what was lent you. What answer will you make to
prudence, who informs you that she is a virtue sufficient of herself
both to teach you a good life and also to secure you a happy one? And,
indeed, if she were fettered by external circumstances, and dependent
on others, and if she did not originate in herself and return to
herself, and also embrace everything in herself, so as to seek no
adventitious aid from any quarter, I cannot imagine why she should
appear deserving of such lofty panegyrics, or of being sought after
with such excessive eagerness. Now, Epicurus, if you call me back to
such goods as these, I will obey you, and follow you, and use you as my
guide, and even forget, as you order me, all my misfortunes; and I will
do this the more readily from a persuasion that they are not to be
ranked among evils at all. But you are for bringing my thoughts over to
pleasure. What pleasures? Pleasures of the body, I imagine, or such as
are recollected or imagined on account of the body. Is this all? Do I
explain your opinion rightly? for your disciples are used to deny that
we understand at all what Epicurus means. This is what he says, and
what that subtle fellow, old Zeno, who is one of the sharpest of them,
used, when I was attending lectures at Athens, to enforce and talk so
loudly of; saying that he alone was happy who could enjoy present
pleasure, and who was at the same time persuaded that he should enjoy
it without pain, either during the whole or the greatest part of his
life; or if, should any pain interfere, if it was very sharp, then it
must be short; should it be of longer continuance, it would have more
of what was sweet than bitter in it; that whosoever reflected on these
things would be happy, especially if satisfied with the good things
which he had already enjoyed, and if he were without fear of death or
of the Gods.

XVIII. You have here a representation of a happy life according to
Epicurus, in the words of Zeno, so that there is no room for
contradiction in any point. What, then? Can the proposing and thinking
of such a life make Thyestes's grief the less, or Æetes's, of whom I
spoke above, or Telamon's, who was driven from his country to penury
and banishment? in wonder at whom men exclaimed thus:

    Is this the man surpassing glory raised?
    Is this that Telamon so highly praised
    By wondering Greece, at whose sight, like the sun,
    All others with diminish'd lustre shone?

Now, should any one, as the same author says, find his spirits sink
with the loss of his fortune, he must apply to those grave philosophers
of antiquity for relief, and not to these voluptuaries: for what great
abundance of good do they promise? Suppose that we allow that to be
without pain is the chief good? Yet that is not called pleasure. But it
is not necessary at present to go through the whole: the question is,
to what point are we to advance in order to abate our grief? Grant that
to be in pain is the greatest evil: whosoever, then, has proceeded so
far as not to be in pain, is he, therefore, in immediate possession of
the greatest good? Why, Epicurus, do we use any evasions, and not allow
in our own words the same feeling to be pleasure which you are used to
boast of with such assurance? Are these your words or not? This is what
you say in that book which contains all the doctrine of your school;
for I will perform on this occasion the office of a translator, lest
any one should imagine that I am inventing anything. Thus you speak:
"Nor can I form any notion of the chief good, abstracted from those
pleasures which are perceived by taste, or from what depends on hearing
music, or abstracted from ideas raised by external objects visible to
the eye, or by agreeable motions, or from those other pleasures which
are perceived by the whole man by means of any of his senses; nor can
it possibly be said that the pleasures of the mind are excited only by
what is good, for I have perceived men's minds to be pleased with the
hopes of enjoying those things which I mentioned above, and with the
idea that it should enjoy them without any interruption from pain." And
these are his exact words, so that any one may understand what were the
pleasures with which Epicurus was acquainted. Then he speaks thus, a
little lower down: "I have often inquired of those who have been called
wise men what would be the remaining good if they should exclude from
consideration all these pleasures, unless they meant to give us nothing
but words. I could never learn anything from them; and unless they
choose that all virtue and wisdom should vanish and come to nothing,
they must say with me that the only road to happiness lies through
those pleasures which I mentioned above." What follows is much the
same, and his whole book on the chief good everywhere abounds with the
same opinions. Will you, then, invite Telamon to this kind of life to
ease his grief? And should you observe any one of your friends under
affliction, would you rather prescribe him a sturgeon than a treatise
of Socrates? or advise him to listen to the music of a water organ
rather than to Plato? or lay before him the beauty and variety of some
garden, put a nosegay to his nose, burn perfumes before him, and bid
him crown himself with a garland of roses and woodbines? Should you add
one thing more, you would certainly wipe out all his grief.

XIX. Epicurus must admit these arguments, or he must take out of his
book what I just now said was a literal translation; or, rather, he
must destroy his whole book, for it is crammed full of pleasures. We
must inquire, then, how we can ease him of his grief who speaks in this
manner:

    My present state proceeds from fortune's stings;
    By birth I boast of a descent from kings;
    Hence may you see from what a noble height
    I'm sunk by fortune to this abject plight.

What! to ease his grief, must we mix him a cup of sweet wine, or
something of that kind? Lo! the same poet presents us with another
sentiment somewhere else:

    I, Hector, once so great, now claim your aid.

We should assist her, for she looks out for help:

    Where shall I now apply, where seek support?
    Where hence betake me, or to whom resort?"
    No means remain of comfort or of joy,
    In flames my palace, and in ruins Troy;
    Each wall, so late superb, deformed nods,
    And not an altar's left t' appease the Gods.

You know what should follow, and particularly this:

    Of father, country, and of friends bereft,
    Not one of all these sumptuous temples left;
    Which, while the fortune of our house did stand,
    With rich wrought ceilings spoke the artist's hand.

O excellent poet! though despised by those who sing the verses of
Euphorion. He is sensible that all things which come on a sudden are
harder to be borne. Therefore, when he had set off the riches of Priam
to the best advantage, which had the appearance of a long continuance,
what does he add?

    Lo! these all perish'd in one blazing pile;
    The foe old Priam of his life beguiled,
    And with his blood, thy altar, Jove, defiled.

Admirable poetry! There is something mournful in the subject, as well
as in the words and measure. We must drive away this grief of hers: how
is that to be done? Shall we lay her on a bed of down; introduce a
singer; shall we burn cedar, or present here with some pleasant liquor,
and provide her something to eat? Are these the good things which
remove the most afflicting grief? For you but just now said you knew of
no other good. I should agree with Epicurus that we ought to be called
off from grief to contemplate good things, if we could only agree upon
what was good.

XX. It may be said, What! do you imagine Epicurus really meant this,
and that he maintained anything so sensual? Indeed I do not imagine so,
for I am sensible that he has uttered many excellent things and
sentiments, and delivered maxims of great weight. Therefore, as I said
before, I am speaking of his acuteness, not of his morals. Though he
should hold those pleasures in contempt which he just now commended,
yet I must remember wherein he places the chief good. For he was not
contented with barely saying this, but he has explained what he meant:
he says that taste, and embraces, and sports, and music, and those
forms which affect the eyes with pleasure, are the chief good. Have I
invented this? have I misrepresented him? I should be glad to be
confuted; for what am I endeavoring at but to clear up truth in every
question? Well, but the same man says that pleasure is at its height
where pain ceases, and that to be free from all pain is the very
greatest pleasure. Here are three very great mistakes in a very few
words. One is, that he contradicts himself; for, but just now, he could
not imagine anything good unless the senses were in a manner tickled
with some pleasure; but now he says that to be free from pain is the
highest pleasure. Can any one contradict himself more? The next mistake
is, that where there is naturally a threefold division--the first, to
be pleased; next, to be in pain; the last, to be affected neither by
pleasure nor pain--he imagines the first and the last to be the same,
and makes no difference between pleasure and a cessation of pain. The
last mistake he falls into in common with some others, which is this:
that as virtue is the most desirable thing, and as philosophy has been
investigated with a view to the attainment of it, he has separated the
chief good from virtue. But he commends virtue, and that frequently;
and indeed C. Gracchus, when he had made the largest distributions of
the public money, and had exhausted the treasury, nevertheless spoke
much of defending the treasury. What signifies what men say when we see
what they do? That Piso, who was surnamed Frugal, had always harangued
against the law that was proposed for distributing the corn; but when
it had passed, though a man of consular dignity, he came to receive the
corn. Gracchus observed Piso standing in the court, and asked him, in
the hearing of the people, how it was consistent for him to take corn
by a law he had himself opposed. "It was," said he, "against your
distributing my goods to every man as you thought proper; but, as you
do so, I claim my share." Did not this grave and wise man sufficiently
show that the public revenue was dissipated by the Sempronian law? Read
Gracchus's speeches, and you will pronounce him the advocate of the
treasury. Epicurus denies that any one can live pleasantly who does not
lead a life of virtue; he denies that fortune has any power over a wise
man; he prefers a spare diet to great plenty, and maintains that a wise
man is always happy. All these things become a philosopher to say, but
they are not consistent with pleasure. But the reply is, that he doth
not mean _that_ pleasure: let him mean any pleasure, it must be such a
one as makes no part of virtue. But suppose we are mistaken as to his
pleasure; are we so, too, as to his pain? I maintain, therefore, the
impropriety of language which that man uses, when talking of virtue,
who would measure every great evil by pain.

XXI. And indeed the Epicureans, those best of men--for there is no
order of men more innocent--complain that I take great pains to inveigh
against Epicurus. We are rivals, I suppose, for some honor or
distinction. I place the chief good in the mind, he in the body; I in
virtue, he in pleasure; and the Epicureans are up in arms, and implore
the assistance of their neighbors, and many are ready to fly to their
aid. But as for my part, I declare that I am very indifferent about the
matter, and that I consider the whole discussion which they are so
anxious about at an end. For what! is the contention about the Punic
war? on which very subject, though M. Cato and L. Lentulus were of
different opinions, still there was no difference between them. But
these men behave with too much heat, especially as the opinions which
they would uphold are no very spirited ones, and such as they dare not
plead for either in the senate or before the assembly of the people, or
before the army or the censors. But, however, I will argue with them
another time, and with such a disposition that no quarrel shall arise
between us; for I shall be ready to yield to their opinions when
founded on truth. Only I must give them this advice: That were it ever
so true, that a wise man regards nothing but the body, or, to express
myself with more decency, never does anything except what is expedient,
and views all things with exclusive reference to his own advantage, as
such things are not very commendable, they should confine them to their
own breasts, and leave off talking with that parade of them.

XXII. What remains is the opinion of the Cyrenaics, who think that men
grieve when anything happens unexpectedly. And that is indeed, as I
said before, a great aggravation of a misfortune; and I know that it
appeared so to Chrysippus--"Whatever falls out unexpected is so much
the heavier." But the whole question does not turn on this; though the
sudden approach of an enemy sometimes occasions more confusion than it
would if you had expected him, and a sudden storm at sea throws the
sailors into a greater fright than one which they have foreseen; and it
is the same in many other cases. But when you carefully consider the
nature of what was expected, you will find nothing more than that all
things which come on a sudden appear greater; and this upon two
accounts: first of all, because you have not time to consider how great
the accident is; and, secondly, because you are probably persuaded that
you could have guarded against it had you foreseen if, and therefore
the misfortune, having been seemingly encountered by your own fault,
makes your grief the greater. That it is so, time evinces; which, as it
advances, brings with it so much mitigation that though the same
misfortunes continue, the grief not only becomes the less, but in some
cases is entirely removed. Many Carthaginians were slaves at Rome, and
many Macedonians, when Perseus their king was taken prisoner. I saw,
too, when I was a young man, some Corinthians in the Peloponnesus. They
might all have lamented with Andromache,

    All these I saw......;

but they had perhaps given over lamenting themselves, for by their
countenances, and speech, and other gestures you might have taken them
for Argives or Sicyonians. And I myself was more concerned at the
ruined walls of Corinth than the Corinthians themselves were, whose
minds by frequent reflection and time had become callous to such
sights. I have read a book of Clitomachus, which he sent to his
fellow-citizens who were prisoners, to comfort them after the
destruction of Carthage. There is in it a treatise written by
Carneades, which, as Clitomachus says, he had inserted into his book;
the subject was, "That it appeared probable that a wise man would
grieve at the state of subjection of his country," and all the
arguments which Carneades used against this proposition are set down in
the book. There the philosopher applies such a strong medicine to a
fresh grief as would be quite unnecessary in one of any continuance;
nor, if this very book had been sent to the captives some years after,
would it have found any wounds to cure, but only scars; for grief, by a
gentle progress and slow degrees, wears away imperceptibly. Not that
the circumstances which gave rise to it are altered, or can be, but
that custom teaches what reason should--that those things which before
seemed to be of some consequence are of no such great importance, after
all.

XXIII. It may be said, What occasion is there to apply to reason, or to
any sort of consolation such as we generally make use of, to mitigate
the grief of the afflicted? For we have this argument always at hand,
that nothing ought to appear unexpected. But how will any one be
enabled to bear his misfortunes the better by knowing that it is
unavoidable that such things should happen to man? Saying this
subtracts nothing from the sum of the grief: it only asserts that
nothing has fallen out but what might have been anticipated; and yet
this manner of speaking has some little consolation in it, though I
apprehend not a great deal. Therefore those unlooked-for things have
not so much force as to give rise to all our grief; the blow perhaps
may fall the heavier, but whatever happens does not appear the greater
on that account. No, it is the fact of its having happened lately, and
not of its having befallen us unexpectedly, that makes it seem the
greater. There are two ways, then, of discerning the truth, not only of
things that seem evil, but of those that have the appearance of good.
For we either inquire into the nature of the thing, of what
description, and magnitude, and importance it is--as sometimes with
regard to poverty, the burden of which we may lighten when by our
disputations we show how few things nature requires, and of what a
trifling kind they are--or, without any subtle arguing, we refer them
to examples, as here we instance a Socrates, there a Diogenes, and then
again that line in Cæcilius,

    Wisdom is oft conceal'd in mean attire.

For as poverty is of equal weight with all, what reason can be given
why what was borne by Fabricius should be spoken of by any one else as
unsupportable when it falls upon themselves? Of a piece with this is
that other way of comforting, which consists in pointing out that
nothing has happened but what is common to human nature; for this
argument doth not only inform us what human nature is, but implies that
all things are tolerable which others have borne and are bearing.

XXIV. Is poverty the subject? They tell you of many who have submitted
to it with patience. Is it the contempt of honors? They acquaint you
with some who never enjoyed any, and were the happier for it; and of
those who have preferred a private retired life to public employment,
mentioning their names with respect; they tell you of the verse[40] of
that most powerful king who praises an old man, and pronounces him
happy because he was unknown to fame and seemed likely to arrive at the
hour of death in obscurity and without notice. Thus, too, they have
examples for those who are deprived of their children: they who are
under any great grief are comforted by instances of like affliction;
and thus the endurance of every misfortune is rendered more easy by the
fact of others having undergone the same, and the fate of others causes
what has happened to appear less important than it has been previously
thought, and reflection thus discovers to us how much opinion had
imposed on us. And this is what the Telamon declares, "I, when my son
was born," etc.; and thus Theseus, "I on my future misery did dwell;"
and Anaxagoras, "I knew my son was mortal." All these men, by
frequently reflecting on human affairs, had discovered that they were
by no means to be estimated by the opinion of the multitude; and,
indeed, it seems to me to be pretty much the same case with those who
consider beforehand as with those who derive their remedies from time,
excepting that a kind of reason cures the one, and the other remedy is
provided by nature; by which we discover (and this contains the whole
marrow of the matter) that what was imagined to be the greatest evil is
by no means so great as to defeat the happiness of life. And the effect
of this is, that the blow is greater by reason of its not having been
foreseen, and not, as they suppose, that when similar misfortunes
befall two different people, that man only is affected with grief whom
this calamity has befallen unexpectedly. So that some persons, under
the oppression of grief, are said to have borne it actually worse for
hearing of this common condition of man, that we are born under such
conditions as render it impossible for a man to be exempt from all
evil.

XXV. For this reason Carneades, as I see our friend Antiochus writes,
used to blame Chrysippus for commending these verses of Euripides:

    Man, doom'd to care, to pain, disease, and strife,
    Walks his short journey thro' the vale of life:
    Watchful attends the cradle and the grave,
    And passing generations longs to save:
    Last, dies himself: yet wherefore should we mourn?
    For man must to his kindred dust return;
    Submit to the destroying hand of fate,
    As ripen'd ears the harvest-sickle wait.[41]

He would not allow a speech of this kind to avail at all to the cure of
our grief, for he said it was a lamentable case itself that we were
fallen into the hands of such a cruel fate; and that a speech like
that, preaching up comfort from the misfortunes of another, was a
comfort adapted only to those of a malevolent disposition. But to me it
appears far otherwise; for the necessity of bearing what is the common
condition of humanity forbids your resisting the will of the Gods, and
reminds you that you are a man, which reflection greatly alleviates
grief; and the enumeration of these examples is not produced with a
view to please those of a malevolent disposition, but in order that any
one in affliction may be induced to bear what he observes many others
have previously borne with tranquillity and moderation. For they who
are falling to pieces, and cannot hold together through the greatness
of their grief, should be supported by all kinds of assistance. From
whence Chrysippus thinks that grief is called [Greek: lypê], as it were
[Greek: lysis], that is to say, a dissolution of the whole man--the
whole of which I think may be pulled up by the roots by explaining, as
I said at the beginning, the cause of grief; for it is nothing else but
an opinion and judgment formed of a present acute evil. And thus any
bodily pain, let it be ever so grievous, may be endurable where any
hopes are proposed of some considerable good; and we receive such
consolation from a virtuous and illustrious life that they who lead
such lives are seldom attacked by grief, or but slightly affected by
it.

XXVI. But as besides this opinion of great evil there is this other
added also--that we ought to lament what has happened, that it is right
so to do, and part of our duty, then is brought about that terrible
disorder of mind, grief. And it is to this opinion that we owe all
those various and horrid kinds of lamentation, that neglect of our
persons, that womanish tearing of our cheeks, that striking on our
thighs, breasts, and heads. Thus Agamemnon, in Homer and in Accius,

    Tears in his grief his uncomb'd locks;[42]

from whence comes that pleasant saying of Bion, that the foolish king
in his sorrow tore away the hairs of his head, imagining that his grief
would be alleviated by baldness. But men do all these things from being
persuaded that they ought to do so. And thus Æschines inveighs against
Demosthenes for sacrificing within seven days after the death of his
daughter. But with what eloquence, with what fluency, does he attack
him! what sentiments does he collect! what words does he hurl against
him! You may see by this that an orator may do anything; but nobody
would approve of such license if it were not that we have an idea
innate in our minds that every good man ought to lament the loss of a
relation as bitterly as possible. And it is owing to this that some
men, when in sorrow, betake themselves to deserts, as Homer says of
Bellerophon:

                   Distracted in his mind,
    Forsook by heaven, forsaking human kind,
    Wide o'er the Aleïan field he chose to stray,
    A long, forlorn, uncomfortable way![43]

And thus Niobe is feigned to have been turned into stone, from her
never speaking, I suppose, in her grief. But they imagine Hecuba to
have been converted into a bitch, from her rage and bitterness of mind.
There are others who love to converse with solitude itself when in
grief, as the nurse in Ennius,

    Fain would I to the heavens find earth relate
    Medea's ceaseless woes and cruel fate.[44]

XXVII. Now all these things are done in grief, from a persuasion of
their truth and propriety and necessity; and it is plain that those who
behave thus do so from a conviction of its being their duty; for should
these mourners by chance drop their grief, and either act or speak for
a moment in a more calm or cheerful manner, they presently check
themselves and return to their lamentations again, and blame themselves
for having been guilty of any intermissions from their grief; and
parents and masters generally correct children not by words only, but
by blows, if they show any levity by either word or deed when the
family is under affliction, and, as it were, oblige them to be
sorrowful. What! does it not appear, when you have ceased to mourn, and
have discovered that your grief has been ineffectual, that the whole of
that mourning was voluntary on your part? What does that man say in
Terence who punishes himself, the Self-tormentor?

    I think I do my son less harm, O Chremes,
    As long as I myself am miserable.

He determines to be miserable: and can any one determine on anything
against his will?

    I well might think that I deserved all evil.

He would think he deserved any misfortune were he otherwise than
miserable! Therefore, you see, the evil is in opinion, not in nature.
How is it when some things do of themselves prevent your grieving at
them? as in Homer, so many died and were buried daily that they had not
leisure to grieve: where you find these lines--

    The great, the bold, by thousands daily fall,
    And endless were the grief to weep for all.
    Eternal sorrows what avails to shed?
    Greece honors not with solemn fasts the dead:
    Enough when death demands the brave to pay
    The tribute of a melancholy day.
    One chief with patience to the grave resign'd,
    Our care devolves on others left behind.[45]

Therefore it is in our own power to lay aside grief upon occasion; and
is there any opportunity (seeing the thing is in our own power) that we
should let slip of getting rid of care and grief? It was plain that the
friends of Cnæus Pompeius, when they saw him fainting under his wounds,
at the very moment of that most miserable and bitter sight were under
great uneasiness how they themselves, surrounded by the enemy as they
were, should escape, and were employed in nothing but encouraging the
rowers and aiding their escape; but when they reached Tyre, they began
to grieve and lament over him. Therefore, as fear with them, prevailed
over grief, cannot reason and true philosophy have the same effect with
a wise man?

XXVIII. But what is there more effectual to dispel grief than the
discovery that it answers no purpose, and has been undergone to no
account? Therefore, if we can get rid of it, we need never have been
subject to it. It must be acknowledged, then, that men take up grief
wilfully and knowingly; and this appears from the patience of those
who, after they have been exercised in afflictions and are better able
to bear whatever befalls them, suppose themselves hardened against
fortune; as that person in Euripides,

    Had this the first essay of fortune been,
    And I no storms thro' all my life had seen,
    Wild as a colt I'd broke from reason's sway;
    But frequent griefs have taught me to obey.[46]

As, then, the frequent bearing of misery makes grief the lighter, we
must necessarily perceive that the cause and original of it does not
lie in the calamity itself. Your principal philosophers, or lovers of
wisdom, though they have not yet arrived at perfect wisdom, are not
they sensible that they are in the greatest evil? For they are foolish,
and foolishness is the greatest of all evils, and yet they lament not.
How shall we account for this? Because opinion is not fixed upon that
kind of evil, it is not our opinion that it is right, meet, and our
duty to be uneasy because we are not all wise men. Whereas this opinion
is strongly affixed to that uneasiness where mourning is concerned,
which is the greatest of all grief. Therefore Aristotle, when he blames
some ancient philosophers for imagining that by their genius they had
brought philosophy to the highest perfection, says, they must be either
extremely foolish or extremely vain; but that he himself could see that
great improvements had been made therein in a few years, and that
philosophy would in a little time arrive at perfection. And
Theophrastus is reported to have reproached nature at his death for
giving to stags and crows so long a life, which was of no use to them,
but allowing only so short a span to men, to whom length of days would
have been of the greatest use; for if the life of man could have been
lengthened, it would have been able to provide itself with all kinds of
learning, and with arts in the greatest perfection. He lamented,
therefore, that he was dying just when he had begun to discover these.
What! does not every grave and distinguished philosopher acknowledge
himself ignorant of many things, and confess that there are many things
which he must learn over and over again? And yet, though these men are
sensible that they are standing still in the very midway of folly, than
which nothing can be worse, they are under no great affliction, because
no opinion that it is their duty to lament is ever mingled with this
knowledge. What shall we say of those who think it unbecoming in a man
to grieve? among whom we may reckon Q. Maximus, when he buried his son
that had been consul, and L. Paulus, who lost two sons within a few
days of one another. Of the same opinion was M. Cato, who lost his son
just after he had been elected prætor, and many others, whose names I
have collected in my book on Consolation. Now what made these men so
easy, but their persuasion that grief and lamentation was not becoming
in a man? Therefore, as some give themselves up to grief from an
opinion that it is right so to do, they refrained themselves, from an
opinion that it was discreditable; from which we may infer that grief
is owing more to opinion than nature.

XXIX. It may be said, on the other side, Who is so mad as to grieve of
his own accord? Pain proceeds from nature, which you must submit to,
say they, agreeably to what even your own Crantor teaches, for it
presses and gains upon you unavoidably, and cannot possibly be
resisted. So that the very same Oileus, in Sophocles, who had before
comforted Telamon on the death of Ajax, on hearing of the death of his
own son, is broken-hearted. On this alteration of his mind we have
these lines:

    Show me the man so well by wisdom taught
    That what he charges to another's fault,
    When like affliction doth himself betide,
    True to his own wise counsel will abide.[47]

Now, when they urge these things, their endeavor is to prove that
nature is absolutely and wholly irresistible; and yet the same people
allow that we take greater grief on ourselves than nature requires.
What madness is it, then, in us to require the same from others? But
there are many reasons for our taking grief on us. The first is from
the opinion of some evil, on the discovery and certainty of which grief
comes of course. Besides, many people are persuaded that they are doing
something very acceptable to the dead when they lament bitterly over
them. To these may be added a kind of womanish superstition, in
imagining that when they have been stricken by the afflictions sent by
the Gods, to acknowledge themselves afflicted and humbled by them is
the readiest way of appeasing them. But most men appear to be unaware
what contradictions these things are full of. They commend those who
die calmly, but they blame those who can bear the loss of another with
the same calmness, as if it were possible that it should be true, as is
occasionally said in love speeches, that any one can love another more
than himself. There is, indeed, something excellent in this, and, if
you examine it, something no less just than true, that we love those
who ought to be most dear to us as well as we love ourselves; but to
love them more than ourselves is absolutely impossible; nor is it
desirable in friendship that I should love my friend more than myself,
or that he should love me so; for this would occasion much confusion in
life, and break in upon all the duties of it.

XXX. But we will speak of this another time: at present it is
sufficient not to attribute our misery to the loss of our friends, nor
to love them more than, if they themselves could be sensible of our
conduct, they would approve of, or at least not more than we do
ourselves. Now as to what they say, that some are not at all appeased
by our consolations; and, moreover, as to what they add, that the
comforters themselves acknowledge they are miserable when fortune
varies the attack and falls on them--in both these cases the solution
is easy: for the fault here is not in nature, but in our own folly; and
much may be said against folly. But men who do not admit of consolation
seem to bespeak misery for themselves; and they who cannot bear their
misfortunes with that temper which they recommend to others are not
more faulty in this particular than most other persons; for we see that
covetous men find fault with others who are covetous, as do the
vainglorious with those who appear too wholly devoted to the pursuit of
glory. For it is the peculiar characteristic of folly to perceive the
vices of others, but to forget its own. But since we find that grief is
removed by length of time, we have the greatest proof that the strength
of it depends not merely on time, but on the daily consideration of it.
For if the cause continues the same, and the man be the same, how can
there be any alteration in the grief, if there is no change in what
occasioned the grief, nor in him who grieves? Therefore it is from
daily reflecting that there is no real evil in the circumstance for
which you grieve, and not from the length of time, that you procure a
remedy for your grief.

XXXI. Here some people talk of moderate grief; but if such be natural,
what occasion is there for consolation? for nature herself will
determine, the measure of it: but if it depends on and is caused by
opinion, the whole opinion should be destroyed. I think that it has
been sufficiently said, that grief arises from an opinion of some
present evil, which includes this belief, that it is incumbent on us to
grieve. To this definition Zeno has added, very justly, that the
opinion of this present evil should be recent. Now this word recent
they explain thus: those are not the only recent things which happened
a little while ago; but as long as there shall be any force, or vigor,
or freshness in that imagined evil, so long it is entitled to the name
of recent. Take the case of Artemisia, the wife of Mausolus, King of
Caria, who made that noble sepulchre at Halicarnassus; while she lived,
she lived in grief, and died of it, being worn out by it, for that
opinion was always recent with her: but you cannot call that recent
which has already begun to decay through time. Now the duty of a
comforter is, to remove grief entirely, to quiet it, or draw it off as
much as you can, or else to keep it under, and prevent its spreading
any further, and to divert one's attention to other matters. There are
some who think, with Cleanthes, that the only duty of a comforter is to
prove that what one is lamenting is by no means an evil. Others, as the
Peripatetics, prefer urging that the evil is not great. Others, with
Epicurus, seek to divert your attention from the evil to good: some
think it sufficient to show that nothing has happened but what you had
reason to expect; and this is the practice of the Cyrenaics. But
Chrysippus thinks that the main thing in comforting is, to remove the
opinion from the person who is grieving, that to grieve is his bounden
duty. There are others who bring together all these various kinds of
consolations, for people are differently affected; as I have done
myself in my book on Consolation; for as my own mind was much
disordered, I have attempted in that book to discover every method of
cure. But the proper season is as much to be attended to in the cure of
the mind as of the body; as Prometheus in Æschylus, on its being said
to him,

    I think, Prometheus, you this tenet hold,
    That all men's reason should their rage control?

answers,

    Yes, when one reason properly applies;
    Ill-timed advice will make the storm but rise.[48]

XXXII. But the principal medicine to be applied in consolation is, to
maintain either that it is no evil at all, or a very inconsiderable
one: the next best to that is, to speak of the common condition of
life, having a view, if possible, to the state of the person whom you
comfort particularly. The third is, that it is folly to wear one's self
out with grief which can avail nothing. For the comfort of Cleanthes is
suitable only for a wise man, who is in no need of any comfort at all;
for could you persuade one in grief that nothing is an evil but what is
base, you would not only cure him of grief, but folly. But the time for
such precepts is not well chosen. Besides, Cleanthes does not seem to
me sufficiently aware that affliction may very often proceed from that
very thing which he himself allows to be the greatest misfortune. For
what shall we say? When Socrates had convinced Alcibiades, as we are
told, that he had no distinctive qualifications as a man different from
other people, and that, in fact, there was no difference between him,
though a man of the highest rank, and a porter; and when Alcibiades
became uneasy at this, and entreated Socrates, with tears in his eyes,
to make him a man of virtue, and to cure him of that mean position;
what shall we say to this, Cleanthes? Was there no evil in what
afflicted Alcibiades thus? What strange things does Lycon say? who,
making light of grief, says that it arises from trifles, from things
that affect our fortune or bodies, not from the evils of the mind.
What, then? did not the grief of Alcibiades proceed from the defects
and evils of the mind? I have already said enough of Epicurus's
consolation.

XXXIII. Nor is that consolation much to be relied on, though it is
frequently practised, and sometimes has some effect, namely, "That you
are not alone in this." It has its effect, as I said, but not always,
nor with every person, for some reject it; but much depends on the
application of it; for you ought rather to show, not how men in general
have been affected with such evils, but how men of sense have borne
them. As to Chrysippus's method, it is certainly founded in truth; but
it is difficult to apply it in time of distress. It is a work of no
small difficulty to persuade a person in affliction that he grieves
merely because he thinks it right so to do. Certainly, then, as in
pleadings we do not state all cases alike (if I may adopt the language
of lawyers for a moment), but adapt what we have to say to the time, to
the nature of the subject under debate, and to the person; so, too, in
alleviating grief, regard should be had to what kind of cure the party
to be comforted can admit of. But, somehow or other, we have rambled
from what you originally proposed. For your question was concerning a
wise man, with whom nothing can have the appearance of evil that is not
dishonorable; or at least, anything else would seem so small an evil
that by his wisdom he would so overmatch it as to make it wholly
disappear; and such a man makes no addition to his grief through
opinion, and never conceives it right to torment himself above measure,
nor to wear himself out with grief, which is the meanest thing
imaginable. Reason, however, it seems, has demonstrated (though it was
not directly our object at the moment to inquire whether anything can
be called an evil except what is base) that it is in our power to
discern that all the evil which there is in affliction has nothing
natural in it, but is contracted by our own voluntary judgment of it,
and the error of opinion.

XXXIV. But the kind of affliction of which I have treated is that which
is the greatest; in order that when we have once got rid of that, it
may appear a business of less consequence to look after remedies for
the others. For there are certain things which are usually said about
poverty; and also certain statements ordinarily applied to retired and
undistinguished life. There are particular treatises on banishment, on
the ruin of one's country, on slavery, on weakness, on blindness, and
on every incident that can come under the name of an evil. The Greeks
divide these into different treatises and distinct books; but they do
it for the sake of employment: not but that all such discussions are
full of entertainment. And yet, as physicians, in curing the whole
body, attend to even the most insignificant part of the body which is
at all disordered, so does philosophy act, after it has removed grief
in general; still, if any other deficiency exists--should poverty bite,
should ignominy sting, should banishment bring a dark cloud over us, or
should any of those things which I have just mentioned appear, there is
for each its appropriate consolation, which you shall hear whenever you
please. But we must have recourse again to the same original principle,
that a wise man is free from all sorrow, because it is vain, because it
answers no purpose, because it is not founded in nature, but on opinion
and prejudice, and is engendered by a kind of invitation to grieve,
when once men have imagined that it is their duty to do so. When, then,
we have subtracted what is altogether voluntary, that mournful
uneasiness will be removed; yet some little anxiety, some slight
pricking, will still remain. They may indeed call this natural,
provided they give it not that horrid, solemn, melancholy name of
grief, which can by no means consist with wisdom. But how various and
how bitter are the roots of grief! Whatever they are, I propose, after
having felled the trunk, to destroy them all; even if it should be
necessary, by allotting a separate dissertation to each, for I have
leisure enough to do so, whatever time it may take up. But the
principle of every uneasiness is the same, though they may appear under
different names. For envy is an uneasiness; so are emulation,
detraction, anguish, sorrow, sadness, tribulation, lamentation,
vexation, grief, trouble, affliction, and despair. The Stoics define
all these different feelings; and all those words which I have
mentioned belong to different things, and do not, as they seem, express
the same ideas; but they are to a certain extent distinct, as I shall
make appear perhaps in another place. These are those fibres of the
roots which, as I said at first, must be traced back and cut off and
destroyed, so that not one shall remain. You say it is a great and
difficult undertaking: who denies it? But what is there of any
excellency which has not its difficulty? Yet philosophy undertakes to
effect it, provided we admit its superintendence. But enough of this.
The other books, whenever you please, shall be ready for you here or
anywhere else.

       *       *       *       *       *




BOOK IV.

On other perturbations of the mind.


I. I have often wondered, Brutus, on many occasions, at the ingenuity
and virtues of our countrymen; but nothing has surprised me more than
their development in those studies, which, though they came somewhat
late to us, have been transported into this city from Greece. For the
system of auspices, and religious ceremonies, and courts of justice,
and appeals to the people, the senate, the establishment of an army of
cavalry and infantry, and the whole military discipline, were
instituted as early as the foundation of the city by royal authority,
partly too by laws, not without the assistance of the Gods. Then with
what a surprising and incredible progress did our ancestors advance
towards all kind of excellence, when once the republic was freed from
the regal power! Not that this is a proper occasion to treat of the
manners and customs of our ancestors, or of the discipline and
constitution of the city; for I have elsewhere, particularly in the six
books I wrote on the Republic, given a sufficiently accurate account of
them. But while I am on this subject, and considering the study of
philosophy, I meet with many reasons to imagine that those studies were
brought to us from abroad, and not merely imported, but preserved and
improved; for they had Pythagoras, a man of consummate wisdom and
nobleness of character, in a manner, before their eyes, who was in
Italy at the time that Lucius Brutus, the illustrious founder of your
nobility, delivered his country from tyranny. As the doctrine of
Pythagoras spread itself on all sides, it seems probable to me that it
reached this city; and this is not only probable of itself, but it does
really appear to have been the case from many remains of it. For who
can imagine that, when it flourished so much in that part of Italy
which was called Magna Græcia, and in some of the largest and most
powerful cities, in which, first the name of Pythagoras, and then that
of those men who were afterward his followers, was in so high esteem;
who can imagine, I say, that our people could shut their ears to what
was said by such learned men? Besides, it is even my opinion that it
was the great esteem in which the Pythagoreans were held, that gave
rise to that opinion among those who came after him, that King Numa was
a Pythagorean. For, being acquainted with the doctrine and principles
of Pythagoras, and having heard from their ancestors that this king was
a very wise and just man, and not being able to distinguish accurately
between times and periods that were so remote, they inferred, from his
being so eminent for his wisdom, that he had been a pupil of
Pythagoras.

II. So far we proceed on conjecture. As to the vestiges of the
Pythagoreans, though I might collect many, I shall use but a few;
because they have no connection with our present purpose. For, as it is
reported to have been a custom with them to deliver certain precepts in
a more abstruse manner in verse, and to bring their minds from severe
thought to a more composed state by songs and musical instruments; so
Cato, a writer of the very highest authority, says in his Origins, that
it was customary with our ancestors for the guests at their
entertainments, every one in his turn, to celebrate the praises and
virtues of illustrious men in song to the sound of the flute; from
whence it is clear that poems and songs were then composed for the
voice. And, indeed, it is also clear that poetry was in fashion from
the laws of the Twelve Tables, wherein it is provided that no song
should be made to the injury of another. Another argument of the
erudition of those times is, that they played on instruments before the
shrines of their Gods, and at the entertainments of their magistrates;
but that custom was peculiar to the sect I am speaking of. To me,
indeed, that poem of Appius Cæcus, which Panætius commends so much in a
certain letter of his which is addressed to Quintus Tubero, has all the
marks of a Pythagorean author. We have many things derived from the
Pythagoreans in our customs, which I pass over, that we may not seem to
have learned that elsewhere which we look upon ourselves as the
inventors of. But to return to our purpose. How many great poets as
well as orators have sprung up among us! and in what a short time! so
that it is evident that our people could arrive at any learning as soon
as they had an inclination for it. But of other studies I shall speak
elsewhere if there is occasion, as I have already often done.

III. The study of philosophy is certainly of long standing with us; but
yet I do not find that I can give you the names of any philosopher
before the age of Lælius and Scipio, in whose younger days we find that
Diogenes the Stoic, and Carneades the Academic, were sent as
ambassadors by the Athenians to our senate. And as these had never been
concerned in public affairs, and one of them was a Cyrenean, the other
a Babylonian, they certainly would never have been forced from their
studies, nor chosen for that employment, unless the study of philosophy
had been in vogue with some of the great men at that time; who, though
they might employ their pens on other subjects--some on civil law,
others on oratory, others on the history of former times--yet promoted
this most extensive of all arts, the principle of living well, even
more by their life than by their writings. So that of that true and
elegant philosophy (which was derived from Socrates, and is still
preserved by the Peripatetics and by the Stoics, though they express
themselves differently in their disputes with the Academics) there are
few or no Latin records; whether this proceeds from the importance of
the thing itself, or from men's being otherwise employed, or from their
concluding that the capacity of the people was not equal to the
apprehension of them. But, during this silence, C. Amafinius arose and
took upon himself to speak; on the publishing of whose writings the
people were moved, and enlisted themselves chiefly under this sect,
either because the doctrine was more easily understood, or because they
were invited thereto by the pleasing thoughts of amusement, or that,
because there was nothing better, they laid hold of what was offered
them. And after Amafinius, when many of the same sentiments had written
much about them, the Pythagoreans spread over all Italy: but that these
doctrines should be so easily understood and approved of by the
unlearned is a great proof that they were not written with any great
subtlety, and they think their establishment to be owing to this.

IV. But let every one defend his own opinion, for every one is at
liberty to choose what he likes: I shall keep to my old custom; and,
being under no restraint from the laws of any particular school, which
in philosophy every one must necessarily confine himself to, I shall
always inquire what has the most probability in every question, and
this system, which I have often practised on other occasions, I have
adhered closely to in my Tusculan Disputations. Therefore, as I have
acquainted you with the disputations of the three former days, this
book shall conclude the discussion of the fourth day. When we had come
down into the Academy, as we had done the former days, the business was
carried on thus:

_M._ Let any one say, who pleases, what he would wish to have
discussed.

_A._ I do not think a wise man can possibly be free from every
perturbation of mind.

_M._ He seemed by yesterday's discourse to be free from grief; unless
you agreed with us only to avoid taking up time.

_A._ Not at all on that account, for I was extremely satisfied with
your discourse.

_M._ You do not think, then, that a wise man is subject to grief?

_A._ No, by no means.

_M._ But if that cannot disorder the mind of a wise man, nothing else
can. For what--can such a man be disturbed by fear? Fear proceeds from
the same things when absent which occasion grief when present. Take
away grief, then, and you remove fear.

The two remaining perturbations are, a joy elate above measure, and
lust; and if a wise man is not subject to these, his mind will be
always at rest.

_A._ I am entirely of that opinion.

_M._ Which, then, shall we do? Shall I immediately crowd all my sails?
or shall I make use of my oars, as if I were just endeavoring to get
clear of the harbor?

_A._ What is it that you mean, for I do not exactly comprehend you?

V. _M._ Because, Chrysippus and the Stoics, when they discuss the
perturbations of the mind, make great part of their debate to consist
in definitions and distinctions; while they employ but few words on the
subject of curing the mind, and preventing it from being disordered.
Whereas the Peripatetics bring a great many things to promote the cure
of it, but have no regard to their thorny partitions and definitions.
My question, then, was, whether I should instantly unfold the sails of
my eloquence, or be content for a while to make less way with the oars
of logic?

_A._ Let it be so; for by the employment of both these means the
subject of our inquiry will be more thoroughly discussed.

_M._ It is certainly the better way; and should anything be too
obscure, you may examine that afterward.

_A._ I will do so; but those very obscure points you will, as usual,
deliver with more clearness than the Greeks.

_M._ I will, indeed, endeavor to do so; but it well requires great
attention, lest, by losing one word, the whole should escape you. What
the Greeks call [Greek: pathê] we choose to name perturbations (or
disorders) rather than diseases; in explaining which, I shall follow,
first, that very old description of Pythagoras, and afterward that of
Plato; for they both divide the mind into two parts, and make one of
these partake of reason, and the other they represent without it. In
that which partakes of reason they place tranquillity, that is to say,
a placid and undisturbed constancy; to the other they assign the turbid
motions of anger and desire, which are contrary and opposite to reason.
Let this, then, be our principle, the spring of all our reasonings. But
notwithstanding, I shall use the partitions and definitions of the
Stoics in describing these perturbations; who seem to me to have shown
very great acuteness on this question.

VI. Zeno's definition, then, is this: "A perturbation" (which he calls
a [Greek: pathos]) "is a commotion of the mind repugnant to reason, and
against nature." Some of them define it even more briefly, saying that
a perturbation is a somewhat too vehement appetite; but by too vehement
they mean an appetite that recedes further from the constancy of
nature. But they would have the divisions of perturbations to arise
from two imagined goods, and from two imagined evils; and thus they
become four: from the good proceed lust and joy--joy having reference
to some present good, and lust to some future one. They suppose fear
and grief to proceed from evils: fear from something future, grief from
something present; for whatever things are dreaded as approaching
always occasion grief when present. But joy and lust depend on the
opinion of good; as lust, being inflamed and provoked, is carried on
eagerly towards what has the appearance of good; and joy is transported
and exults on obtaining what was desired: for we naturally pursue those
things that have the appearance of good, and avoid the contrary.
Wherefore, as soon as anything that has the appearance of good presents
itself, nature incites us to endeavor to obtain it. Now, where this
strong desire is consistent and founded on prudence, it is by the
Stoics called [Greek: boulêsis], and the name which we give it is
volition; and this they allow to none but their wise man, and define it
thus: Volition is a reasonable desire; but whatever is incited too
violently in opposition to reason, that is a lust, or an unbridled
desire, which is discoverable in all fools. And, therefore, when we are
affected so as to be placed in any good condition, we are moved in two
ways; for when the mind is moved in a placid and calm motion,
consistent with reason, that is called joy; but when it exults with a
vain, wanton exultation, or immoderate joy, then that feeling may be
called immoderate ecstasy or transport, which they define to be an
elation of the mind without reason. And as we naturally desire good
things, so in like manner we naturally seek to avoid what is evil; and
this avoidance of which, if conducted in accordance with reason, is
called caution; and this the wise man alone is supposed to have: but
that caution which is not under the guidance of reason, but is attended
with a base and low dejection, is called fear. Fear is, therefore,
caution destitute of reason. But a wise man is not affected by any
present evil; while the grief of a fool proceeds from being affected
with an imaginary evil, by which his mind is contracted and sunk, since
it is not under the dominion of reason. This, then, is the first
definition, which makes grief to consist in a shrinking of the mind
contrary to the dictates of reason. Thus, there are four perturbations,
and but three calm rational emotions; for grief has no exact opposite.

VII. But they insist upon it that all perturbations depend on opinion
and judgment; therefore they define them more strictly, in order not
only the better to show how blamable they are, but to discover how much
they are in our power. Grief, then, is a recent opinion of some present
evil, in which it seems to be right that the mind should shrink and be
dejected. Joy is a recent opinion of a present good, in which it seems
to be right that the mind should be elated. Fear is an opinion of an
impending evil which we apprehend will be intolerable. Lust is an
opinion of a good to come, which would be of advantage were it already
come, and present with us. But however I have named the judgments and
opinions of perturbations, their meaning is, not that merely the
perturbations consist in them, but that the effects likewise of these
perturbations do so; as grief occasions a kind of painful pricking, and
fear engenders a recoil or sudden abandonment of the mind, joy gives
rise to a profuse mirth, while lust is the parent of an unbridled habit
of coveting. But that imagination, which I have included in all the
above definitions, they would have to consist in assenting without
warrantable grounds. Now, every perturbation has many subordinate parts
annexed to it of the same kind. Grief is attended with enviousness
(_invidentia_)--I use that word for instruction's sake, though it is
not so common; because envy (_invidia_) takes in not only the person
who envies, but the person, too, who is envied--emulation, detraction,
pity, vexation, mourning, sadness, tribulation, sorrow, lamentation,
solicitude, disquiet of mind, pain, despair, and many other similar
feelings are so too. Under fear are comprehended sloth, shame, terror,
cowardice, fainting, confusion, astonishment. In pleasure they
comprehend malevolence--that is, pleased at another's
misfortune--delight, boastfulness, and the like. To lust they associate
anger, fury, hatred, enmity, discord, wants, desire, and other feelings
of that kind.

But they define these in this manner:

VIII. Enviousness (_invidentia_), they say, is a grief arising from the
prosperous circumstances of another, which are in no degree injurious
to the person who envies; for where any one grieves at the prosperity
of another, by which he is injured, such a one is not properly said to
envy--as when Agamemnon grieves at Hector's success; but where any one,
who is in no way hurt by the prosperity of another, is in pain at his
success, such a one envies indeed. Now the name "emulation" is taken in
a double sense, so that the same word may stand for praise and
dispraise: for the imitation of virtue is called emulation (however,
that sense of it I shall have no occasion for here, for that carries
praise with it); but emulation is also a term applied to grief at
another's enjoying what I desired to have, and am without. Detraction
(and I mean by that, jealousy) is a grief even at another's enjoying
what I had a great inclination for. Pity is a grief at the misery of
another who suffers wrongfully; for no one is moved by pity at the
punishment of a parricide or of a betrayer of his country. Vexation is
a pressing grief. Mourning is a grief at the bitter death of one who
was dear to you. Sadness is a grief attended with tears. Tribulation is
a painful grief. Sorrow, an excruciating grief. Lamentation, a grief
where we loudly bewail ourselves. Solicitude, a pensive grief. Trouble,
a continued grief. Affliction, a grief that harasses the body. Despair,
a grief that excludes all hope of better things to come. But those
feelings which are included under fear, they define thus: There is
sloth, which is a dread of some ensuing labor; shame and terror, which
affect the body--hence blushing attends shame; a paleness, and tremor,
and chattering of the teeth attend terror--cowardice, which is an
apprehension of some approaching evil; dread, a fear that unhinges the
mind, whence comes that line of Ennius,

    Then dread discharged all wisdom from my mind;

fainting is the associate and constant attendant on dread; confusion, a
fear that drives away all thought; alarm, a continued fear.

IX. The different species into which they divide pleasure come under
this description; so that malevolence is a pleasure in the misfortunes
of another, without any advantage to yourself; delight, a pleasure that
soothes the mind by agreeable impressions on the ear. What is said of
the ear may be applied to the sight, to the touch, smell, and taste.
All feelings of this kind are a sort of melting pleasure that dissolves
the mind. Boastfulness is a pleasure that consists in making an
appearance, and setting off yourself with insolence.--The subordinate
species of lust they define in this manner: Anger is a lust of
punishing any one who, as we imagine, has injured us without cause.
Heat is anger just forming and beginning to exist, which the Greeks
call [Greek: thymôsis]. Hatred is a settled anger. Enmity is anger
waiting for an opportunity of revenge. Discord is a sharper anger
conceived deeply in the mind and heart. Want an insatiable lust. Regret
is when one eagerly wishes to see a person who is absent. Now here they
have a distinction; so that with them regret is a lust conceived on
hearing of certain things reported of some one, or of many, which the
Greeks call [Greek: katêgorêmata], or predicaments; as that they are in
possession of riches and honors: but want is a lust for those very
honors and riches. But these definers make intemperance the fountain of
all these perturbations; which is an absolute revolt from the mind and
right reason--a state so averse to all rules of reason that the
appetites of the mind can by no means be governed and restrained. As,
therefore, temperance appeases these desires, making them obey right
reason, and maintains the well-weighed judgments of the mind, so
intemperance, which is in opposition to this, inflames, confounds, and
puts every state of the mind into a violent motion. Thus, grief and
fear, and every other perturbation of the mind, have their rise from
intemperance.

X. Just as distempers and sickness are bred in the body from the
corruption of the blood, and the too great abundance of phlegm and
bile, so the mind is deprived of its health, and disordered with
sickness, from a confusion of depraved opinions that are in opposition
to one another. From these perturbations arise, first, diseases, which
they call [Greek: nosêmata]; and also those feelings which are in
opposition to these diseases, and which admit certain faulty distastes
or loathings; then come sicknesses, which are called [Greek:
arrhôstêmata] by the Stoics, and these two have their opposite
aversions. Here the Stoics, especially Chrysippus, give themselves
unnecessary trouble to show the analogy which the diseases of the mind
have to those of the body: but, overlooking all that they say as of
little consequence, I shall treat only of the thing itself. Let us,
then, understand perturbation to imply a restlessness from the variety
and confusion of contradictory opinions; and that when this heat and
disturbance of the mind is of any standing, and has taken up its
residence, as it were, in the veins and marrow, then commence diseases
and sickness, and those aversions which are in opposition to these
diseases and sicknesses.

XI. What I say here may be distinguished in thought, though they are in
fact the same; inasmuch as they both have their rise from lust and joy.
For should money be the object of our desire, and should we not
instantly apply to reason, as if it were a kind of Socratic medicine to
heal this desire, the evil glides into our veins, and cleaves to our
bowels, and from thence proceeds a distemper or sickness, which, when
it is of any continuance, is incurable, and the name of this disease is
covetousness. It is the same with other diseases; as the desire of
glory, a passion for women, to which the Greeks give the name of
[Greek: philogyneia]: and thus all other diseases and sicknesses are
generated. But those feelings which are the contrary of these are
supposed to have fear for their foundation, as a hatred of women, such
as is displayed in the Woman-hater of Atilius; or the hatred of the
whole human species, as Timon is reported to have done, whom they call
the Misanthrope. Of the same kind is inhospitality. And all these
diseases proceed from a certain dread of such things as they hate and
avoid. But they define sickness of mind to be an overweening opinion,
and that fixed and deeply implanted in the heart, of something as very
desirable which is by no means so. What proceeds from aversion, they
define thus: a vehement idea of something to be avoided, deeply
implanted, and inherent in our minds, when there is no reason for
avoiding it; and this kind of opinion is a deliberate belief that one
understands things of which one is wholly ignorant. Now, sickness of
the mind has all these subordinate divisions: avarice, ambition,
fondness for women, obstinacy, gluttony, drunkenness, covetousness, and
other similar vices. But avarice is a violent opinion about money, as
if it were vehemently to be desired and sought after, which opinion is
deeply implanted and inherent in our minds; and the definition of all
the other similar feelings resembles these. But the definitions of
aversions are of this sort: inhospitality is a vehement opinion, deeply
implanted and inherent in your mind, that you should avoid a stranger.
Thus, too, the hatred of women, like that felt by Hippolytus, is
defined; and the hatred of the human species like that displayed by
Timon.

XII. But to come to the analogy of the state of body and mind, which I
shall sometimes make use of, though more sparingly than the Stoics.
Some men are more inclined to particular disorders than others; and,
therefore, we say that some people are rheumatic, others dropsical, not
because they are so at present, but because they are often so: some are
inclined to fear, others to some other perturbation. Thus in some there
is a continual anxiety, owing to which they are anxious; in some a
hastiness of temper, which differs from anger, as anxiety differs from
anguish: for all are not anxious who are sometimes vexed, nor are they
who are anxious always uneasy in that manner: as there is a difference
between being drunk and drunkenness; and it is one thing to be a lover,
another to be given to women. And this disposition of particular people
to particular disorders is very common: for it relates to all
perturbations; it appears in many vices, though it has no name. Some
are, therefore, said to be envious, malevolent, spiteful, fearful,
pitiful, from a propensity to those perturbations, not from their being
always carried away by them. Now this propensity to these particular
disorders may be called a sickness from analogy with the body; meaning,
that is to say, nothing more than a propensity towards sickness. But
with regard to whatever is good, as some are more inclined to different
good qualities than others, we may call this a facility or tendency:
this tendency to evil is a proclivity or inclination to falling; but
where anything is neither good nor bad, it may have the former name.

XIII. Even as there may be, with respect to the body, a disease, a
sickness, and a defect, so it is with the mind. They call that a
disease where the whole body is corrupted; they call that sickness
where a disease is attended with a weakness, and that a defect where
the parts of the body are not well compacted together; from whence it
follows that the members are misshapen, crooked, and deformed. So that
these two, a disease and sickness, proceed from a violent concussion
and perturbation of the health of the whole body; but a defect
discovers itself even when the body is in perfect health. But a disease
of the mind is distinguishable only in thought from a sickness. But a
viciousness is a habit or affection discordant and inconsistent with
itself through life. Thus it happens that, in the one case, a disease
and sickness may arise from a corruption of opinions; in the other
case, the consequence may be inconstancy and inconsistency. For every
vice of the mind does not imply a disunion of parts; as is the case
with those who are not far from being wise men. With them there is that
affection which is inconsistent with itself while it is foolish; but it
is not distorted, nor depraved. But diseases and sicknesses are parts
of viciousness; but it is a question whether perturbations are parts of
the same, for vices are permanent affections: perturbations are such as
are restless; so that they cannot be parts of permanent ones. As there
is some analogy between the nature of the body and mind in evil, so is
there in good; for the distinctions of the body are beauty, strength,
health, firmness, quickness of motion: the same may be said of the
mind. The body is said to be in a good state when all those things on
which health depends are consistent: the same may be said of the mind
when its judgments and opinions are not at variance with one another.
And this union is the virtue of the mind, which, according to some
people, is temperance itself; others make it consist in an obedience to
the precepts of temperance, and a compliance with them, not allowing it
to be any distinct species of itself. But, be it one or the other, it
is to be found only in a wise man. But there is a certain soundness of
mind, which even a fool may have, when the perturbation of his mind is
removed by the care and management of his physicians. And as what is
called beauty arises from an exact proportion of the limbs, together
with a certain sweetness of complexion, so the beauty of the mind
consists in an equality and constancy of opinions and judgments, joined
to a certain firmness and stability, pursuing virtue, or containing
within itself the very essence of virtue. Besides, we give the very
same names to the faculties of the mind as we do to the powers of the
body, the nerves, and other powers of action. Thus the velocity of the
body is called swiftness: a praise which we ascribe to the mind, from
its running over in its thoughts so many things in so short a time.

XIV. Herein, indeed, the mind and body are unlike: that though the mind
when in perfect health may be visited by sickness, as the body may, yet
the body may be disordered without our fault; the mind cannot. For all
the disorders and perturbations of the mind proceed from a neglect of
reason; these disorders, therefore, are confined to men: the beasts are
not subject to such perturbations, though they act sometimes as if they
had reason. There is a difference, too, between ingenious and dull men;
the ingenious, like the Corinthian brass, which is long before it
receives rust, are longer before they fall into these perturbations,
and are recovered sooner: the case is different with the dull. Nor does
the mind of an ingenious man fall into every kind of perturbation, for
it never yields to any that are brutish and savage; and some of their
perturbations have at first even the appearance of humanity, as mercy,
grief, and fear. But the sicknesses and diseases of the mind are
thought to be harder to eradicate than those leading vices which are in
opposition to virtues; for vices may be removed, though the diseases of
the mind should continue, which diseases are not cured with that
expedition with which vices are removed. I have now acquainted you with
the arguments which the Stoics put forth with such exactness; which
they call logic, from their close arguing: and since my discourse has
got clear of these rocks, I will proceed with the remainder of it,
provided I have been sufficiently clear in what I have already said,
considering the obscurity of the subject I have treated.

_A._ Clear enough; but should there be occasion for a more exact
inquiry, I shall take another opportunity of asking you. I expect you
now to hoist your sails, as you just now called them, and proceed on
your course.

XV. _M._ Since I have spoken before of virtue in other places, and
shall often have occasion to speak again (for a great many questions
that relate to life and manners arise from the spring of virtue); and
since, as I say, virtue consists in a settled and uniform affection of
mind, making those persons praiseworthy who are possessed of her, she
herself also, independent of anything else, without regard to any
advantage, must be praiseworthy; for from her proceed good
inclinations, opinions, actions, and the whole of right reason; though
virtue may be defined in a few words to be right reason itself. The
opposite to this is viciousness (for so I choose to translate what the
Greeks call [Greek: kakia], rather than by perverseness; for
perverseness is the name of a particular vice; but viciousness includes
all), from whence arise those perturbations which, as I just now said,
are turbid and violent motions of the mind, repugnant to reason, and
enemies in a high degree to the peace of the mind and a tranquil life,
for they introduce piercing and anxious cares, and afflict and
debilitate the mind through fear; they violently inflame our hearts
with exaggerated appetite, which is in reality an impotence of mind,
utterly irreconcilable with temperance and moderation, which we
sometimes call desire, and sometimes lust, and which, should it even
attain the object of its wishes, immediately becomes so elated that it
loses all its resolution, and knows not what to pursue; so that he was
in the right who said "that exaggerated pleasure was the very greatest
of mistakes." Virtue, then, alone can effect the cure of these evils.

XVI. For what is not only more miserable, but more base and sordid,
than a man afflicted, weakened, and oppressed with grief? And little
short of this misery is one who dreads some approaching evil, and who,
through faintheartedness, is under continual suspense. The poets, to
express the greatness of this evil, imagine a stone to hang over the
head of Tantalus, as a punishment for his wickedness, his pride, and
his boasting. And this is the common punishment of folly; for there
hangs over the head of every one whose mind revolts from reason some
similar fear. And as these perturbations of the mind, grief and fear,
are of a most wasting nature, so those two others, though of a more
merry cast (I mean lust, which is always coveting something with
eagerness, and empty mirth, which is an exulting joy), differ very
little from madness. Hence you may understand what sort of person he is
whom we call at one time moderate, at another modest or temperate, at
another constant and virtuous; while sometimes we include all these
names in the word frugality, as the crown of all; for if that word did
not include all virtues, it would never have been proverbial to say
that a frugal man does everything rightly. But when the Stoics apply
this saying to their wise man, they seem to exalt him too much, and to
speak of him with too much admiration.

XVII. Whoever, then, through moderation and constancy, is at rest in
his mind, and in calm possession of himself, so as neither to pine with
care, nor be dejected with fear, nor to be inflamed with desire,
coveting something greedily, nor relaxed by extravagant mirth--such a
man is that identical wise man whom we are inquiring for: he is the
happy man, to whom nothing in this life seems intolerable enough to
depress him; nothing exquisite enough to transport him unduly. For what
is there in this life that can appear great to him who has acquainted
himself with eternity and the utmost extent of the universe? For what
is there in human knowledge, or the short span of this life, that can
appear great to a wise man? whose mind is always so upon its guard that
nothing can befall him which is unforeseen, nothing which is
unexpected, nothing, in short, which is new. Such a man takes so exact
a survey on all sides of him, that he always knows the proper place and
spot to live in free from all the troubles and annoyances of life, and
encounters every accident that fortune can bring upon him with a
becoming calmness. Whoever conducts himself in this manner will be free
from grief, and from every other perturbation; and a mind free from
these feelings renders men completely happy; whereas a mind disordered
and drawn off from right and unerring reason loses at once, not only
its resolution, but its health.--Therefore the thoughts and
declarations of the Peripatetics are soft and effeminate, for they say
that the mind must necessarily be agitated, but at the same time they
lay down certain bounds beyond which that agitation is not to proceed.
And do you set bounds to vice? or is it no vice to disobey reason? Does
not reason sufficiently declare that there is no real good which you
should desire too ardently, or the possession of which you should allow
to transport you? and that there is no evil that should be able to
overwhelm you, or the suspicion of which should distract you? and that
all these things assume too melancholy or too cheerful an appearance
through our own error? But if fools find this error lessened by time,
so that, though the cause remains the same, they are not affected, in
the same manner, after some time, as they were at first, why, surely a
wise man ought not to be influenced at all by it. But what are those
degrees by which we are to limit it? Let us fix these degrees in grief,
a difficult subject, and one much canvassed.--Fannius writes that P.
Rutilius took it much to heart that his brother was refused the
consulship; but he seems to have been too much affected by this
disappointment, for it was the occasion of his death: he ought,
therefore, to have borne it with more moderation. But let us suppose
that while he was bearing this with moderation, the death of his
children had intervened; here would have started a fresh grief, which,
admitting it to be moderate in itself, yet still must have been a great
addition to the other. Now, to these let us add some acute pains of
body, the loss of his fortune, blindness, banishment. Supposing, then,
each separate misfortune to occasion a separate additional grief, the
whole would be too great to be supportable.

XVIII. The man who attempts to set bounds to vice acts like one who
should throw himself headlong from Leucate, persuaded that he could
stop himself whenever he pleased. Now, as that is impossible, so a
perturbed and disordered mind cannot restrain itself, and stop where it
pleases. Certainly whatever is bad in its increase is bad in its birth.
Now grief and all other perturbations are doubtless baneful in their
progress, and have, therefore, no small share of evil at the beginning;
for they go on of themselves when once they depart from reason, for
every weakness is self-indulgent, and indiscreetly launches out, and
does not know where to stop. So that it makes no difference whether you
approve of moderate perturbations of mind, or of moderate injustice,
moderate cowardice, and moderate intemperance; for whoever prescribes
bounds to vice admits a part of it, which, as it is odious of itself,
becomes the more so as it stands on slippery ground, and, being once
set forward, glides on headlong, and cannot by any means be stopped.

XIX. Why should I say more? Why should I add that the Peripatetics say
that these perturbations, which we insist upon it should be extirpated,
are not only natural, but were given to men by nature for a good
purpose? They usually talk in this manner. In the first place, they say
much in praise of anger; they call it the whetstone of courage, and
they say that angry men exert themselves most against an enemy or
against a bad citizen: that those reasons are of little weight which
are the motives of men who think thus, as--it is a just war; it becomes
us to fight for our laws, our liberties, our country: they will allow
no force to these arguments unless our courage is warmed by anger.--Nor
do they confine their argument to warriors; but their opinion is that
no one can issue any rigid commands without some bitterness and anger.
In short, they have no notion of an orator either accusing or even
defending a client without he is spurred on by anger. And though this
anger should not be real, still they think his words and gestures ought
to wear the appearance of it, so that the action of the orator may
excite the anger of his hearer. And they deny that any man has ever
been seen who does not know what it is to be angry; and they name what
we call lenity by the bad appellation of indolence. Nor do they commend
only this lust (for anger is, as I defined it above, the lust of
revenge), but they maintain that kind of lust or desire to be given us
by nature for very good purposes, saying that no one can execute
anything well but what he is in earnest about. Themistocles used to
walk in the public places in the night because he could not sleep; and
when asked the reason, his answer was, that Miltiades's trophies kept
him awake. Who has not heard how Demosthenes used to watch, who said
that it gave him pain if any mechanic was up in a morning at his work
before him? Lastly, they urge that some of the greatest philosophers
would never have made that progress in their studies without some
ardent desire spurring them on.--We are informed that Pythagoras,
Democritus, and Plato visited the remotest parts of the world; for they
thought that they ought to go wherever anything was to be learned. Now,
it is not conceivable that these things could be effected by anything
but by the greatest ardor of mind.

XX. They say that even grief, which we have already said ought to be
avoided as a monstrous and fierce beast, was appointed by nature, not
without some good purpose, in order that men should lament when they
had committed a fault, well knowing they had exposed themselves to
correction, rebuke, and ignominy; for they think that those who can
bear ignominy and infamy without pain have acquired a complete impunity
for all sorts of crimes; for with them reproach is a stronger check
than conscience. From whence we have that scene in Afranius borrowed
from common life; for when the abandoned son saith, "Wretched that I
am!" the severe father replies,

    Let him but grieve, no matter what the cause.

And they say the other divisions of sorrow have their use; that pity
incites us to hasten to the assistance of others, and to alleviate the
calamities of men who have undeservedly fallen into them; that even
envy and detraction are not without their use, as when a man sees that
another person has attained what he cannot, or observes another to be
equally successful with himself; that he who should take away fear
would take away all industry in life, which those men exert in the
greatest degree who are afraid of the laws and of the magistrates, who
dread poverty, ignominy, death, and pain. But while they argue thus,
they allow indeed of these feelings being retrenched, though they deny
that they either can or should be plucked up by the roots; so that
their opinion is that mediocrity is best in everything. When they
reason in this manner, what think you--is what they say worth attending
to or not?

_A._ I think it is. I wait, therefore, to hear what you will say in
reply to them.

XXI. _M._ Perhaps I may find something to say; but I will make this
observation first: do you take notice with what modesty the Academics
behave themselves? for they speak plainly to the purpose. The
Peripatetics are answered by the Stoics; they have my leave to fight it
out, who think myself no otherwise concerned than to inquire for what
may seem to be most probable. Our present business is, then, to see if
we can meet with anything in this question which is the probable, for
beyond such approximation to truth as that human nature cannot proceed.
The definition of a perturbation, as Zeno, I think, has rightly
determined it, is thus: That a perturbation is a commotion of the mind
against nature, in opposition to right reason; or, more briefly, thus,
that a perturbation is a somewhat too vehement appetite; and when he
says somewhat too vehement, he means such as is at a greater distance
from the constant course of nature. What can I say to these
definitions? The greater part of them we have from those who dispute
with sagacity and acuteness: some of them expressions, indeed, such as
the "ardors of the mind," and "the whetstones of virtue," savoring of
the pomp of rhetoricians. As to the question, if a brave man can
maintain his courage without becoming angry, it may be questioned with
regard to the gladiators; though we often observe much resolution even
in them: they meet, converse, they make objections and demands, they
agree about terms, so that they seem calm rather than angry. But let us
admit a man of the name of Placideianus, who was one of that trade, to
be in such a mind, as Lucilius relates of him,

    If for his blood you thirst, the task be mine;
    His laurels at my feet he shall resign;
    Not but I know, before I reach his heart,
    First on myself a wound he will impart.
    I hate the man; enraged I fight, and straight
    In action we had been, but that I wait
    Till each his sword had fitted to his hand.
    My rage I scarce can keep within command.

XXII. But we see Ajax in Homer advancing to meet Hector in battle
cheerfully, without any of this boisterous wrath. For he had no sooner
taken up his arms than the first step which he made inspired his
associates with joy, his enemies with fear; so that even Hector, as he
is represented by Homer,[49] trembling, condemned himself for having
challenged him to fight. Yet these heroes conversed together, calmly
and quietly, before they engaged; nor did they show any anger or
outrageous behavior during the combat. Nor do I imagine that Torquatus,
the first who obtained this surname, was in a rage when he plundered
the Gaul of his collar; or that Marcellus's courage at Clastidium was
only owing to his anger. I could almost swear that Africanus, with whom
we are better acquainted, from our recollection of him being more
recent, was noways inflamed by anger when he covered Alienus Pelignus
with his shield, and drove his sword into the enemy's breast. There may
be some doubt of L. Brutus, whether he was not influenced by
extraordinary hatred of the tyrant, so as to attack Aruns with more
than usual rashness; for I observe that they mutually killed each other
in close fight. Why, then, do you call in the assistance of anger?
Would courage, unless it began to get furious, lose its energy? What!
do you imagine that Hercules, whom the very courage which you would try
to represent as anger raised to heaven, was angry when he engaged the
Erymanthian boar, or the Nemæan lion? Or was Theseus in a passion when
he seized on the horns of the Marathonian bull? Take care how you make
courage to depend in the least on rage. For anger is altogether
irrational, and that is not courage which is void of reason.

XXIII. We ought to hold all things here in contempt; death is to be
looked on with indifference; pains and labors must be considered as
easily supportable. And when these sentiments are established on
judgment and conviction, then will that stout and firm courage take
place; unless you attribute to anger whatever is done with vehemence,
alacrity, and spirit. To me, indeed, that very Scipio[50] who was chief
priest, that favorer of the saying of the Stoics, "That no private man
could be a wise man," does not seem to be angry with Tiberius Gracchus,
even when he left the consul in a hesitating frame of mind, and, though
a private man himself, commanded, with the authority of a consul, that
all who meant well to the republic should follow him. I do not know
whether I have done anything in the republic that has the appearance of
courage; but if I have, I certainly did not do it in wrath. Doth
anything come nearer madness than anger? And indeed Ennius has well
defined it as the beginning of madness. The changing color, the
alteration of our voice, the look of our eyes, our manner of fetching
our breath, the little command we have over our words and actions, how
little do all these things indicate a sound mind! What can make a worse
appearance than Homer's Achilles, or Agamemnon, during the quarrel? And
as to Ajax, anger drove him into downright madness, and was the
occasion of his death. Courage, therefore, does not want the assistance
of anger; it is sufficiently provided, armed, and prepared of itself.
We may as well say that drunkenness or madness is of service to
courage, because those who are mad or drunk often do a great many
things with unusual vehemence. Ajax was always brave; but still he was
most brave when he was in that state of frenzy:

    The greatest feat that Ajax e'er achieved
    Was, when his single arm the Greeks relieved.
    Quitting the field; urged on by rising rage,
    Forced the declining troops again t'engage.

Shall we say, then, that madness has its use?

XXIV. Examine the definitions of courage: you will find it does not
require the assistance of passion. Courage is, then, an affection of
mind that endures all things, being itself in proper subjection to the
highest of all laws; or it may be called a firm maintenance of judgment
in supporting or repelling everything that has a formidable appearance,
or a knowledge of what is formidable or otherwise, and maintaining
invariably a stable judgment of all such things, so as to bear them or
despise them; or, in fewer words, according to Chrysippus (for the
above definitions are Sphærus's, a man of the first ability as a
layer-down of definitions, as the Stoics think. But they are all pretty
much alike: they give us only common notions, some one way, and some
another). But what is Chrysippus's definition? Fortitude, says he, is
the knowledge of all things that are bearable, or an affection of the
mind which bears and supports everything in obedience to the chief law
of reason without fear. Now, though we should attack these men in the
same manner as Carneades used to do, I fear they are the only real
philosophers; for which of these definitions is there which does not
explain that obscure and intricate notion of courage which every man
conceives within himself? And when it is thus explained, what can a
warrior, a commander, or an orator want more? And no one can think that
they will be unable to behave themselves courageously without anger.
What! do not even the Stoics, who maintain that all fools are mad, make
the same inferences? for, take away perturbations, especially a
hastiness of temper, and they will appear to talk very absurdly. But
what they assert is this: they say that all fools are mad, as all
dunghills stink; not that they always do so, but stir them, and you
will perceive it. And in like manner, a warm-tempered man is not always
in a passion; but provoke him, and you will see him run mad. Now, that
very warlike anger, which is of such service in war, what is the use of
it to him when he is at home with his wife, children, and family? Is
there, then, anything that a disturbed mind can do better than one
which is calm and steady? Or can any one be angry without a
perturbation of mind? Our people, then, were in the right, who, as all
vices depend on our manners, and nothing is worse than a passionate
disposition, called angry men the only morose men.[51]

XXV. Anger is in no wise becoming in an orator, though it is not amiss
to affect it. Do you imagine that I am angry when in pleading I use any
extraordinary vehemence and sharpness? What! when I write out my
speeches after all is over and past, am I then angry while writing? Or
do you think Æsopus was ever angry when he acted, or Accius was so when
he wrote? Those men, indeed, act very well, but the orator acts better
than the player, provided he be really an orator; but, then, they carry
it on without passion, and with a composed mind. But what wantonness is
it to commend lust! You produce Themistocles and Demosthenes; to these
you add Pythagoras, Democritus, and Plato. What! do you then call
studies lust? But these studies of the most excellent and admirable
things, such as those were which you bring forward on all occasions,
ought to be composed and tranquil; and what kind of philosophers are
they who commend grief, than which nothing is more detestable? Afranius
has said much to this purpose:

    Let him but grieve, no matter what the cause.

But he spoke this of a debauched and dissolute youth. But we are
inquiring into the conduct of a constant and wise man. We may even
allow a centurion or standard-bearer to be angry, or any others, whom,
not to explain too far the mysteries of the rhetoricians, I shall not
mention here; for to touch the passions, where reason cannot be come
at, may have its use; but my inquiry, as I often repeat, is about a
wise man.

XXVI. But even envy, detraction, pity, have their use. Why should you
pity rather than assist, if it is in your power to do so? Is it because
you cannot be liberal without pity? We should not take sorrows on
ourselves upon another's account; but we ought to relieve others of
their grief if we can. But to detract from another's reputation, or to
rival him with that vicious emulation which resembles an enmity, of
what use can that conduct be? Now, envy implies being uneasy at
another's good because one does not enjoy it one's self; but detraction
is the being uneasy at another's good, merely because he enjoys it. How
can it be right that you should voluntarily grieve, rather than take
the trouble of acquiring what you want to have? for it is madness in
the highest degree to desire to be the only one that has any particular
happiness. But who can with correctness speak in praise of a mediocrity
of evils? Can any one in whom there is lust or desire be otherwise than
libidinous or desirous? or can a man who is occupied by anger avoid
being angry? or can one who is exposed to any vexation escape being
vexed? or if he is under the influence of fear, must he not be fearful?
Do we look, then, on the libidinous, the angry, the anxious, and the
timid man, as persons of wisdom, of excellence? of which I could speak
very copiously and diffusely, but I wish to be as concise as possible.
And so I will merely say that wisdom is an acquaintance with all divine
and human affairs, and a knowledge of the cause of everything. Hence it
is that it imitates what is divine, and looks upon all human concerns
as inferior to virtue. Did you, then, say that it was your opinion that
such a man was as naturally liable to perturbation as the sea is
exposed to winds? What is there that can discompose such gravity and
constancy? Anything sudden or unforeseen? How can anything of this kind
befall one to whom nothing is sudden and unforeseen that can happen to
man? Now, as to their saying that redundancies should be pared off, and
only what is natural remain, what, I pray you, can be natural which may
be too exuberant?

XXVII. All these assertions proceed from the roots of errors, which
must be entirely plucked up and destroyed, not pared and amputated. But
as I suspect that your inquiry is not so much respecting the wise man
as concerning yourself (for you allow that he is free from all
perturbations, and you would willingly be so too yourself), let us see
what remedies there are which may be applied by philosophy to the
diseases of the mind. There is certainly some remedy; nor has nature
been so unkind to the human race as to have discovered so many things
salutary to the body, and none which are medicinal to the mind. She has
even been kinder to the mind than to the body; inasmuch as you must
seek abroad for the assistance which the body requires, while the mind
has all that it requires within itself. But in proportion as the
excellency of the mind is of a higher and more divine nature, the more
diligence does it require; and therefore reason, when it is well
applied, discovers what is best, but when it is neglected, it becomes
involved in many errors. I shall apply, then, all my discourse to you;
for though you pretend to be inquiring about the wise man, your inquiry
may possibly be about yourself. Various, then, are the cures of those
perturbations which I have expounded, for every disorder is not to be
appeased the same way. One medicine must be applied to the man who
mourns, another to the pitiful, another to the person who envies; for
there is this difference to be maintained in all the four
perturbations: we are to consider whether our discourse had better be
directed to perturbations in general, which are a contempt of reason,
or a somewhat too vehement appetite; or whether it would be better
applied to particular descriptions, as, for instance, to fear, lust,
and the rest, and whether it appears preferable to endeavor to remove
that which has occasioned the grief, or rather to attempt wholly to
eradicate every kind of grief. As, should any one grieve that he is
poor, the question is, Would you maintain poverty to be no evil, or
would you contend that a man ought not to grieve at anything? Certainly
this last is the best course; for should you not convince him with
regard to poverty, you must allow him to grieve; but if you remove
grief by particular arguments, such as I used yesterday, the evil of
poverty is in some manner removed.

XXVIII. But any perturbation of the mind of this sort may be, as it
were, wiped away by the method of appeasing the mind, if you succeed in
showing that there is no good in that which has given rise to joy and
lust, nor any evil in that which has occasioned fear or grief. But
certainly the most effectual cure is to be achieved by showing that all
perturbations are of themselves vicious, and have nothing natural or
necessary in them. As we see, grief itself is easily softened when we
charge those who grieve with weakness and an effeminate mind; or when
we commend the gravity and constancy of those who bear calmly whatever
befalls them here, as accidents to which all men are liable; and,
indeed, this is generally the feeling of those who look on these as
real evils, but yet think they should be borne with resignation. One
imagines pleasure to be a good, another money; and yet the one may be
called off from intemperance, the other from covetousness. The other
method and address, which, at the same time that it removes the false
opinion, withdraws the disorder, has more subtlety in it; but it seldom
succeeds, and is not applicable to vulgar minds, for there are some
diseases which that medicine can by no means remove. For, should any
one be uneasy because he is without virtue, without courage, destitute
of a sense of duty or honesty, his anxiety proceeds from a real evil;
and yet we must apply another method of cure to him, and such a one as
all the philosophers, however they may differ about other things, agree
in. For they must necessarily agree in this, that commotions of the
mind in opposition to right reason are vicious; and that even admitting
those things to be evils which occasion fear or grief, and those to be
goods which provoke desire or joy, yet that very commotion itself is
vicious; for we mean by the expressions magnanimous and brave, one who
is resolute, sedate, grave, and superior to everything in this life;
but one who either grieves, or fears, or covets, or is transported with
passion, cannot come under that denomination; for these things are
consistent only with those who look on the things of this world as
things with which their minds are unequal to contend.

XXIX. Wherefore, as I before said, the philosophers have all one method
of cure, so that we need say nothing about what sort of thing that is
which disturbs the mind, but we must speak only concerning the
perturbation itself. Thus, first, with regard to desire itself, when
the business is only to remove that, the inquiry is not to be, whether
that thing be good or evil which provokes lust, but the lust itself is
to be removed; so that whether whatever is honest is the chief good, or
whether it consists in pleasure, or in both these things together, or
in the other three kinds of goods, yet should there be in any one too
vehement an appetite for even virtue itself, the whole discourse should
be directed to the deterring him from that vehemence. But human nature,
when placed in a conspicuous point of view, gives us every argument for
appeasing the mind, and, to make this the more distinct, the laws and
conditions of life should be explained in our discourse. Therefore, it
was not without reason that Socrates is reported, when Euripides was
exhibiting his play called Orestes, to have repeated the first three
verses of that tragedy--

    What tragic story men can mournful tell,
    Whate'er from fate or from the gods befell,
    That human nature can support--[52]

But, in order to persuade those to whom any misfortune has happened
that they can and ought to bear it, it is very useful to set before
them an enumeration of other persons who have borne similar calamities.
Indeed, the method of appeasing grief was explained in my dispute of
yesterday, and in my book on Consolation, which I wrote in the midst of
my own grief; for I was not myself so wise a man as to be insensible to
grief, and I used this, notwithstanding Chrysippus's advice to the
contrary, who is against applying a medicine to the agitations of the
mind while they are fresh; but I did it, and committed a violence on
nature, that the greatness of my grief might give way to the greatness
of the medicine.

XXX. But fear borders upon grief, of which I have already said enough;
but I must say a little more on that. Now, as grief proceeds from what
is present, so does fear from future evil; so that some have said that
fear is a certain part of grief: others have called fear the harbinger
of trouble, which, as it were, introduces the ensuing evil. Now, the
reasons that make what is present supportable, make what is to come
very contemptible; for, with regard to both, we should take care to do
nothing low or grovelling, soft or effeminate, mean or abject. But,
notwithstanding we should speak of the inconstancy, imbecility, and
levity of fear itself, yet it is of very great service to speak
contemptuously of those very things of which we are afraid. So that it
fell out very well, whether it was by accident or design, that I
disputed the first and second day on death and pain--the two things
that are the most dreaded: now, if what I then said was approved of, we
are in a great degree freed from fear. And this is sufficient, as far
as regards the opinion of evils.

XXXI. Proceed we now to what are goods--that is to say, to joy and
desire. To me, indeed, one thing alone seems to embrace the question of
all that relates to the perturbations of the mind--the fact, namely,
that all perturbations are in our own power; that they are taken up
upon opinion, and are voluntary. This error, then, must be got rid of;
this opinion must be removed; and, as with regard to imagined evils, we
are to make them more supportable, so with respect to goods, we are to
lessen the violent effects of those things which are called great and
joyous. But one thing is to be observed, that equally relates both to
good and evil: that, should it be difficult to persuade any one that
none of those things which disturb the mind are to be looked on as good
or evil, yet a different cure is to be applied to different feelings;
and the malevolent person is to be corrected by one way of reasoning,
the lover by another, the anxious man by another, and the fearful by
another: and it would be easy for any one who pursues the best approved
method of reasoning, with regard to good and evil, to maintain that no
fool can be affected with joy, as he never can have anything good. But,
at present, my discourse proceeds upon the common received notions.
Let, then, honors, riches, pleasures, and the rest be the very good
things which they are imagined to be; yet a too elevated and exulting
joy on the possession of them is unbecoming; just as, though it might
be allowable to laugh, to giggle would be indecent. Thus, a mind
enlarged by joy is as blamable as a contraction of it by grief; and
eager longing is a sign of as much levity in desiring as immoderate joy
is in possessing; and, as those who are too dejected are said to be
effeminate, so they who are too elated with joy are properly called
volatile; and as feeling envy is a part of grief, and the being pleased
with another's misfortune is a kind of joy, both these feelings are
usually corrected by showing the wildness and insensibility of them:
and as it becomes a man to be cautious, but it is unbecoming in him to
be fearful, so to be pleased is proper, but to be joyful improper. I
have, in order that I might be the better understood, distinguished
pleasure from joy. I have already said above, that a contraction of the
mind can never be right, but that an elation of it may; for the joy of
Hector in Nævius is one thing--

    'Tis joy indeed to hear my praises sung
    By you, who are the theme of honor's tongue--

but that of the character in Trabea another: "The kind procuress,
allured by my money, will observe my nod, will watch my desires, and
study my will. If I but move the door with my little finger, instantly
it flies open; and if Chrysis should unexpectedly discover me, she will
run with joy to meet me, and throw herself into my arms."

Now he will tell you how excellent he thinks this:

    Not even fortune herself is so fortunate.

XXXII. Any one who attends the least to the subject will be convinced
how unbecoming this joy is. And as they are very shameful who are
immoderately delighted with the enjoyment of venereal pleasures, so are
they very scandalous who lust vehemently after them. And all that which
is commonly called love (and, believe me, I can find out no other name
to call it by) is of such a trivial nature that nothing, I think, is to
be compared to it: of which Cæcilius says,

    I hold the man of every sense bereaved
    Who grants not Love to be of Gods the chief:
    Whose mighty power whate'er is good effects,
    Who gives to each his beauty and defects:
    Hence, health and sickness; wit and folly, hence,
    The God that love and hatred doth dispense!

An excellent corrector of life this same poetry, which thinks that
love, the promoter of debauchery and vanity, should have a place in the
council of the Gods! I am speaking of comedy, which could not subsist
at all without our approving of these debaucheries. But what said that
chief of the Argonauts in tragedy?

    My life I owe to honor less than love.

What, then, are we to say of this love of Medea?--what a train of
miseries did it occasion! And yet the same woman has the assurance to
say to her father, in another poet, that she had a husband

    Dearer by love than ever fathers were.

XXXIII. However, we may allow the poets to trifle, in whose fables we
see Jupiter himself engaged in these debaucheries: but let us apply to
the masters of virtue--the philosophers who deny love to be anything
carnal; and in this they differ from Epicurus, who, I think, is not
much mistaken. For what is that love of friendship? How comes it that
no one is in love with a deformed young man, or a handsome old one? I
am of opinion that this love of men had its rise from the Gymnastics of
the Greeks, where these kinds of loves are admissible and permitted;
therefore Ennius spoke well:

    The censure of this crime to those is due
    Who naked bodies first exposed to view.

Now, supposing them chaste, which I think is hardly possible, they are
uneasy and distressed, and the more so because they contain and refrain
themselves. But, to pass over the love of women, where nature has
allowed more liberty, who can misunderstand the poets in their rape of
Ganymede, or not apprehend what Laius says, and what he desires, in
Euripides? Lastly, what have the principal poets and the most learned
men published of themselves in their poems and songs? What doth Alcæus,
who was distinguished in his own republic for his bravery, write on the
love of young men? And as for Anacreon's poetry, it is wholly on love.
But Ibycus of Rhegium appears, from his writings, to have had this love
stronger on him than all the rest.

XXXIV. Now we see that the loves of all these writers were entirely
libidinous. There have arisen also some among us philosophers (and
Plato is at the head of them, whom Dicæarchus blames not without
reason) who have countenanced love. The Stoics, in truth, say, not only
that their wise man may be a lover, but they even define love itself as
an endeavor to originate friendship out of the appearance of beauty.
Now, provided there is any one in the nature of things without desire,
without care, without a sigh, such a one may be a lover; for he is free
from all lust: but I have nothing to say to him, as it is lust of which
I am now speaking. But should there be any love--as there certainly
is--which is but little, or perhaps not at all, short of madness, such
as his is in the Leucadia--

    Should there be any God whose care I am--

it is incumbent on all the Gods to see that he enjoys his amorous
pleasure.

    Wretch that I am!

Nothing is more true, and he says very appropriately,

    What, are you sane, who at this rate lament?

He seems even to his friends to be out of his senses: then how tragical
he becomes!

    Thy aid, divine Apollo, I implore,
    And thine, dread ruler of the wat'ry store!
    Oh! all ye winds, assist me!

He thinks that the whole world ought to apply itself to help his love:
he excludes Venus alone, as unkind to him.

    Thy aid, O Venus, why should I invoke?

He thinks Venus too much employed in her own lust to have regard to
anything else, as if he himself had not said and committed these
shameful things from lust.

XXXV. Now, the cure for one who is affected in this manner is to show
how light, how contemptible, how very trifling he is in what he
desires; how he may turn his affections to another object, or
accomplish his desires by some other means; or else to persuade him
that he may entirely disregard it: sometimes he is to be led away to
objects of another kind, to study, business, or other different
engagements and concerns: very often the cure is effected by change of
place, as sick people, that have not recovered their strength, are
benefited by change of air. Some people think an old love may be driven
out by a new one, as one nail drives out another: but, above all
things, the man thus afflicted should be advised what madness love is:
for of all the perturbations of the mind, there is not one which is
more vehement; for (without charging it with rapes, debaucheries,
adultery, or even incest, the baseness of any of these being very
blamable; not, I say, to mention these) the very perturbation of the
mind in love is base of itself, for, to pass over all its acts of
downright madness, what weakness do not those very things which are
looked upon as indifferent argue?

    Affronts and jealousies, jars, squabbles, wars,
    Then peace again. The man who seeks to fix
    These restless feelings, and to subjugate
    Them to some regular law, is just as wise
    As one who'd try to lay down rules by which
    Men should go mad.[53]

Now, is not this inconstancy and mutability of mind enough to deter any
one by its own deformity? We are to demonstrate, as was said of every
perturbation, that there are no such feelings which do not consist
entirely of opinion and judgment, and are not owing to ourselves. For
if love were natural, all would be in love, and always so, and all love
the same object; nor would one be deterred by shame, another by
reflection, another by satiety.

XXXVI. Anger, too, when it disturbs the mind any time, leaves no room
to doubt its being madness: by the instigation of which we see such
contention as this between brothers:

    Where was there ever impudence like thine?
    Who on thy malice ever could refine?[54]

You know what follows: for abuses are thrown out by these brothers with
great bitterness in every other verse; so that you may easily know them
for the sons of Atreus, of that Atreus who invented a new punishment
for his brother:

    I who his cruel heart to gall am bent,
    Some new, unheard-of torment must invent.

Now, what were these inventions? Hear Thyestes:

    My impious brother fain would have me eat
    My children, and thus serves them up for meat.

To what length now will not anger go? even as far as madness. Therefore
we say, properly enough, that angry men have given up their power, that
is, they are out of the power of advice, reason, and understanding; for
these ought to have power over the whole mind. Now, you should put
those out of the way whom they endeavor to attack till they have
recollected themselves; but what does recollection here imply but
getting together again the dispersed parts of their mind into their
proper place? or else you must beg and entreat them, if they have the
means of revenge, to defer it to another opportunity, till their anger
cools. But the expression of cooling implies, certainly, that there was
a heat raised in their minds in opposition to reason; from which
consideration that saying of Archytas is commended, who being somewhat
provoked at his steward, "How would I have treated you," said he, "if I
had not been in a passion?"

XXXVII. Where, then, are they who say that anger has its use? Can
madness be of any use? But still it is natural. Can anything be natural
that is against reason? or how is it, if anger is natural, that one
person is more inclined to anger than another? or that the lust of
revenge should cease before it has revenged itself? or that any one
should repent of what he had done in a passion? as we see that
Alexander the king did, who could scarcely keep his hands from himself,
when he had killed his favorite Clytus, so great was his compunction.
Now who that is acquainted with these instances can doubt that this
motion of the mind is altogether in opinion and voluntary? for who can
doubt that disorders of the mind, such as covetousness and a desire of
glory, arise from a great estimation of those things by which the mind
is disordered? from whence we may understand that every perturbation of
the mind is founded in opinion. And if boldness--that is to say, a firm
assurance of mind--is a kind of knowledge and serious opinion not
hastily taken up, then diffidence is a fear of an expected and
impending evil; and if hope is an expectation of good, fear must, of
course, be an expectation of evil. Thus fear and other perturbations
are evils. Therefore, as constancy proceeds from knowledge, so does
perturbation from error. Now, they who are said to be naturally
inclined to anger, or to pity, or to envy, or to any feeling of this
kind, their minds are constitutionally, as it were, in bad health; yet
they are curable, as the disposition of Socrates is said to have been;
for when Zopyrus, who professed to know the character of every one from
his person, had heaped a great many vices on him in a public assembly,
he was laughed at by others, who could perceive no such vices in
Socrates; but Socrates kept him in countenance by declaring that such
vices were natural to him, but that he had got the better of them by
his reason. Therefore, as any one who has the appearance of the best
constitution may yet appear to be naturally rather inclined to some
particular disorder, so different minds may be more particularly
inclined to different diseases. But as to those men who are said to be
vicious, not by nature, but their own fault, their vices proceed from
wrong opinions of good and bad things, so that one is more prone than
another to different motions and perturbations. But, just as it is in
the case of the body, an inveterate disease is harder to be got rid of
than a sudden disorder; and it is more easy to cure a fresh tumor in
the eyes than to remove a defluxion of any continuance.

XXXVIII. But as the cause of perturbations is now discovered, for all
of them arise from the judgment or opinion, or volition, I shall put an
end to this discourse. But we ought to be assured, since the boundaries
of good and evil are now discovered, as far as they are discoverable by
man, that nothing can be desired of philosophy greater or more useful
than the discussions which we have held these four days. For besides
instilling a contempt of death, and relieving pain so as to enable men
to bear it, we have added the appeasing of grief, than which there is
no greater evil to man. For though every perturbation of mind is
grievous, and differs but little from madness, yet we are used to say
of others when they are under any perturbation, as of fear, joy, or
desire, that they are agitated and disturbed; but of those who give
themselves up to grief, that they are miserable, afflicted, wretched,
unhappy. So that it doth not seem to be by accident, but with reason
proposed by you, that I should discuss grief, and the other
perturbations separately; for there lies the spring and head of all our
miseries; but the cure of grief, and of other disorders, is one and the
same in that they are all voluntary, and founded on opinion; we take
them on ourselves because it seems right so to do. Philosophy
undertakes to eradicate this error, as the root of all our evils: let
us therefore surrender ourselves to be instructed by it, and suffer
ourselves to be cured; for while these evils have possession of us, we
not only cannot be happy, but cannot be right in our minds. We must
either deny that reason can effect anything, while, on the other hand,
nothing can be done right without reason, or else, since philosophy
depends on the deductions of reason, we must seek from her, if we would
be good or happy, every help and assistance for living well and
happily.




BOOK V.

WHETHER VIRTUE ALONE BE SUFFICIENT FOR A HAPPY LIFE.


I. This fifth day, Brutus, shall put an end to our Tusculan
Disputations: on which day we discussed your favorite subject. For I
perceive from that book which you wrote for me with the greatest
accuracy, as well as from your frequent conversation, that you are
clearly of this opinion, that virtue is of itself sufficient for a
happy life: and though it may be difficult to prove this, on account of
the many various strokes of fortune, yet it is a truth of such a nature
that we should endeavor to facilitate the proof of it. For among all
the topics of philosophy, there is not one of more dignity or
importance. For as the first philosophers must have had some inducement
to neglect everything for the search of the best state of life: surely,
the inducement must have been the hope of living happily, which
impelled them to devote so much care and pains to that study. Now, if
virtue was discovered and carried to perfection by them, and if virtue
is a sufficient security for a happy life, who can avoid thinking the
work of philosophizing excellently recommended by them, and undertaken
by me? But if virtue, as being subject to such various and uncertain
accidents, were but the slave of fortune, and were not of sufficient
ability to support herself, I am afraid that it would seem desirable
rather to offer up prayers, than to rely on our own confidence in
virtue as the foundation for our hope of a happy life. And, indeed,
when I reflect on those troubles with which I have been so severely
exercised by fortune, I begin to distrust this opinion; and sometimes
even to dread the weakness and frailty of human nature, for I am afraid
lest, when nature had given us infirm bodies, and had joined to them
incurable diseases and intolerable pains, she perhaps also gave us
minds participating in these bodily pains, and harassed also with
troubles and uneasinesses, peculiarly their own. But here I correct
myself for forming my judgment of the power of virtue more from the
weakness of others, or of myself perhaps, than from virtue itself: for
she herself (provided there is such a thing as virtue; and your uncle
Brutus has removed all doubt of it) has everything that can befall
mankind in subjection to her; and by disregarding such things, she is
far removed from being at all concerned at human accidents; and, being
free from every imperfection, she thinks that nothing which is external
to herself can concern her. But we, who increase every approaching evil
by our fear, and every present one by our grief, choose rather to
condemn the nature of things than our own errors.

II. But the amendment of this fault, and of all our other vices and
offences, is to be sought for in philosophy: and as my own inclination
and desire led me, from my earliest youth upward, to seek her
protection, so, under my present misfortunes, I have had recourse to
the same port from whence I set out, after having been tossed by a
violent tempest. O Philosophy, thou guide of life! thou discoverer of
virtue and expeller of vices! what had not only I myself, but the whole
life of man, been without you? To you it is that we owe the origin of
cities; you it was who called together the dispersed race of men into
social life; you united them together, first, by placing them near one
another, then by marriages, and lastly, by the communication of speech
and languages. You have been the inventress of laws; you have been our
instructress in morals and discipline; to you we fly for refuge; from
you we implore assistance; and as I formerly submitted to you in a
great degree, so now I surrender up myself entirely to you. For one day
spent well, and agreeably to your precepts, is preferable to an
eternity of error. Whose assistance, then, can be of more service to me
than yours, when you have bestowed on us tranquillity of life, and
removed the fear of death? But Philosophy is so far from being praised
as much as she has deserved by mankind, that she is wholly neglected by
most men, and actually evil spoken of by many. Can any person speak ill
of the parent of life, and dare to pollute himself thus with parricide,
and be so impiously ungrateful as to accuse her whom he ought to
reverence, even were he less able to appreciate the advantages which he
might derive from her? But this error, I imagine, and this darkness has
spread itself over the minds of ignorant men, from their not being able
to look so far back, and from their not imagining that those men by
whom human life was first improved were philosophers; for though we see
philosophy to have been of long standing, yet the name must be
acknowledged to be but modern.

III. But, indeed, who can dispute the antiquity of philosophy, either
in fact or name? For it acquired this excellent name from the ancients,
by the knowledge of the origin and causes of everything, both divine
and human. Thus those seven [Greek: Sophoi], as they were considered
and called by the Greeks, have always been esteemed and called wise men
by us; and thus Lycurgus many ages before, in whose time, before the
building of this city, Homer is said to have lived, as well as Ulysses
and Nestor in the heroic ages, are all handed down to us by tradition
as having really been what they were called, wise men; nor would it
have been said that Atlas supported the heavens, or that Prometheus was
bound to Caucasus, nor would Cepheus, with his wife, his son-in-law,
and his daughter have been enrolled among the constellations, but that
their more than human knowledge of the heavenly bodies had transferred
their names into an erroneous fable. From whence all who occupied
themselves in the contemplation of nature were both considered and
called wise men; and that name of theirs continued to the age of
Pythagoras, who is reported to have gone to Phlius, as we find it
stated by Heraclides Ponticus, a very learned man, and a pupil of
Plato, and to have discoursed very learnedly and copiously on certain
subjects with Leon, prince of the Phliasii; and when Leon, admiring his
ingenuity and eloquence, asked him what art he particularly professed,
his answer was, that he was acquainted with no art, but that he was a
philosopher. Leon, surprised at the novelty of the name, inquired what
he meant by the name of philosopher, and in what philosophers differed
from other men; on which Pythagoras replied, "That the life of man
seemed to him to resemble those games which were celebrated with the
greatest possible variety of sports and the general concourse of all
Greece. For as in those games there were some persons whose object was
glory and the honor of a crown, to be attained by the performance of
bodily exercises, so others were led thither by the gain of buying and
selling, and mere views of profit; but there was likewise one class of
persons, and they were by far the best, whose aim was neither applause
nor profit, but who came merely as spectators through curiosity, to
observe what was done, and to see in what manner things were carried on
there. And thus, said he, we come from another life and nature unto
this one, just as men come out of some other city, to some much
frequented mart; some being slaves to glory, others to money; and there
are some few who, taking no account of anything else, earnestly look
into the nature of things; and these men call themselves studious of
wisdom, that is, philosophers: and as there it is the most reputable
occupation of all to be a looker-on without making any acquisition, so
in life, the contemplating things, and acquainting one's self with
them, greatly exceeds every other pursuit of life."

IV. Nor was Pythagoras the inventor only of the name, but he enlarged
also the thing itself, and, when he came into Italy after this
conversation at Phlius, he adorned that Greece, which is called Great
Greece, both privately and publicly, with the most excellent
institutions and arts; but of his school and system I shall, perhaps,
find another opportunity to speak. But numbers and motions, and the
beginning and end of all things, were the subjects of the ancient
philosophy down to Socrates, who was a pupil of Archelaus, who had been
the disciple of Anaxagoras. These made diligent inquiry into the
magnitude of the stars, their distances, courses, and all that relates
to the heavens. But Socrates was the first who brought down philosophy
from the heavens, placed it in cities, introduced it into families, and
obliged it to examine into life and morals, and good and evil. And his
different methods of discussing questions, together with the variety of
his topics, and the greatness of his abilities, being immortalized by
the memory and writings of Plato, gave rise to many sects of
philosophers of different sentiments, of all which I have principally
adhered to that one which, in my opinion, Socrates himself followed;
and argue so as to conceal my own opinion, while I deliver others from
their errors, and so discover what has the greatest appearance of
probability in every question. And the custom Carneades adopted with
great copiousness and acuteness, and I myself have often given in to it
on many occasions elsewhere, and in this manner, too, I disputed
lately, in my Tusculan villa; indeed, I have sent you a book of the
four former days' discussions; but the fifth day, when we had seated
ourselves as before, what we were to dispute on was proposed thus:

V. _A._ I do not think virtue can possibly be sufficient for a happy
life.

_M._ But my friend Brutus thinks so, whose judgment, with submission, I
greatly prefer to yours.

_A._ I make no doubt of it; but your regard for him is not the business
now: the question is now, what is the real character of that quality of
which I have declared my opinion. I wish you to dispute on that.

_M._ What! do you deny that virtue can possibly be sufficient for a
happy life?

_A._ It is what I entirely deny.

_M._ What! is not virtue sufficient to enable us to live as we ought,
honestly, commendably, or, in fine, to live well?

_A._ Certainly sufficient.

_M._ Can you, then, help calling any one miserable who lives ill? or
will you deny that any one who you allow lives well must inevitably
live happily?

_A._ Why may I not? for a man may be upright in his life, honest,
praiseworthy, even in the midst of torments, and therefore live well.
Provided you understand what I mean by well; for when I say well, I
mean with constancy, and dignity, and wisdom, and courage; for a man
may display all these qualities on the rack; but yet the rack is
inconsistent with a happy life.

_M._ What, then? is your happy life left on the outside of the prison,
while constancy, dignity, wisdom, and the other virtues, are
surrendered up to the executioner, and bear punishment and pain without
reluctance?

_A._ You must look out for something new if you would do any good.
These things have very little effect on me, not merely from their being
common, but principally because, like certain light wines that will not
bear water, these arguments of the Stoics are pleasanter to taste than
to swallow. As when that assemblage of virtues is committed to the
rack, it raises so reverend a spectacle before our eyes that happiness
seems to hasten on towards them, and not to suffer them to be deserted
by her. But when you take your attention off from this picture and
these images of the virtues to the truth and the reality, what remains
without disguise is, the question whether any one can be happy in
torment? Wherefore let us now examine that point, and not be under any
apprehensions, lest the virtues should expostulate, and complain that
they are forsaken by happiness. For if prudence is connected with every
virtue, then prudence itself discovers this, that all good men are not
therefore happy; and she recollects many things of Marcus Atilius[55],
Quintus Cæpio[56], Marcus Aquilius[57]; and prudence herself, if these
representations are more agreeable to you than the things themselves,
restrains happiness when it is endeavoring to throw itself into
torments, and denies that it has any connection with pain and torture.

VI. _M._ I can easily bear with your behaving in this manner, though it
is not fair in you to prescribe to me how you would have me carry on
this discussion. But I ask you if I have effected anything or nothing
in the preceding days?

_A._ Yes; something was done, some little matter indeed.

_M._ But if that is the case, this question is settled, and almost put
an end to.

_A._ How so?

_M._ Because turbulent motions and violent agitations of the mind, when
it is raised and elated by a rash impulse, getting the better of
reason, leave no room for a happy life. For who that fears either pain
or death, the one of which is always present, the other always
impending, can be otherwise than miserable? Now, supposing the same
person--which is often the case--to be afraid of poverty, ignominy,
infamy, or weakness, or blindness, or, lastly, slavery, which doth not
only befall individual men, but often even the most powerful nations;
now can any one under the apprehension of these evils be happy? What
shall we say of him who not only dreads these evils as impending, but
actually feels and bears them at present? Let us unite in the same
person banishment, mourning, the loss of children; now, how can any one
who is broken down and rendered sick in body and mind by such
affliction be otherwise than very miserable indeed? What reason, again,
can there be why a man should not rightly enough be called miserable
whom we see inflamed and raging with lust, coveting everything with an
insatiable desire, and, in proportion as he derives more pleasure from
anything, thirsting the more violently after them? And as to a man
vainly elated, exulting with an empty joy, and boasting of himself
without reason, is not he so much the more miserable in proportion as
he thinks himself happier? Therefore, as these men are miserable, so,
on the other hand, those are happy who are alarmed by no fears, wasted
by no griefs, provoked by no lusts, melted by no languid pleasures that
arise from vain and exulting joys. We look on the sea as calm when not
the least breath of air disturbs its waves; and, in like manner, the
placid and quiet state of the mind is discovered when unmoved by any
perturbation. Now, if there be any one who holds the power of fortune,
and everything human, everything that can possibly befall any man, as
supportable, so as to be out of the reach of fear or anxiety, and if
such a man covets nothing, and is lifted up by no vain joy of mind,
what can prevent his being happy? And if these are the effects of
virtue, why cannot virtue itself make men happy?

VII. _A._ But the other of these two propositions is undeniable, that
they who are under no apprehensions, who are noways uneasy, who covet
nothing, who are lifted up by no vain joy, are happy: and therefore I
grant you that. But as for the other, that is not now in a fit state
for discussion; for it has been proved by your former arguments that a
wise man is free from every perturbation of mind.

_M._ Doubtless, then, the dispute is over; for the question appears to
have been entirely exhausted.

_A._ I think, indeed, that that is almost the case.

_M._ But yet that is more usually the case with the mathematicians than
philosophers. For when the geometricians teach anything, if what they
have before taught relates to their present subject, they take that for
granted which has been already proved, and explain only what they had
not written on before. But the philosophers, whatever subject they have
in hand, get together everything that relates to it, notwithstanding
they may have dilated on it somewhere else. Were not that the case, why
should the Stoics say so much on that question, Whether virtue was
abundantly sufficient to a happy life? when it would have been answer
enough that they had before taught that nothing was good but what was
honorable; for, as this had been proved, the consequence must be that
virtue was sufficient to a happy life; and each premise may be made to
follow from the admission of the other, so that if it be admitted that
virtue is sufficient to secure a happy life, it may also be inferred
that nothing is good except what is honorable. They, however, do not
proceed in this manner; for they would separate books about what is
honorable, and what is the chief good; and when they have demonstrated
from the one that virtue has power enough to make life happy, yet they
treat this point separately; for everything, and especially a subject
of such great consequence, should be supported by arguments and
exhortations which belong to that alone. For you should have a care how
you imagine philosophy to have uttered anything more noble, or that she
has promised anything more fruitful or of greater consequence, for,
good Gods! doth she not engage that she will render him who submits to
her laws so accomplished as to be always armed against fortune, and to
have every assurance within himself of living well and happily--that he
shall, in short, be forever happy? But let us see what she will
perform? In the mean while, I look upon it as a great thing that she
has even made such a promise. For Xerxes, who was loaded with all the
rewards and gifts of fortune, not satisfied with his armies of horse
and foot, nor the multitude of his ships, nor his infinite treasure of
gold, offered a reward to any one who could find out a new pleasure;
and yet, when it was discovered, he was not satisfied with it; nor can
there ever be an end to lust. I wish we could engage any one by a
reward to produce something the better to establish us in this belief.

VIII. _A._ I wish that, indeed, myself; but I want a little
information. For I allow that in what you have stated the one
proposition is the consequence of the other; that as, if what is
honorable be the only good, it must follow that a happy life is the
effect of virtue: so that if a happy life consists in virtue, nothing
can be good but virtue. But your friend Brutus, on the authority of
Aristo and Antiochus, does not see this; for he thinks the case would
be the same even if there were anything good besides virtue.

_M._ What, then? do you imagine that I am going to argue against
Brutus?

_A._ You may do what you please; for it is not for me to prescribe what
you shall do.

_M._ How these things agree together shall be examined somewhere else;
for I frequently discussed that point with Antiochus, and lately with
Aristo, when, during the period of my command as general, I was lodging
with him at Athens. For to me it seemed that no one could possibly be
happy under any evil; but a wise man might be afflicted with evil, if
there are any things arising from body or fortune deserving the name of
evils. These things were said, which Antiochus has inserted in his
books in many places--that virtue itself was sufficient to make life
happy, but yet not perfectly happy; and that many things derive their
names from the predominant portion of them, though they do not include
everything, as strength, health, riches, honor, and glory: which
qualities are determined by their kind, not their number. Thus a happy
life is so called from its being so in a great degree, even though it
should fall short in some point. To clear this up is not absolutely
necessary at present, though it seems to be said without any great
consistency; for I cannot imagine what is wanting to one that is happy
to make him happier, for if anything be wanting to him, he cannot be so
much as happy; and as to what they say, that everything is named and
estimated from its predominant portion, that may be admitted in some
things. But when they allow three kinds of evils--when any one is
oppressed with every imaginable evil of two kinds, being afflicted with
adverse fortune, and having at the same time his body worn out and
harassed with all sorts of pains--shall we say that such a one is but
little short of a happy life, to say nothing about the happiest
possible life?

IX. This is the point which Theophrastus was unable to maintain; for
after he had once laid down the position that stripes, torments,
tortures, the ruin of one's country, banishment, the loss of children,
had great influence on men's living miserably and unhappily, he durst
not any longer use any high and lofty expressions when he was so low
and abject in his opinion. How right he was is not the question; he
certainly was consistent. Therefore, I am not for objecting to
consequences where the premises are admitted. But this most elegant and
learned of all the philosophers is not taken to task very severely when
he asserts his three kinds of good; but he is attacked by every one for
that book which he wrote on a happy life, in which book he has many
arguments why one who is tortured and racked cannot be happy. For in
that book he is supposed to say that a man who is placed on the wheel
(that is a kind of torture in use among the Greeks) cannot attain to a
completely happy life. He nowhere, indeed, says so absolutely; but what
he says amounts to the same thing. Can I, then, find fault with him,
after having allowed that pains of the body are evils, that the ruin of
a man's fortunes is an evil, if he should say that every good man is
not happy, when all those things which he reckons as evils may befall a
good man? The same Theophrastus is found fault with by all the books
and schools of the philosophers for commending that sentence in his
Callisthenes,

    Fortune, not wisdom, rules the life of man.

They say never did philosopher assert anything so languid. They are
right, indeed, in that; but I do not apprehend anything could be more
consistent, for if there are so many good things that depend on the
body, and so many foreign to it that depend on chance and fortune, is
it inconsistent to say that fortune, which governs everything, both
what is foreign and what belongs to the body, has greater power than
counsel. Or would we rather imitate Epicurus? who is often excellent in
many things which he speaks, but quite indifferent how consistent he
may be, or how much to the purpose he is speaking. He commends spare
diet, and in that he speaks as a philosopher; but it is for Socrates or
Antisthenes to say so, and not for one who confines all good to
pleasure. He denies that any one can live pleasantly unless he lives
honestly, wisely, and justly. Nothing is more dignified than this
assertion, nothing more becoming a philosopher, had he not measured
this very expression of living honestly, justly, and wisely by
pleasure. What could be better than to assert that fortune interferes
but little with a wise man? But does he talk thus, who, after he has
said that pain is the greatest evil, or the only evil, might himself be
afflicted with the sharpest pains all over his body, even at the time
he is vaunting himself the most against fortune? And this very thing,
too, Metrodorus has said, but in better language: "I have anticipated
you, Fortune; I have caught you, and cut off every access, so that you
cannot possibly reach me." This would be excellent in the mouth of
Aristo the Chian, or Zeno the Stoic, who held nothing to be an evil but
what was base; but for you, Metrodorus, to anticipate the approaches of
fortune, who confine all that is good to your bowels and marrow--for
you to say so, who define the chief good by a strong constitution of
body, and well-assured hope of its continuance--for you to cut off
every access of fortune! Why, you may instantly be deprived of that
good. Yet the simple are taken with these propositions, and a vast
crowd is led away by such sentences to become their followers.

X. But it is the duty of one who would argue accurately to consider not
what is said, but what is said consistently. As in that very opinion
which we have adopted in this discussion, namely, that every good man
is always happy, it is clear what I mean by good men: I call those both
wise and good men who are provided and adorned with every virtue. Let
us see, then, who are to be called happy. I imagine, indeed, that those
men are to be called so who are possessed of good without any alloy of
evil; nor is there any other notion connected with the word that
expresses happiness but an absolute enjoyment of good without any evil.
Virtue cannot attain this, if there is anything good besides itself.
For a crowd of evils would present themselves, if we were to allow
poverty, obscurity, humility, solitude, the loss of friends, acute
pains of the body, the loss of health, weakness, blindness, the ruin of
one's country, banishment, slavery, to be evils; for a wise man may be
afflicted by all these evils, numerous and important as they are, and
many others also may be added, for they are brought on by chance, which
may attack a wise man; but if these things are evils, who can maintain
that a wise man is always happy when all these evils may light on him
at the same time? I therefore do not easily agree with my friend
Brutus, nor with our common masters, nor those ancient ones, Aristotle,
Speusippus, Xenocrates, Polemon, who reckon all that I have mentioned
above as evils, and yet they say that a wise man is always happy; nor
can I allow them, because they are charmed with this beautiful and
illustrious title, which would very well become Pythagoras, Socrates,
and Plato, to persuade my mind that strength, health, beauty, riches,
honors, power, with the beauty of which they are ravished, are
contemptible, and that all those things which are the opposites of
these are not to be regarded. Then might they declare openly, with a
loud voice, that neither the attacks of fortune, nor the opinion of the
multitude, nor pain, nor poverty, occasions them any apprehensions; and
that they have everything within themselves, and that there is nothing
whatever which they consider as good but what is within their own
power. Nor can I by any means allow the same person who falls into the
vulgar opinion of good and evil to make use of these expressions, which
can only become a great and exalted man. Struck with which glory, up
starts Epicurus, who, with submission to the Gods, thinks a wise man
always happy. He is much charmed with the dignity of this opinion, but
he never would have owned that, had he attended to himself; for what is
there more inconsistent than for one who could say that pain was the
greatest or the only evil to think also that a wise man can possibly
say in the midst of his torture, How sweet is this! We are not,
therefore, to form our judgment of philosophers from detached
sentences, but from their consistency with themselves, and their
ordinary manner of talking.

XI. _A._ You compel me to be of your opinion; but have a care that you
are not inconsistent yourself.

_M._ In what respect?

_A._ Because I have lately read your fourth book on Good and Evil: and
in that you appeared to me, while disputing against Cato, to be
endeavoring to show, which in my opinion means to prove, that Zeno and
the Peripatetics differ only about some new words; but if we allow
that, what reason can there be, if it follows from the arguments of
Zeno that virtue contains all that is necessary to a happy life, that
the Peripatetics should not be at liberty to say the same? For, in my
opinion, regard should be had to the thing, not to words.

_M._ What! you would convict me from my own words, and bring against me
what I had said or written elsewhere. You may act in that manner with
those who dispute by established rules. We live from hand to mouth, and
say anything that strikes our mind with probability, so that we are the
only people who are really at liberty. But, since I just now spoke of
consistency, I do not think the inquiry in this place is, if the
opinion of Zeno and his pupil Aristo be true that nothing is good but
what is honorable; but, admitting that, then, whether the whole of a
happy life can be rested on virtue alone. Wherefore, if we certainly
grant Brutus this, that a wise man is always happy, how consistent he
is, is his own business; for who, indeed, is more worthy than himself
of the glory of that opinion? Still, we may maintain that such a man is
more happy than any one else.

XII. Though Zeno the Cittiæan, a stranger and an inconsiderable coiner
of words, appears to have insinuated himself into the old philosophy;
still, the prevalence of this opinion is due to the authority of Plato,
who often makes use of this expression, "That nothing but virtue can be
entitled to the name of good," agreeably to what Socrates says in
Plato's Gorgias; for it is there related that when some one asked him
if he did not think Archelaus the son of Perdiccas, who was then looked
upon as a most fortunate person, a very happy man, "I do not know,"
replied he, "for I never conversed with him." "What! is there no other
way you can know it by?" "None at all." "You cannot, then, pronounce of
the great king of the Persians whether he is happy or not?" "How can I,
when I do not know how learned or how good a man he is?" "What! do you
imagine that a happy life depends on that?" "My opinion entirely is,
that good men are happy, and the wicked miserable." "Is Archelaus,
then, miserable?" "Certainly, if unjust." Now, does it not appear to
you that he is here placing the whole of a happy life in virtue alone?
But what does the same man say in his funeral oration? "For," saith he,
"whoever has everything that relates to a happy life so entirely
dependent on himself as not to be connected with the good or bad
fortune of another, and not to be affected by, or made in any degree
uncertain by, what befalls another; and whoever is such a one has
acquired the best rule of living; he is that moderate, that brave, that
wise man, who submits to the gain and loss of everything, and
especially of his children, and obeys that old precept; for he will
never be too joyful or too sad, because he depends entirely upon
himself."

XIII. From Plato, therefore, all my discourse shall be deduced, as if
from some sacred and hallowed fountain. Whence can I, then, more
properly begin than from Nature, the parent of all? For whatsoever she
produces (I am not speaking only of animals, but even of those things
which have sprung from the earth in such a manner as to rest on their
own roots) she designed it to be perfect in its respective kind. So
that among trees and vines, and those lower plants and trees which
cannot advance themselves high above the earth, some are evergreen,
others are stripped of their leaves in winter, and, warmed by the
spring season, put them out afresh, and there are none of them but what
are so quickened by a certain interior motion, and their own seeds
enclosed in every one, so as to yield flowers, fruit, or berries, that
all may have every perfection that belongs to it; provided no violence
prevents it. But the force of Nature itself may be more easily
discovered in animals, as she has bestowed sense on them. For some
animals she has taught to swim, and designed to be inhabitants of the
water; others she has enabled to fly, and has willed that they should
enjoy the boundless air; some others she has made to creep, others to
walk. Again, of these very animals, some are solitary, some gregarious,
some wild, others tame, some hidden and buried beneath the earth, and
every one of these maintains the law of nature, confining itself to
what was bestowed on it, and unable to change its manner of life. And
as every animal has from nature something that distinguishes it, which
every one maintains and never quits; so man has something far more
excellent, though everything is said to be excellent by comparison. But
the human mind, being derived from the divine reason, can be compared
with nothing but with the Deity itself, if I may be allowed the
expression. This, then, if it is improved, and when its perception is
so preserved as not to be blinded by errors, becomes a perfect
understanding, that is to say, absolute reason, which is the very same
as virtue. And if everything is happy which wants nothing, and is
complete and perfect in its kind, and that is the peculiar lot of
virtue, certainly all who are possessed of virtue are happy. And in
this I agree with Brutus, and also with Aristotle, Xenocrates,
Speusippus, Polemon.

XIV. To me such are the only men who appear completely happy; for what
can he want to a complete happy life who relies on his own good
qualities, or how can he be happy who does not rely on them? But he who
makes a threefold division of goods must necessarily be diffident, for
how can he depend on having a sound body, or that his fortune shall
continue? But no one can be happy without an immovable, fixed, and
permanent good. What, then, is this opinion of theirs? So that I think
that saying of the Spartan may be applied to them, who, on some
merchant's boasting before him that he had despatched ships to every
maritime coast, replied that a fortune which depended on ropes was not
very desirable. Can there be any doubt that whatever may be lost cannot
be properly classed in the number of those things which complete a
happy life? for of all that constitutes a happy life, nothing will
admit of withering, or growing old, or wearing out, or decaying; for
whoever is apprehensive of any loss of these things cannot be happy:
the happy man should be safe, well fenced, well fortified, out of the
reach of all annoyance, not like a man under trifling apprehensions,
but free from all such. As he is not called innocent who but slightly
offends, but he who offends not at all, so it is he alone who is to be
considered without fear who is free from all fear, not he who is but in
little fear. For what else is courage but an affection of mind that is
ready to undergo perils, and patient in the endurance of pain and labor
without any alloy of fear? Now, this certainly could not be the case if
there were anything else good but what depended on honesty alone. But
how can any one be in possession of that desirable and much-coveted
security (for I now call a freedom from anxiety a security, on which
freedom a happy life depends) who has, or may have, a multitude of
evils attending him? How can he be brave and undaunted, and hold
everything as trifles which can befall a man? for so a wise man should
do, unless he be one who thinks that everything depends on himself.
Could the Lacedæmonians without this, when Philip threatened to prevent
all their attempts, have asked him if he could prevent their killing
themselves? Is it not easier, then, to find one man of such a spirit as
we are inquiring after, than to meet with a whole city of such men?
Now, if to this courage I am speaking of we add temperance, that it may
govern all our feelings and agitations, what can be wanting to complete
his happiness who is secured by his courage from uneasiness and fear,
and is prevented from immoderate desires and immoderate insolence of
joy by temperance? I could easily show that virtue is able to produce
these effects, but that I have explained on the foregoing days.

XV. But as the perturbations of the mind make life miserable, and
tranquillity renders it happy; and as these perturbations are of two
sorts, grief and fear, proceeding from imagined evils, and as
immoderate joy and lust arise from a mistake about what is good, and as
all these feelings are in opposition to reason and counsel; when you
see a man at ease, quite free and disengaged from such troublesome
commotions, which are so much at variance with one another, can you
hesitate to pronounce such a one a happy man? Now, the wise man is
always in such a disposition; therefore the wise man is always happy.
Besides, every good is pleasant; whatever is pleasant may be boasted
and talked of; whatever may be boasted of is glorious; but whatever is
glorious is certainly laudable, and whatever is laudable doubtless,
also, honorable: whatever, then, is good is honorable (but the things
which they reckon as goods they themselves do not call honorable);
therefore what is honorable alone is good. Hence it follows that a
happy life is comprised in honesty alone. Such things, then, are not to
be called or considered goods, when a man may enjoy an abundance of
them, and yet be most miserable. Is there any doubt but that a man who
enjoys the best health, and who has strength and beauty, and his senses
flourishing in their utmost quickness and perfection--suppose him
likewise, if you please, nimble and active, nay, give him riches,
honors, authority, power, glory--now, I say, should this person, who is
in possession of all these, be unjust, intemperate, timid, stupid, or
an idiot--could you hesitate to call such a one miserable? What, then,
are those goods in the possession of which you may be very miserable?
Let us see if a happy life is not made up of parts of the same nature,
as a heap implies a quantity of grain of the same kind. And if this be
once admitted, happiness must be compounded of different good things,
which alone are honorable; if there is any mixture of things of another
sort with these, nothing honorable can proceed from such a composition:
now, take away honesty, and how can you imagine anything happy? For
whatever is good is desirable on that account; whatever is desirable
must certainly be approved of; whatever you approve of must be looked
on as acceptable and welcome. You must consequently impute dignity to
this; and if so, it must necessarily be laudable: therefore, everything
that is laudable is good. Hence it follows that what is honorable is
the only good. And should we not look upon it in this light, there will
be a great many things which we must call good.

XVI. I forbear to mention riches, which, as any one, let him be ever so
unworthy, may have them, I do not reckon among goods; for what is good
is not attainable by all. I pass over notoriety and popular fame,
raised by the united voice of knaves and fools. Even things which are
absolute nothings may be called goods; such as white teeth, handsome
eyes, a good complexion, and what was commended by Euryclea, when she
was washing Ulysses's feet, the softness of his skin and the mildness
of his discourse. If you look on these as goods, what greater encomiums
can the gravity of a philosopher be entitled to than the wild opinion
of the vulgar and the thoughtless crowd? The Stoics give the name of
excellent and choice to what the others call good: they call them so,
indeed; but they do not allow them to complete a happy life. But these
others think that there is no life happy without them; or, admitting it
to be happy, they deny it to be the most happy. But our opinion is,
that it is the most happy; and we prove it from that conclusion of
Socrates. For thus that author of philosophy argued: that as the
disposition of a man's mind is, so is the man; such as the man is, such
will be his discourse; his actions will correspond with his discourse,
and his life with his actions. But the disposition of a good man's mind
is laudable; the life, therefore, of a good man is laudable; it is
honorable, therefore, because laudable; the unavoidable conclusion from
which is that the life of good men is happy. For, good Gods! did I not
make it appear, by my former arguments--or was I only amusing myself
and killing time in what I then said?--that the mind of a wise man was
always free from every hasty motion which I call a perturbation, and
that the most undisturbed peace always reigned in his breast? A man,
then, who is temperate and consistent, free from fear or grief, and
uninfluenced by any immoderate joy or desire, cannot be otherwise than
happy; but a wise man is always so, therefore he is always happy.
Moreover, how can a good man avoid referring all his actions and all
his feelings to the one standard of whether or not it is laudable? But
he does refer everything to the object of living happily: it follows,
then, that a happy life is laudable; but nothing is laudable without
virtue: a happy life, then, is the consequence of virtue. And this is
the unavoidable conclusion to be drawn from these arguments.

XVII. A wicked life has nothing which we ought to speak of or glory in;
nor has that life which is neither happy nor miserable. But there is a
kind of life that admits of being spoken of, and gloried in, and
boasted of, as Epaminondas saith,

    The wings of Sparta's pride my counsels clipp'd.

And Africanus boasts,

    Who, from beyond Mæotis to the place
    Where the sun rises, deeds like mine can trace?

If, then, there is such a thing as a happy life, it is to be gloried
in, spoken of, and commended by the person who enjoys it; for there is
nothing excepting that which can be spoken of or gloried in; and when
that is once admitted, you know what follows. Now, unless an honorable
life is a happy life, there must, of course, be something preferable to
a happy life; for that which is honorable all men will certainly grant
to be preferable to anything else. And thus there will be something
better than a happy life: but what can be more absurd than such an
assertion? What! when they grant vice to be effectual to the rendering
life miserable, must they not admit that there is a corresponding power
in virtue to make life happy? For contraries follow from contraries.
And here I ask what weight they think there is in the balance of
Critolaus, who having put the goods of the mind into one scale, and the
goods of the body and other external advantages into the other, thought
the goods of the mind outweighed the others so far that they would
require the whole earth and sea to equalize the scale.

XVIII. What hinders Critolaus, then, or that gravest of philosophers,
Xenocrates (who raises virtue so high, and who lessens and depreciates
everything else), from not only placing a happy life, but the happiest
possible life, in virtue? And, indeed, if this were not the case,
virtue would be absolutely lost. For whoever is subject to grief must
necessarily be subject to fear too, for fear is an uneasy apprehension
of future grief; and whoever is subject to fear is liable to dread,
timidity, consternation, cowardice. Therefore, such a person may, some
time or other, be defeated, and not think himself concerned with that
precept of Atreus,

    And let men so conduct themselves in life,
    As to be always strangers to defeat.

But such a man, as I have said, will be defeated; and not only
defeated, but made a slave of. But we would have virtue always free,
always invincible; and were it not so, there would be an end of virtue.
But if virtue has in herself all that is necessary for a good life, she
is certainly sufficient for happiness: virtue is certainly sufficient,
too, for our living with courage; if with courage, then with a
magnanimous spirit, and indeed so as never to be under any fear, and
thus to be always invincible. Hence it follows that there can be
nothing to be repented of, no wants, no lets or hinderances. Thus all
things will be prosperous, perfect, and as you would have them, and,
consequently, happy; but virtue is sufficient for living with courage,
and therefore virtue is able by herself to make life happy. For as
folly, even when possessed of what it desires, never thinks it has
acquired enough, so wisdom is always satisfied with the present, and
never repents on her own account.

XIX. Look but on the single consulship of Lælius, and that, too, after
having been set aside (though when a wise and good man like him is
outvoted, the people are disappointed of a good consul, rather than be
disappointed by a vain people); but the point is, would you prefer,
were it in your power, to be once such a consul as Lælius, or be
elected four times, like Cinna? I have no doubt in the world what
answer you will make, and it is on that account I put the question to
you.

I would not ask every one this question; for some one perhaps might
answer that he would not only prefer four consulates to one, but even
one day of Cinna's life to whole ages of many famous men. Lælius would
have suffered had he but touched any one with his finger; but Cinna
ordered the head of his colleague consul, Cn. Octavius, to be struck
off; and put to death P. Crassus[58], and L. Cæsar[59], those excellent
men, so renowned both at home and abroad; and even M. Antonius[60], the
greatest orator whom I ever heard; and C. Cæsar, who seems to me to
have been the pattern of humanity, politeness, sweetness of temper, and
wit. Could he, then, be happy who occasioned the death of these men? So
far from it, that he seems to be miserable, not only for having
performed these actions, but also for acting in such a manner that it
was lawful for him to do it, though it is unlawful for any one to do
wicked actions; but this proceeds from inaccuracy, of speech, for we
call whatever a man is allowed to do lawful. Was not Marius happier, I
pray you, when he shared the glory of the victory gained over the
Cimbrians with his colleague Catulus (who was almost another Lælius;
for I look upon the two men as very like one another), than when,
conqueror in the civil war, he in a passion answered the friends of
Catulus, who were interceding for him, "Let him die?" And this answer
he gave, not once only, but often. But in such a case, he was happier
who submitted to that barbarous decree than he who issued it. And it is
better to receive an injury than to do one; and so it was better to
advance a little to meet that death that was making its approaches, as
Catulus did, than, like Marius, to sully the glory of six consulships,
and disgrace his latter days, by the death of such a man.

XX. Dionysius exercised his tyranny over the Syracusans thirty-eight
years, being but twenty-five years old when he seized on the
government. How beautiful and how wealthy a city did he oppress with
slavery! And yet we have it from good authority that he was remarkably
temperate in his manner of living, that he was very active and
energetic in carrying on business, but naturally mischievous and
unjust; from which description every one who diligently inquires into
truth must inevitably see that he was very miserable. Neither did he
attain what he so greatly desired, even when he was persuaded that he
had unlimited power; for, notwithstanding he was of a good family and
reputable parents (though that is contested by some authors), and had a
very large acquaintance of intimate friends and relations, and also
some youths attached to him by ties of love after the fashion of the
Greeks, he could not trust any one of them, but committed the guard of
his person to slaves, whom he had selected from rich men's families and
made free, and to strangers and barbarians. And thus, through an unjust
desire of governing, he in a manner shut himself up in a prison.
Besides, he would not trust his throat to a barber, but had his
daughters taught to shave; so that these royal virgins were forced to
descend to the base and slavish employment of shaving the head and
beard of their father. Nor would he trust even them, when they were
grown up, with a razor; but contrived how they might burn off the hair
of his head and beard with red-hot nutshells. And as to his two wives,
Aristomache, his countrywoman, and Doris of Locris, he never visited
them at night before everything had been well searched and examined.
And as he had surrounded the place where his bed was with a broad
ditch, and made a way over it with a wooden bridge, he drew that bridge
over after shutting his bedchamber door. And as he did not dare to
stand on the ordinary pulpits from which they usually harangued the
people, he generally addressed them from a high tower. And it is said
that when he was disposed to play at ball--for he delighted much in
it--and had pulled off his clothes, he used to give his sword into the
keeping of a young man whom he was very fond of. On this, one of his
intimates said pleasantly, "You certainly trust your life with him;"
and as the young man happened to smile at this, he ordered them both to
be slain, the one for showing how he might be taken off, the other for
approving of what had been said by smiling. But he was so concerned at
what he had done that nothing affected him more during his whole life;
for he had slain one to whom he was extremely partial. Thus do weak
men's desires pull them different ways, and while they indulge one,
they act counter to another.

XXI. This tyrant, however, showed himself how happy he really was; for
once, when Damocles, one of his flatterers, was dilating in
conversation on his forces, his wealth, the greatness of his power, the
plenty he enjoyed, the grandeur of his royal palaces, and maintaining
that no one was ever happier, "Have you an inclination," said he,
"Damocles, as this kind of life pleases you, to have a taste of it
yourself, and to make a trial of the good fortune that attends me?" And
when he said that he should like it extremely, Dionysius ordered him to
be laid on a bed of gold with the most beautiful covering, embroidered
and wrought with the most exquisite work, and he dressed out a great
many sideboards with silver and embossed gold. He then ordered some
youths, distinguished for their handsome persons, to wait at his table,
and to observe his nod, in order to serve him with what he wanted.
There were ointments and garlands; perfumes were burned; tables
provided with the most exquisite meats. Damocles thought himself very
happy. In the midst of this apparatus, Dionysius ordered a bright sword
to be let down from the ceiling, suspended by a single horse-hair, so
as to hang over the head of that happy man. After which he neither cast
his eye on those handsome waiters, nor on the well-wrought plate; nor
touched any of the provisions: presently the garlands fell to pieces.
At last he entreated the tyrant to give him leave to go, for that now
he had no desire to be happy[61]. Does not Dionysius, then, seem to
have declared there can be no happiness for one who is under constant
apprehensions? But it was not now in his power to return to justice,
and restore his citizens their rights and privileges; for, by the
indiscretion of youth, he had engaged in so many wrong steps and
committed such extravagances, that, had he attempted to have returned
to a right way of thinking, he must have endangered his life.

XXII. Yet, how desirous he was of friendship, though at the same time
he dreaded the treachery of friends, appears from the story of those
two Pythagoreans: one of these had been security for his friend, who
was condemned to die; the other, to release his security, presented
himself at the time appointed for his dying: "I wish," said Dionysius,"
you would admit me as the third in your friendship." What misery was it
for him to be deprived of acquaintance, of company at his table, and of
the freedom of conversation! especially for one who was a man of
learning, and from his childhood acquainted with liberal arts, very
fond of music, and himself a tragic poet--how good a one is not to the
purpose, for I know not how it is, but in this way, more than any
other, every one thinks his own performances excellent. I never as yet
knew any poet (and I was very intimate with Aquinius), who did not
appear to himself to be very admirable. The case is this: you are
pleased with your own works; I like mine. But to return to Dionysius.
He debarred himself from all civil and polite conversation, and spent
his life among fugitives, bondmen, and barbarians; for he was persuaded
that no one could be his friend who was worthy of liberty, or had the
least desire of being free.

XXIII. Shall I not, then, prefer the life of Plato and Archytas,
manifestly wise and learned men, to his, than which nothing can
possibly be more horrid, or miserable, or detestable?

I will present you with an humble and obscure mathematician of the same
city, called Archimedes, who lived many years after; whose tomb,
overgrown with shrubs and briers, I in my quæstorship discovered, when
the Syracusans knew nothing of it, and even denied that there was any
such thing remaining; for I remembered some verses, which I had been
informed were engraved on his monument, and these set forth that on the
top of the tomb there was placed a sphere with a cylinder. When I had
carefully examined all the monuments (for there are a great many tombs
at the gate Achradinæ), I observed a small column standing out a little
above the briers, with the figure of a sphere and a cylinder upon it;
whereupon I immediately said to the Syracusans--for there were some of
their principal men with me there--that I imagined that was what I was
inquiring for. Several men, being sent in with scythes, cleared the
way, and made an opening for us. When we could get at it, and were come
near to the front of the pedestal, I found the inscription, though the
latter parts of all the verses were effaced almost half away. Thus one
of the noblest cities of Greece, and one which at one time likewise had
been very celebrated for learning, had known nothing of the monument of
its greatest genius, if it had not been discovered to them by a native
of Arpinum. But to return to the subject from which I have been
digressing. Who is there in the least degree acquainted with the Muses,
that is, with liberal knowledge, or that deals at all in learning, who
would not choose to be this mathematician rather than that tyrant? If
we look into their methods of living and their employments, we shall
find the mind of the one strengthened and improved with tracing the
deductions of reason, amused with his own ingenuity, which is the one
most delicious food of the mind; the thoughts of the other engaged in
continual murders and injuries, in constant fears by night and by day.
Now imagine a Democritus, a Pythagoras, and an Anaxagoras; what
kingdom, what riches, would you prefer to their studies and amusements?
For you must necessarily look for that excellence which we are seeking
for in that which is the most perfect part of man; but what is there
better in man than a sagacious and good mind? The enjoyment, therefore,
of that good which proceeds from that sagacious mind can alone make us
happy; but virtue is the good of the mind: it follows, therefore, that
a happy life depends on virtue. Hence proceed all things that are
beautiful, honorable, and excellent, as I said above (but this point
must, I think, be treated of more at large), and they are well stored
with joys. For, as it is clear that a happy life consists in perpetual
and unexhausted pleasures, it follows, too, that a happy life must
arise from honesty.

XXIV. But that what I propose to demonstrate to you may not rest on
mere words only, I must set before you the picture of something, as it
were, living and moving in the world, that may dispose us more for the
improvement of the understanding and real knowledge. Let us, then,
pitch upon some man perfectly acquainted with the most excellent arts;
let us present him for awhile to our own thoughts, and figure him to
our own imaginations. In the first place, he must necessarily be of an
extraordinary capacity; for virtue is not easily connected with dull
minds. Secondly, he must have a great desire of discovering truth, from
whence will arise that threefold production of the mind; one of which
depends on knowing things, and explaining nature; the other, in
defining what we ought to desire and what to avoid; the third, in
judging of consequences and impossibilities, in which consists both
subtlety in disputing and also clearness of judgment. Now, with what
pleasure must the mind of a wise man be affected which continually
dwells in the midst of such cares and occupations as these, when he
views the revolutions and motions of the whole world, and sees those
innumerable stars in the heavens, which, though fixed in their places,
have yet one motion in common with the whole universe, and observes the
seven other stars, some higher, some lower, each maintaining their own
course, while their motions, though wandering, have certain defined and
appointed spaces to run through! the sight of which doubtless urged and
encouraged those ancient philosophers to exercise their investigating
spirit on many other things. Hence arose an inquiry after the
beginnings, and, as it were, seeds from which all things were produced
and composed; what was the origin of every kind of thing, whether
animate or inanimate, articulately speaking or mute; what occasioned
their beginning and end, and by what alteration and change one thing
was converted into another; whence the earth originated, and by what
weights it was balanced; by what caverns the seas were supplied; by
what gravity all things being carried down tend always to the middle of
the world, which in any round body is the lowest place.

XXV. A mind employed on such subjects, and which night and day
contemplates them, contains in itself that precept of the Delphic God,
so as to "know itself," and to perceive its connection with the divine
reason, from whence it is filled with an insatiable joy. For
reflections on the power and nature of the Gods raise in us a desire of
imitating their eternity. Nor does the mind, that sees the necessary
dependences and connections that one cause has with another, think it
possible that it should be itself confined to the shortness of this
life. Those causes, though they proceed from eternity to eternity, are
governed by reason and understanding. And he who beholds them and
examines them, or rather he whose view takes in all the parts and
boundaries of things, with what tranquillity of mind does he look on
all human affairs, and on all that is nearer him! Hence proceeds the
knowledge of virtue; hence arise the kinds and species of virtues;
hence are discovered those things which nature regards as the bounds
and extremities of good and evil; by this it is discovered to what all
duties ought to be referred, and which is the most eligible manner of
life. And when these and similar points have been investigated, the
principal consequence which is deduced from them, and that which is our
main object in this discussion, is the establishment of the point, that
virtue is of itself sufficient to a happy life.

The third qualification of our wise man is the next to be considered,
which goes through and spreads itself over every part of wisdom; it is
that whereby we define each particular thing, distinguish the genus
from its species, connect consequences, draw just conclusions, and
distinguish truth from falsehood, which is the very art and science of
disputing; which is not only of the greatest use in the examination of
what passes in the world, but is likewise the most rational
entertainment, and that which is most becoming to true wisdom. Such are
its effects in retirement. Now, let our wise man be considered as
protecting the republic; what can be more excellent than such a
character? By his prudence he will discover the true interests of his
fellow-citizens; by his justice he will be prevented from applying what
belongs to the public to his own use; and, in short, he will be ever
governed by all the virtues, which are many and various. To these let
us add the advantage of his friendships; in which the learned reckon
not only a natural harmony and agreement of sentiments throughout the
conduct of life, but the utmost pleasure and satisfaction in conversing
and passing our time constantly with one another. What can be wanting
to such a life as this to make it more happy than it is? Fortune
herself must yield to a life stored with such joys. Now, if it be a
happiness to rejoice in such goods of the mind, that is to say, in such
virtues, and if all wise men enjoy thoroughly these pleasures, it must
necessarily be granted that all such are happy.

XXVI. _A._ What, when in torments and on the rack?

_M._ Do you imagine I am speaking of him as laid on roses and violets?
Is it allowable even for Epicurus (who only puts on the appearance of
being a philosopher, and who himself assumed that name for himself) to
say (though, as matters stand, I commend him for his saying) that a
wise man might at all times cry out, though he be burned, tortured, cut
to pieces, "How little I regard it!" Shall this be said by one who
defines all evil as pain, and measures every good by pleasure; who
could ridicule whatever we call either honorable or base, and could
declare of us that we were employed about words, and uttering mere
empty sounds; and that nothing is to be regarded by us but as it is
perceived to be smooth or rough by the body? What! shall such a man as
this, as I said, whose understanding is little superior to the beasts',
be at liberty to forget himself; and not only to despise fortune, when
the whole of his good and evil is in the power of fortune, but to say
that he is happy in the most racking torture, when he had actually
declared pain to be not only the greatest evil, but the only one? Nor
did he take any trouble to provide himself with those remedies which
might have enabled him to bear pain, such as firmness of mind, a shame
of doing anything base, exercise, and the habit of patience, precepts
of courage, and a manly hardiness; but he says that he supports himself
on the single recollection of past pleasures, as if any one, when the
weather was so hot as that he was scarcely able to bear it, should
comfort himself by recollecting that he was once in my country,
Arpinum, where he was surrounded on every side by cooling streams. For
I do not apprehend how past pleasures can allay present evils. But when
he says that a wise man is always happy who would have no right to say
so if he were consistent with himself, what may they not do who allow
nothing to be desirable, nothing to be looked on as good but what is
honorable? Let, then, the Peripatetics and Old Academics follow my
example, and at length leave off muttering to themselves; and openly
and with a clear voice let them be bold to say that a happy life may
not be inconsistent with the agonies of Phalaris's bull.

XXVII. But to dismiss the subtleties of the Stoics, which I am sensible
I have employed more than was necessary, let us admit of three kinds of
goods; and let them really be kinds of goods, provided no regard is had
to the body and to external circumstances, as entitled to the
appellation of good in any other sense than because we are obliged to
use them: but let those other divine goods spread themselves far in
every direction, and reach the very heavens. Why, then, may I not call
him happy, nay, the happiest of men, who has attained them? Shall a
wise man be afraid of pain? which is, indeed, the greatest enemy to our
opinion. For I am persuaded that we are prepared and fortified
sufficiently, by the disputations of the foregoing days, against our
own death or that of our friends, against grief, and the other
perturbations of the mind. But pain seems to be the sharpest adversary
of virtue; that it is which menaces us with burning torches; that it is
which threatens to crush our fortitude, and greatness of mind, and
patience. Shall virtue, then, yield to this? Shall the happy life of a
wise and consistent man succumb to this? Good. Gods! how base would
this be! Spartan boys will bear to have their bodies torn by rods
without uttering a groan. I myself have seen at Lacedæmon troops of
young men, with incredible earnestness contending together with their
hands and feet, with their teeth and nails, nay, even ready to expire,
rather than own themselves conquered. Is any country of barbarians more
uncivilized or desolate than India? Yet they have among them some that
are held for wise men, who never wear any clothes all their life long,
and who bear the snow of Caucasus, and the piercing cold of winter,
without any pain; and who if they come in contact with fire endure
being burned without a groan. The women, too, in India, on the death of
their husbands have a regular contest, and apply to the judge to have
it determined which of them was best beloved by him; for it is
customary there for one man to have many wives. She in whose favor it
is determined exults greatly, and being attended by her relations, is
laid on the funeral pile with her husband; the others, who are
postponed, walk away very much dejected. Custom can never be superior
to nature, for nature is never to be got the better of. But our minds
are infected by sloth and idleness, and luxury, and languor, and
indolence: we have enervated them by opinions and bad customs. Who is
there who is unacquainted with the customs of the Egyptians? Their
minds being tainted by pernicious opinions, they are ready to bear any
torture rather than hurt an ibis, a snake, a cat, a dog, or a
crocodile; and should any one inadvertently have hurt any of these
animals, he will submit to any punishment. I am speaking of men only.
As to the beasts, do they not bear cold and hunger, running about in
woods, and on mountains and deserts? Will they not fight for their
young ones till they are wounded? Are they afraid of any attacks or
blows? I mention not what the ambitious will suffer for honor's sake,
or those who are desirous of praise on account of glory, or lovers to
gratify their lust. Life is full of such instances.

XXVIII. But let us not dwell too much on these questions, but rather
let us return to our subject. I say, and say again, that happiness will
submit even to be tormented; and that in pursuit of justice, and
temperance, and still more especially and principally fortitude, and
greatness of soul, and patience, it will not stop short at sight of the
executioner; and when all other virtues proceed calmly to the torture,
that one will never halt, as I said, on the outside and threshold of
the prison; for what can be baser, what can carry a worse appearance,
than to be left alone, separated from those beautiful attendants? Not,
however, that this is by any means possible; for neither can the
virtues hold together without happiness, nor happiness without the
virtues; so that they will not suffer her to desert them, but will
carry her along with them, to whatever torments, to whatever pain they
are led. For it is the peculiar quality of a wise man to do nothing
that he may repent of, nothing against his inclination, but always to
act nobly, with constancy, gravity, and honesty; to depend on nothing
as certainty; to wonder at nothing, when it falls out, as if it
appeared strange and unexpected to him; to be independent of every one,
and abide by his own opinion. For my part, I cannot form an idea of
anything happier than this. The conclusion of the Stoics is indeed
easy; for since they are persuaded that the end of good is to live
agreeably to nature, and to be consistent with that--as a wise man
should do so, not only because it is his duty, but because it is in his
power--it must, of course, follow that whoever has the chief good in
his power has his happiness so too. And thus the life of a wise man is
always happy. You have here what I think may be confidently said of a
happy life; and as things now stand, very truly also, unless you can
advance something better.

XXIX. _A._ Indeed I cannot; but I should be glad to prevail on you,
unless it is troublesome (as you are under no confinement from
obligations to any particular sect, but gather from all of them
whatever strikes you most as having the appearance of probability), as
you just now seemed to advise the Peripatetics and the Old Academy
boldly to speak out without reserve, "that wise men are always the
happiest"--I should be glad to hear how you think it consistent for
them to say so, when you have said so much against that opinion, and
the conclusions of the Stoics.

_M._ I will make use, then, of that liberty which no one has the
privilege of using in philosophy but those of our school, whose
discourses determine nothing, but take in everything, leaving them
unsupported by the authority of any particular person, to be judged of
by others, according to their weight. And as you seem desirous of
knowing how it is that, notwithstanding the different opinions of
philosophers with regard to the ends of goods, virtue has still
sufficient security for the effecting of a happy life--which security,
as we are informed, Carneades used indeed to dispute against; but he
disputed as against the Stoics, whose opinions he combated with great
zeal and vehemence. I, however, shall handle the question with more
temper; for if the Stoics have rightly settled the _ends_ of goods, the
affair is at an end; for a wise man must necessarily be always happy.
But let us examine, if we can, the particular opinions of the others,
that so this excellent decision, if I may so call it, in favor of a
happy life, may be agreeable to the opinions and discipline of all.

XXX. These, then, are the opinions, as I think, that are held and
defended--the first four are simple ones: "that nothing is good but
what is honest," according to the Stoics; "nothing good but pleasure,"
as Epicurus maintains; "nothing good but a freedom from pain," as
Hieronymus[62] asserts; "nothing good but an enjoyment of the
principal, or all, or the greatest goods of nature," as Carneades
maintained against the Stoics--these are simple, the others are mixed
propositions. Then there are three kinds of goods: the greatest being
those of the mind; the next best those of the body; the third are
external goods, as the Peripatetics call them, and the Old Academics
differ very little from them. Dinomachus[63] and Callipho[64] have
coupled pleasure with honesty; but Diodorus[65] the Peripatetic has
joined indolence to honesty. These are the opinions that have some
footing; for those of Aristo,[66] Pyrrho,[67] Herillus,[68] and of some
others, are quite out of date. Now let us see what weight these men
have in them, excepting the Stoics, whose opinion I think I have
sufficiently defended; and indeed I have explained what the
Peripatetics have to say; excepting that Theophrastus, and those who
followed him, dread and abhor pain in too weak a manner. The others may
go on to exaggerate the gravity and dignity of virtue, as usual; and
then, after they have extolled it to the skies, with the usual
extravagance of good orators, it is easy to reduce the other topics to
nothing by comparison, and to hold them up to contempt. They who think
that praise deserves to be sought after, even at the expense of pain,
are not at liberty to deny those men to be happy who have obtained it.
Though they may be under some evils, yet this name of happy has a very
wide application.

XXXI. For even as trading is said to be lucrative, and farming
advantageous, not because the one never meets with any loss, nor the
other with any damage from the inclemency of the weather, but because
they succeed in general; so life may be properly called happy, not from
its being entirely made up of good things, but because it abounds with
these to a great and considerable degree. By this way of reasoning,
then, a happy life may attend virtue even to the moment of execution;
nay, may descend with her into Phalaris's bull, according to Aristotle,
Xenocrates, Speusippus, Polemon; and will not be gained over by any
allurements to forsake her. Of the same opinion will Calliphon and
Diodorus be; for they are both of them such friends to virtue as to
think that all things should be discarded and far removed that are
incompatible with it. The rest seem to be more hampered with these
doctrines, but yet they get clear of them; such as Epicurus,
Hieronymus, and whoever else thinks it worth while to defend the
deserted Carneades: for there is not one of them who does not think the
mind to be judge of those goods, and able sufficiently to instruct him
how to despise what has the appearance only of good or evil. For what
seems to you to be the case with Epicurus is the case also with
Hieronymus and Carneades, and, indeed, with all the rest of them; for
who is there who is not sufficiently prepared against death and pain? I
will begin, with your leave, with him whom we call soft and voluptuous.
What! does he seem, to you to be afraid of death or pain when he calls
the day of his death happy; and who, when he is afflicted by the
greatest pains, silences them all by recollecting arguments of his own
discovering? And this is not done in such a manner as to give room for
imagining that he talks thus wildly from some sudden impulse; but his
opinion of death is, that on the dissolution of the animal all sense is
lost; and what is deprived of sense is, as he thinks, what we have no
concern at all with. And as to pain, too, he has certain rules to
follow then: if it be great, the comfort is that it must be short; if
it be of long continuance, then it must be supportable. What, then? Do
those grandiloquent gentlemen state anything better than Epicurus in
opposition to these two things which distress us the most? And as to
other things, do not Epicurus and the rest of the philosophers seem
sufficiently prepared? Who is there who does not dread poverty? And yet
no true philosopher ever can dread it.

XXXII. But with how little is this man himself satisfied! No one has
said more on frugality. For when a man is far removed from those things
which occasion a desire of money, from love, ambition, or other daily
extravagance, why should he be fond of money, or concern himself at all
about it? Could the Scythian Anacharsis[69] disregard money, and shall
not our philosophers be able to do so? We are informed of an epistle of
his in these words: "Anacharsis to Hanno, greeting. My clothing is the
same as that with which the Scythians cover themselves; the hardness of
my feet supplies the want of shoes; the ground is my bed, hunger my
sauce, my food milk, cheese, and flesh. So you may come to me as to a
man in want of nothing. But as to those presents you take so much
pleasure in, you may dispose of them to your own citizens, or to the
immortal Gods." And almost all philosophers, of all schools, excepting
those who are warped from right reason by a vicious disposition, might
have been of this same opinion. Socrates, when on one occasion he saw a
great quantity of gold and silver carried in a procession, cried out,
"How many things are there which I do not want!" Xenocrates, when some
ambassadors from Alexander had brought him fifty talents, which was a
very large sum of money in those times, especially at Athens, carried
the ambassadors to sup in the Academy, and placed just a sufficiency
before them, without any apparatus. When they asked him, the next day,
to whom he wished the money which they had for him to be paid: "What!"
said he, "did you not perceive by our slight repast of yesterday that I
had no occasion for money?" But when he perceived that they were
somewhat dejected, he accepted of thirty minas, that he might not seem
to treat with disrespect the king's generosity. But Diogenes took a
greater liberty, like a Cynic, when Alexander asked him if he wanted
anything: "Just at present," said he, "I wish that you would stand a
little out of the line between me and the sun," for Alexander was
hindering him from sunning himself. And, indeed, this very man used to
maintain how much he surpassed the Persian king in his manner of life
and fortune; for that he himself was in want of nothing, while the
other never had enough; and that he had no inclination for those
pleasures of which the other could never get enough to satisfy himself;
and that the other could never obtain his.

XXXIII. You see, I imagine, how Epicurus has divided his kinds of
desires, not very acutely perhaps, but yet usefully: saying that they
are "partly natural and necessary; partly natural, but not necessary;
partly neither. That those which are necessary may be supplied almost
for nothing; for that the things which nature requires are easily
obtained." As to the second kind of desires, his opinion is that any
one may easily either enjoy or go without them. And with regard to the
third, since they are utterly frivolous, being neither allied to
necessity nor nature, he thinks that they should be entirely rooted
out. On this topic a great many arguments are adduced by the
Epicureans; and those pleasures which they do not despise in a body,
they disparage one by one, and seem rather for lessening the number of
them; for as to wanton pleasures, on which subject they say a great
deal, these, say they, are easy, common, and within any one's reach;
and they think that if nature requires them, they are not to be
estimated by birth, condition, or rank, but by shape, age, and person:
and that it is by no means difficult to refrain from them, should
health, duty, or reputation require it; but that pleasures of this kind
may be desirable, where they are attended with no inconvenience, but
can never be of any use. And the assertions which Epicurus makes with
respect to the whole of pleasure are such as show his opinion to be
that pleasure is always desirable, and to be pursued merely because it
is pleasure; and for the same reason pain is to be avoided, because it
is pain. So that a wise man will always adopt such a system of
counterbalancing as to do himself the justice to avoid pleasure, should
pain ensue from it in too great a proportion; and will submit to pain,
provided the effects of it are to produce a greater pleasure: so that
all pleasurable things, though the corporeal senses are the judges of
them, are still to be referred to the mind, on which account the body
rejoices while it perceives a present pleasure; but that the mind not
only perceives the present as well as the body, but foresees it while
it is coming, and even when it is past will not let it quite slip away.
So that a wise man enjoys a continual series of pleasures, uniting the
expectation of future pleasure to the recollection of what he has
already tasted. The like notions are applied by them to high living;
and the magnificence and expensiveness of entertainments are
deprecated, because nature is satisfied at a small expense.

XXXIV. For who does not see this, that an appetite is the best sauce?
When Darius, in his flight from the enemy, had drunk some water which
was muddy and tainted with dead bodies, he declared that he had never
drunk anything more pleasant; the fact was, that he had never drunk
before when he was thirsty. Nor had Ptolemy ever eaten when he was
hungry; for as he was travelling over Egypt, his company not keeping up
with him, he had some coarse bread presented him in a cottage, upon
which he said, "Nothing ever seemed to him pleasanter than that bread."
They relate, too, of Socrates, that, once when he was walking very fast
till the evening, on his being asked why he did so, his reply was that
he was purchasing an appetite by walking, that he might sup the better.
And do we not see what the Lacedæmonians provide in their Phiditia?
where the tyrant Dionysius supped, but told them he did not at all like
that black broth, which was their principal dish; on which he who
dressed it said, "It was no wonder, for it wanted seasoning." Dionysius
asked what that seasoning was; to which it was replied, "Fatigue in
hunting, sweating, a race on the banks of Eurotas, hunger and thirst,"
for these are the seasonings to the Lacedæmonian banquets. And this may
not only be conceived from the custom of men, but from the beasts, who
are satisfied with anything that is thrown before them, provided it is
not unnatural, and they seek no farther. Some entire cities, taught by
custom, delight in parsimony, as I said but just now of the
Lacedæmonians. Xenophon has given an account of the Persian diet, who
never, as he saith, use anything but cresses with their bread; not but
that, should nature require anything more agreeable, many things might
be easily supplied by the ground, and plants in great abundance, and of
incomparable sweetness. Add to this strength and health, as the
consequence of this abstemious way of living. Now, compare with this
those who sweat and belch, being crammed with eating, like fatted oxen;
then will you perceive that they who pursue pleasure most attain it
least; and that the pleasure of eating lies not in satiety, but
appetite.

XXXV. They report of Timotheus, a famous man at Athens, and the head of
the city, that having supped with Plato, and being extremely delighted
with his entertainment, on seeing him the next day, he said, "Your
suppers are not only agreeable while I partake of them, but the next
day also." Besides, the understanding is impaired when we are full with
overeating and drinking. There is an excellent epistle of Plato to
Dion's relations, in which there occurs as nearly as possible these
words: "When I came there, that happy life so much talked of, devoted
to Italian and Syracusan entertainments, was noways agreeable to me; to
be crammed twice a day, and never to have the night to yourself, and
the other things which are the accompaniments of this kind of life, by
which a man will never be made the wiser, but will be rendered much
less temperate; for it must be an extraordinary disposition that can be
temperate in such circumstances." How, then, can a life be pleasant
without prudence and temperance? Hence you discover the mistake of
Sardanapalus, the wealthiest king of the Assyrians, who ordered it to
be engraved on his tomb,

    I still have what in food I did exhaust;
    But what I left, though excellent, is lost.

"What less than this," says Aristotle, "could be inscribed on the tomb,
not of a king, but an ox?" He said that he possessed those things when
dead, which, in his lifetime, he could have no longer than while he was
enjoying them. Why, then, are riches desired? And wherein doth poverty
prevent us from being happy? In the want, I imagine, of statues,
pictures, and diversions. But if any one is delighted with these
things, have not the poor people the enjoyment of them more than they
who are the owners of them in the greatest abundance? For we have great
numbers of them displayed publicly in our city. And whatever store of
them private people have, they cannot have a great number, and they but
seldom see them, only when they go to their country seats; and some of
them must be stung to the heart when they consider how they came by
them. The day would fail me, should I be inclined to defend the cause
of poverty. The thing is manifest; and nature daily informs us how few
things there are, and how trifling they are, of which she really stands
in need.

XXXVI. Let us inquire, then, if obscurity, the want of power, or even
the being unpopular, can prevent a wise man from being happy. Observe
if popular favor, and this glory which they are so fond of, be not
attended with more uneasiness than pleasure. Our friend Demosthenes was
certainly very weak in declaring himself pleased with the whisper of a
woman who was carrying water, as is the custom in Greece, and who
whispered to another, "That is he--that is Demosthenes." What could be
weaker than this? and yet what an orator he was! But although he had
learned to speak to others, he had conversed but little with himself.
We may perceive, therefore, that popular glory is not desirable of
itself; nor is obscurity to be dreaded. "I came to Athens," saith
Democritus, "and there was no one there that knew me:" this was a
moderate and grave man who could glory in his obscurity. Shall
musicians compose their tunes to their own tastes? and shall a
philosopher, master of a much better art, seek to ascertain, not what
is most true, but what will please the people? Can anything be more
absurd than to despise the vulgar as mere unpolished mechanics, taken
singly, and to think them of consequence when collected into a body?
These wise men would contemn our ambitious pursuits and our vanities,
and would reject all the honors which the people could voluntarily
offer to them; but we know not how to despise them till we begin to
repent of having accepted them. There is an anecdote related by
Heraclitus, the natural philosopher, of Hermodorus, the chief of the
Ephesians, that he said "that all the Ephesians ought to be punished
with death for saying, when they had expelled Hermodorus out of their
city, that they would have no one among them better than another; but
that if there were any such, he might go elsewhere to some other
people." Is not this the case with the people everywhere? Do they not
hate every virtue that distinguishes itself? What! was not Aristides (I
had rather instance in the Greeks than ourselves) banished his country
for being eminently just? What troubles, then, are they free from who
have no connection whatever with the people? What is more agreeable
than a learned retirement? I speak of that learning which makes us
acquainted with the boundless extent of nature and the universe, and
which even while we remain in this world discovers to us both heaven,
earth, and sea.

XXXVII. If, then, honor and riches have no value, what is there else to
be afraid of? Banishment, I suppose; which is looked on as the greatest
evil. Now, if the evil of banishment proceeds not from ourselves, but
from the froward disposition of the people, I have just now declared
how contemptible it is. But if to leave one's country be miserable, the
provinces are full of miserable men, very few of the settlers in which
ever return to their country again. But exiles are deprived of their
property! What, then! has there not been enough said on bearing
poverty? But with regard to banishment, if we examine the nature of
things, not the ignominy of the name, how little does it differ from
constant travelling! in which some of the most famous philosophers have
spent their whole life, as Xenocrates, Crantor, Arcesilas, Lacydes,
Aristotle, Theophrastus, Zeno, Cleanthes, Chrysippus, Antipater,
Carneades, Panætius, Clitomachus, Philo, Antiochus, Posidonius, and
innumerable others, who from their first setting-out never returned
home again. Now, what ignominy can a wise man be affected with (for it
is of such a one that I am speaking) who can be guilty of nothing which
deserves it? for there is no occasion to comfort one who is banished
for his deserts. Lastly, they can easily reconcile themselves to every
accident who measure all their objects and pursuits in life by the
standard of pleasure; so that in whatever place that is supplied, there
they may live happily. Thus what Teucer said may be applied to every
case:

    "Wherever I am happy is my country."

Socrates, indeed, when he was asked where he belonged to, replied, "The
world;" for he looked upon himself as a citizen and inhabitant of the
whole world. How was it with T. Altibutius? Did he not follow his
philosophical studies with the greatest satisfaction at Athens,
although he was banished? which, however, would not have happened to
him if he had obeyed the laws of Epicurus and lived peaceably in the
republic. In what was Epicurus happier, living in his own country, than
Metrodorus, who lived at Athens? Or did Plato's happiness exceed that
of Xenocrates, or Polemo, or Arcesilas? Or is that city to be valued
much that banishes all her good and wise men? Demaratus, the father of
our King Tarquin, not being able to bear the tyrant Cypselus, fled from
Corinth to Tarquinii, settled there, and had children. Was it, then, an
unwise act in him to prefer the liberty of banishment to slavery at
home?

XXXVIII. Besides the emotions of the mind, all griefs and anxieties are
assuaged by forgetting them, and turning our thoughts to pleasure.
Therefore, it was not without reason that Epicurus presumed to say that
a wise man abounds with good things, because he may always have his
pleasures; from whence it follows, as he thinks, that that point is
gained which is the subject of our present inquiry, that a wise man is
always happy. What! though he should be deprived of the senses of
seeing and hearing? Yes; for he holds those things very cheap. For, in
the first place, what are the pleasures of which we are deprived by
that dreadful thing, blindness? For though they allow other pleasures
to be confined to the senses, yet the things which are perceived by the
sight do not depend wholly on the pleasure the eyes receive; as is the
case when we taste, smell, touch, or hear; for, in respect of all these
senses, the organs themselves are the seat of pleasure; but it is not
so with the eyes. For it is the mind which is entertained by what we
see; but the mind may be entertained in many ways, even though we could
not see at all. I am speaking of a learned and a wise man, with whom to
think is to live. But thinking in the case of a wise man does not
altogether require the use of his eyes in his investigations; for if
night does not strip him of his happiness, why should blindness, which
resembles night, have that effect? For the reply of Antipater the
Cyrenaic to some women who bewailed his being blind, though it is a
little too obscene, is not without its significance. "What do you
mean?" saith he; "do you think the night can furnish no pleasure?" And
we find by his magistracies and his actions that old Appius,[70] too,
who was blind for many years, was not prevented from doing whatever was
required of him with respect either to the republic or his own affairs.
It is said that C. Drusus's house was crowded with clients. When they
whose business it was could not see how to conduct themselves, they
applied to a blind guide.

XXXIX. When I was a boy, Cn. Aufidius, a blind man, who had served the
office of prætor, not only gave his opinion in the Senate, and was
ready to assist his friends, but wrote a Greek history, and had a
considerable acquaintance with literature. Diodorus the Stoic was
blind, and lived many years at my house. He, indeed, which is scarcely
credible, besides applying himself more than usual to philosophy, and
playing on the flute, agreeably to the custom of the Pythagoreans, and
having books read to him night and day, in all which he did not want
eyes, contrived to teach geometry, which, one would think, could hardly
be done without the assistance of eyes, telling his scholars how and
where to draw every line. They relate of Asclepiades, a native of
Eretria, and no obscure philosopher, when some one asked him what
inconvenience he suffered from his blindness, that his reply was, "He
was at the expense of another servant." So that, as the most extreme
poverty may be borne if you please, as is daily the case with some in
Greece, so blindness may easily be borne, provided you have the support
of good health in other respects. Democritus was so blind he could not
distinguish white from black; but he knew the difference between good
and evil, just and unjust, honorable and base, the useful and useless,
great and small. Thus one may live happily without distinguishing
colors; but without acquainting yourself with things, you cannot; and
this man was of opinion that the intense application of the mind was
taken off by the objects that presented themselves to the eye; and
while others often could not see what was before their feet, he
travelled through all infinity. It is reported also that Homer[71] was
blind, but we observe his painting as well as his poetry. What country,
what coast, what part of Greece, what military attacks, what
dispositions of battle, what array, what ship, what motions of men and
animals, can be mentioned which he has not described in such a manner
as to enable us to see what he could not see himself? What, then! can
we imagine that Homer, or any other learned man, has ever been in want
of pleasure and entertainment for his mind? Were it not so, would
Anaxagoras, or this very Democritus, have left their estates and
patrimonies, and given themselves up to the pursuit of acquiring this
divine pleasure? It is thus that the poets who have represented
Tiresias the Augur as a wise man and blind never exhibit him as
bewailing his blindness. And Homer, too, after he had described
Polyphemus as a monster and a wild man, represents him talking with his
ram, and speaking of his good fortune, inasmuch as he could go wherever
he pleased and touch what he would. And so far he was right, for that
Cyclops was a being of not much more understanding than his ram.

XL. Now, as to the evil of being deaf. M. Crassus was a little thick of
hearing; but it was more uneasiness to him that he heard himself ill
spoken of, though, in my opinion, he did not deserve it. Our Epicureans
cannot understand Greek, nor the Greeks Latin: now, they are deaf
reciprocally as to each other's language, and we are all truly deaf
with regard to those innumerable languages which we do not understand.
They do not hear the voice of the harper; but, then, they do not hear
the grating of a saw when it is setting, or the grunting of a hog when
his throat is being cut, nor the roaring of the sea when they are
desirous of rest. And if they should chance to be fond of singing, they
ought, in the first place, to consider that many wise men lived happily
before music was discovered; besides, they may have more pleasure in
reading verses than in hearing them sung. Then, as I before referred
the blind to the pleasures of hearing, so I may the deaf to the
pleasures of sight: moreover, whoever can converse with himself doth
not need the conversation of another. But suppose all these misfortunes
to meet in one person: suppose him blind and deaf--let him be afflicted
with the sharpest pains of body, which, in the first place, generally
of themselves make an end of him; still, should they continue so long,
and the pain be so exquisite, that we should be unable to assign any
reason for our being so afflicted--still, why, good Gods! should we be
under any difficulty? For there is a retreat at hand: death is that
retreat--a shelter where we shall forever be insensible. Theodorus said
to Lysimachus, who threatened him with death, "It is a great matter,
indeed, for you to have acquired the power of a Spanish fly!" When
Perses entreated Paulus not to lead him in triumph, "That is a matter
which you have in your own power," said Paulus. I said many things
about death in our first day's disputation, when death was the subject;
and not a little the next day, when I treated of pain; which things if
you recollect, there can be no danger of your looking upon death as
undesirable, or, at least, it will not be dreadful.

That custom which is common among the Grecians at their banquets
should, in my opinion, be observed in life: Drink, say they, or leave
the company; and rightly enough; for a guest should either enjoy the
pleasure of drinking with others, or else not stay till he meets with
affronts from those that are in liquor. Thus, those injuries of fortune
which you cannot bear you should flee from.

XLI. This is the very same which is said by Epicurus and Hieronymus.
Now, if those philosophers, whose opinion it is that virtue has no
power of itself, and who say that the conduct which we denominate
honorable and laudable is really nothing, and is only an empty
circumstance set off with an unmeaning sound, can nevertheless maintain
that a wise man is always happy, what, think you, may be done by the
Socratic and Platonic philosophers? Some of these allow such
superiority to the goods of the mind as quite to eclipse what concerns
the body and all external circumstances. But others do not admit these
to be goods; they make everything depend on the mind: whose disputes
Carneades used, as a sort of honorary arbitrator, to determine. For, as
what seemed goods to the Peripatetics were allowed to be advantages by
the Stoics, and as the Peripatetics allowed no more to riches, good
health; and other things of that sort than the Stoics, when these
things were considered according to their reality, and not by mere
names, his opinion was that there was no ground for disagreeing.
Therefore, let the philosophers of other schools see how they can
establish this point also. It is very agreeable to me that they make
some professions worthy of being uttered by the mouth of a philosopher
with regard to a wise man's having always the means of living happily.

XLII. But as we are to depart in the morning, let us remember these
five days' discussions; though, indeed, I think I shall commit them to
writing: for how can I better employ the leisure which I have, of
whatever kind it is, and whatever it be owing to? And I will send these
five books also to my friend Brutus, by whom I was not only incited to
write on philosophy, but, I may say, provoked. And by so doing it is
not easy to say what service I may be of to others. At all events, in
my own various and acute afflictions, which surround me on all sides, I
cannot find any better comfort for myself.



FOOTNOTES:


[1] Archilochus was a native of Paros, and flourished about 714-676
B.C. His poems were chiefly Iambics of bitter satire. Horace speaks of
him as the inventor of Iambics, and calls himself his pupil.

                  Parios ego primus Iambos
    Ostendi Latio, numeros animosque secutus
    Archilochi, non res et agentia verba Lycamben.
                              Epist. I. xix. 25.

And in another place he says,

    Archilochum proprio rabies armavit Iambo--A.P. 74.

[2] This was Livius Andronicus: he is supposed to have been a native of
Tarentum, and he was made prisoner by the Romans, during their wars in
Southern Italy; owing to which he became the slave of M. Livius
Salinator. He wrote both comedies and tragedies, of which Cicero
(Brutus 18) speaks very contemptuously, as "Livianæ fabulæ non satis
dignæ quæ iterum legantur"--not worth reading a second time. He also
wrote a Latin Odyssey, and some hymns, and died probably about 221 B.C.

[3] C. Fabius, surnamed Pictor, painted the temple of Salus, which the
dictator C. Junius Brutus Bubulus dedicated 302 B.C. The temple was
destroyed by fire in the reign of Claudius. The painting is highly
praised by Dionysius, xvi. 6.

[4] For an account of the ancient Greek philosophers, see the sketch at
the end of the Disputations.

[5] Isocrates was born at Athens 436 B.C. He was a pupil of Gorgias,
Prodicus, and Socrates. He opened a school of rhetoric, at Athens, with
great success. He died by his own hand at the age of ninety-eight.

[6] So Horace joins these two classes as inventors of all kinds of
improbable fictions:

                      Pictoribus atque poetis
    Quidlibet audendi semper fuit æqua potestas.--A. P. 9.

Which Roscommon translates:

    Painters and poets have been still allow'd
    Their pencil and their fancies unconfined.

[7] Epicharmus was a native of Cos, but lived at Megara, in Sicily, and
when Megara was destroyed, removed to Syracuse, and lived at the court
of Hiero, where he became the first writer of comedies, so that Horace
ascribes the invention of comedy to him, and so does Theocritus. He
lived to a great age.

[8] Pherecydes was a native of Scyros, one of the Cyclades; and is said
to have obtained his knowledge from the secret books of the
Phoenicians. He is said also to have been a pupil of Pittacus, the
rival of Thales, and the master of Pythagoras. His doctrine was that
there were three principles ([Greek: Zeus], or Æther; [Greek: Chthôn],
or Chaos; and [Greek: Chronos], or Time) and four elements (Fire,
Earth, Air, and Water), from which everything that exists was
formed.--_Vide_ Smith's Dict. Gr. and Rom. Biog.

[9] Archytas was a native of Tarentum, and is said to have saved the
life of Plato by his influence with the tyrant Dionysius. He was
especially great as a mathematician and geometrician, so that Horace
calls him

    Maris et terra numeroque carentis arenæ
    Mensorem.
                              Od. i. 28.1.

Plato is supposed to have learned some of his views from him, and
Aristotle to have borrowed from him every idea of the Categories.

[10] This was not Timæus the historian, but a native of Locri, who is
said also in the De Finibus (c. 29) to have been a teacher of Plato.
There is a treatise extant bearing his name, which is, however,
probably spurious, and only an abridgment of Plato's dialogue Timæus.

[11] Dicæarchus was a native of Messana, in Sicily, though he lived
chiefly in Greece. He was one of the later disciples of Aristotle. He
was a great geographer, politician, historian, and philosopher, and
died about 285 B.C.

[12] Aristoxenus was a native of Tarentum, and also a pupil of
Aristotle. We know nothing of his opinions except that he held the soul
to be a _harmony_ of the body; a doctrine which had been already
discussed by Plato in the Phædo, and combated by Aristotle. He was a
great musician, and the chief portions of his works which have come
down to us are fragments of some musical treatises.--Smith's Dict. Gr.
and Rom. Biog.; to which source I must acknowledge my obligation for
nearly the whole of these biographical notes.

[13] The Simonides here meant is the celebrated poet of Ceos, the
perfecter of elegiac poetry among the Greeks. He flourished about the
time of the Persian war. Besides his poetry, he is said to have been
the inventor of some method of aiding the memory. He died at the court
of Hiero, 467 B.C.

[14] Theodectes was a native of Phaselis, in Pamphylia, a distinguished
rhetorician and tragic poet, and flourished in the time of Philip of
Macedon. He was a pupil of Isocrates, and lived at Athens, and died
there at the age of forty-one.

[15] Cineas was a Thessalian, and (as is said in the text) came to Rome
as ambassador from Pyrrhus after the battle of Heraclea, 280 B.C., and
his memory is said to have been so great that on the day after his
arrival he was able to address all the senators and knights by name. He
probably died before Pyrrhus returned to Italy, 276 B.C.

[16] Charmadas, called also Charmides, was a fellow-pupil with Philo,
the Larissæan of Clitomachus, the Carthaginian. He is said by some
authors to have founded a fourth academy.

[17] Metrodorus was a minister of Mithridates the Great; and employed
by him as supreme judge in Pontus, and afterward as an ambassador.
Cicero speaks of him in other places (De Orat. ii. 88) as a man of
wonderful memory.

[18] Quintus Hortensius was eight years older than Cicero; and, till
Cicero's fame surpassed his, he was accounted the most eloquent of all
the Romans. He was Verres's counsel in the prosecution conducted
against him by Cicero. Seneca relates that his memory was so great that
he could come out of an auction and repeat the catalogue backward. He
died 50 B.C.

[19] This treatise is one which has not come down to us, but which had
been lately composed by Cicero in order to comfort himself for the loss
of his daughter.

[20] The epigram is,

    [Greek: Eipas Hêlie chaire, Kleombrotos Hômbrakiôtês
      hêlat' aph' hypsêlou teicheos eis Aidên,
    axion ouden idôn thanatou kakon, alla Platônos
      hen to peri psychês gramm' analexamenos.]

Which may be translated, perhaps,

    Farewell, O sun, Cleombrotus exclaim'd,
      Then plunged from off a height beneath the sea;
    Stung by pain, of no disgrace ashamed,
      But moved by Plato's high philosophy.

[21] This is alluded to by Juvenal:

    Provida Pompeio dederat Campania febres
    Optandas: sed multæ urbes et publica vota
    Vicerunt. Igitur Fortuna ipsius et Urbis,
    Servatum victo caput abstulit.--Sat. x. 283.

[22] Pompey's second wife was Julia, the daughter of Julius Cæsar, she
died the year before the death of Crassus, in Parthia. Virgil speaks of
Cæsar and Pompey as relations, using the same expression (socer) as
Cicero:

    Aggeribus socer Alpinis atque arce Monoeci
    Descendens, gener adversis instructus Eois.--Æn. vi. 830.

[23] This idea is beautifully expanded by Byron:

    Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be
    A land of souls beyond that sable shore
    To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee
    And sophist, madly vain or dubious lore,
    How sweet it were in concert to adore
    With those who made our mortal labors light,
    To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more.
    Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight,
    The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right!
                              _Childe Harold_, ii.

[24] The epitaph in the original is:

    [Greek: Ô xein' angeilon Lakedaimoniois hoti têde
      keimetha, tois keinôn peithomenoi nomimois.]

[25] This was expressed in the Greek verses,

    [Greek: Archês men mê phynai epichthonioisin ariston,
    phynta d' hopôs ôkista pylas Aidyo perêsai]

which by some authors are attributed to Homer.

[26] This is the first fragment of the Cresphontes.--Ed. Var. vii., p.
594.

    [Greek: Edei gar hêmas syllogon poioumenous
    Ton phynta thrênein, eis hos' erchetai kaka.
    Ton d' au thanonta kai ponôn pepaumenon
    chairontas euphêmointas ekpemein domôn]

[27] The Greek verses are quoted by Plutarch:

        [Greek: Êpou nêpie, êlithioi phrenes andrôn
      Euthynoos keitai moiridiô thanatô
    Ouk ên gar zôein kalon autô oute goneusi.]

[28] This refers to the story that when Eumolpus, the son of Neptune,
whose assistance the Eleusinians had called in against the Athenians,
had been slain by the Athenians, an oracle demanded the sacrifice of
one of the daughters of Erechtheus, the King of Athens. And when one
was drawn by lot, the others voluntarily accompanied her to death.

[29] Menoeceus was son of Creon, and in the war of the Argives against
Thebes, Teresias declared that the Thebans should conquer if Menoeceus
would sacrifice himself for his country; and accordingly he killed
himself outside the gates of Thebes.

[30] The Greek is,

    [Greek: mêde moi aklaustos thanatos moloi, alla philoisi
      poiêsaimi thanôn algea kai stonachas.]

[31] Soph. Trach. 1047.

[32] The lines quoted by Cicero here appear to have come from the Latin
play of Prometheus by Accius; the ideas are borrowed, rather than
translated, from the Prometheus of Æschylus.

[33] From _exerceo_.

[34] Each soldier carried a stake, to help form a palisade in front of
the camp.

[35] Insania--from _in_, a particle of negative force in composition,
and _sanus_, healthy, sound.

[36] The man who first received this surname was L. Calpurnius Piso,
who was consul, 133 B.C., in the Servile War.

[37] The Greek is,

    [Greek: Alla moi oidanetai kradiê cholô hoppot' ekeinou
    Mnêsomai hos m' asyphêlon en Argeioisin erexen.]--Il. ix. 642.

I have given Pope's translation in the text.

[38] This is from the Theseus:

    [Greek: Egô de touto para sophou tinos mathôn
    eis phrontidas noun symphoras t' eballomên
    phygas t' emautô prostitheis patras emês.
    thanatous t' aôrous, kai kakôn allas hodous
    hôs, ei ti paschoim' ôn edoxazon pote
    Mê moi neorton prospeson mallon dakoi.]

[39] Ter. Phorm. II. i. 11.

[40] This refers to the speech of Agamemnon in Euripides, in the
Iphigenia in Aulis,

              [Greek: Zêlô se, geron,
    zêlô d' andrôn hos akindynon
    bion exeperas', agnôs, akleês.]--v. 15.

[41] This is a fragment from the Hypsipyle:

    [Greek: Ephy men oudeis hostis ou ponei brotôn
    thaptei te tekna chater' au ktatai nea,
    autos te thnêskei. kai tad' achthontai brotoi
    eis gên pherontes gên anankaiôs d' echei
    bion therizein hôste karpimon stachyn.]

[42]
    [Greek: Pollas ek kephalês prothelymnous helketo chaitas.]--Il. x. 15.

[43]
    [Greek: Êtoi ho kappedion to Alêion oios alato
    hon thymon katedôn, paton anthrôpôn aleeinôn.]--Il. vi. 201.

[44] This is a translation from Euripides:

    [Greek: Hôsth' himeros m' hypêlthe gê te k' ouranô
    lexai molousê deuro Mêdeias tychas.]--Med. 57.

[45]
    [Greek: Liên gar polloi kai epêtrimoi êmata panta
    piptousin, pote ken tis anapneuseie ponoio;
    alla chrê ton men katathaptemen, hos ke thanêsi,
    nêlea thymon echontas, ep' êmati dakrysantas.]--
                              Hom. Il. xix. 226.

[46] This is one of the fragments of Euripides which we are unable to
assign to any play in particular; it occurs Var. Ed. Tr. Inc. 167.

    [Greek: Ei men tod' êmar prôton ên kakoumenô
    kai mê makran dê dia ponôn enaustoloun
    eikos sphadazein ên an, hôs neozyga
    pôlon, chalinon artiôs dedegmenon
    nyn d' amblys eimi, kai katêrtykôs kakôn.]

[47] This is only a fragment, preserved by Stobæus:

    [Greek: Tous d' an megistous kai sophôtatous phreni
    toiousd' idois an, oios esti nyn hode,
    kalôs kakôs prassonti symparainesai
    hotan de daimôn andros eutychous to prin
    mastig' episê tou biou palintropon,
    ta polla phrouda kai kakôs eirêmena.]

[48]
    [Greek: Ôk. Oukoun Promêtheu touto gignôskeis hoti
      orgês nosousês eisin iatroi logoi.
    Pr. ean tis en kairô ge malthassê kear
      kai mê sphrigônta thymon ischnainê bia.]--
                              Æsch. Prom. v. 378.

[49] Cicero alludes here to Il. vii. 211, which is thus translated by
Pope:

    His massy javelin quivering in his hand,
    He stood the bulwark of the Grecian band;
    Through every Argive heart new transport ran,
    All Troy stood trembling at the mighty man:
    E'en Hector paused, and with new doubt oppress'd,
    Felt his great heart suspended in his breast;
    'Twas vain to seek retreat, and vain to fear,
    Himself had challenged, and the foe drew near.

But Melmoth (Note on the Familiar Letters of Cicero, book ii. Let. 23)
rightly accuses Cicero of having misunderstood Homer, who "by no means
represents Hector as being thus totally dismayed at the approach of his
adversary; and, indeed, it would have been inconsistent with the
general character of that hero to have described him under such
circumstances of terror."

    [Greek: Ton de kai Argeioi meg' egêtheon eisoroôntes,
    Trôas de tromos ainos hypêlythe gyia hekaston,
    Hektori d' autô thymos eni stêthessi patassen.]

But there is a great difference, as Dr. Clarke remarks, between [Greek:
thymos eni stêthessi patassen] and [Greek: kardeê exô stêtheôn
ethrôsken], or [Greek: tromos ainos hypêlythe gyia].--_The Trojans_,
says Homer, _trembled_ at the sight of Ajax, and even Hector himself
felt some emotion in his breast.

[50] Cicero means Scipio Nasica, who, in the riots consequent on the
reelection of Tiberius Gracchus to the tribunate, 133 B.C., having
called in vain on the consul, Mucius Scævola, to save the republic,
attacked Gracchus himself, who was slain in the tumult.

[51] _Morosus_ is evidently derived from _mores_--"_Morosus_, _mos_,
stubbornness, self-will, etc."--Riddle and Arnold, Lat. Dict.

[52] In the original they run thus:

    [Greek: Ouk estin ouden deinon hôd' eipein epos,
    Oude pathos, oude xymphora theêlatos
    hês ouk an aroit' achthos anthrôpon physis.]

[53] This passage is from the Eunuch of Terence, act i., sc. 1, 14.

[54] These verses are from the Atreus of Accius.

[55] This was Marcus Atilius Regulus, the story of whose treatment by
the Carthaginians in the first Punic War is well known to everybody.

[56] This was Quintus Servilius Cæpio, who, 105 B.C., was destroyed,
with his army, by the Cimbri, it was believed as a judgment for the
covetousness which he had displayed in the plunder of Tolosa.

[57] This was Marcus Aquilius, who, in the year 88 B.C., was sent
against Mithridates as one of the consular legates; and, being
defeated, was delivered up to the king by the inhabitants of Mitylene.
Mithridates put him to death by pouring molten gold down his throat.

[58] This was the elder brother of the triumvir Marcus Crassus, 87 B.C.
He was put to death by Fimbria, who was in command of some of the
troops of Marius.

[59] Lucius Cæsar and Caius Cæsar were relations (it is uncertain in
what degree) of the great Cæsar, and were killed by Fimbria on the same
occasion as Octavius.

[60] M. Antonius was the grandfather of the triumvir; he was murdered
the same year, 87 B.C., by Annius, when Marius and Cinna took Rome.

[61] This story is alluded to by Horace:

    Districtus ensis cui super impiâ
    Cervice pendet non Siculæ dapes
      Dulcem elaborabunt saporem,
        Non avium citharæve cantus
    Somnum reducent.--iii. 1. 17.

[62] Hieronymus was a Rhodian, and a pupil of Aristotle, flourishing
about 300 B.C. He is frequently mentioned by Cicero.

[63] We know very little of Dinomachus. Some MSS. have Clitomachus.

[64] Callipho was in all probability a pupil of Epicurus, but we have
no certain information about him.

[65] Diodorus was a Syrian, and succeeded Critolaus as the head of the
Peripatetic School at Athens.

[66] Aristo was a native of Ceos, and a pupil of Lycon, who succeeded
Straton as the head of the Peripatetic School, 270 B.C. He afterward
himself succeeded Lycon.

[67] Pyrrho was a native of Elis, and the originator of the sceptical
theories of some of the ancient philosophers. He was a contemporary of
Alexander.

[68] Herillus was a disciple of Zeno of Cittium, and therefore a Stoic.
He did not, however, follow all the opinions of his master: he held
that knowledge was the chief good. Some of the treatises of Cleanthes
were written expressly to confute him.

[69] Anacharsis was (Herod., iv., 76) son of Gnurus and brother of
Saulius, King of Thrace. He came to Athens while Solon was occupied in
framing laws for his people; and by the simplicity of his way of
living, and his acute observations on the manners of the Greeks, he
excited such general admiration that he was reckoned by some writers
among the Seven Wise Men of Greece.

[70] This was Appius Claudius Cæcus, who was censor 310 B.C., and who,
according to Livy, was afflicted with blindness by the Gods for
persuading the Potitii to instruct the public servants in the way of
sacrificing to Hercules. He it was who made the Via Appia.

[71] The fact of Homer's blindness rests on a passage in the Hymn to
Apollo, quoted by Thucydides as a genuine work of Homer, and which is
thus spoken of by one of the most accomplished scholars that this
country or this age has ever produced: "They are indeed beautiful
verses; and if none worse had ever been attributed to Homer, the Prince
of Poets would have had little reason to complain.

"He has been describing the Delian festival in honor of Apollo and
Diana, and concludes this part of the poem with an address to the women
of that island, to whom it is to be supposed that he had become
familiarly known by his frequent recitations:

    [Greek: Chairete d' hymeis pasai, emeio de kai metopisthe
    mnêsasth', hoppote ken tis epichthoniôn anthrôpôn
    enthad' aneirêtai xeinos talapeirios elthôn
    ô kourai, tis d' hymmin anêr hêdistos aoidôn
    enthade pôleitai kai teô terpesthe malista;
    hymeis d' eu mala pasai hypokrinasthe aph' hêmôn,
    Typhlos anêr, oikei de Chiô eni paipaloessê,
    tou pasai metopisthen aristeuousin aoidai.]

    Virgins, farewell--and oh! remember me
    Hereafter, when some stranger from the sea,
    A hapless wanderer, may your isle explore,
    And ask you, 'Maids, of all the bards you boast,
    Who sings the sweetest, and delights you most?'
    Oh! answer all, 'A blind old man, and poor,
    Sweetest he sings, and dwells on Chios' rocky shore.'

                              _Coleridge's Introduction to the Study
                              of the Greek Classic Poets._

A Stoic Breviary: Classical Wisdom in Daily Practice

The Death of Marcus Aurelius

TEXT: Cicero, Tusculan Disputations (tr C.D. Yonge)

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