Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 11.2

. . . Well, but what is properly our own excellence, upon the account of which we may be admitted to look upon ourselves? As better and happier than we were before? 

At the beginning of this book, the first thing he mentioned of this kind, was a just and true opinion; but here he calls it a right use and management of ideas; so that opinion in that place, and ideas in this, signify one and the same thing. For we judge of things by the different representations of them to our minds, and those judgements are sometimes true, and sometimes false. 

Now the right management of ideas is, when what appears to us, agrees exactly with the nature of things themselves; and when we proceed upon these appearances, so that the judgments we form upon them, carry nothing in them that is false and inconsistent; as it would be if we should affirm, that intemperance is good, and temperance evil. 

But the most proper sense of this use of ideas, as nature and reason direct, I look upon to be a desire of those things that are good, and an aversion and detestation of those that are evil. When we have not only a bare speculative notion, what is good and what is evil, but desire and pursue that which we think to be good, and decline and abhor that which we think to be evil. 

And this may very well be called our own proper excellence; because the regulation of our desire and aversions, according to reason and nature, is always in our own power; though the exerting these, and making them effectual by outward acts, is not always so. 

And yet it is highly probable, that Epictetus may intend something farther still, by this right use of ideas, which is, that our practice and behavior should express a constant conformity to these true opinions and regular desires: that we should not think it sufficient to declare it our sense, that temperance is a virtue, but should be actually temperate, and make all our actions speak the conceptions of our minds, and the regularity of our desires upon this occasion; not to satisfy ourselves with the empty commendations of justice, nor with a few faint and feeble desires of this virtue; for this is what follows of course, and whatever we apprehend as desirable too at the same time, and yet allow ourselves in acts of injustice. 

This is the case of impotent and incontinent persons; they desire virtue, but that desire is overborne by a stronger, which inclines to pleasure. Their reason discerns what should be done, though not so clearly and powerfully as it might and ought, and for a while stands up in its vindication; and the virtuous desires and aversions, which are rightly disposed, but weak and confused, strike in, and take its part; but presently the brutish inclinations, like an impetuous torrent, bear down all before them, distract and divert the man from his cooler purposes, and drive him to what is most agreeable to his present heat. 

This is just the description before of Medea, when the tragedian brings her in with these words, which I have so oft had occasion to repeat. 

Remorse and sense of guilt pull back my soul, 
But stronger passion does her powers control; 
With rage transported, I push boldly on, 
And see the precipice I cannot shun. 

So then, it is by no means sufficient, that a man’s judgment is rightly informed, and that his desires be virtuously inclined in many instances, unless he be all of a piece; unless he takes care, the commendableness of his practice holds correspondence with the truth of his opinions. 

This is the right and best use of our ideas, and this we may think our own peculiar excellence; but no external advantage can ever be so. 

For, as the particular commendation of a carpenter, considered as a carpenter, is his working according to the rules of art and proportion, so the peculiar excellence of a philosopher, depends upon the ideas and affections of the mind being just and good; and exerting this excellence is calling these out into act, and demonstrating them to the world by a virtuous conversation. 

Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 11.1

Suffer not yourself to be exalted with any excellence not properly your own. 

If your horse should be transported with his beauty, and boast of it, this would be tolerable in him: but when you value yourself, and brag of his beauty, consider, that you are not proud of an excellence in yourself, but in your horse. 

You will say then, what is a man’s own? 

I answer, a right use of his ideas. And when you manage these as you ought, then you may be allowed to please yourself. For this is being exalted with some excellence that is properly yours. 

Comment: 

The foregoing chapters acquainted us, what method must be taken to deliver ourselves from grief and fear and confusion, when any calamitous circumstances from without threaten our peace: this directs us, how to preserve an even and composed mind, when any external advantages would shake our moderation. 

Now these advantages he calls none of ours, in agreement with what he said at the beginning of his book, that the things out of our power are feeble, and servile, and liable to opposition, and not ours, but another’s. And upon the being conscious to ourselves of any such seeming advantages, he forbids us to be exalted. 

By this exaltation, I understand here, not any insolence, or haughtiness, or arrogance of humor, as the word is sometimes used in an ill sense; for sure we are not allowed to be exalted in such a manner as this, upon the account of any advantage whatsoever, though never so real a good, though never so truly our own, but, as I apprehend, this exaltation signifies the being satisfied with ourselves; and imagining, that we are better or happier upon the account of some additional good, which now we have, but had not formerly. 

So that he says, we must not think ourselves ever the better, for that good which belongs not to us; nor imagine, that another’s excellence adds anything to ours. For every good belongs to his own proper subject, in which it subsists, and whose quality it is; and no other can pretend to any right in it. 

The goodness, for instance, of a horse, belongs to the horse himself, and not to us; for if he be bold, and fleet, and manageable, he hath indeed the proper excellencies of a horse; but which way does this make for our commendation? How is this the excellence of a man? Or what augmentation can the virtue or the happiness of his owner receive from it? 

Yes, you will say, the excellence of any possessions redounds to the possessor, and the goodness of the instruments to the benefit of the artificers that use them. According to the common opinion of the world, it is acknowledged they do. 

But pray, is the excellency of an axe, suppose, able to make him a good carpenter, who was not one before? In this case therefore we would distinguish, between the excellencies peculiar to the tool, and those peculiar to the workman, with relation to the trade he professes. 

The proper excellence of an axe is to carry a good edge, and to be made neat and true; this renders it fit for service, and for the work to be cut out by it: for every instrument is commended by its work. 

But this contributes nothing to the perfection of the carpenter; for his excellence, and proper commendation, consists in observing proportions, and rules of art; and he is judged by this, and not by the work done by him, because that may happen to fail, from some defect, either in the stuff he wrought upon, or the tools he wrought with, or twenty other accidental obstructions. . . . 

Ellis Walker, Epictetus in Poetical Paraphrase 64

LXIV. 

If you a strict enquiry make, you'll find,
That to each thing, two handles are assign'd.
One not to be endur'd, that will admit
No touch, there's none, alas! can manage it.
The other tractable, which every hand
With mod'rate skill and prudence may command.
If then your brother injures you through pride,
Or fraud, lay hold upon the safer side;
And do not straight examine his offence,
Touch'd with too deep, and too grievous a sense
Of the wrong offer'd, lest you discompose
Your mind, and wrath to injury oppose;
Lest in a tempest you yourself engage,
Which only serves to blow, to inflame his rage.
But rather think how near you are ally'd,
That such offences ought not to divide,
And break the knot, which nature's hand hath ty'd;
Remember all the happy years you spent
Under one roof, and the same management;
Rememb'ring this, you'll soon forget the ill
Your brother did you, he's your brother still.

Snippets from the Handbook 2

Things in our power are by nature free, unhindered, untrammeled; things not in our power are weak, servile, subject to hindrance, dependent on others. 

Remember then that if you imagine that what is naturally slavish is free, and what is naturally another's is your own, you will be hampered, you will mourn, you will be put to confusion, you will blame gods and men. 

But if you think that only your own belongs to you, and that what is another's is indeed another's, no one will ever put compulsion or hindrance on you, you will blame none, you will accuse none, you will do nothing against your will, no one will harm you, you will have no enemy, for no harm can touch you. 

—Epictetus, The Handbook 1 

Snippets from the Handbook 1

Of all existing things, some are in our power, and others are not in our power. 

In our power are thought, impulse, will to get and will to avoid, and, in a word, everything which is our own doing. 

Things not in our power include the body, property, reputation, office, and, in a word, everything which is not our own doing. 

—Epictetus, The Handbook 1 

Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 10.4

. . . Thus Epictetus has given a short but exact character of these three sorts of persons. 

The perfect philosophers are guilty of no miscarriages; for their understanding is sufficiently accomplished to direct them, and the irrational part readily submits to those directions. So that there is nothing but harmony and compliance, and consequently, they have nobody to lay any misery to the charge of; for indeed, they cannot labor under anything that is truly and properly misery. They cause none to themselves, for this would be a contradiction to the perfection of their wisdom and virtue, and nothing else causes them any, for they do not suppose any external causes capable of doing it. 

The ignorant and untaught err in both these respects. Neither their reason, nor their passions, are rightly disposed. They lay all their unhappiness to others, upon an erroneous imagination, that it proceeds from things without us. And indeed, it is easy and pleasant, and fit for ignorant wretches, to shuffle off their own faults from themselves, and throw them upon other people. 

The young proficient, who has attained to the first principles of wisdom, though he be guilty of some miscarriages, and falls now and then into evil, yet he understands wherein it consists, and from whence it is derived, and what it was that first gave birth to it; and therefore he lays it at the right door. 

And these marks are so distinguishing, that no man, who makes a wise use of them, can be in danger of confounding these three classes of men, the accomplished philosopher, the rude and untaught, and the young proficient. 

This metaphor is so much the more warrantable and pertinent, for the resemblance which education bears to the management of ourselves: for this is properly the training up of a child, under the care and correction of a master. 

Our sensual part is the child in us; and, like all other children, does not know its own good, and is violently bent upon pleasure and pastime. The master that has the care of it, is reason; this fashions our desires, prescribes them their bounds, reduces and restrains them, and directs them to that which is best for them. 

So that the ignorant and untaught live the life of a child left to himself, run giddily on, are perpetually in fault, as being heady and heedless, and minding nothing, but the gratifying of their own inclinations; and so these men never think themselves to blame. 

The young proficients have their master at hand, correcting and instruction them; and the child in them is pretty towardly, and begins to submit to rules. 

So that if these men are at any time in the wrong, they are presently sensible who has been to blame, and accuse nobody but the offender himself. 

But the perfect and accomplished philosophers are such, whose master keeps a constant eye upon them, and has conquered the child’s stubborn and perverse spirit. 

So that now he is corrected and improved, and has attained to the perfection he was intended for; that is, the being observant to the master, and absolutely at his direction. For the proper virtue of a child is this readiness to receive and to obey instructions. 

Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 10.3

. . . None but ignorant and undisciplined people tax others with their misfortunes. The young proficient blames himself; but he who is a philosopher indeed, blames neither others nor himself.

Comment: 

The connection of this with what went before is so close, that if a conjunction were added, and we read thus, for none but ignorant and undisciplined people tax other with their misfortunes, it would give a very good reason why we should never lay our troubles, or fears, or disorders, or any other calamity we fancy ourselves in, to anything, or anybody’s charge, but our own: since this way of proceeding, he says, comes from want of being taught better. And then to this character of the ignorant and undisciplined, he adds those of one who is a beginner only in philosophy, and one who has attained to a mastery in it. 

The perfect philosopher never thinks anything, that befalls him, evil; or charges anybody with being the occasion of his misfortunes; because he lives up to the dictates of nature and reason, and is never disappointed in his pursuits and desires, nor ever overtaken with his fears. 

He that is but raw and unfinished, does indeed sometimes miss of his desires, and fall into the mischiefs he would flee from, because the brutish inclinations move too strongly in him at such times. And when this happens, the first elements he learned, which taught him to distinguish things in and out of our power, teach him too, that he himself, and none but he, is the true cause of all his disappointments, and all his disasters. And the occasion of them all was his mistaking the things without us, and placing a man’s proper good and evil in them.

But you will say, perhaps, since this young philosopher knows, that our own proper good and evil depends upon our own power and choice (and the accusing himself implies that he knows thus much), how comes it to pass, that he takes wrong measures, and renders himself liable to this blame? 

Probably, because the knowledge of good and evil is the first step to be made toward virtue, this being the proper act of reason: but the brutish appetites do not always presently submit to reason, nor suffer themselves to be easily reduced and tempered by it; and especially, where it happens, as it does very often, that reason is negligent and sluggish, and the irrational part active, and perpetually in motion, by which means the passions gather strength, and usurp and absolute dominion. This was the case of her in the play:

Remorse and sense of guilt pull back my soul,

But stronger passion does her powers control;
With rage transported, I push boldly on,
And see the precipice I cannot shun. 

So that for some time it is pretty tolerable, if reason can work upon the passions, and either draw them by force, or charm and win them over some softer way: for, when this is done, then the knowledge of the intelligent part is more clear and instructive, and proceeds without any distraction at all. 

No wonder therefore, if men but little trained in philosophy make some false steps while their passions are not yet totally subdued, and their reason does not operate in its full strength. And when they do so, they accuse themselves only, as having admitted that distinction of things in and out of our own power, though as yet they seem to have but an imperfect notion of it. 

But they that are ignorant, and absolutely untaught, must needs commit a world of errors, both because of that violent agitation which their passions are continually in, and of the ignorance of their rational part, which has not yet learned to distinguish real good and evil, from what is so in appearance only: nor does it take them off from brutality, not so much as in thought only. By brutality I mean such low and mean notions, as persuade us, that our body is properly ourselves, and our nature; or, which is yet worse, when we think our riches so, as the covetous do. 

Now while we continue thus ignorant, there are several accounts to be given for our doing amiss: we do it, because we think all our good and evil consist in things without us; and, not being at all sensible, what is properly the happiness or unhappiness of human nature, or whence it proceeds, we fall foul upon other people; and fancy, that they, who obstruct or deprive us of those external advantages we so eagerly pursue, or that bring upon us any of the calamities we would avoid, are the real causes of all our misery. 

Though in truth, neither those external advantages which we call good, nor those calamities we call evil, are what we take them for; but, as circumstances are sometimes ordered, may prove the direct contrary. For our folly in this case is just like that of silly boys, who cannot endure their masters, but think them their worst enemies, and the cause of a world of misery, but value and love those as their friends, indeed, that invite them to play and pleasure. . . . 

Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 10.2

. . . Now Epictetus, it is true, has drawn his argument from that which is generally esteemed the most formidable evil that we are capable of suffering: but however, since most of us, when we lie under the present smart of any calamity, straightaway imagine it worse than death (for what can be more usual, than for people in pain, and very often in no great extremity of it neither, to wish for death to deliver them from it, and when reduced to poverty, to tell us, they had much rather be dead than live in want?) upon this account, we may apply Epictetus’ argument to these instances also. 

As to pain, what degree of it is there so violent, which men, nay even those of low and vulgar spirits, are not content to go through, to cure a dangerous disease? They do not only endure, but choose and pay for it: they thank their physicians for putting them to torture, and look upon cutting and burning, as acts of the greatest tenderness and friendship. 

Now, though this makes it pretty plain, that men, who are well pleased to purchase life so dear, must needs be of the opinion, that no pain is so terrible to human nature as death; yet the principal use I would make of this observation is, to show, that men can really suffer with great patience and resolution, can harden themselves against what they count very dreadful, and meet it with a composed countenance, when once they are persuaded, that enduring it will be for their advantage. 

What prodigious instances of patience were the Lacedaemonian youths, who endured scourgings so barbarous, as almost to expire under the rod, and all this, merely for a little ostentation and vainglory? Now this, it is evident, they did not out of any compulsion, but freely and cheerfully; for they offered themselves to the trial, of their own accord. 

And the reason why they held out so obstinately was, not that their sense of pain was less quick and tender than that of other people (though more hardened too than people who indulge themselves in effeminacy and ease), but because they thought it their glory and their virtue, to suffer manfully and resolutely. 

For the same reason, Epictetus would tell you, that poverty is no such formidable thing neither: because he can produce the example of Crates the Theban to the contrary; who, when he disposed of all he was worth to the public, and said, 

Let others keep, or mourn lost, store,
Crates’ own hands make Crates poor. 

That moment put an end to his slavery; and his freedom commenced, from the time he had disburdened himself of his wealth. 

Now the manifest consequence of all this is, that nothing of this kind is terrible and insupportable in its own nature, as we fondly imagine. So far from it, that there may be some cases, when such things are much more eligible, and better for us: I mean, when they are converted to higher and more excellent purposes for our own selves; by tending to the advantage and improvement of the reasonable soul. 

The only expedient, to retain an even temper in the midst of these accidents, is to possess our minds with just notions of them. And the regulating of these notions is in our own power: consequently, the preventing of those disorders, that proceed from the want of such a regulation, is in our own power too. 

And one great advantage to persons thus disposed will be, the learning how to manage those things that are not at our disposal, as though they were. For if it be not in my power to prevent defamation or disgrace, the loss of my goods or my estate, affronts and violent insults upon my person, yet thus much is in my power, to possess myself with right apprehensions of these things; to consider them, not only as not evil, but sometimes the instruments and occasion of great good. 

Now such an opinion as this, makes it almost the same thing to a man, as if they did not happen at all; or, which is all one, makes him think himself never the worse, but sometimes the better for them, when they do. And I take it for granted, that every wise man will allow it more for our (that is, for the soul’s) honor and advantage, to have behaved ourselves gallantly under afflictions, than never to have been afflicted at all: and the greater still in proportion, is the honor and advantage gained by them. 

For, as to bodies that are able to bear it, the most violent motions exercise them best, and make greatest improvements of health, and strength, and activity; so the mind too must be put upon sharp trials sometimes, to qualify it for suffering gallantly, when any accident gives us an occasion. 

And this may be accomplished these two way: by getting a right notion of them, and by being well prepared against them. And this is to be done, partly, by accustoming the body to hardship, which indeed is of general use, and has enabled even ignorant and ill men to slight blows, and other pains, which we commonly think intolerable; and partly by fixing the mind in a provident forecast, and distant expectation of them. And all these things we may certainly do, if we please. 

Now, if neither death nor any of those things we dread most, have anything formidable in their own nature, it is plain, neither they, nor the persons that inflict them are the cause of our trouble, but we ourselves, and our own opinions, bring this upon ourselves. When therefore the mind feels itself perplexed with grief, or fear, or any passion the blame is our own, and nothing but our opinions are accountable for such disorders. . . . 

Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 10.1

That which gives men disquiet, and makes their lives miserable, is not the nature of things as they really are, but the notions and opinions, which they form to themselves concerning them. 

Thus, even death, which we look upon as the most perplexing and dreadful, has, in truth, nothing of terror in it: for if it had, Socrates must needs have feared it, as much as we. But our opinion that it is evil, is the only thing that makes it so.  

Therefore, whenever we meet with obstructions and perplexities, or fall into troubles and disorders, let us be just, and not lay the blame where it is not due; but impute it all to our own selves, and our prejudicate opinions. . . . 

Comment: 

We were told before, what means would be proper and effectual, for preserving an even and composed temper of mind, in the midst of all those hardships which frequently attend our best actions: that this might be accomplished by the power of premeditation; by representing these inconveniences, are sure to happen; and when we had made the worst of it, convincing ourselves, that such actions were worth our undertaking, even with all those encumbrances. 

Now that rule proceeded upon the work of our own minds; but here is another, fetched from the nature of the things themselves, and the consideration of those difficulties and dangers which use to give us disturbance. 

And here he changes his method, and confirms what he says, not by some slight and trivial instances, as he did before, but by death the greatest and most confounding one to human nature, that can be. For if the argument holds good in this case, it must needs be a great deal stronger with regard to all the rest, since those, by our own confession, are less dismal and affrighting. 

To this purpose then he tells us, that those things which we apprehend to be evil, and which for that reason discompose our spirits, because we think ourselves miserable under them, are really neither evil themselves, nor the true causes of any evil to us: quite contrary; that all our troubles and perplexities are entirely owing to the opinions, which we ourselves have entertained and cherished concerning them. 

For proof of this determination, he produces that, which, of all the things that we apprehend as evil, is confessedly the greatest and most terrible, and shows, that even death, nay a violent and untimely death, is yet no evil. The argument he uses is short indeed, but very full and conclusive; the method and consequence whereof lies thus. 

Whatever is evil in its own nature, must needs appear so to all mankind; more especially to those, whose apprehensions are most improved, and most suitable to the real nature of things. Thus all things naturally hot or cold, or beautiful, or the like, appear such to all people in their right senses. But death does not appear evil to all people, nor are they universally agreed in this notion of it. 

For Socrates did not think it so; he chose to undergo it, when it was in his power to have declined it; he endured it with all the calmness and composure imaginable; he spent that whole day in which he died, with his friends, demonstrating to them the existence and immortality of the soul, and the efficacy of a philosophical life, in order to virtue and reformation. 

From all which premises, this conclusion evidently follows: that death is not in its own nature evil, and consequently, that our fears and troubles concerning it do not come from the thing itself, but from a disquieting persuasion of it being evil, with which we possess and disorder our own minds. 

And such a persuasion there may very well be, though there be no ground for it in the nature of the thing. For honey is not bitter, and yet men in the jaundice, who have their palates vitiated, from a constant bitterness occasioned by the overflowing of the gall, are prejudiced against it, as if it were so. 

Now, as the only way to bring these persons to discern tastes as they really are, is to carry off that redundance of choler, which corrupts their palate: so in this case, we must remove the distemper of the mind, correct our notions of things, and make a right judgment of what is really good and evil to us, by just distinctions between things that are, and thing that are not, in our own power; what is properly ours, and what belongs not to us. 

For, according to this rule, if death be none of the things in our power, it cannot be evil; and though it should be granted such, with regard to the body; yet if it does not extend to the soul, nor do any harm to that, it cannot be evil to us. 

Plato indeed, or Socrates as he is introduced by Plato, goes a great deal farther, and boldly affirms, that it is good, and much to be preferred before this life that we lead in the body; and this, not only to some persons, and in some circumstances, as men may be better or worse, but in general, and without exception to all. 

For thus Socrates expresses himself in his Phaedo: it may possibly surprise you, and seem a strange paradox, that this should be the only accident, which is good at all times, and without any reserve; but yet so it is. 

In all other cases, nothing happens to a man, which, as his circumstances may alter, he might not at another time better be without: but no time, no circumstance whatsoever, can render it more for a man’s advantage to live that to die. 

And Plato, in his book concerning laws, speaking in his own person, delivers himself to this purpose: if I may be allowed to speak my opinion freely, it is really my judgment, that the continuation of soul and body together, ought not upon any consideration, to be rather chosen, than the separation and dissolution of them. . . . 

Ellis Walker, Epictetus in Poetical Paraphrase 63

LXIII. 

If any strive to injure, or defame
Your honour, filching from you your good name;
Consider, he believes this blame your due,
That he doth only what he ought to do:
For 'tis a thing impossible, that he
Should so in sentiments with you agree,
As not to follow his own bent of mind,
And that to which his judgment is inclin'd.
Now if through carelessness he judge amiss,
He suffers most, and all the harm is his.
He truly suffers most, whose reason's light
Is clouded o'er, whom error doth benight;
He the affront to his own reason gives,
Who thinks wrong right, who falshoods truths believes.
Then why should his mistakes your soul torment?
His own mistakes are his own punishment;
He wrongs his judgment, not the truth, or you,
You still are guiltless, still what's truth is true;
Still 'tis a certain truth (whate'er he say)
That whensoe'er the sun appears, 'tis day.
And thus prepar'd, you patiently may bear
His rudeness, and unmov'd his slanders hear,
And calmly answer, that such things to him 
Fit to be done, fit to be said, may seem.

Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 9.3

. . . Nor is it true, that a just computation of all the difficulties and dangers wont to attend our actions, must needs condemn men to slavish fears, and an inactive life. For if our reason convinces us, that what we attempt, is good for the advantage of the soul, or which is all one of the man, for that soul is the man, the desire of that good must needs inspire us with courage and vigor, not withstanding all the discouraging dangers that attend it. 

And the consideration of this danger will be very much softened, by this most rational and virtuous persuasion, that we ought to persevere in such an undertaking, though at the expense of some hazard and inconvenience. For all danger and detriment, of either body or fortunes, is not properly an evil to us; nor shall we think it ours, if we be wise. But the benefit of choosing a virtuous action, and persisting in it, in despite of all dangers and discouragements, is our own good; for it is the good of our souls, which are truly and properly ourselves. 

And this advantage is considerable enough to be set against many troubles, and losses, and banishments, and disgraces: nay, it is sufficient, not only to be set against, but to overbalance them all; because the good of this does so very much exceed the evil that seems to be in them. For if a man thinks himself obliged to choose a greater good, when attended only with a lessor evil; how is it possible, that he should be discouraged and uneasy, under the expectation of some cross accidents, which sometimes follow upon virtuous actions, when the good of these actions is truly and properly his own, but the evil of those accidents, is only something remote, and not his? 

Especially too, when this is by no means a superficial and notional distinction, but such a real difference, as his whole practice and behavior shows him sensible of. This is the very reason, why men of virtue and wisdom have made it their glory, to choose good with the greatest dangers; why they have done it cheerfully, and sacrificed their very lives for it; and accounted their sufferings upon such an account, matter of the greatest joy to them. So did Menoecius particularly, and all those other heroes, famed in story, who have voluntarily devoted themselves, and died for the service and sake of their country. 

Now Epictetus couches his advice here, under one of the meanest and most insignificant instances that can be; partly to illustrate what he says, by an example taken from common conversation, and so to gain the assent of his hearers, to the truth of what he would infer from it; and partly too, as himself had told us before, to put his scholars upon exercising their virtue in lesser trials; that so from trivial matters, they may rise by degrees to others of greater difficulty and consequence. And the success of this method has been already shown to depend upon reasons, which need not be repeated. 

But his design is also, that we should be careful to apply these things to affairs of the moment, in proportion as the hazards of them are more discouraging; and in those occasions, always to take our measures from the nature of the thing, whether it be agreeable to decency and our duty, and what those hardships are that usually accompany it. Then, after such prospect taken, to settle our minds in this resolution, that if the worst happens, we will bear it with temper and moderation. 

For this is the way to maintain the character of virtuous and rational men; this must let us into all the advantages of doing well, and defend us from all that perplexity into which unexpected events commonly betray men. For he that is troubled and discomposed, and fancies himself unhappy in what he suffers , it is plain, either had not sufficiently considered what he went about, before he engaged in it; or if he did foresee all this, then his disorder is the effect of effeminacy and cowardice, which makes him give out, and repent his undertaking. But both these failings are highly criminal, and contrary to the rules of nature, and right reason. 

Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 9.2

. . . Now against this counsel I expect it will be urged, first, that if everyone should take such pains, to represent all the crosses and disappointments, which may probably happen to them in every undertaking, the effect of this would be cowardice and idleness: for men would find themselves utterly discouraged from attempting anything at all. 

Besides, nothing can be more grievous to any man, than to have the image of his troubles and misfortunes constantly before his eyes; and especially, if the affair he be engaged in continues any time, to converse all that while with this ghastly apparition. Therefore, Demosthenes’ advice seems much more prudent and eligible; to be sure, that what you attempt, be good and virtuous; then to hope well, and, whatever the event be, to bear it generously and decently. 

But by the objector’s good leave, if by hoping well, Demosthenes means a good confidence, grounded upon our undertaking things virtuous and commendable, and resting satisfied in this consideration, whatever the event be; he says the very same thing with Epictetus. Only indeed he gives us no direction, which way we shall attain to this generous temper of mind, which may enable us to entertain the dispensations of providence decently, though they should happen to be harsh and severe. 

But Epictetus declares himself of the opinion, that the method to qualify ourselves for so doing, is, to take a true prospect of the whole affair, and represent to ourselves, that it is fit for us to undertake, and that there may be several circumstances attending it, which though they may not be agreeable to us, are yet very tolerable, and such as we may reconcile ourselves to, upon these two accounts. First, because the action itself, which brings them upon us, is virtuous, and becoming; and then, because whenever they happen, they are no more than what were expected, and provided against before. 

But, if by hoping well, Demosthenes intends a firm persuasion of safety and success; then I think it is very difficult, nay, I may venture to say, it is impossible to conceive, how a man thus persuaded, can ever bear disappointments and crosses with moderation and temper. 

For when a man falls from what he was in imagination, the shock is the same, as if he were so in reality. And neither the body, nor the mind, are of a constitution to bear sudden and violent alterations, without great disturbance. You see, the very weather, and seasons of the year, though they change gently and by degrees, yet put our humors into a great ferment, and generally occasion many distempers among us; and the more violent this change at anytime is, the greater in proportion the disorders that follow upon it, must needs be. . . . 

Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 9.1

In every action you undertake, consider first with yourself, and weigh well the nature and circumstances of the thing: nay, though it be so slight a one, as going to bathe; represent to yourself beforehand, what accidents you may probably meet with. 

That in the bath there is often rude behavior, dashing of water, jostling for passage, scurrilous language, and stealing. And when you have done thus, you may with more security go about the thing. 

To which purpose you will do well to say thus to yourself; my design is to bathe, but so it is too, to preserve my mind and reason undisturbed, while I do so. 

For after such wise preparation as this, if anything intervenes to obstruct your washing, this reflection will presently rise upon it: well, but this was not the only thing I proposed; that which I chiefly intended, was to keep my mind and reason undisturbed; and this I am sure can never be done, if I suffer every accident to discompose me. 

Comment: 

After giving instructions concerning our behavior with regard to the things of the world, which use to engage our affections, either upon the account of the delight they give us, the convenience they are of, or the relation they bear to us; the next step in order, is to consider our actions. For these too have a great many circumstances, out of our power, and must therefore be undertaken with great prudence, and much preparation. 

The rule then that he lays down is this; that you take a just account of the nature of each action, and fairly compute the several accidents, which, though they do not necessarily, yet may possibly attend it; and to expect, that these are very likely to happen in your own case particularly. Now the fruit of this will be, either not to be surprised, if such difficulties do encounter you; or, if the thing be not of absolute necessity, to decline the hazard, by letting it alone. 

For the great Cato reckons this for one of the errors of his life, that he chose to take a voyage once by sea, to a place, whither he might have traveled by land. In such a case, though no misfortune should actually happen, yet if there be a likelihood of any such accident, and if it does frequently happen to others, it is an act of imprudence, to make choice of such a course, without being driven to it by necessity: and this answer, that many people do the same, and come off safe, will not bear us out, in choosing a more dangerous passage, when it is left to our own liberty to take a safer. 

But now, where there is absolute occasion for our running some risk; as if we have necessary affairs to dispatch, which require a voyage to or from some island; or if we are obliged to stand by a father or a friend, in some hazardous or unlucky business; or if we are called upon to take up arms in defense of our country: then there is no thought of declining the matter wholly, and our method must be to undertake it upon due deliberation; and to lay together the several accidental obstructions wont to arise in such a case: that so by this timely recollection, we may render them easy and familiar, and not be disturbed, when any of them come upon us. 

A man thus prepared, has this double advantage: if they do not happen, his joy is the greater, because having so fully possessed himself with an expectation that they would, this is almost a deliverance to him. And if they do, then he has the advantage of being provided against them, and so can encounter them, without much danger or disorder. . . . 

Ellis Walker, Epictetus in Poetical Paraphrase 62

LXII. 

In outward actions to spend to much time, 
Is of stupidity too sure a sign; 
As long to exercise, and long to eat, 
To spend whole days, at least, to cram down meat, 
To try what drink your belly will contain, 
To be disgorg'd, to be piss'd out again, 
Then half an hour, like a dull grinning fool, 
To make wry faces over a close stool; 
Or like a brutish swine, in sensual strife, 
To wallow out whole hours with your dull wife, 
When all this precious time should be assign'd, 
For brave endeavours to improve your mind. 

Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 8.2

. . . Now the advice given, with respect to every one of these, is, that we would sit down, and seriously consider, what the nature and condition of each of them is; what hazards and uncertainties they are liable to; that they are subject to corruption and decay; that the enjoyment of them is short, and not to be depended upon; and that none of them are absolutely at our own pleasure and disposal. 

For such a reflection as this, which suggests to us continually, what their nature and circumstances are, is no other, than a meditating upon the loss of them. And such a meditation would render the thing easy and familiar to us; and when any accident of this kind befalls us, would prevent all that surprise and confusion, and extravagant concern, which the unthinking part of the world are oppressed with upon such occasions. 

And indeed the case here is the very same with several other instances, wherein we find, that the troubles and pains of body and mind both, though very grievous at first and in themselves, yet grow much more supportable by custom and use. 

To this purpose, the next words give us very good counsel: to begin at first with little matters, nay, not only with little, but with the least and most inconsiderable. For according to the old Greek Proverb, the potter must try a cup, before he can make a jar. 

He that undertakes the biggest first, is presently worsted, proves unsuccessful, spends his strength to no purpose, and gives out in utter despair. But he that sets out leisurely, and begins with small and easy trials, grows stronger and bolder with his good success, and by gaining ground upon what was a match for him before, advances more surely, and conquers still greater and greater difficulties. 

Thus a man used to four meals a day, if he attempts all on the sudden to fast a whole day together, will find the change too violent for his body to bear, and never get through the trouble and pain of it. And this force upon nature is the reason, why such warm undertakings are generally of dangerous consequence, only just for a spurt, and away. 

But if such a one abates of his former indulgence by degrees, first takes himself down to three meals, and, when this proportion is grown habitual and easy, then allows himself but two: thus it will be very feasible, and afterwards he may, without any great trouble, come to content himself with one; and such a change will be infinitely more safe, and more likely to continue. 

Apply this now to the instance before us: we should consider those things that are dear to us, upon the account of their usefulness and convenience; and from such among them as are of least consequence and value, acquaint ourselves with the condition of all the rest, as that their nature is corruptible, the enjoyment of them uncertain, and the loss of them what we have reason to expect every moment. 

As in an earthen pot, which can have nothing but its usefulness to incline us to value it, we are to remember, it is of a brittle substance, and dashed to pieces with the least accident. And what can be a poorer and more contemptible instance than this, to begin with? 

Yet mean and trifling as it is, a man that lays a good foundation here, and rises by degrees to matters of greater concern, shall be able at last to encounter his affection for a child; and not only in mere speculation, and empty formal words to say it, but to make his whole behavior speak, and all the dispositions of his mind to carry the impression of this wise and seasonable reflection, that what he thus dotes upon, is but a man; if a man, consequently a brittle and frail creature, and such as he is in a continual possibility of losing. 

And if his mind be once thoroughly possessed with this consideration, and confirmed with an habitual recollection of it, whenever that child is snatched away from him, he is prepared for the stroke, and cannot be surprised and confounded with passion, as if some strange or new thing had happened to him.

And here it is very well worth a remark, what abundance of wisdom and artifice there is in this management of things. For by it we get a mastery over those that are not by nature within our power, and deal with them as though they were. 

The saving my child from death, is a thing not in my power. 

But a due consideration of his being liable to it, the rendering this consideration familiar and easy to me, and living in expectation of it, as a thing no less natural and likely than his life, the not being disturbed if he does die, and the behaving myself with such evenness of temper, as if he were not dead: these are in my power, and which is a great deal more, they do in effect bring the very accident of his death, which is of itself not so, within it too. 

For a man thus composed may say, "My child is not dead to me." Or, to speak more truly and properly, "Though he be dead, yet I am still the same man, as if he were still alive."

I only observe farther, that the instances produced here by Epictetus, are fetched from the two latter sorts of things; such as are useful and beneficial to us, and such as nature, and affinity gives us a more than ordinary tenderness for. And these were prudently chosen, with an intent, I presume to intimate, that those things, which are for entertainment and diversion, and can only pretend to please without profiting us, are so very mean and despicable, as to deserve no consideration at all, for persons who have made any tolerable advances in the study of wisdom and virtue. 

Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 8.1

Remember, upon all occasions, to reflect with yourself, of what nature and condition those things are which minister delight, or are useful and beneficial to you, or which you have a natural tenderness for: and that these reflections may answer their end, make them familiar, by beginning at the slightest and most inconsiderable things, and so rising to the higher and more valuable. 

For instance; if you are fond of an earthen cup, consider it is but earthenware, and you cannot be much troubled or surprised, whenever it happens to be broke. 

And if you are fond of a child or a wife, consider, that they are human, that is of a frail and mortal nature; and thus your surprise and concern will be the less, when death takes either of them away from you. 

Comment: 

After the distinction between things within and things out of our own power, and an advertisement how we ought to esteem each of them: that the former sort only must be looked upon as our own, the latter as foreign and in the disposal of others; he had told us, how we ought to be affected with regard to those that fall within our power: to make such of them as are contrary to reason and nature, the object of our aversion, and to suspend all manner of desire, for some convenient time; which advice, in all probability, is grounded upon the arguments already mentioned. 

But since it is impossible to live without having something of interest in and much dealing with those things that are not at the disposal of our own will, he now informs us how to converse with them, and tells us, that, though they be not at our own pleasure, yet they may not be able to create to us any manner of disquiet and confusion. 

And here he takes notice of three sorts of these external things: first, such as can only pretend to please, without profiting us at all; these are such, as minister to our entertainment and delight. 

The second, such as are beneficial and convenient for use. 

And the third, such as we have a particular affection for, by reason of some natural relation they bear to us, and which we are tender of, without any regard to our own benefit and convenience. 

And this is a very just and true distinction. For pleasure, and profit, and natural affection, are the three things that engage our hearts; and it is always upon one or other of these accounts, that we are fond of this mortal state, and reconciled to all the hardships and miseries attending it. 

Now the entertainments and diversions that men are delighted with, differ, according to their several tempers and inclinations: some find their pleasures in plays: others in sports and exercises, in races, or tilting or the like. 

Others in dancing, or tricks of legerdemain, in jugglers, or zany’s, or buffoons. Some again in curious sights, either the beauties of nature, as the colors of peacocks and other find birds, pleasant flowers, and gardens, and meadows, and groves. Or in the perfection of art, as pictures, and statues, and buildings, or the exquisite workmanship of other professions. 

Some value those of the eye less, and find greater satisfaction in the entertainment of the ear, as the harmony of vocal and instrumental music; and, which is a pleasure more generous and improving, in eloquence or history, and sometimes in fables and romances. For that these contribute much to our delight, is plain, from that fondness, which all of us naturally have to stories, from our very childhood.

The second sort, which tend to our use and benefit, are likewise various. Some contribute to the improvement of the mind, as a skillful master, virtuous conversation, instructive books, and the like. some are serviceable to the body, as meats and clothes, and exercise. Some regard only our fortune, as places of authority, lands and tenements, money and goods, and the like. 

But the third sort we have a natural tenderness for, without any prospect of advantage from them; and these are recommended to our affection, by some common tie of nature and affinity between us. In this relation stand our wives and children, our kindred, our friends, and our countrymen. . . . 

Ellis Walker, Epictetus in Poetical Paraphrase 61

LXI. 

When women once their dear Fourteen attain,

They first our love and admiration gain;
They mistresses are call'd, and now they find,
That they for man's diversion are design'd,
To which they're not averse: perceiving then
That their preferment lies in pleasing men,
In being made companions of their beds,
They straight begin to curl, to adorn their heads,
To comb, perfume, and to consult the glass,
To study what attire commends a face,
To practice smiles, and a beguiling air;
Each thinks she is as happy as she's fair,
As she can please, as she can conquer hearts:
In these, and thousand other such like arts
They place their only hopes, on these depend,
And earnestly expect the wish'd for end.
Wherefore 'tis fit that they be taught to know,
That these respects, and honours, that we shew
To them, on this account are only due,
That as they're fair, so they are modest too;
That they are spotless, grave, reserv'd, and wise,
That these ingaging virtues are the tyes,
That more oblige, than arts, or amorous eyes.