Happy the Man

"Happy the Man" 

John Dryden (1631-1700) 

from Horace 

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair or foul or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. 

IMAGE: William Blake, John Dryden (c. 1800) 

Songs of Innocence 14

Night (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

The sun descending in the west, 
The evening star does shine; 
The birds are silent in their nest, 
And I must seek for mine. 

The moon, like a flower, 
In heaven's high bower, 
With silent delight 

Sits and smiles on the night. 

Farewell, green fields and happy groves, 
Where flocks have took delight. 
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves 
The feet of angels bright; 
Unseen they pour blessing, 
And joy without ceasing, 
On each bud and blossom, 
And each sleeping bosom. 

They look in every thoughtless nest, 
Where birds are covered warm; 
They visit caves of every beast, 
To keep them all from harm. 
If they see any weeping 
That should have been sleeping, 
They pour sleep on their head, 
And sit down by their bed. 

When wolves and tigers howl for prey, 
They pitying stand and weep; 
Seeking to drive their thirst away, 
And keep them from the sheep. 
But if they rush dreadful, 
The angels, most heedful, 
Receive each mild spirit, 
New worlds to inherit. 

And there the lion's ruddy eyes 
Shall flow with tears of gold, 
And pitying the tender cries, 
And walking round the fold, 
Saying, "Wrath, by His meekness, 
And, by His health, sickness 
Is driven away 
From our immortal day. 

"And now beside thee, bleating lamb, 
I can lie down and sleep; 
Or think on Him who bore thy name, 
Graze after thee and weep. 
For, washed in life's river, 
My bright mane for ever 
Shall shine like the gold 
As I guard o'er the fold." 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.14.3

The philosophers say that the first thing one must learn is this: that God exists and provides for the Universe, and it is impossible for a man to act or even to conceive a thought or reflection without God knowing. 
 
The next thing is to learn the true nature of the gods. For whatever their nature is discovered to be, he that is to please and obey them must needs try, so far as he can, to make himself like them. 
 
If God is faithful, he must be faithful too; if free, he must be free too; if beneficent, he too must be beneficent: if high-minded, he must be high-minded: he must, in fact, as one who makes God his ideal, follow this out in every act and word. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.14 
 
As soon as there is any mention of God, the postmodernists go into a panic. The abject terror of anything Divine can quickly translate into an extreme belligerence, even if the consequent burning at the stake is merely symbolic. 
 
For example, the majority of folks who now describe themselves as “Stoics” are atheists, or at the very least agnostic, on the grounds that the ancient teachings must be updated for contemporary sensibilities. This is disturbing, not because of which side currently happens to be winning in the culture wars, but because a philosophy ceases to be that philosophy once you excise one of its underlying principles. 
 
I have no interest in waging tribal warfare, so I will only suggest that some might feel far more at home among the Epicureans. There is plenty of room for many different views, though we shouldn’t obscure them by attaching the wrong labels. 
 
If it’s any consolation, I too have an immediate aversion to the sanctimonious zealots, for whom religion involves little more than admiring themselves in the mirror. I only get beyond the bitterness when my conception of God becomes so very big that my petty preferences now appear so very small. Let’s not forget who was made in whose image and likeness. 
 
When Epictetus builds his philosophy on the presence of God, he is not concerned with sectarian loyalties or extravagant imaginings. At the most basic level, it is a question of where we find the absolute, that by which all other things are measured. If we remove this, we make any judgment impossible, for then there ceases to be a standard, and we are left with the contradiction of claiming that everything is relative to everything else. 
 
Given my background, it helps me to express this in the language of the Scholastics. There can be nothing complex without something simple. There can be no degrees without a perfection. That which has limits exists within the infinite. Here and there are only possible through that which is everywhere. The changing must proceed from the unchanging. For there to be many, there must first be a one. . . . 
 
Whatever name you wish to apply to it, this is the fullness of the Divine. It follows that, however meager our human awareness might be, all of our thoughts, words, and deeds will only become good by a participation with what is ultimate. From the one end, all beings are but an expression of Being, and from the other end, all creatures aspire to the ideal of their Creator. 
 
There can be no philosophy, not of any sort, in the absence of an anchor, a benchmark, or a touchstone. Some will seek to twist themselves into a measure, at which point an effect is mistaken for a cause, and others will seek to dispose of any measure entirely, at which point reason has been abandoned, regardless of how much we call it science. It is perhaps best to attribute such errors to confusion instead of malice. 
 
Before we can even speak of something as true, or good, or beautiful, we must first establish the norm. 

—Reflection written in 9/2001 

IMAGE: William Blake, Angel of the Revelation (c. 1805) 

Songs of Innocence 13

Holy Thursday (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green
Grey-headed beadles walkd before, with wands as white as snow
Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow

O what a multitude they seemd these flowers of London town
Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own
The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs
Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among
Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door 

Songs of Innocence 12

The Divine Image (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

To Mercy Pity Peace and Love,
All pray in their distress; 
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.

For Mercy Pity Peace and Love,
Is God our father dear; 
And Mercy Pity Peace and Love,
Is Man his child and care.

For Mercy has a human heart
Pity, a human face; 
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.

Then every man of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine
Love Mercy Pity Peace.

And all must love the human form,
In heathen, turk or jew.
Where Mercy, Love & Pity dwell,
There God is dwelling too. 

Songs of Innocence 11

A Cradle Song (1789)  

William Blake (1757-1827) 

Sweet dreams form a shade 
O’er my lovely infants head. 
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams, 
By happy silent moony beams. 

Sweet sleep with soft down, 
Weave thy brows an infant crown. 
Sweet sleep Angel mild, 
Hover o’er my happy child. 

Sweet smiles in the night, 
Hover over my delight. 
Sweet smiles Mothers smiles 
All the livelong night beguiles. 

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs, 
Chase not slumber from thy eyes. 
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles, 
All the dovelike moans beguiles. 

Sleep sleep happy child. 
All creation slept and smil’d. 
Sleep sleep, happy sleep, 
While o’er thee thy mother weep. 

Sweet babe in thy face, 
Holy image I can trace. 
Sweet babe once like thee, 
Thy maker lay and wept for me. 

Wept for me for thee for all, 
When he was an infant small. 
Thou his image ever see, 
Heavenly face that smiles on thee. 

Smiles on thee on me on all, 
Who became an infant small. 
Infant smiles are his own smiles, 
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles. 

Songs of Innocence 10

Laughing Song (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by,
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.

When the meadows laugh with lively green
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily,
With their sweet round mouths sing Ha, Ha, He.

When the painted birds laugh in the shade
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread
Come live & be merry and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of Ha, Ha, He. 

Songs of Innocence 9

The Little Boy Found (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

The little boy lost in the lonely fen, 
Led by the wand'ring light, 
Began to cry, but God ever nigh, 
Appeard like his father in white. 

He kissed the child & by the hand led 
And to his mother brought, 
Who in sorrow pale, thro' the lonely dale 
Her little boy weeping sought. 

Maxims of Goethe 79

The world of empirical morality consists for the most part of nothing but ill-will and envy. 

IMAGE: William Blake, The Temptation and Fall of Eve (1808) 

Songs of Innocence 8

The Little Boy Lost (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

Father, father, where are you going
O do not walk so fast.
Speak father, speak to your little boy
Or else I shall be lost. 

The night was dark no father was there
The child was wet with dew.
The mire was deep & the child did weep
And away the vapour flew. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 81.9

Let us therefore avoid being ungrateful, not for the sake of others but for our own sakes. When we do wrong, only the least and lightest portion of it flows back upon our neighbor; the worst and, if I may use the term, the densest portion of it stays at home and troubles the owner. 
 
My master Attalus used to say: “Evil herself drinks the largest portion of her own poison.” 
 
The poison which serpents carry for the destruction of others, and secrete without harm to themselves, is not like this poison; for this sort is ruinous to the possessor.
 
The ungrateful man tortures and torments himself; he hates the gifts which he has accepted, because he must make a return for them, and he tries to belittle their value, but he really enlarges and exaggerates the injuries which he has received. And what is more wretched than a man who forgets his benefits and clings to his injuries? 
 
Wisdom, on the other hand, lends grace to every benefit, and of her own free will commends it to her own favor, and delights her soul by continued recollection thereof. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 81 
 
If people are only familiar with my public persona, for whatever it’s worth, they might take me to be a sectarian Stoic, always ready to toe the party line. Besides the fact that I don’t believe there can really be such a thing, since no healthy philosophy has any place for dogmatism, my private thoughts are filled with a frightening amount of skepticism. If I can find my way to recommend it, rest assured that I have first rejected it at least a hundred times. 
 
I remain totally committed to unraveling the theory, but for me the final test has always been whether it works in practice; I came to philosophy so I could fix the crippling defects in my daily living, not so I could pontificate from my ivory tower. And while I have now read through this letter a dozen times, A little warning bell goes off in my head at this point: 
 
Do I run the danger of treating virtue as a selfish enterprise, when I say that I am doing it for my own sake? 
 
Am I kidding myself in the belief that the suffering within the soul is far greater than the suffering from the circumstances? Doesn’t this diminish the pain I have inflicted upon others? 
 
As is so often the case, my worry is based on false dichotomies, from my passions rushing ahead of my judgments. I create the problem for myself by being too hasty in my assumptions. 
 
In the true order of Nature, there is no “us” versus “them”. What is good for the whole is good for the part, and what is good for the part is good for the whole. When I have served my neighbor, I cannot help but serve myself, and when I have served myself, I cannot help but serve my neighbor. It only becomes selfish when the one is divorced from the other. 
 
To affirm the primacy of our inner merits is not to deny the significance of our outer conditions, as long as the latter are measured by the former. My mission is to increase in the virtues, and I should seek out the circumstances most conducive to my end. My neighbor’s calling is essentially the same, and I should assist him in seeking out the circumstances most conducive to his end. Even as there is no doubt that the flesh will suffer, sometimes with alarming intensity, its role always hinges upon the dignity of the spirit. 
 
I am fatally poisoning myself whenever I deny someone charity or I refuse to express my gratitude. To face a misfortune could well be a hindrance, yet it could just as easily be turned into an opportunity, because the good or evil of any situation is ultimately in what we choose to make of it. The one toxin might bring us grief, though the other will surely kill us. 
 
If a fellow refuses to be grateful, my feelings have been hurt; I can find a way to cope. Now imagine what is going on in his own head, a noxious stew of vanity, resentment, delusion, and self-pity, all of which he has inflicted upon himself; he will have to rebuild himself completely before he destroys himself. It is far easier to bear the insult than to escape from the cycle of self-ruin. 
 
Wisdom allows us to find the good in everything, both in what is given and in what is received. That turns out to be a remarkably practical lesson. 

—Reflection written in 12/2013 

IMAGE: William Blake, Eve Tempted by the Serpent (1800) 

Songs of Innocence 7

The Chimney Sweeper (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue,
Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep. 
So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head
That curled like a lambs back, was shaved, so I said,
Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.

And so he was quiet, & that very night,
As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight,
That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe, Ned & Jack
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black. 

And by came an Angel who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins & set them all free.
Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run
And wash in a river and shine in the Sun.

Then naked & white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.
And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father & never want joy.

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark
And got with our bags & our brushes to work.
Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm,
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. 

Cain and Abel

Claude-Joseph Vernet, Cain and Abel Bringing Their Sacrifices (c. 1750) 

Peter Paul Rubens, Cain Slaying His Brother Abel (c. 1609) 

William Blake, The Body of Abel Found by Adam and Eve (c. 1826) 

Benedetto Luti, Cain Fleeing from the Sight of God after the Death of Abel (1692) 

Songs of Innocence 6

 

The Blossom (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

Merry, Merry Sparrow! 
Under leaves so green 
A happy Blossom 
Sees you, swift as arrow, 
Seek your cradle narrow, 
Near my Bosom. 

Pretty, Pretty Robin! 
Under leaves so green 
A happy Blossom 
Hears you sobbing, sobbing, 
Pretty Pretty Robin, 
Near my Bosom. 

Jacob's Ladder 1

William Blake, Jacob's Dream (1805) 

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.4

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 this 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. . . . 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.4 
 
Philosophers may not have always gone by the same name, and they may have approached their understanding from very different angles, but what they all shared in common was a calling to explain, not merely to describe. 
 
They always dug down deep, and that sometimes had a way of shaking things up. Listening to them probably didn’t make you any richer or more popular, though it always left you just a little bit better and wiser, if only from looking at the world in a totally unfamiliar manner. 
 
I doubt that Socrates was literally the first to “do” philosophy on the streets, or that he invented the method, equally enlightening and annoying, of stimulating awareness by debating inconvenient questions. He was, however, the first to so notably draw attention to himself for being a gadfly, and our cultural tradition would never be the same without him. 
 
To be honest, I was initially offended by Socrates, failing to distinguish him from your garden-variety intellectual bully. It took me some time to recognize what he was really up to, and as a result I would also never be the same without him. If I recall correctly, it was actually Xenophon who finally allowed me to see Socrates as more than just a mouthpiece for Plato. 
 
Cicero here highlights the very same Socratic qualities that have been so influential for me: an unwavering insistence on critical thinking, and an absolute commitment to an informed conscience. We are all, each and every one of us, adrift in this life without the knowledge to judge right from wrong, and any philosophy that fails to address this vital need doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. 
 
When I grow tired of the endless bickering among the ideological tribes, it helps me to remember how all of their efforts are ultimately attempts at fulfilling the noble mission of Socrates, which points to the unity behind so much fracturing. Yes, there comes a point when two principles can no longer coexist, but far more of our disagreements are about matters of stress, concerning distinctions where we are sadly talking past one another. 
 
I can respect why Cicero, for example, was guided by the Academic Skepticism of Carneades, just as I am pleased to see him further open his mind to the teachings of the Stoics. Take what you need and leave the rest. The end results in practice do not justify the quarrelling about the theory; what at first looks like a contradiction can well turn out to be a complement. 
 
How can I blame Cicero for questioning the dogmatism of the Stoics? I imagine that some of them were insufferable in their elitism. Perhaps it is more prudent to settle for what is likely than to idly speculate about what is beyond our grasp. 
 
At the same time, I am drawn to the formulations of Stoicism for three reasons: the quest for a certainty in knowledge, the immanence of Divine Providence, and the primacy of virtue in human affairs. I think it no accident that these themes correspond to the three branches of inquiry in Stoicism: logic, physics, and ethics. 
 
It is a good sign when one follower of Socrates finds something of value from another follower of Socrates, regardless of the attached “-isms”. This final book of the Tusculan Disputations, on the sufficiency of virtue, is a step in the right direction. 

—Reflection written in 2/1999 

IMAGE: William Blake, Socrates, A Visionary Head (c. 1820) 

Songs of Innocence 5

The Little Black Boy (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child: 
But I am black as if bereav'd of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree 
And sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And pointing to the east began to say. 

Look on the rising sun: there God does live 
And gives his light, and gives his heat away. 
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning joy in the noonday.

And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love, 
And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear 
The cloud will vanish we shall hear his voice. 
Saying: come out from the grove my love & care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.

Thus did my mother say and kissed me, 
And thus I say to little English boy. 
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy: 

I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear, 
To lean in joy upon our fathers knee. 
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him and he will then love me. 

Songs of Innocence 4

The Lamb (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

Little Lamb who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 
Gave thee life and bid thee feed, 
By the stream and o'er the mead; 
Gave thee clothing of delight, 
Softest clothing wooly bright; 
Gave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice: 

Little Lamb who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 

Little Lamb I'll tell thee, 
Little Lamb I'll tell thee: 

He is called by thy name, 
For he calls himself a Lamb. 
He is meek and he is mild, 
He became a little child: 
I a child and thou a lamb, 
We are called by his name. 

Little Lamb God bless thee. 

Little Lamb God bless thee.