Discourses

He is free who lives as he likes; who is not subject to compulsion, to restraint, or to violence; whose pursuits are unhindered, his desires successful, his aversions unincurred. Who, then, would wish to lead a wrong course of life? No one. Who would live deceived, erring, unjust, dissolute, discontented, dejected? No one. No wicked man, then, lives as he likes; therefore no such man is free. And who would live in sorrow, fear, envy, pity, with disappointed desires and unavailing aversions? No one. Do we then find any of the wicked exempt from these evils? Not one. Consequently, then, they are not free.

If some person who has been twice consul should hear this, he will forgive you, provided you add, but you are wise, and this has no reference to you. But if you tell him the truth, that, in point of slavery, he does not necessarily differ from those who have been thrice sold, what but chastisement can you expect? For how, he says, am I a slave? My father was

But what, he says, has this to do with my being a slave? Is it no part of slavery to act against your will, under compulsion, and lamenting? Be it so. But who can compel me but the master of all, Caesar? By your own confession, then, you have one master; and let not his being, as you say, master of all, give you any comfort; for then you are merely a slave in a large family. Thus the Nicopolitans, too, frequently cry out, By the genius of Caesar we are free!

For the present, however, if you please, we will let Caesar alone. But tell me this. Have you never been in love with any one, either of a servile or liberal condition? Why, what has that to do with being slave or free? Were you never commanded anything by your mistress that you did not choose? Have you never flattered your fair slave? Have you never kissed her feet? And yet if you were commanded to kiss Caesar’s feet, you would think it an

Consider what is our idea of freedom in animals. Some keep tame lions, and feed them and even lead them about; and who will say that any such lion is free? Nay, does he not live the more slavishly the more he lives at ease? And who that had sense and

Hence we will allow those only to be free who will not endure captivity, but, so soon as they are taken, die and so escape. Thus Diogenes somewhere says that the only way to freedom is to die with ease. And he writes to the Persian king, You can no more enslave the Athenians than you can fish. How? Can I not get possession of them? If you do, said he, they will leave you, and be gone like fish. For catch a fish, and it dies. And if the Athenians, too, die as soon as you have caught them, of what use are your warlike preparations? This is the voice of a free man who had examined the matter in earnest, and, as it might be expected, found it all out. But if you seek it where it is not, what wonder if you never find it?

A slave wishes to be immediately set free. Think you it is because he is desirous to pay his fee [of

[It is needful] not to be foolish, but to learn what Socrates taught, the nature of things; and not rashly to apply general principles to particulars. For the cause of all human evils is the not being able to apply general principles to special cases. But different people have different grounds of complaint; one, for instance, that he is sick. That is not the trouble; it is in his principles. Another, that he is poor; another, that he has a harsh father and mother; another, that he is not in the good graces of Caesar. This is nothing else but not understanding how to apply our principles. For who has not an idea of evil, that it is hurtful; that it is to be avoided; that it is by all means to be prudently guarded against? One principle does not contradict another, except when it comes to be applied. What, then, is this evil,—-thus hurtful and to be avoided? Not to be the friend of Caesar, says some one. He is gone; he has failed in applying his principles; he is embarrassed; he seeks what is nothing to the purpose. For if he comes to be Caesar’s friend, he is still no nearer to what he sought. For what is it that every man seeks? To be secure, to be happy, to do what he pleases without restraint and without compulsion. When he becomes the friend of Caesar, then does he

Since, then, neither they who are called kings nor the friends of kings live as they like, who, then, after all, is free? Seek, and you will find; for you are furnished

Further, then, answer me this: do you think freedom to be something great and noble and valuable? How should I not? Is it possible, then, that he who acquires anything so great and valuable and noble should be of an abject spirit? It is not. Whenever, then, you see any one subject to another, and flattering him contrary to his own opinion, confidently say that he too is not free; and not only when he does this for a supper, but even if it be for a government, nay, a consulship. Call those indeed little slaves who act thus for the sake of little things; and call the others, as they deserve, great slaves. Be this, too, agreed. Well, do you think freedom to be something independent and self-determined? How can it be otherwise? Him, then, whom it

Suppose, then, that he does nothing of all this. Do not yet say that he is free; but learn whether his principles are in any event liable to compulsion, to restraint, or disappointment; and if you find this to be the case, call him a slave, keeping holiday during the Saturnalia. Say that his master is abroad; that he will come presently; and you will know what he suffers. Who will come? Whoever has the power either of bestowing or of taking away any of the things he desires.

Have we so many masters, then? We have. For, prior to all such, we have the things themselves for our masters. Now they are many; and it is through these that the men who control the things inevitably become our masters too. For no one fears Caesar himself; but death, banishment, confiscation, prison, disgrace. Nor does any one love Caesar unless he be a person of great worth; but we love riches,

What is it, then, that makes a man free and independent? For neither riches, nor consulship, nor the command of provinces nor of kingdoms, can make him so; but something else must be found. What is it that keeps any one from being hindered and restrained in penmanship, for instance? The science of penmanship. In music? The science of music. Therefore in life too, it must be the science of living. As you have heard it in general, then, consider it likewise in particulars. Is it possible for him to be unrestrained who desires any of those things that are within the power of others? No. Can he avoid being hindered? No. Therefore neither can he be free. Consider, then, whether we have nothing or everything in our own sole power,—or whether some things are in our own power and some in that of others. What do you mean? When you would have your body perfect, is it in your own power, or is it not? It is not. When you would be healthy? It is not. When you would

Will you then say that there is nothing independent, which is in your own power alone, and unalienable? See if you have anything of this sort. I do not know. But consider it thus: can any one make you assent to a falsehood? No one. In the matter of assent, then, you are unrestrained and unhindered. Agreed. Well, and can any one compel you to exert your aims towards what you do not like? He can. For when he threatens me with death, or fetters, he thus compels me. If, then, you were to despise dying or being fettered, would you any longer regard him? No. Is despising death, then, an action in our power, or is it not? It is. Is it therefore in your power also to exert your aims towards anything, or is it not? Agreed that it is. But in whose power is my avoiding anything? This, too, is in your own. What then if, when I am exerting myself to walk, any one should restrain me?

May I not long for health, then? By no means; nor for anything else that depends on another; for what is not in your own power, either to procure or to preserve when you will, that belongs to another. Keep off not only your hands from it, but even more than these, your desires. Otherwise you have given yourself up as a slave; you have put your neck under the yoke, if you admire any of the things which are not your own, but which are subject and mortal, to which of them soever you are attached. Is not my hand my own? It is a part of you, but it is by

Since then you are thus affected with regard to things, what man can any longer be formidable to you? What has man that he can be formidable to man, either in appearance, or speech, or mutual intercourse? No more than horse to horse, or dog to dog, or bee to bee. But things are formidable to every one, and whenever any person can either give these to another, or take them away, he becomes formidable too. How, then, is this citadel to be destroyed? Not by sword or fire, but by principle. For if we should demolish the visible citadel, shall we have demolished also that of some fever, of some fair woman,—in short, the citadel [of temptation] within ourselves; and have turned out the tyrants to whom we are subject upon all occasions and every day, sometimes the same, sometimes others? From

It is thus that cautious travellers act. Does some one hear that the road is beset by robbers? He does not set out alone, but waits for the retinue of an ambassador or quaestor or proconsul, and when he has joined himself to their company, goes along in safety. Thus does the prudent man act in the world.

How do you mean, join himself? That whatever is the will of God may be his will too; that whatever is not the will of God may not be his. How, then, can this be done? Why, how otherwise than by considering the workings of God’s power and his administration? What has he given me to be my own,

Ay, but I would have my wife and children with me too. Why, are they yours? Are they not the Giver’s? Are they not his who made you also? Will you not then quit what belongs to another? Will you not yield to your Superior? Why, then, did he bring me into the world upon these conditions? Well, if it is not worth your while, depart. He has no need of a discontented spectator. He wants such as will share the festival; make part of the chorus; who will extol, applaud, celebrate the solemnity. He will not be displeased to see the wretched and fearful dismissed from it. For when they were present they did not behave as at a festival, nor fill a proper

This should be our study from morning till night beginning with the least and frailest things, as with earthenware, with glassware. Afterwards proceed to a suit of clothes, a dog, a horse, an estate; thence to yourself, body, members, children, wife, brothers. Look everywhere around you, and be able to detach yourself from these things. Correct your principles. Permit nothing to cleave to you that is not your own; nothing to grow to you that may give you agony when it is torn away. And say, when you are daily training yourself as you do here, not that you act the philosopher, which may be a presumptuous claim, but that you are asserting your freedom. For this is true freedom. This is the freedom that Diogenes gained from Antisthenes, and declared it was impossible that he should ever after be a slave to any one. Hence, when he was taken prisoner, how did he treat

Come, then; let us recapitulate what has been granted. The man who is unrestrained, who has all things in his power as he wills, is free; but he who may be restrained or compelled or hindered, or thrown into any condition against his will, is a slave. And who is unrestrained? He who desires none of those things that belong to others. And what are those things which belong to others? Those which are not in our own power, either to have or not to have; or to have them thus or so. Body, therefore, belongs to another; its parts to another; property to another. If, then, you attach yourself to any of these as your own, you will be punished as he deserves who desires what belongs to others. This is the way that leads to freedom, this the only deliverance from slavery, to be able at length to say, from the bottom of one’s soul,—

1. Conduct me, Zeus, and thou, O Destiny,
2. Wherever your decrees have fixed my lot.

But what say you, philosopher? A tyrant calls upon you to speak something unbecoming you. Will you say it, or will you not? Stay, let me consider. Would you consider now? And what did you use to consider when you were in the schools? Did you not study what things were good and evil, and what indifferent? did. Well, and what

For thus has been your practice from the first.

And what is all this to freedom? It lies in nothing else than this,—whether you rich people approve or not. And who affords evidence of this? Who but yourselves? You who have a powerful

Are you free yourself, then? you may ask. By Heaven, I wish and pray for it. But I own I cannot yet face my masters. I still pay a regard to my body, and set a great value on keeping it whole; though, for that matter, it is not whole. But I can show you one who was free, that you may no longer seek an example. Diogenes was free. How so? Not because he was of free parents, for he was not; but because he was so in himself; because he had cast away all which gives a handle to slavery; nor was there any way of getting at him, nor anywhere to lay hold on him, to enslave him. Everything sat loose upon him; everything only just hung on. If you took hold on his possessions, he would rather let them go than follow you for them; if on his leg, he let go his leg; if his body, he let go his body; acquaintance, friends, country, just the same. For he knew whence he had them, and from whom, and upon what conditions he received them. But he would never have forsaken his true parents, the gods, and his real country [the universe]; nor have suffered any one to be more dutiful and obedient to them than he; nor would any one have died more readily for his country than he. He never had to inquire whether he should act for the good of the whole universe; for he remembered that everything that exists belongs to that administration, and is commanded by its ruler.

And that you may not urge that I show you the example of a man clear of incumbrances, without a wife or children or country or friends or relations, to bend and draw him aside, take Socrates, and consider him, who had a wife and children, but held them not as his own; had a country, friends, relations, but held them only so long as it was proper, and in the manner that was proper; submitting all these to the law and to the obedience due to it. Hence, when it was proper to fight, he was the first to go out, and exposed himself to danger without the least reserve. But when he was sent by the thirty tyrants to apprehend Leon,[*]( Socrates, with four other persons, was commanded by the thirty tyrants of Athens to fetch Leon from the isle of Salamis, in order to be put to death. His companions executed their commission; but Socrates remained at home, and chose rather to expose his life to the fury of the tyrants, than be accessory to the death of an innocent person. He would most probably have fallen a sacrifice to their vengeance, if the Oligarchy had not shortly after been dissolved. See Plato’s Apology.—C.) because he esteemed it a base action, he

If I had gone away into Thessaly, you would have taken care of them; and will there be no one to take care of them when I am departed to Hades?

Study these points, these principles, these discourses; contemplate these examples if you would be free, if you desire the thing in proportion to its value. And where is the wonder that you should purchase so good a thing at the price of other things, be they never so many and so great? Some hang themselves, others break their necks, and sometimes even whole cities have been destroyed for that which is reputed freedom; and will not you for the sake of

To this point you must attend before all others: not to be so attached to any one of your former acquaintances or friends as to condescend to behavior like his; otherwise you will undo yourself. But if it comes into your head, shall appear odd to him, and he will not treat me as before, remember that there is nothing to be had for nothing; nor is it possible that he who acts in the same manner as before should not remain the same person. Choose, then, whether you will be loved by those who formerly loved you, and be like your former self; or be better, and not meet with the same treatment. For if this last is preferable, immediately incline altogether this way, and let no other kind of reasoning draw you aside; for no one can improve while he is wavering. If, then, you prefer this to everything, if you would be fixed only on this, and employ all your pains about it, give up everything else. Otherwise this wavering will affect you in both directions; you will neither make a due improvement, nor preserve the advantages you had before. For before, by setting your heart entirely on things of no value, you were agreeable to your companions. But you cannot excel in both styles; you

When you have lost anything external, have always at hand the consideration of what you have got instead of it; and if this be of more value, do not by any means call yourself a loser,—whether it be a horse for an ass; an ox for a sheep; a good action for a piece of money; a due composure of mind for a dull jest; or modesty for indecent talk. By continually remembering this, you will preserve your character such as it ought to be. Otherwise, consider that you are spending your time in vain; and all that to which you are now applying your mind, you are about to spill and overturn. And there needs but little, merely a small deviation from reason, to destroy and overset all. A pilot does not need so much apparatus to overturn a ship as to save it; but if he exposes it a little too much to the wind, it is lost; even if he should not do it by design, but only for a moment be thinking of something else, it is lost. Such is the case here too. If you do but nod a little, all that you have hitherto accomplished is gone. Take heed, then, to the appearances of things. Keep yourself watchful over them. It is no inconsiderable matter that you have to guard; but modesty, fidelity,

Remember that it is not only the desire of riches and power that debases us and subjects us to others, but even that of quiet, leisure, learning, or travelling. For, in general, reverence for any external thing whatever makes us subject to others. Where is the difference, then, whether you desire to be a senator or not to be a senator? Where is the difference, whether you desire power or to be out of power? Where is the difference, whether you say, am in a wretched way, I have nothing to do; but am tied down to books, as inactive as if I were dead; or am in a wretched way, I have no leisure to read? For as levees and power are among things external and uncontrollable by will, so likewise is a book. For what purpose would you read? Tell me. For if you rest merely in being amused and learning something, you are insignificant and miserable. But if you refer it to the proper end, what is that end but a life truly prosperous? And if reading does not procure you a prosperous life, of what use is it? But it does procure a prosperous life (say you); and therefore I am .uneasy at being deprived of it. And what sort of prosperity is that which everything can

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hinder,—I do not say Caesar alone, or Caesar’s friend, but a crow, a man practising the flute, a fever, or ten thousand other things? Nothing is so essential to prosperity as that it should be permanent and unhindered. Suppose I am now called to do something. I go, therefore, and will be attentive to the bounds and measures which ought to be observed; that I may act modestly, steadily, and without desire or aversion as to externals. In the next place, I am attentive to other men, what they say, and how they are moved; and that not from ill-nature, nor that I may have an opportunity for censure or ridicule; but I turn to myself. Am I also guilty of the same faults; and how then shall I leave them off? or, once thus erred, but, God be thanked, not now. Well, when you have done thus, and been employed on such things, have you not done as good a work as if you had read a thousand lines or written as many? For are you uneasy at not reading while you are eating? When you eat, or bathe, or exercise, are you not satisfied with doing it in a manner corresponding to what you have read? Why, then, do you not reason in like manner about everything? When you approach Caesar or any other person, if you preserve yourself dispassionate, fearless, sedate; if you are rather an observer of what is done than the subject of observation; if you do not envy those who are preferred to you; if you are not overcome by the occasion, what need you more? Books? How, or to what end? For these are not
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the real preparation for living, but living is made up of things very different. Just as if a champion, when he enters the lists, should begin crying because he is not still exercising in advance. It was for this that you were exercised. For this were the dumb-bells, the dust, and your young antagonists. And do you now seek for these when it is the time for actual business? This is just as if, in forming our opinions, when perplexed between true and false semblances, we should, instead of practically distinguishing between them, merely peruse dissertations on evidence.

What, then, is the trouble? That we have neither learned by reading, nor by writing, how to deal practically with the semblances of things according to the laws of nature. But we stop at learning what is said, and, being able to explain it to others, at solving syllogisms and arranging hypothetical arguments. Hence where the study is, there, too, is the hindrance. Do you desire absolutely what is out of your power? Be restrained then, be hindered, be disappointed. But if we were to read dissertations about the exertion of our efforts, not merely to see what might be said about our efforts, but to exert them well; on desire and aversion, that we might not be disappointed of our desires, nor incur our aversions; on the duties of life, that mindful of our relations, we might do nothing irrational nor inconsistent with them; then we should not be provoked at being hindered in our reading; but should be contented with the performance of actions

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suitable to us, and should learn a new standard of computation. Not, To-day I have perused so many lines; I have written so many; but, To-day I have used my efforts as the philosophers direct. I have restrained my desire. absolutely; I have applied my aversion only to things controllable by will. I have not been terrified by such a one, nor put out of countenance by such another. I have exercised my patience, my abstinence, my beneficence. And thus we should thank God for what we ought to thank him.

But now we resemble the crowd in another way also, and do not know it. One is afraid that he shall not be in power; you, that you shall. By no means be afraid of it, man; but as you laugh at him, laugh at yourself. For there is no difference, whether you thirst like one in a fever, or dread water like him who is bit by a mad dog. Else how can you say, like Socrates, If it so pleases God, so let it be? Do you think that Socrates, if he had fixed his desires on the leisure of the lyceum or the academy, or the conversation of the youth there, day after day, would have made so many campaigns as he did, so readily? Would not he have lamented and groaned: How wretched am I! now must I be miserable here, when I might be sunning myself in the lyceum? Was that your business in life, then, to sun yourself? Was it not to be truly successful; to be unrestrained and free? And how could he have been Socrates, if he had lamented thus? How could he after that have written Paeans in a prison?

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In short, then, remember this, that so far as you prize anything external to your own will, you impair that will. And not only power is external to it, but the being out of power too; not only business, but leisure too. Then must I live in this tumult now? What do you call a tumult? multitude of people. And where is the hardship? Suppose it to be the Olympic Games. Think it a public assembly. There, too, some bawl out one thing, some another; some push the rest. The baths are crowded. Yet who of us is not pleased with these assemblies, and does not grieve to leave them? Do not be hard to please, and squeamish at what happens. Vinegar is disagreeable, for it is sour. Honey is disagreeable, for it disorders my constitution. I do not like vegetables. So I do not like retirement, it is a desert; I do not like a crowd, it is a tumult. Why, if things are so disposed that you are to live atone or with few, call this condition repose, and make use of it as you ought. Talk with yourself, judge of the appearances presented to your mind; train your mental habits to accuracy. But if you happen on a crowd, call it one of the public games, a grand assembly, a festival. Endeavor to share in the festival with the rest of the world. For what sight is more pleasant to a lover of mankind than a great number of men? We see companies of oxen or horses with pleasure. We are highly delighted to see a great many ships. Who is sorry to see a great many men? But they

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stun me with their noise. Then your hearing is hindered; and what is that to you? Is your faculty of making a right use of the appearances of things hindered too? Or who can restrain you from using your desire and aversion, your powers of pursuit and avoidance, conformably to nature? What tumult is sufficient for this?

Do but remember the general rules. What is mine; what not mine? What is allotted me? What is it the will of God that I should do now? What is not his will? A little while ago it was his will that you should be at leisure, should talk with yourself, write about these things, read, hear, prepare yourself. You have had sufficient time for this. At present he says to you, Come now to the combat. Show us what you have learned; how you have wrestled. How long would you exercise by yourself? It is now the time to show whether you are of the Lumber of those champions who merit victory, or of those who go about the world conquered in all the circle of games. Why, then, are you out of humor? There is no combat without a tumult. There must be many preparatory exercises, many acclamations, many masters, many spectators. But I would live in quiet. Why, then, lament and groan as you deserve. For what greater punishment is there to those who are uninstructed and disobedient to the orders of God, than to grieve, to mourn, to envy; in short, to be disappointed and unhappy? Are you not

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willing to deliver yourself from all this? And how shall I deliver myself? Have you not heard that you must absolutely control desire, and apply aversion to such things only as are controllable by will; that you must consent to resign all,—body, possessions, fame, books, tumults, power, exemption from power? For to whichsoever your disposition is, you are a slave; you are under subjection; you are made liable to restraint, to compulsion; you are altogether the property of others. But have that maxim of Cleanthes always ready,—
1. Conduct me, Zeus; and thou, O Destiny. Is it your will that I should go to Rome? Conduct me to Rome. To Gyaros? To Gyaros. To Athens? To Athens. To prison? To prison. If you once say, When may I go to Athens? you are undone. This desire, if it be unaccomplished, must necessarily render you disappointed; and if fulfilled, vain respecting what ought not to elate you; if, on the contrary, you are hindered, then you are wretched through incurring what you do not like. Therefore give up all these things.

Athens is a fine place. But it is a much finer thing to be happy, serene, tranquil, not to have your affairs dependent on others. Rome is full of tumults and visits. But prosperity is worth all difficulties. If, then, it be a proper time for these, why do not you withdraw your aversion from them? What necessity

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is there for you to be made to carry your burden, by being cudgelled like an ass? Otherwise, consider that you must always be a slave to him who has the power to procure your discharge,—to every one who has the power of hindering you,—and must worship him like your evil genius.

The only way to real prosperity (let this rule be at hand morning, noon, and night) is a resignation of things uncontrollable by will; to esteem nothing as property; to deliver up all things to our tutelar genius and to fortune; to leave the control of them to those whom Zeus hath made such; to be ourselves devoted to that only which is really ours,—to that which is incapable of restraint,—and whatever we read or write or hear, to refer all to this.

Therefore I cannot call any one industrious, if I hear only that he reads or writes; nor do I call him so even if he adds the whole night to the day, unless I know to what he applies it. For not even you would call him industrious who sits up for the sake of a girl; nor, therefore, in the other case do I. But if he does it for fame, I call him ambitious; if for money, avaricious; if from the desire of learning, bookish; but not industrious. But if he applies his labor to his ruling faculty, in order to treat and regulate it conformably to nature, then only I call him industrious. Never praise or blame any person on account of outward actions that are common to all; but only on account of principles. These are the

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peculiar property of each individual, and the things which make actions good or bad.

Mindful of this, enjoy the present and accept all things in their season. If you meet in action any of those things which you have made a subject of study, rejoice in them. If you have laid aside ill-nature and reviling; if you have lessened your harshness, indecent language, inconsiderateness, effeminacy; if you are not moved by the same things as formerly, or in the same manner as formerly,—you may keep a perpetual festival, to-day for success in one affair, tomorrow for another. How much better a reason for sacrifice is this than obtaining a consulship or a government! These things you have from yourself and from the gods. Remember this,—who it is that gave them, and to whom and for what purpose. Habituated once to these reasonings, can you still think that it makes any difference what place God allots you? Are not the gods everywhere at the same distance? Do not they everywhere see equally what is doing?

A wise and good person neither quarrels with any one himself, nor, as far as possible, suffers another to do so. The life of Socrates affords us an

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example of this too, as well as of other things; since he not only everywhere avoided quarrelling himself, but did not even suffer others to quarrel. See in Xenophon’s Banquet how many quarrels he ended; how, again, he bore with Thrasymachus, with Polus, with Callicles; how with his wife, how with his son, who attempted to confute him, and cavilled at him. For he well remembered that no one is master of the ruling faculty of another; and therefore he desired nothing but what was his own. And what is that? Not that any particular person should be dealt with conformably to nature, for that belongs to others; but that while they act in their own way, as they please, he should nevertheless live conformably to nature, only doing what belongs to himself, in order to make them live conformably to nature also. For this is the point that a wise and good person has in view. To have the command of an army? No; but if it be allotted him, to properly apply his own powers in that sphere. To marry? No; but if marriage be allotted him, to act in this sphere also according to the laws of nature. But if he expects perfection in his wife or his child, then he asks to have that for his own which really belongs to others. And wisdom consists in this very point, to learn what things are our own and what belong to others.

What room is there then for quarrelling, to a person thus disposed? For does he wonder at anything that happens? Does it appear strange to him? Does

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he not prepare for worse and more grievous injuries from bad people than actually happen to him? Does he not reckon it so much gained if they come short of the last extremities? Such a one has reviled you. You are much obliged to him that he has not struck you. But he has struck you too. You are much obliged to him that he has not wounded you too. But he has wounded you too. You are much obliged to him that he has not killed you. For when did he ever learn, or from whom, that he is a gentle, that he is a social, animal; that the very injury itself is a great mischief to him who inflicts it? As, then, he has not learned these things, nor believes them, why should he not follow what appears to be for his interest? Your neighbor has thrown stones. What then; is it any fault of yours? But your goods are broken. What then; are you a piece of furniture? No, but your essence consists in the faculty of will. What behavior then is assigned you in return? If you are considering yourself as a wolf, then to bite again, to throw more stones. But if you ask the question as a man, then examine your treasure; see what faculties you have brought into the world with you. Are they fitted for ferocity; for revenge? When is a horse miserable? When he is deprived of his natural faculties; not when he cannot crow, but when he cannot run. And a dog? Not when he cannot fly, but when he cannot hunt. Is not a man, then, also unhappy in the same manner; not he who cannot
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strangle lions or perform great athletic feats (for he has received no faculties for this purpose from nature); but he who has lost his rectitude of mind, his fidelity? This is he who ought to receive public condolence for the misfortunes into which he is fallen; not, by Heaven! either he who has the misfortune to be born or to die; but he whom it has befallen while he lives to lose what is properly his own; not his paternal possessions, his paltry estate or his house, his lodging or his slaves, for none of these are a man’s own; but all these belong to others, are servile, dependent, and very variously assigned by the disposers of them. But his personal qualifications as a man, the impressions which he brought into the world stamped upon his mind; such as we look for in money, accepting or rejecting it accordingly. What impression has this piece of money? Trajan’s. Give it me. Nero’s. [*](Nero being declared an enemy by the Senate, his coin was, in consequence of this, prohibited and destroyed.—C.) Throw it away. It is false; it is good for nothing. So in the other case. What stamp have his principles? Gentleness, social affection, patience, good-nature. Bring them hither. I receive them. I make such a man a citizen; I receive him for a neighbor, a fellow-traveller. Only see that he have not the Neronian stamp. Is he passionate? Is he resentful? Is he querulous? Would he, if he took the fancy, break the heads of those who fell in his way? Why then do you call him a man? For
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is everything determined by a mere outward form? Then say, just as well, that a piece of wax is an apple, or that it has the smell and taste too. The external figure is not enough; nor, consequently, is it sufficient to constitute a man that he has a nose and eyes, if he have not the proper principles of a man. Such a one does not understand reason, or apprehend when he is confuted. He is like an ass. Another is dead to the sense of shame. He is a worthless creature; anything rather than a man. Another seeks whom he may kick or bite; so that he is neither sheep nor ass. But what then? He is a wild beast.

Well, but would you have me despised, then? By whom,—by those who know you? And how can they despise you who know you to be gentle and modest? But perhaps by those who do not know you? And what is that to you? For no other artist troubles himself about those ignorant of art. But people will be much readier to attack me. Why do you say me? Can any one hurt your will, or restrain you from treating, conformably to nature, the phenomena of existence? Why, then, are you disturbed and desirous to make yourself appear formidable? Why do you not make public proclamation that you are at peace with all mankind, however they may act; and that you chiefly laugh at those who suppose they can hurt you? These wretches neither know who I am, nor in what consist my good and evil; nor how little they can touch what is really mine. Thus the

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inhabitants of a fortified city laugh at the besiegers. What trouble, now, are these people giving themselves for nothing! Our wall is secure; we have provisions for a very long time, and every other preparation. These are what render a city fortified and impregnable; but nothing but its principles render the human soul so. For what wall is so strong, what body so impenetrable, what possession so unalienable, what dignity so secured against stratagems? All things else, everywhere else, are mortal, easily reduced; and whoever in any degree fixes his mind upon them must necessarily be subject to perturbation, despair, terrors, lamentations, disappointed desires, and unavailing aversions.

And will we not fortify, then, the only citadel that is granted us; and withdrawing ourselves from what is mortal and servile, diligently improve what is immortal and by nature free? Do we not remember that no one either hurts or benefits another; but only the views which we hold concerning everything? It is this that hurts us; this that overturns us. Here is the fight, the sedition, the war. It was nothing else that made Eteocles and Polynices enemies, but their views concerning empire, and their principles concerning exile; that the one seemed the extremest evil, the other the greatest good. Now, the very nature of every one is to pursue good, to avoid evil; to esteem him as an enemy and betrayer who deprives us of the one and involves us in the other, though he

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be a brother, or a son, or father. For nothing is more nearly related to us than good. So that if good and evil consist in externals, there is no affection between father and son, brother and brother; but all is everywhere full of enemies, betrayers, sycophants. But if a right choice be the only good, and a wrong one the only evil, what further room is there for quarrelling, for reviling? About what can it be? About what is nothing to us. Against whom? Against the ignorant, against the unhappy, against those who are deceived in the most important respects.

Mindful of this, Socrates lived in his own house, patiently bearing a furious wife, a senseless son. For what were the effects of her fury? The throwing as much water as she pleased on his head, the trampling a cake under her feet.[*](Alcibiades sent a fine great cake as a present to Socrates; which so provoked the jealousy of the meek Xantippe, that she threw it down and stamped upon it. Socrates only laughed, and said, Now you will have no share in it yourself.—C.) And what is this to me, if I think such things nothing to me? This very point is my business; and neither a tyrant, nor a master; shall restrain my will; nor multitudes, though I am a single person; nor one ever so strong, though I am ever so weak. For this is given by God to every one, free from restraint.

These principles make friendship in families, concord in cities, peace in nations. They make a person grateful to God, everywhere courageous, as dealing

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with things merely foreign and of minor importance. But we, alas! are able indeed to write and read these things, and to praise them when they are read; but very far from being convinced by them. In that case, what is said of the Lacedemonians,—
1. Lions at home, foxes at Ephesus, may be applied to us, too; lions in the school, but foxes out of it.

It vexes me, say you, to be pitied. Is this your affair, then, or theirs who pity you? And further, how is it in your power to prevent it? It is, if I show them that I do not need pity. But are you now in such a condition as not to need pity, or are you not? think I am. But these people do not pity me for what, if anything, would deserve pity, my faults; but for poverty, and want of power, and sicknesses, and deaths, and other things of that kind. Are you, then, prepared to convince the world that none of these things is in reality an evil; but that it is possible for a person to be happy, even when he is poor, and without honors and power? Or are you prepared to put on the appearance of being rich and

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powerful? The last of these is the part of an arrogant, silly, worthless fellow. Observe, too, by what means this fiction must be carried on. You must hire some poor slaves, and get possessed of a few little pieces of plate, and often show them in public; and though they are the same, endeavor to conceal that they are the same; you must have gay clothes and other finery, and make a show of being honored by your great people; and endeavor to sup with them, or be thought to sup with them; and use some vile arts with your person, to make it appear handsomer and genteeler than it really is. All this you must contrive, if you would take the second way not to be pitied. And the first is impracticable as well as tedious, to undertake the very thing that Zeus himself could not do,—to convince all mankind what things are really good and evil. Is this granted you? The only thing granted you is to convince yourself; and you have not yet done that; and yet do you undertake to convince others? Why, who has lived so long with you as you have with yourself? Who is so likely to have faith in you, in order to be convinced by you, as yourself? Who is more truly a well-wisher or a friend to you than yourself? How is it, then, that you have not yet convinced yourself? Should you not now revolve these things? What you were studying was this: to learn to be exempt from grief, perturbation, and meanness, and to be free. Have you not heard, then, that the only way
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that leads to this is to give up what is beyond the control of will; to withdraw from it, and confess that it belongs to others? To what order of things belongs another’s opinion about you? Things uncontrollable by will. Is it nothing then to you? Nothing. While you are still piqued and disturbed about it, then, do you consider that you are convinced concerning good and evil?

Letting others alone, then, why will you not be your own scholar and teacher? Let others look to it, whether it be for their advantage to think and act contrary to nature; but no one is nearer to me than myself. What means this? I have heard the reasonings of philosophers, and assented to them; yet, in fact, I am not the more relieved. Am I so stupid? And yet, in other things to which I had an inclination, I was not found very stupid; but I quickly learned grammar and the exercises of the palaestra, and geometry, and the solution of syllogisms. Has not reason, then, convinced me? And yet there is no one of the other things that I so much approved or liked from the very first. And now I read concerning these subjects, I hear discourses upon them, I write about them, and I have not yet found any principle more sure then this. What, then, do I need? Is not this the difficulty, that the contrary principles are not removed out of my mind? Is it not that I have not strengthened these opinions by exercise, nor practised them in action; but, like arms

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thrown aside, they are grown rusty, and do not suit me? Yet neither in the palaestra, nor writing, nor reading, nor solving syllogisms, am I contented with merely learning; but I apply in every way the forms of arguments which are presented to me, and I invent others; and the same of convertible propositions. But the necessary principles by which I might become exempted from fear, grief, and passion, and be unrestrained and free, I do not exercise, nor bestow on them the proper care. And then I trouble myself what others will say of me; whether I shall appear to them worthy of regard; whether I shall appear happy. Will you not see, foolish man, what you can say of yourself; what sort of person you appear to yourself in your opinions, in your desires, in your aversions, in your pursuits, in your preparation, in your intention, in the other proper works of a man? But instead of that, do you trouble yourself whether others pity you? Very true. But I am pitied without reason. Then are you not pained by this? And is not he who is in pain to be pitied? Yes. How, then, are you pitied without reason? For you render yourself worthy of pity by what you suffer upon being pitied.

What says Antisthenes, then? Have you never heard?—It is kingly, O Cyrus, to do well and to be ill spoken of. My head is well, and all around me think it aches. What is that to me? I am free from a fever; and they compassionate me as if I had

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one. Poor soul, what a long while have you had this fever! I say, too, with a dismal countenance, Ay, indeed, it is now a long time that I have been ill. What can be the consequence, then? What pleases God. And at the same time I secretly laugh at those who pity me. What forbids, then, but that the same may be done in the other case? I am poor, but I have right principles concerning poverty. What is it to me, then, if people pity me for my poverty? I am not in power and others are; but I have such opinions as I ought to have concerning power and the want of power. Let them see to it who pity me. I am neither hungry, nor thirsty, nor cold. But because they are hungry and thirsty, they suppose me to be so too. What can I do for them? Am I to go about making proclamation, and saying, Do not deceive yourselves, good people, I am very well; I care for neither poverty, nor want of power, nor anything else but right principles? These I possess unrestrained, and care for nothing further.

But what trifling is this! How have I right principles when I am not contented to be what I am; but am in agony as to how I shall appear? But others will get more, and be preferred to me. Well, what is more reasonable than that they who take pains for anything should get most in that particular direction in which they take pains? They have taken pains for power; you, for right principles. They, for riches; you, for a proper use of the phenomena of existence.

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See whether they have the advantage of you in that for which you have taken pains, and which they neglect; if they judge better concerning the natural bounds and limits of things; if their desires are less often disappointed than yours, their aversions less often incurred; if they aim better in their intentions, in their purposes, in their pursuits; if they preserve a becoming behavior as men, as sons, as parents, and so on with the other relations of life. But if they are in power, and you not, why will you not speak the truth to yourself; that you do nothing for the sake of power, but that they do everything? It were very reasonable that he who carefully seeks anything should be less successful than he who neglects it! No; but since I take care to have right principles, it is more reasonable that I should excel. Yes, in respect to what you take pains about, your principles. But give up to others the things in which they have taken more pains than you. Else it is just as if, because you have right principles, you should expect to aim an arrow better than an archer, or to forge better than a smith. In that case cease to take pains about principles, and apply yourself to those things which you wish to possess, and then begin crying, if you do not succeed; for you deserve to cry. But now you claim that you are engaged and absorbed in other things; and they say well that no man can be of two trades. One man, as soon as he rises and goes out, seeks to whom he may pay his compliments, whom he may
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flatter, to whom he may send a present, how he may please the favorite; how, by doing mischief to one, he may oblige another. Whenever he prays, he prays for things like these; whenever he sacrifices, he sacrifices for things like these. To these he transfers the Pythagorean precept,—
1. Let not the stealing god of Sleep surprise.

Where have I failed in point of flattery? What have I done,—anything like a free, brave-spirited man?[*](See the Pythagorean verses (quoted in Book III. c. 10) of which these questions are a parody—C.) If he should find anything of this sort, he rebukes and accuses himself. What business had you to say that? For could you not have lied? Even the philosophers say there is no objection against telling a lie.

But, on the other hand, if you have in reality been careful about nothing else but to make a right use of the phenomena of existence; then, as soon as you are up in the morning, consider what you need in order to be free from passion; what, to enjoy tranquillity? In what do I consist,—merely in body, in estate, in reputation? None of these. What, then? I am a reasonable creature. What, then, is required of me? Meditate upon your actions. Where have I failed in any requisite for prosperity? What have I done, either unfriendly or unsocial? What have I omitted that was necessary in these points?

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Since there is so much difference, then, in your desires, your actions, your wishes, would you yet have an equal share with others in those things about which you have not taken pains, and they have? And do you wonder, after all, and are you out of humor, if they pity you? But they are not out of humor, if you pity them. Why? Because they are convinced that they are in possession of their proper good; but you are not convinced that you are. Hence you are not contented with your own condition, but desire theirs; whereas they are contented with theirs, and do not desire yours. For if you were really convinced that it is you who are in possession of what is good, and that they are mistaken, you would not so much as think what they say about you.