Discourses

Epictetus

Epictetus. The Works of Epictetus, His Discourses, in Four Books, the Enchiridion, and Fragments. Higginson, Thomas Wentworth, translator. New York: Thomas Nelson and Sons. 1890.

When one maintains his proper attitude in life, he does not long after externals. What would you have, O man?

I am contented, if my desires and aversions are conformable to nature; if I seek and shun that which I ought, and thus regulate my purposes, my efforts, and my opinions.

Why, then, do you walk as if you had swallowed a spit?

Because I could wish moreover to have all who meet me admire me, and all who follow me cry out, What a great philosopher!

Who are those by whom you would be admired? Are they not the very people who you used to say were mad? What, then, would you be admired by madmen?

The same general principles are common to all men, nor does one such principle contradict another; for which of us does not admit that good is

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advantageous and eligible, and in all cases to be pursued and followed? Who does not admit that justice is fair and becoming? Where, then, arises the dispute? In adapting these principles to particular cases; as when one cries, Such a person has acted well,—he is a gallant man; and another, No, he has acted like a fool. Hence arise disputes among men. This is the dispute between Jews and Syrians and Egyptians and Romans,—not whether the right be preferable to all things, and in every instance to be sought; but whether the eating swine’s flesh be consistent with right, or not. This, too, you will find to have been the dispute between Achilles and Agamemnon; for call them forth. What say you, Agamemnon,—ought not that to be done which is fit and right? Yes, surely. Achilles, what say you,—is it not agreeable to you, that what is right should be done? Yes; I desire it beyond everything. Apply your principles then. Here begins the dispute. One says, It is not fit that I should restore Chryseis to her father. The other says, Yes; but it is. One or the other of them, certainly, makes a wrong conception of the principle of fitness. Again, the one says, If it be fit that I should give up Chryseis, it is fit, too, that I should take some of your prizes. The other answers, What, that you should take my mistress? Ay; yours. What, mine only? Must I only, then, lose my prize?

What, then, is it to be properly educated? To

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learn how to apply the principles of natural right to particular cases, and, for the rest, to distinguish that some things are in our power, while others are not. In our own power are the will, and all voluntary actions; out of our power, the body and its parts, property, parents, brothers, children, country, and, in short, all our fellow-beings. Where, then, shall we place good? In what shall we define it to consist? In things within our own power. But are not health and strength and life good? And are not children, parents, country? You talk unreasonably.

Let us, then, try another point of view. Can he who suffers evil, and is disappointed of good, be happy? He cannot. And can he preserve a right behavior with regard to society? How is it possible that he should? I am naturally led to seek my own highest good. If, therefore, it is my highest good to have an estate, it is for my good likewise to take it away from my neighbor. If it is my highest good to have a suit of clothes, it is for my good likewise to steal it wherever I find it. Hence wars, seditions, tyranny, unjust invasions. How shall I, if this be the case, be able any longer to do my duty towards Zeus? If I suffer evil, and am disappointed, he takes no care of me. And what is he to me if he cannot help me; or. again, what is he to me if he chooses I should be in the condition that I am? Then I begin to hate him. What, then, do we build temples, do we raise statues, to Zeus. as to evil

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demons, as to the goddess Fever? How, then, is he the preserver, and how the dispenser of rain and plenty? If we place the essence of good on any such ground, all this will follow. What, then, shall we do?

This is the inquiry which interests him who philosophizes in earnest, and to some result. Do I not now see what is good, and what is evil, or am I mad? Suppose I place good only in things dependent on my own will? Why, every one will laugh at me. Some gray-headed old fellow will come, with his fingers covered with gold rings, and will shake his head, and say, Hark ye, child, it is fit you should learn philosophy; but it is fit, too, you should have common-sense. All this is nonsense. You learn syllogisms from philosophers; but how you are to act, you know better than they. Then what displeases you if I do know? What can I say to this unfortunate? If I make no answer, he will burst; so I must answer thus: Bear with me, as with lovers. Granted; I am not myself. I have lost my senses.

Even Epicurus is sensible that we are by nature sociable beings; but having once placed our good in the mere outward shell, he can say nothing

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afterwards inconsistent with that; for again, he strenuously maintains that we ought not to admire or accept anything separated from the nature of good, and he is in the right to maintain it. But how, then, arise any affectionate anxieties, unless there be such a thing as natural affection towards our offspring? Then why do you, Epicurus, dissuade a wise man from bringing up children? Why are you afraid that upon their account he may fall into anxieties? Does he fall into any for a mouse, that feeds within his house? What is it to him, if a little mouse bewails itself there? But Epicurus knew that, if once a child is born, it is no longer in our power not to love and be solicitous for it. On the same grounds he says that a wise man will not engage himself in public business, knowing very well what must follow. If men are only so many flies, why should he not engage in it?

And does he, who knows all this, dare to forbid us to bring up children? Not even a sheep, or a wolf, deserts its offspring; and shall man? What would you have, that we should be as silly as sheep? Yet even these do not desert their offspring. Or as savage as wolves? Neither do these desert them. Pray, who would mind you, if he saw his child fallen upon the ground and crying? For my part, I am of opinion that your father and another, even if they could have foreseen that you would have been the author of such doctrines, would not have thrown you away.

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Difficulties are things that show what men are. For the future, in case of any difficulty, remember that God, like a gymnastic trainer, has pitted you against a rough antagonist. For what end? That you may be an Olympic conqueror; and this cannot be without toil. No man, in my opinion, has a more profitable difficulty on his hands than you have, provided you will but use it, as an athletic champion uses his antagonist.

Suppose we were to send you as a scout to Rome. But no one ever sends a timorous scout, who, when he only hears a noise, or sees a shadow, runs back frightened, and says, The enemy is at hand. So now, if you should come and tell us, Things are in a fearful way at Rome; death is terrible, banishment terrible, calumny terrible, poverty terrible; run, good people, the enemy is at hand; we will answer, Get you gone, and prophesy for yourself; our only fault is that we have sent such a scout. Diogenes was sent as a scout before you, but he told us other tidings. He says that death is no evil, for it is nothing base; that calumny is only the noise of madmen. And what account did this spy give us of pain, of pleasure,

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of poverty? He says that to be naked is better than a purple robe; to sleep upon the bare ground, the softest bed; and gives a proof of all he says by his own courage, tranquillity, and freedom, and, moreover, by a healthy and robust body. There is no enemy near, he says; all is profound peace. How so, Diogenes? Look upon me, he says. Am I hurt? Am I wounded? Have I run away from any one? This is a scout worth having. But you come, and tell us one tale after another. Go back and look more carefully, and without fear.

What shall I do, then?

What do you do when you land from a ship? Do you take away with you the rudder, or the oars? What do you take, then? Your own, your bundle and your flask. So, in the present case, if you will but remember what is your own, you will not covet what belongs to others. If some tyrant bids you put off your consular robe,—Well, I am in my equestrian robe. Put off that too. I have only my coat. Put off that too. Well, I am naked. I am not yet satisfied. Then e’en take my whole body. If I can throw off a paltry body, am I any longer afraid of a tyrant?

But such a one will not leave me his heir. What, then, have I forgotten, that such possessions are never really mine? How, then, do we call them ours? It is as with a bed in an inn. If the landlord, when he dies. leaves you the bed. well and good; but

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if to another, it will be his, and you will seek one elsewhere; and consequently, if you do not find one, you will sleep upon the ground; only sleep fearlessly and profoundly, and remember that tragedies find their theme among the rich and kings and tyrants. No poor man fills any other place in one than as part of the chorus; whereas, kings begin indeed with prosperity: Crown the palace; but continue about the third and fourth act: Alas, Citheron! why didst thou receive me![*](Sophocles, Oedipus Tyrannus, 1391.—H.) Where are thy crowns, wretch; where is thy diadem? Cannot thy guards help thee?

Whenever you are brought into any such society, think then that you meet a tragic actor, or, rather, not an actor, but Oedipus himself. But such a one is happy; he walks with a numerous train. Well, I too walk with a numerous train.

But remember the principal thing,—that the door is open. Do not be more fearful than children; but as they, when the play dues not please them, say, will play no longer, so do you, in the same case, say, will play no longer, and go; but, if you stay, do not complain.

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If these things are true; and if we are not stupid or insincere when we say that the good or ill of man lies within his own will, and that all beside is nothing to us, why are we still troubled? Why do we still fear? What truly concerns us is in no one’s power; what is in the power of others concerns not us. What embarrassment have we left?

But you must direct me.

Why should I direct you? Has not Zeus directed you? Has he not given you what is your own. incapable of restraint or hindrance; and what is not your own, liable to both? What directions, then, what orders, have you brought from him? By all means guard what is your own; what belongs to others do not covet. Honesty is your own; a sense of virtuous shame is your own. Who, then, can deprive you of these? Who can restrain you from making use of them, but yourself? And how do you do it? When you make that your concern which is not truly your own, you lose that which is. Having such precepts and directions from Zeus, what sort do you still want from me? Am I better than He, or more worthy of credit? If you observe these precepts, what others

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do you need? Are not these His? Apply the. recognized principles; apply the demonstrations of philosophers; apply what you have often heard, and what you have said yourself; what you have read, and what you have carefully studied.

How long is it right to devote one’s self to these things and not break up the game?

As long as it goes on well. A king is chosen at the Saturnalian Festival, supposing it to be agreed to play at that game; he orders: Do you drink; you mix the wine; you sing: you go; you come. I obey, that the game may not be broken up by my fault.

[Then he orders] bid you think yourself to be unhappy. I do not think so; and who shall compel me to think so?

Again, suppose we agree to play Agamemnon and Achilles. He who is appointed for Agamemnon says to me, Go to Achilles, and force away Briseis. I go. Come. I come. We should deal with life as with these imaginary orders.

Suppose it to be night. Well, suppose it. Is it day then? No; for I admitted the hypothesis, that it was night. Suppose that you think it to be night. Well, suppose it. But you must really think that it is night. That by no means follows from the hypothesis. Thus it is in the case illustrated. Suppose you have ill luck? Suppose it. Are you then unlucky? Yes. Are you thoroughly unfortunate?

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Yes. Well; but you must really regard yourself as miserable. But this is no part of the assumption, and there is a power who forbids me [to admit that].

How far, then, are we to carry such analogies? As far as is useful; that is, till we go farther than is reasonable and fit.

Moreover, some are peevish and fastidious, and say, I cannot dine with such a fellow, to be obliged to hear him all day recounting how he fought in Mysia. I told you, my friend, how I gained the eminence. There I begin to suffer another siege. But another says, had rather get a dinner, and hear him prate as much as he pleases.

Do you decide between these opinions; but do not let it be with depression and anxiety, and the assumption that you are miserable, for no one compels you to that. Is there smoke in my house? If it be moderate, I will stay; if very great, I will go out. For you must always remember, and hold to this, that the door is open. You are forbidden to live at Nicopolis. Then I will not live there. Nor at Athens. Well, nor at Athens. Nor at Rome. Nor at Rome. But you shall live at Gyaros.[*](An island in the Aegean Sea, to which the Romans used to banish criminals.—C.) I will live there. But suppose that living at Gyaros seems to me like living in a great smoke. I can then retire where no one can forbid me to live, for it is an abode open to

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all, and put off my last garment, this poor body of mine; beyond this, no one has any power over me.

Thus Demetrius said to Nero: You sentence me to death; and Nature you. If I prize my body first, I have surrendered myself as a slave; if my estate, the same; for I at once betray where I am vulnerable. Just as when a reptile pulls in his head, I bid you strike that part of him which he guards; and be you assured, that wherever you show a desire to guard yourself. there your master will attack you. Remember but this, and whom will you any longer flatter or fear?

But I want to sit where the senators do.

Do not you see, that by this you incommode and torment yourself?

Why, how else shall I see the show in the Amphitheatre advantageously?

Do not insist on seeing it, O man! and you will not be incommoded. Why do you vex yourself? Or wait a little while; and when the show is over, go sit in the senators’ places and sun yourself. For remember, that this holds universally,—we incommode and torment ourselves; that is, our own preconceived notions do it for us. What is it to be reviled, for instance? Stand by a stone and revile it, and what will you get by it? If you, therefore, would listen only as a stone, what would your reviler gain? But if the reviler has the weakness of the reviled for a vantage-ground, then he carries his point.

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Strip him [bids the tyrant]. What mean you by him? Take my clothes, strip them, at your pleasure. I meant only to insult you. Much good may it do you.

These things were the study of Socrates; and by these means he always preserved the same countenance. Yet we had rather exercise and study anything, than how to become unrestrained and free. But the philosophers talk paradoxes. And are there not paradoxes in other arts? What is more paradoxical than to prick any one’s eye, that he may see? Should one tell this to one ignorant of surgery, would not he laugh at him? What wonder then, if in philosophy also many truths appear paradoxes to the ignorant?

S some one was reading hypothetical propositions, Epictetus remarked that it was a rule in these to admit whatever was in accordance with the hypothesis, but much more a rule in life to do what was in accordance with nature. For, if we desire in every matter and on every occasion to conform to nature, we must on every occasion evidently make it our aim, neither to omit anything thus conformabley

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nor to admit anything inconsistent. Philosophers, therefore, first exercise us in theory, which is the more easy task, and then lead us to the more difficult; for in theory there is nothing to hinder our following what we are taught, but in life there are many things to draw us aside. It is ridiculous, then, to say we must begin with these applications, for it is not easy to begin with the most difficult; and this excuse children should make to those parents who dislike that they should study philosophy. Am I to blame then, sir, and ignorant of my duty, and of what is incumbent on me? If this is neither to be learned, nor taught, why do you find fault with me? If it is to be taught, pray teach me yourself; or, if you cannot, let me learn it from those who profess to understand it. For what think you; that I voluntarily fall into evil, and miss good? Heaven forbid! What, then, is the cause of my faults? Ignorance. Are you not willing, then, that I should get rid of my ignorance? Who was ever taught the art of music, or navigation, by anger? Do you expect, then, that your anger should teach me the art of living?

This, however, can properly be said only by one who is really in earnest. But he who reads these things, and applies to the philosophers, merely for the sake of showing, at some entertainment, that he understands hypothetical reasonings, what aim has he but to be admired by some senator, who happens

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to sit near him? [*](This passage is omitted as inexplicable by Mrs. Carter. Schweighaeuser says, Tentare interpretationem possum; praestare non possum. A passage just below I also have omitted, as the text is admitted to be in a hopeless state.—H.) Great possessions may be won by such aims as that, but what we hold as wealth passes there for folly. It is hard, therefore, to overcome by appearances, where vain things thus pass for great.

I once saw a person weeping and embracing the Knees of Epaphroditus, and deploring his hard fortune, that he had not more than 150,000 drachmae left. What said Epaphroditus then? Did he laugh at him, as we should do? No; but cried out with astonishment: Poor man! How could you be silent under it? How could you bear it?

The first step, therefore, towards becoming a philosopher is to be sensible in what state the ruling faculty of the mind is; for on knowing it to be weak, no person will immediately employ it in great attempts. But, for want of this, some who can scarce digest a crumb will yet buy and swallow whole treatises; and so they throw them up again, or cannot digest them; and then come colics, fluxes, and fevers. Such persons ought to consider what they can bear. Indeed, it is easy to convince an ignorant person, so far as concerns theory; but in matters relating to life, no one offers himself to conviction, and we hate those who have convinced us. Socrates used to say, that we ought not to live a life unexamined.[*](Plato, Apologia, i. 28.—H.)

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Appearances to the mind are of four kinds.

Things either are what they appear to be; or they neither are, nor appear to be; or they are, and do not appear to be; or they are not, and yet appear to be. Rightly to aim, in all these cases, is the wise man’s task. Whatever unduly constrains us, to that a remedy must be applied. If the sophistries of Pyrrhonism, or the Academy, constrain us, the remedy must be applied there; if specious appearances, by which things seem to be good which are not so, let us seek for a remedy there. If it be custom which constrains us, we must endeavor to find a remedy against that.

What remedy is to be found against custom?

Establish a contrary custom. You hear the vulgar say, Such a one, poor soul! is dead. Well, his father died; his mother died. Ay, but he was cut off in the flower of his age, and in a foreign land. Observe these contrary ways of speaking; and abandon such expressions. Oppose to one custom a contrary

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custom; to sophistry the art of reasoning, and the frequent use and exercise of it. Against specious appearances we must set clear convictions, bright and ready for use. When death appears as an evil, we ought immediately to remember that evils are things to be avoided, but death is inevitable. For what can I do, or where can I fly from it? Let me suppose myself to be Sarpedon, the son of Jove, that I may speak as nobly. I go either to excel, or to give another the occasion to excel.[*](Imitated from Iliad, 12. 328.—H.) If I can achieve nothing myself, I will not grudge another his achievement.

But suppose this to be a strain too high for us; do not these following thoughts befit us? Whither shall I fly from death? Show me the place, show me the people, to whom I may have recourse, whom death does not overtake. Show me the charm to avoid it. If there be none, what would you have me do? I cannot escape death; but cannot I escape the dread of it? Must I die trembling and lamenting? For the very origin of the disease lies in wishing for something that is not obtained. Under the influence of this, if I can make outward things conform to my own inclination, I do it; if not, I feel inclined to tear out the eyes of whoever hinders me. For it is the nature of man not to endure the being deprived of good; not to endure the falling into evil. And so, at last, when I can neither control events, nor tear out the eyes of him who hinders me, I sit down, and

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groan, and revile him whom I can,—Zeus, and the rest of the gods; for what are they to me, if they take no care of me?

Oh! but then you will be impious.

What then? Can I be in a worse condition than I am now? In general, remember this, that unless we make our religion and our treasure to consist in the same thing, religion will always be sacrificed.

Have these things no weight? Let a Pyrrhonist, or an Academic, come and oppose them. For my part, I have neither leisure nor ability to stand up as an advocate for common-sense. Even if the business were concerning an estate, I should call in another advocate. To what advocate, then, shall I now appeal? I will leave it to any one who may be upon the spot. Thus, I may not be able to explain how sensation takes place, whether it be diffused universally, or reside in a particular part; for I find perplexities in either case; but that you and I are not the same person, I very exactly know.

How so?

Why, I never, when I have a mind to swallow anything, carry it to your mouth, but my own. I never, when I wanted bread, seized a broom instead, but went directly to the bread as I needed it. You who deny all evidence of the senses, do you act otherwise? Which of you, when he wished to go into a bath, ever went into a mill?

Why, then, must not we, to the utmost, defend

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these points; stand by common-sense; be fortified against everything that opposes it?

Who denies that? But it must be done by him who has ability and leisure to spare; but he who is full of trembling and perturbation and inward disorders of heart must first employ his time about something else.

What is the basis of assent to anything? Its appearing to be true. It is not possible, therefore, to assent to what appears to be not true. Why? Because it is the very nature of the understanding to agree to truth, to be dissatisfied with falsehood, and to suspend its belief in doubtful cases.

What is the proof of this?

Persuade yourself, if you can, that it is now night. Impossible. Dissuade yourself from the belief that it

1 This seems to be said by one of the hearers, who wanted to have the absurdities of the sceptics confuted and guarded against by regular argument. Epictetus allows this to be right, for such as have abilities and leisure; but recommends in others the more necessary task of curing their own moral disorders, and insinuates that the mere common occurences of life are sufficient to overthrow the notions of the Pyrrhonists.—C.

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is day. Impossible. Persuade yourself that the number of the stars is even or odd. Impossible.

When any one, then, assents to what is false, be assured that he does not wilfully assent to it as false,—for, as Plato affirms, the soul is unwillingly deprived of truth,[*](This is not a literal quotation from Plato, but similar passages are to be found in his Laws, 9. 5; Sophist, 29; Protagoras, 87, etc.—H.)—but what is false appears to him to be true. Well, then; have we, in actions, anything correspondent to this distinction between true and false? There are right and wrong; advantageous and disadvantageous; desirable and undesirable, and the like.

A person, then, cannot think a thing truly advantageous to him, and not choose it?

He cannot. But how says Medea?—

  1. I know what evils wait upon my purpose;
  2. But wrath is stronger than this will of mine.
Euripides, Medea, 1087.—H.

Was it that she thought the very indulgence of her rage, and the punishing her husband, more advantageous than the preservation of her children? Yes; but she is deceived. Show clearly to her that she is deceived, and she will forbear; but, till you have shown it, what has she to follow but what appears to herself? Nothing.

Why, then, are you angry with her, that the unhappy woman is deceived in the most important

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points, and instead of a human creature, becomes a viper? Why do you not rather, as we pity the blind and lame, so likewise pity those who are blinded .and lamed in their superior faculties? Whoever, therefore, duly remembers, that the appearance of things to the mind is the standard of every action to man,—that this is either right or wrong, and if right, he is without fault; if wrong, he himself suffers punishment; for that one man cannot be the person deceived, and another the only sufferer,—such a person will not be outrageous and angry at any one; will not revile, or reproach, or hate, or quarrel with any one.

So, then, have all the great and dreadful deeds that have been done in the world no other origin than semblances?

Absolutely no other. The Iliad consists of nothing but such semblances and their results. It seemed to Paris that he should carry off the wife of Menelaus. It seemed to Helen that she should follow him. If, then, it had seemed to Menelaus that it was an advantage to be robbed of such a wife, what could have happened? Not only the Iliad had been lost, but the Odyssey too.

Do such great events, then, depend on so small a cause?

What events, then, call you great?

Wars and seditions, the destruction of numbers of men, and the overthrow of cities.

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And what in all this is great? Nothing. What is great in the death of numbers of oxen, numbers of sheep, or in the burning or pulling down numbers of nests of storks or swallows?

Are these things then similar?

They are. The bodies of men are destroyed, and the bodies of sheep and oxen. The houses of men are burnt, and the nests of storks. What is there so great or fearful in all this? Pray, show me what difference there is between the house of a man and the nest of a stork, considered as a habitation, except that houses are built with beams and tiles and bricks, and nests with sticks and clay?

What, then; are a stork and a man similar? What do you mean?

Similar in body.

Is there no difference, then, between a man and a stork?

Yes, surely; but not in these things. In what, then?

Inquire; and you will find, that the difference lies in something else. See whether it be not in rationality of action, in social instincts, fidelity, honor, providence, judgment.

Where, then, is the real good or evil of man?

Just where this difference lies. If this distinguishing trait is preserved, and remains well fortified, and neither honor, fidelity, nor judgment is destroyed, then he himself is likewise saved; but when any one

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of these is lost or demolished, he himself is lost also. In this do all great events consist. Paris, they say, was undone, because the Greeks invaded Troy, and laid it waste, and his family were slain in battle. By no means; for no one is undone by an action not his own. All that was only like laying waste the nests of storks. But his true undoing was when he lost modesty, faith, honor, virtue. When was Achilles undone,—when Patroclus died? By no means. But when he gave himself up to rage; when he wept over a girl; when he forgot that he came there, not to win mistresses, but to fight. This is human undoing; this is the siege, this the overthrow, when right principles are ruined and destroyed.

But when wives and children are led away captives, and the men themselves killed, are not these evils?

Whence do you conclude them such? Pray inform me, in my turn.

Nay; but whence do you affirm that they are not evils?

Recur to the rules. Apply your principles. One cannot sufficiently wonder at what happens among men. When we would judge of light and heavy, we do not judge by guess, nor when we judge of straight and crooked; and, in general, when it concerns us to know the truth on any special point, no one of us will do anything by guess. But where the first and principal source of right or wrong action is concerned,

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of being prosperous or unprosperous, happy or unhappy,—there only do we act rashly, and by guess. Nowhere anything like a balance; nowhere anything like a rule; but something seems thus or so to me, and I at once act accordingly. For am I better than Agamemnon or Achilles; that they, by following what seemed best to them, should do and suffer so many things, and yet that seeming should not suffice me? And what tragedy hath any other origin? The Atreus of Euripides, what is it? Seeming. The Oedipus of Sophocles? Seeming. The Phoenix? The Hippolytus? All seeming. Who then, think you, can escape this influence? What are they called who follow every seeming? Madmen. Yet do we, then, behave otherwise?

The essence of good and evil is a certain disposition of the will.

What are things outward, then?

Materials on which the will may act, in attaining its own good or evil.

How, then, will it attain good?

If it be not dazzled by its own materials; for right principles concerning these materials keep the will in

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a good state; but perverse and distorted principles, in a bad one. This law hath God ordained, who says, If you wish for good, receive it from yourself. You say, No; but from another. Nay; but from yourself.

Accordingly, when a tyrant threatens, and sends for me, I say, Against what is your threatening pointed? If he says, will chain you, I answer, It is my hands and feet that you threaten. If he says, will cut off your head, I answer, It is my head that you threaten. If he says, will throw you into prison, I answer, It is the whole of this paltry body that you threaten; and if he threatens banishment, just the same.

Does he not threaten you, then?

If I am persuaded that these things are nothing to me, he does not; but if I fear any of them, it is me that he threatens. Who is it, after all, that I fear? The master of what? Of things in my own power? Of these no one is the master. Of things not in my power? And what are these to me?

What, then! do you philosophers teach us a contempt of kings?

By no means. Which of us teaches any one to contend with them about things of which they have the command? Take my body; take my possessions; take my reputation; take away even my friends. If I persuade any one to claim these things as his own, you may justly accuse me. Ay; but I

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would command your principles too. And who hath given you that power? How can you conquer the principle of another? By applying terror, I will conquer it. Do not you see that what conquers itself .is not conquered by another? And nothing but itself can conquer the will. Hence, too, the most excellent and equitable law of God, that the better should always prevail over the worse. Ten are better than one.

For what purpose?

For chaining, killing, dragging where they please; for taking away an estate. Thus ten conquer one, in the cases wherein they are better.

In what, then, are they worse?

When the one has right principles, and the others have not. For can they conquer in this case? How should they? If we were weighed in a scale, must not the heavier outweigh?

How then came Socrates to suffer such things from the Athenians?

O foolish man! what mean you by Socrates? Express the fact as it is. Are you surprised that the mere body of Socrates should be carried away, and dragged to prison, by such as were stronger; that it should be poisoned by hemlock and die? Do these things appear wonderful to you; these things unjust? Is it for such things as these that you accuse God? Had Socrates, then, no compensation for them? In what, then, to him, did the essence of

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good consist? Whom shall we regard, you or him? And what says he? Anytus and Melitus may indeed kill; but hurt me they cannot. And again, If it so pleases God, so let it be.

But show me that he who has the worse principles can get the advantage over him who has the better. You never will show it, nor anything like it; for the Law of Nature and of God is this,—let the better always prevail over the worse.

In what?

In that wherein it is better. One body may be stronger than another; many, than one; and a thief, than one who is not a thief. Thus I, for instance, lost my lamp, because the thief was better at keeping awake than I. But for that lamp he paid the price of becoming a thief; for that lamp he lost his virtue and became like a wild beast. This seemed to him a good bargain; and so let it be!

But some one takes me by the collar, and drags me to the forum; and then all the rest cry out, Philosopher, what good do your principles do you? See, you are being dragged to prison; see, you are going to lose your head! And, pray, what rule of philosophy could I contrive, that when a stronger than myself lays hold on my collar, I should not be dragged; or that, when ten men pull me at once, and throw me into prison, I should not be thrown there? But have I learned nothing, then? I have learned to know, whatever happens, that if it concerns not my

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will, it is nothing to me. Have my principles, then, done me no good? What then; do I seek for anything else to do me good, but what I have learned? Afterwards, as I sit in prison, I say, He who has made all this disturbance neither recognizes any guidance, nor heeds any teaching, nor is it any concern to him to know what philosophers say or do. Let him alone.

Come forth again from prison. If you have no further need for me in prison, I will come out; if you want me again, I will return. For how long? Just so long as reason requires I should continue in this body; when that is over, take it, and fare ye well. Only let us not act inconsiderately, nor from cowardice, nor on slight grounds, since that would be contrary to the will of God; for he hath need of such a world, and such beings to live on earth. But, if he sounds a retreat, as he did to Socrates, we are to obey him when he sounds it, as our General.

Well; but can these things be explained to the multitude?

To what purpose? Is it not sufficient to be convinced one’s self? When children come to us clapping their hands, and saying, To-morrow is the good feast of Saturn; do we tell them that good doth not consist in such things? By no means; but we clap our hands also. Thus, when you are unable to convince any one, consider hint as a child, and clap your hands with him; or, ii you will not do that, at

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least hold your tongue. These things we ought to remember; and when we are called to any trial, to know that an opportunity is come of showing whether we have been well taught. For he who goes from a philosophical lecture to a difficult point of practice is like a young man who has been studying to solve syllogisms. If you propose an easy one, he says, Give me rather a fine intricate one, that I may try my strength. Thus athletic champions are displeased with a slight antagonist. He cannot lift me, says one. Is this a youth of spirit? No; for when the occasion calls upon him, he may begin crying, and say, wanted to learn a little longer first. Learn what? If you did not learn these things to show them in practice, why did you learn them?

I trust there must be some one among you, sitting here, who feels secret pangs of impatience, and says, When will such a trial come to my share, as hath now fallen to his? Must I sit wasting my life in a corner, when I might be crowned at Olympia? When will any one bring the news of such a combat for me? Such should be the disposition of you all. Even among the gladiators of Caesar, there are some who bear it very ill that they are not brought upon the stage and matched; and who offer vows to God, and address the officers, begging to fight. And will none among you appear such? I would willingly take a voyage on purpose to see how a champion of mine acts; how he meets his occasion.

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This is not the contest I would choose, say you. Is it in your power, then, to make the selection? Such a body is given you, such parents, such brothers, such a country, and such a rank in it; and then you come to me, to change the conditions! Have you not abilities to manage that which is given you You should say to me, It is your business to propose; mine, to treat the subject well. No; but you say, Do not meet me with such a perplexity, but such a one; do not offer such an obstacle to me, but such a one. There will be a time, I suppose, when tragedians will fancy themselves to be mere masks, and buskins, and long train. These things are your materials, man, and your stage-properties. Speak something; that we may know whether you are a tragedian or a buffoon; for both have all the rest in common. Suppose any one should take away his buskins and his mask, and bring him upon the stage in his common dress, is the tragedian lost, or does he remain? If he has a voice, he remains. Here, this instant, take upon you the command. I take it; and taking it, I show how a skilful man performs the part. Now lay aside your robe; put on rags, and come upon the stage in that character. What then? Is it not in my power to express the character by a suitable voice?

In what character do you now appear? As a witness summoned by God. Come you, then, and bear witness for me; for you are a fit witness to be

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produced by me. Is anything which is inevitable to be classed as either good or evil? Do I hurt any one? Have I made the good of each individual to rest on any one but himself? What evidence do you give for God?

I am in a miserable condition, O Lord; I am undone: no mortal cares for me; no mortal gives me anything; all blame me; all speak ill of me.

Is this the evidence you are to give? And will you bring disgrace upon his summons, who hath conferred such an honor upon you, and thought you worthy of being produced as a witness in such a cause?

But some one in authority has given a sentence. I judge you to be impious and profane. What has befallen you?—I have been judged to be impious and profane.—Anything else?—Nothing.—Suppose he had passed his judgment upon any process of reasoning, and had questioned the conclusion that, if it be day, it is light; what would have befallen the proposition? In this case, who is judged, who is condemned,—the proposition, or he who cannot understand it? Does he know, who claims the power of ruling in your case, what pious or impious means? Has he made it his study or learned it? Where? From whom? A musician would not regard him, if he pronounced bass to be treble; nor a mathematician, if he passed sentence, that lines drawn from the centre to the circumference are not

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equal. And shall he who is instructed in the truth respect an ignorant man, when he pronounces upon pious and impious, just and unjust?

Oh, the persecutions to which the wise are exposed! Is it here that you have learned this talk? Why do not you leave such pitiful discourse to idle, pitiful fellows; and let them sit in a corner, and receive some little mean pay, or grumble that nobody gives them anything? But do you come, and make some use of what you have learned. It is not reasonings that are wanted now, for there are books stuffed full of stoical reasonings.

What is wanted, then?

The man who shall apply them; whose actions may bear testimony to his doctrines. Assume this character for me, that we may no longer make use in the schools of the examples of the ancients, but may have some examples of our own.

To whom, then, does the contemplation of these abstractions belong?

To any one who has leisure for them; for man is a being fond of contemplation. But it is shameful to take only such view of things as truant slaves take of a play. We ought to sit calmly, and listen, whether to the actor or to the musician; and not do like those poor fellows, who come in and admire the actor, constantly glancing about them, and then, if any one happens to mention their master, run frightened away. It is shameful for a philosopher thus to

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contemplate the works of nature. What, in this parallel case, stands for the master? Man is not the master of man; but death is, and life, and pleasure, and pain; for without these, bring even Caesar to me, and you will see how intrepid I shall be. But, if he comes thundering and lightening with these, and these are the objects of my terror, what do I else but, like the truant slave, acknowledge my master? While I have any respite from these, as the truant comes into the theatre, so I bathe, drink, sing; but all with terror and anxiety. But if I free myself from my masters, that is, from such things as render a master terrible, what trouble, what master have I remaining?

Shall we then insist upon these things with all men?

No. But make allowance for the ignorant, and say, This poor man. advises me to what he thinks good for himself. I excuse him; for Socrates, too, excused the jailer, who wept when he was to drink the poison, and said, How heartily he sheds tears for us! Was it to him that Socrates said, For this reason we sent the women out of the way? No, but to his friends,—to such as were capable of hearing it; while he humored the other, as a child.

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When you are going before any of the great, remember that there is another who sees from above what passes, and whom you ought to please, rather than man. He therefore asks you,—

In the schools, what did you use to call exile, and prison, and chains, and death, and calumny?

I? Indifferent things.

What, then, do you call them now? Are they at all changed?

No.

Are you changed, then? No.

Tell me, then, what things are indifferent. Things not dependent on our own will. What is the inference?

Things not dependent on my own will are nothing to me.

Tell me, likewise, what appeared to be the good of man.

Rectitude of will, and to understand the appearances of things.

What his end?

To follow Thee.

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Do you say the same things now, too? Yes. I do say the same things, even now.

Well, go in then boldly, and mindful of these things; and you will show the difference between the instructed and the ignorant. I protest, I think you will then have such thoughts as these: Why do we provide so many and great resources for nothing? Is the power, the antechamber, the attendants, the guards, no more than this? Is it for these that I have listened to so many dissertations? These are nothing; and yet I had qualified myself as for some great encounter.

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