Discourses

It is solitude to be in the condition of a helpless person. For he who is alone is not therefore solitary, any more than one in a crowd is the contrary. When, therefore, we lose a son, or a brother, or a friend, on whom we have been used to repose, we often say we are left solitary, even in the midst of Rome, where such a crowd is continually meeting us; where we live among so many, and where we

have, perhaps, a numerous train of servants. For he is understood to be solitary who is helpless, and exposed to such as would injure him. Hence, in a journey especially, we call ourselves solitary when we fall among thieves; for it is not the sight of a man that removes our solitude, but of an honest man, a man of honor, and a helpful companion. If merely being alone is sufficient for solitude, Zeus may be said to be solitary at the great conflagration,[*](The Stoics held to successive conflagrations at destined periods, in which all beings were reabsorbed into the Deity.—C.) and bewail himself that he hath neither Here, nor Athene, nor Apollo, nor brother, nor son, nor descendant, nor relation. This, some indeed say, he doth when he is alone at the conflagration. Such as these, moved by some natural principle, some natural desire of society and mutual love, and by the pleasure of conversation, do not rightly consider the state of a person who is alone. But none the less should we be prepared for this also, to suffice unto ourselves, and to bear our own company. For as Zeus converses with himself, acquiesces in himself, and contemplates his own administration, and is employed in thoughts worthy of himself; so should we too be able to talk with ourselves, and not to need the conversation of others, nor suffer ennui; to attend to the divine administration; to consider our relation to other beings; how we have formerly been affected by events, how we are affected now; what are the things that still press upon us; how these too may be cured, how removed; if anything wants completing, to complete it according to reason. You perceive that Caesar has procured us a profound peace; there are neither wars nor battles, nor great robberies nor piracies; but we may travel at all hours, and sail from east to west. But can Caesar procure us peace from a fever too; from a shipwreck; from a fire; from an earthquake; from a thunder-storm; nay, even from love? He cannot. From grief; from envy? No, not from any one of these. But the doctrine of philosophers promises to procure us peace from these too. And what doth it say? If you will attend to me, O mortals! wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, you shall neither grieve, nor be angry, nor be compelled, nor restrained; but you shall live serene, and free from all. Shall not he who enjoys this peace proclaimed, not by Caesar (for how should he have it to proclaim?), but by God, through Reason, be contented when he is alone, reflecting and considering, To me there can now no ill happen; there is no thier, no earthquake. All is full of peace, all full of tranquillity; every road, every city, every assembly, neighbor, companion, is powerless to hurt me? Another, whose care it is, provides you with food, with clothes, with senses, with ideas. Whenever he doth not provide what is necessary, he sounds a retreat; he opens the door and says to you, Come. Whither? To nothing dreadful; but to that whence you were made,—to what is friendly and congenial, to the elements. What in you was fire goes away to fire; what was earth, to earth; what air, to air; what water, to water. There is no Hades, nor Acheron, nor Cocytus, nor Pyriphlegethon; but all is full of gods and divine beings. He who can have such thoughts, and can look upon the sun, moon, and stars, and enjoy the earth and sea, is no more solitary than he is helpless. Well; but suppose any one should come and murder me when I am alone. Foolish man!—not you, but that insignificant body of yours.

What solitude is there then left; what destitution? Why do we make ourselves worse than children? What do they do when they are left alone? They take up shells and dust; they build houses, then pull them down; then build something else; and thus never want amusement. Suppose you were all to sail away; am I to sit and cry because I am left alone and solitary? Am I so unprovided with shells and dust? But children do this from folly; and shall we be wretched through wisdom?

Every great gift is dangerous to a beginner. Study first how to live like a person in sickness; that in time you may know how to live like one in health. Abstain from food. Drink water. Totally repress your desire for some time, that you may at length use it according to reason; and if so, when you are stronger

in virtue, you will use it well. No; but we would live immediately as men already wise, and be of service to mankind. Of what service? What are you doing? Why, have you been of so much service to yourself that you would exhort them? You exhort! Would you be of service to them, show them by your own example what kind of men philosophy makes, and do not trifle. When you eat, be of service to those who eat with you; when you drink, to those who drink with you. Be of service to them by giving way to all, yielding to them, bearing with them; and not by venting upon them your own ill-humor.

As bad performers cannot sing alone, but in a chorus, so some persons cannot walk alone. If you are anything, walk alone; talk by yourself; and do not skulk in the chorus. Think a little at last; look about you; sift yourself, that you may know what you are.

If a person drinks water, or does anything else for the sake of training, upon every occasion he tells all he meets, drink water. Why, do you drink water merely for the sake of drinking it? If it does you any good to drink it. do so; if not, you act

ridiculously. But if it is for your advantage that you drink it, say nothing about it before those who would criticise. Yet can it be possible that these are the very people you wish to please?

Of actions, some are performed on their own account; others from circumstances, others from complaisance, others upon system.

Two things must be rooted out of men, conceit and diffidence. Conceit lies in thinking that you want nothing; and diffidence in supposing it impossible that under such adverse circumstances you should ever succeed. Now, conceit is removed by confutation; and of this Socrates set the example. And consider and ascertain that the undertaking is not impracticable. The inquiry itself will do you no harm; and it is almost being a philosopher to inquire how it is possible to employ our desire and aversion without hindrance.

I am better than you, for my father has been consul.have been a tribune, says another, and you not. If we were horses, would you say, My father was swifter than yours; I have abundance of oats and hay and fine trappings? What now, if, while you were saying this, I should answer: Be it so. Let us run a race then? Is there nothing in man analogous to a race in horses, by which it may be decided which is better or worse? Is there not honor, fidelity, justice? Show yourself the better in these, that you may be the better as a man.

But if you only tell me that you can kick violently, I will tell you again that you value yourself on what is the property of an ass.

In every affair consider what precedes and follows, and then undertake it. Otherwise you will begin with spirit indeed, careless of the consequences, and when these are developed, you will shamefully desist. I would conquer at the Olympic Games. But consider what precedes and follows, and then, if it be for your advantage, engage in the affair. You must conform to rules, submit to a diet, refrain from dainties; exercise your body, whether you choose it or not, at a stated hour, in heat and cold; you must drink no cold water, and sometimes no wine,—in a word, you must give yourself up to your trainer as to a physician. Then, in the combat, you may be thrown into a ditch, dislocate your arm, turn your ankle, swallow abundance of dust, receive stripes [for negligence], and, after all, lose the victory. When you have reckoned up all this, if your inclination

still holds, set about the combat. Otherwise, take notice, you will behave like children who sometimes play wrestlers, sometimes gladiators; sometimes blow a trumpet, and sometimes act a tragedy, when they happen to have seen and admired these shows. Thus you too will be at one time a wrestler, at another a gladiator; now a philosopher, now an orator; but nothing in earnest. Like an ape you mimic all you see, and one thing after another is sure to please you, but is out of favor as soon as it becomes familiar. For you have never entered upon anything considerately, nor after having surveyed and tested the whole matter; but carelessly, and with a half-way zeal. Thus some, when they have seen a philosopher, and heard a man speaking like Euphrates,[*](Euphrates was a philosopher of Syria, whose character is described, with the highest encomiums, by Pliny. See L. I. Ep.x.—C.)—though indeed who can speak like him?—have a mind to be philosophers too. Consider first, man, what the matter is, and what your own nature is able to bear. If you would be a wrestler, consider your shoulders, your back, your thighs; for different persons are made for different things. Do you think that you can act as you do and be a philosopher; that you can eat, drink, be angry, be discontented, as you are now? You must watch, you must labor, you must get the better of certain appetites; must quit your acquaintances, be despised by your servant, be laughed at by those you meet; come off worse than others in everything,—in offices, in honors, before tribunals. When you have fully considered all these things, approach, if you please; if, by parting with them, you have a mind to purchase serenity, freedom, and tranquillity. If not, do not come hither; do not, like children, be now a philosopher, then a publican, then an orator, and then one of Caesar’s officers. These things are not consistent. You must be one man either good or bad. You must cultivate either your own Reason or else externals; apply yourself either to things within or without you; that is, be either a philosopher, or one 10f the mob.

He who frequently mingles with others, either in conversation or at entertainments, or in any familiar way of living, must necessarily either become like his companions, or bring them over to his own way. For if a dead coal be applied to a live one, either the first will quench the last, or the last kindle the first. Since, then, the danger is so great, caution must be used in entering into these familiarities with the crowd. remembering that it is impossible

to touch a chimney-sweeper without being partaker of his soot. For what will you do if you have to discuss gladiators, horses, wrestlers, and, what is worse, men? Such a one is good, another bad; this was well, that ill, done. Besides, what if any one should sneer, or ridicule, or be ill-natured? Are any of you prepared, like a harper, who, when he takes his harp and tries the strings, finds out which notes are discordant, and knows how to put the instrument in tune? Have any of you such a faculty as Socrates had, who in every conversation could bring his companions to his own purpose? Whence should you have it? You must therefore be carried along by the crowd. And why are they more powerful than you? Because they utter their corrupt discourses from sincere opinion, and you your good ones only from your lips. Hence they are without strength or life; and it is disgusting to hear your exhortations and your poor miserable virtue proclaimed up hill and down. Thus it is that the crowd gets the better of you; for sincere opinion is always strong, always invincible. Therefore before wise sentiments are fixed in you, and you have acquired some power of self-defence, I advise you to be cautious in popular intercourse; otherwise, if you have any impressions made on you in the schools, they will melt away daily like wax before the sun. Get away then, far from the sun, while you have these waxen opinions.

It is for this reason that the philosophers advise us

to leave our country; because habitual practices draw the mind aside and prevent the formation of new habits. We cannot bear that those who meet us should say, Hey-day! such a one is turned philosopher, who was formerly thus and so. Thus physicians send patients with lingering distempers to another place and another air; and they do right. Do you too import other manners instead of those you carry out. Fix your opinions, and exercise yourself in them. No; but you go hence to the theatre, to the gladiators, to the walks, to the circus; then hither again, then back again,—just the same persons all the while! No good habit, no criticism, no animadversion upon ourselves. No observation what use we make of the appearances presented to our minds,—whether it be conformable, or contrary to Nature; whether we interpret them rightly or wrongly. Can I say to the inevitable that it is nothing to me? If this be not yet your case, flee from your former habits; flee from the crowd if you would ever begin to be anything.

Whenever you lay anything to the charge of Providence, do but reflect, and you will find that it has happened agreeably to Reason.

Well; but a dishonest man has the advantage. In what?

In money.

Here he ought to surpass you; because he flatters, he is shameless, he keeps awake. Where is the wonder? But look whether he has the advantage of you in fidelity or in honor. You will find he has not, but that wherever it is best for you to have the advantage of him, there you have it. I once said to one who was full of indignation at the good fortune of Philostorgus, Why, would you be willing to sleep with Sura? [*](This person is not known. One of his name is mentioned in the Acts of Ignatius, as being consul at the time when he suffered martyrdom.—C.) Heaven forbid, said he, that day should ever come! Why then are you angry that he is paid for what he sells; or how can you call him happy in possessions acquired by means which you detest? Or what harm does Providence do in giving the best things to the best men? Is it not better to have a sense of honor than to be rich? Granted. Why then are you angry, man, if you have what is

best? Always remember, then, and have it in mind that a better man has the advantage of a worse in that direction in which he is better; and you will never have any indignation.

But my wife treats me ill.

Well; if you are asked what is the matter, answer,

My wife treats me ill.

Nothing more?

Nothing.

My father gives me nothing. But to call this an evil, some external and false addition must be made. We are not therefore to get rid of poverty, but of our impressions concerning it; and we shall do well.

When Galba was killed, somebody said to Rufus, Now, indeed, the world is governed by Providence. I had never thought, answered Rufus, of extracting through Galba the slightest proof that the world was governed by Providence.

When any alarming news is brought you, always have it ready in mind that no news can be brought you concerning what is within the power of your own Will. Can any one bring you news that your opinions or desires are ill conducted? By no

means; only that such a person is dead. What is that to you then? That somebody speaks ill of you. And what is that to you then? That your father is perhaps forming some contrivance or other. Against what? Against your Will? How can he? No; but against your body, against your estate? You are very safe; this is not against you. But the Judge has pronounced you guilty of impiety. And did not the Judges pronounce the same of Socrates? Is his pronouncing a sentence any business of yours? No. Then why do you any longer trouble yourself about it? There is a duty incumbent on your father, which unless he performs, he loses the character of a father, of natural affection, of tenderness. Do not desire him to lose anything else by this; for every man suffers precisely where he errs. Your duty, on the other hand, is to meet the case with firmness, modesty, and mildness; otherwise you forfeit piety, modesty, and nobleness. Well, and is your Judge free from danger? No; he runs an equal hazard. Why, then, are you still afraid of his decision? What have you to do with the ills of another? Meeting the case wrongly would be your own ill. Let it be your only care to avoid that; but whether sentence is passed on you or not, as it is the business of another, so the ill belongs to him. Such a one threatens you. Me? No. He censures you. Let him look to it, how he does his own duty. He will give an unjust sentence against you. Poor wretch!