Discourses

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

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

It is for this reason that the philosophers advise us

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

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

The first difference between one of the crowd and a philosopher is this: the one says, am undone on the account of my child, my brother, my father; but the other, if ever he be obliged to say, am undone! reflects, and adds, on account of myself. For the Will cannot be restrained or hurt by anything to which the Will does not extend, but only by itself. If, therefore, we always would incline this way, and whenever we are unsuccessful, would lay the fault on ourselves, and remember that there is no cause of perturbation and inconstancy but wrong principles, I pledge myself to you that we should make some proficiency. But we set out in a very different way from the very beginning. In infancy, for example, if we happen to stumble, our nurse does not chide us, but beats the stone. Why, what harm has the stone done? Was it to move out of its place for the folly of your child? Again, if we do not find something to eat when we come out of the bath, our tutor does not try to moderate our appetite, but beats the cook. Why, did we appoint you tutor of the cook, man? No; but of our child. It is he whom you are to correct and improve. By these means,

In considering sensible phenomena, almost all persons admit good and evil to lie in ourselves and not in externals. No one says it is good to be day, evil to be night, and the greatest evil that three should be four; but what? That knowledge is good and error evil. Even in connection with falsehood itself there may be one good thing,—the knowledge that it is falsehood. Thus, then, should it be in life also. Health is a good; sickness an evil. No, sir. But what? A right use of health is a good; a wrong one, an evil. So that, in truth, it is possible to be a gainer even by sickness. And is it not possible by death too; by mutilation? Do you think Menaeceus[*](The son of Creon, who killed himself, after he had been informed by an oracle that his death would procure a victory to the Thebans.—C.) an inconsiderable gainer by death? May whoever talks thus be such a gainer as he was! Why, pray, sir, did not he preserve his patriotism, his magnanimity,

No, but, take care not to be sick—it is an evil. Just as if one should say, Take care that the semblance of three being four does not present itself to you. It is an evil. How an evil, man? If I think as I ought about it, what hurt will it any longer do me? Will it not rather be even an advantage to me? If then I think as I ought of poverty, of sickness, of political disorder, is not that enough for me? Why then must I any longer seek good or evil in externals?

But how is it? These truths are admitted here; but nobody carries them home, for immediately every one is in a state of war with his servant, his neighbors, with those who sneer and ridicule him. Many thanks to Lespius for proving every day that I know nothing.

They who have merely received bare maxims are presently inclined to throw them up, as a sick stomach does its food. Digest it, and then you will not throw it up; otherwise it will be crude and impure, and unfit for nourishment. But show us, from what you have digested, some change in your ruling faculty; as wrestlers do in their shoulders, from their exercise and their diet; as artificers, in their skill, from what they have learnt. A carpenter does not come and say, Hear me discourse on the art of building; but he hires a building, and fits it up, and shows himself master of his trade. Let it be your business likewise to do something like this; be manly in your ways of eating, drinking, dressing; marry, have children, perform the duty of a citizen; bear reproach; bear with an unreasonable brother; bear with a father; bear with a son, a neighbor, a companion, as becomes a man. Show us these things, that we may see that you have really learned something from the philosophers. No; but come and hear me repeat commentaries. Get you gone, and seek somebody else upon whom to bestow them. Nay, but I will

When one of his scholars, who seemed inclined to the Cynic philosophy, asked him what a Cynic must be, and what was the general plan of that sect, Let us examine it, he said, at our leisure. But thus much I can tell you now, that he who attempts so great an affair without divine guidance is an object of divine wrath, and would only bring public dishonor upon himself. For in a well-regulated house no one comes and says to himself, ought to be the manager here. If he does, and the master returns and sees him insolently giving orders, he drags him out and has him punished. Such is the case likewise in this great city. For here, too, is a master of the family who orders everything. You are the sun; you can, by making a circuit, form the year and the seasons, and increase and nourish the fruits; you can raise and calm the winds, and give an equable warmth to the bodies of men. Go; make your circuit, and thus move everything from the greatest to the least. You are a calf; when the lion appears, act accordingly, or you will suffer for it. You are a bull; come and fight; for that is incumbent on you and becomes you, and you can do

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it. You can lead an army to Troy; be you Agamemnon. You can engage in single combat with Hector; be you Achilles. But if Thersites had come and claimed the command, either he would not have obtained it, or, if he had, he would have disgraced himself before so many more witnesses.

Do you, too, carefully deliberate upon this undertaking; it is not what you think it. I wear an old cloak now, and I shall have one then. I sleep upon the hard ground now, and I shall sleep so then. I will moreover take a wallet and a staff, and go about, and beg of those I meet, and begin by rebuking them; and if I see any one using effeminate practices, or arranging his curls, or walking in purple, I will rebuke him. If you imagine this to be the whole thing, avaunt; come not near it; it belongs not to you. But if you imagine it to be what it really is, and do not think yourself unworthy of it, consider how great a thing you undertake.

First, with regard to yourself; you must no longer, in any instance, appear as now. You must accuse neither God nor man. You must altogether control desire, and must transfer aversion to such things only as are controllable by Will. You must have neither anger, nor resentment, nor envy, nor pity. Neither boy, nor girl, nor fame, nor dainties must have charms for you. For you must know that other men indeed fence themselves with walls and houses and darkness, when they indulge in anything of this

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kind, and have many concealments; a man shuts the door, places somebody before the apartment: Say that he is out; say that he is engaged. But the Cynic, instead of all this, must fence himself with virtuous shame; otherwise he will be improperly exposed in the open air. This is his house, this his door, this his porter, this his darkness. He must not wish to conceal anything relating to himself; for if he does, he is gone; he has lost the Cynic character, the openness, the freedom; he has begun to fear something external; he has begun to need concealment, nor can he get it when he will. For where shall he conceal himself, or how? For if this tutor, this pedagogue of the public, should happen to slip, what must he suffer? Can he, then, who dreads these things, be thoroughly bold within, and prescribe to other men? Impracticable, impossible.

In the first place, then, you must purify your own ruling faculty, to match this method of life. Now, the material for me to work upon is my own mind, as wood is for a carpenter, or leather for a shoemaker; and my business is a right use of things as they appear. But body is nothing to me; its parts nothing to me. Let death come when it will, either of the whole body or of part. Go into exile. And whither? Can any one turn me out of the universe? He cannot. But wherever I go there is the sun, the moon, the stars, dreams, auguries, communication with God. And even this preparation is by no

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means sufficient for a true Cynic. But it must further be known that he is a messenger sent from Zeus to men, concerning good and evil; to show them that they are mistaken, and seek the essence of good and evil where it is not, but do not observe it where it is; that he is a spy, like Diogenes, when he was brought to Philip after the battle of Chaeronea. For, in effect, a Cynic is a spy to discover what things are friendly, what hostile, to man; and he must, after making an accurate observation, come and tell them the truth; not be struck with terror, so as to point out to them enemies where there are none; nor, in any other instance, be disconcerted or confounded by appearances.

He must, then, if it should so happen, be able to lift up his voice, to come upon the stage, and say, like Socrates:

O mortals, whither are you hurrying? What are you about? Why do you tumble up and down, O miserable wretches! like blind men? You are going the wrong way, and have forsaken the right. You seek prosperity and happiness in a wrong place, where they are not; nor do you give credit to another, who shows you where they are. Why do you seek this possession without? It lies not in the body; if you do not believe me, look at Myro, look at Ofellius. It is not in wealth; if you do not believe me, look upon Croesus; look upon the rich of the present age, how full of lamentation their life is. It is not in power; for otherwise, they who have been twice and

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thrice consuls must be happy; but they are not. To whom shall we give heed in these things,—to you who look only upon the externals of their condition, and are dazzled by appearances, or to themselves? What do they say? Hear them when they groan, when they sigh, when they pronounce themselves the more wretched and in more danger from these very consulships, this glory and splendor. It is not in empire; otherwise Nero and Sardanapalus had been happy. But not even Agamemnon was happy, though a better man than Sardanapalus or Nero. But when others sleep soundly, what is he doing?

1. Forth by the roots he rends his hairs.

Homer, Iliad, 10.15; 91-5.—H.

And what does he himself say? wander bewildered; my heart leaps forth from my bosom.

Why, which of your affairs goes ill, poor wretch, your possessions? No. Your body? No. But you have gold and brass in abundance. What then goes ill? That part of you is neglected and corrupted, whatever it be called, by which we desire, and shrink; by which we pursue, and avoid. How neglected? It is ignorant of that for which it was naturally formed, of the essence of good, and of the essence of evil. It is ignorant what is its own, and what another’s. And when anything belonging to others goes ill, it says,

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am undone; the Greeks are in danger! (Poor ruling faculty! which alone is neglected, and has no care taken of it.) They will die by the sword of the Trojans! And if the Trojans should not kill them, will they not die? Yes, but not all at once. Why, where is the difference? For if it be an evil to die, then whether it be all at once or singly, it is equally an evil. Will anything more happen than the separation of soul and body? Nothing. And when the Greeks perish, is the door shut against you? Is it not in your power to die? It is. Why then do you lament, while you are a king and hold the sceptre of Zeus? A king is no more to be made unfortunate than a god. What are you, then? You are a mere shepherd, truly so called; for you weep, just as shepherds do when the wolf seizes any of their sheep; and they who are governed by you are mere sheep. But why do you come hither? Was your desire in any danger; your aversion; your pursuits; your avoidances? No, he says, but my brother’s wife has been stolen. Is it not great good luck, then, to be rid of an adulterous wife? But must we be held in contempt by the Trojans? What are they,—wise men, or fools? If wise, why do you go to war with them? If fools, why do you heed them?

Where, then, does our good lie, since it does not lie in these things? Tell us, sir, you who are our messenger and spy. Where you do not think, nor are willing to seek it. For if you were willing, you

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would find it in yourselves; nor would you wander abroad, nor seek what belongs to others, as your own. Turn your thoughts upon yourselves. Consider the impressions which you have. What do you imagine good to be? What is prosperous, happy, unhindered. Well, and do you not naturally imagine it great? Do you not imagine it valuable? Do you not imagine it incapable of being hurt? Where, then, must you seek prosperity and exemption from hindrance,—in that which is enslaved, or free? In the free. Is your body, then, enslaved or free? We do not know. Do you not know that it is the slave of fever, gout, defluxion, dysentery; of a tyrant; of fire, steel; of everything stronger than itself? Yes, it is a slave. How, then, can anything belonging to the body be unhindered? And how can that be great or valuable, which is by nature lifeless, earth, clay? What, then; have you nothing free? Possibly nothing. Why, who can compel you to assent to what appears false? No one. Or who, not to assent to what appears true? No one. Here, then, you see that there is something in you naturally free. But which of you can desire or shun, or use his active powers of pursuit or avoidance, or prepare or plan anything, unless he has been impressed by an appearance of its being for his advantage or his duty? No one. You have, then, in these too something unrestrained and free. Cultivate this, unfortunates; take care of this; seek for good here. But how is it possible that a man destitute, naked,
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without house or home, squalid, unattended, an outcast, can lead a prosperous life? See; God hath sent us one, to show in practice that it is possible. Take notice of me, that I am without a country, without a house, without an estate, without a servant; I lie on the ground; have no wife, no children, no coat; but have only earth and heaven and one poor cloak. And what need I? Am not I without sorrow, without fear? Am not I free? Did any of you ever see me disappointed of my desire, or incurring my aversion? Did I ever blame God or man? Did I ever accuse any one? Have any of you seen me look discontented? How do I treat those whom you fear and of whom you are struck with awe? Is it not like poor slaves? Who that sees me does not think that he sees his own king and master? This is the language, this the character, this the undertaking, of a Cynic. No, [but you think only of] the wallet and the staff and a large capacity of swallowing and appropriating whatever is given you; abusing unseasonably those you meet, or showing your bare arm. Do you consider how you shall attempt so important an undertaking? First take a mirror. View your shoulders, examine your back, your loins. It is the Olympic Games, man, for which you are to be entered; not a poor slight contest. In the Olympic Games a champion is not allowed merely to be conquered and depart; but must first be disgraced in the view of the whole world,—not of the Athenians alone, or
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Spartans, or Nicopolitans; and then he who has prematurely departed must be whipped too, and, before that, must have suffered thirst and heat, and have swallowed an abundance of dust.

Consider carefully, know yourself; consult the Divinity; attempt nothing without God; for if he counsels you, be assured that it is his will, whether that you should become eminent, or that you should suffer many a blow. For there is this fine circumstance connected with the character of a Cynic, that he must be beaten like an ass, and yet, when beaten, must love those who beat him as the father, as the brother of all.

No, to be sure; but if anybody beats you, stand publicly and roar out, O Caesar! am I to suffer such things in breach of your peace? Let us go before the Proconsul.

But what is Caesar to a Cynic, or what is the Proconsul, or any one else, but Zeus, who hath deputed him, and whom he serves? Does he invoke any other but him? And is he not persuaded that, whatever he suffers of this sort, it is Zeus who doth it to exercise him? Now Hercules, when he was exercised by Eurystheus, did not think himself miserable: but executed with alacrity all that was to be done. And shall he who is appointed to the combat, and exercised by Zeus, cry out and take offence at things? A worthy person, truly, to bear the sceptre of Diogenes! Hear what he in a fever said to those who were passing

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by.[*](St. Jerome, cited by Mr. Upton, gives the following somewhat different account of this matter. Diogenes, as he was going to the Olympic Games, was taken with a fever, and laid himself down in the road; his friends would have put him into some vehicle, but he refused it, and bid them go on to the show. This night, said he, will either conquer or be conquered. If I conquer the fever, I will come to the games; if it conquers me, I will descend to Hades.—C.Si febrim vicero, ad Agonem veniam:Si me vicerit febris, ad inferna descendam.Jerome adv. Jovianum, lib. ii. 34.—H.) Foolish men, why do you not stay? Do you take such a journey to Olympia to see the destruction or combat of the champions; and have you no inclination to see the combat between a man and a fever? Such a one, who took a pride in difficult circumstances, and thought himself worthy to be a spectacle to those who passed by, was a likely per son indeed to accuse God, who had deputed him, as treating him unworthily! For what subject of accusation shall he find,—that he preserves a decency of behavior? With what does he find fault,—that he sets his own virtue in a clearer light? Well; and what does he say of poverty; of death; of pain i How did he compare his happiness with that of the Persian king; or rather, thought it beyond comparison! For amidst perturbations, and griefs, and fears, and disappointed desires, and incurred aversions, how can there be any entrance for happiness? And where there are corrupt principles, there must all these things necessarily be.
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-The same young man inquiring whether, if a friend should desire to come to him and take care of him when he was sick, he should comply? And where, says Epictetus, will you find me the friend of a Cynic? For to be worthy of being numbered among his friends, a person ought to be such another as himself; he ought to be a partner of the sceptre and the kingdom, and a worthy minister, if he would be honored with his friendship; as Diogenes was the friend of Antisthenes; as Crates, of Diogenes. Do you think that he who only comes to him and salutes him is his friend; and that he will think him worthy of being entertained as such? If such a thought comes into your head, rather look round you for some desirable dunghill to shelter you in your fever from the north wind, that you may not perish by taking cold. But you seem to me to prefer to get into somebody’s house, and to be well fed there awhile. What business have you, then, even to attempt so important an undertaking as this?

But, said the young man, will marriage and parentage be recognized as important duties by a Cynic?

Grant me a community of sages, and no one there, perhaps, will readily apply himself to the Cynic philosophy. For on whose account should he there embrace that method of life? However, supposing he does, there will be nothing to restrain him from marrying and having children. For his wife will be such another as himself, his father-in-law such another

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as himself, and his children will be brought up in the same manner. But as the state of things now is, like that of an army prepared for battle, is it not necessary that a Cynic should be without distraction;[*](It is remarkable that Epictetus here uses the same word (ἀπερισπάστως) with St. Paul, 1 Cor. vii. 35, and urges the same consideration, of applying wholly to the service of God to dissuade from marriage.—C.) entirely attentive to the service of God; at liberty to walk among mankind; not tied down to common duties, nor entangled in relations, which if he transgresses, he will no longer keep the character of a wise and good man; and which if he observes, there is an end of him, as the messenger and spy and herald of the gods? For consider, there are some offices due to his father-in-law, some to the other relations of his wife, some to his wife herself. Besides, after this, he is confined to the care of his family when sick, and to providing for their support. At the very least, he must have a vessel to warm water in, to bathe his child; there must be wool, oil, a bed, a cup for his wife after her delivery; and thus the furniture increases; more business, more distraction. Where, for the future, is this king whose time is devoted to the public good?—

1. To whom the people is trusted, and many a care?

Homer, Iliad, ii. 25. H. who ought to superintend others, married men, fathers of children,—whether one treats his wife
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well or ill; who quarrels; which family is well regulated; which not,—like a physician who goes about and feels the pulse of his patients: You have a fever; you the headache; you the gout. Do you abstain from food; do you eat; do you omit bathing; you must have an incision made; you be cauterized. Where shall he have leisure for this who is tied down to common duties? Must he not provide clothes for his children, and send them, with pens and ink and paper, to a schoolmaster? Must he not provide a bed for them,—for they cannot be Cynics from their very birth? Otherwise, it would have been better to expose them as soon as they were born than to kill them thus. Do you see to what we bring down our Cynic; how we deprive him of his kingdom? Well, but Crates[*](Crates, a rich Theban, gave away a large fortune, and assumed the wallet and staff of a Cynic philosopher. Hipparchia, a Thracian lady, forsook wealth and friends to share his poverty, in spite of his advice to the contrary. Diogenes Laertius: Crates.—H.) was married. The case of which you speak was a particular one, arising from love; and the woman was another Crates. But we are inquiring about ordinary and common marriages; and in this inquiry we do not find the affair much suited to the condition of a Cynic.
1. How then shall he keep up society?

For Heaven’s sake, do they confer a greater benefit upon the world who leave two or three brats in their stead, than those who, so far as possible, oversee all

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mankind,—what they do, how they live; what they attend to, what they neglect, in spite of their duty? Did all those who left children to the Thebans do them more good than Epaminondas, who died childless? And did Priam, who was the father of fifty profligates, or Danaus, or Aeolus, conduce more to the advantage of society than Homer? Shall a military command, or any other post, then, exempt a man from marrying and becoming a father, so that he shall be thought to have made sufficient amends for the want of children; and shall not the kingdom of a Cynic be a proper compensation for it? Perhaps we do not understand his grandeur, nor duly represent to ourselves the character of Diogenes; but we think of Cynics as they are now, who stand like dogs watching at tables, and who have only the lowest things in common with the others; else things like these would not move us, nor should we be astonished that a Cynic will not marry nor have children. Consider, sir, that he is the father of mankind; that all men are his sons, and all women his daughters. Thus he attends to all; thus takes care of all. What! do you think it is from impertinence that he rebukes those he meets? He does it as a father, as a brother, as a minister of the common parent, Zeus.

Ask me, if you please, too, whether a Cynic will engage in the administration of the commonwealth. What commonwealth do you inquire after, foolish man, greater than what he administers? Why should

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he harangue among the Athenians about revenues and taxes, whose business it is to debate with all mankind,—with the Athenians, Corinthians, and Romans equally,—not about taxes and revenues, or peace and war, but about happiness and misery, prosperity and adversity, slavery and freedom? Do you ask me whether a man engages in the administration of the commonwealth who administers such a commonwealth as this? Ask me, too, whether he will accept any command. I will answer you again, What command, foolish one, is greater than that which he now exercises?

But he has need of a constitution duly qualified; for if he should appear consumptive, thin, and pale, his testimony has no longer the same authority. For he must not only give a proof to the vulgar, by the constancy of his mind, that it is possible to be a man of weight and merit without those things that strike them with admiration; but he must show, too, by his body, that a simple and frugal diet, under the open air, does no injury to the constitution. See, I and my body bear witness to this. As Diogenes did; for he went about in hale condition, and gained the attention of the many by his mere physical aspect. But a Cynic in poor condition seems a mere beggar; all avoid him, all are offended at him; for he ought not to appear slovenly, so as to drive people from him; but even his indigence should be clean and attractive.

Much natural tact and acuteness are likewise necessary

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in a Cynic (otherwise he is almost worthless), that he may be able to give an answer, readily and pertinently, upon every occasion. So Diogenes, to one who asked him, Are you that Diogenes who does not believe there are any gods? How so, replied he, when I think you odious to them? Again, when Alexander surprised him sleeping, and repeated,—

1. To sleep all the night becomes not a man who gives counsel;

Homer, Iliad, ii. 24, 25.—H. before he was quite awake, he responded,—

To whom the people is trusted, and many a care.

But, above all, the reason of the man must be clearer than the sun; otherwise he must necessarily be a common cheat and a rascal if, while himself guilty of some vice, he reproves others. For consider how the case stands. Arms and guards give a power to common kings and tyrants of reproving and of punishing delinquents, though they be wicked themselves; but to a Cynic, instead of arms and guards, conscience gives this power. When he knows that he has watched and labored for mankind; that he has slept pure, and waked still purer; and that he hath regulated all his thoughts as the friend, as the minister of the gods, as a partner of the empire of Zeus; that he is ready to say, upon all occasions,—

1. Conduct me, Zeus, and thou, O Destiny,

Cleanthes, in Diogenes Laertius.—H.
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and, If it thus pleases the gods, thus let it be, why should he not dare to speak boldly to his own brethren, to his children; in a word, to his kindred? Hence he who is thus qualified is neither impertinent nor a busybody; for he is not busied about the affairs of others, but his own, when he oversees the transactions of men. Otherwise call a general a busybody, when he oversees, inspects, and watches his soldiers and punishes the disorderly. But if you reprove others at the very time that you have booty under your own arm, I will ask you if you had not better go into a corner, and eat up what you have stolen. But what have you to do with the concerns of others? For what are you? Are you the bull in the herd, or the queen of the bees? Show me such ensigns of empire as she has from nature. But if you are a drone, and arrogate to yourself the kingdom of the bees, do you not think that your fellow-citizens will drive you out, just as the bees do the drones?

A Cynic must, besides, have so much patience as to seem insensible and like a stone to the vulgar. No one reviles, no one beats, no one affronts him; but he has surrendered his body to be treated at pleasure by any one who will. For he remembers that the inferior, in whatever respect it is the inferior, must be conquered by the superior; and the body is inferior to the multitude, the weaker to the stronger. He never, therefore, enters into a combat where he can be conquered, but immediately gives up what belongs to others; he

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does not claim what is slavish and dependent; but in what concerns Will and the use of things as they appear you will see that he has so many eyes, you would say Argus was blind to him. Is his assent ever precipitate; his pursuits ever rash; his desire ever disappointed; his aversion ever incurred; his aim ever fruitless? Is he ever querulous, ever dejected, ever envious? Here lies all his attention and application. With regard to other things, he enjoys profound quiet. All is peace. There is no robber, no tyrant for the Will. But there is for the body? Yes. The estate? Yes. Magistracies and honors? Yes. And what cares he for these? When any one, therefore, would frighten him with them he says: Go look for children; masks are frightful to them; but I know they are only shells, and have nothing within.

Such is the affair about which you are deliberating; therefore, if you please, for Heaven’s sake! defer it, and first consider how you are prepared for it. Observe what Hector says to Andromache,—

1. War is the sphere for all men, and for me.

Homer, Iliad, vi. 492, 493.—H.

Thus conscious was he of his own qualifications and of her weakness.

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First, say to yourself what you would be; and then do what you have to do. For in almost everything we see this to be the practice. Olympic champions first determine what they would be, and then act accordingly. To a racer in a longer course there must be one kind of diet, walking, anointing, and training; to one in a shorter, all these must be different; and to a Pentathlete, still more different. You will find the case the same in the manual arts. If a carpenter, you must have such and such things; if a smith, such other. For if we do not refer each of our actions to some end, we shall act at random; if to an improper one, we shall miss our aim. Further, there is a general and a particular end. The first is, to act as a man. What is comprehended in this? To be gentle, yet not sheepish; not to be mischievous, like a wild beast. But the particular end relates to the study and choice of each individual. A harper is to act as a harper; a carpenter, as a carpenter; a philosopher, as a philosopher; an orator, as an orator. When, therefore, you say, Come, and hear me discourse, observe, first, not to do this at random; and,

Did not you, the other day, praise a man contrary to your own opinion? Did not you flatter a certain senator? Yet would you wish your own children to be like him? Heaven forbid! Why then did you praise and cajole him? He is an ingenuous young man, and attentive to discourses. How so? He admires me. Now indeed you have produced your proof.

After all, what do you think? Do not these very people secretly despise you? When a man conscious of no good action or intention finds some philosopher saying, You are a great genius, and of a frank and candid disposition, what do you think he says, but, This man has some need of me? Pray tell me what mark of a great genius he has shown. You see he has long conversed with you, has heard your discourses, has attended your lectures. Has he turned his attention to himself? Has he perceived his own faults? Has he thrown off his conceit? Does he seek an instructor? Yes, he does. An instructor how to live? No, fool, but how to talk; for it is upon this account that he admires you. Hear what he says: This man writes with very great art, and much more finely than Dion. That is quite another thing. Does he say, This is a modest, faithful, calm person? But if he said this too, I would ask him, if be is faithful, what it is to be faithful? And if he

While you are in this bad disposition, then, and gaping after applauders, and counting your hearers, can you be of benefit to others? To-day I had many more hearers. Yes, many; we think there were five hundred. You say nothing; estimate them at a thousand. Dion never had so great an audience. How should he? And they have a fine taste for discourses. What is excellent, sir, will move even a stone. Here is the language of a philosopher! Here is the disposition of one who is to be beneficial to mankind! Here is the man, attentive to discourses, who has read the works of the Socratic philosophers, as such; not as if they were the writings of orators, like Lysias and Isocrates! have often wondered by what arguments—[*](These words are the beginning of Xenophon’s Memoirs of Socrates; and it was a debate among the minute critics, whether argument or arguments was the proper reading.—C.) No; By what argument; that is the more perfectly accurate expression. Is this to have read them any otherwise than as you read little pieces of poetry? If you read them as you ought, you would not dwell on such trifles, but would rather consider such a passage as this: Anytus and Melitus may kill, but they cannot hurt me. And am always so disposed as to defer to none of my friends, but to that reason which, after examination, appears to me to

Rufus used to say, If you are at leisure to praise me, I speak to no purpose. And indeed he used to speak in such a manner, that each of us who heard him supposed that some person had accused us to him; he so precisely hit upon what was done by us, and placed the faults of every one before his eyes.

The school of a philosopher is a surgery. You are not to go out of it with pleasure, but with pain; for you do not come there in health; but one of you has a dislocated shoulder; another, an abscess; a third, a fistula; a fourth, the headache. And am I, then, to sit uttering pretty, trifling thoughts and little exclamations, that, when you have praised me, you may each of you go away with the same dislocated shoulder, the same aching head, the same fistula. and the

What then! is there not in speaking a style and manner of exhortation? Who denies it? Just as there is a manner of confutation and of instruction. But who ever, therefore, added that of ostentation for a fourth? For in what doth the hortatory manner consist? In being able to show, to one and all, the contradictions in which they are involved; and that they care for everything rather than what they mean to care for; for they mean the things conducive to happiness, but they seek them where they are not to be found. To effect this, must a thousand seats be placed, and an audience invited; and you, in a fine robe or cloak, ascend the rostrum, and describe the death of Achilles? Forbear, for Heaven’s sake! to bring, so far as you are able, good works and practices into disgrace. Nothing, to be sure, gives more force to exhortation than when the speaker shows that he has need of the hearers; but tell me who, when he hears you reading or speaking, is solicitous about himself; or turns his attention upon himself; or says, when he is gone away, The philosopher hit me well? Instead of this, even though you are in high vogue, one hearer merely remarks to another,

Let not another’s disobedience to Nature become an ill to you; for you were not born to be depressed and unhappy with others, but to be happy with them. And if any is unhappy, remember that he is so for himself; for God made all men to enjoy felicity and peace. He hath furnished all with means for this purpose; having given them some things for their own, others not for their own. Whatever is subject to restraint, compulsion, or deprivation is not their own; whatever is not subject to restraint is their own. And the essence of good and evil he has placed in things which are our own, as it became him who provides for, and protects us, with paternal care.

But I have parted with such a one, and he is therefore in grief.

And why did he esteem what belonged to another his own? Why did he not consider, while he was happy in seeing you, that you are mortal, that you

Ay, but this happens from their want of reason.

Was reason then given to us by the gods for the purpose of unhappiness and misery, to make us live wretched and lamenting? Oh, by all means, let every one be deathless! Let nobody go from home! Let us never go from home ourselves, but remain rooted to a spot, like plants! And if any of our acquaintance should quit his abode, let us sit and cry; and when he comes back, let us dance and clap our hands like children. Shall we never wean ourselves, and remember what we have heard from the philosophers,—unless we have heard them only as juggling enchanters,—that the universe is one great city, and the substance one of which it is formed; that there must necessarily be a certain rotation of things;

1. Saw the cities and watched the habits of various men;

1. Observing manners, good or ill, of men;

But Odysseus longed for his wife, and sat weeping on a rock.

Why do you regard Homer and his fables in everything? Or, if Odysseus really did weep, what was he but a wretched man? But what wise and good man is wretched? The universe is surely but ill governed, if Zeus does not take care that his subjects may be happy like himself. But these are unlawful and profane thoughts; and Odysseus, if he did indeed cry and bewail himself, was not a good man. For who can be a good man who does not know what he is? And who knows this, and yet forgets that all things made are perishable; and that it is not possible for man and man always to live together? What then? To desire impossibilities is base and foolish; it is the behavior of a stranger [to the world]; of one who fights against God in the only way he can, by holding false principles.

But my mother grieves when she does not see me.

And why has she not learned these doctrines? I do not say that care ought not to be taken that she may not lament; but that we are not to insist absolutely upon what is not in our own power. Now, the grief of another is not in my power; but my own grief is. I will therefore absolutely suppress my own, for that is in my power; and I will endeavor to suppress another’s grief so far as I am able; but I will not insist upon it absolutely, otherwise I shall fight against God; I shall resist Zeus, and oppose him in the administration of the universe; and not only my children’s children will bear the punishment of this disobedience and fighting against God, but I myself too,—starting, and full of perturbation, both in the day-time and in my nightly dreams; trembling at every message, and having my peace dependent on intelligence from others. Somebody is come from Rome. trust no harm has happened. Why, what harm can happen to you where you are not? From Greece. No harm, I hope. Why, at this rate, every place may be the cause of misfortune to you. Is it not enough for you to be unfortunate where you are, but it must happen beyond sea, too, and by letters? Such is the security of your condition!

But what if my friends there should be dead?

What, indeed, but that those are dead who were

Is this what you have heard from the philosophers; this what you have learned? Do you not know what sort of a thing warfare is? One must keep guard, another go out for a spy, another even to battle. It is neither possible, nor indeed desirable, that all should be in the same place; but you, neglecting to perform the orders of your General, complain whenever anything a little hard is commanded; and do not consider what influence you have on the army, so far as lies in your power. For, if all should imitate you, nobody will dig a trench, or throw up a rampart, or stand guard, or expose himself to danger; but every one will appear useless to the expedition. Again, if you were a sailor in a voyage, suppose you were to fix upon one place, and there remain,—if it should be

Why; it is pleasant.

Who denies it? And so is a ragout pleasant, and a fine woman is pleasant. Is not this just what they say who make pleasure their end? Do you not perceive whose language you have spoken? That of Epicureans and debauchees. And while you follow their practices and hold their principles, do you talk to us of the doctrines of Zeno and Socrates? Why do you not throw away as far as possible those assumed

What then! would you have me pay my court to such a one? Would you have me frequent his door?

If reason requires it for your country, for your relations, for mankind, why should you not go? You are not ashamed to go to the door of a shoemaker when you want shoes, nor of a gardener when you want lettuce. Why, then, in regard to the rich, when you have some similar want?

Ay; but I need not be awed before a shoemaker. Nor before a rich man. I need not flatter a gardener. Nor a rich man. How, then, shall I get what I want?

Why, do I bid you go in expectation of getting it? No; only that you may do your duty.

Why, then, after all, should I go?

That you may have gone; that you may have discharged the duties of a citizen, of a brother, of a friend. And, after all, remember that you are going as if to a shoemaker, to a gardener, who has no monopoly of anything great or respectable, though he should sell it ever so dear. You are going as if to buy lettuces worth an obolus, but by no means worth a talent. So here, too, if the matter is worth going to his door about, I will go; if it is worth talking with him about, I will talk with him. But if one must kiss his hand, too, and cajole him with praise, that is paying too dear. It is not expedient for myself, nor my country, nor my fellow-citizens, nor my friends, to destroy what constitutes the good citizen and the friend.

But one will appear not to have set heartily about the business, if one thus fails.

What, have you again forgotten why you went? Do you not know that a wise and good man does nothing for appearance, but everything for the sake of having acted well?

What advantage is it, then, to him, to have acted well?

What advantage is it to one who writes down the name of Dion without a blunder? The having written it.

Is there no reward, then?

Why, do you seek any greater reward for a good man than the doing what is fair and just? And yet, at Olympia, you desire nothing else, but think it enough to be crowned victor. Does it appear to you so small and worthless a thing to be just, good, and happy? Besides, being introduced by God into this Great City [the world], and bound to discharge at this time the duties of a man, do you still want nurses and a mamma; and are you conquered and effeminated by the tears of poor weak women? Are you thus determined never to cease being an infant? Do not you know that, if one acts like a child, the older he is, so much the more he is ridiculous?

Did you never visit any one at Athens at his own house?

Yes; whomsoever I pleased. Why, now you are here, be willing to visit this person,

How, then, am I to preserve an affectionate disposition?

As becomes a noble-spirited and happy person. For reason will never tell you to be dejected and broken-hearted, or to depend on another, or to reproach either God or man. Be affectionate in such a manner as to observe all this. But if, from affection, as you call it, you are to be a slave and miserable, it is not worth your while to be affectionate. And what restrains you from loving any one as a mortal,—as a person who may be obliged to quit you? Pray did not Socrates love his own children? But it was as became one who was free, and mindful that his

What, then, is the proper training for these cases?

First, the highest and principal means, and as obvious as if at your very door, is this,—that when you

How, then?

As to something brittle as glass or earthenware; that when it happens to be broken, you may not lose your self-command. So here, too, when you embrace your child, or your brother, or your friend, never yield yourself wholly to the fair semblance, nor let the passion pass into excess; but curb it, restrain it,—like those who stand behind triumphant victors, and remind them that they are men. Do you likewise remind yourself that you love what is mortal; that you love what is not your own. It is allowed you for the present, not irrevocably, nor forever; but as a fig, or a bunch of grapes, in the appointed season. If you long for these in winter, you are foolish. So, if you long for your son, or your friend, when you cannot have him, remember that you are wishing for figs in winter. For as winter is to a fig, so is every accident in the universe to those things with which it interferes. In the next place, whatever objects give you pleasure, call before yourself the opposite images. What harm is there, while you kiss your child, in saying softly, To-morrow you may die; and so to your friend, To-morrow either you or I may go away, and we may see each other no more?

But these sayings are ominous.

And so are some incantations; but because they

What, then; shall I be no more?

True; but you will be something else, of which at present the world has no need; for even you were not produced when you pleased, but when the world had need of you. Hence a wise and good man, mindful who he is and whence he came, and by whom he was produced, is attentive only how he may fill his post regularly and dutifully before God. Dost thou wish me still to live? Let me live free and noble, as thou desirest; for thou hast made me incapable of restraint in what is my own. But hast

Let these things be ready at hand, night and day. These things write; these things read; of these things talk both to yourself and others. [Ask them,] Have you any assistance to give me for this purpose? And, again, go and ask another and another. Then, if any of those things should happen that are called disagreeable, this will surely be a relief to you, in the first place, that it was not unexpected. For it is

Further yet, when any delusive appearance molests you (for this may not depend on you), strive against it, and conquer it through reason. Do not suffer it to gain strength, nor to lead you indefinitely on, beguiling you at its own will. If you are at Gyaros, do not represent to yourself the manner of living at Rome,—how many pleasures you used to find there, and how many would attend your return; but dwell rather on this point,—how he who must live at Gyaros may live there nobly. And if you are at Rome, do not represent to yourself the manner of living at Athens; but consider only how you ought to live where you are.

Lastly, for all other pleasures substitute the consciousness that you are obeying God, and performing not in word, but in deed, the duty of a wise and good

Having these principles always at hand, and practising them by yourself, and making them ready for use, you will never want any one to comfort and strengthen you. For shame does not consist in having nothing to eat, but in not having wisdom enough to exempt you from fear and sorrow. But if you

Consider which of your undertakings you have fulfilled, which not, and wherefore; which give you pleasure, which pain, in the reflection; and, if possible, recover yourself where you have failed. For the champions in this greatest of combats must not grow weary, but should even contentedly bear chastisement. For this is no combat of wrestling or boxing, where both he who succeeds and he who fails may possibly be of very great worth or of little, indeed may be very fortunate or very miserable, but this combat is for good fortune and happiness itself. What is the case, then? Here, even if we have renounced the contest, no one restrains us from renewing it, nor need we wait for another four years for the return of another Olympiad; but recollecting

Are not you ashamed to be more fearful and mean-spirited than fugitive slaves? To what estates, to what servants, do they trust, when they run away and leave their masters? Do they not, after carrying off a little with them for the first days, travel over land and sea, contriving first one, then another, method of getting food? And what fugitive ever died of hunger? But you tremble, and lie awake at night, for fear you should want necessaries. Foolish man! are you so blind? Do not you see the way whither the want of necessaries leads?

Why, whither does it lead?

Whither a fever or a falling stone may lead,—-to death. Have you not, then, often said this to your companions? Have you not read, have you not written, many things on this point? And how often have you arrogantly boasted that you are undisturbed by fears of death!

Ay; but my family, too, will perish with hunger.

What then? Does their hunger lead any other way than yours? Is there not the same descent, the same state below? Will you not, then, in every want and necessity, look with confidence there, where even the most rich and powerful, and kings and tyrants themselves, must descend? You indeed may descend hungry, perhaps, and they full of indigestion and drunkenness. For have you often seen a beggar who did not live to old age, nay, to extreme old age? Chilled by day and night, lying on the ground, and eating only what is barely necessary, they yet seem almost to become incapable of dying. But cannot you write? Cannot you keep a school? Cannot you be a watchman at somebody’s door?

But it is shameful to come to this necessity.

First, therefore, learn what things are shameful, and then claim to be a philosopher; but at present do not suffer even another to call you so. Is that shameful to you which is not your own act; of which you are not the cause; which has happened to you by accident, like a fever or the headache? If your parents were poor, or left others their heirs, or, though living, do not assist you, are these things shameful for you? Is this what you have learned from the philosophers? Have you never heard that what is shameful is blamable; and what is blamable must be something which deserves to be blamed? Whom do you blame for an action not his own, which he has not himself performed? Did you, then, make your

Not to be shaken by sophistry.

Shaken from what? Show me first what you have in your custody; what you measure, or what you weigh; and then accordingly show me your weights and measures, and to what purpose you measure that which is but dust. Ought you not to show what makes men truly happy, what makes their affairs proceed as they wish; how we may blame no one, accuse no one; how acquiesce in the administration of the universe? Show me these things. See, I do show them, say you; will solve syllogisms to you. This is but the measure, O unfortunate! and not the thing measured. Hence you now pay the penalty due for neglecting philosophy. You tremble; you lie awake; you advise with everybody, and if the result of the advice does not please everybody, you think that you have been ill-advised. Then you dread hunger, as you fancy; yet it is not hunger that you dread, but you are afraid that you will not have some one to cook for you, some one else for a butler, another to pull off your shoes, a fourth to dress you, others to rub you, others to follow you; that when you have undressed yourself in the bathing-room, and stretched yourself out, like a man crucified, you may be rubbed here and there; and the attendant may stand by, and say, Come this way; give your side; take hold of his head; turn your shoulder; and

In what?

In the only thing that can be confided in; in what is sure, incapable of being restrained or taken away,—your own will.

But why have you contrived to make yourself so useless and good for nothing that nobody will receive you into his house, nobody take care of you; but although, if any sound, useful vessel be thrown out of doors, whoever finds it will take it up and prize it as something gained, yet nobody will take you up, but everybody esteem you a loss. What, cannot you so much as perform the office of a dog or a cock? Why, then, do you wish to live any longer if you are so worthless? Does any good man fear that food should fail him? It does not fail the blind; it does not fail the lame. Shall it fail a good man? A paymaster is always to be found for a soldier, or a laborer, or a shoemaker, and shall one be wanting to a good man?

1. As some lion, bred in the mountains, confiding in strength.

Confiding in what? Not in glory, or in riches, or in dominion, but in his own strength; that is, in his knowledge of what is within him and without him. For this alone is what can render us free and incapable of restraint; can raise the heads of the humble, and make them look with unaverted eyes full in the face of the rich and of the tyrants; and this is what philosophy bestows. But you will not even set forth with confidence; but all trembling about such trifles as clothes and plate. Foolish man! have you thus. wasted your time till now?

But what if I should be ill?

It will then be for the best that you should be ill.

Who will take care of me?

God and your friends.

I shall lie in a hard bed.

But like a man.

I shall not have a convenient room.

Then you will be ill in an inconvenient one.

Who will provide food for me?

They who provide for others too; you will be ill like Manes.[*](The name of a slave, particularly of a slave who once belonged to Diogenes; and perhaps this expression alludes to some story about him which is now unknown.—C.)

But what will be the conclusion of my illness,—any other than death?

Why, do you not know, then, that the origin of all human evils, and of baseness and cowardice, is not death, but rather the fear of death? Fortify yourself, therefore, against this. Hither let all your discourses, readings, exercises, tend. And then you will know that thus alone are men made free.

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.

What makes a tyrant formidable? His guards, say you, and their swords; they who protect his bedchamber, and they who keep out intruders. Why, then, if you bring a child to him amidst these guards, is it not afraid? Is it because the child does not know what they mean? Suppose, then, that any one knows what is meant by guards, and that they are armed with swords; and for that very reason comes

And is it possible that any one should be thus disposed towards these things from madness, and the Galileans from mere habit; yet that no one should be able to learn, from reason and demonstration, that God made all things in the world, and made the whole world itself unrestrained and perfect, and all its parts for the use of the whole? All other creatures are indeed excluded from a power of comprehending the administration of the world; but a reasonable being has abilities for the consideration of all these things,—both that itself is a part, and what part; and that it is fit the parts should submit to the whole. Besides,

Why may not he, who discerns these things, live with an easy and light heart, quietly awaiting whatever may happen, and bearing contentedly what has happened? Shall it be poverty? Bring it; and you shall see what poverty is when it is met well. Would you have power? Bring toils too along with it. Banishment? Wherever I go, it will be well with me there; for it was well with me here,—not on account of the place, but of the principles which I shall carry away with me; for no one can deprive me of these;

But it is now time to die. What is that you call dying? Do not talk of the thing in a tragic strain; but state the thing as it is, that it is time for your material part to revert whence it came. And where is the terror of this? What part of the world is going to be lost? What is going to happen that is new or prodigious? Is it for this that a tyrant is formidable? Is it on this account that the swords of his guards seem so large and sharp? Try these things upon others. For my part I have examined the whole. No one has authority over me. God has made me free; I know his commands; after this no one can enslave me. I have a proper vindicator of my freedom; proper judges. Are you the master of my body? But what is that to me? Of my little estate? But what is that to me? Of banishment and chains? Why, all these again, and my whole body, I give up to you; make a trial of your power whenever you please, and you will find how far it extends.

Whom, then, can I any longer fear,—those who guard the chamber? Lest they should do what,—shut me out? If they find me desirous to come in, let them. Why do you come to the door, then? Because it is fitting for me that, while the play lasts, I should play too. How then are you incapable of

Some one scatters nuts and figs. Children scramble and quarrel for them; but not men, for they think them trifles. But if any one should scatter shells, not even children would scramble for these. Provinces are being distributed; let children look to it. Money; let children look to it. Military command, a consulship; let children scramble for them. Let these be shut out, be beaten, kiss the hands of the giver or of his slaves. But to me they are mere figs and nuts. What then is to be done? If you miss them, while he is throwing them, do not trouble yourself about it; but if a fig should fall into your lap, take it, and eat it; for one may pay so much regard even to a fig. But if I am to stoop and throw down

Show me the swords of the guards. See how large and how sharp they are. What, then, can these great and sharp swords do? They kill. And what can a fever do? Nothing else. And a [falling] tile? Nothing else. Do you then wish me to be bewildered by all these things, and to worship them, and to go about as a slave to them all? Heaven forbid! But having once learned that everything that is born must likewise die (that the world may not be at a stand, nor the course of it hindered), I no longer see any difference, whether this be effected by a fever, or a tile, or a soldier; but if any comparison is to be made, I know that the soldier will effect it with less pain and more speedily. Since then I neither fear any of those things which he can inflict upon me, nor covet anything which he can bestow, why do I stand any longer in awe of a tyrant? Why am I amazed at him? Why do I fear his guards? Why do I rejoice, if he speaks kindly to me, and receives me graciously; and why boast to others of my reception? For is he Socrates or Diogenes, that his praise should show what I am? Or have I set my heart on imitating his manners? But to keep up the play I go to him and serve him, so long as he

Well; but these reasonings make men despise the laws. And what reasonings, then, render those who use them more obedient to the laws? But the law of fools is no law. And yet, see how these reasonings render us properly disposed, even towards such persons, since they teach us not to assert against them any claim wherein they can surpass us. They teach us to give up body, to give up estate, children, parents, brothers, to yield everything, to let go everything, excepting only principles; which even Zeus

Never commend or censure any one for common actions, nor attribute to them either skilfulness or unskilfulness; and thus you will at once be free both from rashness and ill-nature. Such a one bathes hastily. Does he therefore do it ill? Not at all.—But what? Hastily. Is everything well done, then? By no means. But what is done from good principles is well done; what from bad ones, ill. Till you know from what principle any one acts, neither commend nor censure the action. But the principle is not easily discerned from the external appearance. Such a one is a carpenter. Why? He uses an axe. What proof is that? Such a one is a musician, for he sings. What proof is that? Such a one is a philosopher. Why? Because he wears a cloak and long hair. What then do mountebanks wear? And so, when people see any.of these acting indecently, they presently say, See what the philosopher does. But they ought rather, from his acting indecently, to say that he is no philosopher. For if indeed the essence of philosophic pursuits is to wear a cloak and long hair, they say right; but if it be rather to keep himself

What then is the reason of this? Because we pay some regard to the idea which we have of a carpenter and a musician, and so of other artists, but not of a philosopher; which idea being thus vague and confused, we judge of it only from external appearances. And of what other art do we form our opinion from the dress or the hair? Has it not principles too, and materials, and an aim? What, then, are the materials of a philosopher,—a cloak? No, but reason. What his aim,—to wear a cloak? No, but to have his reason in good order. What are his principles? Are they how to get a great beard, or long hair? No, but rather, as Zeno expresses

Why, then, will you not first see, whether when acting improperly he fulfils his profession, ere you proceed to blame the study? Whereas now, when acting soberly yourself, you say, in regard to whatever he appears to do amiss, Observe the philosopher! as if it were proper to call a person who does such things a philosopher. And again, This is philosophical! But you do not say, Observe the carpenter, or observe the musician, when you know one of them to be an adulterer, or see him to be a glutton. So, in some small degree, even you perceive what the profession of a philosopher is, but are misled and confounded by your own carelessness. And, indeed, even those called philosophers enter upon their profession by commonplace beginnings. As soon as they have put on the cloak and let their beards grow, they cry, am a philosopher. Yet no one says, am a musician, merely because he has bought a fiddle and fiddlestick; nor, am a smith, because he is dressed in the cap and apron. But they take their name from their art, not from their garb.

For this reason, Euphrates was in the right to say, long endeavored to conceal my embracing the philosophic life; and it was of use to me. For, in the first place, I knew that whatever I did right I did not for spectators, but for myself. I ate in a seemly

It was thus, too, that Socrates concealed himself from the multitude; and some even came and desired him to introduce them to philosophers. Was he accustomed to be displeased, then, like us; and to say, What! do not you take me for a philosopher? No, he took them and introduced them; contented with merely being a philosopher, and rejoicing in feeling no annoyance that he was not thought one.

Such is the Cynic honored with the sceptre and

1. Neither pallid of hue, nor wiping tears from his cheek.

And not only this, but he does not desire or seek for company or place or amusement, as boys do the vintage time, or holidays; being always fortified by virtuous shame, as others are by walls and gates and sentinels.

But now, they who have only such an inclination to philosophy as weak stomachs have to some kinds of food, of which they will presently grow sick, expect to hasten to the sceptre, to the kingdom. They let their hair grow, assume the cloak, bare the shoulder, wrangle with all they meet; and if they see any one

Let us, at least, ripen naturally. Why do you lay us open? Why do you force us? We cannot yet bear the air. Suffer the root to grow; then the first, then the second, then the third joint of the stalk to spring from it; and thus Nature will force out the fruit, whether I will or not. For who that is charged with such principles, but must perceive, too, his own powers, and strive to put them in practice. Not even a bull is ignorant of his own powers, when any wild beast approaches the herd, nor waits he for any one to encourage him; nor does a dog when he spies any game. And if I have the powers of a good man, shall I wait for you to qualify me for my own proper actions? But believe me, I have them not quite yet. Why, then, would you wish me to be withered before my time, as you are?