Discourses

Epictetus

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

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

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explain the doctrines of Chrysippus to you as no other person can; I will elucidate his style in the clearest manner. And is it for this, then, that young men leave their country and their own parents, that they may come and hear you explain words? Ought they not to return patient, active, free from passion, free from perturbation; furnished with such a provision for life, that, setting out with it, they will be able to bear all events well, and derive ornament from them? But how should you impart what you have not? For have you yourself done anything else, from the beginning, but spend your time in solving syllogisms and convertible propositions and interrogatory arguments? But such a one has a school, and why should not I have one? Foolish man, these things are not brought about carelessly and at haphazard; but there must be a fit age, and a method of life, and a guiding God. Is it not so? No one quits the port, or sets sail, till he hath sacrificed to the gods, and implored their assistance; nor do men sow without first invoking Ceres. And shall any one who has undertaken so great a work attempt it safely without the gods? And shall they who apply to such a one, apply to him with success? What are you doing else, man, but divulging the mysteries? As if you said, There is a temple at Eleusis, and here is one too; there is a priest, and I will make a priest here; there is a herald, and I will appoint a herald too; there is a torch-bearer, and I will have a torch-bearer; there
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are torches, and so shall there be here. The words said, the things done, are the same. Where is the difference betwixt one and the other? Most impious man! is there no difference? Are these things of use, out of place and out of time? A man should come with sacrifices and prayers, previously purified, and his mind affected by the knowledge that he is approaching sacred and ancient rites. Thus the mysteries become useful; thus we come to have an idea that all these things were appointed by the ancients for the instruction and correction of life. But you divulge and publish them without regard to time and place, without sacrifices, without purity; you have not the garment that is necessary for a priest, nor the fitting hair nor girdle, nor the voice, nor the age, nor have you purified yourself like him. But when you have got the words by heart, you say, The mere words are sacred of themselves. These things are to be approached in another manner. It is a great, it is a mystical affair; not given by chance, or to every one indifferently. Nay, mere wisdom, perhaps, is not a sufficient qualification for the care of youth. There ought to be likewise a certain readiness and aptitude for this, and indeed a particular physical temperament, and, above all, a counsel from God to undertake this office, as he counselled Socrates to undertake the office of confutation; Diogenes, that of authoritative reproof; Zeno, that of dogmatical instruction. But you set up for a physician, provided
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with nothing but medicines, and without knowing, or having studied, where or how they are to be applied. Why, such a one had medicines for the eyes, and I have the same. Have you also, then, a faculty of making use of them? Do you at all know when and how and to whom they will be of service? Why then do you act at hazard? Why are you careless in things of the greatest importance? Why do you attempt a matter unsuitable to you? Leave it to those who can perform it and do it honor. Do not you too bring a scandal upon philosophy by your means; nor be one of those who cause the thing itself to be calumniated. But if mere theorems delight you, sit quietly and turn them over by yourself; but never call yourself a philosopher, nor suffer another to call you so; but say, He is mistaken; for my desires are not different from what they were; nor my pursuits directed to other objects; nor my assents otherwise given; nor have I at all made any change from my former condition in the use of things as they appear. Think and speak thus of yourself, if you would think as you ought; if not, act at random, and do as you do; for it is appropriate to you.
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    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?
  2. 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,

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in the next place, after you have found to what end you refer it, consider whether it be a proper one. Would you be useful, or be praised? You presently hear him say, What do I value the praise of the multitude? And he says well; for this is nothing to a musician, or a geometrician, as such. You would be useful then. In what? Tell us, that we too may run to make part of your audience. Now, is it possible for any one to benefit others, who has received no benefit himself? No; for neither can he who is not a carpenter, or a shoemaker, benefit any one in respect to those arts. Would you know, then, whether you have received benefit? Produce your principles, philosopher. What is the aim and promise of desire? Not to be disappointed. What of aversion? Not to be incurred. Come, do we fulfil this promise? Tell me the truth; but, if you falsify, I will tell it to you. The other day, when your audience came but coldly together, and did not receive what you said with acclamations of applause, you went away dejected. Again, the other day when you were praised, you went about asking everybody, What did you think of me? Upon my life, sir, it was prodigious. But how did I express myself upon that subject? Which? Where I gave a description of Pan and the Nymphs.[*](Mr. Upton observes that these florid descriptions were the principal study of the Sophists.—C.) Most excellently. And do you tell me, after this, that you
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regulate your desires and aversions conformably to Nature? Get you gone! Persuade somebody else.

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

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could not tell, I would add, First learn the meaning of what you say, and then speak.

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

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be the best.[*](Plato, Apology, 18; Crito, 6.—H.) Hence, whoever heard Socrates say, know, or teach anything? But he sent different people to different instructors; they came to him, desiring to be introduced to the philosophers; and he took them and introduced them. No; but [you think] as he accompanied them he used to give them such advice as this: Hear me discourse to-day at the house of Quadratus. Why should I hear you? Have you a mind to show me how finely you put words together, sir? And what good does that do you? But praise me. What do you mean by praising you? Say, Incomparable! prodigious! Well; I do say it. But if praise be that which the philosophers call by the appellation of good, what have I to praise you for? If it be good to speak well, teach me, and I will praise you. What, then; ought these things to be heard without pleasure? By no means. I do not hear even a harper without pleasure; but am I therefore to devote myself to playing upon the harp? Hear what Socrates says to his judges: It would not be decent for me to appear before you, at this age, composing speeches like a boy.[*](Plato, Apology, 1.—H.) Like a boy, he says. For it is, without doubt, a pretty accomplishment to select words and place them together, and then to read or speak them gracefully in public; and in the midst of the discourse to observe that he vows by all that is good,
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there are but few capable of these things. But does a philosopher apply to people to hear him? Does he not attract those who are fitted to receive benefit from him, in the same manner as the sun or their necessary food does? What physician applies to anybody to be cured by him? (Though now indeed I hear that the physicians at Rome apply for patients; but in my time they were applied to.) I apply to you to come and hear that you are in a bad way, and that you take care of everything but what you ought; that you know not what is good or evil, and are unfortunate and unhappy. A fine application! And yet, unless the discourse of a philosopher has this effect, both that and the speaker are lifeless.

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

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same abscess that you brought? And is it for this that young men are to travel? And do they leave their parents, their friends, their relations, and their estates, that they may praise you while you are uttering little exclamations? Was this the practice of Socrates; of Zeno; of Cleanthes?

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,

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He spoke finely about Xerxes! No, says the other; but on the battle of Thermopylae! Is this the audience for a philosopher?

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

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are liable to change your abode? Therefore he bears the punishment of his own folly. But to what purpose, or for what cause, do you too suffer depression of spirits? Have you not studied these things? Like trifling, silly women, have you regarded the things you took delight in, the places, the persons, the conversations, as if they were to last for ever; and do you now sit crying, because you do not see the same people, nor live in the same place? Indeed, you deserve to be so overcome, and thus to become more wretched than ravens or crows, which, without groaning or longing for their former state, can fly where they will, build their nests in another place, and cross the seas.

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;

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that some must give way to others, some be dissolved, and others rise in their stead; some remain in the same situation, and others be moved; but that all is full of beloved ones, first of the gods, and then of men, by nature endeared to each other; that some must be separated, others live together, rejoicing in the present, and not grieving for the absent; and that man, besides a natural greatness of mind and contempt of things independent on his own will, is likewise formed not to be rooted to the earth, but to go at different times to different places; sometimes on urgent occasions, and sometimes merely for the sake of observation. Such was the case of Odysseus, who
  1. Saw the cities and watched the habits of various men;
Homer, Odyssey, 1.3.—H. and, even before him, of Hercules, to travel over the habitable world,
  1. Observing manners, good or ill, of men;
Hom. Od. 15.487.—H. to expel and clear away the one, and, in its stead, to introduce the other. Yet how many friends do you not think he must have at Thebes; how many at Argos; how many at Athens; and how many did he acquire in his travels? He married, too, when he thought it a proper time, and became a father, and then quitted his children; not lamenting and longing for them, nor as if he had left them orphans; for he knew that no human creature is an orphan, but that
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there is a father who always, and without intermission, takes care of all. For he had not merely heard it as matter of talk, that Zeus was the Father of Mankind; but he esteemed and called him his own Father, and performed all that he did with a view to him. Hence he was, in every place, able to live happy. But it is never possible to make happiness consistent with a longing after what is not present. For true happiness implies the possession of all which is desired, as in case of satiety with food; there must be no thirst, no hunger.

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.

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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

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born to die? Do you at once wish to grow old, and yet not to see the death of any one you love? Do you not know that, in a long course of time, many and various events must necessarily happen; that a fever must get the better of one, a highwayman of another, a tyrant of a third? For such is the world we live in; such they who live in it with us. Heats and colds, improper diet, journeys, voyages, winds, and various accidents destroy some, banish others; destine one to an embassy, another to a camp. And now, pray, will you sit in consternation about all these things, lamenting, disappointed, wretched, dependent on another; and not on one or two only, but ten thousand times ten thousand?

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

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necessary to climb the mast, refuse to do it; if to run to the bow of the ship, refuse to do it! And what captain would tolerate you? Would he not throw you overboard as a useless piece of goods and mere luggage,.and a bad example to the other sailors? Thus, also, in the present case; every one’s life is a warfare, and that long and various. You must observe the duty of a soldier, and perform everything at the nod of your General, and even, if possible, divine what he would have done. For there is no comparison between the above-mentioned General and this whom you now obey, either in power or excellence of character. You are placed in an extensive command, and not in a mean post; your life is a perpetual magistracy? Do you not know that such a one must spend but little time on his affairs at home, but be much abroad, either commanding or obeying; attending on the duties either of a magistrate, a soldier, or a judge? And now, pray, would you be fixed and rooted on the same spot, like a plant?

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

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traits which belong to others, and with which you have nothing to do? What else do the Epicureans desire than to sleep without hindrance, and rise without compulsion; and when they have risen, to yawn at their leisure and wash their faces; then write and read what they please; then prate about some trifle or other, and be applauded by their friends, whatever they say; then go out for a walk, and, after they have taken a turn, bathe, and then eat, and then to bed? In what manner they spend their time there, why should one say? For it is easily guessed. Come now; do you also tell me what course of life you desire to lead, who are a zealot for truth, and Diogenes, and Socrates? What would you do at Athens,—these very same things? Why then do you call yourself a Stoic? They who falsely pretend to the Roman citizenship are punished severely; and must those be dismissed with impunity who falsely claim so great a thing, and so venerable a title, as you? Or is not this impossible; and is there not a divine and powerful and inevitable law, which exacts the greatest punishments from those who are guilty of the greatest offences? For what says this law?—Let him who claims what belongs not to him be arrogant, be vainglorious, be base, be a slave; let him grieve, let him envy, let him pity; and, in a word, let him lament and be miserable.

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

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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.

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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,

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and you will still see whom you please; only let it be without meanness, without undue desire or aversion, and your affairs will go well; but their going well, or not, does not consist in going to the house and standing at the door, or the contrary; but lies within, in your own principles, when you have acquired a contempt for things uncontrollable by Will, and esteem none of them your own, but hold that what belongs to you is only to judge and think, to exert rightly your aims, your desires, and aversions. What further room is there after this for flattery, for meanness? Why do you still long for the quiet you elsewhere enjoyed; for places familiar to you? Stay a little, and these will become familiar to you in their turn; and then, if you are so mean-spirited, you may weep and lament again on leaving these.

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

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first duty was to gain the love of the gods. Hence he violated no part of the character of a good man, either in his defence or in fixing a penalty on himself.[*](It was the custom at Athens, in cases where no fixed punishment was appointed by the law, before the judges gave sentence, to ask the criminal himself what penalty he thought he deserved. Socrates refused either to comply with this form himself, or suffer any of his friends to do it for him; alleging that the naming a penalty was a confession of guilt. When the judges therefore asked him what penalty he thought he deserved, he answered, The highest honors and rewards, and to be maintained in the Prytaneum at the public expense, an answer which so extremely irritated his judges, that they immediately condemned him to death.—C.) Nor yet before, when he was a senator or a soldier. But we make use of every pretence to be mean-spirited; some on account of a child; some, of a mother; and some, of a brother. But it is not fit to be unhappy on account of any one, but happy on account of all; and chiefly of God, who has constituted us for this purpose. What! did Diogenes love nobody, who was so gentle and benevolent as cheerfully to undergo so many pains and miseries of body for the common good of mankind? Yes, he did love them; but how? As became a minister of Zeus; at once caring for men, and obedient to God. Hence the whole earth, not any particular place, was his country. And when he was taken captive he did not long for Athens and his friends and acquaintance there, but made himself acquainted with the pirates, and endeavored to reform them; and when he was at
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last sold into captivity, he lived at Corinth just as before at Athens; and if he had gone to the Perrhaebeans,[*](A people towards the extremity of Greece.—C.) he would have been exactly the same. Thus is freedom acquired. Hence he used to say, Ever since Antisthenes made me free[*](Diogenes was the disciple of Antisthenes.—C.) I have ceased to be a slave. How did he make him free? Hear what he says: He taught me what was my own and what not. An estate is not my own. Kindred, domestics friends, reputation, familiar places, manner of life, all belong to another. What is your own, then? The right use of the phenomena of existence. He showed me that I have this, not subject to restraint or compulsion; no one can hinder or force me in this, any otherwise than as I please. Who, then, after this, has any power over me,—Philip, or Alexander, or Perdiccas, or the Persian king? Whence should they have it? For he that is to be subdued by man must first be subdued by things. He, therefore, of whom neither pleasure, nor pain, nor fame, nor riches can get the better; and he who is able, whenever he thinks fit, to abandon his whole body with contempt and depart, whose slave can he ever be? To whom is he subject? But if Diogenes had taken pleasure in living at Athens, and had been subdued by that manner of life, his affairs would have been at every one’s disposal; and whoever was stronger would have had the power of grieving him. How would he have flattered
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the pirates, think you, to make them sell him to some Athenian, that he might see again the fine Piraus, the Long Walls, and the Citadel? How would you see them,—as a slave and a miserable wretch? And what good would that do you? No; but as free. How free? See, somebody lays hold on you, takes you away from your usual manner of life, and says: You are my slave; for it is in my power to restrain you from living as you like. It is in my power to afflict and humble you. Whenever I please you may be cheerful once more, and set out elated for Athens. What do you say to him who thus enslaves you? What rescuer can you find? Or dare you not so much as look up at him; but, without making many words, do you supplicate to be dismissed? Why, you ought even to go to prison, man, with alacrity, with speed, outstripping your conductors. Instead of this do you regret living at Rome and long for Greece? And when you must die, will you then, too, come crying to us that you shall no more see Athens, nor walk in the Lyceum? Is it for this that you have travelled? Is it for this that you have been seeking for somebody to do you good? What good,—that you may the more easily solve syllogisms and manage hypothetical arguments? And is it for this reason you left your brother, your country, your friends, your family, that you might carry back such acquirements as these? So that you did not travel to learn constancy nor tranquillity; not that. secured
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from harm, you might complain of no one, accuse no one; that no one might injure you; and that thus you might preserve your human relations, without impediment. You have made a fine traffic of it, to carry home hypothetical arguments and convertible propositions! If you please, too, sit in the market, and cry them for sale, as mountebanks do their medicines. Why will you not rather deny that you know even what you have learned, for fear of bringing a scandal upon such theorems as useless? What harm has philosophy done you,—in what has Chrysippus injured you,—that you should demonstrate by your actions that such studies are of no value? Had you not evils enough at home? How many causes for grief and lamentation had you there, even if you had not travelled? But you have added more; and if you ever get any new acquaintance and friends, you will find fresh causes for groaning; and, in like manner, if you attach yourself to any other country. To what purpose, therefore, do you live,—to heap sorrow upon sorrow, to make you wretched? And then you tell me this is affection. What affection, man? If it be good, it cannot be the cause of any ill; if ill, I will have nothing to do with it. I was born for my own good, not ill.

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

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attach yourself to anything, it may not be as to a secure possession.

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

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are useful, I do not mind it; only let them be useful. But do you call anything ominous except what implies some ill? Cowardice is ominous; baseness is ominous; lamentation, grief, shamelessness. These are words of bad omen; and yet we ought not to shrink from using them, as a guard against the things they mean. But do you tell me that a word is ominous which is significant of anything natural? Say, too, that it is ominous for ears of corn to be reaped; for this signifies the destruction of the corn, but not of the world. Say, too, that the fall of the leaf is ominous; and that confectionery should be produced from figs, and raisins from grapes. For all these are changes from a former state into another,—not a destruction, but a certain appointed economy and administration. Such is absence, a slight change; such is death, a greater change,—not from what now is nothing, but to what now is not.

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

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thou no further use for me? Farewell! I have stayed thus long through thee alone, and no other; and now I depart in obedience to thee. How do you depart? Still as thou wilt; as one free, as thy servant, as one sensible of thy commands and thy prohibitions. But, while I am employed in thy service, what wouldst thou have me to be,—a prince, or a private man; a senator, or a plebeian; a soldier, or a general; a preceptor, or a master of a family? Whatever post or rank thou shalt assign me, like Socrates, I will die a thousand times rather than desert it. Where wouldst thou have me to be,—at Rome, or at Athens; at Thebes, or at Gyaros? Only remember me there. If thou shalt send me where men cannot live conformably to nature, I will not depart unbidden, but upon a recall as it were sounded by thee. Even then I do not desert thee; Heaven forbid! but I perceive that thou hast no use for me. If a life conformable to nature be granted, I will seek no other place but that in which I am, nor any other company but those with whom I dwell.

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

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much to be able always to say, knew that I begot one born to die. [*](This was said by Xenophon, when news was brought him that his son Gryllus was killed in a battle.—C.) Thus do you say too, knew that I was liable to die, to travel, to be exiled, to be imprisoned. If afterwards you turn to yourself, and seek from what quarter the event proceeds, you will presently recollect: It is from things uncontrollable by will, not from what is my own. What then is it to me? Then, further, which is the chief point: Who sent this,—the commander, the general, the city, the public law? Give it to me, then, for I must always obey the law in all things.

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

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man. How great a thing is it to be able to say to yourself: What others are now solemnly arguing in the schools, and can state in paradoxes, this I put in practice. Those qualities which are there discoursed, disputed, celebrated, I have made mine own. Zeus hath been pleased to let me recognize this within myself, and himself to discern whether he hath in me one fit for a soldier and a citizen, and to employ me as a witness to other men, concerning things uncontrollable by will. See that your fears were vain, your appetites vain. Seek not good from without; seek it within yourselves, or you will never find it. For this reason he now brings me hither, now sends me thither; sets me before mankind, poor, powerless, sick; banishes me to Gyaros; leads me to prison; not that he hates me,—Heaven forbid! for who hates the most faithful of his servants?—nor that he neglects me, for he neglects not one of the smallest things; but to exercise me, and make use of me as a witness to others. Appointed to such a service, do I still care where I am, or with whom, or what is said of me,—instead of being wholly attentive to God and to his orders and commands?

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

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once acquire that exemption, will a tyrant or his guards or courtiers be anything to you? Will offices or office-seekers disturb you, who have received so great a command from Zeus? Only do not make a parade over it, nor grow insolent upon it; but show it by your actions; and though no one else should notice it, be content that you are well and blessed.

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

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and recovering yourself, and returning with the same zeal, you may renew it immediately; and even if you should again yield, you may again begin; and if you once get the victory, you become like one who has never yielded. Only do not begin by forming the habit of this, to do it with pleasure, and then, like quails that have fled the fighting-pit, go about as if you were a brave champion, although you have been conquered throughout all the games. I am conquered in presence of a girl. But what of it? I have been thus conquered before. I am excited to wrath against some one. But I have been in anger before. You talk to us just as if you had come off unhurt. As if one should say to his physician, who had forbidden him to bathe, Why, did not I bathe before? Suppose the physician should answer him, Well, and what was the consequence of your bathing? Were you not feverish? Had you not the headache? So, when you before railed at somebody, did you not act like an ill-natured person; like an impertinent one? Have not you fed this habit of yours by corresponding actions? When you were conquered by a pretty girl, did you come off with impunity? Why, then, do you talk of what you have done before? You ought to remember it, I think, as slaves do whipping, so as to refrain from the same faults. But the case is unlike; for there it is pain that causes the remembrance. But what is the pain, what the punishment, of my committing these faults? For when was
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I ever thus trained to the avoidance of bad actions? Yet the pains of experience, whether we will or not, have their beneficial influence.

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.

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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

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father such as he is; or is it in your power to mend him? Is that permitted you? What, then; must you desire what is not permitted, and when you fail of it be ashamed? Are you thus accustomed, even when you are studying philosophy, to depend on others, and to hope nothing from yourself? Sigh, then, and groan, and eat in fear that you shall have no food to-morrow. Tremble, lest your servants should rob you, or run away from you, or die. Thus live on forever, whoever you are, who have applied yourself to philosophy in name only, and as much as in you lies have disgraced its principles, by showing that they are unprofitable and useless to those who profess them. You have never made constancy, tranquillity, and serenity the object of your desires; have sought no teacher for this knowledge, but many for mere syllogisms. You have never, by yourself, confronted some delusive semblance with, Can I bear this, or can I not bear it? What remains for me to do? But, as if all your affairs went safe and well, you have aimed only-to secure yourself in your present possessions. What are they? Cowardice, baseness, worldliness, desires unaccomplished, unavailing aversions. These are the things which you have been laboring to secure. Ought you not first to have acquired something by the use of reason, and then to have provided security for that? Whom did you ever see building a series of battlements without placing them upon a wall? And what porter is ever set where
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there is no door? But you study! Can you show me what you study?

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

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that when you are returned home from the bath you may cry out, Does nobody bring anything to eat? and then, Take away; wipe the table. This is your dread, that you will not be able to lead the life of a sick man. But learn the life of those in health,—how slaves live, how laborers, how those who are genuine philosophers; how Socrates lived, even with a wife and children; how Diogenes; how Cleanthes, at once studying and drawing water [for his livelihood]. If these are the things you would have, you can possess them everywhere, and with a fearless confidence.

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?

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Is God so negligent of his own institutions, of his servants, of his witnesses, whom alone he uses for examples to the uninstructed, to show that he exists, and that he administers the universe rightly, and doth not neglect human affairs, and that no evil can happen to a good man, either living or dead? What, then, is the case, when he doth not bestow food? What else than that, like a good general, he hath made me a signal of retreat? I obey, I follow, speaking well of my leader, praising his works. For I came when it seemed good to him; and, again, when it seems good to him, I depart; and in life it was my business to praise God within myself and to every auditor, and to the world. Doth he grant me but few things? Doth he refuse me affluence? It is not his pleasure that I should live luxuriously; for he did not grant that even to Hercules, his own son; but another reigned over Argos and Mycene, while he obeyed, labored, and strove. And Eurystheus was just what he was,—neither truly king of Argos, nor of Mycene; not being indeed king over himself. But Hercules was ruler and governor of the whole earth and seas; the expeller of lawlessness and injustice; the introducer of justice and sanctity. And this he effected naked and alone. Again, when Ulysses was shipwrecked and cast away, did his helpless condition at all deject him? Did it break his spirit? No; but how did he go to Nausicaa and her attendants, to ask those necessaries which it seems most shameful to beg from another?
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  1. As some lion, bred in the mountains, confiding in strength.
Homer, Odyssey, 6.130. H.

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.)

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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.

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