CHAPTER I.

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SENECA’S MORALS OF A HAPPY LIFE,

BENEFITS, ANGER AND CLEMENCY.

Translated by

SIR ROGER L’ESTRANGE.

New Edition.

Chicago:

Belford, Clarke & Co.,

1882.

Belford . Clarke & Co.,

1881.

Printed and Bound by

Donohue & Henneberry.

Chicago, Ill.

TO THE READER.

It has been a long time my thought to turn SENECA into English;

but whether as a _translation_ or an _abstract_, was the question.

A _translation_, I perceive, it must not be, at last, for several

reasons. First, it is a thing already done to my hand, and of above

sixty years’ standing; though with as little _credit_, perhaps, to

the Author, as _satisfaction_ to the Reader. Secondly, There is a

great deal in him, that is wholly foreign to my business: as his

philosophical treatises of _Meteors_, _Earthquakes_, the Original

of _Rivers_, several frivolous disputes betwixt the Epicureans and

the Stoics, etc., to say nothing of his frequent repetitions of the

same thing again in other words, (wherein he very handsomely excuses

himself, by saying, “That he does but inculcate over and over the same

counsels to those that over and over commit the same faults.”)Thirdly,

His excellency consists rather in a rhapsody of divine and

extraordinary _hints_ and _notions_, than in any regulated method of

discourse; so that to take him as he lies, and so to go through with

him, were utterly inconsistent with the order and brevity which I

propound; my principal design, being only to digest, and commonplace

his _Morals_, in such sort, that any man, upon occasion, may know where

to find them. And I have kept myself so close to this proposition,

that I have reduced all his scattered Ethics to their _proper heads_,

without any additions of my own, more than of absolute necessity

for the tacking of them together. Some other man in my place would

perhaps make you twenty apologies for his want of skill and address,

in governing this affair; but these are formal and pedantic fooleries,

as if any man that first takes himself for a coxcomb in his own heart,

would afterwards make himself one in print too. This _Abstract_, such

as it is, you are extremely welcome to; and I am sorry it is no better,

both for your sakes and my own, for if it were written up to the spirit

of the original, it would be one of the most valuable presents that

ever any private man bestowed upon the public; and this, too, even in

the judgment of both parties, as well Christian as Heathen, of which in

its due place.

Next to my choice of the _Author_ and of the _subject_, together with

the manner of handling it, I have likewise had some regard, in this

publication, to the _timing_ of it, and to the preference of this topic

of _Benefits_ above all others, for the groundwork of my _first essay_.

We are fallen into an age of _vain philosophy_ (as the holy apostle

calls it) and so desperately overrun with Drolls and Sceptics, that

there is hardly any thing so certain or so sacred, that is not exposed

to question and contempt, insomuch, that betwixt the hypocrite and the

Atheist, the very foundations of religion and good manners are shaken,

and the two tables of the _Decalogue_ dashed to pieces the one against

the other; the laws of government are subjected to the fancies of the

vulgar; public authority to the private passions and opinions of the

people; and the supernatural motions of grace confounded with the

common dictates of nature. In this state of corruption, who so fit as a

good honest Christian Pagan for a moderator among Pagan Christians?

To pass now from the general scope of the whole work to the particular

argument of the first part of it, I pitched upon the theme of

_Benefits_, _Gratitude_, and _Ingratitude_, to begin withal, as an

earnest of the rest, and a lecture expressly calculated for the

unthankfulness of these times; the foulest undoubtedly, and the most

execrable of all others, since the very apostasy of the angels:

nay, if I durst but suppose a possibility of mercy for those damned

spirits, and that they might ever be taken into favor again, my

charity would hope even better for them than we have found from some

of our revolters, and that they would so behave themselves as not to

incur a second forfeiture. And to carry the resemblance yet one point

farther, they do both of them agree in an implacable malice against

those of their fellows that keep their stations. But, alas! what

could _Ingratitude_ do without _Hypocrisy_, the inseparable companion

of it, and, in effect, the bolder and blacker devil of the two? for

Lucifer himself never had the face to lift up his eyes to heaven, and

talk to the ALMIGHTY at the familiar rate of our pretended patriots

and zealots, and at the same time to make him party to a cheat. It is

not for nothing that the Holy Ghost has denounced so many woes, and

redoubled so many cautions against _hypocrites_; plainly intimating

at once how dangerous a snare they are to mankind, and no less odious

to God himself; which is sufficiently denoted in the force of that

dreadful expression, _And your portion shall be with hypocrites_. You

will find in the holy scriptures (as I have formerly observed) that

God has given the grace of repentance to _persecutors_, _idolaters_,

_murderers_, _adulterers_, etc., but I am mistaken if the whole Bible

affords you any one instance of a _converted hypocrite_.

To descend now from truth itself to our own experience have we not

seen, even in our days, a most pious (and almost faultless) Prince

brought to the scaffold by his own subjects? The most glorious

constitution upon the face of the earth, both ecclesiastical and

civil, torn to pieces and dissolved? The happiest people under the sun

enslaved? Our temples sacrilegiously profaned, and a license given

to all sorts of heresy and outrage? And by whom but by a race of

_hypocrites?_ who had nothing in their mouths all this while but _the

purity of the gospel_, _the honor of the king_, and _the liberty of

the people_, assisted underhand with _defamatory papers_, which were

levelled at the _king_ himself through the sides of his most faithful

_ministers_. This PROJECT succeeded so well against one government,

that it is now again set afoot against another; and by some of the

very actors too in that TRAGEDY, and after a most gracious pardon

also, when Providence had laid their necks and their fortunes at his

majesty’s feet. It is a wonderful thing that _libels_ and _libellers_,

the most _infamous_ of _practices_ and of _men_; the most _unmanly

sneaking methods_ and _instruments_ of _mischief_; the very bane

of _human society_, and the _plague_ of all _governments_; it is a

wonderful thing (I say) that these engines and engineers should ever

find credit enough in the world to engage a party; but it would be

still more wonderful if the _same trick_ should pass twice upon the

_same people_, in the _same age_, and from the _same_ IMPOSTORS. This

contemplation has carried me a little out of my way, but it has at

length brought me to my text again, for there is in the bottom of it

the highest opposition imaginable of _ingratitude_ and _obligation_.

The reader will, in some measure, be able to judge by this taste what

he is farther to expect; that is to say, as to the cast of my design,

and the simplicity of the style and dress; for that will still be the

same, only accompanied with variety of matter. Whether it pleases the

world or no, the care is taken; and yet I could wish that it might be

as delightful to others upon the perusal, as it has been to me in the

speculation. Next to the gospel itself, I do look upon it as the most

sovereign remedy against the miseries of human nature: and I have ever

found it so, in all the injuries and distresses of an unfortunate life.

You may read more of him, if you please, in the _Appendix_, which I

have here subjoined to this Preface, concerning the authority of his

_writings_, and the circumstances of his _life_; as I have extracted

them out of Lipsius.

OF SENECA’S WRITINGS.

It appears that our author had among the ancients three professed

enemies. In the first place Caligula, who called his writings, _sand

without lime_; alluding to the starts of his fancy, and the incoherence

of his sentences. But Seneca was never the worse for the censure of a

person that propounded even the suppressing of Homer himself; and of

casting Virgil and Livy out of all _public libraries_. The next was

Fabius, who taxes him for being too bold with the eloquence of former

times, and failing in that point himself; and likewise for being too

quaint and finical in his expressions; which Tacitus imputes, in

part to the freedom of his own particular inclination, and partly to

the humor of the times. He is also charged by Fabius as no profound

philosopher; but with all this, he allows him to be a man very studious

and learned, of great wit and invention, and well read in all sorts of

literature; a severe reprover of vice; most divinely sententious; and

well worth the reading, if it were only for his morals; adding, that if

his judgment had been answerable to his wit, it had been much the more

for his reputation; but he wrote whatever came next; so that I would

advise the reader (says he) to distinguish where he _himself_ did not,

for there are many things in him, not only to be approved, but admired;

and it was great pity that he that could do what he would, should not

always make the best choice. His third adversary is Agellius, who

falls upon him for his style, and a kind of tinkling in his sentences,

but yet commends him for his piety and good counsels. On the other

side, Columela calls him _a man of excellent wit and learning_; Pliny,

_the prince of erudition;_ Tacitus gives him the character of _a wise

man, and a fit tutor for a prince_; Dio reports him to have been _the

greatest man of his age_.

Of those pieces of his that are extant, we shall not need to give

any particular account: and of those that are lost, we cannot, any

farther than by lights to them from other authors, as we find them

cited much to his honor; and we may reasonably compute them to be

the greater part of his works. That he wrote several _poems_ in his

banishment, may be gathered partly from himself, but more expressly

out of Tacitus, who says, “that he was reproached with his applying

himself to poetry, after he saw that Nero took pleasure in it, out

of a design to curry favor.” St. Jerome refers to a discourse of his

concerning matrimony. Lactantius takes notice of his history, and his

books of Moralities: St. Augustine quotes some passages of his out of

a book of Superstition; some references we meet with to his books of

Exhortations: Fabius makes mention of his Dialogues: and he himself

speaks of a treatise of his own concerning Earthquakes, which he wrote

in his youth, but the opinion of an epistolary correspondence that he

had with St. Paul, does not seem to have much color for it.

Some few fragments, however, of those books of his that are wanting,

are yet preserved in the writings of other eminent authors, sufficient

to show the world how great a treasure they have lost by the excellency

of that little that is left.

Seneca, says Lactantius, that was the sharpest of all the Stoics,

how great a veneration has he for the Almighty! as for instance,

discoursing of a violent death; “Do you not understand?” says he, “the

majesty and the authority of your Judge; he is the supreme Governor of

heaven and earth, and the God of all your gods; and it is upon him that

all those powers depend which we worship for deities.” Moreover, in his

Exhortations, “This God,” says he, “when he laid the foundations of the

universe, and entered upon the greatest and the best work in nature, in

the ordering of the government of the world, though he was himself All

in all, yet he substituted other subordinate ministers, as the servants

of his commands.” And how many other things does this Heathen speak of

God like one of us!

Which the acute Seneca, says Lactantius again, saw in his Exhortations.

“We,” says he, “have our dependence elsewhere, and should look up to

that power, to which we are indebted for all that we can pretend to

that is good.”

And again, Seneca says very well in his Morals, “They worship the

images of the God,” says he, “kneel to them, and adore them, they are

hardly ever from them, either plying them with offerings or sacrifices,

and yet, after all this reverence to the image, they have no regard at

all to the workman that made it.”

Lactantius again. “An invective,” says Seneca in his Exhortations, “is

the masterpiece of most of our philosophers; and if they fall upon

the subject of _avarice_, _lust_, _ambition_, they lash out into such

excess of bitterness, as if railing were a mark of their profession.

They make me think of gallipots in an apothecary’s shop, that have

remedies without and poison within.”

Lactantius still. “He that would know all things, let him read Seneca;

the most lively describer of public vices and manners, and the smartest

reprehender of them.”

And again; as Seneca has it in the books of Moral Philosophy, “He is

the brave man, whose splendor and authority is the least part of his

greatness, that can look death in the face without trouble or surprise;

who, if his body were to be broken upon the wheel, or melted lead to be

poured down his throat, would be less concerned for the pain itself,

than for the dignity of bearing it.”

Let no man, says Lactantius, think himself the safer in his wickedness

for want of a witness; for God is omniscient, and to him nothing can

be a secret. It is an admirable sentence that Seneca concludes his

Exhortations withal: “God,” says he, “is a great, (I know not what),

an incomprehensible Power; it is to him that we live, and to him that

we must approve ourselves. What does it avail us that our consciences

are hidden from men, when our souls lie open to God?” What could a

Christian have spoken more to the purpose in this case than this divine

Pagan? And in the beginning of the same work, says Seneca, “What is

it that we do? to what end is it to stand contriving, and to hide

ourselves? We are under a guard, and there is no escaping from our

keeper. One man may be parted from another by travel, death, sickness;

but there is no dividing us from ourselves. It is to no purpose to

creep into a corner where nobody shall see us. Ridiculous madness!

Make it the case, that no mortal eye could find us out, he that has a

conscience gives evidence against himself.”

It is truly and excellently spoken of Seneca, says Lactantius, once

again; “Consider,” says he “the majesty, the goodness, and the

venerable mercies of the Almighty; a friend that is always at hand.

What delight can it be to him the slaughter of innocent creatures or

the worship of bloody sacrifices? Let us purge our minds, and lead

virtuous and honest lives. His pleasure lies not in the magnificence of

temples made with stone, but in the pity and devotion of consecrated

hearts.”

In the book that Seneca wrote against Superstitions, treating of

images, says St. Austin, he writes thus: “They represent the holy, the

immortal, and the inviolable gods in the basest matter, and without

life or motion; in the forms of men, beasts, fishes, some of mixed

bodies, and those figures they call deities, which, if they were but

animated, would affright a man, and pass for monsters.” And then, a

little farther, treating of Natural Theology, after citing the opinions

of philosophers, he supposes an objection against himself: “Somebody

will perhaps ask me, would you have me then to believe the heavens and

the earth to be gods, and some of them above the moon, and some below

it? Shall I ever be brought to the opinion of Plato, or of Strabo the

Peripatetic? the one of which would have God to be without a body,

and the other without a mind.” To which he replies, “And do you give

more credit then to the dreams of T. Tatius, Romulus, Hostilius, who

caused, among other deities, even Fear and Paleness to be worshipped?

the vilest of human affections; the one being the motion of an

affrighted mind, and the other not so much the disease as the color

of a disordered body. Are these the deities that you will rather put

your faith in, and place in the heavens?” And speaking afterward of

their abominable customs, with what liberty does he write! “One,” says

he, “out of zeal, makes himself an eunuch, another lances his arms; if

this be the way to _please_ their gods, what should a man do if he had

a mind to _anger_ them? or, if this be the way to please them, they do

certainly deserve not to be worshipped at all. What a frenzy is this to

imagine that the gods can be delighted with such cruelties, as even the

worst of men would make a conscience to inflict! The most barbarous and

notorious of tyrants, some of them have perhaps done it themselves, or

ordered the tearing of men to pieces by others; but they never went so

far as to command any man to torment himself. We have heard of those

that have suffered castration to gratify the lust of their imperious

masters, but never any man that was forced to act it upon himself. They

murder themselves in their very temples, and their prayers are offered

up in blood. Whosoever shall but observe what they do, and what they

suffer, will find it so misbecoming an honest man, so unworthy of a

freeman, and so inconsistent with the action of a man in his wits, that

he must conclude them all to be mad, if it were not that there are so

many of them; for only their number is their justification and their

protection.”

When he comes to reflect, says St. Augustine, upon those passages which

he himself had seen in the Capitol, he censures them with liberty and

resolution; and no man will believe that such things would be done

unless in mockery or frenzy. What lamentation is there in the Egyptian

sacrifices for the loss of Osiris? and then what joy for the finding

of him again? Which he makes himself sport with; for in truth it is

all a fiction; and yet those people that neither lost any thing nor

found any thing, must express their sorrows and their rejoicings to

the highest degree. “But there is only a certain time,” says he, “for

this freak, and once in a year people may be allowed to be mad. I came

into the Capitol,” says Seneca, “where the several deities had their

several servants and attendants, their lictors, their dressers, and

all in posture and action, as if they were executing their offices;

some to hold the glass, others to comb out Juno’s and Minerva’s hair;

one to tell Jupiter what o’clock it is; some lasses there are that sit

gazing upon the image, and fancy Jupiter has a kindness for them. All

these things,” says Seneca, a while after, “a wise man will observe for

the law’s sake more than for the gods; and all this rabble of deities,

which the superstition of many ages has gathered together, we are in

such manner to adore, as to consider the worship to be rather matter

of custom than of conscience.” Whereupon St. Augustine observes, that

this illustrious senator worshipped what he reproved, acted what he

disliked, and adored what he condemned.

SENECA’S LIFE AND DEATH.

It has been an ancient custom to record the actions and the writings

of eminent men, with all their circumstances, and it is but a right

that we owe to the memory of our famous author. Seneca was by birth a

Spaniard of Cordova, (a Roman colony of great fame and antiquity.) He

was of the family of Annæus, of the order of knights; and the father,

Lucius Annæus Seneca, was distinguished from the son, by the name

of _the Orator_. His mother’s name was Helvia, a woman of excellent

qualities. His father came to Rome in the time of Augustus, and his

wife and children soon followed him, our Seneca yet being in his

infancy. There were three brothers of them, and never a sister. Marcus

Annæus Novatus, Lucius Annæus Seneca, and Lucius Annæus Mela; the first

of these changed his name for Junius Gallio, who adopted him; to him it

was that he dedicated his treatise of ANGER, whom he calls Novatus too;

and he also dedicated his discourse of a _Happy Life_ to his brother

Gallio. The youngest brother (Annæus Mela) was Lucan’s father. Seneca

was about twenty years of age in the _fifth year_ of Tiberius, when the

Jews were expelled from Rome. His father trained him up to _rhetoric,_

but his genius led him rather to _philosophy;_ and he applied his wit

to _morality_ and _virtue_. He was a great hearer of the celebrated

men of those times; as Attalus, Sotion, Papirius, Fabianus, (of whom

he makes often mention,) and he was much an admirer also of Demetrius

the Cynic, whose conversation he had afterwards in the Court, and both

at home also and abroad, for they often travelled together. His father

was not at all pleased with his humor of _philosophy_, but forced him

upon the _law_, and for a while he practiced _pleading_. After which

he would needs put him upon _public employment:_ and he came first to

be _quæstor_, then _prætor,_ and some will have it that he was chosen

_consul_; but this is doubtful.

Seneca finding that he had ill offices done him at court, and that

Nero’s favor began to cool, he went directly and resolutely to Nero,

with an offer to refund all that he had gotten, which Nero would not

receive; but however, from that time he changed his course of life,

received few visits, shunned company, went little abroad; still

pretending to be kept at home, either by indisposition or by his

study. Being Nero’s tutor and governor, all things were well so long

as Nero followed his counsel. His two chief favorites were Burrhus and

Seneca, who were both of them excellent in their ways: Burrhus, in

his care of _military_ affairs, and severity of _discipline_; Seneca

for his _precepts_ and _good advice_ in the matter of _eloquence,_

and the _gentleness_ of an _honest mind_; assisting one another, in

that slippery age of the prince (says Tacitus) to invite him, by the

allowance of lawful pleasures, to the love of virtue. Seneca had two

wives; the name of the first is not mentioned; his second was Paulina,

whom he often speaks of with great passion. By the former he had his

son Marcus.

In the first year of Claudius he was banished into Corsica, when Julia,

the daughter of Germanicus, was accused by Messalina of adultery and

banished too, Seneca being charged as one of the adulterers. After a

matter of eight years or upwards in exile, he was called back, and as

much in favor again as ever. His estate was partly patrimonial, but the

greatest part of it was the bounty of his prince. His gardens, villas,

lands, possessions, and incredible sums of money, are agreed upon at

all hands; which drew an envy upon him. Dio reports him to have had

250,000_l._ sterling at interest in Britanny alone, which he called in

all at a sum. The Court itself could not bring him to flattery; and

for his piety, submission, and virtue, the practice of his whole life

witnesses for him. “So soon,” says he, “as the candle is taken away,

my wife, that knows my custom, lies still, without a word speaking,

and then do I recollect all that I have said or done that day, and

take myself to shrift. And why should I conceal or reserve anything,

or make any scruple of inquiring into my errors, when I can say to

myself, Do so no more, and for this once I will forgive thee?” And

again, what can be more pious and self-denying than this passage, in

one of his epistles? “Believe me now, when I tell you the very bottom

of my soul: in all the difficulties and crosses of my life, this is my

consideration—since it is God’s will, I do not only obey, but assent to

it; nor do I comply out of necessity, but inclination.”

“Here follows now,” says Tacitus, “the death of Seneca, to Nero’s great

satisfaction; not so much for any pregnant proof against him that he

was of Piso’s conspiracy; but Nero was resolved to do that by the sword

which he could not effect by poison. For it is reported, that Nero

had corrupted Cleonicus (a freeman of Seneca’s) to give his master

poison, which did not succeed. Whether that the servant had discovered

it to his master, or that Seneca, by his own caution and jealousy, had

avoided it; for he lived only upon a simple diet, as the fruits of the

earth, and his drink was most commonly river water.

“Natalis, it seems, was sent upon a visit to him (being indisposed)

with a complaint that he would not let Piso come at him; and advising

him to the continuance of their friendship and acquaintance as

formerly. To whom Seneca made answer, that frequent meetings and

conferences betwixt them could do neither of them any good; but that

he had a great interest in Piso’s welfare. Hereupon Granius Silvanus

(a captain of the guard) was sent to examine Seneca upon the discourse

that passed betwixt him and Natalis, and to return his answer. Seneca,

either by chance or upon purpose, came that day from Campania, to

a villa of his own, within four miles of the city; and thither the

officer went the next evening, and beset the place. He found Seneca

at supper with his wife Paulina, and two of his friends; and gave him

immediately an account of his commission. Seneca told him, that it was

true that Natalis had been with him in Piso’s name, with a complaint

_that Piso could not be admitted to see him_; and that he excused

himself by reason of his want of health, and his desires to be quiet

and private; and that he had no reason to prefer another man’s welfare

before his own. Cæsar himself, he said, knew very well that he was not

a man of compliment, having received more proofs of his freedom than

of his flattery. This answer of Seneca’s was delivered to Cæsar in the

presence of Poppæa, and Tigellinus, the intimate confidants of this

barbarous prince: and Nero asked him whether he could gather anything

from Seneca as if he intended to make himself away? The tribune’s

answer was, that he did not find him one jot moved with the message:

but that he went on roundly with his tale, and never so much as changed

countenance for the matter. Go back to him then, says Nero, and tell

him, _that he is condemned to die_. Fabius Rusticus delivers it, that

the tribune did not return the same way he came, but went aside to

Fenius (a captain of that name) and told him Cæsar’s orders, asking his

advice whether he should obey them or not; who bade him by all means

to do as he was ordered. Which want of resolution was fatal to them

all; for Silvanus also, that was one of the conspirators, assisted now

to serve and to increase those crimes, which he had before complotted

to revenge. And yet he did not think fit to appear himself in the

business, but sent a centurion to Seneca to tell him his doom.

“Seneca, without any surprise or disorder, calls for his will; which

being refused him by the officer, he turned to his friends, and told

them that since he was not permitted to requite them as they deserved,

he was yet at liberty to bequeath them the thing of all others that

he esteemed the most, that is, the image of his life; which should

give them the reputation both of _constancy_ and _friendship_, if they

would but imitate it; exhorting them to a firmness of mind, sometimes

by good counsel, otherwhile by reprehension, as the occasion required.

Where, says he, is all your philosophy now? all your _premeditated

resolutions_ against the violences of Fortune? Is there any man so

ignorant of Nero’s cruelty, as to expect, after the murder of his

mother and his brother, that he should ever spare the life of his

governor and tutor? After some general expressions to this purpose, he

took his wife in his arms, and having somewhat fortified her against

the present calamity, he besought and conjured her to moderate her

sorrows, and betake herself to the contemplations and comforts of a

virtuous life; which would be a fair and ample consolation to her for

the loss of her husband. Paulina, on the other side, tells him her

determination to bear him company, and wills the executioner to do

his office. Well, says Seneca, if after the sweetness of life, as I

have represented it to thee, thou hadst rather entertain an honorable

death, I shall not envy thy example; consulting, at the same time, the

fame of the person he loved, and his own tenderness, for fear of the

injuries that might attend her when he was gone. Our resolution, says

he, in this generous act, may be equal, but thine will be the greater

reputation. After this the veins of both their arms were opened at the

same time. Seneca did not bleed so freely, his spirits being wasted

with age and a thin diet; so that he was forced to cut the veins of his

thighs and elsewhere, to hasten his dispatch. When he was far spent,

and almost sinking under his torments, he desired his wife to remove

into another chamber, lest the agonies of the one might work upon the

courage of the other. His eloquence continued to the last, as appears

by the excellent things he delivered at his death; which being taken

in writing from his own mouth, and published in his own words, I shall

not presume to deliver them in any other. Nero, in the meantime, who

had no particular spite to Paulina, gave orders to prevent her death,

for fear his cruelty should grow more and more insupportable and

odious. Whereupon the soldiers gave all freedom and encouragement to

her servants to bind up her wounds, and stop the blood, which they did

accordingly; but whether she was sensible of it or not is a question.

For among the common people, who are apt to judge the worst, there

were some of opinion, that as long as she despaired of Nero’s mercy,

she seemed to court the glory of dying with her husband for company;

but that upon the likelihood of better quarter she was prevailed upon

to outlive him; and so for some years she did survive him, with all

piety and respect to his memory; but so miserably pale and wan, that

everybody might read the loss of her blood and spirits in her very

countenance.

“Seneca finding his death slow and lingering, desires Statius Annæus

(his old friend and physician) to give him a dose of poison, which he

had provided beforehand, being the same preparation which was appointed

for capital offenders in Athens. This was brought him, and he drank

it up, but to little purpose; for his body was already chilled, and

bound up against the force of it. He went at last into a hot bath, and

sprinkling some of his servants that were next him, this, says he,

is an oblation to Jupiter _the deliverer_. The fume of the bath soon

dispatched him, and his body was burnt, without any funeral solemnity,

as he had directed in his testament: though this will of his was made

in the height of his prosperity and power. There was a rumor that

Subrius Flavius, in a private consultation with the centurions, had

taken up this following resolution, (and that Seneca himself was no

stranger to it) that is to say, that after Nero should have been slain

by the help of Piso, Piso himself should have been killed too; and the

empire delivered up to Seneca, as one that well deserved it, for his

integrity and virtue.”

SENECA OF BENEFITS.

CHAPTER I.

OF BENEFITS IN GENERAL.

It is, perhaps, one of the most pernicious errors of a rash and

inconsiderate life, the common ignorance of the world in the matter of

exchanging _benefits_. And this arises from a mistake, partly in the

person that we would oblige, and partly in the thing itself. To begin

with the latter: “A benefit is a good office, done with intention and

judgment;” that is to say, with a due regard to all the circumstances

of _what_, _how_, _why_, _when_, _where_, _to whom_, _how much_, and

the like; or otherwise: “It is a voluntary and benevolent action that

delights the giver in the comfort it brings to the receiver.” It will

be hard to draw this subject, either into method or compass: the one,

because of the infinite variety and complication of cases; the other,

by reason of the large extent of it: for the whole business (almost)

of mankind in society falls under this head; the duties of kings

and subjects, husbands and wives, parents and children, masters and

servants, natives and strangers, high and low, rich and poor, strong

and weak, friends and enemies. The very meditation of it breeds good

blood and generous thoughts; and instructs us in honor, humanity,

friendship, piety, gratitude, prudence, and justice. In short, the art

and skill of conferring benefits is, of all human duties, the most

absolutely necessary to the well-being, both of reasonable nature, and

of every individual; as the very cement of all communities, and the

blessing of particulars. He that does good to another man does good

also to himself; not only in the consequence, but in the very act of

doing it; for the conscience of well-doing is an ample reward.

Of benefits in general, there are several sorts; as _necessary_,

_profitable_, and _delightful_. Some things there are, without which

we _cannot_ live; others without which we _ought not_ to live; and

some, again, without which we _will not_ live. In the first rank are

those which deliver us from capital dangers, or apprehensions of

death: and the favor is rated according to the hazard; for the greater

the extremity, the greater seems the obligation. The next is a case

wherein we may indeed live, but we had better die; as in the question

of liberty, modesty, and a good conscience. In the third place, follow

those things which custom, use, affinity, and acquaintance, have made

dear to us; as husbands, wives, children, friends, etc., which an

honest man will preserve at his utmost peril. Of things profitable

there is a large field, as money, honor, etc., to which might be

added, matters of superfluity and pleasure. But we shall open a way

to the circumstances of a benefit by some previous and more general

deliberations upon the thing itself.

CHAPTER II.

SEVERAL SORTS OF BENEFITS.

We shall divide _benefits_ into _absolute_ and _vulgar_; the one

appertaining to good life, the other is only matter of commerce. The

former are the more excellent, because they can never be made void;

whereas all material benefits are tossed back and forward, and change

their master. There are some offices that look like benefits, but are

only desirable conveniences, as wealth, etc., and these a wicked man

may receive from a good, or a good man from an evil. Others, again,

that bear the face of injuries, which are only benefits ill taken; as

cutting, lancing, burning, under the hand of a surgeon. The greatest

benefits of all are those of good education, which we receive from our

parents, either in the state of ignorance or perverseness; as, their

care and tenderness in our infancy; their discipline in our childhood,

to keep us to our duties by fear; and, if fair means will not do,

their proceeding afterwards to severity and punishment, without which

we should never have come to good. There are matters of great value,

many times, that are but of small price; as instructions from a tutor,

medicine from a physician, etc. And there are small matters again,

which are of great consideration to us: the gift is small, and the

consequence great; as a cup of cold water in a time of need may save a

man’s life. Some things are of great moment to the giver, others to the

receiver: one man gives me a house; another snatches me out when it is

falling upon my head; one gives me an estate; another takes me out of

the fire, or casts me out a rope when I am sinking. Some good offices

we do to friends, others to strangers; but those are the noblest that

we do without pre-desert. There is an obligation of bounty, and an

obligation of charity; this in case of necessity, and that in point of

convenience. Some benefits are common, others are personal; as if a

prince (out of pure grace) grant a privilege to a city, the obligation

lies upon the community, and only upon every individual as a part of

the whole; but if it be done particularly for my sake, then am I singly

the debtor for it. The cherishing of strangers is one of the duties

of hospitality, and exercises itself in the relief and protection of

the distressed. There are benefits of good counsel, reputation, life,

fortune, liberty, health, nay, and of superfluity and pleasure. One man

obliges me out of his pocket; another gives me matter of ornament and

curiosity; a third, consolation. To say nothing of negative benefits;

for there are that reckon it an obligation if they do a body no hurt;

and place it to account, as if they saved a man, when they do not undo

him. To shut up all in one word; as benevolence is the most sociable of

all virtues, so it is of the largest extent; for there is not any man,

either so great or so little, but he is yet capable of giving and of

receiving benefits.

CHAPTER III.

A SON MAY OBLIGE HIS FATHER, AND A SERVANT HIS MASTER.

The question is (in the first place) whether it may not be possible

for a father to owe more to a son, in other respects, than the son

owes to his father for his being? That many sons are both greater and

better than their fathers, there is no question; as there are many

other things that derive their beings from others, which yet are far

greater than their original. Is not the tree larger than the seed? the

river than the fountain? The foundation of all things lies hid, and

the superstructure obscures it. If I owe all to my father, because he

gives me life, I may owe as much to a physician that saved his life;

for if my father had not been cured, I had never been begotten: or, if

I stand indebted for all that I am to my beginning, my acknowledgment

must run back to the very original of all human beings. My father gave

me the benefit of life: which he had never done, if his father had not

first given it to him. He gave me life, not knowing to whom; and when

I was in a condition neither to feel death nor to fear it. That is the

great benefit, to give life to one that knows how to use it, and that

is capable of the apprehension of death. It is true, that without a

father I could never have had a being; and so, without a nurse, that

being had never been improved: but I do not therefore owe my virtue

either to my nativity or to her that gave me suck. The generation of me

was the last part of the benefit: for to live is common with brutes;

but to live well is the main business; and that virtue is all my own,

saving what I drew from my education. It does not follow that the

_first_ benefit must be the _greatest_, because without the first the

greatest could never have been. The father gives life to the son but

once; but if the son save the father’s life often, though he do but his

duty, it is yet a greater benefit. And again, the benefit that a man

receives is the greater, the more he needs it; but the living has more

need of life than he that is not yet born; so that the father receives

a greater benefit in the continuance of his life than the son in the

beginning of it. What if a son deliver his father from the rack; or,

which is more, lay himself down in his place? The giving of him a being

was but the office of a father; a simple act, a benefit given at a

venture: beside that, he had a participant in it, and a regard to his

family. He gave only a single life, and he received a happy one. My

mother brought me into the world naked, exposed, and void of reason;

but my reputation and my fortune are advanced by my virtue. Scipio (as

yet in his minority) rescued his father in a battle with Hannibal, and

afterward from the practices and persecution of a powerful faction;

covering him with consulary honors, and the spoils of public enemies.

He made himself as eminent for his moderation as for his piety and

military knowledge: he was the defender and the establisher of his

country: he left the empire without a competitor, and made himself as

well the ornament of Rome as the security of it: and did not Scipio,

in all this, more than requite his father barely for begetting of him?

Whether did Anchises more for Æneas, in dandling the child in his arms;

or Æneas for his father, when he carried him upon his back through

the flames of Troy, and made his name famous to future ages among the

founders of the Roman Empire? T. Manlius was the son of a sour and

imperious father, who banished him his house as a blockhead, and a

scandal to the family. This Manlius, hearing that his father’s life was

in question, and a day set for his trial, went to the tribune that was

concerned in his cause, and discoursed with him about it: the tribune

told him the appointed time, and withal (as an obligation upon the

young man) that his cruelty to his son would be part of his accusation.

Manlius, upon this, takes the tribune aside, and presenting a poniard

to his breast, “Swear,” says he, “that you will let this cause fall,

or you shall have this dagger in the heart of you; and now it is at

your choice which way you will deliver my father.” The tribune swore

and kept his word, and made a fair report of the whole matter to the

council. He that makes himself famous by his eloquence, justice, or

arms, illustrates his extraction, let it be never so mean; and gives

inestimable reputation to his parents. We should never have heard of

Sophroniscus, but for his son Socrates; nor for Aristo and Gryllus, if

it had not been for Xenophon and Plato.

This is not to discountenance the veneration we owe to parents; nor

to make children the worse, but the better; and to stir up generous

emulations: for, in contests of good offices, both parties are happy;

as well the vanquished as those that overcome. It is the only honorable

dispute that can arise betwixt a father and son, which of the two

shall have the better of the other in the point of benefits.

In the question betwixt a master and a servant, we must distinguish

betwixt benefits, duties, and actions ministerial. By _benefits_, we

understand those good offices that we receive from strangers, which

are voluntary, and may be forborne without blame. _Duties_ are the

parts of a son and wife, and incumbent upon kindred and relations.

_Offices ministerial_ belong to the part of a servant. Now, since it

is the _mind_, and not the _condition_ of a person, that prints the

value upon the benefit, a servant may oblige his master, and so may a

subject his sovereign, or a common soldier his general, by doing more

than he is expressly bound to do. Some things there are, which the law

neither commands nor forbids; and here the servant is free. It would

be very hard for a servant to be chastised for doing less than his

duty, and not thanked for it when he does more. His body, it is true,

is his master’s, but his mind is his own: and there are many commands

which a servant ought no more to obey than a master to impose. There is

no man so great, but he may both need the help and service, and stand

in fear of the power and unkindness, even of the meanest of mortals.

One servant kills his master; another saves him, nay, preserves his

master’s life, perhaps, with the loss of his own: he exposes himself to

torment and death; he stands firm against all threats and batteries:

which is not only a benefit in a servant, but much the greater for his

being so.

When Domitius was besieged in Corfinium, and the place brought to great

extremity, he pressed his servant so earnestly to poison him, that at

last he was prevailed upon to give him a potion; which, it seems, was

an innocent opiate, and Domitius outlived it: Cæsar took the town, and

gave Domitius his life, but it was his servant that gave it him first.

There was another town besieged, and when it was upon the last pinch,

two servants made their escape, and went over to the enemy: upon the

Romans entering the town, and in the heat of the soldiers’ fury, these

two fellows ran directly home, took their mistress out of her house,

and drove her before them, telling every body how barbarously she had

used them formerly, and that they would now have their revenge; when

they had her without the gates, they kept her close till the danger was

over; by which means they gave their mistress her life, and she gave

them their freedom. This was not the action of a servile mind, to do so

glorious a thing, under an appearance of so great a villainy; for if

they had not passed for deserters and parricides, they could not have

gained their end.

With one instance more (and that a very brave one) I shall conclude

this chapter.

In the civil wars of Rome, a party coming to search for a person of

quality that was proscribed, a servant put on his master’s clothes,

and delivered himself up to the soldiers as the master of the house;

he was taken into custody, and put to death, without discovering the

mistake. What could be more glorious, than for a servant to die for his

master, in that age, when there were not many servants that would not

betray their masters? So generous a tenderness in a public cruelty;

so invincible a faith in a general corruption; what could be more

glorious, I say, than so exalted a virtue, as rather to choose death

for the reward of his fidelity, than the greatest advantages he might

otherwise have had for the violation of it?

CHAPTER IV.

IT IS THE INTENTION, NOT THE MATTER, THAT MAKES THE BENEFIT.

The _good-will_ of the benefactor is the fountain of all benefits;

nay it is the benefit itself, or, at least, the stamp that makes it

valuable and current. Some there are, I know, that take the matter

for the benefit, and tax the obligation by weight and measure. When

anything is given them, they presently cast it up; “What may such a

house be worth? such an office? such an estate?” as if that were the

benefit which is only the sign and mark of it: for the obligation

rests in the mind, not in the matter; and all those advantages which

we see, handle, or hold in actual possession by the courtesy of

another, are but several modes or ways of explaining and putting the

good-will in execution. There needs no great subtlety to prove, that

both benefits and injuries receive their value from the intention,

when even brutes themselves are able to decide this question. Tread

upon a dog by chance, or put him to pain upon the dressing of a wound;

the one he passes by as an accident; and the other, in his fashion, he

acknowledges as a kindness: but, offer to strike at him, though you

do him no hurt at all, he flies yet in the face of you, even for the

mischief that you barely meant him.

It is further to be observed, that all benefits are good; and (like the

distributions of Providence) made up of wisdom and bounty; whereas the

gift itself is neither good nor bad, but may indifferently be applied,

either to the one or to the other. The benefit is immortal, the gift

perishable: for the benefit itself continues when we have no longer

either the use or the matter of it. He that is dead was alive; he that

has lost his eyes, did see; and, whatsoever is done, cannot be rendered

undone. My friend (for instance) is taken by pirates; I redeem him; and

after that he falls into other pirates’ hands; his obligation to me is

the same still as if he had preserved his freedom. And so, if I save

a man from any misfortune, and he falls into another; if I give him a

sum of money, which is afterwards taken away by thieves; it comes to

the same case. Fortune may deprive us of the matter of a benefit, but

the benefit itself remains inviolable. If the benefit resided in the

matter, that which is good for one man would be so for another; whereas

many times the very same thing, given to several persons, work contrary

effects, even to the difference of life or death; and that which is one

body’s cure proves another body’s poison. Beside that, the timing of

it alters the value; and a crust of bread, upon a pinch, is a greater

present than an imperial crown. What is more familiar than in a battle

to shoot at an enemy and kill a friend? or, instead of a friend, to

save an enemy? But yet this disappointment, in the event, does not at

all operate upon the intention. What if a man cures me of a wen with

a stroke that was designed to cut off my head? or, with a malicious

blow upon my stomach, breaks an imposthume? or, what if he saves my

life with a draught that was prepared to poison me? The providence

of the issue does not at all discharge the obliquity of the intent.

And the same reason holds good even in religion itself. It is not the

incense, or the offering, that is acceptable to God, but the purity and

devotion of the worshipper: neither is the bare will, without action,

sufficient, that is, where we have the means of acting; for, in that

case, it signifies as little to _wish_ well, without _well-doing_, as

to _do_ good without _willing_ it. There must be effect as well as

intention, to make me owe a benefit; but, to will against it, does

wholly discharge it. In fine, the conscience alone is the judge, both

of benefits and injuries.

It does not follow now, because the benefit rests in the good-will,

that therefore the good-will should be always a benefit; for if it be

not accompanied with government and discretion, those offices, which we

call _benefits_, are but the works of passion, or of chance; and many

times, the greatest of all injuries. One man does me good by mistake;

another ignorantly; a third upon force: but none of these cases do I

take to be an obligation; for they were neither directed to me, nor

was there any kindness of intention; we do not thank the seas for the

advantages we receive by navigation; or the rivers with supplying us

with fish and flowing of our grounds; we do not thank the trees either

for their fruits or shades, or the winds for a fair gale; and what is

the difference betwixt a reasonable creature that does not know and

an inanimate that cannot? A good _horse_ saves one man’s life; a good

suit of _arms_ another’s; and a _man_, perhaps, that never intended it,

saves a third. Where is the difference now betwixt the obligation of

one and of the other? A man falls into a river, and the fright cures

him of the ague; we may call this a kind of lucky mischance, but not

a remedy. And so it is with the good we receive, either without, or

beside, or contrary to intention. It is the mind, and not the event,

that distinguishes a benefit from an injury.

CHAPTER V.

THERE MUST BE JUDGMENT IN A BENEFIT, AS WELL AS MATTER AND INTENTION;

AND ESPECIALLY IN THE CHOICE OF THE PERSON.

As it is the _will_ that designs the benefit, and the _matter_ that

conveys it, so it is the _judgment_ that perfects it; which depends

upon so many critical niceties, that the least error, either in the

person, the matter, the manner, the quality, the quantity, the time, or

the place, spoils all.

The consideration of the _person_ is a main point: for we are to give

by choice, and not by hazard. My inclination bids me oblige one man; I

am bound in duty and justice to serve another; here it is a charity,

there it is pity; and elsewhere, perhaps, encouragement. There are some

that want, to whom I would not give; because, if I did, they would want

still. To one man I would barely offer a benefit; but I would press it

upon another. To say the truth, we do not employ any more profit than

that which we bestow; and it is not to our friends, our acquaintances

or countrymen, nor to this or that condition of men, that we are to

restrain our bounties; but wheresoever there is a man, there is a place

and occasion for a benefit. We give to some that are good already; to

others, in hope to make them so: but we must do all with discretion;

for we are as well answerable for what we give as for what we receive;

nay, the misplacing of a benefit is worse than the not receiving of it;

for the one is another man’s fault; but the other is mine. The error

of the giver does oft-times excuse the ingratitude of the receiver:

for a favor ill-placed is rather a profusion than a benefit. It is the

most shameful of losses, an inconsiderate bounty. I will choose a man

of integrity, sincere, considerate, grateful, temperate, well-natured,

neither covetous nor sordid: and when I have obliged such a man, though

not worth a groat in the world, I have gained my end. If we give only

to receive, we lose the fairest objects of our charity: the absent,

the sick, the captive, and the needy. When we oblige those that can

never pay us again in kind, as a stranger upon his last farewell, or a

necessitous person upon his death-bed, we make Providence our debtor,

and rejoice in the conscience even of a fruitless benefit. So long as

we are affected with passions, and distracted with hopes and fears,

and (the most unmanly of vices) with our pleasures, we are incompetent

judges where to place our bounties: but when death presents itself,

and that we come to our last will and testament, we leave our fortunes

to the most worthy. He that gives nothing, but in hopes of receiving,

must die intestate. It is the honesty of another man’s mind that moves

the kindness of mine; and I would sooner oblige a grateful man than

an ungrateful: but this shall not hinder me from doing good also to a

person that is known to be ungrateful: only with this difference, that

I will serve the one in all extremities with my life and fortune, and

the other no farther than stands with my convenience. But what shall

I do, you will say, to know whether a man will be grateful or not? I

will follow probability, and hope the best. He that sows is not sure

to reap; nor the seaman to reach his port; nor the soldier to win

the field: he that weds is not sure his wife shall be honest, or his

children dutiful: but shall we therefore neither sow, sail, bear arms,

nor marry? Nay, if I knew a man to be incurably thankless, I would yet

be so kind as to put him in his way, or let him light a candle at mine,

or draw water at my well; which may stand him perhaps in great stead,

and yet not be reckoned as a benefit from me; for I do it carelessly,

and not for his sake, but my own; as an office of humanity, without any

choice or kindness.

CHAPTER VI.

THE MATTER OF OBLIGATIONS, WITH ITS CIRCUMSTANCES.

Next to the choice of the _person_ follows that of the _matter_;

wherein a regard must be had to time, place, proportion, quality;

and to the very nicks of opportunity and humor. One man values his

peace above his honor, another his honor above his safety; and not

a few there are that (provided they may save their bodies) never

care what becomes of their souls. So that good offices depend much

upon construction. Some take themselves to be obliged, when they are

not; others will not believe it, when they are; and some again take

obligations and injuries, the one for the other.

For our better direction, let it be noted, “That a benefit is a common

tie betwixt the giver and receiver, with respect to both:” wherefore

it must be accommodated to the rules of discretion; for all things

have their bounds and measures, and so must liberality among the rest;

that it be neither too much for the one nor too little for the other;

the excess being every jot as bad as the defect. Alexander bestowed a

city upon one of his favorites; who modestly excusing himself, “That

it was too much for him to receive.” “Well, but,” says Alexander, “it

is not too much for me to give.” A haughty certainly, and an imprudent

speech; for that which was not fit for the one to take could not be

fit for the other to give. It passes in the world for greatness of mind

to be perpetually giving and loading of people with bounties; but it is

one thing to know how to _give_, and another thing not to know how to

_keep_. Give me a heart that is easy and open, but I will have no holes

in it; let it be bountiful with judgment, but I will have nothing run

out of it I know not how. How much greater was he that refused the city

than the other that offered it? Some men throw away their money as if

they were angry with it, which is the error commonly of weak minds and

large fortunes. No man esteems of anything that comes to him by chance;

but when it is governed by reason, it brings credit both to the giver

and receiver; whereas those favors are, in some sort, scandalous, that

make a man ashamed of his patron.

It is a matter of great prudence, for the benefactor to suit the

benefit to the condition of the receiver: who must be either his

superior, his inferior, or his equal; and that which would be the

highest obligation imaginable to the one, would perhaps be as great a

mockery and affront to the other; as a plate of broken meat (for the

purpose) to a rich man were an indignity, which to a poor man is a

charity. The benefits of princes and of great men, are honors, offices,

monies, profitable commissions, countenance, and protection: the poor

man has nothing to present but good-will, good advice, faith, industry,

the service and hazard of his person, an early apple, peradventure, or

some other cheap curiosity: equals indeed may correspond in kind; but

whatsoever the present be, or to whomsoever we offer it, this general

rule must be observed, that we always design the good and satisfaction

of the receiver, and never grant anything to his detriment. It is not

for a man to say, I was overcome by importunity; for when the fever is

off, we detest the man that was prevailed upon to our destruction. I

will no more undo a man with his will, than forbear saving him against

it. It is a benefit in some cases to grant, and in others to deny; so

that we are rather to consider the advantage than the desire of the

petitioner. For we may in a passion earnestly beg for (and take it ill

to be denied too) that very thing, which, upon second thoughts, we may

come to curse, as the occasion of a most pernicious bounty. Never give

anything that shall turn to mischief, infamy, or shame. I will consider

another man’s want or safety; but so as not to forget my own; unless

in the case of a very excellent person, and then I shall not much

heed what becomes of myself. There is no giving of water to a man in

a fever; or putting a sword into a madman’s hand. He that lends a man

money to carry him to a bawdy-house, or a weapon for his revenge, makes

himself a partaker of his crime.

He that would make an acceptable present, will pitch upon something

that is desired, sought for, and hard to be found; that which he sees

nowhere else, and which few have; or at least not in that place or

season; something that may be always in his eye, and mind him of his

benefactor. If it be lasting and durable, so much the better; as plate,

rather than money; statues than apparel; for it will serve as a monitor

to mind the receiver of the obligation, which the presenter cannot so

handsomely do. However, let it not be improper, as arms to a woman,

books to a clown, toys to a philosopher: I will not give to any man

that which he cannot receive, as if I threw a ball to a man without

hands; but I will make a _return_, though he cannot receive it; for my

business is not to oblige him, but to free myself: nor anything that

may reproach a man of his vice or infirmity; as false dice to a cheat;

spectacles to a man that is blind. Let it not be unseasonable neither;

as a furred gown in summer, an umbrella in winter. It enhances the

value of the present, if it was never given to him by anybody else, nor

by me to any other; for that which we give to everybody is welcome to

nobody.

The particularity does much, but yet the same thing may receive

a different estimate from several persons; for there are ways of

marking and recommending it in such a manner, that if the same _good

office_ be done to twenty people, every one of them shall reckon

himself peculiarly obliged as a cunning whore, if she has a thousand

sweethearts, will persuade every one of them she loves him best. But

this is rather the artifice of conversation than the virtue of it.

The citizens of Megara send ambassadors to Alexander in the height of

his glory, to offer him, as a compliment, the freedom of their city.

Upon Alexander’s smiling at the proposal, they told him, that it was

a present which they had never made but to Hercules and himself.

Whereupon Alexander treated them kindly, and accepted of it; not for

the presenters’ sake, but because they had joined him with Hercules;

now unreasonably soever; for Hercules conquered nothing for himself,

but made his business to vindicate and to protect the miserable,

without any private interest or design; but this intemperate young

man (whose virtue was nothing else but a successful temerity) was

trained up from his youth in the trade of violence; the common enemy

of mankind, as well of his friends as of his foes, and one that valued

himself upon being terrible to all mortals: never considering, that the

dullest creatures are as dangerous and as dreadful, as the fiercest;

for the poison of a toad, or the tooth of a snake, will do a man’s

business, as sure as the paw of a tiger.

CHAPTER VII.

THE MANNER OF OBLIGING.

There is not any benefit so glorious in itself, but it may yet be

exceedingly sweetened and improved by the _manner_ of conferring it.

The virtue, I know, rests in the _intent,_ the profit in the judicious

application of the _matter_; but the beauty and ornament of an

obligation lies in the _manner_ of it; and it is then perfect when the

dignity of the office is accompanied with all the charms and delicacies

of humanity, good-nature, and address; and with dispatch too; for he

that puts a man off from time to time, was never right at heart.

In the first place, whatsoever we give, let us do it _frankly_: a

kind benefactor makes a man happy as _soon_ as he can, and as _much_

as he can. There should be no _delay_ in a benefit but the modesty

of the receiver. If we cannot forsee the request, let us, however,

immediately grant it, and by no means suffer the repeating of it. It

is so grievous a thing to say, _I BEG_; the very word puts a man out

of countenance; and it is a double kindness to do the thing, and save

an honest man the confusion of a blush. It comes too late that comes

for the asking: for nothing costs us so dear as that we purchase with

our prayers: it is all we give, even for heaven itself; and even there

too, where our petitions are at the fairest, we choose rather to

present them in secret ejaculations than by word of mouth. That is the

lasting and the acceptable benefit that meets the receiver half-way.

The rule is, we are to _give_, as we would _receive_, _cheerfully_,

_quickly_, and without _hesitation_; for there is no grace in a benefit

that sticks to the fingers. Nay, if there should be occasion for delay,

let us, however, not seem to deliberate; for _demurring_ is next door

to _denying_; and so long as we suspend, so long are we unwilling. It

is a court-humor to keep people upon the tenters; their injuries are

quick and sudden, but their benefits are slow. Great ministers love

to rack men with attendance, and account it an ostentation of their

power to hold their suitors in hand, and to have many witnesses of

their interest. A benefit should be made acceptable by all possible

means, even to the end that the receiver, who is never to forget it,

may bear it in his mind with satisfaction. There must be no mixture of

sourness, severity, contumely, or reproof, with our obligations; nay,

in case there should be any occasion for so much as an admonition, let

it be referred to another time. We are a great deal apter to remember

injuries than benefits; and it is enough to forgive an obligation that

has the nature of an offence.

There are some that spoil a good office after it is done and others,

in the very instant of doing it. There be so much entreaty and

importunity; nay, if we do but suspect a petitioner, we put on a sour

face; look another way; pretend haste, company, business; talk of other

matters, and keep him off with artificial delays, let his necessities

be never so pressing; and when we are put to it at last, it comes so

hard from us that it is rather extorted than obtained; and not so

properly the giving of a bounty, as the quitting of a man’s hold upon

the tug, when another is too strong for him; so that this is but doing

one kindness for me, and another for himself: he gives for his own

quiet, after he has tormented me with difficulties and delays. The

_manner_ of _saying_ or of _doing_ any thing, goes a great way in the

value of the thing itself. It was well said of him that called a good

office, that was done harshly, and with an ill will, a _stony piece

of bread_; it is necessary for him that is hungry to receive it, but

it almost chokes a man in the going down. There must be no pride,

arrogance of looks, or tumor of words, in the bestowing of benefits; no

insolence of behavior, but a modesty of mind, and a diligent care to

catch at occasions and prevent necessities. A pause, an unkind tone,

word, look, or action, destroys the grace of a courtesy. It corrupts a

bounty, when it is accompanied with state, haughtiness, and elation of

mind, in the giving of it. Some have a trick of shifting off a suitor

with a point of wit, or a cavil. As in the case of the Cynic that

begged a talent of Antigonus: “That is too much,” says he, “for a Cynic

to ask;” and when he fell to a penny, “That is too little,” says he,

“for a prince to give.” He might have found a way to have compounded

this controversy, by giving him a _penny_ as to a _Cynic_ and a

_talent_ as from a _prince_. Whatsoever we bestow, let it be done with

a frank and cheerful countenance: a man must not give with his hand,

and deny with his looks. He that gives quickly, gives willingly.

We are likewise to accompany _good deeds_ with _good words,_ and say,

(for the purpose,) “Why should you make such a matter of this? why

did not you come to me sooner? why would you make use of any body

else? I take it ill that you should bring me a recommendation; pray

let there be no more of this, but when you have occasion hereafter,

come to me upon your own account.” That is the glorious bounty, when

the receiver can say to himself; “What a blessed day has this been

to me! never was any thing done so generously, so tenderly, with so

good a grace. What is it I would not do to serve this man? A thousand

times as much another way could not have given me this satisfaction.”

In such a case, let the benefit be never so considerable, the manner

of conferring it is yet the noblest part. Where there is harshness of

language, countenance, or behavior, a man had better be without it. A

flat denial is infinitely before a vexatious delay: as a quick death is

a mercy, compared with a lingering torment. But to be put to waitings

and intercessions, after a promise is passed, is a cruelty intolerable.

It is troublesome to stay long for a benefit, let it be never so great;

and he that holds me needlessly in pain, loses two precious things,

time, and the proof of friendship. Nay, the very hint of a man’s want

comes many times too late. “If I had money,” said Socrates, “I would

buy me a cloak.” They that knew he wanted one should have prevented

the very intimation of that want. It is not the value of the present,

but the benevolence of the mind, that we are to consider. “He gave me

but a little, but it was generously and frankly done; it was a little

out of a little: he gave it me without asking; he pressed it upon me;

he watched the opportunity of doing it, and took it as an obligation

upon himself.” On the other side, many benefits are great in show, but

little or nothing perhaps in effect, when they come hard, slow, or at

unawares. That which is given with pride and ostentation, is rather an

ambition than a bounty.

Some favors are to be conferred in _public_, others in _private_.

In _public_ the rewards of great actions; as honors, charges, or

whatsoever else gives a man reputation in the world; but the good

offices we do for a man in want, distress, or under reproach, these

should be known only to those that have the benefit of them. Nay, not

to them neither, if we can handsomely conceal it from whence the favor

came; for the secrecy, in many cases, is a main part of the benefit.

There was a good man that had a friend, who was both poor and sick,

and ashamed to own his condition: he privately conveyed a bag of money

under his pillow, that he might seem rather to find than receive it.

Provided I know that I give it, no matter for his knowing from whence

it comes that receives it. Many a man stands in need of help that has

not the face to confess it: if the discovery may give offence, let it

lie concealed; he that gives to be seen would never relieve a man in

the dark. It would be too tedious to run through all the niceties that

may occur upon this subject; but, in two words, he must be a wise, a

friendly, and a well-bred man, that perfectly acquits himself in the

art and duty of obliging: for all his actions must be squared according

to the measures of _civility_, _good-nature_ and _discretion._

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DIFFERENCE AND VALUE OF BENEFITS.

We have already spoken of _benefits_ in _general_; the _matter_ and

the _intention_, together with the _manner_ of conferring them. It

follows now, in course, to say something of the _value_ of them; which

is rated, either by the good they do us, or by the inconvenience they

save us, and has no other standard than that of a judicious regard

to circumstance and occasion. Suppose I save a man from drowning,

the advantage of life is all one to him, from what hand soever it

comes, or by what means; but yet there may be a vast difference in the

obligation. I may do it with hazard, or with security, with trouble, or

with ease; willingly, or by compulsion; upon intercession, or without

it: I may have a prospect of vain-glory or profit: I may do it in

kindness to another, or an hundred _by-ends_ to myself; and every point

does exceedingly vary the case. Two persons may part with the same sum

of money, and yet not the same benefit: the one had it of his _own_,

and it was but a _little_ out of a _great deal_; the other _borrowed_

it, and bestowed upon me that which he wanted for himself. Two boys

were sent out to fetch a certain person to their master: the one of

them hunts up and down, and comes home again weary, without finding

him; the other falls to play with his companions at the wheel of

Fortune, sees him by chance passing by, delivers him his errand, and

brings him. He that found him by chance deserves to be punished; and he

that sought for him, and missed him, to be rewarded for his good-will.

In some cases we value the _thing_, in others the _labor_ and

_attendance_. What can be more precious than good manners, good

letters, life, and health? and yet we pay our physicians and tutors

only for their service in the professions. If we buy things cheap, it

matters not, so long as it is a bargain: it is no obligation from the

seller, if nobody else will give him more for it. What would not a

man give to be set ashore in a tempest? for a house in a wilderness?

a shelter in a storm? a fire, or a bit of meat, when a man is pinched

with hunger or cold? a defence against thieves, and a thousand other

matters of moment, that cost but little? And yet we know that the

skipper has but his freight for our passage; and the carpenters and

bricklayers do their work by the day. Those are many times the greatest

obligations in truth, which in vulgar opinions are the smallest: as

comfort to the sick, poor captives; good counsel, keeping of people

from wickedness, etc. Wherefore we should reckon ourselves to owe most

for the noblest benefits. If the physician adds care and friendship

to the duty of his calling, and the tutor to the common method of his

business, I am to esteem them as the nearest of my relations: for to

watch with me, to be troubled for me, and to put off all other patients

for my sake, is a particular kindness: and so it is in my tutor, if

he takes more pains with me than with the rest of my fellows. It is

not enough, in this case, to pay the one his fees, and the other his

salary; but I am indebted to them over and above for their friendship.

The meanest of mechanics, if he does his work with industry and care,

it is an usual thing to cast in something by way of reward more than

the bare agreement: and shall we deal worse with the preservers of our

lives, and the reformers of our manners? He that gives me himself (if

he be worth taking) gives the greatest benefit: and this is the present

which Æschines, a poor disciple of Socrates, made to his master, and as

a matter of great consideration: “Others may have given you much,” says

he, “but I am the only man that has left nothing to himself.” “This

gift,” says Socrates, “you shall never repent of; for I will take care

to return it better than I found it.” So that a brave mind can never

want matter for liberality in the meanest condition; for Nature has

been so kind to us, that where we have nothing of Fortune’s, we may

bestow something of our own.

It falls out often, that a benefit is followed with an injury; let

which will be foremost, it is with the latter as with one writing

upon another; it does in a great measure hide the former, and keep it

from appearing, but it does not quite take it away. We may in some

cases divide them, and both requite the one, and revenge the other;

or otherwise compare them, to know whether I am creditor or debtor.

You have obliged me in my servant, but wounded me in my brother; you

have saved my son, but have destroyed my father; in this instance, I

will allow as much as piety, and justice, and good nature, will bear;

but I am not willing to set an injury against a benefit. I would

have some respect to the time; the obligation came first; and then,

perhaps, the one was designed, the other against his will; under these

considerations I would amplify the benefit, and lessen the injury; and

extinguish the one with the other; nay, I would pardon the injury even

_without_ the benefit, but much more _after_ it. Not that a man can be

bound by one benefit to suffer all sorts of injuries; for there are

some cases wherein we lie under no obligation for a benefit; because

a greater injury absolves it: as, for example, a man helps me out of

a law-suit, and afterwards commits a rape upon my daughter; where the

following impiety cancels the antecedent obligation. A man lends me a

little money, and then sets my house on fire; the debtor is here turned

creditor, when the injury outweighs the benefit. Nay, if a man does

but so much as repent the good office done, and grow sour and insolent

upon it, and upbraid me with it; if he did it only for his own sake, or

for any other reason than for mine, I am in some degree, more or less,

acquitted of the obligation. I am not at all beholden to him that makes

me the instrument of his own advantage. He that does me good for his

own sake, I will do him good for mine.

Suppose a man makes suit for a place, and cannot obtain it, but upon

the ransom of ten slaves out of the galleys. If there be ten, and

_no more_, they owe him nothing for their redemption; but _they_ are

indebted to him for the choice, where he might have taken ten others

as well as these. Put the case again, that by an act of grace so many

prisoners are to be released, their names to be drawn by lot, and mine

happens to come out among the rest: one part of my obligation is to him

that put me in a capacity of freedom, and the other is to Providence

for my being one of that number. The greatest benefits of all have no

witnesses, but lie concealed in the conscience.

There is a great difference betwixt a common obligation and a

particular; he that lends my country money, obliges me only as a part

of the whole. Plato crossed the river, and the ferry-man would take no

money of him: he reflected upon it as honor done to himself; and told

him, “That Plato was in debt.” But Plato, when he found it to be no

more than he did for others, recalled his words, “For,” says he, “Plato

will owe nothing in particular for a benefit in common; what I owe with

others, I will pay with others.”

Some will have it that the necessity of wishing a man well is some

abatement to the obligation in the doing of him a good office. But I

say, on the contrary, that it is the greater; because the good-will

cannot be changed. It is one thing to say, that a man could not but

do me this or that civility, because he was forced to do it; and

another thing, that he could not quit the good-will of doing it. In

the former case, I am a debtor to him that imposeth the force, in

the other to himself. The unchangeable good-will is an indispensable

obligation: and, to say, that nature cannot go out of her course, does

not discharge us of _what we owe to Providence_. Shall he be said to

will, that may change his mind the next moment? and shall we question

the will of the Almighty, whose nature admits no change? Must the

stars quit their stations, and fall foul one upon another? must the

sun stand still in the middle of his course, and heaven and earth drop

into confusion? must a devouring fire seize upon the universe; the

harmony of the creation be dissolved; and the whole frame of nature

swallowed up in a dark abyss; and will nothing less than this serve to

convince the world of their audacious and impertinent follies? It is

not to say, that _these heavenly bodies are not made for us_; for in

part they are so; and we are the better for their virtues and motions,

whether we will or not; though, undoubtedly, the principal cause is

the unalterable law of God. Providence is not moved by anything from

without; but the Divine will is an everlasting law, an immutable

decree; and the impossibility of variation proceeds from God’s purpose

of preserving; for he never repents of his first counsels. It is not

with our heavenly as with our earthly father. God thought of us and

provided for us, before he made us: (for unto him all future events

are present.) Man was not the work of chance; his mind carries him

above the slight of fortune, and naturally aspires to the contemplation

of heaven and divine mysteries. How desperate a frenzy is it now to

undervalue, nay, to contemn and to disclaim these divine blessings,

without which we are utterly incapable of enjoying any other!

CHAPTER IX.

AN HONEST MAN CANNOT BE OUTDONE IN COURTESY.

It passes in the world for a generous and magnificent saying, that “it

is a shame for a man to be outdone in courtesy;” and it is worth the

while to examine, both the truth of it, and the mistake. First, there

can be no shame in a virtuous emulation; and, secondly, there can be

no victory without crossing the cudgels, and yielding the cause. One

man may have the advantage of strength, of means, of fortune; and this

will undoubtedly operate upon the events of good purposes, but yet

without any diminution to the virtue. The good will may be the same in

both, and yet one may have the heels of the other; for it is not in a

good office as in a course, where he wins the plate that comes first to

the post: and even there also, chance has many times a great hand in

the success. Where the contest is about benefits; and that the one has

not only a _good will_, but _matter_ to work upon, and a power to put

that good intent in execution; and the other has barely a _good-will_,

without either the _means_, or the _occasion_, of a requital; if he

does but affectionately wish it, and endeavor it, the latter is no more

overcome in courtesy than he is in courage that dies with his sword in

his hand, and his face to the enemy, and without shrinking maintains

his station: for where _fortune_ is _par__tial_, it is enough that

the _good-will_ is _equal_. There are two errors in this proposition:

first, to imply that a good man may be overcome; and then to imagine

that anything shameful can befall him. The Spartans prohibited all

those exercises where the victory was declared by the confession of

the contendant. The 300 Fabii were never said to be _conquered_, but

_slain_; nor Regulus to be _overcome_, though he was taken _prisoner_

by the Carthaginians. The mind may stand firm under the greatest malice

and iniquity of fortune; and yet the giver and receiver continue upon

equal terms: as we reckon it a drawn battle, when two combatants are

parted, though the one has lost more blood than the other. He that

knows how to owe a courtesy, and heartily wishes that he could requite

it, is invincible; so that every man may be as grateful as he pleases.

It is your happiness to give, it is my fortune that I can only receive.

What advantage now has your chance over my virtue? But there are some

men that have philosophized themselves almost out of the sense of human

affections; as Diogenes, that walked naked and unconcerned through

the middle of Alexander’s treasures, and was, as well in other men’s

opinions as in his own, even above Alexander himself, who at that

time had the whole world at his feet: for there was more that the one

scorned to take than that the other had it in his power to give: and it

is a greater generosity for a beggar to refuse money than for a prince

to bestow it. This is a remarkable instance of an immovable mind, and

there is hardly any contending with it; but a man is never the less

valiant for being worsted by an invulnerable enemy; nor the fire one

jot the weaker for not consuming an incombustible body; nor a sword

ever a whit the worse for not cleaving a rock that is impenetrable;

neither is a grateful mind overcome for want of an answerable fortune.

No matter for the inequality of the things given and received, so long

as, in point of good affection, the two parties stand upon the same

level. It is no shame not to overtake a man, if we follow him as fast

as we can. That tumor of a man, the vain-glorious Alexander, was used

to make his boast, that never any man went beyond him in benefits; and

yet he lived to see a poor fellow in a tub, to whom there was nothing

that he could give, and from whom there was nothing that he could take

away.

Nor is it always necessary for a poor man to fly to the sanctuary of

an invincible mind to quit scores with the bounties of a plentiful

fortune; but it does often fall out, that the returns which he cannot

make in _kind_ are more than supplied in _dignity_ and _value_.

Archelaus, a king of Macedon, invited Socrates to his palace: but he

excused himself, as unwilling to receive greater benefits than he

was able to requite. This perhaps was not _pride_ in Socrates, but

_craft_; for he was afraid of being forced to accept of something

which might possibly have been unworthy of him; beside, that he was

a man of liberty, and loath to make himself a voluntary slave. The

truth of it is, that Archelaus had more need of Socrates than Socrates

of Archelaus; for he wanted a man to teach him the art of life and

death, and the skill of government, and to read the book of Nature to

him, and show him the light at noon-day: he wanted a man that, when

the sun was in an eclipse, and he had locked himself up in all the

horror and despair imaginable; he wanted a man, I say, to deliver

him from his apprehensions, and to expound the prodigy to him, by

telling him, that there was no more in it than only that the _moon_

was got betwixt the _sun_ and the _earth_, and all would be well again

presently. Let the world judge now, whether Archelaus’ _bounty_, or

Socrates’ _philosophy_, would have been the greater present: he does

not understand the value of wisdom and friendship that does not know

a wise friend to be the noblest of presents. A rarity scarce to be

found, not only in a family, but in an age; and nowhere more wanted

than where there seems to be the greatest store. The greater a man is,

the more need he has of him; and the more difficulty there is both

of finding and of knowing him. Nor is it to be said, that “I cannot

requite such a benefactor because I am poor, and have it not;” I can

give good counsel; a conversation wherein he may take both delight and

profit; freedom of discourse, without flattery; kind attention, where

he deliberates; and faith inviolable where he trusts; I may bring him

to a love and knowledge of truth; deliver him from the errors of his

credulity, and teach him to distinguish betwixt friends and parasites.

CHAPTER X.

THE QUESTION DISCUSSED, WHETHER OR NOT A MAN MAY GIVE OR RETURN A

BENEFIT TO HIMSELF?

There are many cases, wherein a man speaks of himself as of another.

As, for example, “I may thank myself for this; I am angry at myself; I

hate myself for that.” And this way of speaking has raised a dispute

among the Stoics, “whether or not a man may give or return a benefit to

himself?” For, say they, if I may hurt myself, I may oblige myself; and

that which were a benefit to another body, why is it not so to myself?

And why am I not as criminal in being ungrateful to myself as if I were

so to another body? And the case is the same in flattery and several

other vices; as, on the other side, it is a point of great reputation

for a man to command himself. Plato thanked Socrates for what he had

_learned_ of him; and why might not Socrates as well thank Plato for

that which he had _taught_ him? “That which you want,” says Plato,

“borrow it of yourself.” And why may not I as well give to myself as

lend? If I may be angry with myself, I may thank myself; and if I chide

myself, I may as well commend myself, and do myself good as well as

hurt; there is the same reason of contraries: it is a common thing to

say, “Such a man hath done himself an injury.” If an injury, why not a

benefit? But I say, that no man can be a debtor to himself; for the

benefit must naturally precede the acknowledgment; and a debtor can

no more be without a creditor than a husband without a wife. Somebody

must give, that somebody may receive; and it is neither giving nor

receiving, the passing of a thing from one hand to the other. What

if a man should be ungrateful in the case? there is nothing lost;

for he that gives it has it: and he that gives and he that receives

are one and the same person. Now, properly speaking, no man can be

said to bestow any thing upon himself, for he obeys his nature, that

prompts every man to do himself all the good he can. Shall I call him

liberal, that gives to himself; or good-natured, that pardons himself;

or pitiful, that is affected with his own misfortunes? That which

were bounty, clemency, compassion, to another, to myself is nature.

A benefit is a voluntary thing; but to do good to myself is a thing

necessary. Was ever any man commended for getting out of a ditch, or

for helping himself against thieves? Or what if I should allow, that a

man might confer a benefit upon himself; yet he cannot owe it, for he

returns it in the same instant that he receives it. No man gives, owes,

or makes a return, but to another. How can one man do that to which two

parties are requisite in so many respects? Giving and receiving must

go backward and forward betwixt two persons. If a man give to himself,

he may sell to himself; but to sell is to alienate a thing, and to

translate the right of it to another; now, to make a man both the giver

and the receiver is to unite two contraries. That is a benefit, which,

when it is given, may possibly not be requited; but he that gives to

himself, must necessarily receive what he gives; beside, that all

benefits are given for the receiver’s sake, but that which a man does

for himself, is for the sake of the giver.

This is one of those subtleties, which, though hardly worth a man’s

while, yet it is not labor absolutely lost neither. There is more of

trick and artifice in it than solidity; and yet there is matter of

diversion too; enough perhaps to pass away a winter’s evening, and keep

a man waking that is heavy-headed.

CHAPTER XI.

HOW FAR ONE MAN MAY BE OBLIGED FOR A BENEFIT DONE TO ANOTHER.

The question now before us requires _distinction_ and _caution_. For

though it be both natural and generous to wish well to my friend’s

friend, yet a _second-hand benefit_ does not bind me any further than

to a _second-hand gratitude_: so that I may receive great satisfaction

and advantage from a good office done to my friend, and yet lie under

no obligation myself; or, if any man thinks otherwise, I must ask

him, in the first place, Where it begins? and, How it extends? that

it may not be boundless. Suppose a man obliges the son, does that

obligation work upon the father? and why not upon the uncle too? the

brother? the wife? the sister? the mother? nay, upon all that have any

kindness for him? and upon all the lovers of his friends? and upon all

that love them too? and so _in infinitum_. In this case we must have

recourse, as is said heretofore, to the intention of the benefactor,

and fix the obligation upon him unto whom the kindness was directed.

If a man manures my ground, keeps my house from burning or falling,

it is a benefit to me, for I am the better for it, and my house and

land are insensible. But if he save the life of my son, the benefit is

to my son; it is a joy and a comfort to me, but no obligation. I am

as much concerned as I ought to be in the health, the felicity, and

the welfare of my son, as happy in the enjoyment of him; and I should

be as unhappy as is possible in his loss; but it does not follow that

I must of necessity lie under an obligation for being either happier

or less miserable, by another body’s means. There are some benefits,

which although conferred upon one man, may yet work upon others; as

a sum of money may be given to a poor man for his own sake, which in

the consequence proves the relief of his whole family; but still the

immediate receiver is the debtor for it; for the question is not, to

whom it comes afterward to be transferred, but who is the principal?

and upon whom it was first bestowed? My son’s life is as dear to me

as my own; and in saving him you preserve me too: in this case I will

acknowledge myself obliged to you, that is to say, in my son’s name;

for in my own, and in strictness, I am not; but I am content to make

myself a voluntary debtor. What if he had borrowed money? my paying

of it does not at all make it my debt. It would put me to the blush

perhaps to have him taken in bed with another man’s wife; but that does

not make me an adulterer. It is a wonderful delight and satisfaction

that I receive in his safety; but still this good is not a benefit. A

man may be the better for an animal, a plant, a stone; but there must

be a will, an intention, to make it an obligation. You save the son

without so much as knowing the father, nay, without so much as thinking

of him; and, perhaps you would have done the same thing even if you had

hated him.

But without any further alteration of dialogue, the conclusion is this;

if you meant him the kindness, he is answerable for it, and I may enjoy

the fruit of it without being obliged by it: but if it was done for

my sake, then I am accountable; or howsoever, upon any occasion, I am

ready to do you all the kind offices imaginable; not as the return of

a benefit, but as the earnest of a friendship; which you are not to

challenge neither, but to entertain as an act of honor and of justice,

rather than of gratitude. If a man find the body of my dead father in

a desert, and give it a burial; if he did it as to my father, I am

beholden to him: but if the body was unknown to him, and that he would

have done the same thing for any other body, I am no farther concerned

in it than as a piece of public humanity.

There are, moreover, some cases wherein an unworthy person may be

obliged and for the sake of others: and the sottish extract of an

ancient nobilty may be preferred before a better man that is but of

yesterday’s standing. And it is but reasonable to pay a reverence

even to the memory of eminent virtues. He that is not illustrious in

himself, may yet be reputed so in the right of his ancestors: and

there is a gratitude to be entailed upon the offspring of famous

progenitors. Was it not for the _father’s_ sake that Cicero the _son_

was made counsel? and was it not the eminence of one Pompey that raised

and dignified the rest of his family? How came Caligula to be emperor

of the world? a man so cruel, that he spilt blood as greedily as if

he were to drink it; the empire was not given to himself, but to his

father Germanicus. A brave man deserved that for him, which he could

never have challenged upon his own merit. What was it that preferred

Fabius Persicus, (whose very mouth was the uncleanest part about him,)

what was it but the 300 of that family that so generously opposed the

enemy for the safety of the commonwealth?

Nay, Providence itself is gracious to the wicked posterity of an

honorable race. The counsels of heaven are guided by wisdom, mercy, and

justice. Some men are made kings of their proper virtues, without any

respect to their predecessors: others for their ancestors’ sakes, whose

virtues, though neglected in their lives, come to be afterward rewarded

in their issues. And it is but equity, that our gratitude should extend

as far as the influence of their heroical actions and examples.

CHAPTER XII.

THE BENEFACTOR MUST HAVE NO BY-ENDS.

We come now to the main point of the matter in question: that is to

say, whether or not it be a thing desirable in itself, the giving and

receiving of benefits? There is a sect of philosophers that accounts

nothing valuable but what is profitable, and so makes all virtue

mercenary; an unmanly mistake to imagine, that the hope of gain, or

fear of loss, should make a man either the more or less honest. As

who should say, “What will I get by it, and I will be an honest man?”

Whereas, on the contrary, honesty is a thing in itself to be purchased

at any rate. It is not for a body to say, “It will be a charge, a

hazard, I shall give offence,” etc. My business is to do what I ought

to do: all other considerations are foreign to the office. Whensoever

my duty calls me, it is my part to attend, without scrupulizing upon

forms or difficulties. Shall I see an honest man oppressed at the bar,

and not assist him, for fear of a court faction? or not second him upon

the highway against thieves, for fear of a broken head? and choose

rather to sit still, the quiet spectator of fraud and violence? Why

will men be just, temperate, generous, brave, but because it carries

along with it fame and a good conscience? and for the same reason, and

no other, (to apply it to the subject in hand,) let a man also be

bountiful. The school of Epicurus, I am sure, will never swallow this

doctrine: (that effeminate tribe of lazy and voluptuous philosophers;)

they will tell you, that virtue is but the servant and vassal of

pleasure. “No,” says Epicurus, “I am not for pleasure neither without

virtue.” But, why then for pleasure, say I, _before_ virtue? Not that

the stress of the controversy lies upon the _order_ only; for the

_power_ of it, as well as the _dignity_, is now under debate. It is

the office of virtue to superintend, to lead, and to govern; but the

parts you have assigned it, are to submit, to follow, and to be under

command. But this, you will say, is nothing to the purpose, so long as

both sides are agreed, that there can be no happiness without _virtue_:

“Take away that,” says Epicurus, “and I am as little a friend to

pleasure as you.” The pinch, in short, is this, whether virtue itself

be the supreme good or the only cause of it? It is not the inverting of

the order that will clear this point; (though it is a very preposterous

error, to set that first which should be last.) It does not half

so much offend me; ranging of pleasure before virtue, as the very

comparing of them; and the bringing of the two opposites, and professed

enemies, into any sort of competition.

The drift of this discourse is, to support the cause of benefits; and

to prove, that it is a mean and dishonorable thing to give for any

other end than for giving’s sake. He that gives for gain, profit, or

any by-end, destroys the very intent of bounty; for it falls only upon

those that do not want, and perverts the charitable inclinations of

princes and of great men, who cannot reasonably propound to themselves

any such end. What does the sun get by travelling about the universe;

by visiting and comforting all the quarters of the earth? Is the whole

creation made and ordered for the good of mankind, and every particular

man only for the good of himself? There passes not an hour of our

lives, wherein we do not enjoy the blessings of Providence, without

measure and without intermission. And what design can the Almighty have

upon us, who is in himself full, safe, and inviolable? If he should

give only for his own sake, what would become of poor mortals, that

have nothing to return him at best but dutiful acknowledgments? It is

putting out of a benefit to interest only to bestow where we may place

it to advantage.

Let us be liberal then, after the example of our great Creator, and

give to others with the same consideration that he gives to us.

Epicurus’s answer will be to this, that God gives no benefits at all,

but turns his back upon the world; and without any concern for us,

leaves Nature to take her course: and whether he does anything himself,

or nothing, he takes no notice, however, either of the good or of the

ill that is done here below. If there were not an ordering and an

over-ruling Providence, how comes it (say I, on the other side) that

the universality of mankind should ever have so unanimously agreed in

the madness of worshipping a power that can neither hear nor help us?

Some blessings are freely given us; others upon our prayers are granted

us; and every day brings forth instances of great and of seasonable

mercies. There never was yet any man so insensible as not to feel, see,

and understand, a Deity in the ordinary methods of nature, though many

have been so obstinately ungrateful as not to confess it; nor is any

man so wretched as not to be a partaker in that divine bounty. Some

benefits, it is true, may appear to be unequally divided; but it is

no small matter yet that we possess in common: and which Nature has

bestowed upon us in her very self. If God be not bountiful, whence is

it that we have all that we pretend to? That which we give, and that

which we deny, that which we lay up, and that which we squander away?

Those innumerable delights for the entertainment of our eyes, our

ears, and our understandings? nay, that copious matter even for luxury

itself? For care is taken, not only for our necessities, but also for

our pleasures, and for the gratifying of all our senses and appetites.

So many pleasant groves; fruitful and salutary plants; so many fair

rivers that serve us, both for recreation, plenty, and commerce:

vicissitudes of seasons; varieties of food, by nature made ready to our

hands, and the whole creation itself subjected to mankind for health,

medicine and dominion. We can be thankful to a friend for a few acres,

or a little money: and yet for the freedom and command of the whole

earth, and for the great benefits of our being, as life, health, and

reason, we look upon ourselves as under no obligation. If a man bestows

upon us a house that is delicately beautified with paintings, statues,

gildings, and marble, we make a mighty business of it, and yet it lies

at the mercy of a puff of wind, the snuff of a candle, and a hundred

other accidents, to lay it in the dust. And is it nothing now to sleep

under the canopy of heaven, where we have the globe of the earth for

our place of repose, and the glories of the heavens for our spectacle?

How comes it that we should so much value what we have, and yet at

the same time be so unthankful for it? Whence is it that we have our

breath, the comforts of light and of heat, the very blood that runs in

our veins? the cattle that feed us, and the fruits of the earth that

feed them? Whence have we the growth of our bodies, the succession of

our ages, and the faculties of our minds? so many veins of metals,

quarries of marble, etc. The seed of everything is in itself, and it is

the blessing of God that raises it out of the dark into act and motion.

To say nothing of the charming varieties of music, beautiful objects,

delicious provisions for the palate, exquisite perfumes, which are cast

in, over and above, to the common necessities of our being.

All this, says Epicurus, we are to ascribe to Nature. And why not to

God, I beseech ye? as if they were not both of them one and the same

power, working in the whole, and in every part of it. Or, if you call

him the Almighty Jupiter; the Thunderer; the Creator and Preserver of

us all: it comes to the same issue; some will express him under the

notion of _Fate_; which is only a connexion of causes, and himself the

uppermost and original, upon which all the rest depend. The Stoics

represent the several _functions_ of the _Almighty Power_ under

several _appellations_. When they speak of him as the father and the

fountain of all beings, they call him _Bacchus_: and under the name of

_Hercules_, they denote him to be _indefatigable_ and _invincible_; and

in the contemplation of him in the _reason_, _order_, _proportion_, and

_wisdom_ of his proceedings, they call him _Mercury_; so that which way

soever they look, and under what name soever they couch their meaning,

they never fail of finding him; for he is everywhere, and fills his

own work. If a man should borrow money of Seneca, and say that he owes

it to Amnæus or Lucius, he may change the name but not his creditor;

for let him take which of the three names he pleases, he is still a

debtor to the same person. As justice, integrity, prudence, frugality,

fortitude, are all of them goods of one and the same mind, so that

whichsoever of them pleases us, we cannot distinctly say that it is

this or that, but the mind.

But, not to carry this digression too far; that which God himself does,

we are sure is well done; and we are no less sure, that for whatsoever

he gives, he neither wants, expects, nor receives, anything in return;

so that the end of a benefit ought to be the advantage of the receiver;

and that must be our scope without any by-regard to ourselves. It is

objected to us, the singular caution we prescribe in the choice of the

person: for it were a madness, we say, for a husbandman to sow the

sand: which, if true, say they, you have an eye upon profit, as well

in giving as in plowing and sowing. And then they say again, that if

the conferring of a benefit were desirable in itself, it would have

no dependence upon the choice of a man; for let us give it when, how,

or wheresoever we please, it would be still a benefit. This does not

at all affect our assertion; for the person, the matter, the manner,

and the time, are circumstances absolutely necessary to the reason of

the action: there must be a right judgment in all respects to make it

a benefit. It is my duty to be true to a trust, and yet there may be

a time or a place, wherein I would make little difference betwixt the

renouncing of it and the delivering of it up; and the same rule holds

in benefits; I will neither render the one, nor bestow the other, to

the damage of the receiver. A wicked man will run all risks to do

an injury, and to compass his revenge; and shall not an honest man

venture as far to do a good office? All benefits must be gratuitous. A

merchant sells me the corn that keeps me and my family from starving;

but he sold it for his interests, as well as I bought it for mine;

and so I owe him nothing for it. He that gives for profit, gives to

himself; as a physician or a lawyer, gives counsel for a fee, and only

makes use of me for his own ends; as a grazier fats his cattle to

bring them to a better market. This is more properly the driving of a

trade than the cultivating of a generous commerce. This for that, is

rather a truck than a benefit; and he deserves to be cozened that gives

any thing in hope of a return. And in truth, what end should a man

honorably propound? not _profit_; sure that is _vulgar_ and _mechanic_;

and he that does not contemn it can never be grateful. And then for

_glory_, it is a mighty matter indeed for a man to boast of doing his

duty. We are to _give_, if it were only to avoid _not giving_; if any

thing comes of it, it is clear gain; and, at worst, there is nothing

lost; beside, that one benefit well placed makes amends for a thousand

miscarriages. It is not that I would exclude the benefactor neither for

being himself the better for a good office he does for another. Some

there are that do us good only for their own sakes; others for ours;

and some again for both. He that does it for me in common with himself,

if he had a prospect upon both in the doing it, I am obliged to him for

it; and glad with all my heart that he had a share in it. Nay, I were

ungrateful and unjust if I should not rejoice, that what was beneficial

to me might be so likewise to himself.

To pass now to the matter of gratitude and ingratitude. There never

was any man yet so wicked as not to approve of the one, and detest

the other; as the two things in the whole world, the one to be the

most abominated, the other the most esteemed. The very story of an

ungrateful action puts us out of all patience, and gives us a loathing

for the author of it. “That inhuman villain,” we cry, “to do so horrid

a thing:” not, “that inconsiderate fool for omitting so profitable a

virtue;” which plainly shows the sense we naturally have, both of the

one and of the other, and that we are led to it by a common impulse of

reason and of conscience. Epicurus fancies God to be without power,

and without arms; above fear himself, and as little to be feared. He

places him betwixt the orbs, solitary and idle, out of the reach of

mortals, and neither hearing our prayers nor minding our concerns;

and allows him only such a veneration and respect as we pay to our

parents. If a man should ask him now, why any reverence at all, if we

have no obligation to him, or rather, why that greater reverence to his

fortuitous atoms? his answer would be, that it was for their majesty

and their admirable nature, and not out of any hope or expectation from

them. So that by his proper confession, a thing may be desirable for

its own worth. But, says he, gratitude is a virtue that has commonly

profit annexed to it. And where is the virtue, say I, that has not? but

still the virtue is to be valued for itself, and not for the profit

that attends it. There is no question, but gratitude for benefits

received is the ready way to procure more; and in requiting one friend

we encourage many: but these accessions fall in by the by; and if I

were sure that the doing of good offices would be my ruin, I would yet

pursue them. He that visits the sick, in hope of a legacy, let him be

never so friendly in all other cases, I look upon him in this to be no

better than a raven, that watches a weak sheep only to peck out the

eyes of it. We never give with so much judgment or care, as when we

consider the honesty of the action, without any regard to the profit of

it; for our understandings are corrupted by fear, hope, and pleasure.

CHAPTER XIII.

THERE ARE MANY CASES WHEREIN A MAN MAY BE MINDED OF A BENEFIT, BUT IT

IS VERY RARELY TO BE CHALLENGED, AND NEVER TO BE UPBRAIDED.

If the world were wise, and as honest as it should be, there would be

no need of caution or precept how to behave ourselves in our several

stations and duties; for both the giver and the receiver would do what

they ought to do on their own accord: the one would be bountiful, and

the other grateful, and the only way of minding a man of one good turn

would be the following of it with another. But as the case stands, we

must take other measures, and consult the best we can, the common ease

and relief of mankind.

As there are several sorts of ungrateful men, so there must be several

ways of dealing with them, either by artifice, counsel, admonition,

or reproof, according to the humor of the person, and the degree of

the offence: provided always, that as well in the reminding a man of

a benefit, as in the bestowing of it, the good of the receiver be

the principal thing intended. There is a curable ingratitude, and an

incurable; there is a slothful, a neglectful, a proud, a dissembling, a

disclaiming, a heedless, a forgetful, and a malicious ingratitude; and

the application must be suited to the matter we have to work upon. A

gentle nature may be reclaimed by authority, advice, or reprehension;

a father, a husband, a friend may do good in the case. There are a sort

of lazy and sluggish people, that live as if they were asleep, and must

be lugged and pinched to wake them. These men are betwixt grateful

and ungrateful; they will neither deny an obligation nor return it,

and only want quickening. I will do all I can to hinder any man from

ill-doing, but especially a friend; and yet more especially from doing

ill to me. I will rub up his memory with new benefits: if that will not

serve, I will proceed to good counsel, and from thence to rebuke: if

all fails, I will look upon him as a desperate debtor, and even let him

alone in his ingratitude, without making him my enemy: for no necessity

shall ever make me spend time in wrangling with any man upon that point.

Assiduity of obligation strikes upon the conscience as well as the

memory, and pursues an ungrateful man till he becomes grateful: if one

good office will not do it, try a second, and then a third. No man can

be so thankless, but either shame, occasion, or example, will, at some

time or other, prevail upon him. The very beasts themselves, even lions

and tigers, are gained by good usage: beside, that one obligation does

naturally draw on another; and a man would not willingly leave his own

work imperfect. “I have helped him thus far, and I will even go through

with it now.” So that, over and above the delight and the virtue of

obliging, one good turn is a shouting-horn to another. This, of all

hints, is perhaps the most effectual, as well as the most generous.

In some cases it must be carried more home: as in that of Julius Cæsar,

who, as he was hearing a cause, the defendant finding himself pinched;

“Sir,” says he, “do not you remember a strain you got in your ankle

when you commanded in Spain; and that a soldier lent you his cloak

for a cushion, upon the top of a craggy rock, under the shade of a

little tree, in the heat of the day?” “I remember it perfectly well,”

says Cæsar, “and that when I was ready to choke with thirst, an honest

fellow fetched me a draught of water in his helmet.” “But that man, and

that helmet,” says the soldier, “does Cæsar think that he could not

know them again, if he saw them?” “The man, perchance, I might,” says

Cæsar, somewhat offended, “but not the helmet. But what is the story

to my business? you are none of the man.” “Pardon me, Sir,” says the

soldier, “I am that very man; but Cæsar may well forget me: for I have

been trepanned since, and lost an eye at the battle of Munda, where

that helmet too had the honor to be cleft with a Spanish blade.” Cæsar

took it as it was intended: and it was an honorable and a prudent way

of refreshing his memory. But this would not have gone down so well

with Tiberius: for when an old acquaintance of his began his address

to him with, “You remember, Cæsar.” “No,” says Cæsar, (cutting him

short,) “I do not remember what I WAS.” Now, with him, it was better

to be forgotten than remembered; for an _old friend_ was as bad as an

_informer_. It is a common thing for men to hate the authors of their

preferment, as the witnesses of their mean original.

There are some people well enough disposed to be grateful, but

they cannot hit upon it without a prompter; they are a little like

school-boys that have treacherous memories; it is but helping them

here and there with a word, when they stick, and they will go through

with their lesson; they must be taught to be thankful, and it is a

fair step, if we can but bring them to be willing, and only offer

at it. Some benefits we have neglected; some we are not willing to

remember. He is ungrateful that disowns an obligation, and so is he

that dissembles it, or to his power does not requite it; but the worst

of all is he that forgets it. Conscience, or occasion, may revive the

rest; but here the very memory of it is lost. Those eyes that cannot

endure the light are weak, but those are stark blind that cannot see

it. I do not love to hear people say, “Alas! poor man, he has forgotten

it,” as if that were the excuse of ingratitude, which is the very cause

of it: for if he were not ungrateful, he would not be forgetful, and

lay that out of the way which should be always uppermost and in sight.

He that thinks as he ought to do, of requiting a benefit, is in no

danger of forgetting it. There are, indeed, some benefits so great that

they can never slip the memory; but those which are less in value, and

more in number, do commonly escape us. We are apt enough to acknowledge

that “such a man has been the making of us;” so long as we are in

possession of the advantage he has brought us; but new appetites deface

old kindnesses, and we carry our prospect forward to something more,

without considering what we have obtained already. All that is past

we give for lost; so that we are only intent upon the future. When a

benefit is once out of sight, or out of use, it is buried.

It is the freak of many people, they cannot do a good office but they

are presently boasting of it, drunk or sober: and about it goes into

all companies what wonderful things they have done for this man, and

what for the other. A foolish and a dangerous vanity, of a doubtful

friend to make a certain enemy. For these reproaches and contempts will

set everybody’s tongue a walking; and people will conclude that these

things would never be, if there were not something very extraordinary

in the bottom of it. When it comes to that once, there is not any

calumny but fastens more or less, nor any falsehood so incredible, but

in some part or other of it, shall pass for a truth. Our great mistake

is this, we are still inclined to make the most of what we give, and

the least of what we receive; whereas we should do the clean contrary.

“It might have been more, but he had a great many to oblige. It was as

much as he could well spare; but he will make it up some other time,”

etc. Nay, we should be so far from making publication of our bounties,

as not to hear them so much as mentioned without sweetening the matter:

as, “Alas, I owe him a great deal more than that comes to. If it were

in my power to serve him, I should be very glad of it.” And this, too,

not with the figure of a compliment, but with all humanity and truth.

There was a man of quality, that in the triumviral proscription, was

saved by one of Cæsar’s friends, who would be still twitting him with

it; who it was that preserved him, and telling him over and over, “you

had gone to pot, friend, but for me.” “Pr’ythee,” says the proscribed,

“let me hear no more of this, or even leave me as you found me: I am

thankful enough of myself to acknowledge that I owe you my life, but it

is death to have it rung in my ears perpetually as a reproach; it looks

as if you had only saved me to carry me about for a spectacle. I would

fain forget the misfortune that I was once a prisoner, without being

led in triumph every day of my life.”

Oh! the pride and folly of a great fortune, that turns benefits

into injuries! that delights in excesses, and disgraces every thing

it does! Who would receive any thing from it upon these terms? the

higher it raises us, the more sordid it makes us. Whatsoever it gives

it corrupts. What is there in it that should thus puff us up? by

what magic is it that we are so transformed, that we do no longer

know ourselves? Is it impossible for greatness to be liberal without

insolence? The benefits that we receive from our superiors are then

welcome when they come with an open hand, and a clear brow; without

either contumely or state; and so as to prevent our necessities. The

benefit is never the greater for the making of a bustle and a noise

about it: but the benefactor is much the less for the ostentation of

his good deeds; which makes that odious to us, which would otherwise

be delightful. Tiberius had gotten a trick, when any man begged money

of him, to refer him to the senate, where all the petitioners were to

deliver up the names of their creditors. His end perhaps was, to deter

men from asking, by exposing the condition of their fortunes to an

examination. But it was, however, a benefit turned unto a reprehension,

and he made a reproach of a bounty.

But it is not enough yet to forbear the casting of a benefit in a man’s

teeth; for there are some that will not allow it to be so much as

challenged. For an ill man, say they, will not make a return, though it

be demanded, and a good man will do it of himself: and then the asking

of it seems to turn it into a debt. It is a kind of injury to be too

quick with the former: for to call upon him too soon reproaches him, as

if he would not have done it otherwise. Nor would I recall a benefit

from any man so as to force it, but only to receive it. If I let him

quite alone, I make myself guilty of his ingratitude: and undo him for

want of plain dealing. A father reclaims a disobedient son, a wife

reclaims a dissolute husband; and one friend excites the languishing

kindness of another. How many men are lost for want of being touched to

the quick? So long as I am not pressed, I will rather desire a favor,

than so much as mention a requital; but if my country, my family, or

my liberty, be at stake, my zeal and indignation shall overrule my

modesty, and the world shall then understand that I have done all I

could, not to stand in need of an ungrateful man. And in conclusion the

necessity of receiving a benefit shall overcome the shame of recalling

it. Nor is it only allowable upon some exigents to put the receiver in

mind of a good turn, but it is many times for the common advantage of

both parties.

CHAPTER XIV.

HOW FAR TO OBLIGE OR REQUITE A WICKED MAN.

There are some benefits whereof a wicked man is wholly incapable; of

which hereafter. There are others, which are bestowed upon him, not

for his own sake, but for secondary reasons; and of these we have

spoken in part already. There are, moreover, certain common offices

of humanity, which are only allowed him as he is a man, and without

any regard either to vice or virtue. To pass over the first point; the

second must be handled with care and distinction, and not without some

seeming exceptions to the general rule; as first, here is no _choice_

or _intention_ in the case, but it is a good office done him for some

_by-interest_, or by _chance_. Secondly, There is no _judgment_ in

it neither, for it is to a _wicked man_. But to shorten the matter:

without these circumstances it is not properly a benefit; or at least

not to him; for it looks another way. I rescue a friend from thieves,

and the other escapes for company. I discharge a debt for a friend, and

the other comes off too: for they were both in a bond. The third is of

a great latitude, and varies according to the degree of generosity on

the one side, and of wickedness on the other. Some benefactors will

supererogate, and do more than they are bound to do; and some men are

so lewd, that it is dangerous to do them any sort of good; no, not so

much as by way of return or requital.

If the benefactor’s bounty must extend to the bad as well as the

good; put the case, that I promise a good office to an ungrateful

man; we are first to distinguish (as I said before) betwixt a _common

benefit_ and a _personal_; betwixt what is given for _merit_ and what

for _company_. Secondly, Whether or not we know the person to be

ungrateful, and can reasonably conclude, that this vice is _incurable_.

Thirdly, A consideration must be had of the promise, how far that may

oblige us. The two first points are cleared both in one: we cannot

justify any particular kindness for one that we conclude to be a

hopelessly wicked man: so that the force of the promise is in the

single point in question. In the promise of a good office to a wicked

or ungrateful man, I am to blame if I did it knowingly; and I am to

blame nevertheless, if I did it otherwise: but I must yet make it good,

(under due qualifications,) because I promised it; that is to say,

matters continuing in the same state, for no man is answerable for

accidents. I will sup at such a place though it be cold; I will rise

at such an hour though I be sleepy; but if it prove tempestuous, or

that I fall sick of a fever, I will neither do the one nor the other.

I promise to second a friend in a quarrel, or to plead his cause; and

when I come into the field, or into the court, it proves to be against

my father or my brother: I promise to go a journey with him, but there

is no traveling upon the road for robbing; my child is fallen sick; or

my wife is in labor: these circumstances are sufficient to discharge

me; for a promise against law or duty is void in its own nature.

The counsels of a wise man are certain, but events are uncertain: and

yet if I have passed a rash promise, I will in some degree punish the

temerity of making it with the damage of keeping it, unless it turn

very much to my shame or detriment, and then I will be my own confessor

in the point, and rather be once guilty of denying, than always of

giving. It is not with a benefit as with a debt—it is one thing to

trust an ill paymaster, and another thing to oblige an unworthy

person—the one is an ill man, and the other only an ill husband.

There was a valiant fellow in the army, that Philip of Macedon took

particular notice of, and he gave him several considerable marks of

the kindness he had for him. This soldier put to sea and was cast away

upon a coast where a charitable neighbor took him up half dead, carried

him to the house, and there, at his own charge maintained and provided

for him thirty days, until he was perfectly recovered, and, after all,

furnished him over and above, with a viaticum at parting. The soldier

told him the mighty matters that he would do for him in return, so soon

as he should have the honor once again to see his master. To court he

goes, tells Philip of the wreck, but not a syllable of his preserver,

and begs the estate of this very man that kept him alive. It was with

Philip as it was with many other princes, they give they know not

what, especially in a time of war. He granted the soldier his request,

contemplating at the same time, the impossibility of satisfying so many

ravenous appetites as he had to please. When the good man came to be

turned out of all, he was not so mealy-mouthed as to thank his majesty

for not giving away his person too as well as his fortune; but in a

bold, frank letter to Philip, made a just report of the whole story.

The king was so incensed at the abuse, that he immediately commanded

the right owner to be restored to his estate, and the unthankful guest

and soldier to be stigmatized for an example to others.

Should Philip now have kept this promise? First, he owed the soldier

nothing. Secondly, it would have been injurious and impious; and,

lastly, a precedent of dangerous consequence to human society; for it

would have been little less than an interdiction of fire and water to

the miserable, to have inflicted such a penalty upon relieving them; so

that there must be always some tacit exception or reserve: _if I can_,

_if I may_; or, _if matters continue as they were_.

If it should be my fortune to receive a benefit from one that

afterwards betrays his country, I should still reckon myself obliged

to him for such a requital as might stand with my public duty; I

would not furnish him with arms, nor with money or credit, or levy

or pay soldiers; but I should not stick to gratify him at my own

expense with such curiosities as might please him one way without

doing mischief another. I would not do any thing that might contribute

to the support or advantage of his party. But what should I do now

in the case of a benefactor, that should afterwards become not only

mine and my country’s enemy, but the common enemy of mankind! I would

here distinguish betwixt the wickedness of a man and the cruelty of a

beast—betwixt a limited or a particular passion and a sanguinary rage

that extends to the hazard and destruction of human society. In the

former case I would quit scores, that I might have no more to do with

him; but if he comes once to delight in blood, and to act outrages

with greediness—to study and invent torments, and to take pleasure in

them—the law of reasonable nature has discharged me of such a debt.

But this is an impiety so rare that it might pass for a portent, and

be reckoned among comets and monsters. Let us therefore restrain our

discourse to such men as we detest without horror; such men as we see

every day in courts, camps, and upon the seats of justice; to such

wicked men I will return what I have received, without making any

advantage of their unrighteousness.

It does not divert the Almighty from being still gracious, though we

proceed daily in the abuse of his bounties. How many there are that

enjoy the comfort of the light that do not deserve it; that wish they

had never been born! and yet Nature goes quietly on with her work, and

allows them a being, even in despite of their unthankfulness. Such

a knave, we cry, was better used than I: and the same complaint we

extend to Providence itself. How many wicked men have good crops, when

better than themselves have their fruits blasted! Such a man, we say,

has treated me very ill. Why, what should we do, but that very thing

which is done by God himself? that is to say, give to the ignorant,

and persevere to the wicked. All our ingratitude, we see, does not

turn Providence from pouring down of benefits, even upon those that

question whence they come. The wisdom of Heaven does all things with

a regard to the good of the universe, and the blessings of nature

are granted in common, to the worst as well as to the best of men;

for they live promiscuously together; and it is God’s will, that the

wicked shall rather fare the better for the good, than that the good

shall fare the worse for the wicked. It is true that a wise prince

will confer peculiar honors only upon the worthy; but in the dealing

of a public dole, there is no respect had to the manners of the man;

but a thief or traitor shall put in for a share as well as an honest

man. If a good man and a wicked man sail both in the same bottom, it

is impossible that the same wind which favors the one should cross the

other. The common benefits of laws, privileges, communities, letters,

and medicines, are permitted to the bad as well as to the good; and no

man ever yet suppressed a sovereign remedy for fear a wicked man might

be cured with it. Cities are built for both sorts, and the same remedy

works upon both alike. In these cases, we are to set an estimate upon

the persons: there is a great difference betwixt the choosing of a man

and the not excluding him: the law is open to the rebellious as well

as to the obedient: there are some benefits which, if they were not

allowed to all, could not be enjoyed by any. The sun was never made for

me, but for the comfort of the world, and for the providential order

of the seasons; and yet I am not without my private obligation also.

To conclude, he that will oblige the wicked and the ungrateful, must

resolve to oblige nobody; for in some sort or another we are all of us

wicked, we are all of us ungrateful, every man of us.

We have been discoursing all this while how far a wicked man may be

obliged, and the Stoics tell us at last, that he cannot be obliged

at all. For they make him incapable of any good, and consequently

of any benefit. But he has this advantage, that if he cannot be

obliged, he cannot be ungrateful: for if he cannot receive, he is not

bound to return. On the other side, a good man and an ungrateful,

are a contradiction: so that at this rate there is no such thing as

ingratitude in nature. They compare a wicked man’s mind to a vitiated

stomach; he corrupts whatever he receives, and the best nourishment

turns to the disease. But taking this for granted, a wicked man may

yet so far be obliged as to pass for ungrateful, if he does not

requite what he receives: for though it be not a perfect benefit, yet

he receives something like it. There are goods of the mind, the body,

and of fortune. Of the first sort, fools and wicked men are wholly

incapable; to the rest they may be admitted. But why should I call any

man ungrateful, you will say, for not restoring that which I deny to be

a benefit? I answer, that if the receiver take it for a benefit, and

fails of a return, it is ingratitude in him: for that which goes for an

obligation among wicked men, is an obligation upon them: and they may

pay one another in their own coin; the money is current, whether it be

gold or leather, when it comes once to be authorized. Nay, Cleanthes

carries it farther; he that is wanting, says he, to a kind office,

though it be no benefit, would have done the same thing if it had been

one; and is as guilty as a thief is, that has set his booty, and is

already armed and mounted with a purpose to seize it, though he has

not yet drawn blood. Wickedness is formed in the heart; and the matter

of fact is only the discovery and the execution of it. Now, though a

wicked man cannot either receive or bestow a benefit, because he wants

the will of doing good, and for that he is no longer wicked, when

virtue has taken possession of him; yet we commonly call it one, as we

call a man illiterate that is not learned, and naked that is not well

clad; not but that the one can read, and the other is covered.

CHAPTER XV.

A GENERAL VIEW OF THE PARTS AND DUTIES OF THE BENEFACTOR.

The three main points in the question of benefits are, first, a

_judicious choice_ in the _object_; secondly, in the _matter_ of our

benevolence; and thirdly, a grateful _felicity_ in the _manner_ of

expressing it. But there are also incumbent upon the benefactor other

considerations, which will deserve a place in this discourse.

It is not enough to do one good turn, and to do it with a good grace

too, unless we follow it with more, and without either upbraiding or

repining. It is a common shift, to charge that upon the ingratitude

of the receiver, which, in truth, is most commonly the levity and

indiscretion of the giver; for all circumstances must be duly weighed

to consummate the action. Some there are that we find ungrateful; but

what with our forwardness, change of humor and reproaches, there are

more that we make so. And this is the business: we give with design,

and most to those that are able to give most again. We give to the

covetous, and to the ambitious; to those that can never be thankful,

(for their desires are insatiable,) and to those that _will_ not.

He that is a tribune would be prætor; the prætor, a consul; never

reflecting upon what he _was_, but only looking forward to what he

_would_ be. People are still computing, _Must I lose this or that

benefit_? If it be lost, the fault lies in the ill bestowing of it;

for rightly placed, it is as good as consecrated; if we be deceived

in another, let us not be deceived in ourselves too. A charitable man

will mend the matter: and say to himself, _Perhaps he has forgot it,

perchance he could not, perhaps he will yet requite it_. A patient

creditor will, of an ill paymaster, in time make a good one; an

obstinate goodness overcomes an ill disposition, as a barren soil is

made fruitful by care and tillage. But let a man be never so ungrateful

or inhuman, he shall never destroy the satisfaction of my having done a

good office.

But what if _others_ will be wicked? does it follow that we must be so

too? If _others_ will be ungrateful, must _we_ therefore be inhuman?

To give and to lose, is nothing; but to lose and to give still, is the

part of a great mind. And the others in effect is the greater loss;

for the one does but lose his benefit, and the other loses himself.

The light shines upon the profane and sacrilegious as well as upon the

righteous. How many disappointments do we meet with in our wives and

children, and yet we couple still? He that has lost one battle hazards

another. The mariner puts to sea again after a wreck. An illustrious

mind does not propose the profit of a good office, but the duty. If the

world be wicked, we should yet persevere in well-doing, even among evil

men. I had rather never receive a kindness than never bestow one: not

to return a benefit is the _greater_ sin, but not to _confer_ it is the

_earlier_. We cannot propose to ourselves a more glorious example than

that of the Almighty, who neither needs nor expects anything from us;

and yet he is continually showering down and distributing his mercies

and his grace among us, not only for our necessities, but also for

our delights; as fruits and seasons, rain and sunshine, veins of water

and of metal; and all this to the wicked as well as to the good, and

without any other end than the common benefit of the receivers. With

what face then can we be mercenary one to another, that have received

all things from Divine Providence _gratis_? It is a common saying, “I

gave such or such a man so much money: I would I had thrown it into

the sea;” and yet the merchant trades again after a piracy, and the

banker ventures afresh after a bad security. He that will do no good

offices after a disappointment, must stand still, and do just nothing

at all. The plow goes on after a barren year: and while the ashes

are yet warm, we raise a new house upon the ruins of a former. What

obligations can be greater than those which children receive from their

parents? and yet should we give them over in their infancy, it were all

to no purpose. Benefits, like grain, must be followed from the seed to

the harvest. I will not so much as leave any place for ingratitude. I

will pursue, and I will encompass the receiver with benefits; so that

let him look which way he will, his benefactor shall be still in his

eye, even when he would avoid his own memory: and then I will remit

to one man because he calls for it; to another, because he does not;

to a third, because he is wicked; and to a fourth, because he is the

contrary. I will cast away a good turn upon a bad man, and I will

requite a good one; the one because it is my duty, and the other that I

may not be in debt.

I do not love to hear any man complain that he has met with a thankless

man. If he has met but with one, he has either been very fortunate or

very careful. And yet care is not sufficient: for there is no way to

escape the hazard of losing a benefit but the not bestowing of it, and

to neglect a duty to myself for fear another should abuse it. It is

_another’s_ fault if he be ungrateful, but it is _mine_ if I do not

give. To find one thankful man, I will oblige a great many that are

not so. The business of mankind would be at a stand, if we should do

nothing for fear of miscarriages in matters of certain event. I will

try and believe all things, before I give any man over, and do all that

is possible that I may not lose a good office and a friend together.

What do I know but _he may misunderstand the obligation? business may

have put it out of his head, or taken him off from it: he may have

slipt his opportunity_. I will say, in excuse of human weakness, that

one man’s memory is not sufficient for all things; it is but a limited

capacity, so as to hold only so much, and no more: and when it is once

full, it must let out part of what it had to take in anything beside;

and the last benefit ever sits closest to us. In our youth we forget

the obligations of our infancy, and when we are men we forget those

of our youth. If nothing will prevail, let him keep what he has and

welcome; but let him have a care of returning evil for good, and making

it dangerous for a man to do his duty. I would no more give a benefit

for such a man, than I would lend money to a beggarly spendthrift; or

deposit any in the hands of a known _knight of the post_. However the

case stands, an ungrateful person is never the better for a reproach;

if he be already hardened in his wickedness, he gives no heed to it;

and if he be not, it turns a doubtful modesty into an incorrigible

impudence: beside that, he watches for all ill words to pick a quarrel

with them.

As the benefactor is not to upbraid a benefit, so neither to delay

it: the one is tiresome, and the other odious. We must not hold men

in hand, as physicians and surgeons do their patients, and keep them

longer in fear and pain than needs, only to magnify the cure. A

generous man gives easily, and receives as he gives, but never exacts.

He rejoices in the return, and judges favorably of it whatever it be,

and contents himself with bare thanks for a requital. It is a harder

matter with some to get the benefit after it is promised than the first

promise of it, there must be so many friends made in the case. One

must be desired to solicit another; and he must be entreated to move

a third; and a fourth must be at last besought to receive it; so that

the author, upon the upshot, has the least share in the obligation. It

is then welcome when it comes free, and without deduction; and no man

either to intercept or hinder, or to detain it. And let it be of such a

quality too, that it be not only delightful in the receiving, but after

it is received; which it will certainly be, if we do but observe this

rule, never to do any thing for another which we would not honestly

desire for ourselves.

CHAPTER XVI.

HOW THE RECEIVER OUGHT TO BEHAVE HIMSELF.

There are certain rules in common betwixt the giver and the receiver.

We must do both cheerfully, that the giver may receive the fruit of

his benefit in the very act of bestowing it. It is a just ground of

satisfaction to _see_ a friend pleased; but it is much more to _make_

him so. The intention of the one is to be suited to the intention

of the other; and there must be an emulation betwixt them, whether

shall oblige most. Let the one say, that he has received a benefit,

and let the other persuade himself that he has not returned it. Let

the one say, _I am paid_, and the other, _I am yet in your debt_; let

the benefactor acquit the receiver, and the receiver bind himself.

The frankness of the discharge heightens the obligation. It is in

_conversation_ as in a _tennis-court_; benefits are to be tossed like

balls; the longer the rest, the better are the gamesters. The giver, in

some respect, has the odds, because (as in a race) he starts first, and

the other must use great diligence to overtake him. The return must be

larger than the first obligation to come up to it; and it is a kind of

ingratitude not to render it with interest. In a matter of money, it

is a common thing to pay a debt out of course, and before it be due;

but we account ourselves to owe nothing for a good office; whereas

the benefit increases by delay. So insensible are we of the most

important affair of human life! That man were doubtless in a miserable

condition, that could neither see, nor hear, nor taste, nor feel, nor

smell; but how much more unhappy is he then that, wanting a sense of

benefits, loses the greatest comfort in nature in the bliss of giving

and receiving them? He that takes a benefit as it is meant is in the

right; for the benefactor has then his end, and his only end, when the

receiver is grateful.

The more glorious part, in appearance, is that of the giver; but the

receiver has undoubtedly the harder game to play in many regards.

There are some from whom I would not accept of a benefit; that is to

say, from those upon whom I would not bestow one. For why should I not

scorn to receive a benefit where I am ashamed to own it? and I would

yet be more tender too, where I receive, than where I give; for it is

no torment to be in debt where a man has no mind to pay; as it is the

greatest delight imaginable to be engaged by a friend, whom I should

yet have a kindness for; if I were never so much disobliged. It is a

pain to an honest and a generous mind to lie under a duty of affection

against inclination. I do not speak here of wise men, that love to

do what they ought to do; that have their passions at command; that

prescribe laws to themselves, and keep them when they have done; but of

men in a state of imperfection, that may have a good will perhaps to

be honest, and yet be overborne by the contumacy of their affections.

We must therefore have a care to whom we become obliged; and I would

be much stricter yet in the choice of a creditor for benefits than for

money. In the one case, it is but paying what I had, and the debt is

discharged; in the other, I do not only owe more, but when I have paid

that, I am still in arrear: and this law is the very foundation of

friendship. I will suppose myself a prisoner; and a notorious villain

offers to lay down a good sum of money for my redemption. _First_,

Shall I make use of this money or not? _Secondly_, If I do, what return

shall I make him for it? To the first point, I will take it; but only

as a debt; not as a benefit, that shall ever tie me to a friendship

with him; and, secondly, my acknowledgment shall be only correspondent

to such an obligation. It is a school question, whether or not Brutus,

that thought Cæsar not fit to live, (and put himself at the head of a

conspiracy against him,) could honestly have received his life from

Cæsar, if he had fallen into Cæsar’s power, without examining what

reason moved him to that action? How great a man soever he was in

other cases, without dispute he was extremely out in this, and below

the dignity of his profession. For a Stoic to fear the name of a king,

when yet monarchy is the best state of government; or there to hope for

liberty, where so great rewards are propounded, both for tyrants and

their slaves; for him to imagine ever to bring the laws to their former

state, where so many thousand lives had been lost in the contest, not

so much whether they should serve or not, but who should be their

master: he was strangely mistaken, in the nature and reason of things,

to fancy, that when Julius was gone, somebody else would not start up

in his place, when there was yet a Tarquin found, after so many kings

that were destroyed, either by sword or thunder: and yet the resolution

is, that he might have received it, but not as a benefit; for at that

rate I owe my life to every man that does not take it away.

Græcinus Julius (whom Caligula put to death out of a pure malice to his

virtue) had a considerable sum of money sent him from Fabius Persicus

(a man of great and infamous example) as a contribution towards the

expense of plays and other public entertainments; but Julius would

not receive it; and some of his friends that had an eye more upon the

present than the presenter, asked him, with some freedom, what he meant

by refusing it? “Why,” says he, “do you think that I will take money

where I would not take so much as a glass of wine?” After this Rebilus

(a man of the same stamp) sent him a greater sum upon the same score.

“You must excuse me,” says he to the messenger, “for I would not take

any thing of Persicus neither.”

To match this scruple of receiving money with another of keeping it;

and the sum not above three pence, or a groat at most. There was a

certain Pythagorean that contracted with a cobbler for a pair of shoes,

and some three or four days after, going to pay him his money, the

shop was shut up; and when he had knocked a great while at the door,

“Friend,” says a fellow, “you may hammer your heart out there, for the

man that you look for is dead. And when our friends are dead, we hear

no more news of them; but yours, that are to live again, will shift

well enough,” (alluding to Pythagora’s transmigration). Upon this the

philosopher went away, with his money chinking in his hand, and well

enough content to save it: at last, his conscience took check at it;

and, upon reflection, “Though the man be dead,” says he, “to others, he

is alive to thee; pay him what thou owest him:” and so he went back

presently, and thrust it into his shop through the chink of the door.

Whatever we owe, it is our part to find where to pay it, and to do it

without asking too; for whether the creditor be good or bad, the debt

is still the same.

If a benefit be forced upon me, as from a tyrant, or a superior, where

it may be dangerous to refuse, this is rather obeying than receiving,

where the necessity destroys the choice. The way to know what I have a

mind to do, is to leave me at liberty whether I will do it or not; but

it is yet a benefit, if a man does me good in spite of my teeth; as it

is none, if I do any man good against my will. A man may both hate and

yet receive a benefit at the same time; the money is never the worse,

because a fool that is not read in coins refuses to take it. If the

thing be good for the receiver, and so intended, no matter how ill it

is taken. Nay, the receiver may be obliged, and not know it; but there

can be no benefit which is unknown to the giver. Neither will I, upon

any terms, receive a benefit from a worthy person that may do him a

mischief: it is the part of an enemy to save himself by doing another

man harm.

But whatever we do, let us be sure always to keep a grateful mind.

It is not enough to say, what requital shall a poor man offer to a

prince; or a slave to his patron; when it is the glory of gratitude

that it depends only upon the good will? Suppose a man defends my

fame; delivers me from beggary; saves my life; or gives me liberty,

that is more than life; how shall I be grateful to that man? I will

receive, cherish, and rejoice in the benefit. Take it kindly, and

it is requited: not that the debt itself is discharged, but it is

nevertheless a discharge of the conscience. I will yet distinguish

betwixt the debtor that becomes insolvent by expenses upon whores and

dice, and another that is undone by fire or thieves; nor do I take this

gratitude for a payment, but there is no danger, I presume, of being

arrested for such a debt.

In the return of benefits let us be ready and cheerful but not

pressing. There is as much greatness of mind in the owing of a good

turn as in doing of it; and we must no more force a requital out of

season than be wanting in it. He that precipitates a return, does

as good as say, “I am weary of being in this man’s debt:” not but

that the hastening of a requital, as a good office, is a commendable

disposition, but it is another thing to do it as a discharge; for it

looks like casting off a heavy and a troublesome burden. It is for the

benefactor to say _when_ he will receive it; no matter for the opinion

of the world, so long as I gratify my own conscience; for I cannot be

mistaken in myself, but another may. He that is over solicitous to

return a benefit, thinks the other so likewise to receive it. If he had

rather we should keep it, why should we refuse, and presume to dispose

of his treasure, who may call it in, or let it lie out, at his choice?

It is as much a fault to receive what I ought not, as not to give what

I ought; for the giver has the privilege of choosing his own time of

receiving.

Some are too proud in the conferring of benefits; others, in the

receiving of them; which is, to say the truth, intolerable. The same

rule serves both sides, as in the case of a father and a son; a husband

and a wife; one friend or acquaintance and another, where the duties

are known and common. There are some that will not receive a benefit

but in private, nor thank you for it but in your ear, or in a corner;

there must be nothing under hand and seal, no brokers, notaries, or

witnesses, in the case: that is not so much a scruple of modesty as a

kind of denying the obligation, and only a less hardened ingratitude.

Some receive benefits so coldly and indifferently, that a man would

think the obligation lay on the other side: as who should say, “Well,

since you will needs have it so, I am content to take it.” Some again

so carelessly, as if they hardly knew of any such thing, whereas we

should rather aggravate the matter: “You cannot imagine how many

you have obliged in this act: there never was so great, so kind, so

seasonable a courtesy.” Furnius never gained so much upon Augustus as

by a speech, upon the getting of his father’s pardon for siding with

Antony: “This grace,” says he, “is the only injury that ever Cæsar did

me: for it has put me upon a necessity of living and dying ungrateful.”

It is safer to affront some people than to oblige them; for the better

a man deserves, the worse they will speak of him: as if the possessing

of open hatred to their benefactors were an argument that they lie

under no obligation. Some people are so sour and ill-natured, that they

take it for an affront to have an obligation or a return offered them,

to the discouragement both of bounty and gratitude together. The not

doing, and the not receiving, of benefits, are equally a mistake. He

that refuses a new one, seems to be offended at an old one: and yet

sometimes I would neither return a benefit, no, nor so much as receive

it, if I might.

CHAPTER XVII.

OF GRATITUDE.

He that preaches gratitude, pleads the cause both of God and man; for

without it we can neither be sociable nor religious. There is a strange

delight in the very purpose and contemplation of it, as well as in the

action; when I can say to myself, “I love my benefactor; what is there

in this world that I would not do to oblige and serve him?” Where I

have not the _means_ of a requital, the very _meditation_ of it is

sufficient. A man is nevertheless an artist for not having his tools

about him; or a musician, because he wants his fiddle: nor is he the

less brave because his hands are bound; or the worse pilot for being

upon dry ground. If I have only _will_ to be grateful, I _am_ so. Let

me be upon the wheel, or under the hand of the executioner; let me be

burnt limb by limb, and my whole body dropping in the flames, a good

conscience supports me in all extremes; nay, it is comfortable even

in death itself; for when we come to approach that point, what care

do we take to summon and call to mind all our benefactors, and the

good offices they have done us, that we leave the world fair, and set

our minds in order? Without gratitude, we can neither have security,

peace, nor reputation: and it is not therefore the less desirable,

because it draws many adventitious benefits along with it. Suppose the

sun, the moon, and the stars, had no other business than only to pass

over our heads, without any effect upon our minds or bodies; without

any regard to our health, fruits, or seasons; a man could hardly lift

up his eyes towards the heavens without wonder and veneration, to

see so many millions of radiant lights, and to observe their courses

and revolutions, even without any respect to the common good of the

universe. But when we come to consider that Providence and Nature are

still at work when we sleep, with the admirable force and operation

of their influences and motions, we cannot then but acknowledge their

ornament to be the least part of their value; and that they are more

to be esteemed for their virtues than for their splendor. Their main

end and use is matter of life and necessity, though they may seem to

us more considerable for their majesty and beauty. And so it is with

gratitude; we love it rather for secondary ends, than for itself.

No man can be grateful without contemning those things that put the

common people out of their wits. We must go into banishment; lay

down our lives; beggar and expose ourselves to reproaches; nay, it

is often seen, that loyalty suffers the punishment due to rebellion,

and that treason receives the rewards of fidelity. As the benefits

of it are many and great, so are the hazards; which is the case more

or less of all other virtues: and it were hard, if this, above the

rest, should be both painful and fruitless: so that though we may go

currently on with it in a smooth way, we must yet prepare and resolve

(if need be) to force our passage to it, even if the way were covered

with thorns and serpents; and _fall back_, _fall edge_, we must be

grateful still: grateful for the virtue’s sake, and grateful over and

above upon the point of interest; for it preserves old friends, and

gains new ones. It is not our business to fish for one benefit with

another; and by bestowing a little to get more; or to oblige for any

sort of expedience, but because I ought to do it, and because I love

it, and that to such a degree, that if I could not be grateful without

appearing the contrary, if I could not return a benefit without being

suspected of doing an injury; in despite of infamy itself, I would

yet be grateful. No man is greater in my esteem than he that ventures

the fame to preserve the conscience of an honest man; the one is but

imaginary, the other solid and inestimable. I cannot call him grateful,

who in the instant of returning one benefit has his eye upon another.

He that is grateful for profit or fear, is like a woman that is honest

only upon the score of reputation.

As gratitude is a necessary and a glorious, so it is also an obvious, a

cheap, and an easy virtue; so obvious, that wheresoever there is a life

there is a place for it—so cheap that the covetous man may be grateful

without expense—and so easy that the sluggard may be so, likewise,

without labor. And yet it is not without its niceties too; for there

may be a time, a place or occasion wherein I ought not to return a

benefit; nay, wherein I may better disown it than deliver it.

Let it be understood, by the way, that it is one thing to be grateful

for a good office, and another thing to return it—the good will is

enough in one case, being as much as the one side demands and the other

promises; but the effect is requisite in the other. The physician that

has done his best is acquitted though the patient dies, and so is the

advocate, though the client may lose his cause. The general of an

army, though the battle be lost, is yet worthy of commendation, if he

has discharged all the parts of a prudent commander; in this case, the

one acquits himself, though the other be never the better for it. He

is a grateful man that is always willing and ready: and he that seeks

for all means and occasions of requiting a benefit, though without

attaining his end, does a great deal more than the man that, without

any trouble, makes an immediate return. Suppose my friend a prisoner,

and that I have sold my estate for his ransom; I put to sea in foul

weather, and upon a coast that is pestered with pirates; my friend

happens to be redeemed before I come to the place; my gratitude is as

much to be esteemed as if he had been a prisoner; and if I had been

taken and robbed myself, it would still have been the same case. Nay,

there is a gratitude in the very countenance; for an honest man bears

his conscience in his face, and propounds the requital of a good turn

in the very moment of receiving it; he is cheerful and confident; and,

in the possession of a true friendship, delivered from all anxiety.

There is this difference betwixt a thankful man and an unthankful, the

one is _always_ pleased in the good he has _done_, and the other only

_once_ in what he has _received_. There must be a benignity in the

estimation even of the smallest offices; and such a modesty as appears

to be obliged in whatsoever it gives. As it is indeed a very great

benefit, the opportunity of doing a good office to a worthy man. He

that attends to the present, and remembers what is past, shall never be

ungrateful. But who shall judge in the case? for a man may be grateful

without making a return, and ungrateful with it. Our best way is to

help every thing by a fair interpretation; and wheresoever there is

a doubt, to allow it the most favorable construction; for he that is

exceptious at words, or looks, has a mind to pick a quarrel. For my

own part, when I come to cast up my account, and know what I owe, and

to whom, though I make my return sooner to some, and later to others,

as occasion or fortune will give me leave, yet I will be just to all:

I will be grateful to God, to man, to those that have obliged me: nay,

even to those that have obliged my friends. I am bound in honor and in

conscience to be thankful for what I have received; and if it be not

yet full, it is some pleasure still that I may hope for more. For the

requital of a favor there must be virtue, occasion, means, and fortune.

It is a common thing to screw up justice to the pitch of an injury. A

man may be _over-righteous_; and why not _over-grateful_ too? There is

a mischievous excess, that borders so close upon ingratitude, that it

is no easy matter to distinguish the one from the other: but, in regard

that there is good-will in the bottom of it, (however distempered, for

it is effectually but kindness out of the wits,) we shall discourse it

under the title of _Gratitude mistaken_.

CHAPTER XVIII.

GRATITUDE MISTAKEN.

To refuse a good office, not so much because we do not need it, as

because we would not be indebted for it, is a kind of fantastical

ingratitude, and somewhat akin to that nicety of humor, on the other

side, of being over-grateful; only it lies another way, and seems to be

the more pardonable ingratitude of the two. Some people take it for a

great instance of their good-will to be wishing their benefactors such

or such a mischief; only, forsooth, that they themselves may be the

happy instruments of their release.

These men do like extravagant lovers, that take it for a great proof of

their affection to wish one another banished, beggared, or diseased,

that they might have the opportunity of interposing to their relief.

What difference is there betwixt such wishing and cursing? such an

affection and a mortal hatred? The intent is good, you will say, but

this is a misapplication of it. Let such a one fall into my power, or

into the hands of his enemies, his creditors, or the common people, and

no mortal be able to rescue him but myself: let his life, his liberty,

and his reputation, lie all at stake, and no creature but myself in

condition to succor him; and why all this, but because he has obliged

me, and I would requite him? If this be gratitude to propound jails,

shackles, slavery, war, beggary, to the man that you would requite,

what would you do where you are ungrateful? This way of proceeding,

over and above that it is impious in itself, is likewise over-hasty and

unseasonable: for he that goes too fast is as much to blame as he that

does not move at all, (to say nothing of the injustice,) for if I had

never been obliged, I should never have wished it.

There are seasons wherein a benefit is neither to be received nor

requited. To press a return upon me when I do not desire it, is

unmannerly; but it is worse to force me to desire it. How rigorous

would he be to exact a requital; who is thus eager to return it! To

wish a man in distress that I may relieve him, is first to wish him

miserable: to wish that he may stand in need of anybody, is _against

him_; and to wish that he may stand in need of me, is _for myself_:

so that my business is not so much a charity to my friend as the

cancelling of a bond; nay, it is half-way the wish of an enemy. It is

barbarous to wish a man in chains, slavery, or want, only to bring

him out again: let me rather wish him powerful and happy, and myself

indebted to him! By nature we are prone to mercy, humanity compassion;

may we be excited to be more so by the number of the grateful! may

their number increase, and may we have no need of trying them!

It is not for an honest man to make way to a good office by a crime: as

if a pilot should pray for a tempest, that he might prove his skill:

or a general wish his army routed, that he may show himself a great

commander in recovering the day. It is throwing a man into a river to

take him out again. It is an obligation, I confess, to cure a wound or

a disease; but to _make_ that wound or disease on purpose to _cure_ it,

is a most perverse ingratitude. It is barbarous even to an enemy, much

more to a friend; for it is not so much to do him a kindness, as to put

him in need of it. Of the two, let me rather be a scar than a wound;

and yet it would be better to have it neither. Rome had been little

beholden to Scipio if he had prolonged the Punic war that he might

have the finishing of it at last, or to the Decii for dying for their

country, if they had first brought it to the last extremity of needing

their devotion. It may be a good contemplation, but it is a lewd wish.

Æneas had never been surnamed _the Pious_, if he had wished the ruin

of his country, only that he might have the honor of taking his father

out of the fire. It is the scandal of a physician to make work, and

irritate a disease, and to torment his patient, for the reputation of

his cure. If a man should openly imprecate poverty, captivity, fear,

or danger, upon a person that he has been obliged to, would not the

whole world condemn him for it? And what is the difference, but the one

is only a private wish, and the other a public declaration? Rutilius

was told in his exile, that, for his comfort, there would be ere-long

a civil war, that would bring all the banished men home again. “God

forbid,” says he, “for I had rather my country should blush for my

banishment than mourn for my return.” How much more honorable it is to

owe cheerfully, than to pay dishonestly? It is the wish of an enemy

to take a town that he may preserve it, and to be victorious that he

may forgive; but the mercy comes after the cruelty; beside that it is

an injury both to God and man; for the man must be first afflicted by

_Heaven_ to be relieved by _me_. So that we impose the cruelty upon

God, and take the compassion to ourselves; and at the best, it is but

a curse that makes way for a blessing; the bare wish is an injury; and

if it does not take effect, it is because Heaven has not heard our

prayers; or if they should succeed, the fear itself is a torment; and

it is much more desirable to have a firm and unshaken security. It is

friendly to wish it in your power to oblige me, if ever I chance to

need it; but it is unkind to wish me miserable that I may need it. How

much more pious is it, and humane, to wish that I may never want the

occasion of obliging, nor the means of doing it; nor ever have reason

to repent of what I have done?

CHAPTER XIX.

OF INGRATITUDE.

Ingratitude is of all the crimes, that which we are to account the

most venial in others, and the most unpardonable in ourselves. It

is impious to the highest degree; for it makes us fight against our

children and our altars. There are, there ever were, and there ever

will be criminals of all sorts, as murderers, tyrants, thieves,

adulterers, traitors, robbers and sacrilegious persons; but there

is hardly any notorious crime without a mixture of ingratitude. It

disunites mankind, and breaks the very pillars of society; and yet so

far is this prodigious wickedness from being any wonder to us, that

even thankfulness itself were much the greater of the two; for men

are deterred from it by labor, expense, laziness, business; or else

diverted from it by lust, envy, ambition, pride, levity, rashness,

fear; nay, by the very shame of confessing what they have received. And

the unthankful man has nothing to say for himself all this while, for

there needs neither pains or fortune for the discharge of his duty,

beside the inward anxiety and torment when a man’s conscience makes him

afraid of his own thoughts.

To speak against the ungrateful is to rail against mankind, for even

those that complain are guilty: nor do I speak only of those that

do not live up to the strict rule of virtue; but mankind itself is

degenerated and lost. We live unthankfully in this world, and we go

struggling and murmuring out of it, dissatisfied with our lot, whereas

we should be grateful for the blessings we have enjoyed, and account

that sufficient which Providence has provided for us; a little more

time may make our lives longer but not happier, and whensoever it is

the pleasure of God to call us, we must obey; and yet all this while

we go on quarreling at the world for what we find in ourselves, and

we are yet more unthankful to Heaven than we are to one another. What

benefit can be great now to that man that despises the bounties of his

Maker? We would be as strong as elephants, as swift as bucks, as light

as birds—and we complain that we have not the sagacity of dogs, the

sight of eagles, the long life of ravens—nay, that we are not immortal,

and endued with the knowledge of things to come: nay, we take it ill

that we are not gods upon earth, never considering the advantages

of our condition, or the benignity of Providence in the comforts

that we enjoy. We subdue the strongest of creatures and overtake the

fleetest—we reclaim the fiercest and outwit the craftiest. We are

within one degree of heaven itself, and yet we are not satisfied.

Since there is not any one creature which we had rather be, we take it

ill that we cannot draw the united excellencies of all other creatures

into ourselves. Why are we not rather thankful to that goodness which

has subjected the whole creation to our use and service?

The principal causes of ingratitude are pride and self-conceit,

avarice, envy, etc. It is a familiar exclamation, “It is true he did

this or that for me, but it came so late, and it was so little, I had

even as good have been without it—if he had not given it to me, he must

have given it to somebody else—it was nothing out of his pocket.” Nay,

we are so ungrateful, that he that gives us all we have, if he leaves

any thing to himself, we reckon that he does us an injury.

It cost Julius Cæsar his life by the disappointment of his insatiable

companions; and yet he reserved nothing of all that he got to himself

but the liberty of disposing of it. There is no benefit so large

but malignity will still lessen it; none so narrow, which a good

interpretation will not enlarge. No man shall ever be grateful that

views a benefit on the wrong side, or takes a good office by the wrong

handle. The avaricious man is naturally ungrateful, for he never thinks

he has enough, but, without considering what he has, only minds what

he covets. Some pretend want of power to make a competent return, and

you shall find in others a kind of graceless modesty, that makes a man

ashamed of requiting an obligation, because it is a confession that he

has received one.

Not to return one good office for another is inhuman; but to return

evil for good is diabolical. There are too many even of this sort, who,

the more they owe, the more they hate. There is nothing more dangerous

than to oblige those people; for when they are conscious of not paying

the debt, they wish the creditor out of the way. It is a mortal hatred,

that which arises from the shame of an abused benefit. When we are on

the asking side, what a deal of cringing there is, and profession!

“Well, I shall never forget this favor, it will be an eternal

obligation to me.” But within a while the note is changed, and we

hear no more words of it, until, by little and little, it is all quite

forgotten. So long as we stand in need of a benefit, there is nothing

dearer to us; nor anything cheaper, when we have received it. And yet

a man may as well refuse to deliver up a sum of money that is left him

in trust without a suit, as not to return a good office without asking;

and when we have no value any farther for the benefit, we do commonly

care as little for the author. People follow their interest: one man

is grateful for his convenience, and another man is ungrateful for the

same reason.

Some are ungrateful to their own country, and their country no less

ungrateful to others; so that the complaint of ingratitude reaches

all men. Doth not the son wish for the death of his father, the

husband for that of his wife, etc. But who can look for gratitude

in an age of so many gaping and craving appetites, where all people

take, and none give? In an age of license to all sorts of vanity

and wickedness, as lust, gluttony, avarice, envy, ambition, sloth,

insolence, levity, contumacy, fear, rashness, private discords and

public evils, extravagant and groundless wishes, vain confidences,

sickly affections, shameless impieties, rapine authorized, and the

violation of all things, sacred and profane: obligations are pursued

with sword and poison; benefits are turned into crimes, and that blood

most seditiously spilt for which every honest man should expose his

own. Those that should be the preservers of their country are the

destroyers of it; and it is a matter of dignity to trample upon the

government: the sword gives the law, and mercenaries take up arms

against their masters. Among these turbulent and unruly motions, what

hope is there of finding honesty or good faith, which is the quietest

of all virtues? There is no more lively image of human life than that

of a conquered city; there is neither mercy, modesty, nor religion;

and if we forget our lives, we may well forget our benefits. The

world abounds with examples of ungrateful persons, and no less with

those of ungrateful governments. Was not Catiline ungrateful? whose

malice aimed, not only at the mastering of his country, but at the

total destruction of it, by calling in an inveterate and vindictive

enemy from beyond the Alps, to wreak their long-thirsted-for revenge,

and to sacrifice the lives of as many noble Romans as might serve

to answer and appease the ghosts of the slaughtered Gauls? Was not

Marius ungrateful, that, from a common soldier, being raised up to a

consul, not only gave the world for civil bloodshed and massacres, but

was himself the sign of the execution; and every man he met in the

streets, to whom he did not stretch out his right hand, was murdered?

And was not Sylla ungrateful too? that when he had waded up to the

gates in human blood, carried the outrage into the city, and there most

barbarously cut two entire legions to pieces in a corner, not only

after the victory, but most perfidiously after quarter given them?

Good God! that ever any man should not only escape with impunity, but

receive a reward for so horrid a villainy! Was not Pompey ungrateful

too? who, after three consulships, three triumphs, and so many honors,

usurped before his time, split the commonwealth into three parts,

and brought it to such a pass, that there was no hope of safety but

by slavery only; forsooth, to abate the envy of his power, he took

other partners with him into the government, as if that which was not

lawful for any one might have been allowable for more; dividing and

distributing the provinces, and breaking all into a _triumvirate_,

reserving still two parts of the three in his own family. And was not

Cæsar ungrateful also, though to give him his due, he was a man of his

word; merciful in his victories, and never killed any man but with his

sword in his hand? Let us therefore forgive one another. Only one word

more now for the shame of ungrateful Governments. Was not Camillus

banished? Scipio dismissed? and Cicero exiled and plundered? But, what

is all this to those who are so mad, and to dispute even the goodness

of Heaven, which gives us all, and expects nothing again, but continues

giving to the most unthankful and complaining?

CHAPTER XX.

THERE CAN BE NO LAW AGAINST INGRATITUDE.

Ingratitude is so dangerous to itself, and so detestable to other

people, that nature, one would think, had sufficiently provided against

it, without need of any other law. For every ungrateful man is his

own enemy, and it seems superfluous to compel a man to be kind to

himself, and to follow in his own inclinations. This, of all wickedness

imaginable, is certainly the vice which does the most divide and

distract human nature. Without the exercise and the commerce of mutual

offices, we can be neither happy nor safe for it is only society that

secures us: take us one by one, and we are a prey even to brutes as

well as to one another.

Nature has brought us into the world naked and unarmed; we have not

the teeth or the paws of lions or bears to make ourselves terrible;

but by the two blessings of reason and union, we secure and defend

ourselves against violence and fortune. This it is that makes man the

master of all other creatures, who otherwise were scarce a match for

the weakest of them. This it is that comforts us in sickness, in age,

in misery, in pains, and in the worst of calamities. Take away this

combination, and mankind is dissociated, and falls to pieces. It is

true, that there is no law established against this abominable vice;

but we cannot say yet that it escapes unpunished, for a public hatred

is certainly the greatest of all penalties; over and above that we lose

the most valuable blessings of life, in the not bestowing and receiving

of benefits. If ingratitude were to be punished by a law, it would

discredit the obligation; for a benefit to be given, not lent: and if

we have no return at all, there is no just cause of complaint: for

gratitude were no virtue, if there were any danger in being ungrateful.

There are halters, I know, hooks and gibbets, provided for homicide

poison, sacrilege, and rebellion; but ingratitude (here upon earth) is

only punished in the schools; all farther pains and inflictions being

wholly remitted to divine justice. And, if a man may judge of the

conscience by the countenance the ungrateful man is never without a

canker at his heart; his mind an aspect is sad and solicitous; whereas

the other is always cheerful and serene.

As there are no laws extant against ingratitude, so is it utterly

impossible to contrive any, that in all circumstances shall reach it.

If it were actionable, there would not be courts enough in the whole

world to try the causes in. There can be no setting a day for the

requiting of benefits as for the payment of money, nor any estimate

upon the benefits themselves; but the whole matter rests in the

conscience of both parties: and then there are so many degrees of it,

that the same rule will never serve all. Beside that, to proportion

it as the benefit is greater or less, will be both impracticable and

without reason. One good turn saves my life; another, my freedom, or

peradventure my very soul. How shall any law now suit a punishment to

an ingratitude under these differing degrees? It must not be said in

benefits as in bonds, _Pay what you owe_. How shall a man pay life,

health, credit, security, in _kind_? There can be no set rule to bound

that infinite variety of cases, which are more properly the subject of

humanity and religion than of law and public justice. There would be

disputes also about the benefit itself, which must totally depend upon

the courtesy of the judge; for no law imaginable can set it forth. One

man _gives_ me an estate; another only _lends_ me a sword, and that

sword preserves my life. Nay, the very same thing, several ways done,

changes the quality of the obligation. A word, a tone, a look, makes a

great alteration in the case. How shall we judge then, and determine

a matter which does not depend upon the fact itself, but upon the

force and intention of it? Some things are reputed benefits, not for

their value, but because we desire them: and there are offices of as

much greater value, that we do not reckon upon at all. If ingratitude

were liable to a law, we must never give but before witnesses, which

would overthrow the dignity of the benefit: and then the punishment

must either be equal where the crimes are unequal, or else it must be

unrighteous, so that blood must answer for blood. He that is ungrateful

for my saving his life must forfeit his own. And what can be more

inhuman than that benefits should conclude in sanguinary events? A

man saves my life, and I am ungrateful for it. Shall I be punished

in my purse? that is too little; if it be less than the benefit, it

is unjust, and it must be capital to be made equal to it. There are,

moreover, certain privileges granted to parents, that can never be

reduced to a common rule. Their injuries may be cognizable, but not

their benefits. The diversity of cases is too large and intricate to

be brought within the prospect of a law: so that it is much more

equitable to punish none than to punish all alike. What if a man

follows a good office with an injury; whether or no shall this quit

scores? or who shall compare them, and weigh the one against the other?

There is another thing yet which perhaps we do not dream of: not one

man upon the face of the earth would escape, and yet every man would

expect to be his judge. Once again, we are all of us ungrateful; and

the number does not only take away the shame, but gives authority and

protection to the wickedness.

It is thought reasonable by some, that there should be a law against

ingratitude; for, say they, it is common for one city to upbraid

another, and to claim that of posterity which was bestowed upon their

ancestors; but this is only clamor without reason. It is objected by

others, as a discouragement to good offices, if men shall not be made

answerable for them; but I say, on the other side, that no man would

accept of a benefit upon those terms. He that gives is prompted to it

by a goodness of mind, and the generosity of the action is lessened

by the caution: for it is his desire that the receiver should please

himself, and owe no more than he thinks fit. But what if this might

occasion fewer benefits, so long as they would be franker? nor is there

any hurt in putting a check upon rashness and profusion. In answer to

this; men will be careful enough when they oblige without a law: nor is

it possible for a judge ever to set us right in it; or indeed, anything

else, but the faith of the receiver. The honor of a benefit is this way

preserved, which is otherwise profaned, when it comes to the mercenary,

and made matter of contention. We are even forward enough of ourselves

to wrangle, without necessary provocations. It would be well, I think,

if moneys might pass upon the same conditions with other benefits, and

the payment remitted to the conscience, without formalizing upon bills

and securities: but human wisdom has rather advised with convenience

than virtue; and chosen rather to _force_ honesty than _expect_ it. For

every paltry sum of money there must be bonds, witnesses, counterparts,

powers, etc., which is no other than a shameful confession of fraud and

wickedness, when more credit is given to our seals than to our minds;

and caution taken lest he that has received the money should deny it.

Were it not better now to be deceived by some than to suspect all? what

is the difference, at this rate, betwixt the benefactor and the usurer,

save only that in the benefactor’s case there is nobody stands bound?

SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

OF A HAPPY LIFE, AND WHEREIN IT CONSISTS.

There is not any thing in this world, perhaps, that is more talked

of, and less understood, than the business of a _happy life_. It is

every man’s wish and design; and yet not one of a thousand that knows

wherein that happiness consists. We live, however, in a blind and eager

pursuit of it; and the more haste we make in a wrong way, the further

we are from our journey’s end. Let us therefore, _first_, consider

“what it is we should be at;” and, _secondly_, “which is the readiest

way to compass it.” If we be right, we shall find every day how much

we improve; but if we either follow the cry, or the track, of people

that are out of the way, we must expect to be misled, and to continue

our days in wandering in error. Wherefore, it highly concerns us to

take along with us a skilful guide; for it is not in this, as in other

voyages, where the highway brings us to our place of repose; or if

a man should happen to be out, where the inhabitants might set him

right again: but on the contrary, the beaten road is here the most

dangerous, and the people, instead of helping us, misguide us. Let

us not therefore follow, like beasts, but rather govern ourselves by

_reason_, than by _example_. It fares with us in human life as in a

routed army; one stumbles first, and then another falls upon him, and

so they follow, one upon the neck of another, until the whole field

comes to be but one heap of miscarriages. And the mischief is, “that

the number of the multitude carries it against truth and justice;” so

that we must leave the crowd, if we would be happy: for the question

of a _happy life_ is not to be decided by vote: nay, so far from it,

that plurality of voices is still an argument of the wrong; the common

people find it easier to believe than to judge, and content themselves

with what is usual, never examining whether it be good or not. By the

_common people_ is intended _the man of title_ as well as the _clouted

shoe_: for I do not distinguish them by the eye, but by the mind, which

is the proper judge of the man. Worldly felicity, I know, makes the

head giddy; but if ever a man comes to himself again, he will confess,

that “whatsoever he has done, he wishes undone;” and that “the things

he feared were better than those he prayed for.”

The true felicity of life is to be free from perturbations, to

understand our duties towards God and man: to enjoy the present without

any anxious dependence upon the future. Not to amuse ourselves with

either hopes or fears, but to rest satisfied with what we have, which

is abundantly sufficient; for he that is so, wants nothing. The great

blessings of mankind are within us, and within our reach; but we shut

our eyes, and, like people in the dark, we fall foul upon the very

thing which we search for without finding it. “Tranquillity is a

certain equality of mind, which no condition of fortune can either

exalt or depress.” Nothing can make it less: for it is the state of

human perfection: it raises us as high as we can go; and makes every

man his own supporter; whereas he that is borne up by any thing else

may fall. He that judges aright, and perseveres in it, enjoys a

perpetual calm: he takes a true prospect of things; he observes an

order, measure, a decorum in all his actions; he has a benevolence

in his nature; he squares his life according to reason; and draws to

himself love and admiration. Without a certain and an unchangeable

judgment, all the rest is but fluctuation: but “he that always wills

and nills the same thing, is undoubtedly in the right.” Liberty and

serenity of mind must necessarily ensue upon the mastering of those

things which either allure or affright us; when instead of those flashy

pleasures, (which even at the best are both vain and hurtful together,)

we shall find ourselves possessed of joy transporting and everlasting.

It must be a _sound mind_ that makes a _happy man_; there must be a

constancy in all conditions, a care for the things of this world, but

without trouble; and such an indifferency for the bounties of fortune,

that either with them, or without them, we may live contentedly. There

must be neither lamentation, nor quarrelling, nor sloth, nor fear;

for it makes a discord in a man’s life. “He that fears, serves.” The

joy of a wise man stands firm without interruption; in all places,

at all times, and in all conditions, his thoughts are cheerful and

quiet. As it never _came in_ to him from _without_, so it will never

leave him; but it is born within him, and inseparable from him. It

is a solicitous life that is egged on with the hope of any thing,

though never so open and easy, nay, though a man should never suffer

any sort of disappointment. I do not speak this either as a bar to the

fair enjoyment of lawful pleasures, or to the gentle flatteries of

reasonable expectations: but, on the contrary, I would have men to be

always in good humor, provided that it arises from their own souls,

and be cherished in their own breasts. Other delights are trivial;

they may smooth the brow, but they do not fill and affect the heart.

“True joy is a serene and sober motion;” and they are miserably out

that take _laughing_ for _rejoicing_. The seat of it is within, and

there is no cheerfulness like the resolution of a brave mind, that

has fortune under his feet. He that can look death in the face, and

bid it welcome; open his door to poverty, and bridle his appetites;

this is the man whom Providence has established in the possession of

inviolable delights. The pleasures of the vulgar are ungrounded, thin,

and superficial; but the others are solid and _eternal_. As the _body_

itself is rather a _necessary thing_, than a _great_; so the comforts

of it are but temporary and vain; beside that, without extraordinary

moderation, their end is only pain and repentance; whereas a peaceful

conscience, honest thoughts, virtuous actions, and an indifference for

casual events, are blessings without end, satiety, or measure. This

consummated state of felicity is only a submission to the dictate of

right nature; “The foundation of it is wisdom and virtue; the knowledge

of what we ought to do, and the conformity of the will to that

knowledge.”