from their iniquity—not even Theseus, to deliver the soil of Attica
from its monsters? Purge away thine own, cast forth thence—from thine
own mind, not robbers and monsters, but Fear, Desire, Envy, Malignity,
Avarice, Effeminacy, Intemperance. And these may not be cast out,
except by looking to God alone, by fixing thy affections on Him only,
and by consecrating thyself to His commands. If thou choosest aught
else, with sighs and groans thou wilt be forced to follow a Might
greater than thine own, ever seeking Tranquillity without, and never
able to attain unto her. For thou seekest her where she is not to be
found; and where she is, there thou seekest her not!
LXXII
If a man would pursue Philosophy, his first task is to throw away
conceit. For it is impossible for a man to begin to learn what he has a
conceit that he already knows.
LXXIII
Give me but one young man, that has come to the School with this
intention, who stands forth a champion of this cause, and says, “All
else I renounce, content if I am but able to pass my life free from
hindrance and trouble; to raise my head aloft and face all things as a
free man; to look up to heaven as a friend of God, fearing nothing that
may come to pass!” Point out such a one to me, that I may say, “Enter,
young man, into possession of that which is thine own. For thy lot is
to adorn Philosophy. Thine are these possessions; thine these books,
these discourses!”
And when our champion has duly exercised himself in this part of the
subject, I hope he will come back to me and say:—“What I desire is to
be free from passion and from perturbation; as one who grudges no pains
in the pursuit of piety and philosophy, what I desire is to know my
duty to the Gods, my duty to my parents, to my brothers, to my country,
to strangers.”
“Enter then on the second part of the subject; it is thine also.”
“But I have already mastered the second part; only I wished to stand
firm and unshaken—as firm when asleep as when awake, as firm when
elated with wine as in despondency and dejection.”
“Friend, you are verily a God! you cherish great designs.”
LXXIV
“The question at stake,” said Epictetus, “is no common one; it is
this:—_Are we in our senses, or are we not?_”
LXXV
If you have given way to anger, be sure that over and above the evil
involved therein, you have strengthened the habit, and added fuel to
the fire. If overcome by a temptation of the flesh, do not reckon it a
single defeat, but that you have also strengthened your dissolute
habits. Habits and faculties are necessarily affected by the
corresponding acts. Those that were not there before, spring up: the
rest gain in strength and extent. This is the account which
Philosophers give of the origin of diseases of the mind:—Suppose you
have once lusted after money: if reason sufficient to produce a sense
of evil be applied, then the lust is checked, and the mind at once
regains its original authority; whereas if you have recourse to no
remedy, you can no longer look for this return—on the contrary, the
next time it is excited by the corresponding object, the flame of
desire leaps up more quickly than before. By frequent repetition, the
mind in the long run becomes callous; and thus this mental disease
produces confirmed Avarice.
One who has had fever, even when it has left him, is not in the same
condition of health as before, unless indeed his cure is complete.
Something of the same sort is true also of diseases of the mind.
Behind, there remains a legacy of traces and blisters: and unless these
are effectually erased, subsequent blows on the same spot will produce
no longer mere blisters, but sores. If you do not wish to be prone to
anger, do not feed the habit; give it nothing which may tend its
increase. At first, keep quiet and count the days when you were not
angry: “I used to be angry every day, then every other day: next every
two, next every three days!” and if you succeed in passing thirty days,
sacrifice to the Gods in thanksgiving.
LXXVI
How then may this be attained?—Resolve, now if never before, to approve
thyself to thyself; resolve to show thyself fair in God’s sight; long
to be pure with thine own pure self and God!
LXXVII
That is the true athlete, that trains himself to resist such outward
impressions as these.
“Stay, wretched man! suffer not thyself to be carried away!” Great is
the combat, divine the task! you are fighting for Kingship, for
Liberty, for Happiness, for Tranquillity. Remember God: call upon Him
to aid thee, like a comrade that stands beside thee in the fight.
LXXVIII
Who then is a Stoic—in the sense that we call a statue of Phidias which
is modelled after that master’s art? Show me a man in this sense
modelled after the doctrines that are ever upon his lips. Show me a man
that is sick—and happy; an exile—and happy; in evil report—and happy!
Show me him, I ask again. So help me Heaven, I long to see _one_ Stoic!
Nay, if you cannot show me one fully modelled, let me at least see one
in whom the process is at work—one whose bent is in that direction. Do
me that favour! Grudge it not to an old man, to behold a sight he has
never yet beheld. Think you I wish to see the _Zeus_ or _Athena_ of
Phidias, bedecked with gold and ivory?—Nay, show me, one of you, a
human soul, desiring to be of one mind with God, no more to lay blame
on God or man, to suffer nothing to disappoint, nothing to cross him,
to yield neither to anger, envy, nor jealousy—in a word, why disguise
the matter? one that from a man would fain become a God; one that while
still imprisoned in this dead body makes fellowship with God his aim.
Show me him!—Ah, you cannot! Then why mock yourselves and delude
others? why stalk about tricked out in other men’s attire, thieves and
robbers that you are of names and things to which you can show no
title!
LXXIX
If you have assumed a character beyond your strength, you have both
played a poor figure in that, and neglected one that is within your
powers.
LXXX
Fellow, you have come to blows at home with a slave: you have turned
the household upside down, and thrown the neighbourhood into confusion;
and do you come to me then with airs of assumed modesty—do you sit down
like a sage and criticise my explanation of the readings, and whatever
idle babble you say has come into my head? Have you come full of envy,
and dejected because nothing is sent you from home; and while the
discussion is going on, do you sit brooding on nothing but how your
father or your brother are disposed towards you:—“What are they saying
about me there? at this moment they imagine I am making progress and
saying, He will return perfectly omniscient! I wish I could become
omniscient before I return; but that would be very troublesome. No one
sends me anything—the baths at Nicopolis are dirty; things are wretched
at home and wretched here.” And then they say, “Nobody is any the
better for the School.”—Who comes to the School with a sincere wish to
learn: to submit his principles to correction and himself to
_treatment?_ Who, to gain a sense of his wants? Why then be surprised
if you carry home from the School exactly what you bring into it?
LXXXI
“Epictetus, I have often come desiring to hear you speak, and you have
never given me any answer; now if possible, I entreat you, say
something to me.”
“Is there, do you think,” replied Epictetus, “an _art_ of speaking as
of other things, if it is to be done skilfully and with profit to the
hearer?”
“Yes.”
“And are all profited by what they hear, or only some among them? So
that it seems there is an art of hearing as well as of speaking. . . .
To make a statue needs skill: to view a statue aright needs skill
also.”
“Admitted.”
“And I think all will allow that one who proposes to hear philosophers
speak needs a considerable training in hearing. Is that not so? The
tell me on what subject your are able to _hear_ me.”
“Why, on good and evil.”
“The good and evil of what? a horse, an ox?”
“No; of a man.”
“Do we know then what Man is? what his nature is? what is the idea we
have of him? And are our _ears_ practised in any degree on the subject?
Nay, do you understand what Nature is? can you follow me in any degree
when I say that I shall have to use demonstration? Do you understand
what Demonstration is? what True or False is? . . . must I _drive_ you
to Philosophy? . . . Show me what good I am to do by discoursing with
you. Rouse my desire to do so. The sight of a pasture it loves stirs in
a sheep the desire to feed: show it a stone or a bit of bread and it
remains unmoved. Thus we also have certain natural desires, aye, and
one that moves us to speak when we find a listener that is worth his
salt: one that himself stirs the spirit. But if he sits by like a stone
or a tuft of grass, how can he rouse a man’s desire?”
“Then you will say nothing to me?”
“I can only tell you this: that one who knows not who he is and to what
end he was born; what kind of world this is and with whom he is
associated therein; one who cannot distinguish Good and Evil, Beauty
and Foulness, . . . Truth and Falsehood, will never follow Reason in
shaping his desires and impulses and repulsions, nor yet in assent,
denial, or suspension of judgement; but will in one word go about deaf
and blind, thinking himself to be somewhat, when he is in truth of no
account. Is there anything new in all this? Is not this ignorance the
cause of all the mistakes and mischances of men since the human race
began? . . .”
“This is all I have to say to you, and even this against the grain.
Why? Because you have not stirred my spirit. For what can I see in you
to stir me, as a spirited horse will stir a judge of horses? Your body?
That you maltreat. Your dress? That is luxurious. You behavior, your
look?—Nothing whatever. When you want to hear a philosopher, do not
say, You say nothing to me’; only show yourself worthy or fit to
_hear_, and then you will see how you will move the speaker.”
LXXXII
And now, when you see brothers apparently good friends and living in
accord, do not immediately pronounce anything upon their friendship,
though they should affirm it with an oath, though they should declare,
“For us to live apart in a thing impossible!” For the heart of a bad
man is faithless, unprincipled, inconstant: now overpowered by one
impression, now by another. Ask not the usual questions, Were they born
of the same parents, reared together, and under the same tutor; but ask
this only, in what they place their real interest—whether in outward
things or in the Will. If in outward things, call them not friends, any
more than faithful, constant, brave or free: call them not even human
beings, if you have any sense. . . . But should you hear that these men
hold the Good to lie only in the _Will_, only in rightly dealing with
the things of sense, take no more trouble to inquire whether they are
father and son or brothers, or comrades of long standing; but, sure of
this one thing, pronounce as boldly that they are friends as that they
are faithful and just: for where else can Friendship be found than
where Modesty is, where there is an interchange of things fair and
honest, and of such only?
LXXXIII
No man can rob us of our Will—no man can lord it over that!
LXXXIV
When disease and death overtake me, I would fain be found engaged in
the task of liberating mine own Will from the assaults of passion, from
hindrance, from resentment, from slavery.
Thus would I fain to be found employed, so that I may say to God, “Have
I in aught transgressed Thy commands? Have I in aught perverted the
faculties, the senses, the natural principles that Thou didst give me?
Have I ever blamed Thee or found fault with Thine administration? When
it was Thy good pleasure, I fell sick—and so did other men: by _my_
will consented. Because it was Thy pleasure, I became poor: but _my_
heart rejoiced. No power in the State was mine, because Thou wouldst
not: such power I never desired! Hast Thou ever seen me of more doleful
countenance on that account? Have I not ever drawn nigh unto Thee with
cheerful look, waiting upon Thy commands, attentive to Thy signals?
Wilt Thou that I now depart from the great Assembly of men? I go: I
give Thee all thanks, that Thou hast deemed me worthy to take part with
Thee in this Assembly: to behold Thy works, to comprehend this Thine
administration.”
Such I would were the subject of my thoughts, my pen, my study, when
death overtakes me.
LXXXV
Seemeth it nothing to you, never to accuse, never to blame either God
or Man? to wear ever the same countenance in going forth as in coming
in? This was the secret of Socrates: yet he never said that he knew or
taught anything. . . . Who amongst you makes this his aim? Were it
indeed so, you would gladly endure sickness, hunger, aye, death itself.
LXXXVI
How are we constituted by Nature? To be free, to be noble, to be modest
(for what other living thing is capable of blushing, or of feeling the
impression of shame?) and to subordinate pleasure to the ends for which
Nature designed us, as a handmaid and a minister, in order to call
forth our activity; in order to keep us constant to the path prescribed
by Nature.
LXXXVII
The husbandman deals with land; physicians and trainers with the body;
the wise man with his own Mind.
LXXXVIII
Which of us does not admire what Lycurgus the Spartan did? A young
citizen had put out his eye, and been handed over to him by the people
to be punished at his own discretion. Lycurgus abstained from all
vengeance, but on the contrary instructed and made a good man of him.
Producing him in public in the theatre, he said to the astonished
Spartans:—“I received this young man at your hands full of violence and
wanton insolence; I restore him to you in his right mind and fit to
serve his country.”
LXXXIX
A money-changer may not reject Cæsar’s coin, nor may the seller of
herbs, but must when once the coin is shown, deliver what is sold for
it, whether he will or no. So is it also with the Soul. Once the Good
appears, it attracts towards itself; evil repels. But a clear and
certain impression of the Good the Soul will never reject, any more
than men do Cæsar’s coin. On this hangs every impulse alike of Man and
God.
XC
Asked what Common Sense was, Epictetus replied:—
As that may be called a Common Ear which distinguishes only sounds,
while that which distinguishes musical notes is not common but produced
by training; so there are certain things which men not entirely
perverted see by the natural principles common to all. Such a
constitution of the Mind is called Common Sense.
XCI
Canst thou judge men? . . . then make us imitators of thyself, as
Socrates did. _Do this, do not do that, else will I cast thee into
prison:_ this is not governing men like reasonable creatures. Say
rather, _As God hath ordained, so do; else thou wilt suffer
chastisement and loss_. Askest thou what loss? None other than this: To
have left undone what thou shouldst have done: to have lost the
faithfulness, the reverence, the modesty that is in thee! Greater loss
than this seek not to find!
XCII
“His son is dead.”
What has happened?
“His son is dead.”
Nothing more?
“Nothing.”
“His ship is lost.”
“He has been haled to prison.”
What has happened?
“He has been haled to prison.”
But that any of these things are _misfortunes_ to him, is an addition
which every one makes of his own. But (you say) God is unjust is
this.—Why? For having given thee endurance and greatness of soul? For
having made such things to be no evils? For placing happiness within
thy reach, even when enduring them? For open unto thee a door, when
things make not for thy good?—Depart, my friend and find fault no more!
XCIII
You are sailing to Rome (you tell me) to obtain the post of Governor of
Cnossus. You are not content to stay at home with the honours you had
before; you want something on a larger scale, and more conspicuous. But
when did you ever undertake a voyage for the purpose of reviewing your
own principles and getting rid of any of them that proved unsound? Whom
did you ever visit for that object? What time did you ever set yourself
for that? What age? Run over the times of your life—by yourself, if you
are ashamed before me. Did you examine your principles when a boy? Did
you not do everything just as you do now? Or when you were a stripling,
attending the school of oratory and practising the art yourself, what
did you ever imagine you lacked? And when you were a young man, entered
upon public life, and were pleading causes and making a name, who any
longer seemed equal to you? And at what moment would you have endured
another examining your principles and proving that they were unsound?
What then am I to say to you? “Help me in this matter!” you cry. Ah,
for that I have no rule! And neither did you, if that was your object,
come to me as a philosopher, but as you might have gone to a
herb-seller or a cobbler.—“What do philosophers have rules for,
then?”—Why, that whatever may betide, our ruling faculty may be as
Nature would have it, and so remain. Think you this a small matter? Not
so! but the greatest thing there is. Well, does it need but a short
time? Can it be grasped by a passer-by?—grasp it, if you can!
Then you will say, “Yes, I met Epictetus!”
Aye, just as you might a statue or a monument. You saw me! and that is
all. But a man who meets a man is one who learns the other’s mind, and
lets him see his in turn. Learn my mind—show me yours; and then go and
say that you met me. Let us try each other; if I have any wrong
principle, rid me of it; if _you_ have, out with it. That is what
meeting a philosopher means. Not so, you think; this is only a flying
visit; while we are hiring the ship, we can see Epictetus too! Let us
see what he has to say. Then on leaving you cry, “Out on Epictetus for
a worthless fellow, provincial and barbarous of speech!” What else
indeed did you come to judge of?
XCIV
Whether you will or no, you are poorer than I!
“What then do I lack?”
What you have not: Constancy of mind, such as Nature would have it be:
Tranquillity. Patron or no patron, what care I? but you do care. I am
richer than you: I am not racked with anxiety as to what Cæsar may
think of me; I flatter none on that account. This is what I have,
instead of vessels of gold and silver! your vessels may be of gold, but
your reason, your principles, your accepted views, your inclinations,
your desires are of earthenware.
XCV
To you, all you have seems small: to me, all I have seems great. Your
desire is insatiable, mine is satisfied. See children thrusting their
hands into a narrow-necked jar, and striving to pull out the nuts and
figs it contains: if they fill the hand, they cannot pull it out again,
and then they fall to tears.—“Let go a few of them, and then you can
draw out the rest!”—You, too, let your desire go! covet not many
things, and you will obtain.
XCVI
Pittacus wronged by one whom he had it in his power to punish, let him
go free, saying, _Forgiveness is better than revenge_. The one shows
native gentleness, the other savagery.
XCVII
“My brother ought not to have treated me thus.”
True: but _he_ must see to that. However he may treat me, I must deal
rightly by him. This is what lies with me, what none can hinder.
XCVIII
Nevertheless a man should also be prepared to be sufficient unto
himself—to dwell with himself alone, even as God dwells with Himself
alone, shares His repose with none, and considers the nature of His own
administration, intent upon such thoughts as are meet unto Himself. So
should we also be able to converse with ourselves, to need none else
beside, to sigh for no distraction, to bend our thoughts upon the
Divine Administration, and how we stand related to all else; to observe
how human accidents touched us of old, and how they touch us now; what
things they are that still have power to hurt us, and how they may be
cured or removed; to perfect what needs perfecting as Reason would
direct.
XCIX
If a man has frequent intercourse with others, either in the way of
conversation, entertainment, or simple familiarity, he must either
become like them, or change them to his own fashion. A live coal placed
next a dead one will either kindle that or be quenched by it. Such
being the risk, it is well to be cautious in admitting intimacies of
this sort, remembering that one cannot rub shoulders with a
soot-stained man without sharing the soot oneself. What will you do,
supposing the talk turns on gladiators, or horses, or prize-fighters,
or (what is worse) on _persons_, condemning this and that, approving
the other? Or suppose a man sneers and jeers or shows a malignant
temper? Has any among us the skill of the lute-player, who knows at the
first touch which strings are out of tune and sets the instrument
right: has any of you such power as Socrates had, in all his
intercourse with men, of winning them over to his own convictions? Nay,
but _you_ must needs be swayed hither and thither by the uninstructed.
How comes it then that they prove so much stronger than you? Because
they speak from the fulness of the heart—their low, corrupt views are
their real convictions: whereas your fine sentiments are but from the
lips, outwards; that is why they are so nerveless and dead. It turns
one’s stomach to listen to _your_ exhortations, and hear of your
miserable Virtue, that you prate of up and down. Thus it is that the
Vulgar prove too strong for you. Everywhere strength, everywhere
victory waits your conviction!
C
In general, any methods of discipline applied to the body which tend to
modify its desires or repulsions, are good—for ascetic ends. But if
done for display, they betray at once a man who keeps an eye on outward
show; who has an ulterior purpose, and is looking for spectators to
shout, “Oh what a great man!” This is why Apollonius so well said: “If
you are bent upon a little private discipline, wait till you are
choking with heat some day—then take a mouthful of cold water, and spit
it out again, and tell no man!”
CI
Study how to give as one that is sick: that thou mayest hereafter give
as one that is whole. Fast; drink water only; abstain altogether from
desire, that thou mayest hereafter conform thy desire to Reason.
CII
Thou wouldst do good unto men? then show them by thine own example what
kind of men philosophy can make, and cease from foolish trifling.
Eating, do good to them that eat with thee; drinking, to them that
drink with thee; yield unto all, give way, and bear with them. Thus
shalt thou do them good: but vent not upon them thine own evil humour!
CIII
Even as bad actors cannot sing alone, but only in chorus: so some
cannot walk alone.
Man, if thou art aught, strive to walk alone and hold converse with
thyself, instead of skulking in the chorus! at length think; look
around thee; bestir thyself, that thou mayest know who thou art!
CIV
You would fain be victor at the Olympic games, you say. Yes, but weigh
the conditions, weigh the consequences; then and then only, lay to your
hand—if it be for your profit. You must live by rule, submit to diet,
abstain from dainty meats, exercise your body perforce at stated hours,
in heat or in cold; drink no cold water, nor, it may be, wine. In a
word, you must surrender yourself wholly to your trainer, as though to
a physician.
Then in the hour of contest, you will have to delve the ground, it may
chance dislocate an arm, sprain an ankle, gulp down abundance of yellow
sand, be scourge with the whip—and with all this sometimes lose the
victory. Count the cost—and then, if your desire still holds, try the
wrestler’s life. Else let me tell you that you will be behaving like a
pack of children playing now at wrestlers, now at gladiators; presently
falling to trumpeting and anon to stage-playing, when the fancy takes
them for what they have seen. And you are even the same: wrestler,
gladiator, philosopher, orator all by turns and none of them with your
whole soul. Like an ape, you mimic what you see, to one thing constant
never; the thing that is familiar charms no more. This is because you
never undertook aught with due consideration, nor after strictly
testing and viewing it from every side; no, your choice was
thoughtless; the glow of your desire had waxed cold . . . .
Friend, bethink you first what it is you would do, and then what your
own nature is able to bear. Would you be a wrestler, consider your
shoulders, your thighs, your loins—not all men are formed to the same
end. Think you to be a philosopher while acting as you do? think you go
on thus eating, thus drinking, giving way in like manner to wrath and
to displeasure? Nay, you must watch, you must labour; overcome certain
desires; quit your familiar friends, submit to be despised by your
slave, to be held in derision by them that meet you, to take the lower
place in all things, in office, in positions of authority, in courts of
law.
Weigh these things fully, and then, if you will, lay to your hand; if
as the price of these things you would gain Freedom, Tranquillity, and
passionless Serenity.
CV
He that hath no musical instruction is a child in Music; he that hath
no letters is a child in Learning; he that is untaught is a child in
Life.
CVI