Book I. On The Contempt Of Death.

The Academic Questions,

Treatise De Finibus.

and

Tusculan Disputations

Of

M. T. Cicero

With

A Sketch of the Greek Philosophers Mentioned by Cicero.

Literally Translated by

C. D. Yonge, B.A.

London: George Bell and Sons

York Street

Covent Garden

Printed by William Clowes and Sons,

Stamford Street and Charing Cross.

1875

CONTENTS

A Sketch of the Greek Philosophers Mentioned by Cicero.

Introduction.

First Book Of The Academic Questions.

Second Book Of The Academic Questions.

A Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.

First Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.

Second Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.

Third Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.

Fourth Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.

Fifth Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.

The Tusculan Disputations.

Introduction.

Book I. On The Contempt Of Death.

Book II. On Bearing Pain.

Book III. On Grief Of Mind.

Book IV. On Other Perturbations Of The Mind.

Book V. Whether Virtue Alone Be Sufficient For A Happy Life.

Footnotes

A SKETCH OF THE GREEK PHILOSOPHERS MENTIONED BY CICERO.

In the works translated in the present volume, Cicero makes such constant

references to the doctrines and systems of the ancient Greek Philosophers,

that it seems desirable to give a brief account of the most remarkable of

those mentioned by him; not entering at length into the history of their

lives, but indicating the principal theories which they maintained, and

the main points in which they agreed with, or differed from, each other.

The earliest of them was _Thales_, who was born at Miletus, about 640 B.C.

He was a man of great political sagacity and influence; but we have to

consider him here as the earliest philosopher who appears to have been

convinced of the necessity of scientific proof of whatever was put forward

to be believed, and as the originator of mathematics and geometry. He was

also a great astronomer; for we read in Herodotus (i. 74) that he

predicted the eclipse of the sun which happened in the reign of Alyattes,

king of Lydia, B.C. 609. He asserted that water is the origin of all

things; that everything is produced out of it, and everything is resolved

into it. He also asserted that it is the soul which originates all motion,

so much so, that he attributes a soul to the magnet. Aristotle also

represents him as saying that everything is full of Gods. He does not

appear to have left any written treatises behind him: we are uncertain

when or where he died, but he is said to have lived to a great age—to 78,

or, according to some writers, to 90 years of age.

_Anaximander_, a countryman of Thales, was also born at Miletus, about 30

years later; he is said to have been a pupil of the former, and deserves

especial mention as the oldest philosophical writer among the Greeks. He

did not devote himself to the mathematical studies of Thales, but rather

to speculations concerning the generation and origin of the world; as to

which his opinions are involved in some obscurity. He appears, however, to

have considered that all things were formed of a sort of matter, which he

called τὸ ἄπειρον, or The Infinite; which was something everlasting and

divine, though not invested with any spiritual or intelligent nature. His

own works have not come down to us; but, according to Aristotle, he

considered this “Infinite” as consisting of a mixture of simple,

unchangeable elements, from which all things were produced by the

concurrence of homogeneous particles already existing in it,—a process

which he attributed to the constant conflict between heat and cold, and to

affinities of the particles: in this he was opposed to the doctrine of

Thales, Anaximenes, and Diogenes of Apollonia, who agreed in deriving all

things from a single, not _changeable_, principle.

Anaximander further held that the earth was of a cylindrical form,

suspended in the middle of the universe, and surrounded by water, air, and

fire, like the coats of an onion; but that the interior stratum of fire

was broken up and collected into masses, from which originated the sun,

moon, and stars; which he thought were carried round by the three spheres

in which they were respectively fixed. He believed that the moon had a

light of her own, not a borrowed light; that she was nineteen times as

large as the earth, and the sun twenty-eight. He thought that all animals,

including man, were originally produced in water, and proceeded gradually

to become land animals. According to Diogenes Laertius, he was the

inventor of the gnomon, and of geographical maps; at all events, he was

the first person who introduced the use of the gnomon into Greece. He died

about 547 B.C.

_Anaximenes_ was also a Milesian, and a contemporary of Thales and

Anaximander. We do not exactly know when he was born, or when he died; but

he must have lived to a very great age, for he was in high repute as early

as B.C. 544, and he was the tutor of Anaxagoras, B.C. 480. His theory was,

that air was the first cause of all things, and that the other elements of

the universe were resolvable into it. From this infinite air, he imagined

that all finite things were formed by compression and rarefaction,

produced by motion, which had existed from all eternity; so that the earth

was generated out of condensed air, and the sun and other heavenly bodies

from the earth. He thought also that heat and cold were produced by

different degrees of density of this primal element, air; that the clouds

were formed by the condensing of the air; and that it was the air which

supported the earth, and kept it in its place. Even the human soul he

believed to be, like the body, formed of air. He believed in the eternity

of matter, and denied the existence of anything immaterial.

_Anaxagoras_, who, as has been already stated, was a pupil of Anaximenes,

was born at Clazomenæ, in Ionia, about B.C. 499. He removed to Athens at

the time of the Persian war, where he became intimate with Pericles, who

defended him, though unsuccessfully, when he was prosecuted for impiety:

he was fined five talents, and banished from the city; on which he retired

to Lampsacus, where he died at the age of 72. He differed from his

predecessors of the Ionic School, and sought for a higher cause of all

things than matter: this cause he considered to be νοῦς, _intelligence_,

or _mind_. Not that he thought this νοῦς to be the creator of the world,

but only that principle which arranged it, and gave it motion; for his

idea was, that matter had existed from all eternity, but that, before the

νοῦς arranged it, it was all in a state of chaotic confusion, and full of

an infinite number of homogeneous and heterogeneous parts; then the νοῦς

separated the homogeneous parts from the heterogeneous, and in this manner

the world was produced. This separation, however, he taught, was made in

such a manner that everything contains in itself parts of other things, or

heterogeneous elements; and is what it is only on account of certain

homogeneous parts which constitute its predominant and real character.

_Pythagoras_ was earlier than Anaxagoras, though this latter has been

mentioned before him to avoid breaking the continuity of the Ionic School.

His father’s name was Mnesarchus, and he was born at Samos about 570 B.C.,

though some accounts make him earlier. He is said by some writers to have

been a pupil of Thales, by others of Anaximander, or of Pherecydes of

Scyros. He was a man of great learning, as a geometrician, mathematician,

astronomer, and musician; a great traveller, having visited Egypt and

Babylon, and, according to some accounts, penetrated as far as India.

Many of his peculiar tenets are believed to have been derived from the

Tyrrhenian Pelasgians, with whom he is said to have been connected. His

contemporaries at Crotona in South Italy, where he lived, looked upon him

as a man peculiarly connected with the gods; and some of them even

identified him with the Hyperborean Apollo. He himself is said to have

laid claim to the gifts of divination and prophecy. The religious element

was clearly predominant in his character. Grote says of him, “In his

prominent vocation, analogous to that of Epimenides, Orpheus, or Melampus,

he appears as the revealer of a mode of life calculated to raise his

disciples above the level of mankind, and to recommend them to the favour

of the gods.” (Hist. of Greece, iv. p. 529.)

On his arrival at Crotona, he formed a school, consisting at first of

three hundred of the richest of the citizens, who bound themselves by a

sort of vow to himself and to each other, for the purpose of cultivating

the ascetic observances which he enjoined, and of studying his religious

and philosophical theories. All that took place in this school was kept a

profound secret; and there were gradations among the pupils themselves,

who were not all admitted, or at all events not at first, to a full

acquaintance with their master’s doctrines. They were also required to

submit to a period of probation. The statement of his forbidding his

pupils the use of animal food is denied by many of the best authorities,

and that of his insisting on their maintaining an unbroken silence for

five years, rests on no sufficient authority, and is incredible. It is

beyond our purpose at present to enter into the question of how far the

views of Pythagoras in founding his school or club of three hundred,

tended towards uniting in this body the idea of “at once a philosophical

school, a religious brotherhood, and a political association,” all which

characters the Bishop of St. David’s (Hist. of Greece, vol. ii. p. 148)

thinks were inseparably united in his mind; while Mr. Grote’s view of his

object (Hist. of Greece, vol. iv. p. 544) is very different. In a

political riot at Crotona, a temple, in which many of his disciples were

assembled, was burnt, and they perished, and some say that Pythagoras

himself was among them; though according to other accounts he fled to

Tarentum, and afterwards to Metapontum, where he starved himself to death.

His tomb (see Cic. de Fin. v. 2) was shown at Metapontum down to Cicero’s

time. Soon after his death his school was suppressed, and did not revive,

though the Pythagoreans continued to exist as a sect, the members of which

kept up the religious and scientific pursuits of their founder.

Pythagoras is said to have been the first who assumed the title of

φιλόσοφος; but there is great uncertainty as to the most material of his

philosophical and religious opinions. It is believed that he wrote nothing

himself, and that the earliest Pythagorean treatises were the work of

Philolaus, a contemporary of Socrates. It appears, however, that he

undertook to solve by reference to one single primary principle the

problem of the origin and constitution of the universe. His predilection

for mathematics led him to trace the origin of all things to _number_; for

“in _numbers_ he thought that they perceived many analogies of things that

exist and are produced, more than in fire, earth, or water: as, for

instance, they thought that a certain condition of numbers was justice;

another, soul and intellect, ... And moreover, seeing the conditions and

ratios of what pertains to harmony to consist in numbers, since other

things seemed in their entire nature to be formed in the likeness of

numbers, and in all nature numbers are the first, they supposed the

elements of numbers to be the elements of all things.” (Arist. Met. i. 5.)

Music and harmony too, played almost as important a part in the

Pythagorean system as mathematics, or numbers. His idea appears to be,

that order or harmony of relation is the regulating principle of the whole

universe. He drew out a list of ten pairs of antagonistic elements, and in

the octave and its different harmonic relations, he believed that he found

the ground of the connexion between them. In his system of the universe

_fire_ was the important element, occupying both the centre and the

remotest point of it; and being the vivifying principle of the whole.

Round the central fire the heavenly bodies he believed to move in a

regular circle; furthest off were the fixed stars; and then, in order, the

planets, the moon, the sun, the earth, and what he called ἀντίχθων, a sort

of other half of the earth, which was a distinct body from it, but moving

parallel to it.

The most distant region he called Olympus; the space between the fixed

stars and the moon he called κόσμος; the space between the moon and the

earth οὐρανός. He, or at least his disciples, taught that the earth

revolved on its axis, (though Philolaus taught that its revolutions were

not round its axis but round the central fire). The universe itself they

considered as a large sphere, and the intervals between the heavenly

bodies they thought were determined according to the laws and relations of

musical harmony. And from this theory arose the doctrine of the Music of

the Spheres; as the heavenly bodies in their motion occasioned a sort of

sound depending on their distances and velocities; and as these were

determined by the laws of harmonic intervals, the sounds, or notes, formed

a regular musical scale.

The light and heat of the central fire he believed that we received

through the sun, which he considered a kind of lens: and perfection, he

conceived to exist in direct ratio to the distance from the central fire.

The universe, itself, they looked upon as having subsisted from all

eternity, controlled by an eternal supreme Deity; who established both

limits and infinity; and whom they often speak of as the absolute μονὰς,

or unity. He pervaded (though he was distinct from) and presided over the

universe. Sometimes, too, he is called the absolute _Good_,—while the

origin of evil is attributed not to him, but to matter which prevented him

from conducting everything to the best end.

With respect to man, the doctrine of Pythagoras was that known by the name

of the Metempsychosis,—that the soul after death rested a certain time

till it was purified, and had acquired a forgetfulness of what had

previously happened to it; and then reanimated some other body. The ethics

of the Pythagoreans consisted more in ascetic practice and maxims for the

restraint of the passions, than in any scientific theories. Wisdom they

considered as superior to virtue, as being connected with the

contemplation of the upper and purer regions, while virtue was conversant

only with the sublunary part of the world. Happiness, they thought,

consisted in the science of the perfection of the soul; or in the perfect

science of numbers; and the main object of all the endeavours of man was

to be, to resemble the Deity as far as possible.

_Alcmæon_ of Crotona was a pupil of Pythagoras; but that is all that is

known of his history. He was a great natural philosopher; and is said to

have been the first who introduced the practice of dissection. He is said,

also, to have been the first who wrote on natural philosophy. Aristotle,

however, distinguishes between the principles of Alcmæon and Pythagoras,

though without explaining in what the difference consisted. He asserted

the immortality of the soul, and said that it partook of the divine

nature, because, like the heavenly bodies themselves, it contained in

itself the principle of motion.

_Xenophanes_, the founder of the Eleatic school, was a native of Colophon;

and flourished probably about the time of Pisistratus. Being banished from

his own country, he fled to the Ionian colonies in Sicily, and at last

settled in Elea, or Velia. His writings were chiefly poetical. He was

universally regarded by the ancients as the originator of the doctrine of

the oneness of the universe: he also maintained, it is said, the unity of

the Deity; and also his immortality and eternity; denounced the

transference of him into human form; and reproached Homer and Hesiod for

attributing to him human weaknesses. He represented him as endowed with

unwearied activity, and as the animating power of the universe.

_Heraclitus_ was an Ephesian, and is said to have been a pupil of

Xenophanes, though this statement is much doubted; others call him a pupil

of Hippasus the Pythagorean. He wrote a treatise on Nature; declaring that

the principle of all things was fire, from which he saw the world was

evolved by a natural operation; he further said that this fire was the

human life and soul, and therefore a rational intelligence guiding the

whole universe. In this primary fire he considered that there was a

perpetual longing to manifest itself in different forms: in its perfectly

pure state it is in heaven; but in order to gratify this longing it

descends, gradually losing the rapidity of its motion till it settles in

the earth. The earth, however, is not immovable, but only the slowest of

all moving bodies; while the soul of man, though dwelling in the lowest of

all regions, namely, in the earth, he considered a migrated portion of

fire in its pure state; which, in spite of its descent, had lost none of

its original purity. The _summum bonum_ he considered to be a contented

acquiescence in the decrees of the Deity. None of his writings are extant;

and he does not appear to have had many followers.

_Diogenes_ of Apollonia, (who must not be confounded with his Stoic or

Cynic namesake,) was a pupil of Anaximenes, and wrote a treatise on

Nature, of which Diogenes Laertius gives the following account: “He

maintained that air was the primary element of all things; that there was

an infinite number of worlds and an infinite vacuum; that air condensed

and rarefied produced the different members of the universe; that nothing

was generated from nothing, or resolved into nothing; that the earth was

round, supported in the centre, having received its shape from the

whirling round it of warm vapours, and its concrete nature and hardness

from cold.” He also imputed to air an intellectual energy, though he did

not recognise any difference between mind and matter.

_Parmenides_ was a native of Elea or Velia, and flourished about 460 B.C.,

soon after which time he came to Athens, and became acquainted with

Socrates, who was then very young. Theophrastus and Aristotle speak

doubtfully of his having been a pupil of Xenophanes. Some authors,

however, reckon him as one of the Pythagorean school; Plato and Aristotle

speak of him as the greatest of the Eleatics; and it is said that his

fellow-countrymen bound their magistrates every year to abide by the laws

which he had laid down. He, like Xenophanes, explained his philosophical

tenets in a didactic poem, in which he speaks of two primary forms, one

the fine uniform etherial fire of flame (φλόγος πῦρ), the other the cold

body of night, out of the intermingling of which everything in the world

is formed by the Deity who reigns in the midst. His cosmogony was carried

into minute detail, of which we possess only a few obscure fragments; he

somewhat resembled the Pythagoreans in believing in a spherical system of

the world, surrounded by a circle of pure light; in the centre of which

was the earth; and between the earth and the light was the circle of the

Milky Way, of the morning and evening star, of the sun, the planets, and

the moon. And the differences in perfection of organization, he attributed

to the different proportions in which the primary principles were

intermingled. The ultimate principle of the world was, in his view,

necessity, in which Empedocles appears to have followed him; he seems to

have been the only philosopher who recognised with distinctness and

precision that the Existent, τὸ ὄν, as such, is unconnected with all

separation or juxtaposition, as well as with all succession, all relation

to space or time, all coming into existence, and all change. It is,

however, a mistake to suppose that he recognised it as a Deity.

_Democritus_ was born at Abdera, B.C. 460. His father Hegesistratus had

been so rich as to be able to entertain Xerxes, when on his march against

Greece. He spent his inheritance in travelling into distant countries,

visiting the greater part of Asia, and, according to some authors,

extending his travels as far as India and Æthiopia. Egypt he certainly was

acquainted with. He lived to beyond the age of 100 years, and is said to

have died B.C. 357.

He was a man of vast and varied learning, and a most voluminous author,

though none of his works have come down to us;—in them he carried out the

theory of atoms which he had derived from Leucippus; insisting on the

reality of a vacuum and of motion, which he held was the eternal and

necessary consequence of the original variety of atoms in this vacuum.

These atoms, according to this theory, being in constant motion and

impenetrable, offer resistance to one another, and so create a whirling

motion which gives birth to worlds. Moreover, from this arise combinations

of distinct atoms which become real things and beings. The first cause of

all existence he called _chance_ (τύχη), in opposition to the νοῦς of

Anaxagoras. But Democritus went further; for he directed his

investigations especially to the discovery of causes.

Besides the infinite number of atoms, he likewise supposed the existence

of an infinite number of worlds, each being kept together by a sort of

shell or skin. He derived the four elements from the form, quality, and

proportionate magnitude of the atoms predominating in each; and in

deriving individual things from atoms, he mainly considered the qualities

of warm and cold; the soul he considered as derived from fire atoms; and

he did not consider mind as anything peculiar, or as a power distinct from

the soul or sensuous perception; but he considered knowledge derived from

reason to be a sensuous perception.

In his ethical philosophy, he considered (as we may see from the _de

Finibus_) the acquisition of peace of mind as the end and ultimate object

of all our actions, and as the last and best fruit of philosophical

inquiry. Temperance and moderation in prosperity and adversity were, in

his eyes, the principal means of acquiring this peace of mind. And he

called those men alone pious and beloved by the Gods who hate whatever is

wrong.

_Empedocles_ was a Sicilian, who flourished about the time when

Thrasydæus, the son of Theron, was expelled from Agrigentum, to the

tyranny of which he had succeeded; in which revolution he took an active

part: it is even said that the sovereignty of his native city was offered

to and declined by him.

He was a man of great genius and extensive learning; it is not known whose

pupil he was, nor are any of his disciples mentioned except Gorgias. He

was well versed in the tenets of the Eleatic and Pythagorean schools; but

he did not adopt the fundamental principles of either; though he agreed

with Pythagoras in his belief in the metempsychosis, in the influence of

numbers, and in one or two other points; and with the Eleatics in

disbelieving that anything could be generated out of nothing. Aristotle

speaks of him as very much resembling in his opinions Democritus and

Anaxagoras. He was the first who established the number of four elements,

which had been previously pointed out one by one, partly as fundamental

substances, and partly as transitive changes of things coming into

existence. He first suggested the idea of two opposite directions of the

moving power, an attractive and a repelling one: and he believed that

originally these two coexisted in a state of repose and inactivity. He

also assumed a periodical change of the formation of the world; or

perhaps, like the philosophers of the pure Ionic school, a perpetual

continuance of pure fundamental substances; to which the parts of the

world that are tired of change return, and prepare the formation of the

sphere for the next period of the world. Like the Eleatics, he strove to

purify the notion of the Deity, saying that he, “being a holy infinite

spirit, not encumbered with limbs, passes through the world with rapid

thoughts.” At the same time he speaks of the eternal power of Necessity as

an ancient decree of the Gods, though it is not quite clear what he

understood by this term.

_Diagoras_ was a native of Melos, and a pupil of Democritus, and

flourished about B.C. 435. He is remarkable as having been regarded by all

antiquity as an Atheist. In his youth he had some reputation as a lyric

poet; so that he is sometimes classed with Pindar, Simonides, and

Bacchylides. Aristophanes, in the Clouds, alludes to him where he calls

Socrates “the Melian;” not that he was so, but he means to hint that

Socrates was an atheist as well as the Melian Diagoras. He lived at Athens

for many years till B.C. 411, when he fled from a prosecution instituted

against him for impiety, according to Diodorus, but probably for some

offence of a political nature; perhaps connected with the mutilation of

the Hermæ.

That he was an atheist, however, appears to have been quite untrue. Like

Socrates, he took new and peculiar views respecting the Gods and their

worship; and seems to have ridiculed the honours paid to their statues,

and the common notions which were entertained of their actions and

conduct. (See De Nat. Deor. iii. 37.) He is said also to have attacked

objects held in the greatest veneration at Athens, such as the Eleusinian

Mysteries, and to have dissuaded people from being initiated into them. He

appears also, in his theories on the divine nature, to have substituted in

some degree the active powers of nature for the activity of the Gods. In

his own conduct he was a man of strict morality and virtue. He died at

Corinth before the end of the century.

_Protagoras_ was a native of Abdera; the exact time of his birth is

unknown, but he was a little older than Socrates. He was the first person

who gave himself the title of σοφιστὴς, and taught for pay. He came to

Athens early in life, and gave to the settlers who left it for Thurium,

B.C. 445, a code of laws, or perhaps adapted the old laws of Charondas to

their use. He was a friend of Pericles. After some time he was impeached

for impiety in saying, That respecting the Gods he did not know whether

they existed or not; and banished from Athens (see De Nat. Deor. i. 23).

He was a very prolific author: his most peculiar doctrines excited Plato

to write the Theætetus to oppose them.

His fundamental principle was, that everything is motion, and that that is

the efficient cause of everything; that nothing _exists_, but that

everything is continually _coming into existence_. He divided motion

(besides numerous subordinate divisions) into active and passive; though

he did not consider either of these characteristics as permanent. From the

concurrence of two such motions he taught that sensations and perceptions

arose, according to the rapidity of the motion. Therefore he said that

there is or exists for each individual, only that of which he has a

sensation or perception; and that as sensation, like its objects, is

engaged in a perpetual change of motion, opposite assertions might exist

according to the difference of the perception respecting such object.

Moral worth he attributed to taking pleasure in the beautiful; and virtue

he referred to a certain sense of shame implanted in man by nature; and to

a certain conscious feeling of justice, which secures the bonds of

connexion in private and political life.

_Socrates_, the son of Sophroniscus, a statuary, and Phænarete, a midwife,

was born B.C. 468. He lived all his life at Athens, serving indeed as a

soldier at Potidæa, Amphipolis, and in the battle of Delium; but with

these exceptions he never left the city; where he lived as a teacher of

philosophy; not, however, founding a school or giving lectures, but

frequenting the market-place and all other places of public resort,

talking with every one who chose to address him, and putting questions to

every one of every rank and profession, so that Grote calls him “a public

talker for instruction.” He believed himself to have a special religious

mission from the Gods to bring his countrymen to knowledge and virtue. He

was at last impeached before the legal tribunals, on the ground of

“corrupting the youth of the city, and not worshipping the Gods whom the

city worshipped;” and disdaining to defend himself, or rather making a

justificatory defence of such a character as to exasperate the judges, he

was condemned to death, and executed by having hemlock administered to

him, B.C. 399.

From his disciples Plato and Xenophon we have a very full account of his

habits and doctrines; though it has been much disputed which of the two is

to be considered as giving the most accurate description of his opinions.

As a young man he had been to a certain extent a pupil of Archelaus (the

disciple of Anaxagoras), and derived his fondness for the dialectic style

of argument from Zeno the Eleatic, the favourite Pupil of Parmenides. He

differed, however, from all preceding philosophers in discarding and

excluding wholly from his studies all the abstruse sciences, and limiting

his philosophy to those practical points which could have influence on

human conduct. “He himself was always conversing about the affairs of

men,” is the description given of him by Xenophon. Astronomy he pronounced

to be one of the divine mysteries which it was impossible to understand

and madness to investigate; all that man wanted was to know enough of the

heavenly bodies to serve as an index to the change of seasons and as

guides for voyages, etc.; and that knowledge might, he said, easily be

obtained from pilots and watchmen. Geometry he reduced to its literal

meaning of land-measuring, useful to enable one to act with judgment in

the purchase or sale of land; but he looked with great contempt on the

study of complicated diagrams and mathematical problems. As to general

natural philosophy, he wholly discarded it; asking whether those who

professed to apply themselves to that study knew _human_ affairs so well

as to have time to spare for _divine_; was it that they thought that they

could influence the winds, rain, and seasons, or did they desire nothing

but the gratification of an idle curiosity? Men should recollect how much

the wisest of them who have attempted to prosecute these investigations

differ from one another, and how totally opposite and contradictory their

opinions are.

Socrates, then, looked at all knowledge from the point of view of human

practice. He first, as Cicero says, (Tusc. Dis. v. 4,) “called philosophy

down from heaven and established it in the cities, introduced it even into

private houses, and compelled it to investigate life, and manners, and

what was good and evil among men.” He was the first man who turned his

thoughts and discussions distinctly to the subject of Ethics. Deeply

imbued with sincere religious feeling, and believing himself to be under

the peculiar guidance of the Gods, who at all times admonished him by a

divine warning voice when he was in danger of doing anything unwise,

inexpedient, or improper, he believed that the Gods constantly manifested

their love of and care for all men in the most essential manner, in

replying through oracles, and sending them information by sacrificial

signs or prodigies, in cases of great difficulty; and he had no doubt that

if a man were diligent in learning all that the Gods permitted to be

learnt, and if besides he was assiduous in paying pious court to them and

in soliciting special information by way of prophecy, they would be

gracious to him and signify their purposes to him.

Such then being the capacity of man for wisdom and virtue, his object was

to impart that wisdom to them; and the first step necessary, he considered

to be eradicating one great fault which was a barrier to all improvement.

This fault he described as “the conceit of knowledge without the reality.”

His friend and admirer Chærephon had consulted the oracle at Delphi as to

whether any man was wiser than Socrates; to which the priestess replied

that no other man was wiser. Socrates affirms that he was greatly

disturbed at hearing this declaration from so infallible an authority;

till after conversing with politicians, and orators, and poets, and men of

all classes, he discovered not only that they were destitute of wisdom,

but that they believed themselves to be possessed of it; so that he was

wiser than they, though wholly ignorant, inasmuch as he was conscious of

his own ignorance. He therefore considered his most important duty to be

to convince men of their ignorance, and to excite them to remedy it, as

the indispensable preliminary to virtue; for virtue he defined as doing a

thing well, after having learnt it and practised it by the rational and

proper means; and whoever performed his duties best, whether he was a

ruler of a state or a husbandman, was the best and most useful man and the

most beloved by the Gods.

And if his objects were new, his method was no less so. He was the parent

of dialectics and logic. Aristotle says, “To Socrates we may

unquestionably assign two novelties—inductive discourses, and the

definitions of general terms.” Without any predecessor to copy, Socrates

fell as it were instinctively into that which Aristotle describes as the

double tract of the dialectic process, breaking up the one into the many,

and recombining the many into the one; though the latter or synthetical

process he did not often perform himself, but strove to stimulate his

hearer’s mind so as to enable him to do it for himself.

The fault of the Socratic theory is well remarked by Grote to be, that

while he resolved all virtue into knowledge or wisdom, and all vice into

ignorance or folly, he omitted to notice what is not less essential to

virtue, the proper condition of the passions, desires, &c., and limited

his views too exclusively to the intellect; still while laying down a

theory which is too narrow, he escaped the erroneous consequences of it by

a partial inconsistency. For no one ever insisted more emphatically on the

necessity of control over the passions and appetites, of enforcing good

habits, and on the value of that state of the sentiments and emotions

which such a course tended to form. He constantly pointed out that the

chief pleasures were such as inevitably arise from the performance of

one’s duty, and that as to happiness, a very moderate degree of good

fortune is sufficient as to external things, provided the internal man be

properly disciplined.

Grote remarks further, (and this remark is particularly worth remembering

in the reading of Cicero’s philosophical works,) that “Arcesilaus and the

New Academy thought that they were following the example of Socrates, (and

Cicero appears to have thought so too,) when they reasoned against

everything, and laid it down as a system, that against every affirmative

position an equal force of negative argument could be brought as a

counterpoise: now this view of Socrates is, in my judgment, not only

partial, but incorrect. He entertained no such doubts of the powers of the

mind to attain certainty. About physics he thought man could know nothing;

but respecting the topics which concern man and society, this was the

field which the Gods had expressly assigned, not merely to human practice,

but to human study and knowledge; and he thought that every man, not only

might know these things, but ought to know them; that he could not

possibly act well unless he did know them; and that it was his imperative

duty to learn them as he would learn a profession, otherwise he was

nothing better than a slave, unfit to be trusted as a free and accountable

being. He was possessed by the truly Baconian idea, that the power of

steady moral action depended upon, and was limited by, the rational

comprehension of moral ends and means.”

The system, then, of Socrates was animated by the truest spirit of

positive science, and formed an indispensable precursor to its attainment.

And we may form some estimate of his worth and genius if we recollect,

that while the systems and speculations of other ancient philosophers

serve only as curiosities to make us wonder, or as beacons to warn us into

what absurdities the ablest men may fall, the principles and the system of

Socrates and his followers, and of that school alone, exercise to this day

an important influence on all human argument and speculation.

_Aristippus_ (whom we will consider before Plato, that Aristotle may

follow Plato more immediately) came when a young man to Athens, for the

express purpose of becoming acquainted with Socrates, with whom he

remained almost till his death. He was, however, very different from his

master, being a person of most luxurious and sensual habits. He was also

the first of Socrates’ disciples who took money for teaching. He was the

founder of the Cyrenaic school of philosophy, which followed Socrates in

limiting all philosophical inquiries to ethics; though under this name

they comprehended a more varied range of subjects than Socrates did,

inasmuch as one of the parts into which they divided philosophy, referred

to the feelings; another to causes, which is rather a branch of physics;

and a third to proofs, which is clearly connected with logic.

He pronounced pleasure to be the chief good, and pain the chief evil; but

he denied that either of these was a mere negative inactive state,

considering them, on the contrary, both to be motions of the soul,—pain a

violent, and pleasure a moderate one.

As to actions, he asserted that they were all morally indifferent, that

men should only look to their results, and that law and custom are the

only authorities which make an action either good or bad. Whatever

conduces to pleasure, he thought virtue; in which he agreed with Socrates

that the mind has the principal share.

_Plato_, the greatest of all the disciples of Socrates, was the son of

Ariston and Perictione, and was born probably in the year B.C. 428, and

descended, on the side of his father, from Codrus, and on his mother’s

side related to Solon. At the age of twenty, he became a constant

attendant of Socrates, and lived at Athens till his death. After this

event, in consequence of the unpopularity of the very name of his master,

he retired to Megara, and subsequently to Sicily. He is said also to have

been at some part of his life, after the death of Socrates, a great

traveller. About twelve years after the death of Socrates he returned to

Athens, and began to teach in the Academy, partly by dialogue, and partly,

probably, by connected lectures. He taught gratuitously; and besides

Speusippus, Xenocrates, Aristotle, Heraclides Ponticus, and others, who

were devoted solely to philosophical studies, he is said to have

occasionally numbered Chabrias, Iphicrates, Timotheus, Phocion, Isocrates,

and (by some) Demosthenes among his hearers. He died at a great age, B.C.

347.

His works have come down to us in a more complete form than those of any

other ancient author who was equally voluminous; and from them we get a

clear idea of the principal doctrines which he inculcated on his

followers.

Like Socrates, he was penetrated with the idea, that knowledge and wisdom

were the things most necessary to man, and the greatest goods assigned to

him by God. Wisdom he looked on as the great purifier of the soul; and as

any approach to wisdom presupposes an original communion with _Being_,

properly so called, this communion also presupposes the divine nature, and

consequent immortality of the soul, his doctrine respecting which was of a

much purer and loftier character than the usual theology of the ancients.

Believing that the world also had a soul, he considered the human soul as

similar to it in nature, and free from all liability to death, in spite of

its being bound up with the appetites, in consequence of its connexion

with the body, and as preserving power and consciousness after its

separation from the body. What he believed, however, to be its condition

after death is far less certain, as his ideas on this subject are

expressed in a mythical form.

The chief point, however, to which Plato directed his attention, was

ethics, which, especially in his system, are closely connected with

politics. He devotes the Protagoras, and several shorter dialogues, to

refute the sensual and selfish theories of some of his predecessors, in

order to adopt a more scientific treatment of the subject; and in these

dialogues he urges that neither happiness nor virtue are attainable by the

indulgence of our desires, but that men must bring these into proper

restraint, if they are desirous of either. He supposes an inward harmony,

the preservation of which is pleasure, while its disturbance is pain; and

as pleasure is always dependent on the activity from which it springs, the

more this activity is elevated the purer the pleasure becomes.

Virtue he considered the fitness of the soul for the operations that are

proper to it; and it manifests itself by means of its inward harmony,

beauty, and health. Different phases of virtue are distinguishable so far

as the soul is not pure spirit, but just as the spirit should rule both

the other elements of the soul, so also should wisdom, as the inner

development of the spirit, rule the other virtues.

Politics he considered an inseparable part of ethics, and the state as the

copy of a well-regulated individual life: from the three different

activities of the soul he deduced the three main elements of the state,

likening the working class to the appetitive element of the soul, both of

which equally require to be kept under control; the military order, which

answered, in his idea, to the emotive element, ought to develop itself in

thorough dependence on the reason; and from that the governing order,

answering to the rational faculty, must proceed. The right of passing from

a subordinate to a dominant position must depend on the individual

capacity and ability for raising itself. But from the difficulties of

realizing his theories, he renounces this absolute separation of ranks in

his book on Laws, limits the power of the governors, attempts to reconcile

freedom with unity and reason, and to mingle monarchy with democracy.

With respect to his theology, he appears to have agreed entirely with

Socrates.

_Aristotle_ was born at Stageira, B.C. 384. His father, Nicomachus, was

physician to Amyntas II., king of Macedon. At the age of seventeen he went

to Athens, in hopes to become a pupil of Plato; but Plato was in Sicily,

and did not return for three years, which time Aristotle applied to severe

study, and to cultivating the friendship of Heraclides Ponticus. When

Plato returned, he soon distinguished him above all his other pupils. He

remained at Athens twenty years, maintaining, however, his connexion with

Macedonia; but on the death of Plato, B.C. 347, which happened while

Aristotle was absent in Macedonia on an embassy, he quitted Athens,

thinking, perhaps, that travelling was necessary to complete his

education. After a short period, he accepted an invitation from Philip to

superintend the education of Alexander. He remained in Macedonia till B.C.

335, when he returned to Athens, where he found Xenocrates had succeeded

Speusippus as the head of the Academy. Here the Lyceum was appropriated to

him, in the shady walks (περίπατοι) of which he delivered his lectures to

a number of eminent scholars who flocked around him. From these walks the

name of Peripatetic was given to the School which he subsequently

established. Like several others of the Greek philosophers, he had a

select body of pupils, to whom he delivered his esoteric doctrines; and a

larger, more promiscuous, and less accomplished company, to whom he

delivered his exoteric lectures on less abstruse subjects. When he had

resided thirteen years at Athens, he found himself threatened with a

prosecution for impiety, and fled to Chalcis, in Eubœa, and died soon

after, B.C. 322.

His learning was immense, and his most voluminous writings embraced almost

every subject conceivable; but only a very small portion of them has come

down to us. Cicero, however, alludes to him only as a moral philosopher,

and occasionally as a natural historian; so that it may be sufficient here

for us to confine our view of him to his teaching on the Practical

Sciences; his Ethics, too, being one of his works which has come down to

us entire.

God he considered to be the highest and purest energy of eternal

intellect,—an absolute principle,—the highest reason, the object of whose

thought is himself; expanding and declaring, in a more profound manner,

the νοῦς of Anaxagoras. With respect to man, the object of all action, he

taught, was happiness: and this happiness he defines to be an energy of

the soul (or of life) according to virtue, existing by and for itself.

Virtue, again, he subdivided into moral and intellectual, according to the

distinction between the reasoning faculty and that quality in the soul

which obeys reason. Again, moral virtue is the proper medium between

excess and deficiency, and can only be acquired by practice; intellectual

virtue can be taught; and by the constant practice of moral virtue a man

becomes virtuous, but he can only practise it by a resolute determination

to do so. Virtue, therefore, is defined further as a habit accompanied by,

or arising out of, deliberate choice, and based upon free and conscious

action. From these principles, Aristotle is led to take a wider view of

virtue than other philosophers: he includes friendship under this head, as

one of the very greatest virtues, and a principal means for a steady

continuance in all virtue; and as the unrestricted exercise of each

species of activity directed towards the good, produces a feeling of

pleasure, he considers pleasure as a very powerful means of virtue.

Connected with Aristotle’s system of ethics was his system of politics,

the former being only a part, as it were, of the latter; the former aiming

at the happiness of individuals, the latter at that of communities; so

that the latter is the perfection and completion of the former. For

Aristotle looked upon man as a “political animal”—as a being, that is,

created by nature for the state, and for living in the state; which, as a

totality consisting of organically connected members, is by nature prior

to the individual or the family. The state he looked upon as a whole

consisting of mutually dependent and connected members, with reference as

well to imaginary as to actually existing constitutions. The constitution

is the arrangement of the powers in the state—the soul of the state, as it

were,—according to which the sovereignty is determined. The laws are the

determining principles, according to which the dominant body governs and

restrains those who would, and punishes those who do, transgress them. He

defines three kinds of constitutions, each of them having a corresponding

perversion:—a republic, arising from the principle of equality; this at

times degenerates into democracy; monarchy, and aristocracy, which arise

from principles of inequality, founded on the preponderance of external or

internal strength and wealth, and which are apt to degenerate into tyranny

and oligarchy. The education of youth he considers as a principal concern

of the state, in order that, all the individual citizens being trained to

a virtuous life, virtue may become predominant in all the spheres of

political life; and, accordingly, by means of politics the object is

realized of which ethics are the groundwork, namely, human happiness,

depending on a life in accordance with virtue.

_Heraclides_ Ponticus, as he is usually called, was, as his name denotes,

a native of Pontus. He migrated to Athens, where he became a disciple of

Plato, who, while absent in Sicily, entrusted him with the care of his

school.

_Speusippus_ was the nephew of Plato, and succeeded him as President of

the Academy; but he continued so but a short time, and, within eight years

of the death of Plato, he died at Athens, B.C. 339. He refused to

recognise _the Good_ as the ultimate principle; but, going back to the

older theologians, maintained that the origin of the universe was to be

set down indeed as a cause of the Good and Perfect, but was not the Good

and Perfect itself; for that was the result of generated existence or

development, just as plants are of the seeds. When, with the Pythagoreans,

he reckoned _the One_ in the series of good things, he probably thought of

it only in opposition to _the Manifold_, and wished to point out that it

is from _the One_ that _the Good_ is to be derived. He appears, however,

(see De Nat. Deor. i. 13,) to have attributed vital activity to the

primordial unity, as inseparably belonging to it.

_Theophrastus_ was a native of Eresus, from whence he migrated to Athens,

where he became a follower of Plato, and afterwards of Aristotle, by whom,

when he quitted Athens for Chalcis, he was designated as his successor in

the presidency of the Lyceum; while in this position, he is said to have

had two thousand disciples, and among them the comic poet Menander. When,

B.C. 305, the philosophers were banished from Athens, he also left the

city, but returned the next year on the repeal of the law. He lived to a

great age, though the date of his birth is not certainly known.

He was a very voluminous writer on many subjects, but directed his chief

attention to continuing the researches into natural history which had been

begun by Aristotle. As, however, only a few fragments of his works have

come down to us, and these in a very corrupt state, we know but little

what peculiar views he entertained; though we learn from Cicero (De Inv.

i. 42-50) that he departed a good deal from the doctrines of Aristotle in

his principles of ethics, and also in his metaphysical and theological

speculations; and Cicero (De Nat. Deor. i. 13) complains that he did not

express himself with precision or with consistency about the Deity; and in

other places (Acad. i. 10, Tusc. Quæst. v. 9), that he appeared unable to

comprehend a happiness resting merely on virtue; so that he had attributed

to virtue a rank very inferior to its deserts.

_Xenocrates_ was a native of Chalcedon, born probably B.C. 396. He was a

follower of Plato, and accompanied him to Sicily. After his death, he

betook himself, with Aristotle, to the court of Hermias, tyrant of

Ptarneus, but soon returned to Athens, and became president of the Academy

when Speusippus, through ill health, was forced to abandon that post. He

died B.C. 314.

He was not a man of great genius, but of unwearied industry and the purest

virtue and integrity. None of his works have come down to us; but, from

the notices of other writers, we are acquainted with some of his peculiar

doctrines. He stood at the head of those who, regarding the universe as

imperishable and existing from eternity, looked upon the chronic

succession in the theory of Plato as a form in which to denote the

relations of conceptual succession. He asserted that the soul was a

self-moving member,—called Unity and Duality deities, considering the

former as the first male existence, ruling in heaven, father and Jupiter;

the latter as the female, as the mother of the Gods, and the soul of the

universe, which reigns over the mutable world under heaven. He

approximated to the Pythagoreans in considering Number as the principle of

consciousness, and consequently of knowledge; supplying, however, what was

deficient in the Pythagorean theory by the definition of Plato, that it is

only in as far as number reconciles the opposition between _the same_ and

the different, and can raise itself to independent motion, that it is

soul.

In his ethics he endeavoured to render the Platonic theory more complete,

and to give it a more direct applicability to human life; admitting,

besides the good and the bad, of something which is neither good nor bad,

and some of these intermediate things, such as health, beauty, fame, good

fortune, he would not admit to be absolutely worthless and indifferent. He

maintained, however, in the most decided manner, that virtue is the only

thing valuable in itself, and that the value of everything else is

conditional, (see Cic. de Fin. iv. 18, de Leg. i. 21, Acad. i. 6, Tusc.

Quæst. v. 10-18,) that happiness ought to coincide with the consciousness

of virtue. He did not allow that mere intellectual scientific wisdom was

the only true wisdom to be sought after as such by men: and in one point

he came nearer the precepts of Christianity than any of the ancients, when

he asserted the indispensableness of the morality of the thoughts to

virtue, and declared it to be the same thing, whether a person cast

longing eyes on the possessions of his neighbour, or attempted to possess

himself of them by force.

_Antisthenes_ was older than Plato; though the exact time of his birth is

uncertain: but he fought at the battle of Tanagra, B.C. 420, though then

very young. He became a disciple of Gorgias, and afterwards of Socrates,

at whose death he set up a school in the Cynosarges, a gymnasium for the

use of Athenians born of foreign mothers, near the temple of Hercules,

from which place of assembly his followers were called Cynics. He lived to

a great age, though the year of his death is not known, but he certainly

was alive after the battle of Leuctra, B.C. 371.

In his philosophical system, which was almost confined to ethics, he

appears to have aimed at novelty rather than truth or common sense. He

taught that in all that the wise man does he conforms to perfect virtue,

and that pleasure is so far from being necessary to man, that it is a

positive evil. He is reported also to have gone the length of pronouncing

pain and infamy blessings rather than evils, though when he spoke of

pleasure as worthless, he probably meant that pleasure which arises from

the gratification of sensual or artificial desires; for he praised that

which arises from the intellect, and from friendship. The _summum bonum_

he placed in a life according to virtue.

In a treatise in which he discussed the nature of the Gods he contended

for the unity of the Deity, and asserted that man is unable to know him by

any sensible representation, since he is unlike any being on earth; and

demonstrated the sufficiency of virtue for happiness, by the doctrine that

outward events are regulated by God so as to benefit the wise and good.

_Diogenes_, a native of Sinope in Pontus, who was born B.C. 412, was one

of his few disciples; he came at an early age to Athens, and became

notorious for the most frantic excesses of moroseness and self-denial. On

a voyage to Ægina he was taken by pirates and sold as a slave to Xeniades,

a Corinthian, over whom he acquired great influence, and was made tutor to

his children. His system consisted merely in teaching men to dispense with

even the simplest necessaries of civilized life: and he is said to have

taught that all minds are air, exactly alike, and composed of similar

particles; but that in beasts and in idiots they are hindered from

properly developing themselves by various humors and incapacities of their

bodies. He died B.C. 323, the same year that Epicurus came to Athens.

_Zeno_ was born at Citium, a city of Cyprus; but having been shipwrecked

near Cyprus, he settled in that city, where he devoted himself to severe

study for a great length of time, cultivating, it is said, the

acquaintance of the philosophers of the Megaric school, Diodorus and

Philo, and of the Academics, Xenocrates and Polemo. After he had completed

his studies, he opened a school himself in the porch, adorned with the

paintings of Polygnotus (Στοὰ ποικίλη), from which his followers were

called Stoics. The times of his birth and of his death are not known with

any exactness; but he is said to have reached a great age.

In speaking of the Stoic doctrines, it is not very clear how much of them

proceeded from Zeno himself, and how much from Chrysippus and other

eminent men of the school in subsequent years. In natural philosophy he

considered that there was a primary matter which was never increased or

diminished, and which was the foundation of everything which existed: and

which was brought into existence by the operative power,—that is, by the

Deity. He saw this operative power in fire and in æther as the basis of

all vital activity, (see Cic. Acad. i. 11, ii. 41; de Nat. Deor. ii. 9,

iii. 14,) and he taught that the universe comes into being when the

primary substance passing from fire through the intermediate stage of air

becomes liquefied, and then the thick portion becomes earth, the thinner

portion air, which is again rarefied till it becomes fire. This fire he

conceived to be identical with the Deity, (Cic. de Nat. Deor. ii. 22,) and

to be endowed with consciousness and foresight. At other times he defined

the Deity as that law of nature which ever accomplishes what is right, and

prevents the opposite, and identified it with unconditional necessity. The

soul of man he considered as being of the nature of fire, or of a warm

breath, (Cic. Tusc. Quæst. i. 9; de Nat. Deor. iii. 4,) and therefore as

mortal.

In ethics he agreed with the Cynics in recognising the constitutional

nature of moral obligations, though he differed from them with respect to

things indifferent, and opposed their morose contempt for custom, though

he did not allow that the gratification of mere external wants, or that

external good fortune, had any intrinsic value. He comprised everything

which could make life happy in virtue alone (Cic. Acad. i. 10), and called

it the only good which deserved to be striven after and praised for its

own sake (Cic. de Fin. iii. 6, 8), and taught that the attainment of it

must inevitably produce happiness. But as virtue could, according to his

system, only subsist in conjunction with the perfect dominion of reason,

and vice only in the renunciation of the authority of reason, he inferred

that one good action could not be more virtuous than another, and that a

person who had one virtue had all, and that he who was destitute of one

was destitute of all.

_Cleanthes_ was born at Assos in the Troas, about 300 B.C.; he came to

Athens at an early age, and became the pupil of Zeno, whom at his death he

succeeded in his school. He differed from his master in regarding the soul

as immortal, and approximated to the Cynics in denying that pleasure was

agreeable to nature, or in any respect good. He died of voluntary

starvation at the age of eighty.

_Chrysippus_ was born B.C. 280, at Soli in Cilicia. He came at an early

age to Athens, and became a pupil of Cleanthes; and among the later Stoics

he was more regarded than either Zeno or Cleanthes. He died B.C. 207.

His doctrines do not appear to have differed from those of Zeno; only

that, from feeling the dangerous influence of the Epicurean principles, he

endeavoured to popularize the Stoic ethics.

_Epicurus_ was an Athenian of the Attic demos Gargettus, whence he is

sometimes simply called the Gargettian. He was, however, born at Samos,

B.C. 342, and did not come to Athens till the age of eighteen, when he

found Xenocrates at the head of the Academy, and by some authors is said

to have become his pupil, though he himself would not admit it (Cic. de

Nat. Deor. i. 26). At the outbreak of the Samian war he crossed over to

Colophon, where he collected a school. It is said that the first thing

that excited him to the study of philosophy was the perusal of the works

of Democritus while he resided at Colophon. From thence he went to

Mitylene and Lampsacus, and B.C. 306 he returned to Athens, and finally

established himself as a teacher of philosophy. His own life was that of a

man of simple, pure, and temperate habits. He died of the stone, B.C. 270,

and left Hermarchus of Mitylene as his successor in the management of his

school.

None of his works have come down to us. With regard to his philosophical

system, in spite of his boast of being self-taught and having borrowed

from no one, he clearly derived the chief part of his natural philosophy

from Democritus, and of his moral philosophy from Aristippus and the

Cyrenaics. He considered human happiness the end of all philosophy, and

agreed with the Cyrenaics that pleasure constituted the greatest

happiness; still this theory in his hands acquired a far loftier

character; for pleasure, in his idea, was not a mere momentary and

transitory sensation, but something lasting and imperishable, consisting

in pure mental enjoyments, and in the freedom from pain and any other

influence which could disturb man’s peace of mind. And the _summum bonum_,

according to him, consisted in this peace of mind; which was based upon

correct wisdom (φρόνησις).

In his natural philosophy he embraced the atomic theories of Democritus

and Diagoras, carrying them even further than they themselves had done, to

such a degree that he drew upon himself the reproach of Atheism. He

regarded the Gods themselves as consisting of atoms, and our notions of

them as based upon the images (εἴδωλα) which are reflected from them, and

so pass into our minds. And he believed that they exercised no influence

whatever on the world, or on the actions or fortunes of man.

_Theodorus_ was a native of Cyrene, who flourished about B.C. 320. He was

of the Cyrenaic sect, and the founder of that branch of it which was

called after him, the Theodorean; though we scarcely know in what his

doctrines differed from those of Aristippus, unless they were, if

possible, of a still more lax character. He taught, for instance, that

there was nothing really wrong or disgraceful in theft, adultery, or

sacrilege; but that they were branded by public opinion to restrain fools.

He is also reproved with utter atheism; and Cicero classes him with

Diagoras, as a man who utterly denied the existence of any Gods at all.

_Pyrrho_ was a contemporary of Alexander the Great, whose expedition into

Asia he joined. He appears, as far as his philosophy went, to have been an

universal sceptic. He impeached, however, none of the chief principles of

morality, but, regarding Socrates as his model, directed all his

endeavours towards the production in his pupils of a firm well-regulated

moral character.

_Crantor_ was a native of Soli in Cilicia; we do not know when he was born

or when he died, but he came to Athens before B.C. 315. He was the first

of Plato’s followers who wrote commentaries on the works of his master. He

died of dropsy, and left Arcesilaus his heir.

_Arcesilaus_, or _Arcesilas_, flourished about B.C. 280; he was born at

Pitane, but came to Athens and became the pupil of Theophrastus and of

Crantor, and afterwards of some of the more sceptical philosophers. On the

death of Crantor he succeeded to the chair of the Academy, in the

doctrines of which he made so many innovations that he is called the

founder of the New Academy. What his peculiar views were is, however, a

matter of great uncertainty. Some give him the credit of having restored

the doctrines of Plato in an uncorrupted form; while, according to Cicero,

on the other hand, (Acad. i. 12,) he summed up all his opinions in the

statement that he knew nothing, not even his own ignorance. He, and the

New Academy, do not, however, seem to have doubted the existence of truth

in itself, but only the capacity of man for arriving at the knowledge of

it.

_Carneades_ was born at Cyrene about B.C. 213. He went early to Athens,

and at first attended the lectures of the Stoics; but subsequently

attached himself to the Academy, and succeeded to the chair on the death

of Hegesinus. In the year B.C. 155, he came to Rome on an embassy, but so

offended Cato by speaking one day in praise of justice as a virtue, and

the next day, in answer to all his previous arguments, that he made a

motion in the senate, that he should be ordered to depart from Rome. He

died B.C. 129.

_Philo_ of Larissa, who is often mentioned by Cicero, was his own master,

having removed to Rome after the conquest of Athens by Mithridates, where

he settled as a teacher of philosophy and rhetoric. He would not admit

that there was any difference between the Old and New Academy, in which he

differed from his pupil Antiochus. The exact time of his birth or death is

not known; but he was not living when Cicero composed his Academics. (ii.

6.)

_Antiochus_ of Ascalon has been called by some writers the founder of the

Fifth Academy; he also was a teacher of Cicero during the time he studied

at Athens; he had also a school at Alexandria, and another in Syria, where

he died. He studied under Philo, but was so far from agreeing with him

that he wrote a treatise on purpose to refute what he considered as the

scepticism of the Academics. And undoubtedly the later philosophers of

that school had exaggerated the teaching of Plato, that the senses were

not in all cases trustworthy organs of perception, so as to infer from it

a denial of the certainty of any knowledge whatever. Antiochus professed

that his object was to revive the real doctrines of Plato in opposition to

the modern scepticism of Carneades and Philo. He appears to have

considered himself as an eclectic philosopher, combining the best parts of

the doctrines of the Academic, Peripatetic, and Stoic schools.

_Diodorus_ of Tyre flourished about B.C. 110. He lived at Athens, where he

succeeded Critolaus as the head of the Peripatetic school. Cicero,

however, denies that he was a genuine Peripatetic, and says that his

doctrine that the _summum bonum_ consisted in a combination of virtue with

the absence of pain was an attempt to reconcile the theory of the Stoics

with that of the Epicureans.

_Panætius_ was a native of Rhodes; his exact age is not known, but he was

a contemporary of Scipio Æmilianus, who died B.C. 129. He went to Athens

at an early age, where he is said to have been a pupil of Diogenes of

Babylon and Antipater of Tarsus, and also of Polemo Periegetes. He became

associated with P. Scipio Æmilianus, who valued him highly. The latter

part of his life he spent at Athens, where he had succeeded Antipater as

head of the Stoic school. He was the author of a treatise on “What is

Becoming,” which Cicero professes to have imitated, though carried rather

further, in his De Officiis. He softened down the harsher features of the

Stoic doctrines, approximating them in some degree to the opinions of

Xenocrates, Plato, and Aristotle, and made them attractive by the elegance

of his style; indeed, he modified the principles of the school so much,

that some writers called him a Platonist. In natural philosophy he

abandoned the Stoic doctrine of the conflagration of the world;

endeavoured to simplify the division of the faculties of the soul; and

doubted the reality of the science of divination. In ethics he followed

the method of Aristotle; and, in direct opposition to the earlier Stoics,

vindicated the claim of certain pleasurable sensations to be regarded as

in accordance with nature.

_Polemo_ was a pupil of Xenocrates, and succeeded him as the head of his

school. There is a story that he had been a very dissolute young man, and

that one day, at the head of a band of revellers, he burst into the school

of Xenocrates, when his attention was so arrested by the discourse of the

philosopher, which happened to be on the subject of temperance, that he

tore off his festive garland, remained till the end of the lecture, and

devoted himself to philosophy all the rest of his life. He does not appear

to have varied at all from the doctrines of his master. He died B.C. 273.

_Archytas_ was a native of Tarentum: his age is not quite certain, but he

is believed to have been a contemporary of Plato, and he is even said to

have saved his life by his interest with the tyrant Dionysius. He was a

great general and statesman, as well as a philosopher. In philosophy he

was a Pythagorean; and, like most of that school, a great mathematician;

and applied his favourite science not only to music, but also to

metaphysics. Aristotle is believed to have borrowed from him his System of

Categories.

The limits of this volume forbid more than the preceding very brief sketch

of the chiefs of the ancient philosophy. For a more detailed account the

reader is referred to the Biographical Dictionary edited by Dr. Smith,

from which valuable work much of this sketch has been derived. The account

of Socrates has been principally derived from Mr. Grote’s admirable

history of Greece: in which attention has so successfully been devoted to

the history of philosophy and the sophists, that a correct idea of the

subject can hardly be acquired without a careful study of that work.

It was intended to subjoin a comparison of the systems of the different

sects, but it would take more space than can be spared; and it is moreover

unnecessary, as, the distinctive tenets of each having been explained, the

reader is supplied with sufficient materials to institute such a

comparison for himself. He will not wonder that men without the guidance

of revelation should at times have lost their way in speculations beyond

the reach of human faculties, but will the more admire that genius and

virtue which manifested itself in such men as Socrates, Plato, and Cicero,

for the perpetual enlightenment of the human race.

INTRODUCTION.

The following account of the two Books of the Academics is extracted from

the Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography, edited by Dr. W. Smith:—

“The history of this work, before it finally quitted the hands of its

author, is exceedingly curious and somewhat obscure; but must be clearly

understood before we can explain the relative position of those portions

of it which have been transmitted to modern times. By comparing carefully

a series of letters written to Atticus, in the course of B.C. 45 (Ep. ad

Att. xiii. 32;(1) 12, 13, 14, 16, 18, 19, 21, 22, 23, 25, 35, 44), we find

that Cicero had drawn up a treatise upon the Academic Philosophy, in the

form of a dialogue between Catulus, Lucullus, and Hortensius; and that it

was comprised in two books, the first bearing the name of Catulus, the

second that of Lucullus. A copy was sent to Atticus; and, soon after it

reached him, two new Introductions were composed, the one in praise of

Catulus, the other in praise of Lucullus. Scarcely had this been done,

when Cicero, from a conviction that Catulus, Lucullus, and Hortensius,

although men of highly cultivated minds, and well acquainted with general

literature, were known to have been little conversant with the subtle

arguments of abstruse philosophy, determined to withdraw them altogether,

and accordingly substituted Cato and Brutus in their place. Immediately

after this change had been introduced, he received a communication from

Atticus, representing that Varro was much offended by being passed over in

the discussion of topics in which he was so deeply versed. Thereupon

Cicero, catching eagerly at the idea thus suggested, resolved to recast

the whole piece, and quickly produced, under the old title, a new and

highly improved edition, divided into four books instead of two,

dedicating the whole to Varro, to whom was assigned the task of defending

the tenets of Antiochus; while Cicero himself undertook to support the

views of Philo, Atticus also taking a share in the conversation.

“But, although these alterations had been effected with extreme rapidity,

the copy originally sent to Atticus had in the meantime been repeatedly

transcribed; hence both editions passed into circulation, and a part of

each has been preserved. One section, containing twelve chapters, is a

short fragment of the second or Varronian edition. The other, containing

forty-nine chapters, is the entire second book of the first edition; to

which is prefixed the new introduction, together with the proper title of

Lucullus. The scene of the _Catulus_ was the villa of that statesman, at

Cumæ; while the _Lucullus_ is supposed to have been held at the mansion of

Hortensius, near Bauli.

“The object proposed was to give an account of the rise and progress of

the Academic Philosophy, to point out the various modifications introduced

by successive professors, and to demonstrate the superiority of the

principles of the New Academy, as taught by Philo, over those of the old,

as advocated by Antiochus.”

FIRST BOOK OF THE ACADEMIC QUESTIONS.

I. When a short time ago my friend Atticus(2) was with me at my villa in

the district of Cumæ, news was sent us by Marcus(3) Varro, that he had

arrived in Rome the day before in the evening, and that if he had not

found himself too tired after his journey he should have proceeded at once

to see us. But when we heard this, we thought that we ought not to suffer

anything to delay our seeing a man so intimately connected with us by an

identity of studies, and by a very long standing intimacy and friendship.

And so we set out at once to go to see him; and when we were no great

distance from his villa we saw him coming towards us; and when we had

embraced him, as the manner of friends is, after some time we accompanied

him back to his villa. And as I was asking a few questions, and inquiring

what was the news at Rome, Never mind those things, said Atticus, which we

can neither inquire about nor hear of without vexation, but ask him rather

whether he has written anything new; for the muse of Varro has been silent

much longer than usual; though I rather suppose he is suppressing for a

time what he has written, than that he has been really idle. You are quite

wrong, said he; for I think it very foolish conduct in a man to write what

he wishes to have concealed. But I have a great work on hand; for I have

been a long time preparing a treatise which I have dedicated to my friend

here, (he meant me,) which is of great importance, and is being polished

up by me with a good deal of care.

I have been waiting to see it a long time, Varro, said I, but still I have

not ventured to ask for it. For I heard from our friend Libo, with whose

zeal you are well acquainted, (for I can never conceal anything of that

kind,) that you have not been slackening in the business, but are

expending a great deal of care on it, and in fact never put it out of your

hands. But it has never hitherto come into my mind to ask you about it;

however now, since I have begun to commit to a durable record those things

which I learnt in your company, and to illustrate in the Latin language

that ancient philosophy which originated with Socrates, I must ask you why

it is that, while you write on so many subjects, you pass over this one,

especially when you yourself are very eminent in it; and when that study,

and indeed the whole subject, is far superior in importance to all other

studies and arts.

II. You are asking me, he replied, about a matter on which I have often

deliberated and frequently revolved in my mind. And, therefore, I will

answer you without any hesitation; still, however, speaking quite

off-hand, because I have, as I said just now, thought over the subject

both deeply and frequently. For as I saw that philosophy had been

explained with great care in the Greek language, I thought that if any of

our countrymen were engrossed by the study of it, who were well versed in

Greek literature, they would be more likely to read Greek treatises than

Latin ones: but that those men who were averse to Greek science and to the

schools of the Greek philosophers would not care the least for such

matters as these, which could not be understood at all without some

acquaintance with Greek literature. And, therefore, I did not choose to

write treatises which unlearned men could not understand, and learned men

would not be at the trouble of reading. And you yourself are aware of

this. For you have learnt that we cannot resemble Amafanius(4) or

Rabirius,(5) who without any art discuss matters which come before the

eyes of every one in plain ordinary language, giving no accurate

definitions, making no divisions, drawing no inferences by well-directed

questions, and who appear to think that there is no such thing as any art

of speaking or disputing. But we, in obedience to the precepts of the

logicians and of orators also, as if they were positive laws, (since our

countrymen consider skill in each of these branches to be a virtue,) are

compelled to use words although they may be new ones; which learned men,

as I have said before, will prefer taking from the Greeks, and which

unlearned men will not receive even from us; so that all our labour may be

undertaken in vain. But now, if I approved of the doctrines of Epicurus,

that is to say, of Democritus, I could write of natural philosophy in as

plain a style as Amafanius. For what is the great difficulty when you have

put an end to all efficient causes, in speaking of the fortuitous

concourse of corpuscules, for this is the name he gives to atoms. You know

our system of natural philosophy, which depends upon the two principles,

the efficient cause, and the subject matter out of which the efficient

cause forms and produces what it does produce. For we must have recourse

to geometry, since, if we do not, in what words will any one be able to

enunciate the principles he wishes, or whom will he be able to cause to

comprehend those assertions about life, and manners, and desiring and

avoiding such and such things?

For those men are so simple as to think the good of a sheep and of a man

the same thing. While you know the character and extent of the accuracy

which philosophers of our school profess. Again, if you follow Zeno, it is

a hard thing to make any one understand what that genuine and simple good

is which cannot be separated from honesty; while Epicurus asserts that he

is wholly unable to comprehend what the character of that good may be

which is unconnected with pleasures which affect the senses. But if we

follow the doctrines of the Old Academy which, as you know, we prefer,

then with what accuracy must we apply ourselves to explain it; with what

shrewdness and even with what obscurity must we argue against the Stoics!

The whole, therefore, of that eagerness for philosophy I claim for myself,

both for the purpose of strengthening my firmness of conduct as far as I

can, and also for the delight of my mind. Nor do I think, as Plato says,

that any more important or more valuable gift has been given to men by the

gods. But I send all my friends who have any zeal for philosophy into

Greece; that is to say, I bid them study the Greek writers, in order to

draw their precepts from the fountain-head, rather than follow little

streams. But those things which no one had previously taught, and which

could not be learnt in any quarter by those who were eager on the subject,

I have laboured as far as I could (for I have no great opinion of anything

which I have done in this line) to explain to our fellow-countrymen. For

this knowledge could not be sought for among the Greeks, nor, after the

death of our friend Lucius Ælius,(6) among the Latins either. And yet in

those old works of ours which we composed in imitation of Menippus,(7) not

translating him, sprinkling a little mirth and sportiveness over the whole

subject, there are many things mingled which are drawn from the most

recondite philosophy, and many points argued according to the rules of

strict logic; but I added these lighter matters in order to make the whole

more easy for people of moderate learning to comprehend, if they were

invited to read those essays by a pleasing style, displayed in panegyrics,

and in the very prefaces of my books of antiquities. And this was my

object in adopting this style, however I may have succeeded in it.

III. The fact, I replied, is just as you say, Varro. For while we were

sojourners, as it were, in our own city, and wandering about like

strangers, your books have conducted us, as it were, home again, so as to

enable us at last to recognise who and where we were. You have discussed

the antiquity of our country, and the variety of dates and chronology

relating to it. You have explained the laws which regulate sacrifices and

priests; you have unfolded the customs of the city both in war and peace;

you have described the various quarters and districts; you have omitted

mentioning none of the names, or kinds, or functions, or causes of divine

or human things; you have thrown a great deal of light on our poets, and

altogether on Latin literature and on Latin expressions; you have yourself

composed a poem of varied beauties, and elegant in almost every point; and

you have in many places touched upon philosophy in a manner sufficient to

excite our curiosity, though inadequate to instruct us.

You allege, indeed, a very plausible reason for this. For, you say, those

who are learned men will prefer reading philosophical treatises in Greek,

and those who are ignorant of Greek will not read them even in Latin.

However, tell me now, do you really agree with your own argument? I would

rather say, those who are unable to read them in the one language will

read them in the other; and even those who can read them in Greek will not

despise their own language. For what reason can be imagined why men

learned in Greek literature should read the Latin poets, and not read the

Latin philosophers? Or again, if Ennius,(8) Pacuvius, Accius, and many

others who have given us, I will not say the exact expressions, but the

meaning of the Greeks, delight their readers; how much more will the

philosophers delight them, if, as the poets have imitated Æschylus,

Sophocles, and Euripides, they in like manner imitate Plato, Aristotle,

and Theophrastus? I see, too, that any orators among us are praised who

imitate Hyperides or Demosthenes.

But I, (for I will speak the plain truth,) as long as ambition and the

pursuit of public honours and the pleading of causes, and not a mere

regard for the republic, but even a certain degree of concern in its

government, entangled me in and hampered me with the numerous duties in

which those occupations involved me; I kept, I say, all these matters to

myself, and brushed them up, when I could, by reading, to prevent their

getting rusty. But now, having been stricken to the ground by a most

severe blow of fortune, and being discharged from all concern in the

republic, I seek a medicine for my sorrow in philosophy, and consider this

study the most honourable pastime for my leisure. For I may look upon it

as most suitable to my age, and most especially consistent with any

memorable exploits which I may have performed, and inferior to no other

occupation in its usefulness for the purpose of educating my

fellow-countrymen. Or even if this be too high a view to take of it, at

all events I see nothing else which I can do. My friend Brutus, indeed, a

man eminent for every kind of virtue, has illustrated philosophy in the

Latin language in such a way that he has left Greece nothing to wish for

on those subjects. And he adopts the same opinions that you do. For he was

for some time a pupil of Aristus, at Athens, whose brother Antiochus was

your own preceptor. And therefore do you also, I entreat you, apply

yourself to this kind of literature.

IV. Then he replied. I will indeed consider of these matters, but only in

your company. But still, said he, what is this which I hear about you

yourself? On what subject? said I. Why, that the old system is deserted by

you, and that you have espoused the principles of the new school. What of

that? said I. Why should Antiochus, my own intimate friend, be more at

liberty to return back again from the new school to the old, than I myself

to migrate to the new from the old? For certainly everything that is most

recent is corrected and amended in the highest degree; although Philo, the

master of Antiochus, a great man, as you yourself consider him, used to

deny in his books that there were two Academies (and we ourselves have

heard him assert the same things in his lectures); and he convicts those

who say that there are, of palpable mistake. It is as you say, said he,

but I do not imagine that you are ignorant of what Antiochus has written

in reply to the arguments of Philo. Certainly, said I, I am not, and I

should like to hear the whole cause of the Old Academy, from which I have

been so long absent, recapitulated by you, if it is not giving you too

much trouble; and let us sit down now, if you have no objection. That will

suit me very well, said he, for I am not at all strong. But let us

consider whether Atticus will be pleased with that compliance of mine,

which I see that you yourself are desirous of. Indeed I shall, said he;

for what could I prefer to being reminded of what I long ago heard from

Antiochus, and seeing at the same time whether those ideas can be

expressed with sufficient suitableness in Latin? So after this preface we

all sat down looking at one another. And Varro began as follows:—

Socrates appears to me, and indeed it is the universal opinion, to have

been the first person who drew philosophy away from matters of an abstruse

character, which had been shrouded in mystery by nature herself, and in

which all the philosophers before his time had been wholly occupied, and

to have diverted it to the objects of ordinary life; directing its

speculations to virtues and vices, and generally to whatever was good or

bad. And he thought that the heavenly bodies were either far out of the

reach of our knowledge, or that, even if we became ever so intimately

acquainted with them, they had no influence on living well. In nearly all

his discourses, which have been reported in great variety and very fully

by those who were his pupils, he argues in such a manner that he affirms

nothing himself, but refutes the assertions of others. He says that he

knows nothing, except that one fact, that he is ignorant; and that he is

superior to others in this particular, that they believe that they do know

what they do not, while he knows this one thing alone, that he knows

nothing. And it is on that account that he imagines he was pronounced by

Apollo the wisest of all men, because this alone is the whole of wisdom,

for a man not to think that he knows what he does not know. And as he was

always saying this, and persisting in the maintenance of this opinion, his

discourse was entirely devoted to the praise of virtue, and to encouraging

all men to the study of virtue; as may be plainly seen in the books of the

disciples of Socrates, and above all in those of Plato. But by the

influence of Plato, a man of vast and varied and eloquent genius, a system

of philosophy was established which was one and identical, though under

two names; the system namely of the Academics and Peripatetics. For these

two schools agreed in reality, and differed only in name. For when Plato

had left Speusippus, his sister’s son, the inheritor as it were of his

philosophy, and also two pupils most eminent for industry and genius,

Xenocrates of Chalcedon, and Aristotle the Stagirite; those who adhered to

Aristotle were called Peripatetics, because they disputed while walking(9)

in the Lyceum. And the others, who according to the fashion of Plato

himself were accustomed to hold their meetings and discussions in the

Academy, which is a second Gymnasium, took their name from the place where

they used to meet. But both these schools, being impregnated with the

copiousness of Plato, arranged a certain definite system of doctrine,

which was itself copious and luxuriant; but abandoned the Socratic plan of

doubting on every subject, and of discussing everything without ever

venturing on the assertion of a positive opinion. And thus there arose

what Socrates would have been far from approving of, a certain art of

philosophy, and methodical arrangement, and division of the school, which

at first, as I have already said, was one under two names. For there was

no real difference between the Peripatetics and the old Academy.

Aristotle, at least such is my opinion, was superior in a certain

luxuriance of genius; but both schools had the same source, and adopted

the same division of things which were to be desired and avoided. But what

am I about? said he, interrupting himself; am I in my senses while I am

explaining these things to you? for although it may not be exactly a case

of the pig teaching Minerva, still it is not very wise of any one to

attempt to impart instruction to that goddess.

V. I entreat you however, said Atticus, I entreat you to go on, Varro. For

I am greatly attached to my own countrymen and to their works; and those

subjects delight me beyond measure when they are treated in Latin, and in

such a manner as you treat them. And what, said I, do you think that I

must feel, who have already engaged to display philosophy to our nation?

Let us then, said he, continue the subject, since it is agreeable to you.

A threefold system of philosophising, then, was already received from

Plato. One, on the subject of life and morals. A second, on nature and

abstruse matters. The third, on discussion, and on what is true or false;

what is right or wrong in a discourse; what is consistent or inconsistent

in forming a decision.

And that first division of the subject, that namely of living well, they

sought in nature herself, and said that it was necessary to obey her; and

that that chief good to which everything was referred was not to be sought

in anything whatever except in nature. And they laid it down that the

crowning point of all desirable things, and the chief good, was to have

received from nature everything which is requisite for the mind, or the

body, or for life. But of the goods of the body, they placed some in the

whole, and others in the parts. Health, strength, and beauty in the whole.

In the parts, soundness of the senses, and a certain excellence of the

individual parts. As in the feet, swiftness; in the hands, strength; in

the voice, clearness; in the tongue, a distinct articulation of words. The

excellences of the mind they considered those which were suitable to the

comprehension of virtue by the disposition. And those they divided under

the separate heads of nature and morals. Quickness in learning and memory

they attributed to nature; each of which was described as a property of

the mind and genius. Under the head of “morals” they classed our studies,

and, I may say, our habits, which they formed, partly by a continuity of

practice, partly by reason. And in these two things was contained

philosophy itself, in which that which is begun and not brought to its

completion, is called a sort of advance towards virtue; but that which is

brought to completion is virtue, being a sort of perfection of nature and

of all things which they place in the mind; the one most excellent thing.

These things then are qualities of the mind.

The third division was that of life. And they said that those things which

had influence in facilitating the practice of virtue were connected with

this division. For virtue is discerned in some good qualities of the mind

and body, which are added not so much to nature as to a happy life. They

thought that a man was as it were a certain part of the state, and of the

whole human race, and that he was connected with other men by a sort of

human society. And this is the way in which they deal with the chief and

natural good. But they think that everything else is connected with it,

either in the way of increasing or of maintaining it; as riches, power,

glory, and influence. And thus a threefold division of goods is inferred

by them.

VI. And these are those three kinds which most people believe the

Peripatetics speak of: and so far they are not wrong; for this division is

the work of that school. But they are mistaken if they think that the

Academicians—those at least who bore this name at that time—are different

from the Peripatetics. The principle, and the chief good asserted by both

appeared to be the same—namely, to attain those things which were in the

first class by nature, and which were intrinsically desirable; the whole

of them, if possible, or, at all events, the most important of them. But

those are the most important which exist in the mind itself, and are

conversant about virtue itself. Therefore, all that ancient philosophy

perceived that a happy life was placed in virtue alone; and yet that it

was not the happiest life possible, unless the good qualities of the body

were added to it, and all the other things which have been already

mentioned, which are serviceable towards acquiring a habit of virtue. From

this definition of theirs, a certain principle of action in life, and of

duty itself, was discovered, which consisted in the preservation of those

things which nature might prescribe. Hence arose the avoidance of sloth,

and contempt of pleasures; from which proceeded the willingness to

encounter many and great labours and pains, for the sake of what was right

and honourable, and of those things which are conformable to the objects

of nature. Hence was generated friendship, and justice, and equity; and

these things were preferred to pleasure and to many of the advantages of

life. This was the system of morals recommended in their school, and the

method and design of that division which I have placed first.

But concerning nature (for that came next), they spoke in such a manner

that they divided it into two parts,—making one efficient, and the other

lending itself, as it were, to the first, as subject matter to be worked

upon. For that part which was efficient they thought there was power; and

in that which was made something by it they thought there was some matter;

and something of both in each. For they considered that matter itself

could have no cohesion, unless it were held together by some power; and

that power could have none without some matter to work upon; for that is

nothing which is not necessarily somewhere. But that which exists from a

combination of the two they called at once body, and a sort of quality, as

it were. For you will give me leave, in speaking of subjects which have

not previously been in fashion, to use at times words which have never

been heard of (which, indeed, is no more than the Greeks themselves do,

who have been long in the habit of discussing these subjects).

VII. To be sure we will, said Atticus. Moreover, you may even use Greek

words when you wish, if by chance you should be at a loss for Latin ones.

You are very kind; but I will endeavour to express myself in Latin, except

in the case of such words as these—_philosophia_, _rhetorica_, _physica_,

or _dialectica_, which, like many others, fashion already sanctions, as if

they were Latin. I therefore have called those things _qualitates_

(qualities), which the Greeks call ποιότητες—a word which, even among the

Greeks, is not one in ordinary use, but is confined to philosophers. And

the same rule applies to many other expressions. As for the Dialecticians,

they have no terms in common use: they use technical terms entirely. And

the case is the same with nearly every art; for men must either invent new

names for new things, or else borrow them from other subjects. And if the

Greeks do this, who have now been engaged in such matters for so many

ages, how much more ought this licence to be allowed to us, who are now

endeavouring to deal with these subjects for the first time? But, said I,

O Varro, it appears to me that you will deserve well of your

fellow-countrymen, if you enrich them, not only with an abundance of new

things, as you have done, but also of words. We will venture, then, said

he, to employ new terms, if it be necessary, armed with your authority and

sanction.

Of these qualities, then, said he, some are principal ones, and others

arise out of them. The principal ones are of one character and simple; but

those which arise out of them are various, and, as it were, multiform.

Therefore, air (we use the Greek word ἀὴρ as Latin), fire, water, and

earth are principal ones; and out of them there arise the forms of living

creatures, and of those things which are produced out of the earth.

Therefore, those first are called principles and (to translate the Greek

word) elements: from which air and fire have the power of movement and

efficiency: the other divisions—I mean, water and the earth—have the power

of receiving, and, as it were, of suffering. The fifth class, from which

the stars and winds were formed, Aristotle considered to be a separate

essence, and different from those four which I have mentioned above.

But they think that there is placed under all of these a certain matter

without any form, and destitute of all quality (for we may as well, by

constant use, make this word more usual and notorious), from which all

things are sketched out and made; which can receive everything in its

entirety, and can be changed in every manner and in every part. And also

that it perishes, not so as to become nothing, but so as to be dissolved

with its component parts, which again are able to be cut up and divided,

_ad infinitum_; since there is absolutely nothing in the whole nature of

things which cannot be divided: and those things which are moved, are all

moved at intervals, which intervals again are capable of being infinitely

divided. And, since that power which we have called quality is moved in

this way, and is agitated in every direction, they think also that the

whole of matter is itself entirely changed, and so that those things are

produced which they call qualities, from which the world is made, in

universal nature, cohering together and connected with all its divisions;

and, out of the world, there is no such thing as any portion of matter or

any body.

And they say that the parts of the world are all the things which exist in

it, and which are maintained by sentient nature; in which perfect reason

is placed, which is also everlasting: for that there is nothing more

powerful which can be the cause of its dissolution. And this power they

call the soul of the world, and also its intellect and perfect wisdom. And

they call it God, a providence watching over everything subject to its

dominion, and, above all, over the heavenly bodies; and, next to them,

over those things on earth which concern men: which also they sometimes

call necessity, because nothing can be done in a manner different from

that in which it has been arranged by it in a destined (if I may so say)

and inevitable continuation of eternal order. Sometimes, too, they call it

fortune, because it brings about many unforeseen things, which have never

been expected by us, on account of the obscurity of their causes, and our

ignorance of them.

VIII. The third part of philosophy, which is next in order, being

conversant about reason and discussion, was thus handled by both schools.

They said that, although it originated in the senses, still the power of

judging of the truth was not in the senses. They insisted upon it that

intellect was the judge of things. They thought that the only thing

deserving of belief, because it alone discerned that which was always

simple and uniform, and which perceived its real character. This they call

_idea_, having already received this name from Plato; and we properly

entitle it _species_.

But they thought that all the senses were dull and slow, and that they did

not by any means perceive those things which appeared subjected to the

senses; which were either so small as to be unable to come under the

notice of sense, or so moveable and rapid that none of them was ever one

consistent thing, nor even the same thing, because everything was in a

continual state of transition and disappearance. And therefore they called

all this division of things one resting wholly on opinion. But they

thought that science had no existence anywhere except in the notions and

reasonings of the mind; on which account they approved of the definitions

of things, and employed them on everything which was brought under

discussion. The explanation of words also was approved of—that is to say,

the explanation of the cause why everything was named as it was; and that

they called etymology. Afterwards they used arguments, and, as it were,

marks of things, for the proof and conclusion of what they wished to have

explained; in which the whole system of dialectics—that is to say, of an

oration brought to its conclusion by ratiocination, was handed down. And

to this there was added, as a kind of second part, the oratorical power of

speaking, which consists in developing a continued discourse, composed in

a manner adapted to produce conviction.

IX. This was the first philosophy handed down to them by Plato. And if you

like I will explain to you those discussions which have originated in it.

Indeed, said I, we shall be glad if you will; and I can answer for Atticus

as well as for myself. You are quite right, said he; for the doctrine both

of the Peripatetics and of the old Academy is most admirably explained.

Aristotle, then, was the first to undermine the doctrine of species, which

I have just now mentioned, and which Plato had embraced in a wonderful

manner; so that he even affirmed that there was something divine in it.

But Theophrastus, a man of very delightful eloquence, and of such purity

of morals that his probity and integrity were notorious to all men, broke

down more vigorously still the authority of the old school; for he

stripped virtue of its beauty, and made it powerless, by denying that to

live happily depended solely on it. For Strato, his pupil, although a man

of brilliant abilities, must still be excluded entirely from that school;

for, having deserted that most indispensable part of philosophy which is

placed in virtue and morals, and having devoted himself wholly to the

investigation of nature, he by that very conduct departs as widely as

possible from his companions. But Speusippus and Xenocrates, who were the

earliest supporters of the system and authority of Plato,—and, after them,

Polemo and Crates, and at the same time Crantor,—being all collected

together in the Academy, diligently maintained those doctrines which they

had received from their predecessors. Zeno and Arcesilas had been diligent

attenders on Polemo; but Zeno, who preceded Arcesilas in point of time,

and argued with more subtilty, and was a man of the greatest acuteness,

attempted to correct the system of that school. And, if you like, I will

explain to you the way in which he set about that correction, as Antiochus

used to explain it. Indeed, said I, I shall be very glad to hear you do

so; and you see that Pomponius intimates the same wish.

X. Zeno, then, was not at all a man like Theophrastus, to cut through the

sinews of virtue; but, on the other hand, he was one who placed everything

which could have any effect in producing a happy life in virtue alone, and

who reckoned nothing else a good at all, and who called that honourable

which was single in its nature, and the sole and only good. But as for all

other things, although they were neither good nor bad, he divided them,

calling some according to, and others contrary to nature. There were

others which he looked upon as placed between these two classes, and which

he called intermediate. Those which were according to nature, he taught

his disciples, deserved to be taken, and to be considered worthy of a

certain esteem. To those which were contrary to nature, he assigned a

contrary character; and those of the intermediate class he left as

neutrals, and attributed to them no importance whatever. But of those

which he said ought to be taken, he considered some worthy of a higher

estimation and others of a less. Those which were worthy of a higher

esteem, he called _preferred_; those which were only worthy of a lower

degree, he called _rejected_. And as he had altered all these things, not

so much in fact as in name, so too he defined some actions as

intermediate, lying between good deeds and sins, between duty and a

violation of duty;—classing things done rightly as good actions, and

things done wrongly (that is to say, sins) as bad actions. And several

duties, whether discharged or neglected, he considered of an intermediate

character, as I have already said. And whereas his predecessors had not

placed every virtue in reason, but had said that some virtues were

perfected by nature, or by habit, he placed them all in reason; and while

they thought that those kinds of virtues which I have mentioned above

could be separated, he asserted that that could not be done in any manner,

and affirmed that not only the practice of virtue (which was the doctrine

of his predecessors), but the very disposition to it, was intrinsically

beautiful; and that virtue could not possibly be present to any one

without his continually practising it.

And while they did not entirely remove all perturbation of mind from man,

(for they admitted that man did by nature grieve, and desire, and fear,

and become elated by joy,) but only contracted it, and reduced it to

narrow bounds; he maintained that the wise man was wholly free from all

these diseases as they might be called. And as the ancients said that

those perturbations were natural, and devoid of reason, and placed desire

in one part of the mind and reason in another, he did not agree with them

either; for he thought that all perturbations were voluntary, and were

admitted by the judgment of the opinion, and that a certain unrestrained

intemperance was the mother of all of them. And this is nearly what he

laid down about morals.

XI. But about natures he held these opinions. In the first place, he did

not connect this fifth nature, out of which his predecessors thought that

sense and intellect were produced, with those four principles of things.

For he laid it down that fire is that nature which produces everything,

and intellect, and sense. But he differed from them again, inasmuch as he

thought it absolutely impossible for anything to be produced from that

nature which was destitute of body; which was the character attributed by

Xenocrates and his predecessors to the mind, and he would not allow that

that which produced anything, or which was produced by anything, could

possibly be anything except body.

But he made a great many alterations in that third part of his philosophy,

in which, first of all, he said some new things of the senses themselves:

which he considered to be united by some impulse as it were, acting upon

them from without, which he called φαντασία, and which we may term

_perception_. And let us recollect this word, for we shall have frequent

occasion to employ it in the remainder of our discourse; but to these

things which are perceived, and as it were accepted by the senses, he adds

the assent of the mind, which he considers to be placed in ourselves and

voluntary. He did not give credit to everything which is perceived, but

only to those which contain some especial character of those things which

are seen; but he pronounced what was seen, when it was discerned on

account of its own power, _comprehensible_—will you allow me this word?

Certainly, said Atticus, for how else are you to express καταληπτός? But

after it had been received and approved, then he called it

_comprehension_, resembling those things which are taken up

(_prehenduntur_) in the hand; from which verb also he derived this noun,

though no one else had ever used this verb with reference to such matters;

and he also used many new words, for he was speaking of new things. But

that which was comprehended by sense he called _felt_ (_sensum_,) and if

it was so comprehended that it could not be eradicated by reason, he

called it knowledge; otherwise he called it ignorance: from which also was

engendered opinion, which was weak, and compatible with what was false or

unknown. But between knowledge and ignorance he placed that comprehension

which I have spoken of, and reckoned it neither among what was right or

what was wrong, but said that it alone deserved to be trusted.

And from this he attributed credit also to the senses, because, as I have

said above, comprehension made by the senses appeared to him to be true

and trustworthy. Not because it comprehended all that existed in a thing,

but because it left out nothing which could affect it, and because nature

had given it to us to be as it were a rule of knowledge, and a principle

from which subsequently all notions of things might be impressed on our

minds, from which not only principles, but some broader paths to the

discovery of reason are found out. But error, and rashness, and ignorance,

and opinion, and suspicion, and in a word everything which was

inconsistent with a firm and consistent assent, he discarded from virtue

and wisdom. And it is in these things that nearly all the disagreement

between Zeno and his predecessors, and all his alteration of their system

consists.

XII. And when he had spoken thus—You have, said I, O Varro, explained the

principles both of the Old Academy and of the Stoics with brevity, but

also with great clearness. But I think it to be true, as Antiochus, a

great friend of mine, used to assert, that it is to be considered rather

as a corrected edition of the Old Academy, than as any new sect. Then

Varro replied—It is your part now, who revolt from the principles of the

ancients, and who approve of the innovations which have been made by

Arcesilas, to explain what that division of the two schools which he made

was, and why he made it; so that we may see whether that revolt of his was

justifiable. Then I replied—Arcesilas, as we understand, directed all his

attacks against Zeno, not out of obstinacy or any desire of gaining the

victory, as it appears to me, but by reason of the obscurity of those

things which had brought Socrates to the confession of ignorance, and even

before Socrates, Democritus, Anaxagoras, Empedocles, and nearly all the

ancients; who asserted that nothing could be ascertained, or perceived, or

known: that the senses of man were narrow, his mind feeble, the course of

his life short, and that truth, as Democritus said, was sunk in the deep;

that everything depended on opinions and established customs; that nothing

was left to truth. They said in short, that everything was enveloped in

darkness; therefore Arcesilas asserted that there was nothing which could

be known, not even that very piece of knowledge which Socrates had left

himself. Thus he thought that everything lay hid in secret, and that there

was nothing which could be discerned or understood; for which reasons it

was not right for any one to profess or affirm anything, or sanction

anything by his assent, but men ought always to restrain their rashness

and to keep it in check so as to guard it against every fall. For rashness

would be very remarkable when anything unknown or false was approved of;

and nothing could be more discreditable than for a man’s assent and

approbation to precede his knowledge and perception of a fact. And he used

to act consistently with these principles, so as to pass most of his days

in arguing against every one’s opinion, in order that when equally

important reasons were found for both sides of the same question, the

judgment might more naturally be suspended, and prevented from giving

assent to either.

This they call the New Academy, which however appears to me to be the old

one, if, at least, we reckon Plato as one of that Old Academy. For in his

books nothing is affirmed positively, and many arguments are allowed on

both sides of a question; everything is investigated, and nothing positive

affirmed. Still let the school whose principles I have explained, be

called the Old Academy, and this other the New; which, having continued to

the time of Carneades, who was the fourth in succession after Arcesilas,

continued in the same principles and system as Arcesilas. But Carneades,

being a man ignorant of no part of philosophy, and, as I have learnt from

those who had been his pupils, and particularly from Zeno the Epicurean,

who, though he greatly differed from him in opinion, still admired him

above all other men, was also a person of incredible abilities...

_The rest of this Book is lost._

SECOND BOOK OF THE ACADEMIC QUESTIONS.

I. Lucius Lucullus was a man of great genius, and very much devoted to the

study of the most important arts; every branch of liberal learning worthy

of a man of high birth, was thoroughly understood by him; but at the time

when he might have made the greatest figure in the forum, he was wholly

removed from all participation in the business of the city. For while he

was very young, he, uniting with his brother, a man of equal sense of duty

and diligence with himself, followed up the quarrel(10) bequeathed to him

by his father to his own exceeding credit; afterwards having gone as

quæstor into Asia, he there governed the province for many years with

great reputation. Subsequently he was made ædile in his absence, and

immediately after that he was elected prætor; for his services had been

rewarded by an express law authorizing his election at a period earlier

than usual. After that he was sent into Africa; from thence he proceeded

to the consulship, the duties of which he discharged in such a manner,

that every one admired his diligence, and recognised his genius.

Afterwards he was sent by the Senate to conduct the war against

Mithridates, and there he not only surpassed the universal expectation

which every one had formed of his valour, but even the glory of his

predecessors. And that was the more admirable in him, because great skill

as a general was not very much looked for in one who had spent his youth

in the occupations of the forum, and the duration of his quæstorship in

peace in Asia, while Murena was carrying on the war in Pontus. But the

incredible greatness of his genius did not require the aid of experience,

which can never be taught by precepts. Therefore, having devoted the whole

time occupied in his march and his voyage, partly to making inquiries of

those who were skilful in such matters, and partly in reading the accounts

of great achievements, he arrived in Asia a perfect general, though he had

left Rome entirely ignorant of military affairs. For he had an almost

divine memory for facts, though Hortensius had a better one for words. But

as in performing great deeds, facts are of more consequence than words,

this memory of his was the more serviceable of the two; and they say, that

the same quality was conspicuous in Themistocles, whom we consider beyond

all comparison the first man in Greece. And a story is told of him, that,

when some one promised to teach him the art of memory, which was then

beginning to be cultivated, he answered, that he should much prefer

learning to forget; I suppose, because everything which he had either

heard or seen stuck in his memory.

Lucullus having this great genius, added to it that study which

Themistocles had despised: therefore, as we write down in letters what we

wish to commit to monuments, he, in like manner, had the facts engraved in

his mind. Therefore, he was a general of such perfect skill in every kind

of war, in battles, and sieges, and naval fights, and in the whole

equipment and management of war, that that king, the greatest that has

ever lived since the time of Alexander, confessed, that he considered him

a greater general than any one of whom he had ever read. He also displayed

such great prudence in arranging and regulating the affairs of the

different cities, and such great justice too, that to this very day, Asia

is preserved by the careful maintenance of the regulations, and by

following as it were in the footsteps of Lucullus. But although it was

greatly to the advantage of the republic, still that great virtue and

genius was kept abroad at a distance from the eyes both of the forum and

the senate-house, for a longer time than I could have wished. Moreover,

when he had returned victorious from the war against Mithridates, owing to

the calumnies of his adversaries, he did not celebrate his triumph till

three years later than he ought to have done. For I may almost say, that I

myself when consul led into the city the chariot of that most illustrious

man, and I might enlarge upon the great advantage that his counsel and

authority were to me, in the most critical circumstances, if it were not

that to do so would compel me to speak of myself, which at this moment is

not necessary. Therefore, I will rather deprive him of the testimony due

to him, than mix it up now with a commendation of myself.

II. But as for those exploits of Lucullus, which were entitled to be

celebrated by the praises of the nation, they have been extolled both in

Greek and Latin writings. For those outward exploits of his are known to

us in common with the multitude; but his interior excellences (if I may so

call them) we and a few of his friends have learnt from himself. For

Lucullus used to apply himself to every kind of literature, and especially

to philosophy, with greater eagerness than those who were not acquainted

with him believed. And he did so, not only at his first entrance into

life, but also when he was proquæstor, as he was for several years, and

even during the time of war itself, a time when men are usually so fully

occupied with their military business, that very little leisure is left to

the general, even in his own tent. And as of all the philosophers of that

day, Antiochus, who had been a pupil of Philo, was thought to excel in

genius and learning, he kept him about him while he was quæstor, and some

years afterwards when he was general. And as he had that extraordinary

memory which I have mentioned already, by hearing frequently of things, he

arrived at a thorough acquaintance with them; as he recollected everything

that he had heard of only once. And he was wonderfully delighted in the

reading books of which he heard any one speak.

And I sometimes fear lest I may even diminish the glory of such characters

as his, even while wishing to enhance it; for there are many people who

are altogether averse to Greek literature, still more who have a dislike

to philosophy, and men in general, even though they do not positively

disapprove of them, still think the discussion of such matters not

altogether suitable for the chiefs of the state. But I, having heard that

Marcus Cato learnt Greek in his old age, and learning from history that

Panætius was above all other men the chosen companion of Publius

Africanus, in that noble embassy which he was employed on before he

entered on the censorship, think I have no need of any other instance to

justify his study of Greek literature or of philosophy.

It remains for me to reply to those men who disapprove of such dignified

characters being mixed up in discussions of this sort; as if the meetings

of illustrious men were bound to be passed in silence, or their

conversation to be confined to jesting, and all the topics to be drawn

from trifling subjects. In truth, if in any one of my writings I have

given philosophy its due praise, then surely its discussion is thoroughly

worthy of every excellent and honourable man; nor is anything else

necessary to be taken care of by us, whom the Roman people has placed in

our present rank, except that we do not devote to our private pursuits,

the time which ought to be bestowed on the affairs of the public. But if,

while we are bound to discharge our duties, we still not only never omit

to give our assistance in all public meetings, but never even write a

single word unconnected with the forum, who then will blame our leisure,

because even in that moment we are unwilling to allow ourselves to grow

rusty and stupid, but take pains rather to benefit as many people as

possible?

And I think, that not only is the glory of those men not diminished, but

that it is even increased by our adding to their popular and notorious

praises these also which are less known and less spoken of. Some people

also deny that those men who are introduced in our writings as disputants

had any knowledge of those affairs which are the subjects of discussion.

But they appear to me to be showing their envy, not only of the living but

also of the dead.

III. There remains one class of critics who disapprove of the general

principles of the Academy. Which we should be more concerned at if any one

approved of any school of philosophy except that which he himself

followed. But we, since we are in the habit of arguing against every one

who appears to himself to know anything, cannot object to others also

dissenting from us. Although our side of the question is an easier one,

since we wish to discover the truth without any dispute, and we seek for

that with the greatest anxiety and diligence. For although all knowledge

is beset with many difficulties, and there is that obscurity in the things

themselves and that infirmity in our own judgment, that it is not without

reason that the most learned and ancient philosophers have distrusted

their power of discovering what they wished; yet they have not been

deficient in any respect, nor do we allow ourselves to abandon the pursuit

of truth through fatigue; nor have our discussions ever any other object

except that of, by arguing on each side, eliciting, and as it were,

squeezing out something which may either be the truth itself, or may at

least come as near as possible to it. Nor is there any difference between

us and those people who fancy that they know something, except that they

do not doubt at all that those doctrines which they uphold are the truth,

while we account many things as probable which we can adopt as our belief,

but can hardly positively affirm.

And in this we are more free and unfettered than they are, because our

power of judging is unimpeached, and because we are not compelled by any

necessity to defend theories which are laid upon as injunctions, and, if I

may say so, as commands. For in the first place, those of the other

schools have been bound hand and foot before they were able to judge what

was best; and, secondly, before their age or their understanding had come

to maturity, they have either followed the opinion of some friend, or been

charmed by the eloquence of some one who was the first arguer whom they

ever heard, and so have been led to form a judgment on what they did not

understand, and now they cling to whatever school they were, as it were,

dashed against in a tempest, like sailors clinging to a rock. For as to

their statement that they are wholly trusting to one whom they judge to

have been a wise man, I should approve of that if that were a point which

they, while ignorant and unlearned, were able to judge of, (for to decide

who is a wise man appears to me most especially the task of one who is

himself wise.) But they have either formed their opinion as well as they

could from a hearing of all the circumstances, and also from a knowledge

of the opinions of philosophers of all the other schools; or else, having

heard the matter mentioned once, they have surrendered themselves to the

guidance of some one individual. But, I know not how it is, most people

prefer being in error, and defending with the utmost pugnacity that

opinion which they have taken a fancy to, to inquiring without any

obstinacy what is said with the greatest consistency.

And these subjects were very frequently and very copiously discussed by us

at other times, and once also in the villa of Hortensius, which is at

Bauli, when Catulus, and Lucullus, and I myself had arrived there the day

after we had been staying with Catulus. And we had come thither rather

early in the day, because we had intended, if the wind was fair, to set

sail, Lucullus for his villa near Naples, and I myself towards mine, in

the district of Pompeii. When, therefore, we had had a short conversation

on the terrace, we sat down where we were.

IV. Then Catulus said,—Although what we were inquiring into yesterday was

almost wholly explained in such a manner that nearly the whole question

appears to have been discussed, still I long to hear what you promised to

tell us, Lucullus, as being what you had learnt from Antiochus. I, indeed,

said Hortensius, did more than I intended, for the whole matter ought to

have been left untouched for Lucullus, and indeed, perhaps it was: for I

only said such things as occurred to me at the moment; but I hope to hear

something more recondite from Lucullus.

Lucullus rejoined, I am not much troubled, Hortensius, at your

expectation, although there is nothing so unfavourable for those who wish

to give pleasure; but still, as I am not very anxious about how far I can

prove to your satisfaction the arguments which I advance, I am the less

disturbed. For the arguments which I am going to repeat are not my own,

nor such that, if they are incorrect, I should not prefer being defeated

to gaining the victory; but, in truth, as the case stands at present,

although the doctrines of my school were somewhat shaken in yesterday’s

discussion, still they do seem to me to be wholly true. I will therefore

argue as Antiochus used to argue; for the subject is one with which I am

well acquainted. For I used to listen to his lectures with a mind quite

unengaged, and with great pleasure, and, moreover, he frequently discussed

the same subject over again; so that you have some grounds for expecting

more from me than you had from Hortensius a little while ago. When he had

begun in this manner we prepared to listen with great attention.

And he spoke thus:—When I was at Alexandria, as proquæstor, Antiochus was

with me, and before my arrival, Heraclitus, of Tyre, a friend of

Antiochus, had already settled in Alexandria, a man who had been for many

years a pupil of Clitomachus and of Philo, and who had a great and

deserved reputation in that school, which having been almost utterly

discarded, is now coming again into fashion; and I used often to hear

Antiochus arguing with him; but they both conducted their discussions with

great gentleness. And just at that time those two books of Philo which

were yesterday mentioned by Catulus had been brought to Alexandria, and

had for the first time come under the notice of Antiochus; and he, though

naturally a man of the mildest disposition, (nor indeed was it possible

for any one to be more peaceable than he was,) was nevertheless a little

provoked. I was surprised, for I had never seen him so before: but he,

appealing to the recollection of Heraclitus, began to inquire of him

whether he had seen those works of Philo, or whether he had heard the

doctrines contained in them, either from Philo or from any one else of the

Academic school? And he said that he had not; however, he recognised the

style of Philo, nor, indeed, could there be any doubt about it; for some

friends of mine, men of great learning, Publius and Caius Setilius, and

Tetrilius Rogus were present, who said that they heard Philo advance such

operations at Rome; and who said that they had written out those two books

from his dictation. Then Antiochus repeated what Catulus mentioned

yesterday, as having been said to Philo by his father, and many other

things besides; nor did he forbear even to publish a book against his own

master, which is called “Sosus.”

I therefore, then, as I was much interested in hearing Heraclitus arguing

against Antiochus, and Antiochus against the Academicians, paid great

attention to Antiochus, in order to learn the whole matter from him.

Accordingly, for many days, collecting together Heraclitus and several

learned men, and among them Aristus, the brother of Antiochus, and also

Ariston and Dion, men whom he considered only second to his brother in

genius, we devoted a great deal of time to that single discussion.

But we must pass over that part of it which was bestowed on refuting the

doctrines of Philo; for he is a less formidable adversary, who altogether

denies that the Academicians advance those arguments which were maintained

yesterday. For although he is quite wrong as to the fact, still he is a

less invincible adversary. Let us speak of Arcesilas and Carneades.

V. And having said this, he began again:—You appear to me, in the first

place, (and he addressed me by name,) when you speak of the old natural

philosophers, to do the same thing that seditious citizens are in the

habit of doing when they bring forward some illustrious men of the

ancients, who they say were friends of the people, in the hope of being

themselves considered like them. They go back to Publius Valerius, who was

consul the first year after the expulsion of the kings. They enumerate all

the other men who have passed laws for the advantage of the people

concerning appeals when they were consuls; and then they come down to

these better known men, Caius Flaminius, who, as tribune of the people,

passed an Agrarian law some years before the second Punic war, against the

will of the senate, and who was afterwards twice elected consul; to Lucius

Cassius and Quintus Pompeius; they are also in the habit of classing

Publius Africanus in the same list; and they assert that those two

brothers of infinite wisdom and exceeding glory, Publius Crassus and

Publius Scævola, were the advisers of Tiberius Gracchus, in the matter of

the laws which he proposed; the one, indeed, as we see, openly; the other,

as we suspect, in a more concealed manner. They add also Caius Marius; and

with respect to him they speak truly enough: then, having recounted the

names of so many illustrious men, they say that they are acting up to

their principles.

In like manner, you, when you are seeking to overturn a well-established

system of philosophy, in the same way as those men endeavoured to overturn

the republic, bring forward the names of Empedocles, Anaxagoras,

Democritus, Parmenides, Xenophanes, and even Plato and Socrates. But

Saturninus, (that I may name my own enemy rather than any one else,) had

nothing in him resembling those ancient men; nor are the ungrounded

accusations of Arcesilas to be compared to the modesty of Democritus. And

yet those natural philosophers, though very seldom, when they have any

very great difficulty, make loud and violent outcries, as if under the

influence of some great excitement, Empedocles, indeed, does so to such a

degree, that he appears to me at times to be mad, crying out that all

things are hidden, that we feel nothing, see nothing, and cannot find out

the true character of anything whatever. But for the most part all those

men appear to me to affirm some things rather too positively, and to

profess that they know more than they really do know. But if they then

hesitated while discussing new subjects, like children lately born, are we

for that reason to think that nothing has been explained in so many ages

by the greatest genius and the most untiring industry? May we not say

that, after the establishment of some wise and important schools of

philosophy, then, as Tiberius Gracchus arose in an excellent constitution,

for the purpose of throwing everything into confusion, so Arcesilas rose

up to overturn the established philosophy, and to shelter himself under

the authority of those men who asserted that nothing could be known or

perceived; in which number we ought not to include Plato or Socrates; the

one because he left behind him a most perfect school, namely, the

Peripatetics and Academics, differing in name, but agreeing in all

substantial matters: and from whom the Stoics themselves differ in words

rather than in opinions. But Socrates, who always disparaged himself in

arguing, attributed more knowledge to those whom he wished to refute. So,

as he was speaking differently from what he really thought, he was fond of

using that kind of dissimulation which the Greeks call εἰρωνεία; which

Fannius says Africanus also was in the habit of indulging in, and that

that ought not be considered a bad habit in him, as it was a favourite

practice of Socrates.

VI. But, however, we will allow, if you like, that all those things were

unknown to the ancients:—was nothing effected then, by their being

thoroughly investigated, after that Arcesilas, disparaging Zeno, (for that

is supposed to have been his object,) as discovering nothing new, but only

correcting previous changes of names, while seeking to upset his

definitions, had attempted to envelop the clearest possible matters in

darkness? And his system, which was at first not at all approved of,

although it was illustrated both by acute genius and by an admirable

wittiness of language, was in the next generation adopted by no one but

Lacydes; but subsequently it was perfected by Carneades, who was the

fourth in succession from Arcesilas; for he was the pupil of Hegesinus,

who had been the pupil of Evander, the disciple of Lacydes, and Lacydes

himself had been the pupil of Arcesilas; but Carneades maintained it for a

long time, for he lived ninety years; and those who had been his pupils

had a very high reputation, of whom Clitomachus displayed the most

industry, as the number of books which he composed testifies; nor was

there less brilliancy of genius in him than there was of eloquence in

Charmadas, or of sweetness in Melanthius of Rhodes. But Metrodorus of

Stratonice was thought to be the one who had the most thorough

understanding of Carneades. And your friend Philo attended the lectures of

Clitomachus for many years; but as long as Philo was alive the Academy was

never in want of a head.

But the business that we now propose to ourselves, of arguing against the

Academicians, appears to some philosophers, and those, too, men of no

ordinary calibre, to be a thing that ought not to be done at all; and they

think that there is no sense at all in, and no method of disputing with

men who approve of nothing; and they blame Antipater, the Stoic, who was

very fond of doing so, and say that there is no need of laying down exact

definitions of what knowledge is, or perception, or, if we want to render

word for word, comprehension, which they call κατάληψις; and they say that

those who wish to persuade men that there is anything which can be

comprehended and perceived, are acting ignorantly; because there is

nothing clearer than ἐνάργεια, as the Greeks call it, and which we may

call perspicuity, or evidentness if you like,—coining words, if you will

permit us to do so, that this fellow (meaning me) may not think that he is

the only person to whom such liberties are permitted. Still they thought

that no discourse could be found which should be more intelligible than

evidentness itself; and they thought that there was no need of defining

things which were so clear.

But others declared that they would never be the first to speak in behalf

of this evidentness; but they thought that a reply ought to be made to

those arguments which were advanced against it, to prevent any one being

deceived by them. There are also many men who do not disapprove of the

definitions of the evident things themselves, and who think the subject

one worthy of being inquired into, and the men worthy of being argued

with.

But Philo, while he raises some new questions, because he was scarcely

able to withstand the things which were said against the obstinacy of the

Academicians, speaks falsely, without disguise, as he was reproached for

doing by the elder Catulus; and also, as Antiochus told him, falls into

the very trap of which he was afraid. For as he asserted that there was

nothing which could be comprehended, (for that is what we conceive to be

meant by ἀκατάληπτος,) if that was, as Zeno defined it, such a perception,

(for we have already spent time enough yesterday in beating out a word for

φαντασία,) then a perception was extracted and produced out of that from

which it originated, such as could be produced from that from which it did

not originate. And we say that this matter was most excellently defined by

Zeno; for how can anything be comprehended, so that you may feel

absolutely sure that it has been perceived and known, which is of such a

character that it is even possible that it may be false? Now when Philo

upsets and denies this, he takes away also all distinction between what is

known and unknown; from which it follows that nothing can be comprehended;

and so, without intending it, he is brought back to the point he least

intended. Wherefore, all this discourse against the Academy is undertaken

by us in order that we may retain that definition which Philo wished to

overturn; and unless we succeed in that, we grant that nothing can be

perceived.

VII. Let us begin then with the senses—the judgments of which are so clear

and certain, that if an option were given to our nature, and if some god

were to ask of it whether it is content with its own unimpaired and

uncorrupted senses, or whether it desires something better, I do not see

what more it could ask for. Nor while speaking on this topic need you wait

while I reply to the illustration drawn from a bent oar, or the neck of a

dove; for I am not a man to say that everything which seems is exactly of

that character of which it seems to be. Epicurus may deal with this idea,

and with many others; but in my opinion there is the very greatest truth

in the senses, if they are in sound and healthy order, and if everything

is removed which could impede or hinder them. Therefore we often wish the

light to be changed, or the situation of those things which we are looking

at; and we either narrow or enlarge distances; and we do many things until

our sight causes us to feel confidence in our judgment. And the same thing

takes place with respect to sounds, and smell, and taste, so that there is

not one of us who, in each one of his senses, requires a more acute

judgment as to each sort of thing.

But when practice and skill are added, so that one’s eyes are charmed by a

picture, and one’s ears by songs, who is there who can fail to see what

great power there is in the senses? How many things do painters see in

shadows and in projections which we do not see? How many beauties which

escape us in music are perceived by those who are practised in that kind

of accomplishment? men who, at the first note of the flute-player,

say,—That is the Antiope, or the Andromache, when we have not even a

suspicion of it. There is no need for me to speak of the faculties of

taste or smell; organs in which there is a degree of intelligence, however

faulty it may be. Why should I speak of touch, and of that kind of touch

which philosophers call the inner one, I mean the touch of pleasure or

pain? in which alone the Cyrenaics think that there is any judgment of the

truth, because pleasure or pain are felt. Can any one then say that there

is no difference between a man who is in pain and a man who is in

pleasure? or can any one think that a man who entertains this opinion is

not flagrantly mad?

But such as those things are which we say are perceived by the senses,

such also are those things which are said to be perceived, not by the

senses themselves, but by the senses after a fashion; as these things—that

is white, this is sweet, that is tuneful, this is fragrant, that is rough.

We have these ideas already comprehended by the mind, not by the senses.

Again, this is a house, that is a dog. Then the rest of the series

follows, connecting the more important links; such as these, which

embrace, as it were, the full comprehension of things;—If he is a man, he

is a mortal animal partaking of reason:—from which class of arguments the

notions of things are impressed upon us, without which nothing can be

understood, nor inquired into, nor discussed. But if those notions were

false, (for you seemed to me to translate ἔννοιαι _notions_,) if, I say,

they were false, or impressed, or perceptions of such a kind as not to be

able to be distinguished from false ones; then I should like to know how

we were to use them? and how we were to see what was consistent with each

thing and what was inconsistent with it? Certainly no room at all is here

left for memory, which of all qualities is the one that most completely

contains, not only philosophy, but the whole practice of life, and all the

arts. For what memory can there be of what is false? or what does any one

remember which he does not comprehend and hold in his mind? And what art

can there be except that which consists not of one, nor of two, but of

many perceptions of the mind? and if you take these away, how are you to

distinguish the artist from the ignorant man? For we must not say at

random that this man is an artist, and deny that that man is; but we must

only do so when we see that the one retains the things which he has

perceived and comprehended, and that the other does not. And as some arts

are of that kind that one can only see the fact in one’s mind, others such

that one can design and effect something, how can a geometrician perceive

those things which have no existence, or which cannot be distinguished

from what is false? or how can he who plays on the lyre complete his

rhythm, and finish verses? And the same will be the case with respect to

similar arts, whose whole work consists in acting and in effecting

something. For what is there that can be effected by art, unless the man

who exercises the art has many perceptions?

VIII. And most especially does the knowledge of virtues confirm the

assertion that many things can be perceived and comprehended. And in those

things alone do we say that science exists; which we consider to be not a

mere comprehension of things, but one that is firm and unchangeable; and

we consider it also to be wisdom, the art of living which, by itself,

derives consistency from itself. But if that consistency has no perception

or knowledge about it, then I ask whence it has originated and how? I ask

also, why that good man who has made up his mind to endure every kind of

torture, to be torn by intolerable pain, rather than to betray his duty or

his faith, has imposed on himself such bitter conditions, when he has

nothing comprehended, perceived, known, or established, to lead him to

think that he is bound to do so? It cannot, then, by any possibility be

the case that any one should estimate equity and good faith so highly as

to shrink from no punishment for the sake of preserving them, unless he

has assented to those facts which cannot be false. But as to wisdom

itself, if it be ignorant of its own character, and if it does not know

whether it be wisdom or not, in the first place, how is it to obtain its

name of wisdom? Secondly, how will it venture to undertake any exploit, or

to perform it with confidence, when it has nothing certain to follow? But

when it doubts what is the chief and highest good, being ignorant to what

everything is referred, how can it be wisdom?

And that also is manifest, that it is necessary that there should be laid

down in the first place a principle which wisdom may follow when it begins

to act; and that principle must be adapted to nature. For otherwise, the

desire, (for that is how I translate ὁρμὴ,) by which we are impelled to

act, and by which we desire what has been seen, cannot be set in motion.

But that which sets anything in motion must first be seen and trusted,

which cannot be the case if that which is seen cannot be distinguished

from what is false. But how can the mind be moved to desire anything, if

it cannot be perceived whether that which is seen is adapted to nature or

inconsistent with it?

And again, if it does not occur to a man’s mind what his duty is, he will

actually never do anything, he will never be excited to any action, he

will never be moved. But if he ever is about to do anything, then it is

necessary that that which occurs to him must appear to him to be true.

What! But if those things are true, is the whole of reason, which is, as

it were, the light and illumination of life, put an end to? And still will

you persist in that wrong-headedness? For it is reason which has brought

men the beginning of inquiry, which has perfected virtue, after reason

herself had been confirmed by inquiry. But inquiry is the desire of

knowledge; and the end of inquiry is discovery. But no one can discover

what is false; nor can those things which continue uncertain be

discovered. But when those things which have, as it were, been under a

veil, are laid open, then they are said to be discovered; and so reason

contains the beginning of inquiry, and the end of perceiving and

comprehending. Therefore the conclusion of an argument, which in Greek is

called ἀπόδειξις, is thus defined:—Reason, which leads one from facts

which are perceived, to that which was not perceived.

IX. But if all things which are seen were of that sort that those men say

they are, so that they either could possibly be false, or that no

discernment could distinguish whether they were false or not, then how

could we say that any one had either formed any conclusion, or discovered

anything? Or what trust could be placed in an argument when brought to a

conclusion? And what end will philosophy itself have, which is bound to

proceed according to reason? And what will become of wisdom? which ought

not to doubt about its own character, nor about its decrees, which

philosophers call δόγματα; none of which can be betrayed without

wickedness. For when a decree is betrayed, the law of truth and right is

betrayed too. From which fault betrayals of friendships and of republics

often originate. It cannot, therefore be doubted, that no rule of wisdom

can possibly be false; and it ought not to be enough for the wise man that

it is not false, but it ought also to be steady, durable, and lasting;

such as no arguments can shake. But none can either be, or appear such,

according to the principle of those men who deny that those perceptions in

which all rules originate are in any respect different from false ones;

and from this assertion arose the demand which was repeated by Hortensius,

that you would at least allow that the fact that nothing can be perceived

has been perceived by the wise man. But when Antipater made the same

demand, and argued that it was unavoidable that the man who affirmed that

nothing could be perceived should nevertheless admit that this one thing

could be perceived,—namely, that nothing else could,—Carneades resisted

him with great shrewdness. For he said that this admission was so far from

being consistent with the doctrine asserted, that it was above all others

incompatible with it: for that a man who denied that there was anything

which could be perceived excepted nothing. And so it followed of

necessity, that even that very thing which was not excepted, could not be

comprehended and perceived in any possible manner.

Antiochus, on this topic, seems to press his antagonist more closely. For

since the Academicians adopted that rule, (for you understand that I am

translating by this word what they call δόγμα,) that nothing can be

perceived, he urged that they ought not to waver in their rule as in other

matters, especially as the whole of their philosophy consisted in it: for

that the fixing of what is true and false, known and unknown, is the

supreme law of all philosophy. And since they adopted this principle, and

wished to teach what ought to be received by each individual, and what

rejected, undoubtedly, said he, they ought to perceive this very thing

from which the whole judgment of what is true and false arises. He urged,

in short, that there were these two principal objects in philosophy, the

knowledge of truth, and the attainment of the chief good; and that a man

could not be wise who was ignorant of either the beginning of knowledge,

or of the end of desire, so as not to know either where to start from, or

whither to seek to arrive at. But that to feel in doubt on these points,

and not to have such confidence respecting them as to be unable to be

shaken, is utterly incompatible with wisdom.

In this manner, therefore, it was more fitting to demand of them that they

should at least admit that this fact was perceived, namely, that nothing

could be perceived. But enough, I imagine, has been said of the

inconsistency of their whole opinion, if, indeed, you can say that a man

who approves of nothing has any opinion at all.

X. The next point for discussion is one which is copious enough, but

rather abstruse; for it touches in some points on natural philosophy, so

that I am afraid that I may be giving the man who will reply to me too

much liberty and licence. For what can I think that he will do about

abstruse and obscure matters, who seeks to deprive us of all light? But

one might argue with great refinement the question,—with how much

artificial skill, as it were, nature has made, first of all, every animal;

secondly, man most especially;—how great the power of the senses is; in

what manner things seen first affect us; then, how the desires, moved by

these things, followed; and, lastly, in what manner we direct our senses

to the perception of things. For the mind itself, which is the source of

the senses, and which itself is sense, has a natural power, which it

directs towards those things by which it is moved. Therefore it seizes on

other things which are seen in such a manner as to use them at once;

others it stores up; and from these memory arises: but all other things it

arranges by similitudes, from which notions of things are engendered;

which the Greeks call, at one time ἔννοιαι, and at another προλήψεις. And

when to this there is added reason and the conclusion of the argument, and

a multitude of countless circumstances, then the perception of all those

things is manifest, and the same reason, being made perfect by these

steps, arrives at wisdom.

As, therefore, the mind of man is admirably calculated for the science of

things and the consistency of life, it embraces knowledge most especially.

And it loves that κατάληψις, (which we, as I have said, will call

_comprehension_, translating the word literally,) for its own sake, (for

there is nothing more sweet than the light of truth,) and also because of

its use; on which account also it uses the senses, and creates arts, which

are, as it were, second senses; and it strengthens philosophy itself to

such a degree that it creates virtue, to which single thing all life is

subordinate. Therefore, those men who affirm that nothing can be

comprehended, take away by their assertion all these instruments or

ornaments of life; or rather, I should say, utterly overturn the whole of

life, and deprive the animal itself of mind (_animo_), so that it is

difficult to speak of their rashness as the merits of the case require.

Nor can I sufficiently make out what their ideas or intentions really are.

For sometimes, when we address them with this argument,—that if the

doctrines which we are upholding are not true, then everything must be

uncertain: they reply,—Well, what is that to us? is that our fault? blame

nature, who, as Democritus says, has buried truth deep in the bottom of

the sea.

But others defend themselves more elegantly, who complain also that we

accuse them of calling everything uncertain; and they endeavour to explain

how much difference there is between what is uncertain and what cannot be

perceived, and to make a distinction between them. Let us, then, now deal

with those who draw this distinction, and let us abandon, as incurable and

desperate, those who say that everything is as uncertain as whether the

number of the stars be odd or even. For they contend, (and I noticed that

you were especially moved by this,) that there is something probable, and,

as I may say, likely; and that they adopt that likelihood as a rule in

steering their course of life, and in making inquiries and conducting

discussions.

XI. But what rule can there be, if we have no notion whatever of true or

false, because it is impossible to distinguish one from the other? For, if

we have such a notion, then there must be a difference between what is

true and what is false, as there is between what is right and what is

wrong. If there is no difference, then there is no rule; nor can a man to

whom what is true and what is false appear under one common aspect, have

any means of judging of, or any mark at all by which he can know the

truth. For when they say, that they take away nothing but the idea of

anything being able to appear in such a manner that it cannot possibly

appear false in the same manner but that they admit everything else, they

are acting childishly. For though they have taken away that by which

everything is judged of, they deny that they take away the rest; just as

if a person were to deprive a man of his eyes, and then say that he has

not taken away from him those things which can be seen. For just as those

things are known by the eyes, so are the other things known by the

perceptions; but by a mark belonging peculiarly to truth, and not common

to what is true and false.

Wherefore, whether you bring forward a perception which is merely

probable, or one which is at once probable and free from all hindrance, as

Carneades contended, or anything else that you may follow, you will still

have to return to that perception of which we are treating. But in it, if

there be but one common characteristic of what is false and true, there

will be no judgment possible, because nothing peculiar can be noted in one

sign common to two things: but if there be no such community, then I have

got what I want; for I am seeking what appears to me to be so true, that

it cannot possibly appear false.

They are equally mistaken when, being convicted and overpowered by the

force of truth, they wish to distinguish between what is evident and what

is perceived, and endeavour to prove that there is something

evident,—being a truth impressed on the mind and intellect,—and yet that

it cannot be perceived and comprehended. For how can you say distinctly

that anything is white, when it may happen that that which is black may

appear white? Or how are we to call those things evident, or to say that

they are impressed faithfully on the mind, when it is uncertain whether it

is really moved or only in an illusory manner? And so there is neither

colour, nor body, nor truth, nor argument, nor sense, nor anything certain

left us. And, owing to this, it frequently happens that, whatever they

say, they are asked by some people,—Do you, then, perceive that? But they

who put this question to them are laughed at by them; for they do not

press them hard enough so as to prove that no one can insist upon any

point, or make any positive assertion, without some certain and peculiar

mark to distinguish that thing which each individual says that he is

persuaded of.

What, then, is this probability of yours? For if that which occurs to

every one, and which, at its first look, as it were, appears probable, is

asserted positively, what can be more trifling? But if your philosophers

say that they, after a certain degree of circumspection and careful

consideration, adopt what they have seen as such, still they will not be

able to escape from us. First of all, because credit is equally taken from

all these things which are seen, but between which there is no difference;

secondly, when they say that it can happen to a wise man, that after he

has done everything, and exercised the most diligent circumspection, there

may still be something which appears probable, and which yet is very far

removed from being true,—how can they then trust themselves, even if they

(to use their own expression) approach truth for the most part, or even if

they come as near to it as possible? For, in order to trust themselves,

the distinctive mark of truth ought to be thoroughly known to them; and if

that be obscure or concealed, what truth is there which they can seem to

themselves to arrive at? And what can be so absurd a thing to say as,—This

indeed is a sign of that thing, or a proof of it, and on that account I

follow it; but it is possible that that which is indicated may either be

false, or may actually have no existence at all?

XII. However, we have said enough about perception. For if any one wishes

to invalidate what has been said, truth will easily defend itself, even if

we are absent.

These things, then, which have now been explained, being sufficiently

understood, we will proceed to say a little on the subject of assent and

approbation, which the Greeks call συγκατάθεσις. Not that the subject

itself is not an extensive one, but because the foundations have been

already laid a little while ago. For when we were explaining what power

there was in the senses, this point was at the same time established, that

many things were comprehended and perceived by the senses, which is a

thing which cannot take place without assent. Secondly, as this is the

principal difference between an inanimate and an animated being, that the

inanimate being does nothing, but the animated one does something (for it

is impossible even to imagine what kind of animal that can be which does

nothing)—either sense must be taken from it, or else assent (which is

wholly in our own power) must be given. But mind is in some degree denied

to those beings whom they will not allow either to feel or to assent. For

as it is inevitable that one scale of a balance must be depressed when a

weight is put in it, so the mind, too, must yield to what is evident; for

just as it is impossible for any animal to forbear discerning what is

manifestly suited to its nature (the Greeks call that οἰκεῖον), so it is

equally impossible for it to withhold its assent to a manifest fact which

is brought under its notice.

Although, if those principles which we have been maintaining are true,

there is no advantage whatever in discussing assent. For he who perceives

anything, assents immediately. But these inferences also follow,—that

memory can have no existence without assent, no more can notions of things

or arts. And what is most important of all is, that, although some things

may be in our power, yet they will not be in the power of that man who

assents to nothing. Where, then, is virtue, if nothing depends on

ourselves? But it is above all things absurd that vices should be in the

power of the agents, and that no one should do wrong except by deliberate

consent to do so, and yet that this should not be the case with virtue;

all the consistency and firmness of which depends on the things to which

it has assented, and which it has approved. And altogether it is necessary

that something should be perceived before we act, and before we assent to

what is perceived; wherefore, he who denies the existence of perception or

assent, puts an end to all action in life.

XIII. Now let us examine the arguments which are commonly advanced by this

school in opposition to these principles. But, first of all, you have it

in your power to become acquainted with what I may call the foundations of

their system. They then, first of all, compound a sort of art of those

things which we call perceptions, and define their power and kinds; and at

the same time they explain what the character of that thing which can be

perceived and comprehended is, in the very same words as the Stoics. In

the next place, they explain those two principles, which contain, as it

were, the whole of this question; and which appear in such a manner that

even others may appear in the same, nor is there any difference between

them, so that it is impossible that some of them should be perceived, and

that others should not be perceived; but that it makes no difference, not

only if they are in every part of the same character, but even if they

cannot be distinguished.

And when these principles are laid down, then these men comprehend the

whole cause in the conclusion of one argument. But this conclusion, thus

compounded, runs in this way: “Of the things which are seen, some are true

and some are false; and what is false cannot be perceived, but that which

appears to be true is all of such a character that a thing of the same

sort may seem to be also false. And as to those things which are perceived

being of such a sort that there is no difference between them, it cannot

possibly happen that some of them can be perceived, and that others

cannot; there is, then, nothing seen which can really be perceived.”

But of the axioms which they assume, in order to draw the conclusions

which they desire, they think that two ought to be granted to them; for no

one objects to them. They are these: “That those perceptions which are

false, cannot really be perceived;” and the second is—“Of those

perceptions between which there is no difference, it is impossible that

some should be of such a character that they can be perceived, and others

of such a character that they cannot.”

But their other propositions they defend by numerous and varied arguments,

and they likewise are two in number. One is—“Of those things which appear,

some are true and others false;” the other is—“Every perception which

originates in the truth, is of such a character as it might be of, though

originating in what is false.” And these two propositions they do not pass

by, but they expand in such a manner as to show no slight degree of care

and diligence. For they divide them into parts, and those also large

parts; first of all into the senses, then into those things which are

derived from the senses, and from universal custom, the authority of which

they wish to invalidate. Then they come to the point of laying it down

that nothing can be perceived even by reason and conjecture. And these

universal propositions they cut up into more minute parts. For as in our

yesterday’s discussion you saw that they acted with respect to the senses,

so do they also act with respect to everything else. And in each separate

thing which they divide into the most minute parts, they wish to make out

that all these true perceptions have often false ones added to them, which

are in no respect different from the true ones; and that, as they are of

such a character, nothing can be comprehended.

XIV. Now all this subtlety I consider indeed thoroughly worthy of

philosophy, but still wholly unconnected with the case which they advocate

who argue thus. For definitions, and divisions, and a discourse which

employs these ornaments, and also similarities and dissimilarities, and

the subtle and fine-drawn distinctions between them, belong to men who are

confident that those arguments which they are upholding are true, and

firm, and certain; and not to men who assert loudly that those things are

no more true than false. For what would they do if, after they had defined

anything, some one were to ask them whether that definition could be

transferred to something else? If they said it could, then what reason

could they give why it should be a true definition? If they said no,—then

it must be confessed, since that definition of what is true cannot be

transferred to what is false, that that which is explained by that

definition can be perceived; which is the last thing they mean.

The same thing may be said on every article of the division. For if they

say that they see clearly the things about which they are arguing, and

they cannot be hindered by any similarity of appearance, then they will

confess that they are able to comprehend those things. But if they affirm

that true perceptions cannot be distinguished from false ones, how can

they go any further? For the same objections will be made to them which

have been made already; for an argument cannot be concluded, unless the

premises which are taken to deduce the conclusion from are so established

that nothing of the same kind can be false.

Therefore, if reason, relying on things comprehended and perceived, and

advancing in reliance on them, establishes the point that nothing can be

comprehended, what can be found which can be more inconsistent with

itself? And as the very nature of an accurate discourse professes that it

will develop something which is not apparent, and that, in order the more

easily to succeed in its object, it will employ the senses and those

things which are evident, what sort of discourse is that which is uttered

by those men who insist upon it that everything has not so much an

existence as a mere appearance?

But they are convicted most of all when they assume, as consistent with

each other, these two propositions which are so utterly incompatible:

first of all,—That there are some false perceptions;—and in asserting this

they declare also that there are some which are true: and secondly, they

add at the same time,—That there is no difference between true perceptions

and false ones. But you assumed the first proposition as if there were

some difference; and so the latter proposition is inconsistent with the

former, and the former with the latter.

But let us proceed further, and act so as in no respect to seem to be

flattering ourselves; and let us follow up what is said by them, in such a

manner as to allow nothing to be passed over.

In the first place, then, that evidentness which we have mentioned has

sufficiently great power of itself to point out to us the things which are

just as they are. But still, in order that we may remain with firmness and

constancy in our trust in what is evident, we have need of a greater

degree of either skill or diligence, in order not, by some sort of

juggling or trick, to be driven away from those things which are clear of

themselves. For Epicurus, who wished to remedy those errors, which seem to

perplex one’s knowledge of the truth, and who said that it was the duty of

a wise man to separate opinion from evident knowledge, did no good at all;

for he did not in the least remove the errors of opinion itself.

XV. Wherefore, as there are two causes which oppose what is manifest and

evident, it is necessary also to provide oneself with an equal number of

aids. For this is the first obstacle, that men do not sufficiently exert

and fix their minds upon those things which are evident, so as to be able

to understand how great the light is with which they are surrounded. The

second is, that some men, being deluded and deceived by fallacious and

captious interrogatories, when they cannot clear them up, abandon the

truth. It is right, therefore, for us to have those answers ready which

may be given in defence of the evidentness of a thing,—and we have already

spoken of them,—and to be armed, in order to be able to encounter the

questions of those people, and to scatter their captious objections to the

winds: and this is what I propose to do next.

I will, therefore, explain their arguments one by one; since even they

themselves are in the habit of speaking in a sufficiently lucid manner.

In the first place, they endeavour to show that many things can appear to

exist, which in reality have no existence; when minds are moved to no

purpose by things which do not exist, in the same manner as by things that

do. For when you say (say they) that some visions are sent by God, as

those, for instance, which are seen during sleep, and those also which are

revealed by oracles, and auspices, and the entrails of victims, (for they

say that the Stoics, against whom they are arguing, admit all these

things,) they ask how God can make those things probable which appear to

be false; and how it is that He cannot make those appear so which plainly

come as near as possible to truth? Or if He can likewise make those appear

probable, why He cannot make the others appear so too, which are only with

great difficulty distinguished from them? And if He can make these appear

so, then why He cannot also make those things appear so which are

absolutely different in no respect whatever?

In the next place, since the mind is moved by itself,—as those things

which we picture to ourselves in thought, and those which present

themselves to the sight of madmen or sleeping men declare,—is it not, say

they, probable that the mind is also moved in such a manner, that not only

it does not distinguish between the perceptions, as to whether they be

true or false, but that there really is no difference between them? As,

for instance, if any men of their own accord trembled and grew pale, on

account of some agitation of mind, or because some terrible object came

upon them from without, there would be no means of distinguishing one

trembling and paleness from the other, nor indeed would there be any

difference between the external and internal alarm which caused them.

Lastly, if no perceptions are probable which are false, then we must seek

for other principles; but if they are probable, then why may not one say

the same of such as are not easily distinguished from one another? Why not

also of such as have actually no difference at all between them?

Especially when you yourselves say that the wise man when enraged

withholds himself from all assent, because there is no distinction between

his perceptions which is visible to him.

XVI. Now on all these empty perceptions Antiochus brought forward a great

many arguments, and one whole day was occupied in the discussion of this

subject. But I do not think that I ought to adopt the same course, but

merely to give the heads of what he said.

And in the first place, they are blameable in this, that they use a most

captious kind of interrogation. And the system of adding or taking away,

step by step, minute items from a proposition, is a kind of argument very

little to be approved of in philosophy. They call it sorites,(11) when

they make up a heap by adding grain after grain; a very vicious and

captious style of arguing. For you mount up in this way:—If a vision is

brought by God before a man asleep of such a nature as to be probable

(_probabile_), why may not one also be brought of such a nature as to be

very like truth (_verisimile_)? If so, then why may not one be brought

which can hardly be distinguished from truth? If so, then why may there

not be one which cannot be distinguished at all? If so, then why may there

not be such that there is actually no difference between them?—If you come

to this point because I have granted you all the previous propositions, it

will be my fault; but if you advance thither of your own accord, it will

be yours. For who will grant to you either that God can do everything, or

that even if He could He would act in that manner? And how do you assume

that if one thing may be like another, it follows that it may also be

difficult to distinguish between them? And then, that one cannot

distinguish between them at all? And lastly, that they are identical? So

that if wolves are like dogs, you will come at last to asserting that they

are the same animals. And indeed there are some things not honourable,

which are like things that are honourable; some things not good, like

those that are good; some things proceeding on no system, like others

which are regulated by system. Why then do we hesitate to affirm that

there is no difference between all these things? Do we not even see that

they are inconsistent? For there is nothing that can be transferred from

its own genus to another. But if such a conclusion did follow, as that

there was no difference between perceptions of different genera, but that

some could be found which were both in their own genus and in one which

did not belong to them, how could that be possible?

There is then one means of getting rid of all unreal perceptions, whether

they be formed in the ideas, which we grant to be usually the case, or

whether they be owing to idleness, or to wine, or to madness. For we say

that clearness, which we ought to hold with the greatest tenacity, is

absent from all visions of that kind. For who is there who, when he

imagines something and pictures it to himself in his thoughts, does not,

as soon as he has stirred up himself, and recovered himself, feel how much

difference there is between what is evident and what is unreal? The case

of dreams is the same. Do you think that Ennius, when he had been walking

in his garden with Sergius Galba, his neighbour, said to himself,—I have

seemed to myself to be walking with Galba? But when he had a dream, he

related it in this way,—

The poet Homer seem’d to stand before me.

And again in his Epicharmus he says—

For I seem’d to be dreaming, and laid in the tomb.

Therefore, as soon as we are awakened, we despise those things which we

have seen, and do not regard them as we do the things which we have done

in the forum.

XVII. But while these visions are being beheld, they assume the same

appearance as those things which we see while awake. There is a good deal

of real difference between them; but we may pass over that. For what we

assert is, that there is not the same power or soundness in people when

asleep that there is in them while waking, either in intellect or in

sensation. What even drunken men do, they do not do with the same

deliberate approbation as sober men. They doubt, they hesitate, they check

themselves at times, and give but a feeble assent to what they see or

agree too. And when they have slept off their drunkenness, then they

understand how unreal their perceptions were. And the same thing is the

case with madmen; that when their madness is beginning, they both feel and

say that something appears to them to exist that has no real existence.

And when their frenzy abates, they feel and speak like Alcmæon;—

But now my heart does not agree

With that which with my eyes I see.

But even in madness the wise man puts restraint upon himself, so far as

not to approve of what is false as if it were true. And he does so often

at other times, if there is by chance any heaviness or slowness in his

senses, or if those things which are seen by him are rather obscure, or if

he is prevented from thoroughly examining them by the shortness of the

time. Although the whole of this fact, that the wise man sometimes

suspends his assent, makes against you. For if there were no difference

between his perceptions, he would either suspend it always or never.

But from the whole character of this discussion we may see the worthless

nature of the argument of those men who wish to throw everything into

confusion. We want judgment, marked with gravity, consistency, firmness,

and wisdom: and we use the examples of men dreaming, mad, or drunk. I

press this point, that in all this discussion we are speaking with great

inconsistency. For we should not bring forward men sunk in wine or sleep,

or deprived of sense, in such an absurd manner as at one time to say there

is a difference between the perceptions of men awake and sober and

sensible, and those of men in a different condition, and at other times

that there was no difference at all.

They do not even perceive that by this kind of argument they are making

out everything to be uncertain, which they do not wish to do. I call that

uncertain which the Greeks call ἄδηλον. For if the fact be that there is

no difference between the appearance that a thing presents to a madman and

to a person in his senses, then who can feel quite sure of his own sanity?

And to wish to produce such an effect as that is a proof of no ordinary

madness. But they follow up in a childish manner the likenesses of twins,

or of impressions of rings. For who of us denies that there are such

things as likenesses, when they are visible in numbers of things? But if

the fact of many things being like many other things is sufficient to take

away knowledge, why are you not content with that, especially as we admit

it? And why do you rather insist upon that assertion which the nature of

things will not suffer, that everything is not in its own kind of that

character of which it really is? and that there is a conformity without

any difference whatever in two or more things; so that eggs are entirely

like eggs, and bees like bees? What then are you contending for? or what

do you seek to gain by talking about twins? For it is granted that they

are alike; and you might be content with that. But you try to make them

out to be actually the same, and not merely alike; and that is quite

impossible.

Then you have recourse to those natural philosophers who are so greatly

ridiculed in the Academy, but whom you will not even now desist from

quoting. And you tell us that Democritus says that there are a countless

number of worlds, and that there are some which are not only so like one

another, but so completely and absolutely equal in every point, that there

is no difference whatever between them, and that they are quite

innumerable; and so also are men. Then you require that, if the world be

so entirely equal to another world that there is absolutely not the

slightest difference between them, we should grant to you that in this

world of ours also there must be something exactly equal to something

else, so that there is no difference whatever or distinction between them.

For why, you will say, since there not only can be, but actually are

innumerable Quinti Lutatii Catuli formed out of those atoms, from which

Democritus affirms that everything is produced, in all the other worlds,

which are likewise innumerable,—why may not there be a second Catulus

formed in this identical world of ours, since it is of such a size as we

see it?

XVIII. First of all I reply, that you are bringing me to the arguments of

Democritus, with whom I do not agree. And I will the more readily refute

them, on account of that doctrine which is laid down very clearly by the

more refined natural philosophers, that everything has its own separate

property. For grant that those ancient Servilii who were twins were as

much alike as they are said to have been, do you think that that would

have made them the same? They were not distinguished from one another out

of doors, but they were at home. They were not distinguished from one

another by strangers, but they were by their own family. Do we not see

that this is frequently the case, that those people whom we should never

have expected to be able to know from one another, we do by practice

distinguish so easily that they do not appear to be even in the least

alike?

Here, however, you may struggle; I will not oppose you. Moreover, I will

grant that that very wise man who is the subject of all this discussion,

when things like one another come under his notice, in which he has not

remarked any special character, will withhold his assent, and will never

agree to any perception which is not of such a character as a false

perception can never assume. But with respect to all other things he has a

certain art by which he can distinguish what is true from what is false;

and with respect to those similitudes he must apply the test of

experience. As a mother distinguishes between twins by the constant

practice of her eyes, so you too will distinguish when you have become

accustomed to it. Do you not see that it has become a perfect proverb that

one egg is like another? and yet we are told that at Delos (when it was a

flourishing island) there were many people who used to keep large numbers

of hens for the sake of profit; and that they, when they had looked upon

an egg, could tell which hen had laid it. Nor does that fact make against

our argument; for it is sufficient for us to be able to distinguish

between the eggs. For it is impossible for one to assent to the

proposition that this thing is that thing more, than by admitting that

there is actually no difference at all between the two. For I have laid it

down as a rule, to consider all perceptions true which are of such a

character as those which are false cannot be. And from this I may not

depart one finger’s breadth, as they say, lest I should throw everything

into confusion. For not only the knowledge of what is true and false, but

their whole nature too, will be destroyed if there is no difference

between one and the other. And that must be very absurd which you

sometimes are in the habit of saying, when perceptions are imprinted on

the mind, that what you say is, not that there is no difference between

the impressions, but only that there is none between certain appearances

and forms which they assume. As if perceptions were not judged of by their

appearance, which can deserve or obtain no credit if the mark by which we

are to distinguish truth from falsehood be taken away.

But that is a monstrous absurdity of yours, when you say that you follow

what is probable when you are not hindered by anything from doing so. In

the first place, how can you avoid being hindered, when what is false does

not differ from what is true? Secondly, what judgment can be formed of

what is true, when what is true is undistinguishable from what is false?

From these facts there springs unavoidably ἐποχὴ, that is to say, a

suspension of assent: for which Arcesilas is more consistent, if at least

the opinions which some people entertain of Carneades are correct. For if

nothing can be perceived, as they both agree in thinking, then all assent

is taken away. For what is so childish as to talk of approving of what is

not known? But even yesterday we heard that Carneades was in the habit, at

times, of descending to say that a wise man would be guided by opinion,

that is to say, would do wrong. To me, indeed, it is not so certain that

there is anything which can be comprehended, a question which I have now

spent too much time in discussing, as that a wise man is never guided by

opinion, that is to say, never assents to anything which is either false

or unknown.

There remains this other statement of theirs, that for the sake of

discovering the truth, one ought to speak against every side, and in

favour of every side. I wish then to see what they have discovered. We are

not in the habit, says he, of showing that. What then is the object of all

this mystery? or why do you conceal your opinion as something

discreditable? In order, says he, that those who hear us may be influenced

by reason rather than led by authority. What if they are influenced by

both? would there be any harm in that? However, they do not conceal one of

their theories, namely, that there is nothing which can be conceived. Is

authority no hindrance to entertaining this opinion? It seems to me to be

a great one. For who would ever have embraced so openly and undisguisedly

such perverse and false principles, if there had not been such great

richness of ideas and power of eloquence in Arcesilas, and, in a still

greater degree, in Carneades?

XIX. These are nearly the arguments which Antiochus used to urge at

Alexandria, and many years afterwards, with much more positiveness too, in

Syria, when he was there with me, a little before he died. But, as my case

is now established, I will not hesitate to warn you, as you are my dearest

friend, (he was addressing me,) and one a good deal younger than myself.

Will you, then, after having extolled philosophy with such panegyrics, and

provoked our friend Hortensius, who disagrees with us, now follow that

philosophy which confounds what is true with what is false, deprives us of

all judgment, strips us of the power of approval, and robs us of all our

senses? Even the Cimmerians, to whom some god, or nature, or the foulness

of the country that they inhabited, had denied the light of the sun, had

still some fires which they were permitted to avail themselves of as if

they were light. But those men whom you approve of, after having enveloped

us in such darkness, have not left us a single spark to enable us to look

around by. And if we follow them, we become bound with such chains that we

cannot move. For when assent is taken away, they take away at the same

time all motion of our minds, and all our power of action; which not only

cannot be done rightly, but which cannot possibly be done at all. Beware,

also, lest you become the only person who is not allowed to uphold that

opinion. Will you, when you have explained the most secret matters and

brought them to light, and said on your oath that you have discovered

them, (which, indeed, I could swear to also, since I learnt them from

you,)—will you, I say, assert that there is nothing which can be known,

comprehended, or perceived? Beware, I entreat you, lest the authority of

those most beautiful actions be diminished by your own conduct.

And having said this he stopped. But Hortensius, admiring all he said very

greatly, (so much, indeed, that all the time that Lucullus was speaking he

kept lifting up his hands; and it was no wonder, for I do not believe that

an argument had ever been conducted against the Academy with more

acuteness,) began to exhort me, either jestingly or seriously, (for that

was a point that I was not quite sure about,) to abandon my opinions.

Then, said Catulus, if the discourse of Lucullus has had such influence

over you,—and it has been a wonderful exhibition of memory, accuracy, and

ingenuity,—I have nothing to say; nor do I think it my duty to try and

deter you from changing opinion if you choose. But I should not think it

well for you to be influenced merely by his authority. For he was all but

warning you, said he, jestingly, to take care that no worthless tribune of

the people, of whom you know what a number there will always be, seize

upon you, and ask of you in the public assembly how you are consistent

with yourself, when at one time you assert that nothing certain can be

discovered, and at another time affirm that you yourself have discovered

something. I entreat you, do not let him terrify you. But I would rather

have you disagree with him on the merits of the case itself. But if you

give in to him, I shall not be greatly surprised; for I recollect that

Antiochus himself, after he had entertained such opinions for many years,

abandoned them as soon as he thought it desirable. When Catulus had said

this, they all began to fix their eyes on me.

XX. Then I, being no less agitated than I usually am when pleading

important causes, began to speak something after this fashion:—

The discourse of Lucullus, O Catulus, on the matter itself, moved me a

good deal, being the discourse of a learned and ingenious and quick-witted

man, and of one who passes over nothing which can be said for his side;

but still I am not afraid but that I may be able to answer him. But no

doubt such authority as his would have influenced me a good deal, if you

had not opposed your own to it, which is of equal weight. I will

endeavour, therefore, to reply to him after I have said a few words in

defence of my own reputation, as it were.

If it is by any desire of display, or any zeal for contentious disputes,

that I have been chiefly led to rank myself as an adherent of this school

of philosophy, I should think not only my folly, but also my disposition

and nature deserving of severe censure; for if obstinacy is found fault

with in the most trifling matters, and if also calumny is repressed,

should I choose to contend with others in a quarrelsome manner about the

general condition and conduct of my whole life, or to deceive others and

also my own self? Therefore, if I did not think it foolish in such a

discussion to do what, when one is discussing affairs of state, is

sometimes done, I would swear by Jupiter and my household gods, that I am

inflamed with a desire of discovering the truth, and that I do truly feel

what I say. For how can I avoid wishing to discover the truth, when I

rejoice if I have discovered anything resembling the truth? But although I

consider to see the truth a most beautiful thing, so also do I think it a

most disgraceful one to approve of what is false as if it were true. Not,

indeed, that I am myself a man who never approve of anything false, who

never give assent to any such thing, and am never guided by opinion; but

we are speaking of a wise man. But I myself am very apt to adopt opinions,

for I am not a wise man, and I direct my thoughts, steering not to that

little Cynosura,

The nightly star, which shining not in vain,

Guides the Phœnician sailor o’er the main,

as Aratus says;—and those mariners steer in a more direct course because

they keep looking at the constellation,

Which in its inner course and orbit brief

Surely revolves;—

but looking rather towards Helice, and the bright north star, that is to

say, to these reasons of a more expansive kind, not polished away to a

point; and therefore I roam and wander about in a freer course. However,

the question, as I said just now, is not about myself, but about a wise

man. For when these perceptions have made a violent impression on the

intellect and senses, I admit them, and sometimes I even assent to them,

but still I do not perceive them: for I do not think that anything can be

perceived. I am not a wise man, therefore I submit to perceptions and

cannot resist them: but Arcesilas, being on this point in agreement with

Zeno, thinks that this is the most important part of the power of a wise

man, that he can guard against being entangled, and provide against being

deceived. For there is nothing more incompatible with the idea which we

have of the gravity of a wise man than error, levity, and temerity. Why,

then, need I speak of the firmness of a wise man? whom even you too,

Lucullus, admit to be never guided by mere opinion. And since this is

sanctioned by you, (if I am dealing irregularly with you at this moment, I

will soon return to the proper order of your arguments,) just consider

what force this first conclusion has.

XXI. If the wise man ever assents to anything, he will likewise sometimes

form opinions: but he never will form opinions: therefore he will never

assent to anything. This conclusion was approved of by Arcesilas, for it

confirmed both his first and second proposition. But Carneades sometimes

granted that minor premiss, that the wise man did at times assent: then it

followed that he also was at times guided by opinion; which you will not

allow; and you are right, as it seems to me: but the first proposition,

that the wise man, if he expresses assent, must also be guided by opinion,

is denied by the Stoics and their follower on this point, Antiochus.

For they say that they can distinguish what is false from what is true,

and what cannot be perceived from what can. But, in the first place, even

if anything can be perceived, still the very custom of expressing assent

appears to us to be perilous and unsure. Wherefore, as it is plain that is

so faulty a proceeding, to assent to anything that is either false or

unknown, all assent must rather be removed, lest it should rush on into

difficulties if it proceeds rashly. For what is false is so much akin to

what is true, and the things which cannot be perceived to those which can,

(if, indeed, there are any such, for we shall examine that point

presently,) that a wise man ought not to trust himself in such a hazardous

position.

But if I assume that there is actually nothing which can be perceived, and

if I also take what you grant me, that a wise man is never guided by

opinion, then the consequence will be that the wise man will restrain all

assent on his part; so that you must consider whether you would rather

have it so, or let the wise man sometimes form opinions. You do not

approve of either, you will say. Let us, then, endeavour to prove that

nothing can be perceived; for that is what the whole controversy turns

upon.

XXII. But first I must say a few words to Antiochus; who under Philo

learnt this very doctrine which I am now defending, for such a length of

time, that it is certain that no one was ever longer studying it; and who

wrote on these subjects with the greatest acuteness, and who yet attacked

it in his old age with no less energy than he had defended it in his

youth. Although therefore he may have been a shrewd arguer, as indeed he

was, still his authority is diminished by his inconsistency. For what day,

I should like to know, will ever dawn, which shall reveal to him that

distinctive characteristic of what is true and what is false, of which for

so many years he denied the existence? Has he devised anything new? He

says the same that the Stoics say. Does he repent of having held such an

opinion? Why did he not cross over to some other school, and especially to

the Stoics? for this disagreement with the Academy was peculiarly theirs.

What? did he repent of Mnesarchus or Dardanus, who at that time were the

chiefs of the Stoics at Athens? He never deserted Philo till after the

time when he himself began to have pupils.

But from whence was the Old Academy on a sudden recalled? He appears to

have wished to preserve the dignity of the name, after he had given up the

reality; which however some people said, that he did from a view to his

own glory, and that he even hoped that those who followed him might be

called Antiochians. But to me it seems, that he could not stand that

concourse of all the philosophers. In truth, there are among them all,

some common principles on the other points; but this doctrine is peculiar

to the Academicians, and not one of the other philosophers approves of it.

Therefore, he quitted it; and, like those men who, where the new shops

stand, cannot bear the sun, so he, when he was hot, took refuge under the

shade of the Old Academicians, as those men do under the shade of the old

shops near the pillar of Mænius. There was also an argument which he was

in the habit of employing, when he used to maintain that nothing could be

perceived; namely, asking whether Dionysius of Heraclea had comprehended

the doctrine which he had espoused for many years, because he was guided

by that certain characteristic, and whether he believed the doctrine of

his master Zeno, that whatever was honourable was the only good; or,

whether he adopted the assertion which he defended subsequently, that the

name of honourableness is a mere phantom, and that pleasure is the chief

good: for from this change of opinion on his part he wished to prove, that

nothing can be so stamped on our minds by the truth, that it cannot also

be impressed on them in the same manner by falsehood; and so he took care

that others should derive from his own conduct the same argument which he

himself had derived from Dionysius.

XXIII. But we will argue this point more at length another time; at

present we will turn what has been said, Lucullus, to you. And in the

first place, let us examine the assertion which you made at the beginning,

and see what sort of assertion it is; namely, that we spoke of the ancient

philosophers in a manner similar to that in which seditious men were in

the habit of speaking of illustrious men, who were however friends of the

people. These men do not indeed pursue good objects, but still wish to be

considered to resemble good men; but we say that we hold those opinions,

which you yourselves confess to have been entertained by the most

illustrious philosophers. Anaxagoras said, that snow was black: would you

endure me if I were to say the same? You would not bear even for me to

express a doubt on the subject. But who is this man? is he a Sophist? for

by that name were those men called, who used to philosophize for the sake

of display or of profit. The glory of the gravity and genius of that man

was great. Why should I speak of Democritus? Who is there whom we can

compare with him for the greatness, not merely of his genius, but also of

his spirit? a man who dared to begin thus: “I am going to speak of

everything.” He excepts nothing, so as not to profess a knowledge of it.

For indeed, what could there possibly be beyond everything? Who can avoid

placing this philosopher before Cleanthes, or Chrysippus, or all the rest

of his successors? men who, when compared with him, appear to me to be in

the fifth class.

But he does not say this, which we, who do not deny that there is some

truth, declare cannot be perceived: he absolutely denies that there is any

truth. He says that the senses are not merely dim, but utterly dark; for

that is what Metrodorus of Chios, who was one of his greatest admirers,

says of them, at the beginning of his book on Nature. “I deny,” says he,

“that we know whether we know anything or whether we know nothing; I say

that we do not even know what is ignorance and knowledge; and that we have

no knowledge whether anything exists or whether nothing does.”

Empedocles appears to you to be mad; but to me he seems to utter words

very worthy of the subjects of which he speaks. Does he then blind us, or

deprive us of our senses, if he thinks that there is but little power in

them to judge of those things which are brought under their notice?

Parmenides and Xenophanes blame, as if they were angry with them, though

in no very poetical verses, the arrogance of those people who, though

nothing can be known, venture to say that they know something. And you

said that Socrates and Plato were distinct from these men. Why so? Are

there any men of whom we can speak more certainly? I indeed seem to myself

to have lived with these men; so many of their discourses have been

reported, from which one cannot possibly doubt that Socrates thought that

nothing could be known. He excepted one thing only, asserting that he did

know that he knew nothing; but he made no other exception. What shall I

say of Plato? who certainly would never have followed up these doctrines

in so many books if he had not approved of them; for there was no object

in going on with the irony of the other, especially when it was so

unceasing.

XXIV. Do I not seem to you, not, like Saturninus, to be content with

naming illustrious men, but also sometimes even to imitate them, though

never unless they are really eminent and noble? And I might have opposed

to you men who are annoying to you, but yet disputants of great accuracy;

Stilpo, Diodorus, and Alexinus: men who indulged in far-fetched and

pointed sophisms; for that was the name given usually to fallacious

conclusions. But why need I enumerate them, when I have Chrysippus, who is

considered to be the great support of the portico of the Stoics? How many

of the arguments against the senses, how many against everything which is

approved by ordinary practice, did he not refute! It is true that I do not

think very much of his refutations; but still, let us grant that he did

refute them. Certainly he would never have collected so many arguments to

deceive us with their excessive probability, unless he saw that it was not

easily possible to resist them.

What do you think of the Cyrenaic School? philosophers far from

contemptible, who affirm that there is nothing which can be perceived

externally; and that they perceive those things alone which they feel by

their inmost touch, such as pain, or pleasure. And that they do not know

what colour anything is of, or what sound it utters; but only feel that

they themselves are affected in a certain manner.

We have said enough about authors: although you had asked me whether I did

not think that since the time of those ancient philosophers, in so many

ages, the truth might have been discovered, when so many men of genius and

diligence were looking for it? What was discovered we will consider

presently, and you yourself shall be the judge. But it is easily seen that

Arcesilas did not contend with Zeno for the sake of disparaging him; but

that he wished to discover the truth. No one, I say, of preceding

philosophers had said positively, no one had even hinted that it was

possible for man never to form opinions: and that for a wise man it was

not only possible, but indispensable. The opinion of Arcesilas appeared

not only true, but honourable and worthy of a wise man.

Perhaps he asked of Zeno what would happen if a wise man could not

possibly perceive anything, and if to form mere opinion was unworthy of a

wise man? He answered, I suppose, that the wise man never would form mere

opinion, since there were things which admitted of being perceived. What

then were they? Perceptions, I suppose. What sort of perceptions then? In

reply to this he gave a definition, That it was such as is impressed and

stamped upon and figured in us, according to and conformably to something

which exists. Afterwards the question was asked, whether, if such a

perception was true, it was of the same character as one that was false?

Here Zeno saw clearly enough that there was no perception that could be

perceived at all, if the perception derived from that which is, could

possibly resemble that which is derived from that which is not.

Arcesilas was quite right in admitting this. An addition was made to the

definition; namely, That nothing false could be perceived; nor anything

true either, if it was of such a character as that which was false. But he

applied himself diligently to these discussions, in order to prove that no

perception originated in what was true of such a kind that there might not

be a similar one originating in what was false. And this is the one

subject of controversy which has lasted to this day. For the other

doctrine, that the wise man would never assent to anything, had nothing to

do with this question. For it was quite possible for a man to perceive

nothing, and nevertheless to be guided at times by opinion; which is said

to have been admitted by Carneades. I, indeed, trusting rather to

Clitomachus than to Philo or Metrodorus, believe that he argued this point

rather than that he admitted it.

XXV. However, let us say no more about this. Undoubtedly, when opinion and

perception are put an end to, the retention of every kind of assent must

follow; as, if I prove that nothing can be perceived, you would then grant

that a philosopher would never assent to anything. What is there then that

can be perceived, if even the senses do not warn us of the truth? But you,

O Lucullus, defend them by a common topic; and to prevent you from being

able to do so it was, that I yesterday, when it was not otherwise

necessary, said so much against the senses. But you say that you are not

at all moved by “the broken oar” or “the dove’s neck.” In the first place,

I will ask why?—for in the case of the oar, I feel that that which appears

to be the case, is not really so; and that in the dove’s neck there appear

to be many colours, but are not in reality more than one. Have we, then,

said nothing more than this? Let all our arguments stand: that man is

tearing his cause to pieces; he says that his senses are voracious.

Therefore you have always one backer who will plead the cause at his own

risk: for Epicurus brings the matter down to this point, that if once in a

man’s life one of his senses has decided wrongly, none of them is ever to

be trusted. This is what he calls being true, and confiding in his own

witnesses, and urging his proofs to their just conclusion; therefore

Timagoras the Epicurean declares, that when he had twisted his eye with

his hand, he had never seen two flames appear out of one candle: for that

the error was one of opinion, and not one of his eyes; just as if the

question were what the fact is, and not what it appears to be. However, he

is just like his predecessors. But as for you, who say that of the things

perceived by your senses, some are true and some false, how do you

distinguish between them? Cease, I beg of you, to employ common topics: we

have plenty of them at home.

If any god were to ask you, while your senses are sound and unimpaired,

whether you desire anything further, what would you answer? I wish,

indeed, he would ask me! You should hear how ill he treats us: for how far

are we to look in order to see the truth? I can see the Cumæan villa of

Catulus from this place, but not his villa near Pompeii; not that there is

any obstacle interposed, but my eyesight cannot extend so far. What a

superb view! We see Puteoli, but we do not see our friend Avianus, though

he may perhaps be walking in the portico of Neptune; there was, however,

some one or other who is often spoken of in the Schools who could see

things that were a thousand and eighty furlongs off; and some birds can

see further still. I should therefore answer your god boldly, that I am

not at all contented with these eyes of mine. He will tell me, perhaps,

that I can see better than some fishes; which are not seen by us, and

which even now are beneath our eyes, and yet they cannot look up far

enough to see us: therefore, as water is shed around them, so a dense air

is around us. But we desire nothing better. What? do you suppose that a

mole longs for light?—nor would he complain to the god that he could not

see far, but rather that he saw incorrectly. Do you see that ship? It

appears to us to be standing still; but to those who are in that ship,

this villa appears to be moving. Seek for the reason why it seems so, and

if you discover it ever so much, and I do not know whether you may not be

able to, still you will have proved, not that you have a trustworthy

witness, but that he has not given false evidence without sufficient

reason.

XXVI. What need had I to speak of the ship? for I saw that what I said

about the oar was despised by you; perhaps you expect something more

serious. What can be greater than the sun, which the mathematicians affirm

to be more than eighteen times as large as the earth? How little does it

appear to us! To me, indeed, it seems about a foot in diameter; but

Epicurus thinks it possible that it may be even less than it seems, but

not much; nor does he think that it is much greater, but that it is very

near the size it seems to be: so that our eyes are either quite correct,

or, at all events, not very incorrect. What becomes then of the exception,

“If once...?” However, let us leave this credulous man, who does not

believe that the senses are ever wrong,—not even now, when that sun, which

is borne along with such rapidity that it is impossible even to conceive

how great its velocity is, nevertheless seems to us to be standing still.

However, to abridge the controversy, consider, I pray you, within what

narrow bounds you are confined. There are four principles which conduct

you to the conclusion that there is nothing which can be known, or

perceived, or comprehended;—and it is about this that the whole dispute

is. The first principle is, that some perceptions are false; the second,

that such cannot be perceived; the third, that of perceptions between

which there is no difference, it is not possible that some of them can be

perceived and that others cannot; the fourth, that there is no true

perception proceeding from the senses, to which there is not some other

perception opposed which in no respect differs from it, and which cannot

be perceived. Now of these four principles, the second and third are

admitted by every one. Epicurus does not admit the first, but you, with

whom we are now arguing, admit that one too,—the whole contest is about

the fourth.

The man, then, who saw Publius Servilius Geminus, if he thought that he

saw Quintus, fell into a perception of that kind that could not be

perceived; because what was true was distinguished by no characteristic

mark from what was false: and if this distinctive mark were taken away,

what characteristic of the same kind could he have by which to recognise

Caius Cotta, who was twice consul with Geminus, which could not possibly

be false? You say that such a likeness as that is not in the nature of

things. You fight the question vigorously, but you are fighting a

peaceably disposed adversary. Grant, then, that it is not; at all events,

it is possible that it should seem to be so; therefore it will deceive the

senses. And if one likeness deceives them, it will have made everything

doubtful; for when that judgment is once taken away by which alone things

can be known, then, even if the person whom you see, be really the person

whom he appears to you to be, still you will not judge by that

characteristic which you say you ought, being of such a character that one

of the same kind cannot be false. If, therefore, it is possible that

Publius Geminus may appear to you to be Quintus, what certainty have you

that he may not appear to you to be Cotta though he is not, since some

things do appear to you to be what they are not? You say that everything

has its own peculiar genus; that there is nothing the same as something

else. That is a stoic doctrine, and one not very credible, for they say

that there is not a single hair or a single grain in every respect like

another hair or grain. These things could all be refuted, but I do not

wish to be contentious; for it has nothing in the world to do with the

question whether the things which are seen do not differ at all in any

part, or whether they cannot be distinguished from another even though

they do differ. But, granting that there cannot be such a likeness between

men, can there not be such between statues? Tell me, could not Lysippus,

using the same brass, the same composition of metals, the same atmosphere,

water, and all other appliances, have made a hundred Alexanders exactly

alike? How then could you distinguish between them? Again; if I, with this

ring, make a hundred impressions on the same piece of wax, is it possible

that there should be any difference to enable you to distinguish one from

the other?—or, shall you have to seek out some ring engraver, since you

have already found us a Delian poulterer who could recognise his eggs?

XXVII. But you have recourse to art, which you call in to the aid of the

senses. A painter sees what we do not see; and as soon as a flute-player

plays a note the air is recognised by a musician. Well? Does not this

argument seem to tell against you, if, without great skill, such as very

few persons of our class attain to, we can neither see nor hear? Then you

give an excellent description of the skill with which nature has

manufactured our senses, and intellect, and the whole construction of man,

in order to prevent my being alarmed at rashness of opinions. Can you

also, Lucullus, affirm that there is any power united with wisdom and

prudence which has made, or, to use your own expression, manufactured man?

What sort of a manufacture is that? Where is it exercised? when? why? how?

These points are all handled ingeniously, they are discussed even

elegantly. Let it be said even that they appear likely; only let them not

be affirmed positively. But we will discuss natural philosophy hereafter,

and, indeed, we will do so that you, who said a little while ago that I

should speak of it, may appear not to have spoken falsely.

However, to come to what is clearer, I shall now bring forward general

facts on which whole volumes have been filled, not only by those of our

own School, but also by Chrysippus. But the Stoics complain of him, that,

while he studiously collected every argument which could be brought

forward against the senses and clearness, and against all custom, and

against reason, when he came to reply to himself, he was inferior to what

he had been at first; and therefore that, in fact, he put arms into the

hands of Carneades. Those arguments are such as have been ingeniously

handled by you. You said that the perceptions of men asleep, or drunk, or

mad, were less vigorous than those of men awake, sober, and sane. How do

you prove that? because, when Ennius had awakened, he would not say that

he had seen Homer, but only that Homer had seemed to be present. And

Alcmæon says—

My heart distrusts the witness of my eyes.

And one may say the same of men who are drunk. As if any one denied that

when a man has awakened he ceases to think his dreams true; and that a man

whose frenzy has passed away, no longer conceives those things to be real

which appeared so to him during his madness. But that is not the question:

the question is, how those things appear to us, at the time when they do

appear. Unless, indeed, we suppose that Ennius heard the whole of that

address—

O piety of the soul....

(if, indeed, he did dream it), just as he would have heard it if he had

been awake. For when awake, he was able to think those things phantoms—as,

in fact, they were—and dreams. But while he was asleep, he felt as sure of

their reality as if he had been awake. Again, Iliona, in that dream of

hers, where she hears—

Mother, I call on you....

does she not believe that her son has spoken, just as she would have

believed it if she had been awake? On which account she adds—

Come now, stand here, remain, and hear my words,

And once again repeat those words to me.

Does she here seem to place less trust in what she has seen than people do

when awake?

XXVIII. Why should I speak of madmen?—such as your relation Tuditanus was,

Catulus. Does any man, who may be ever so much in his senses, think the

things which he sees as certain as he used to think those that appeared to

him? Again, the man who cries out—

I see you now, I see you now alive,

Ulysses, while such sight is still allow’d me;

does he not twice cry out that he is seeing what he never sees at all?

Again, when Hercules, in Euripides, shot his own sons with his arrows,

taking them for the sons of Eurystheus,—when he slew his wife,—when he

endeavoured even to slay his father,—was he not worked upon by false

ideas, just as he might have been by true ones? Again, does not your own

Alcmæon, who says that his heart distrusts the witness of his eyes, say in

the same place, while inflamed by frenzy—

Whence does this flame arise?

And presently afterwards—

Come on; come on; they hasten, they approach;

They seek for me.

Listen, how he implores the good faith of the virgin:—

O bring me aid; O drive this pest away;

This fiery power which now doth torture me;

See, they advance, dark shades, with flames encircled,

And stand around me with their blazing torches.

Have you any doubt here that he appears to himself to see these things?

And then the rest of his speech:—

See how Apollo, fair-hair’d God,

Draws in and bends his golden bow;

While on the left fair Dian waves her torch.

How could he have believed these things any more if they had really

existed than he did when they only seemed to exist? For it is clear that

at the moment his heart was not distrusting his eyes. But all these

instances are cited in order to prove that than which nothing can be more

certain, namely, that between true and false perceptions there is no

difference at all, as far as the assent of the mind is concerned. But you

prove nothing when you merely refute those false perceptions of men who

are mad or dreaming, by their own recollection. For the question is not

what sort of recollection those people usually have who have awakened, or

those who have recovered from madness, but what sort of perception madmen

or dreamers had at the moment when they were under the influence of their

madness or their dream. However, we will say no more about the senses.

What is there that can be perceived by reason? You say that Dialectics

have been discovered, and that that science is, as it were, an arbiter and

judge of what is true and false. Of what true and false?—and of true and

false on what subject? Will a dialectician be able to judge, in geometry,

what is true and false, or in literature, or in music? He knows nothing

about those things. In philosophy, then? What is it to him how large the

sun is? or what means has he which may enable him to judge what the chief

good is? What then will he judge of? Of what combination or disjunction of

ideas is accurate,—of what is an ambiguous expression,—of what follows

from each fact, or what is inconsistent with it? If the science of

dialectics judges of these things, or things like them, it is judging of

itself. But it professed more. For to judge of these matters is not

sufficient for the resolving of the other numerous and important questions

which arise in philosophy. But, since you place so much importance in that

art, I would have you to consider whether it was not invented for the

express purpose of being used against you. For, at its first opening, it

gives an ingenious account of the elements of speaking, and of the manner

in which one may come to an understanding of ambiguous expressions, and of

the principles of reasoning: then, after a few more things, it comes to

the sorites, a very slippery and hazardous topic, and a class of argument

which you yourself pronounced to be a vicious one.

XXIX. What then, you will say; are we to be blamed for that viciousness?

The nature of things has not given us any knowledge of ends, so as to

enable us, in any subject whatever, to say how far we can go. Nor is this

the case only in respect of the heap of wheat, from which the name is

derived, but in no matter whatever where the argument is conducted by

minute questions: for instance, if the question be whether a man is rich

or poor, illustrious or obscure,—whether things be many or few, great or

small, long or short, broad or narrow,—we have no certain answer to give,

how much must be added or taken away to make the thing in question either

one or the other.

But the sorites is a vicious sort of argument:—crush it, then, if you can,

to prevent its being troublesome; for it will be so, if you do not guard

against it. We have guarded against it, says he. For Chrysippus’s plan is,

when he is interrogated step by step (by way of giving an instance),

whether there are three, or few, or many, to rest a little before he comes

to the “many;” that is to say, to use their own language, ἡσυχάζειν. Rest

and welcome, says Carneades; you may even snore, for all I care. But what

good does he do? For one follows who will waken you from sleep, and

question you in the same manner:—Take the number, after the mention of

which you were silent, and if to that number I add one, will there be

many? You will again go on, as long as you think fit. Why need I say more?

for you admit this, that you cannot in your answers fix the last number

which can be classed as “few,” nor the first, which amounts to “many.” And

this kind of uncertainty extends so widely, that I do not see any bounds

to its progress.

Nothing hurts me, says he; for I, like a skilful driver, will rein in my

horses before I come to the end, and all the more if the ground which the

horses are approaching is precipitous. And thus, too, says he, I will

check myself, and not reply any more to one who addresses me with captious

questions. If you have a clear answer to make, and refuse to make it, you

are giving yourself airs; if you have not, even you yourself do not

perceive it. If you stop, because the question is obscure, I admit that it

is so; but you say that you do not proceed as far as what is obscure. You

stop, then, where the case is still clear. If then all you do is to hold

your tongue, you gain nothing by that. For what does it matter to the man

who wishes to catch you, whether he entangles you owing to your silence or

to your talking? Suppose, for instance, you were to say, without

hesitation, that up to the number nine, is “few,” but were to pause at the

tenth; then you would be refusing your assent to what is certain and

evident, and yet you will not allow me to do the same with respect to

subjects which are obscure.

That art, therefore, does not help you against the sorites; inasmuch as it

does not teach a man, who is using either the increasing or diminishing

scale, what is the first point, or the last. May I not say that that same

art, like Penelope undoing her web, at last undoes all the arguments which

have gone before? Is that your fault, or ours? In truth, it is the

foundation of dialectics, that whatever is enunciated (and that is what

they call ἀξίωμα, which answers to our word _effatum_,) is either true or

false. What, then, is the case? Are these true or false? If you say that

you are speaking falsely, and that that is true, you are speaking falsely

and telling the truth at the same time. This, forsooth, you say is

inexplicable; and that is more odious than our language, when we call

things uncomprehended, and not perceived.

XXX. However, I will pass over all this. I ask, if those things cannot be

explained, and if no means of judging of them is discovered, so that you

can answer whether they are true or false, then what has become of that

definition,—“That a proposition (_effatum_) is something which is either

true or false?” After the facts are assumed I will add, that of them some

are to be adopted, others impeached, because they are contrary to the

first. What then do you think of this conclusion,—“If you say that the sun

shines, and if you speak truth, therefore the sun does shine?” At all

events you approve of the kind of argument, and you say that the

conclusion has been most correctly inferred. Therefore, in teaching, you

deliver that as the first mood in which to draw conclusions. Either,

therefore, you will approve of every other conclusion in the same mood, or

that art of yours is good for nothing. Consider, then, whether you are

inclined to approve of this conclusion;—“If you say that you are a liar,

and speak the truth, then you are a liar. But you do say that you are a

liar, and you do speak the truth, therefore you are a liar.” How can you

avoid approving of this conclusion, when you approved of the previous one

of the same kind?

These are the arguments of Chrysippus, which even he himself did not

refute. For what could he do with such a conclusion as this,—“If it

shines, it shines: but it does shine, therefore it does shine?” He must

give in; for the principle of the connexion compels you to grant the last

proposition after you have once granted the first. And in what does this

conclusion differ from the other,—“If you lie, you lie; but you do lie,

therefore you do lie?” You assert that it is impossible for you either to

approve or disapprove of this: if so, how can you any more approve or

disapprove of the other? If the art, or the principle, or the method, or

the force of the one conclusion avails, they exist in exactly the same

degree in both.

This, however, is their last resource. They demand that one should make an

exception with regard to these points which are inexplicable. I give my

vote for their going to some tribune of the people; for they shall never

obtain this exception from me. In truth, when they cannot prevail on

Epicurus, who despises and ridicules the whole science of dialectics, to

grant this proposition to be true, which we may express thus—“Hermachus

will either be alive to-morrow or he will not;” when the dialecticians lay

it down that every disjunctive proposition, such as “either yes or no” is

not only true but necessary; you may see how cautious he is, whom they

think slow. For, says he, if I should grant that one of the two

alternatives is necessary, it will then be necessary either that Hermachus

should be alive to-morrow, or not. But there is no such necessity in the

nature of things. Let the dialecticians then, that is to say, Antiochus

and the Stoics, contend with him, for he upsets the whole science of

dialectics.

For if a disjunctive proposition made up of contraries, (I call those

propositions contraries when one affirms and the other denies,) if, I say,

such a disjunctive can be false, then no one is ever true. But what

quarrel have they with me who am following their system? When anything of

that kind happened, Carneades used to joke in this way:—“If I have drawn

my conclusion correctly, I gain the cause: if incorrectly, Diogenes shall

pay back a mina;” for he had learnt dialectics of that Stoic, and a mina

was the pay of the dialecticians.

I, therefore, follow that system which I learnt from Antiochus; and I find

no reason why I should judge “If it does shine, it does shine” to be true,

because I have learnt that everything which is connected with itself is

true; and yet not judge “If you lie, you lie,” to be connected with itself

in the same manner. Either, therefore, I must judge both this and that to

be true, or, if I may not judge this to be true, then I cannot judge that

to be.

XXXI. However, to pass over all those prickles, and all that tortuous kind

of discussion, and to show what we are:—after having explained the whole

theory of Carneades, all the quibbles of Antiochus will necessarily fall

to pieces. Nor will I say anything in such a way as to lead any one to

suspect that anything is invented by me. I will take what I say from

Clitomachus, who was with Carneades till his old age, a man of great

shrewdness, (indeed, he was a Carthaginian,) and very studious and

diligent. And he has written four books on the subject of withholding

assent; but what I am going to say is taken out of the first.

Carneades asserts that there are two kinds of appearances; and that the

first kind may be divided into those which can be perceived and those

which cannot; and the other into those which are probable and those which

are not. Therefore, those which are pronounced to be contrary to the

senses and contrary to evidentness belong to the former division; but that

nothing can be objected to those of the second kind. Wherefore his opinion

is, that there is no appearance of such a character that perception will

follow it, but many such as to draw after them probability. Indeed, it

would be contrary to nature if nothing were probable; and that entire

overturning of life, which you were speaking of, Lucullus, would ensue.

Therefore there are many things which may be proved by the senses; only

one must recollect that there is not in them anything of such a character

that there may not also be something which is false, but which in no

respect differs from it in appearance; and so, whatever happens which is

probable in appearance, if nothing offers itself which is contrary to that

probability, the wise man will use it; and in this way the whole course of

life will be regulated.

And, in truth, that wise man whom you are bringing on the stage, is often

guided by what is probable, not being comprehended, nor perceived, nor

assented to, but only likely; and unless a man acts on such circumstances

there is an end to the whole system of life. For what must happen? Has the

wise man, when he embarks on board ship, a positive comprehension and

perception in his mind that he will have a successful voyage? How can he?

But suppose he goes from this place to Puteoli, thirty furlongs, in a

seaworthy vessel, with a good pilot, and in fine weather like this, it

appears probable that he will arrive there safe. According to appearances

of this kind, then, he will make up his mind to act or not to act; and he

will be more willing to find the snow white than Anaxagoras, who not only

denied that fact, but who affirmed, because he knew that water, from which

snow was congealed, was of a dark colour, that snow did not even look

white. And he will be influenced by anything which affects him in such a

way that the appearance is probable, and not interfered with by any

obstacle. For such a man is not cut out of stone or hewn out of oak. He

has a body, he has a mind, he is influenced by intellect, he is influenced

by his senses, so that many things appear to him to be true, and yet not

to have conspicuous and peculiar characteristics by which to be perceived.

And therefore the wise man does not assent to them, because it is possible

that something false may exist of the same kind as this true thing. Nor do

we speak against the senses differently from the Stoics, who say that many

things are false, and are very different from the appearance which they

present to the senses.

XXXII. But if this is the case, that one false idea can be entertained by

the senses, you will find some one in a moment who will deny that anything

can be perceived by the senses. And so, while we are silent, all

perception and comprehension is done away with by the two principles laid

down, one by Epicurus and the other by you. What is Epicurus’s maxim?—If

anything that appears to the senses be false, then nothing can be

perceived. What is yours?—The appearances presented to the senses are

false.—What is the conclusion? Even if I hold my tongue, it speaks for

itself, that nothing can be perceived. I do not grant that, says he, to

Epicurus. Argue then with him, as he is wholly at variance with you, but

leave me alone, who certainly agree with you so far, that the senses are

liable to error. Although nothing appears so strange to me, as that such

things should be said, especially by Antiochus, to whom the propositions

which I have just mentioned were thoroughly known. For although, if he

pleases, any one may find fault with this, namely with our denying that

anything can be perceived; at all events it is not a very serious reproof

that we can have to endure. But as for our statement that some things are

probable, this does not seem to you to be sufficient. Grant that it is

not. At least we ought to escape the reproaches which are incessantly

bandied about by you, “Can you, then, see nothing? can you hear nothing?

is nothing evident to you?”

I explained just now, on the testimony of Clitomachus, in what manner

Carneades intended those statements to be taken. Hear now, how the same

things are stated by Clitomachus in that book which he dedicated to Caius

Lucilius, the poet, after he had written on the same subject to Lucius

Censorinus, the one, I mean, who was consul with Marcus Manilius; he then

used almost these very words; for I am well acquainted with them, because

the first idea and arrangement of those very matters which we are now

discussing is contained in that book. He then uses the following language—

“The philosophers of the Academy are of opinion that there are differences

between things of such a kind that some appear probable, and others the

contrary. But that it is not a sufficient reason for one’s saying that

some of these can be perceived and that others cannot, because many things

which are false are probable; but nothing false can be perceived and

known. Therefore, says he, those men are egregiously wrong who say that

the Academics deny the existence of the senses; for they have never said

that there is no such thing as colour, or taste, or sound; the only point

they argue for is, that there is not in them that peculiar characteristic

mark of truth and certainty which does not exist anywhere else.”

And after having explained this, he adds, that there are two senses in

which the wise man may be said to suspend his assent: one, when it is

understood that he, as a general rule, assents to nothing; the other, when

he forbears answering, so as to say that he approves or disapproves of

anything, or, so as to deny or affirm anything. This being the case, he

approves of the one sense, so as never to assent to anything; and adheres

to the other, so as to be able to answer yes, or no, following probability

whenever it either occurs or is wanting. And that one may not be

astonished at one, who in every matter withholds himself from expressing

his assent, being nevertheless agitated and excited to action, he leaves

us perceptions of the sort by which we are excited to action, and those

owing to which we can, when questioned, answer either way, being guided

only by appearances, as long as we avoid expressing a deliberate assent.

And yet we must look upon all appearances of that kind as probable, but

only those which have no obstacles to counteract them. If we do not induce

you to approve of these ideas, they may perhaps be false, but they

certainly do not deserve odium. For we are not depriving you of any light;

but with reference to the things which you assert are perceived and

comprehended, we say, that if they be only probable, they appear to be

true.

XXXIII. Since, therefore, what is probable, is thus inferred and laid

down, and at the same time disencumbered of all difficulties, set free and

unrestrained, and disentangled from all extraneous circumstances; you see,

Lucullus, that that defence of perspicuity which you took in hand is

utterly overthrown. For this wise man of whom I am speaking will survey

the heaven and earth and sea with the same eyes as your wise man; and will

feel with the same senses all those other things which fall under each

respective sense. That sea, which now, as the west wind is rising over it,

appears purple to us, will appear so too to our wise man, but nevertheless

he will not sanction the appearance by his assent; because, to us

ourselves it appeared just now blue, and in the morning it appeared

yellow; and now, too, because it sparkles in the sun, it is white and

dimpled, and quite unlike the adjacent continent; so that, even if you

could give an account why it is so, still you could not establish the

truth of the appearance that is presented to the eyes.

Whence then,—for this was the question which you asked,—comes memory, if

we perceive nothing, since we cannot recollect anything which we have seen

unless we have comprehended it? What? Did Polyænus, who is said to have

been a great mathematician, after he had been persuaded by Epicurus to

believe all geometry to be false, forget all the knowledge which he had

previously possessed? But that which is false cannot be comprehended as

you yourselves assert. If, therefore, memory is conversant only with

things which have been perceived and comprehended, then it retains as

comprehended and perceived all that every one remembers. But nothing false

can be comprehended; and Scyron recollects all the dogmas of Epicurus;

therefore they are all true. For all I care, they may be; but you also

must either admit that they are so, and that is the last thing in your

thoughts, or else you must allow me memory, and grant that there is plenty

of room for it, even if there be no comprehension or perception.

What then is to become of the arts? Of what arts? of those, which of their

own accord confess that they proceed on conjecture more than on knowledge;

or of those which only follow what appears to them, and are destitute of

that art which you possess to enable them to distinguish between truth and

falsehood?

But there are two lights which, more than any others, contain the whole

case; for, in the first place, you deny the possibility of any man

invariably withholding his assent from everything. But that is quite

plain; since Panætius, almost the greatest man, in my opinion, of all the

Stoics, says that he is in doubt as to that matter, which all the Stoics

except him think absolutely certain, namely as to the truth of the

auspices taken by soothsayers, and of oracles, and dreams, and prophecies;

and forbears to express any assent respecting them. And why, if he may

pursue this course concerning those matters, which the men of whom he

himself learnt considered unquestionable, why may not a wise man do so too

in all other cases? Is there any position which a man may either approve

or disapprove of after it has been asserted, but yet may not doubt about?

May you do so with respect to the sorites whenever you please, and may not

he take his stand in the same manner in other cases, especially when

without expressing his assent he may be able to follow a probability which

is not embarrassed by anything?

The second point is that you declare that man incapable of action who

withholds his assent from everything. For first of all we must see in what

assent consists. For the Stoics say that the senses themselves are

assents; that desire comes after them, and action after desire. But that

every thing is at an end if we deny perception.

XXXIV. Now on this subject many things have been said and written on both

sides, but the whole matter may be summed up in a few words. For although

I think it a very great exploit to resist one’s perceptions, to withstand

one’s vague opinions, to check one’s propensity to give assent to

propositions,—and though I quite agree with Clitomachus, when he writes

that Carneades achieved a Herculean labour when, as if it had been a

savage and formidable monster, he extracted assent, that is to say, vague

opinion and rashness, from our minds,—yet, supposing that part of the

defence is wholly omitted, what will hinder the action of that man who

follows probability, without any obstacle arising to embarrass him? This

thing of itself, says he, will embarrass him,—that he will lay it down,

that even the thing he approves of cannot be perceived. And that will

hinder you, also, in sailing, in planting, in marrying a wife, in becoming

the parent of children, and in many things in which you follow nothing

except what is probable.

And, nevertheless, you bring up again that old and often repudiated

objection, to employ it not as Antipater did, but, as you say, in a closer

manner. For you tell us that Antipater was blamed for saying, that it was

consistent in a man who affirmed that nothing could be comprehended, to

say that at least this fact of that impossibility could be comprehended;

which appeared even to Antiochus to be a stupid kind of assertion, and

contradictory to itself. For that it cannot be said with any consistency

that nothing can be comprehended, if it is asserted at the same time that

the fact of the impossibility can be comprehended. He thinks that

Carneades ought rather to be pressed in this way:—As the wise man admits

of no dogma except such as is comprehended, perceived, and known, he must

therefore confess that this very dogma of the wise man, “that nothing can

be perceived,” is perceived; as if the wise man had no other maxim

whatever, and as if he could pass his life without any. But as he has

others, which are probable, but not positively perceived, so also has he

this one, that nothing can be perceived. For if he had on this point any

characteristic of certain knowledge, he would also have it on all other

points; but since he has it not, he employs probabilities. Therefore he is

not afraid of appearing to be throwing everything into confusion, and

making it uncertain. For it is not admissible for a person to say that he

is ignorant about duty, and about many other things with which he is

constantly mixed up and conversant; as he might say, if he were asked

whether the number of the stars is odd or even. For in things uncertain,

nothing is probable; but as to those matters in which there is

probability, in those the wise man will not be at a loss what to do, or

what answer to give.

Nor have you, O Lucullus, omitted that other objection of Antiochus (and,

indeed, it is no wonder, for it is a very notorious one,) by which he used

to say that Philo was above all things perplexed. For when one proposition

was assumed, that some appearances were false, and a second one that there

was no difference between them and true ones, he said that that school

omitted to take notice that the former proposition had been granted by

him, because there did appear to be some difference between appearances;

but that that was put an end to by the second proposition, which asserted

that there was no difference between false and true ones; for that no two

assertions could be more contradictory. And this objection would be

correct if we altogether put truth out of the question: but we do not; for

we see both true appearances and false ones. But there is a show of

probability in them, though of perception we have no sign whatever.

XXXV. And I seem to myself to be at this moment adopting too meagre an

argument; for, when there is a wide plain, in which our discourse may rove

at liberty, why should we confine it within such narrow straits, and drive

it into the thickets of the Stoics? For if I were arguing with a

Peripatetic, who said “that everything could be perceived which was an

impression originating in the truth,” and who did not employ that

additional clause,—“in such a way as it could not originate in what was

false,” I should then deal plainly with a plain man, and should not be

very disputatious. And even if, when I said that nothing could be

comprehended, he was to say that a wise man was sometimes guided by

opinion, I should not contradict him; especially as even Carneades is not

very hostile to this idea. As it is, what can I do? For I am asking what

there is that can be comprehended; and I am answered, not by Aristotle, or

Theophrastus, or even Xenocrates or Polemo, but by one who is of much

later date than they,—“A truth of such a nature as what is false cannot

be.” I find nothing of the sort. Therefore I will, in truth, assent to

what is unknown;—that is to say, I will be guided by opinion. This I am

allowed to do both by the Peripatetics and by the Old Academy; but you

refuse me such indulgence, and in this refusal Antiochus is the foremost,

who has great weight with me, either because I loved the man, as he did

me, or because I consider him the most refined and acute of all the

philosophers of our age.

And, first of all, I will ask him how it is that he is a follower of that

Academy to which he professes to belong? For, to pass over other points,

who is there, either of the Old Academy or of the Peripatetics, who has

ever made these two assertions which are the subject of discussion,—either

that that alone could be perceived which was a truth of such a nature, as

what was false could not be; or that a wise man was never guided by

opinion? Certainly no one of them ever said so. Neither of these

propositions was much maintained before Zeno’s time. But I consider both

of them true; and I do not say so just to serve the present turn, but it

is my honest opinion.

XXXVI. This is what I cannot bear. When you forbid me to assent to what I

do not know, and say such a proceeding is most discreditable, and full of

rashness,—when you, at the same time, arrogate so much to yourself, as to

take upon yourself to explain the whole system of wisdom, to unfold the

nature of all things, to form men’s manners, to fix the limits of good and

evil, to describe men’s duties, and also to undertake to teach a complete

rule and system of disputing and understanding, will you be able to

prevent me from never tripping while embracing all those multitudinous

branches of knowledge? What, in short, is that school to which you would

conduct me, after you have carried me away from this one? I fear you will

be acting rather arrogantly if you say it is your own. Still you must

inevitably say so. Nor, indeed, are you the only person who would say such

a thing, but every one will try and tempt me to his own. Come; suppose I

resist the Peripatetics, who say that they are closely connected with the

orators, and that illustrious men who have been instructed by them have

often governed the republic;—suppose that I withstand the Epicureans, so

many of whom are friends of my own,—excellent, united, and affectionate

men;—what am I to do with respect to Deodotus the Stoic, of whom I have

been a pupil from my youth,—who has been living with me so many years,—who

dwells in my house,—whom I admire and love, and who despises all those

theories of Antiochus? Our principles, you will say, are the only true

ones. Certainly the only true ones, if they are true at all; for there

cannot be many true principles incompatible with one another. Are we then

shameless who are unwilling to make mistakes; or they arrogant who have

persuaded themselves that they are the only people who know everything? I

do not, says he, assert that I, but that the wise man knows everything.

Exactly so; that he knows those things which are the principles of your

school. Now, in the first place, what an assertion it is that wisdom

cannot be explained by a wise man.—But let us leave off speaking of

ourselves; let us speak of the wise man, about whom, as I have often said

before, the whole of this discussion is.

Wisdom, then, is distributed by most people, and indeed by us, into three

parts. First therefore, if you please, let us consider the researches that

have been made into the nature of things. Is there any one so puffed up

with a false opinion of himself as to have persuaded himself that he knows

those things? I am not asking about those reasons which depend on

conjecture, which are dragged every way by discussions, and which do not

admit any necessity of persuasion. Let the geometricians look to that, who

profess not to persuade men to believe them, but to compel them to do so;

and who prove to you everything that they describe. I am not asking these

men for those principles of the mathematicians, which, if they be not

granted, they cannot advance a single step; such as that a point is a

thing which has no magnitude,—that an extremity or levelness, as it were,

is a space which has no thickness,—that a line is length without breadth.

Though I should grant that all these axioms are true, if I were to add an

oath, do you think a wise man would swear that the sun is many degrees

greater than the earth, before Archimedes had, before his eyes, made out

all those calculations by which it is proved? If he does, then he will be

despising the sun which he considers a god. But if he will not believe the

mathematical calculations which employ a sort of constraint in

teaching,—as you yourselves say,—surely he will be very far from believing

the arguments of philosophers; or, if he does believe any such, which

school will he believe? One may explain all the principles of natural

philosophers, but it would take a long time: I ask, however, whom he will

follow? Suppose for a moment that some one is now being made a wise man,

but is not one yet,—what system and what school shall he select above all

others? For, whatever one he selects, he will select while he is still

unwise. But grant that he is a man of godlike genius, which of all the

natural philosophers will he approve of above all others? For he cannot

approve of more than one. I will not pursue an infinite number of

questions; only let us see whom he will approve of with respect to the

elements of things of which all things are composed; for there is a great

disagreement among the greatest men on this subject.

XXXVII. First of all, Thales, one of the seven, to whom they say that the

other six yielded the preeminence, said that everything originated out of

water; but he failed to convince Anaximander, his countryman and

companion, of this theory; for his idea was that there was an infinity of

nature from which all things were produced. After him, his pupil,

Anaximenes, said that the air was infinite, but that the things which were

generated from it were finite; and that the earth, and water, and fire,

were generated, and that from them was produced everything else.

Anaxagoras said that matter was infinite; but that from it were produced

minute particles resembling one another; that at first they were confused,

but afterwards brought into order by divine intellect. Xenophanes, who was

a little more ancient still, asserted that all things were only one single

being, and that that being was immutable and a god, not born, but

everlasting, of a globular form. Parmenides considered that it is fire

that moves the earth, which is formed out of it. Leucippus thought that

there was a _plenum_, and a _vacuum_; Democritus resembled him in this

idea, but was more copious on other matters: Empedocles adopts the theory

of the four ordinary and commonly known elements. Heraclitus refers

everything to fire; Melissus thinks that what exists is infinite,

immutable, always has existed, and always will. Plato thinks that the

world was made by God, so as to be eternal, out of matter which collects

everything to itself. The Pythagoreans affirm that everything proceeds

from numbers, and from the principles of mathematicians.

Now of all these different teachers the wise man will, I imagine, select

some one to follow; all the rest, numerous, and great men as they are,

will be discarded by him and condemned; but whichever doctrine he approves

of he will retain in his mind, being comprehended in the same manner as

those things which he comprehends by means of the senses; nor will he feel

any greater certainty of the fact of its now being day, than, since he is

a Stoic, of this world being wise, being endowed with intellect, which has

made both itself and the world, and which regulates, sets in motion, and

governs everything. He will also be persuaded that the sun, and moon, and

all the stars, and the earth, and sea, are gods, because a certain animal

intelligence pervades and passes through them all: but nevertheless that

it will happen some day or other that all this world will be burnt up with

fire.

XXXVIII. Suppose that all this is true: (for you see already that I admit

that something is true,) still I deny that these things are comprehended

and perceived. For when that wise Stoic of yours has repeated all that to

you, syllable by syllable, Aristotle will come forward pouring forth a

golden stream of eloquence, and pronounce him a fool; and assert that the

world has never had a beginning, because there never existed any beginning

of so admirable a work from the adoption of a new plan: and that the world

is so excellently made in every part that no power could be great enough

to cause such motion, and such changes; nor could any time whatever be

long enough to produce an old age capable of causing all this beauty to

decay and perish. It will be indispensable for you to deny this, and to

defend the former doctrine as you would your own life and reputation; may

I not have even leave to entertain a doubt on the matter? To say nothing

about the folly of people who assent to propositions rashly, what value am

I to set upon a liberty which will not allow to me what is necessary for

you? Why did God, when he was making everything for the sake of man, (for

this is your doctrine,) make such a multitude of water-serpents and

vipers? Why did he scatter so many pernicious and fatal things over the

earth? You assert that all this universe could not have been made so

beautifully and so ingeniously without some godlike wisdom; the majesty of

which you trace down even to the perfection of bees and ants; so that it

would seem that there must have been a Myrmecides(12) among the gods; the

maker of all animated things.

You say that nothing can have any power without God. Exactly opposite is

the doctrine of Strato of Lampsacus, who gives that God of his exemption

from all important business. But as the priests of the gods have a

holiday, how much more reasonable is it that the gods should have one

themselves? He then asserts that he has no need of the aid of the gods to

account for the making of the world. Everything that exists, he says, was

made by Nature: not agreeing with that other philosopher who teaches, that

the universe is a concrete mass of rough and smooth, and hooked and

crooked bodies, with the addition of a vacuum: this he calls a dream of

Democritus, and says that he is here not teaching, but wishing;—but he

himself, examining each separate part of the world, teaches that whatever

exists, and whatever is done, is caused, or has been caused, by natural

weights and motions. In this way he releases God from a great deal of hard

work, and me from fear; for who is there who, (when he thinks that he is

an object of divine care,) does not feel an awe of the divine power day

and night? And who, whenever any misfortunes happen to him (and what man

is there to whom none happen?) feels a dread lest they may have befallen

him deservedly—not, indeed, that I agree with that; but neither do I with

you: at one time I think one doctrine more probable, and at other times I

incline to the other.

XXXIX. All these mysteries, O Lucullus, lie concealed and enveloped in

darkness so thick that no human ingenuity has a sight sufficiently

piercing to penetrate into heaven, and dive into the earth. We do not

understand our own bodies: we do not know what is the situation of their

different parts, or what power each part has: therefore, the physicians

themselves, whose business it was to understand these things, have opened

bodies in order to lay those parts open to view. And yet empirics say that

they are not the better known for that; because it is possible that, by

being laid open and uncovered, they may be changed. But is it possible for

us, in the same manner, to anatomize, and open, and dissect the natures of

things, so as to see whether the earth is firmly fixed on its foundations

and sticks firm on its roots, if I may so say, or whether it hangs in the

middle of a vacuum? Xenophanes says that the moon is inhabited, and that

it is a country of many cities and mountains. These assertions seem

strange, but the man who has made them could not take his oath that such

is the case; nor could I take mine that it is not the case. You also say

that, opposite to us, on the contrary side of the earth, there are people

who stand with their feet opposite to our feet, and you call them

Antipodes. Why are you more angry with me, who do not despise these

theories, than with those who, when they hear them, think that you are

beside yourselves?

Hiretas of Syracuse, as Theophrastus tells us, thinks that the sun, and

moon, and stars, and all the heavenly bodies, in short, stand still; and

that nothing in the world moves except the earth; and, as that turns and

revolves on its own axis with the greatest rapidity, he thinks that

everything is made to appear by it as if it were the heaven which is moved

while the earth stands still. And, indeed, some people think that Plato,

in the Timæus, asserts this, only rather obscurely. What is your opinion,

Epicurus? Speak. Do you think that the sun is so small?—Do I? Do you

yourselves think it so large? But all of you are ridiculed by him, and you

in your turn mock him. Socrates, then, is free from this ridicule, and so

is Ariston of Chios, who thinks that none of these matters can be known.

But I return to the mind and body. Is it sufficiently known by us what is

the nature of the sinews and of the veins? Do we comprehend what the mind

is?—where it is?—or, in short, whether it exists at all, or whether, as

Dicæarchus thinks, there is no such thing whatever? If there is such a

thing, do we know whether it has three divisions, as Plato thought; those

of reason, anger, and desire?—or whether it is single and uniform? If it

is single and uniform, do we know whether it is fire, or breath, or

blood?—or, as Xenocrates says, number without a body?—though, what sort of

thing that is, is not very easy to understand. And whatever it is, do we

know whether it is mortal or eternal? For many arguments are alleged on

both sides.

XL. Some of these theories seem certain to your wise man: but ours does

not even see what is most probable; so nearly equal in weight are the

opposite arguments in most cases. If you proceed more modestly, and

reproach me, not because I do not assent to your reasoning, but because I

do not assent to any, I will not resist any further: but I will select

some one with whom I may agree. Whom shall I choose?—whom? Democritus?

for, as you know, I have always been a favourer of noble birth. I shall be

at once overwhelmed with the reproaches of your whole body. Can you think,

they will say to me, that there is any vacuum, when everything is so

filled and close packed that whenever any body leaves its place and moves,

the place which it leaves is immediately occupied by some other body? Or

can you believe that there are any atoms to which whatever is made by

their combination is entirely unlike? or that any excellent thing can be

made without intellect? And, since this admirable beauty is found in one

world, do you think that there are also innumerable other worlds, above,

below, on the right hand and on the left, before, and behind, some unlike

this one, and some of the same kind? And, as we are now at Bauli, and are

beholding Puteoli, do you think that there are in other places like these

a countless host of men, of the same names and rank, and exploits, and

talents, and appearances, and ages, arguing on the same subjects? And if

at this moment, or when we are asleep, we seem to see anything in our

mind, do you think that those images enter from without, penetrating into

our minds through our bodies? You can never adopt such ideas as these, or

give your assent to such preposterous notions. It is better to have no

ideas at all than to have such erroneous ones as these.

Your object, then, is not to make me sanction anything by my assent. If it

were, consider whether it would not be an impudent, not to say an arrogant

demand, especially as these principles of yours do not seem to me to be

even probable. For I do not believe that there is any such thing as

divination, which you assent to; and I also despise fate, by which you say

that everything is regulated. I do not even believe that this world was

formed by divine wisdom; or, I should rather say, I do not know whether it

was so formed or not.

XLI. But why should you seek to disparage me? May I not confess that I do

not understand what I really do not? Or may the Stoics argue with one

other, and may I not argue with them? Zeno, and nearly all the rest of the

Stoics, consider Æther as the Supreme God, being endued with reason, by

which everything is governed. Cleanthes, who we may call a Stoic, _Majorum

Gentium_, the pupil of Zeno, thinks that the Sun has the supreme rule over

and government of everything. We are compelled, therefore, by the

dissensions of these wise men, to be ignorant of our own ruler, inasmuch

as we do not know whether we are subjects of the Sun or of Æther. But the

great size of the sun, (for this present radiance of his appears to be

looking at me,) warns me to make frequent mention of him. Now you all

speak of his magnitude as if you had measured it with a ten-foot rule,

(though I refuse credit to your measurement, looking on you as but bad

architects.) Is there then any room for doubt, which of us, to speak as

gently as possible, is the more modest of the two? Not, however, that I

think those questions of the natural philosophers deserving of being

utterly banished from our consideration; for the consideration and

contemplation of nature is a sort of natural food, if I may say so, for

our minds and talents. We are elevated by it, we seem to be raised above

the earth, we look down on human affairs; and by fixing our thoughts on

high and heavenly things we despise the affairs of this life, as small and

inconsiderable. The mere investigation of things of the greatest

importance, which are at the same time very secret, has a certain pleasure

in it. And when anything meets us which appears likely, our minds are

filled with pleasure thoroughly worthy of a man. Both your wise man and

ours, then, will inquire into these things; but yours will do so in order

to assent, to feel belief, to express affirmation; ours, with such

feelings that he will fear to yield rashly to opinion, and will think that

he has succeeded admirably if in matters of this kind he has found out

anything which is likely.

Let us now come to the question of the knowledge of good and evil. But we

must say a few words by way of preface. It appears to me that they who

speak so positively about those questions of natural philosophy, do not

reflect that they are depriving themselves of the authority of those ideas

which appear more clear. For they cannot give a clearer assent to, or a

more positive approval of the fact that it is now daylight, than they do,

when the crow croaks, to the idea that it is commanding or prohibiting

something. Nor will they affirm that that statue is six feet high more

positively after they have measured it, than that the sun, which they

cannot measure, is more than eighteen times as large as the earth. From

which this conclusion arises: if it cannot be perceived how large the sun

is, he who assents to other things in the same manner as he does to the

magnitude of the sun, does not perceive them. But the magnitude of the sun

cannot be perceived. He, then, who assents to a statement about it, as if

he perceived it, perceives nothing. Suppose they were to reply that it is

possible to perceive how large the sun is; I will not object as long as

they admit that other things too can be perceived and comprehended in the

same manner. For they cannot affirm that one thing can be comprehended

more or less than another, since there is only one definition of the

comprehension of everything.

XLII. However, to go back to what I had begun to say—What have we in good

and bad certainly ascertained? (we must, of course, fix boundaries to

which the sum of good and evil is to be referred;) what subject, in fact,

is there about which there is a greater disagreement between the most

learned men? I say nothing about those points which seem now to be

abandoned; or about Herillus, who places the chief good in knowledge and

science: and though he had been a pupil of Zeno, you see how far he

disagrees with him, and how very little he differs from Plato. The school

of the Megaric philosophers was a very celebrated one; and its chief, as I

see it stated in books, was Xenophanes, whom I mentioned just now. After

him came Parmenides and Zeno; and from them the Eleatic philosophers get

their name. Afterwards came Euclid of Megara, a pupil of Socrates, from

whom that school got the name of Megaric. And they defined that as the

only good which was always one, alike, and identical. They also borrowed a

great deal from Plato. But the Eretrian philosophers, who were so called

from Menedumus, because he was a native of Eretria, placed all good in the

mind, and in that acuteness of the mind by which the truth is discerned.

The Megarians say very nearly the same, only that they, I think, develop

their theory with more elegance and richness of illustration. If we now

despise these men, and think them worthless, at all events we ought to

show more respect for Ariston, who, having been a pupil of Zeno, adopted

in reality the principles which he had asserted in words; namely, that

there was nothing good except virtue, and nothing evil except what was

contrary to virtue; and who denied altogether the existence of those

influences which Zeno contended for as being intermediate, and neither

good nor evil. His idea of the chief good, is being affected in neither

direction by these circumstances; and this state of mind he calls

ἀδιαφορία; but Pyrrho asserts that the wise man does not even feel them;

and that state is called ἀπάθεια.

To say nothing, then, of all these opinions, let us now examine those

others which have been long and vigorously maintained. Some have accounted

pleasure the chief good; the chief of whom was Aristippus, who had been a

pupil of Socrates, and from whom the Cyrenaic school spring. After him

came Epicurus, whose school is now better known, though he does not

exactly agree with the Cyrenaics about pleasure itself. But Callipho

thought that pleasure and honour combined made up the chief good.

Hieronymus placed it in being free from all annoyance; Diodorus in this

state when combined with honour. Both these last men were Peripatetics. To

live honourably, enjoying those things which nature makes most dear to

man, was the definition both of the Old Academy, (as we may learn from the

writings of Polemo, who is highly approved of by Antiochus,) and of

Aristotle, and it is the one to which his friends appear now to come

nearest. Carneades also introduced a definition, (not because he approved

of it himself, but for the sake of opposition to the Stoics,) that the

chief good is to enjoy those things which nature has made man consider as

most desirable. But Zeno laid it down that that honourableness which

arises from conformity to nature is the chief good. And Zeno was the

founder and chief of the Stoic school.

XLIII. This now is plain enough, that all these chief goods which I have

mentioned have a chief evil corresponding to them, which is their exact

opposite. I now put it to you, whom shall I follow? only do not let any

one make me so ignorant and absurd a reply as, Any one, provided only that

you follow some one or other. Nothing more inconsiderate can be said: I

wish to follow the Stoics. Will Antiochus, (I do not say Aristotle, a man

almost, in my opinion, unrivalled as a philosopher, but will Antiochus)

give me leave? And he was called an Academic; but he would have been, with

very little alteration, something very like a Stoic. The matter shall now

be brought to a decision. For we must either give the wise man to the

Stoics or to the Old Academy. He cannot belong to both; for the contention

between them is not one about boundaries, but about the whole territory.

For the whole system of life depends on the definition of the chief good;

and those who differ on that point, differ about the whole system of life.

It is impossible, therefore, that those of both these schools should be

wise, since they differ so much from one another: but one of them only can

be so. If it be the disciple of Polemo, then the Stoic is wrong, who

assents to an error: and you say that nothing is so incompatible with the

character of a wise man as that. But if the principles of Zeno be true,

then we must say the same of the Old Academics and of the Peripatetics;

and as I do not know which is the more wise of the two, I give my assent

to neither. What? when Antiochus in some points disagrees with the Stoics

whom he is so fond of, does he not show that these principles cannot be

approved of by a wise man?

The Stoics assert that all offences are equal: but Antiochus energetically

resists this doctrine. At least, let me consider before I decide which

opinion I will embrace. Cut the matter short, says he, do at last decide

on something. What? The reasons which are given appear to me to be both

shrewd and nearly equal: may I not then be on my guard against committing

a crime? for you called it a crime, Lucullus, to violate a principle; I,

therefore, restrain myself, lest I should assent to what I do not

understand; and this principle I have in common with you.

Here, however, is a much greater difference.—Zeno thinks that a happy life

depends on virtue alone. What says Antiochus? He admits that this is true

of a happy life, but not of the happiest possible life. The first is a

god, who thinks that nothing can be wanting to virtue; the latter is a

miserable man, who thinks that there are many things besides virtue, some

of which are dear to a man, and some even necessary. But I am afraid that

the former may be attributing to virtue more than nature can bear;

especially since Theophrastus has said many things with eloquence and

copiousness on this subject; and I fear that even he may not be quite

consistent with himself. For though he admits that there are some evils

both of body and fortune, he nevertheless thinks that a man may be happy

who is afflicted by them all, provided he is wise. I am perplexed here; at

one time the one opinion appears to me to be more probable, and at another

time the other does. And yet, unless one or the other be true, I think

virtue must be entirely trampled under foot.

XLIV. However, they differ as to this principle. What then? Can we

approve, as true, of those maxims on which they agree; namely, that the

mind of the wise man is never influenced by either desire or joy? Come,

suppose this opinion is a probable one, is this other one so too; namely,

that it never feels either alarm or grief? Cannot the wise fear? And if

his country be destroyed, cannot he grieve? That seems harsh, but Zeno

thinks it inevitable; for he considers nothing good except what is

honourable. But you do not think it true in the least, Antiochus. For you

admit that there are many good things besides honour, and many evils

besides baseness; and it is inevitable that the wise man must fear such

when coming, and grieve when they have come. But I ask when it was decided

by the Old Academy that they were to deny that the mind of the wise man

could be agitated or disturbed? They approved of intermediate states, and

asserted that there was a kind of natural mean in every agitation. We have

all read the treatise on Grief, by Crantor, a disciple of the Old Academy.

It is not large, but it is a golden book, and one, as Panætius tells

Tubero, worth learning by heart. And these men used to say that those

agitations were very profitably given to our minds by nature; fear, in

order that we may take care; pity and melancholy they called the whetstone

of our clemency; and anger itself that of our courage. Whether they were

right or wrong we may consider another time. How it was that those stern

doctrines of yours forced their way into the Old Academy I do not know,

but I cannot bear them; not because they have anything in them

particularly disagreeable to me; for many of the marvellous doctrines of

the Stoics, which men call παράδοξα, are derived from Socrates. But where

has Xenocrates or where has Aristotle touched these points? For you try to

make out the Stoics to be the same as these men. Would they ever say that

wise men were the only kings, the only rich, the only handsome men? that

everything everywhere belonged to the wise man? that no one was a consul,

or prætor, or general, or even, for aught I know, a quinquevir, but the

wise man? lastly, that he was the only citizen, the only free man? and

that all who are destitute of wisdom are foreigners, exiles, slaves, or

madmen? last of all, that the writings of Lycurgus and Solon and our

Twelve Tables are not laws? that there are even no cities or states except

those which are peopled by wise men? Now these maxims, O Lucullus, if you

agree with Antiochus, your own friend, must be defended by you as

zealously as the bulwarks of your city; but I am only bound to uphold them

with moderation, just as much as I think fit.

XLV. I have read in Clitomachus, that when Carneades and Diogenes the

Stoic were standing in the capitol before the senate, Aulus Albonus (who

was prætor at the time, in the consulship of Publius Scipio and Marcus

Marcellus, the same Albonus who was consul, Lucullus, with your own

grandfather, a learned man, as his own history shows, which is written in

Greek) said jestingly to Carneades—“I do not, O Carneades, seem to you to

be prætor because I am not wise, nor does this seem to be a city, nor do

the inhabitants seem to be citizens, for the same reason.” And he

answered—“That is the Stoic doctrine.” Aristotle or Xenocrates, whom

Antiochus wished to follow, would have had no doubt that he was prætor,

and Rome a city, and that it was inhabited by citizens. But our friend is,

as I said before, a manifest Stoic, though he talks a little nonsense.

But you are all afraid for me, lest I should descend to opinions, and

adopt and approve of something that I do not understand; which you would

be very sorry for me to do. What advice do you give me? Chrysippus often

testifies that there are three opinions only about the chief good which

can be defended; he cuts off and discards all the rest. He says that

either honour is the chief good, or pleasure, or both combined. For that

those who say that the chief good is to be free from all annoyance, shun

the unpopular name of pleasure, but hover about its neighbourhood. And

those also do the same who combine that freedom from annoyance with

honour. And those do not much differ from them who unite to honour the

chief advantages of nature. So he leaves three opinions which he thinks

may be maintained by probable arguments.

Be it so. Although I am not easily to be moved from the definition of

Polemo and the Peripatetics, and Antiochus, nor have I anything more

probable to bring forward. Still, I see how sweetly pleasure allures our

senses. I am inclined to agree with Epicurus or Aristippus. But virtue

recalls me, or rather leads me back with her hand; says that these are the

feelings of cattle, and that man is akin to the Deity. I may take a middle

course; so that, since Aristippus, as if we had no mind, defends nothing

but the body, and Zeno espouses the cause of the mind alone, as if we were

destitute of body, I may follow Callipho, whose opinion Carneades used to

defend with such zeal, that he appeared wholly to approve of it; although

Clitomachus affirmed that he never could understand what Carneades

approved of. But if I were to choose to follow him, would not truth

itself, and all sound and proper reason, oppose me? Will you, when honour

consists in despising pleasure, unite honour to pleasure, joining, as it

were, a man to a beast?

XLVI. There is now, then, only one pair of combatants left—pleasure and

honour; between which Chrysippus, as far as I can see, was not long in

perplexity how to decide. If you follow the one, many things are

overthrown, especially the fellowship of the human race, affection,

friendship, justice, and all other virtues, none of which can exist at all

without disinterestedness: for the virtue which is impelled to action by

pleasure, as by a sort of wages, is not really virtue, but only a

deceitful imitation and pretence of virtue. Listen, on the contrary, to

those men who say that they do not even understand the name of honour,

unless we call that honourable which is accounted reputable by the

multitude; that the source of all good is in the body; that this is the

law, and rule, and command of nature; and that he who departs from it will

never have any object in life to follow. Do you think, then, that I am not

moved when I hear these and innumerable other statements of the same kind?

I am moved as much as you are, Lucullus; and you need not think me less a

man than yourself. The only difference is that you, when you are agitated,

acquiesce, assent, and approve; you consider the impression which you have

received true, certain, comprehended, perceived, established, firm, and

unalterable; and you cannot be moved or driven from it by any means

whatever. I think that there is nothing of such a kind that, if I assent

to it, I shall not often be assenting to what is false; since there is no

distinct line of demarcation between what is true and what is false,

especially as the science of dialectics has no power of judging on this

subject.

I come now to the third part of philosophy. There is an idea advanced by

Protagoras, who thinks that that is true to each individual which seems so

to him; and a completely different one put forward by the Cyrenaics, who

think that there is no such thing as certain judgment about anything

except the inner feelings: and a third, different from either, maintained

by Epicurus, who places all judgment in the senses, and in our notions of

things, and in pleasure. But Plato considered that the whole judgment of

truth, and that truth itself, being abstracted from opinions and from the

senses, belonged to the province of thought and of the intellect. Does our

friend Antiochus approve of any of these principles? He does not even

approve of those who may be called his own ancestors in philosophy: for

where does he follow Xenocrates, who has written a great many books on the

method of speaking, which are highly esteemed?—or Aristotle himself, than

whom there is no more acute or elegant writer? He never goes one step

without Chrysippus.

XLVII. Do we then, who are called Academics, misuse the glory of this

name? or why are we to be compelled to follow those men who differ from

one another? In this very thing, which the dialecticians teach among the

elements of their art, how one ought to judge whether an argument be true

or false which is connected in this manner, “If it is day, it shines,” how

great a contest there is;—Diodorus has one opinion, Philo another,

Chrysippus a third. Need I say more? In how many points does Chrysippus

himself differ from Cleanthes, his own teacher? Again, do not two of the

very princes of the dialecticians, Antipater and Archidemus, men most

devoted to hypothesis, disagree in numbers of things? Why then, Lucullus,

do you seek to bring me into odium, and drag me, as it were, before the

assembly? And why, as seditious tribunes often do, do you order all the

shops to be shut? For what is your object when you complain that all

trades are being suppressed by us, if it be not to excite the artisans?

But, if they all come together from all quarters, they will be easily

excited against you; for, first of all, I will cite all those unpopular

expressions of yours when you called all those, who will then be in the

assembly, exiles, and slaves, and madmen: and then I will come to those

arguments which touch not the multitude, but you yourselves who are here

present. For Zeno and Antiochus both deny that any of you know anything.

How so? you will say; for we allege, on the other hand, that even a man

without wisdom comprehends many things. But you affirm that no one except

a wise man knows one single thing. And Zeno professed to illustrate this

by a piece of action; for when he stretched out his fingers, and showed

the palm of his hand, “Perception,” said he, “is a thing like this.” Then,

when he had a little closed his fingers, “Assent is like this.”

Afterwards, when he had completely closed his hand, and held forth his

fist, that, he said, was comprehension. From which simile he also gave

that state a name which it had not before, and called it κατάληψις. But

when he brought his left hand against his right, and with it took a firm

and tight hold of his fist, knowledge, he said, was of that character; and

that was what none but a wise man possessed. But even those who are

themselves wise men do not venture to say so, nor any one who has ever

lived and been a wise man. According to that theory, you, Catulus, do not

know that it is daylight; and you, Hortensius, are ignorant that we are

now in your villa.

Now, are these arguments less formidable than yours? They are not,

perhaps, very refined; and those others show more acuteness. But, just as

you said, that if nothing could be comprehended, all the arts were

destroyed at once, and would not grant that mere probability was a

sufficient foundation for art; so I now reply to you, that art cannot

exist without knowledge. Would Zeuxis, or Phidias, or Polycletus allow

that they knew nothing, when they were men of such marvellous skill? But

if any one had explained to them how much power knowledge was said to

have, they would cease to be angry; they would not even be offended with

us, when they had learnt that we were only putting an end to what did not

exist anywhere; but that we left them what was quite sufficient for them.

And this doctrine is confirmed also by the diligence of our ancestors, who

ordained, in the first place, that every one should swear “according to

the opinion of his own mind;” secondly, that he should be accounted guilty

“if he knowingly swore falsely,” because there was a great deal of

ignorance in life; thirdly, that the man who was giving his evidence

should say that “he thought,” even in a case where he was speaking of what

he had actually seen himself. And that when the judges were giving their

decision on their evidence, they should say, not that such and such a

thing had been done, but that such and such a thing appeared to them.

XLVIII. But since the sailor is making signals, and the west wind is

showing us too, by its murmur, that it is time for us, Lucullus, to set

sail, and since I have already said a great deal, I must now conclude. But

hereafter, when we inquire into these subjects, we will discuss the great

disagreements between the most eminent on the subject of the obscurity of

nature, and the errors of so many philosophers who differ from one another

about good and evil so widely, that, as more than one of their theories

cannot be true, it is inevitable that many illustrious schools must fall

to the ground, rather than the theories about the false impressions of the

eyes and the other senses, and sorites, or false syllogism,—rods which the

Stoics have made to beat themselves with.

Then Lucullus replied, I am not at all sorry that we have had this

discussion; for often, when we meet again, especially in our Tusculan

villas, we can examine other questions which seem worth investigation.

Certainly, said I; but what does Catulus think? and Hortensius? I? said

Catulus. I return to my father’s opinion, which he used to say was derived

from Carneades, and think that nothing can be perceived; but still I

imagine that a wise man will assent to what is not actually perceived—that

is to say, will form opinions: being, however, aware at the same time that

they are only opinions, and knowing that there is nothing which can be

comprehended and perceived. And, practising that ἐποχὴ so as to take

probability for a guide in all things, I altogether assent to that other

doctrine, that nothing can be perceived. I see your meaning, said I; and I

do not very much object to it. But what is your opinion, Hortensius? He

laughed, and said, I suspend my judgment. I understand, said I; for that

is the peculiar principle of the Academy.

So, after we had finished our discourse, Catulus remained behind, and we

went down to the shore to embark in our vessels.

A TREATISE ON THE CHIEF GOOD AND EVIL.

Introduction.

The following treatise was composed by Cicero a little before the

publication of his Tusculan Disputations. It consists of a series of

Dialogues, in which the opinions of the different schools of Greek

philosophy, especially the Epicureans, Stoics, and Peripatetics, on the

Supreme Good, as the proper object or end (_finis_) of our thoughts and

actions, are investigated and compared. It is usually reckoned one of the

most highly finished and valuable of his philosophical works; though from

the abstruse nature of some of the topics dwelt upon, and the subtlety of

some of the arguments adduced, it is unquestionably the most difficult.

He gives an account himself of the work and of his design and plan in the

following terms. (Epist. ad Att. xiii. 19.) “What I have lately written is

in the manner of Aristotle, where the conversation is so managed that he

himself has the principal part. I have finished the five books De Finibus

Bonorum et Malorum, so as to give the Epicurean doctrine to Lucius

Torquatus, the Stoic to Marcus Cato, and the Peripatetic to Marcus Cato.

For I considered that their being dead would preclude all jealousy.” He

does not, however, maintain the unity of scene or character throughout the

five books. In the first book he relates a discussion which is represented

as having taken place in his villa near Cumæ, in the presence of Caius

Valerius Triarius, between himself and Lucius Manlius Torquatus, who is

spoken of as being just about to enter his office as prætor, a

circumstance which fixes the date of this imaginary discussion to B.C. 50,

a time agreeing with the allusion (B. ii. 18,) to the great power of

Pompey. In the first book he attacks the doctrines of the Epicurean

school, and Torquatus defends them, alleging that they had been generally

misunderstood; and in the second book Cicero enumerates the chief

arguments with which the Stoics assailed them.

In the third book the scene is laid in the library of Lucullus, where

Cicero had accidentally met Cato; and from conversing on the books by

which they were surrounded they proceeded to discuss the difference

between the ethics of the Stoics, and those of the Old Academy and the

Peripatetics; Cicero insisting that the disagreement was merely verbal and

not real, and that Zeno was wrong in leaving Plato and Aristotle and

establishing a new school; but Cato asserts, on the other hand, that the

difference is a real one, and that the views held by the Stoics of the

Supreme Good are of a much loftier and purer character than those which

had been previously entertained. In the fourth book Cicero gives us the

arguments with which the philosophers of the New Academy assailed the

Stoics. And this conversation is supposed to have been held two years

before that in the first book: for at the beginning of Book IV. there is a

reference to the law for limiting the length of the speeches of counsel

passed in the second consulship of Pompey, B.C. 55, as being only just

passed.

In the fifth book we are carried back to B.C. 79, and the scene is laid at

Athens, where Cicero was at that time under Antiochus and Demetrius. He

and his brother Quintus, Lucius Cicero his cousin, Pomponius Atticus, and

Marcus Pupius Piso are represented as meeting in the Academia; and Piso,

at the request of his companions, lays open the precepts inculcated by

Aristotle and his school on the subject of the Summum Bonum; after which

Cicero states the objections of the Stoics to the Peripatetic system, and

Piso replies. While giving the opinions of these above-named sects with

great fairness and impartiality Cicero abstains throughout from

pronouncing any judgment of his own.

First Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.

I. I was not ignorant, Brutus, when I was endeavouring to add to Latin

literature the same things which philosophers of the most sublime genius

and the most profound and accurate learning had previously handled in the

Greek language, that my labours would be found fault with on various

grounds. For some, and those too, far from unlearned men, are disinclined

to philosophy altogether; some, on the other hand, do not blame a moderate

degree of attention being given to it, but do not approve of so much study

and labour being devoted to it. There will be others again, learned in

Greek literature and despising Latin compositions, who will say that they

would rather spend their time in reading Greek; and, lastly, I suspect

that there will be some people who will insist upon it that I ought to

apply myself to other studies, and will urge that, although this style of

writing may be an elegant accomplishment, it is still beneath my character

and dignity. And to all these objections I think I ought to make a brief

reply; although, indeed, I have already given a sufficient answer to the

enemies of philosophy in that book in which philosophy is defended and

extolled by me after having been attacked and disparaged by

Hortensius.(13) And as both you and others whom I considered competent

judges approved highly of that book, I have undertaken a larger work,

fearing to appear able only to excite the desires of men, but incapable of

retaining their attention. But those who, though they have a very good

opinion of philosophy, still think it should be followed in a moderate

degree only, require a temperance which is very difficult in a thing

which, when once it has the reins given it, cannot be checked or

repressed; so that I almost think those men more reasonable who altogether

forbid us to apply ourselves to philosophy at all, than they who fix a

limit to things which are in their nature boundless, and who require

mediocrity in a thing which is excellent exactly in proportion to its

intensity.

For, if it be possible that men should arrive at wisdom, then it must not

only be acquired by us, but even enjoyed. Or if this be difficult, still

there is no limit to the way in which one is to seek for truth except one

has found it; and it is base to be wearied in seeking a thing, when what

we do seek for is the most honourable thing possible. In truth, if we are

amused when we are writing, who is so envious as to wish to deny us that

pleasure? If it is a labour to us, who will fix a limit to another

person’s industry? For as the Chremes(14) of Terence does not speak from a

disregard of what is due to men when he does not wish his new neighbour

To dig, or plough, or any toil endure:

for he is not in this dissuading him from industry, but only from such

labour as is beneath a gentleman; so, on the other hand those men are over

scrupulous who are offended by my devoting myself to a labour which is far

from irksome to myself.

II. It is more difficult to satisfy those men who allege that they despise

Latin writings. But, first of all, I may express my wonder at their not

being pleased with their native language in matters of the highest

importance, when they are fond enough of reading fables in Latin,

translated word for word from the Greek. For what man is such an enemy (as

I may almost call it) to the Roman name, as to despise or reject the Medea

of Ennius, or the Antiope of Pacuvius? and to express a dislike of Latin

literature, while at the same time he speaks of being pleased with the

plays of Euripides? “What,” says such an one, “shall I rather read the

Synephebi of Cæcilius,(15) or the Andria of Terence, than either of these

plays in the original of Menander?” But I disagree with men of these

opinions so entirely, that though Sophocles has composed an Electra in the

most admirable manner possible, still I think the indifferent translation

of it by Atilius(16) worth reading too, though Licinius calls him an iron

writer; with much truth in my opinion; still he is a writer whom it is

worth while to read. For to be wholly unacquainted with our own poets is a

proof either of the laziest indolence, or else of a very superfluous

fastidiousness.

My own opinion is, that no one is sufficiently learned who is not well

versed in the works written in our own language. Shall we not be as

willing to read—

Would that the pine, the pride of Pelion’s brow,

as the same idea when expressed in Greek? And is there any objection to

having the discussions which have been set out by Plato, on the subject of

living well and happily, arrayed in a Latin dress? And if we do not limit

ourselves to the office of translators, but maintain those arguments which

have been advanced by people with whom we argue, and add to them the

exposition of our own sentiments, and clothe the whole in our own

language, why then should people prefer the writings of the Greeks to

those things which are written by us in an elegant style, without being

translated from the works of Greek philosophers? For if they say that

these matters have been discussed by those foreign writers, then there

surely is no necessity for their reading such a number of those Greeks as

they do. For what article of Stoic doctrine has been passed over by

Chrysippus? And yet we read also Diogenes,(17) Antipater,(18)

Mnesarchus,(19) Panætius,(20) and many others, and especially the works of

my own personal friend Posidonius.(21) What shall we say of Theophrastus?

Is it but a moderate pleasure which he imparts to us while he is handling

the topics which had been previously dilated on by Aristotle? What shall

we say of the Epicureans? Do they pass over the subjects on which Epicurus

himself and other ancient writers have previously written, and forbear to

deliver their sentiments respecting them? But if Greek authors are read by

the Greeks, though discussing the same subjects over and over again,

because they deal with them in different manners, why should not the

writings of Roman authors be also read by our own countrymen?

III. Although if I were to translate Plato or Aristotle in as bold a

manner as our poets have translated the Greek plays, then, I suppose, I

should not deserve well at the hands of my fellow-countrymen, for having

brought those divine geniuses within their reach. However, that is not

what I have hitherto done, though I do not consider myself interdicted

from doing so. Some particular passages, if I think it desirable, I shall

translate, especially from those authors whom I have just named, when

there is an opportunity of doing so with propriety; just as Ennius often

translates passages from Homer, and Afranius(22) from Menander. Nor will

I, like Lucilius, make any objection to everybody reading my writings. I

should be glad to have that Persius(23) for one of my readers; and still

more to have Scipio and Rutilius; men whose criticism he professed to

fear, saying that he wrote for the people of Tarentum, and Consentia, and

Sicily. That was all very witty of him, and in his usual style; but still,

people at that time were not so learned as to give him cause to labour

much before he could encounter their judgment, and his writings are of a

lightish character, showing indeed, a high degree of good breeding, but

only a moderate quantity of learning. But whom can I fear to have read my

works when I ventured to address a book to you, who are not inferior to

the Greeks themselves in philosophical knowledge? Although I have this

excuse for what I am doing, that I have been challenged by you, in that to

me most acceptable book which you sent me “On Virtue.”

But I imagine that some people have become accustomed to feel a repugnance

to Latin writing because they have fallen in with some unpolished and

inelegant treatises translated from bad Greek into worse Latin. And with

those men I agree, provided they will not think it worth while to read the

Greek books written on the same subject. But who would object to read

works on important subjects expressed in well-selected diction, with

dignity and elegance; unless, indeed, he wishes to be taken absolutely for

a Greek, as Albucius was saluted at Athens by Scævola, when he was prætor?

And this topic has been handled by that same Lucilius with great elegance

and abundant wit; where he represents Scævola as saying—

You have preferr’d, Albucius, to be call’d

A Greek much rather than a Roman citizen

Or Sabine, countryman of Pontius,

Tritannius, and the brave centurions

And standard-bearers of immortal fame.

So now at Athens, I, the prætor, thus

Salute you as you wish, whene’er I see you,

With Greek address, ὦ χαῖρε noble Titus,

Ye lictors, and attendants χαίρετε.

ὦ χαῖρε noble Titus. From this day

The great Albucius was my enemy.

But surely Scævola was right. However, I can never sufficiently express my

wonder whence this arrogant disdain of everything national arose among us.

This is not exactly the place for lecturing on the subject; but my own

feelings are, and I have constantly urged them, that the Latin language is

not only not deficient, so as to deserve to be generally disparaged; but

that it is even more copious than the Greek. For when have either we

ourselves, or when has any good orator or noble poet, at least after there

was any one for him to imitate, found himself at a loss for any richness

or ornament of diction with which to set off his sentiments?

IV. And I myself (as I do not think that I can be accused of having, in my

forensic exertions, and labours, and dangers, deserted the post in which I

was stationed by the Roman people,) am bound, forsooth, to exert myself as

much as I can to render my fellow-countrymen more learned by my labours

and studies and diligence, and not so much to contend with those men who

prefer reading Greek works, provided that they really do read them, and do

not only pretend to do so; and to fall in also with the wishes of those

men who are desirous either to avail themselves of both languages, or who,

as long as they have good works in their own, do not care very much about

similar ones in a foreign tongue. But those men who would rather that I

would write on other topics should be reasonable, because I have already

composed so many works that no one of my countrymen has ever published

more, and perhaps I shall write even more if my life is prolonged so as to

allow me to do so. And yet, whoever accustoms himself to read with care

these things which I am now writing on the subject of philosophy, will

come to the conclusion that no works are better worth reading than these.

For what is there in life which deserves to be investigated so diligently

as every subject which belongs to philosophy, and especially that which is

discussed in this treatise, namely, what is the end, the object, the

standard to which all the ideas of living well and acting rightly are to

be referred? What it is that nature follows as the chief of all desirable

things? what she avoids as the principal of all evils?

And as on this subject there is great difference of opinion among the most

learned men, who can think it inconsistent with that dignity which every

one allows to belong to me, to examine what is in every situation in life

the best and truest good? Shall the chief men of the city, Publius Scævola

and Marcus Manilius argue whether the offspring of a female slave ought to

be considered the gain of the master of the slave; and shall Marcus Brutus

express his dissent from their opinion, (and this is a kind of discussion

giving great room for the display of acuteness, and one too that is of

importance as regards the citizens,) and do we read, and shall we continue

to read, with pleasure their writings on this subject, and the others of

the same sort, and at the same time neglect these subjects, which embrace

the whole of human life? There may, perhaps, be more money affected by

discussions on that legal point, but beyond all question, this of ours is

the more important subject: that, however, is a point which the readers

may be left to decide upon. But we now think that this whole question

about the ends of good and evil is, I may almost say, thoroughly explained

in this treatise, in which we have endeavoured to set forth as far as we

could, not only what our own opinion was, but also everything which has

been advanced by each separate school of philosophy.

V. To begin, however, with that which is easiest, we will first of all

take the doctrine of Epicurus, which is well known to most people; and you

shall see that it is laid down by us in such a way that it cannot be

explained more accurately even by the adherents of that sect themselves.

For we are desirous of ascertaining the truth; not of convicting some

adversary.

But the opinion of Epicurus about pleasure was formerly defended with

great precision by Lucius Torquatus, a man accomplished in every kind of

learning; and I myself replied to him, while Caius Triarius, a most

learned and worthy young man, was present at the discussion. For as it

happened that both of them had come to my villa near Cumæ to pay me a

visit, first of all we conversed a little about literature, to which they

were both of them greatly devoted; and after a while Torquatus said—Since

we have found you in some degree at leisure, I should like much to hear

from you why it is that you, I will not say hate our master Epicurus—as

most men do who differ from him in opinion—but still why you disagree with

him whom I consider as the only man who has discerned the real truth, and

who I think has delivered the minds of men from the greatest errors, and

has handed down every precept which can have any influence on making men

live well and happily. But I imagine that you, like my friend Triarius

here, like him the less because he neglected the ornaments of diction in

which Plato, and Aristotle, and Theophrastus indulged. For I can hardly be

persuaded to believe that the opinions which he entertained do not appear

to you to be correct. See now, said I, how far you are mistaken,

Torquatus. I am not offended with the language of that philosopher; for he

expresses his meaning openly and speaks in plain language, so that I can

understand him. Not, however, that I should object to eloquence in a

philosopher, if he were to think fit to employ it; though if he were not

possessed of it I should not require it. But I am not so well satisfied

with his matter, and that too on many topics. But there are as many

different opinions as there are men; and therefore we may be in error

ourselves. What is it, said he, in which you are dissatisfied with him?

For I consider you a candid judge; provided only that you are accurately

acquainted with what he has really said. Unless, said I, you think that

Phædrus or Zeno have spoken falsely (and I have heard them both lecture,

though they gave me a high opinion of nothing but their own diligence,)

all the doctrines of Epicurus are quite sufficiently known to me. And I

have repeatedly, in company with my friend Atticus, attended the lectures

of those men whom I have named; as he had a great admiration for both of

them, and an especial affection even for Phædrus. And every day we used to

talk over what we heard, nor was there ever any dispute between us as to

whether I understood the scope of their arguments; but only whether I

approved of them.

VI. What is it, then, said he, which you do not approve of in them, for I

am very anxious to hear? In the first place, said I, he is utterly wrong

in natural philosophy, which is his principal boast. He only makes some

additions to the doctrine of Democritus, altering very little, and that in

such a way that he seems to me to make those points worse which he

endeavours to correct. He believes that atoms, as he calls them, that is

to say bodies which by reason of their solidity are indivisible, are borne

about in an interminable vacuum, destitute of any highest, or lowest, or

middle, or furthest, or nearest boundary, in such a manner that by their

concourse they cohere together; by which cohesion everything which exists

and which is seen is formed. And he thinks that motion of atoms should be

understood never to have had a beginning, but to have subsisted from all

eternity.

But in those matters in which Epicurus follows Democritus, he is usually

not very wrong. Although there are many assertions of each with which I

disagree, and especially with this—that as in the nature of things there

are two points which must be inquired into,—one, what the material out of

which everything is made, is; the other, what the power is which makes

everything,—they discussed only the material, and omitted all

consideration of the efficient power and cause. However, that is a fault

common to both of them; but these blunders which I am going to mention are

Epicurus’s own.

For he thinks that those indivisible and solid bodies are borne downwards

by their own weight in a straight line; and that this is the natural

motion of all bodies. After this assertion, that shrewd man,—as it

occurred to him, that if everything were borne downwards in a straight

line, as I have just said, it would be quite impossible for one atom ever

to touch another,—on this account he introduced another purely imaginary

idea, and said that the atoms diverged a little from the straight line,

which is the most impossible thing in the world. And he asserted that it

is in this way that all those embraces, and conjunctions, and unions of

the atoms with one another took place, by which the world was made, and

all the parts of the world, and all that is in the world. And not only is

all this idea perfectly childish, but it fails in effecting its object.

For this very divergence is invented in a most capricious manner, (for he

says that each atom diverges without any cause,) though nothing can be

more discreditable to a natural philosopher than to say that anything

takes place without a cause; and also, without any reason, he deprives

atoms of that motion which is natural to every body of any weight (as he

himself lays it down) which goes downwards from the upper regions; and at

the same time he does not obtain the end for the sake of which he invented

all these theories.

For if every atom diverges equally, still none will ever meet with one

another so as to cohere; but if some diverge, and others are borne

straight down by their natural inclination, in the first place this will

be distributing provinces as it were among the atoms, and dividing them so

that some are borne down straight, and others obliquely; and in the next

place, this turbulent concourse of atoms, which is a blunder of Democritus

also, will never be able to produce this beautifully ornamented world

which we see around us. Even this, too, is inconsistent with the

principles of natural philosophy, to believe that there is such a thing as

a minimum; a thing which he indeed never would have fancied, if he had

been willing to learn geometry from his friend Polyænus,(24) instead of

seeking to persuade him to give it up himself.

The sun appears to Democritus to be of vast size, as he is a man of

learning and of a profound knowledge of geometry. Epicurus perhaps thinks

that it is two feet across, for he thinks it of just that size which it

appears to be, or perhaps a little larger or smaller. So what he changes

he spoils; what he accepts comes entirely from Democritus,—the atoms, the

vacuum, the appearances, which they call εἴδωλα, to the inroads of which

it is owing not only that we see, but also that we think; and all that

infiniteness, which they call ἀπειρία, is borrowed from Democritus; and

also the innumerable worlds which are produced and perish every day. And

although I cannot possibly agree myself with all those fancies, still I

should not like to see Democritus, who is praised by every one else,

blamed by this man who has followed him alone.

VII. And as for the second part of philosophy, which belongs to

investigating and discussing, and which is called λογικὴ, there your

master as it seems to me is wholly unarmed and defenceless. He abolishes

definitions; he lays down no rules for division and partition; he gives no

method for drawing conclusions or establishing principles; he does not

point out how captious objections may be refuted, or ambiguous terms

explained. He places all our judgments of things in our senses; and if

they are once led to approve of anything false as if it were true, then he

thinks that there is an end to all our power of distinguishing between

truth and falsehood.

But in the third part, which relates to life and manners, with respect to

establishing the end of our actions, he utters not one single generous or

noble sentiment. He lays down above all others the principle, that nature

has but two things as objects of adoption and aversion, namely, pleasure

and pain: and he refers all our pursuits, and all our desires to avoid

anything, to one of these two heads. And although this is the doctrine of

Aristippus, and is maintained in a better manner and with more freedom by

the Cyrenaics, still I think it a principle of such a kind that nothing

can appear more unworthy of a man. For, in my opinion, nature has produced

and formed us for greater and higher purposes. It is possible, indeed,

that I may be mistaken; but my opinion is decided that that Torquatus, who

first acquired that name, did not tear the chain from off his enemy for

the purpose of procuring any corporeal pleasure to himself; and that he

did not, in his third consulship, fight with the Latins at the foot of

Mount Vesuvius for the sake of any personal pleasure. And when he caused

his son to be executed, he appears to have even deprived himself of many

pleasures, by thus preferring the claims of his dignity and command to

nature herself and the dictates of fatherly affection. What need I say

more? Take Titus Torquatus, him I mean who was consul with Cnæus Octavius;

when he behaved with such severity towards that son whom he had allowed

Decimus Silanus to adopt as his own, as to command him, when the

ambassadors of the Macedonians accused him of having taken bribes in his

province while he was prætor, to plead his cause before his tribunal: and,

when he had heard the cause on both sides, to pronounce that he had not in

his command behaved after the fashion of his forefathers, and to forbid

him ever to appear in his sight again; does he seem to you to have given a

thought to his own pleasure?

However, to say nothing of the dangers, and labours, and even of the pain

which every virtuous man willingly encounters on behalf of his country, or

of his family, to such a degree that he not only does not seek for, but

even disregards all pleasures, and prefers even to endure any pain

whatever rather than to forsake any part of his duty; let us come to those

things which show this equally, but which appear of less importance. What

pleasure do you, O Torquatus, what pleasure does this Triarius derive from

literature, and history, and the knowledge of events, and the reading of

poets, and his wonderful recollection of such numbers of verses? And do

not say to me, Why all these things are a pleasure to me. So, too, were

those noble actions to the Torquati. Epicurus never asserts this in this

manner; nor would you, O Triarius, nor any man who had any wisdom, or who

had ever imbibed those principles. And as to the question which is often

asked, why there are so many Epicureans—there are several reasons; but

this is the one which is most seductive to the multitude, namely, that

people imagine that what he asserts is that those things which are right

and honourable do of themselves produce joy, that is, pleasure. Those

excellent men do not perceive that the whole system is overturned if that

is the case. For if it were once granted, even although there were no

reference whatever to the body, that these things were naturally and

intrinsically pleasant; then virtue and knowledge would be intrinsically

desirable. And this is the last thing which he would choose to admit.

These principles, then, of Epicurus, I say, I do not approve of. As for

other matters, I wish either that he himself had been a greater master of

learning, (for he is, as you yourself cannot help seeing, not sufficiently

accomplished in those branches of knowledge which men possess who are

accounted learned,) or at all events that he had not deterred others from

the study of literature: although I see that you yourself have not been at

all deterred from such pursuits by him.

VIII. And when I had said this, more for the purpose of exciting him than

of speaking myself, Triarius, smiling gently, said,—You, indeed, have

almost entirely expelled Epicurus from the number of philosophers. For

what have you left him except the assertion that, whatever his language

might he, you understood what he meant? He has in natural philosophy said

nothing but what is borrowed from others, and even then nothing which you

approved of. If he has tried to amend anything he has made it worse. He

had no skill whatever in disputing. When he laid down the rule that

pleasure was the chief good, in the first place he was very short-sighted

in making such an assertion; and secondly, even this very doctrine was a

borrowed one; for Aristippus had said the same thing before, and better

too. You added, at last, that he was also destitute of learning.

It is quite impossible, O Triarius, I replied, for a person not to state

what he disapproves of in the theory of a man with whom he disagrees. For

what could hinder me from being an Epicurean if I approved of what

Epicurus says? especially when it would be an amusement to learn his

doctrines. Wherefore, a man is not to be blamed for reproving those who

differ from one another; but evil speaking, contumely, ill-temper,

contention, and pertinacious violence in disputing, generally appear to me

quite unworthy of philosophy.

I quite agree with you, said Torquatus; for one cannot dispute at all

without finding fault with your antagonist; but on the other hand you

cannot dispute properly if you do so with ill-temper or with pertinacity.

But, if you have no objection, I have an answer to make to these

assertions of yours. Do you suppose, said I, that I should have said what

I have said if I did not desire to hear what you had to say too? Would you

like then, says he, that I should go through the whole theory of Epicurus,

or that we should limit our present inquiry to pleasure by itself; which

is what the whole of the present dispute relates to? We will do, said I,

whichever you please. That then, said he, shall be my present course. I

will explain one matter only, being the most important one. At another

time I will discuss the question of natural philosophy; and I will prove

to you the theory of the divergence of the atoms, and of the magnitude of

the sun, and that Democritus committed many errors which were found fault

with and corrected by Epicurus. At present, I will confine myself to

pleasure; not that I am saying anything new, but still I will adduce

arguments which I feel sure that even you yourself will approve of.

Undoubtedly, said I, I will not be obstinate; and I will willingly agree

with you if you will only prove your assertions to my satisfaction. I will

prove them, said he, provided only that you are as impartial as you

profess yourself: but I would rather employ a connected discourse than

keep on asking or being asked questions. As you please, said I.

On this he began to speak;—

IX. First of all then, said he, I will proceed in the manner which is

sanctioned by the founder of this school: I will lay down what that is

which is the subject of our inquiry, and what its character is: not that I

imagine that you do not know, but in order that my discourse may proceed

in a systematic and orderly manner. We are inquiring, then, what is the

end,—what is the extreme point of good, which, in the opinion of all

philosophers, ought to be such that everything can be referred to it, but

that it itself can be referred to nothing. This Epicurus places in

pleasure, which he argues is the chief good, and that pain is the chief

evil; and he proceeds to prove his assertion thus. He says that every

animal the moment that it is born seeks for pleasure, and rejoices in it

as the chief good; and rejects pain as the chief evil, and wards it off

from itself as far as it can; and that it acts in this manner, without

having been corrupted by anything, under the promptings of nature herself,

who forms this uncorrupt and upright judgment. Therefore, he affirms that

there is no need of argument or of discussion as to why pleasure is to be

sought for, and pain to be avoided. This he thinks a matter of sense, just

as much as that fire is hot, snow white, honey sweet; none of which

propositions he thinks require to be confirmed by laboriously sought

reasons, but that it is sufficient merely to state them. For that there is

a difference between arguments and conclusions arrived at by

ratiocination, and ordinary observations and statements:—by the first,

secret and obscure principles are explained; by the second, matters which

are plain and easy are brought to decision. For since, if you take away

sense from a man, there is nothing left to him, it follows of necessity

that what is contrary to nature, or what agrees with it, must be left to

nature herself to decide. Now what does she perceive, or what does she

determine on as her guide to seek or to avoid anything, except pleasure

and pain? But there are some of our school who seek to carry out this

doctrine with more acuteness, and who will not allow that it is sufficient

that it should be decided by sense what is good and what is bad, but who

assert that these points can be ascertained by intellect and reason also,

and that pleasure is to be sought for on its own account, and that pain

also is to be avoided for the same reason.

Therefore, they say that this notion is implanted in our minds naturally

and instinctively, as it were; so that we _feel_ that the one is to be

sought for, and the other to be avoided. Others, however, (and this is my

own opinion too,) assert that, as many reasons are alleged by many

philosophers why pleasure ought not to be reckoned among goods, nor pain

among evils, we ought not to rely too much on the goodness of our cause,

but that we should use arguments, and discuss the point with precision,

and argue, by the help of carefully collected reasons, about pleasure and

about pain.

X. But that you may come to an accurate perception of the source whence

all this error originated of those people who attack pleasure and extol

pain, I will unfold the whole matter; and I will lay before you the very

statements which have been made by that discoverer of the truth, and

architect, as it were, of a happy life. For no one either despises, or

hates, or avoids pleasure itself merely because it is pleasure, but

because great pains overtake those men who do not understand how to pursue

pleasure in a reasonable manner. Nor is there any one who loves, or

pursues, or wishes to acquire pain because it is pain, but because

sometimes such occasions arise that a man attains to some great pleasure

through labour and pain. For, to descend to trifles, who of us ever

undertakes any laborious exertion of body except in order to gain some

advantage by so doing? and who is there who could fairly blame a man who

should wish to be in that state of pleasure which no annoyance can

interrupt, or one who shuns that pain by which no subsequent pleasure is

procured? But we do accuse those men, and think them entirely worthy of

the greatest hatred, who, being made effeminate and corrupted by the

allurements of present pleasure, are so blinded by passion that they do

not foresee what pains and annoyances they will hereafter be subject to;

and who are equally guilty with those who, through weakness of mind, that

is to say, from eagerness to avoid labour and pain, desert their duty.

And the distinction between these things is quick and easy. For at a time

when we are free, when the option of choice is in our own power, and when

there is nothing to prevent our being able to do whatever we choose, then

every pleasure may be enjoyed, and every pain repelled. But on particular

occasions it will often happen, owing either to the obligations of duty or

the necessities of business, that pleasures must be declined and

annoyances must not be shirked. Therefore the wise man holds to this

principle of choice in those matters, that he rejects some pleasures, so

as, by the rejection, to obtain others which are greater, and encounters

some pains, so as by that means to escape others which are more

formidable.

Now, as these are my sentiments, what reason can I have for fearing that I

may not be able to accommodate our Torquati to them—men whose examples you

just now quoted from memory, with a kind and friendly feeling towards us?

However, you have not bribed me by praising my ancestors, nor made me less

prompt in replying to you. But I should like to know from you how you

interpret their actions? Do you think that they attacked the enemy with

such feelings, or that they were so severe to their children and to their

own blood as to have no thought of their own advantage, or of what might

be useful to themselves? But even wild beasts do not do that, and do not

rush about and cause confusion in such a way that we cannot understand

what is the object of their motions. And do you think that such

illustrious men performed such great actions without a reason? What their

reason was I will examine presently; in the meantime I will lay down this

rule,—If there was any reason which instigated them to do those things

which are undoubtedly splendid exploits, then virtue by herself was not

the sole cause of their conduct. One man tore a chain from off his enemy,

and at the same time he defended himself from being slain; but he

encountered great danger. Yes, but it was before the eyes of the whole

army. What did he get by that? Glory, and the affection of his countrymen,

which are the surest bulwarks to enable a man to pass his life without

fear. He put his son to death by the hand of the executioner. If he did so

without any reason, then I should be sorry to be descended from so inhuman

and merciless a man. But if his object was to establish military

discipline and obedience to command, at the price of his own anguish, and

at a time of a most formidable war to restrain his army by the fear of

punishment, then he was providing for the safety of his fellow-citizens,

which he was well aware embraced his own. And this principle is one of

extensive application. For the very point respecting which your whole

school, and yourself most especially, who are such a diligent investigator

of ancient instances, are in the habit of vaunting yourself and using

high-flown language, namely, the mention of brave and illustrious men, and

the extolling of their actions, as proceeding not from any regard to

advantage, but from pure principles of honour and a love of glory, is

entirely upset, when once that rule in the choice of things is established

which I mentioned just now,—namely, that pleasures are passed over for the

sake of obtaining other greater pleasures, or that pains are encountered

with a view to escape greater pains.

XI. But, however, for the present we have said enough about the

illustrious and glorious actions of celebrated men; for there will be,

hereafter, a very appropriate place for discussing the tendency of all the

virtues to procure pleasure.

But, at present, I will explain what pleasure itself is, and what its

character is; so as to do away with all the mistakes of ignorant people,

and in order that it may be clearly understood how dignified, and

temperate, and virtuous that system is, which is often accounted

voluptuous, effeminate, and delicate. For we are not at present pursuing

that pleasure alone which moves nature itself by a certain sweetness, and

which is perceived by the senses with a certain pleasurable feeling; but

we consider that the greatest of all pleasures which is felt when all pain

is removed. For since, when we are free from pain, we rejoice in that very

freedom itself, and in the absence of all annoyance,—but everything which

is a cause of our rejoicing is pleasure, just as everything that gives us

offence is pain,—accordingly, the absence of all pain is rightly

denominated pleasure. For, as when hunger and thirst are driven away by

meat and drink, the very removal of the annoyance brings with it the

attainment of pleasure, so, in every case, the removal of pain produces

the succession of pleasure. And therefore Epicurus would not admit that

there was any intermediate state between pleasure and pain; for he

insisted that that very state which seems to some people the intermediate

one, when a man is free from every sort of pain, is not only pleasure, but

the highest sort of pleasure. For whoever feels how he is affected must

inevitably be either in a state of pleasure or in a state of pain. But

Epicurus thinks that the highest pleasure consists in an absence of all

pains; so that pleasure may afterwards be varied, and may be of different

kinds, but cannot be increased or amplified.

And even at Athens, as I have heard my father say, when he was jesting in

a good-humoured and facetious way upon the Stoics, there is a statue in

the Ceramicus of Chrysippus, sitting down with his hand stretched out; and

this attitude of the hand intimates that he is amusing himself with this

brief question, “Does your hand, while in that condition in which it is at

present, want anything?”—Nothing at all. But if pleasure were a good,

would it want it? I suppose so. Pleasure, then, is not a good. And my

father used to say that even a statue would not say this if it could

speak. For the conclusion was drawn as against the Stoics with sufficient

acuteness, but it did not concern Epicurus. For if that were the only

pleasure which tickled the senses, as it were, if I may say so, and which

overflowed and penetrated them with a certain agreeable feeling, then even

a hand could not be content with freedom from pain without some pleasing

motion of pleasure. But if the highest pleasure is, as Epicurus asserts,

to be free from pain, then, O Chrysippus, the first admission was

correctly made to you, that the hand, when it was in that condition, was

in want of nothing; but the second admission was not equally correct, that

if pleasure were a good it would wish for it. For it would not wish for it

for this reason, inasmuch as whatever is free from pain is in pleasure.

XII. But that pleasure is the boundary of all good things may be easily

seen from this consideration. Let us imagine a person enjoying pleasures

great, numerous, and perpetual, both of mind and body, with no pain either

interrupting him at present or impending over him; what condition can we

call superior to or more desirable than this? For it is inevitable that

there must be in a man who is in this condition a firmness of mind which

fears neither death nor pain, because death is void of all sensation; and

pain, if it is of long duration, is a trifle, while if severe it is

usually of brief duration; so that its brevity is a consolation if it is

violent, and its trifling nature if it is enduring. And when there is

added to these circumstances that such a man has no fear of the deity of

the gods, and does not suffer past pleasures to be entirely lost, but

delights himself with the continued recollection of them, what can be

added to this which will be any improvement to it?

Imagine, on the other hand, any one worn out with the greatest pains of

mind and body which can possibly befal a man, without any hope being held

out to him that they will hereafter be lighter, when, besides, he has no

pleasure whatever either present or expected; what can be spoken of or

imagined more miserable than this? But if a life entirely filled with

pains is above all things to be avoided, then certainly that is the

greatest of evils to live in pain. And akin to this sentiment is the

other, that it is the most extreme good to live with pleasure. For our

mind has no other point where it can stop as at a boundary; and all fears

and distresses are referable to pain: nor is there anything whatever

besides, which of its own intrinsic nature can make us anxious or grieve

us. Moreover, the beginnings of desiring and avoiding, and indeed

altogether of everything which we do, take their rise either in pleasure

or pain. And as this is the case, it is plain that everything which is

right and laudable has reference to this one object of living with

pleasure. And since that is the highest, or extreme, or greatest good,

which the Greeks call τέλος, because it is referred to nothing else

itself, but everything is referred to it, we must confess that the highest

good is to live agreeably.

XIII. And those who place this in virtue alone, and, being caught by the

splendour of a name, do not understand what nature requires, will be

delivered from the greatest blunder imaginable if they will listen to

Epicurus. For unless those excellent and beautiful virtues which your

school talks about produced pleasure, who would think them either

praiseworthy or desirable? For as we esteem the skill of physicians not

for the sake of the art itself, but from our desire for good health,—and

as the skill of the pilot, who has the knowledge how to navigate a vessel

well, is praised with reference to its utility, and not to his ability,—so

wisdom, which should be considered the art of living, would not be sought

after if it effected nothing; but at present it is sought after because it

is, as it were, the efficient cause of pleasure, which is a legitimate

object of desire and acquisition. And now you understand what pleasure I

mean, so that what I say may not be brought into odium from my using an

unpopular word. For as the chief annoyances to human life proceed from

ignorance of what things are good and what bad, and as by reason of that

mistake men are often deprived of the greatest pleasures, and tortured by

the most bitter grief of mind, we have need to exercise wisdom, which, by

removing groundless alarms and vain desires, and by banishing the rashness

of all erroneous opinions, offers herself to us as the surest guide to

pleasure. For it is wisdom alone which expels sorrow from our minds, and

prevents our shuddering with fear: she is the instructress who enables us

to live in tranquillity, by extinguishing in us all vehemence of desire.

For desires are insatiable, and ruin not only individuals but entire

families, and often overturn the whole state. From desires arise hatred,

dissensions, quarrels, seditions, wars. Nor is it only out of doors that

these passions vent themselves, nor is it only against others that they

run with blind violence; but they are often shut up, as it were, in the

mind, and throw that into confusion with their disagreements.

And the consequence of this is, to make life thoroughly wretched; so that

the wise man is the only one who, having cut away all vanity and error,

and removed it from him, can live contented within the boundaries of

nature, without melancholy and without fear. For what diversion can be

either more useful or more adapted for human life than that which Epicurus

employed? For he laid it down that there were three kinds of desires; the

first, such as were natural and necessary; the second, such as were

natural but not necessary; the third, such as were neither natural nor

necessary. And these are all such, that those which are necessary are

satisfied without much trouble or expense: even those which are natural

and not necessary, do not require a great deal, because nature itself

makes the riches, which are sufficient to content it, easy of acquisition

and of limited quantity: but as for vain desires, it is impossible to find

any limit to, or any moderation in them.

XIV. But if we see that the whole life of man is thrown into disorder by

error and ignorance; and that wisdom is the only thing which can relieve

us from the sway of the passions and the fear of danger, and which can

teach us to bear the injuries of fortune itself with moderation, and which

shows us all the ways which lead to tranquillity and peace; what reason is

there that we should hesitate to say that wisdom is to be sought for the

sake of pleasure, and that folly is to be avoided on account of its

annoyances? And on the same principle we shall say that even temperance is

not to be sought for its own sake, but because it brings peace to the

mind, and soothes and tranquillizes them by what I may call a kind of

concord. For temperance is that which warns us to follow reason in

desiring or avoiding anything. Nor is it sufficient to decide what ought

to be done, and what ought not; but we must adhere to what has been

decided. But many men, because they are enfeebled and subdued the moment

pleasure comes in sight, and so are unable to keep and adhere to the

determination they have formed, give themselves up to be bound hand and

foot by their lusts, and do not foresee what will happen to them; and in

that way, on account of some pleasure which is trivial and unnecessary,

and which might be procured in some other manner, and which they could

dispense with without annoyance, incur terrible diseases, and injuries,

and disgrace, and are often even involved in the penalties of the legal

tribunals of their country.

But these men who wish to enjoy pleasure in such a way that no grief shall

ever overtake them in consequence, and who retain their judgment so as

never to be overcome by pleasure as to do what they feel ought not to be

done; these men, I say, obtain the greatest pleasure by passing pleasure

by. They often even endure pain, in order to avoid encountering greater

pain hereafter by their shunning it at present. From which consideration

it is perceived that intemperance is not to be avoided for its own sake;

and that temperance is to be sought for, not because it avoids pleasures,

but because it attains to greater ones.

XV. The same principle will be found to hold good with respect to courage.

For the discharge of labours and the endurance of pain are neither of them

intrinsically tempting; nor is patience, nor diligence, nor watchfulness,

nor industry which is so much extolled, nor even courage itself: but we

cultivate these habits in order that we may live without care and fear,

and may be able, as far as is in our power, to release our minds and

bodies from annoyance. For as the whole condition of tranquil life is

thrown into confusion by the fear of death, and as it is a miserable thing

to yield to pain and to bear it with a humble and imbecile mind; and as on

account of that weakness of mind many men have ruined their parents, many

men their friends, some their country, and very many indeed have utterly

undone themselves; so a vigorous and lofty mind is free from all care and

pain, since it despises death, which only places those who encounter it in

the same condition as that in which they were before they were born; and

it is so prepared for pain that it recollects that the very greatest are

terminated by death, and that slight pains have many intervals of rest,

and that we can master moderate ones, so as to bear them if they are

tolerable, and if not, we can depart with equanimity out of life, just as

out of a theatre, when it no longer pleases us. By all which

considerations it is understood that cowardice and idleness are not

blamed, and that courage and patience are not praised, for their own

sakes; but that the one line of conduct is rejected as the parent of pain,

and the other desired as the author of pleasure.

XVI. Justice remains to be mentioned, that I may not omit any virtue

whatever; but nearly the same things may be said respecting that. For, as

I have already shown that wisdom, temperance, and fortitude are connected

with pleasure in such a way that they cannot possibly be separated or

divided from it, so also we must consider that it is the case with

justice. Which not only never injures any one; but on the contrary always

nourishes something which tranquillizes the mind, partly by its own power

and nature, and partly by the hopes that nothing will be wanting of those

things which a nature not depraved may fairly derive.

Since rashness and lust and idleness always torture the mind, always make

it anxious, and are of a turbulent character, so too, wherever injustice

settles in any man’s mind, it is turbulent from the mere fact of its

existence and presence there; and if it forms any plan, although it

executes it ever so secretly, still it never believes that what has been

done will be concealed for ever. For generally, when wicked men do

anything, first of all suspicion overtakes their actions; then the common

conversation and report of men; then the prosecutor and the judge; and

many even, as was the case when you were consul, have given information

against themselves. But if any men appear to themselves to be sufficiently

fenced round and protected from the consciousness of men, still they dread

the knowledge of the Gods, and think that those very anxieties by which

their minds are eaten up night and day, are inflicted upon them by the

immortal Gods for the sake of punishment. And how is it possible that

wicked actions can ever have as much influence towards alleviating the

annoyances of life, as they must have towards increasing them from the

consciousness of our actions, and also from the punishments inflicted by

the laws and the hatred of the citizens? And yet, in some people, there is

no moderation in their passion for money and for honour and for command,

or in their lusts and greediness and other desires, which acquisitions,

however wickedly made, do not at all diminish, but rather inflame, so that

it seems we ought rather to restrain such men than to think that we can

teach them better. Therefore sound wisdom invites sensible men to justice,

equity, and good faith. And unjust actions are not advantageous even to

that man who has no abilities or resources; inasmuch as he cannot easily

do what he endeavours to do, nor obtain his objects if he does succeed in

his endeavours. And the gifts of fortune and of genius are better suited

to liberality; and those who practise this virtue gain themselves

goodwill, and affection, which is the most powerful of all things to

enable a man to live with tranquillity; especially when he has absolutely

no motive at all for doing wrong.

For those desires which proceed from nature are easily satisfied without

any injustice; but those which are vain ought not to be complied with. For

they desire nothing which is really desirable; and there is more

disadvantage in the mere fact of injustice than there is advantage in what

is acquired by the injustice. Therefore a person would not be right who

should pronounce even justice intrinsically desirable for its own sake;

but because it brings the greatest amount of what is agreeable. For to be

loved and to be dear to others is agreeable because it makes life safer,

and pleasure more abundant. Therefore we think dishonesty should be

avoided, not only on account of those disadvantages which befal the

wicked, but even much more because it never permits the man in whose mind

it abides to breathe freely, and never lets him rest.

But if the praise of those identical virtues in which the discourse of all

other philosophers so especially exults, cannot find any end unless it be

directed towards pleasure, and if pleasure be the only thing which calls

and allures us to itself by its own nature; then it cannot be doubtful

that that is the highest and greatest of all goods, and that to live

happily is nothing else except to live with pleasure.

XVII. And I will now explain in a few words the things which are

inseparably connected with this sure and solid opinion.

There is no mistake with respect to the ends themselves of good and evil,

that is to say, with respect to pleasure and pain; but men err in these

points when they do not know what they are caused by. But we admit that

the pleasures and pains of the mind are caused by the pleasures and pains

of the body. Therefore I grant what you were saying just now, that if any

philosophers of our school think differently (and I see that many men do

so, but they are ignorant people) they must be convicted of error. But

although pleasure of mind brings us joy, and pain causes us grief, it is

still true that each of these feelings originates in the body, and is

referred to the body; and it does not follow on that account that both the

pleasures and pains of the mind are not much more important than those of

the body. For with the body we are unable to feel anything which is not

actually existent and present; but with our mind we feel things past and

things to come. For although when we are suffering bodily pain, we are

equally in pain in our minds, still a very great addition may be made to

that if we believe that any endless and boundless evil is impending over

us. And we may transfer this assertion to pleasure, so that that will be

greater if we have no such fear.

This now is entirely evident, that the very greatest pleasure or annoyance

of the mind contributes more to making life happy or miserable than either

of these feelings can do if it is in the body for an equal length of time.

But we do not agree that, if pleasure be taken away, grief follows

immediately, unless by chance it happens that pain has succeeded and taken

the place of pleasure; but, on the other hand, we affirm that men do

rejoice at getting rid of pain even if no pleasure which can affect the

senses succeeds. And from this it may be understood how great a pleasure

it is not to be in pain. But as we are roused by those good things which

we are in expectation of, so we rejoice at those which we recollect. But

foolish men are tortured by the recollection of past evils; wise men are

delighted by the memory of past good things, which are thus renewed by the

agreeable recollection. But there is a feeling implanted in us by which we

bury adversity as it were in a perpetual oblivion, but dwell with pleasure

and delight on the recollection of good fortune. But when with eager and

attentive minds we dwell on what is past, the consequence is, that

melancholy ensues, if the past has been unprosperous; but joy, if it has

been fortunate.

XVIII. Oh what a splendid, and manifest, and simple, and plain way of

living well! For as certainly nothing could be better for man than to be

free from all pain and annoyance, and to enjoy the greatest pleasures of

both mind and body, do you not see how nothing is omitted which can aid

life, so as to enable men more easily to arrive at that chief good which

is their object! Epicurus cries out—the very man whom you pronounce to be

too devoted to pleasure—that man cannot live agreeably, unless he lives

honourably, justly, and wisely; and that, if he lives wisely, honourably,

and justly, it is impossible that he should not live agreeably. For a city

in sedition cannot be happy, nor can a house in which the masters are

quarrelling. So that a mind which disagrees and quarrels with itself,

cannot taste any portion of clear and unrestrained pleasure. And a man who

is always giving in to pursuits and plans which are inconsistent with and

contrary to one another, can never know any quiet or tranquillity.

But if the pleasure of life is hindered by the graver diseases of the

body, how much more must it be so by those of the mind? But the diseases

of the mind are boundless and vain desires of riches, or glory, or

domination, or even of lustful pleasures. Besides these there are

melancholy, annoyance, sorrow, which eat up and destroy with anxiety the

minds of those men who do not understand that the mind ought not to grieve

about anything which is unconnected with some present or future pain of

body. Nor is there any fool who does not suffer under some one of these

diseases. Therefore there is no fool who is not miserable. Besides these

things there is death, which is always hanging over us as his rock is over

Tantalus; and superstition, a feeling which prevents any one who is imbued

with it from ever enjoying tranquillity. Besides, such men as they do not

recollect their past good fortune, do not enjoy what is present, but do

nothing but expect what is to come; and as that cannot be certain, they

wear themselves out with grief and apprehension, and are tormented most

especially when they find out, after it is too late, that they have

devoted themselves to the pursuit of money, or authority, or power, or

glory, to no purpose. For they have acquired no pleasures, by the hope of

enjoying which it was that they were inflamed to undertake so many great

labours. There are others, of little and narrow minds, either always

despairing of everything, or else malcontent, envious, ill-tempered,

churlish, calumnious, and morose; others devoted to amatory pleasures,

others petulant, others audacious, wanton, intemperate, or idle, never

continuing in the same opinion; on which account there is never any

interruption to the annoyances to which their life is exposed.

Therefore, there is no fool who is happy, and no wise man who is not. And

we put this much more forcibly and truly than the Stoics: for they assert

that there is no good whatever, but some imaginary shadow which they call

τὸ καλὸν, a name showy rather than substantial; and they insist upon it,

that virtue relying on this principle of honour stands in need of no

pleasure, and is content with its own resources as adequate to secure a

happy life.

XIX. However, these assertions may be to a certain extent made not only

without our objecting to them, but even with our concurrence and

agreement. For in this way the wise man is represented by Epicurus as

always happy. He has limited desires; he disregards death; he has a true

opinion concerning the immortal Gods without any fear; he does not

hesitate, if it is better for him, to depart from life. Being prepared in

this manner, and armed with these principles, he is always in the

enjoyment of pleasure; nor is there any period when he does not feel more

pleasure than pain. For he remembers the past with gratitude, and he

enjoys the present so as to notice how important and how delightful the

joys which it supplies are; nor does he depend on future good, but he

waits for that and enjoys the present; and is as far removed as possible

from those vices which I have enumerated; and when he compares the life of

fools to his own he feels great pleasure. And pain, if any does attack

him, has never such power that the wise man has not more to rejoice at

than to be grieved at.

But Epicurus does admirably in saying that fortune has but little power

over the wise man, and that the greatest and most important events of such

a man’s life are managed by his own wisdom and prudence; and that greater

pleasure cannot be derived from an eternity of life than such a man enjoys

from this life which we see to be limited.

But in your dialectics he thought that there was no power which could

contribute either to enable men to live better, or argue more

conveniently. To natural philosophy he attributed a great deal of

importance. For by the one science it is only the meaning of words and the

character of a speech, and the way in which arguments follow from or are

inconsistent with one another, that can be seen; but if the nature of all

things is known, we are by that knowledge relieved from superstition,

released from the fear of death, exempted from being perplexed by our

ignorance of things, from which ignorance horrible fears often arise.

Lastly, we shall be improved in our morals when we have learnt what nature

requires. Moreover, if we have an accurate knowledge of things, preserving

that rule which has fallen from heaven as it were for the knowledge of all

things, by which all our judgments of things are to be regulated, we shall

never abandon our opinions because of being overcome by any one’s

eloquence.

For unless the nature of things is thoroughly known, we shall have no

means by which we can defend the judgments formed by our senses. Moreover,

whatever we discern by our intellect, all arises from the senses. And if

our senses are all correct, as the theory of Epicurus affirms, then

something may be discerned and understood accurately; but as to those men

who deny the power of the senses, and say that nothing can be known by

them, those very men, if the senses are discarded, will be unable to

explain that very point which they are arguing about. Besides, if all

knowledge and science is put out of the question, then there is an end

also of all settled principles of living and of doing anything.

Thus, by means of natural philosophy, courage is desired to withstand the

fear of death, and constancy to put aside the claims engendered by

superstition; and by removing ignorance of all secret things, tranquillity

of mind is produced; and by explaining the nature of desires and their

different kinds, we get moderation: and (as I just now explained) by means

of this rule of knowledge, and of the judgment which is established and

corrected by it, the power of distinguishing truth from falsehood is put

into man’s hands.

XX. There remains a topic necessary above all others to this discussion,

that of friendship, namely: which you, if pleasure is the chief good,

affirm to have no existence at all. Concerning which Epicurus speaks thus:

"That of all the things which wisdom has collected to enable man to live

happily, nothing is more important, more influential, or more delightful

than friendship." Nor did he prove this assertion by words only, but still

more by his life, and conduct, and actions. And how important a thing it

is, the fables of the ancients abundantly intimate, in which, many and

varied as they are, and traced back to the remotest antiquity, scarcely

three pairs of friends are found, even if you begin as far back as

Theseus, and come down to Orestes. But in one single house, and that a

small one, what great crowds of friends did Epicurus collect, and how

strong was the bond of affection that held them together! And this is the

case even now among the Epicureans. However, let us return to our subject:

it is not necessary for us to be discussing men.

I see, then, that the philosophers of our school have treated the question

of friendship in three ways. Some, as they denied that those pleasures

which concerned our friends were to be sought with as much eagerness for

their own sake, as we display in seeking our own, (by pressing which topic

some people think that the stability of friendship is endangered,)

maintain that doctrine resolutely, and, as I think, easily explain it.

For, as in the case of the virtues which I have already mentioned, so too

they deny that friendship can ever be separated from pleasure. For, as a

life which is solitary and destitute of friends is full of treachery and

alarm, reason itself warns us to form friendships. And when such are

formed, then our minds are strengthened, and cannot be drawn away from the

hope of attaining pleasure. And as hatred, envy, and contempt are all

opposed to pleasures, so friendships are not only the most faithful

favourers, but also are the efficient causes of pleasures to one’s friends

as well as to oneself; and men not only enjoy those pleasures at the

moment, but are also roused by hopes of subsequent and future time. And as

we cannot possibly maintain a lasting and continued happiness of life

without friendship, nor maintain friendship itself unless we love our

friends and ourselves equally, therefore this very effect is produced in

friendship, and friendship is combined with pleasure.

For we rejoice in the joy of our friends as much as we do in our own, and

we are equally grieved at their sorrows. Wherefore the wise man will feel

towards his friend as he does towards himself, and whatever labour he

would encounter with a view to his own pleasure, he will encounter also

for the sake of that of his friend. And all that has been said of the

virtues as to the way in which they are invariably combined with pleasure,

should also be said of friendship. For admirably does Epicurus say, in

almost these exact words: “The same science has strengthened the mind so

that it should not fear any eternal or long lasting evil, inasmuch as in

this very period of human life, it has clearly seen that the surest

bulwark against evil is that of friendship.”

There are, however, some Epicureans who are rather intimidated by the

reproaches of your school, but still men of sufficient acuteness, and they

are afraid lest, if we think that friendship is only to be sought after

with a view to our own pleasure, all friendships should, as it were,

appear to be crippled. Therefore they admit that the first meetings, and

unions, and desires to establish intimacy, do arise from a desire of

pleasure; but, they say, that when progressive habit has engendered

familiarity, then such great affection is ripened, that friends are loved

by one another for their own sake, even without any idea of advantage

intermingling with such love. In truth, if we are in the habit of feeling

affection for places, and temples, and cities, and gymnasia, and the

Campus Martius, and for dogs, and horses, and sports, in consequence of

our habit of exercising ourselves, and hunting, and so on, how much more

easily and reasonably may such a feeling be produced in us by our intimacy

with men!

But some people say that there is a sort of agreement entered into by wise

men not to love their friends less than themselves; which we both imagine

to be possible, and indeed see to be often the case; and it is evident

that nothing can be found having any influence on living agreeably, which

is better suited to it than such a union. From all which considerations it

may be inferred, not only that the principle of friendship is not hindered

by our placing the chief good in pleasure, but that without such a

principle it is quite impossible that any friendship should be

established.

XXI. Wherefore, if the things which I have been saying are clearer and

plainer than the sun itself; if all that I have said is derived from the

fountain of nature; if the whole of my discourse forces assent to itself

by its accordance with the senses, that is to say, with the most

incorruptible and honest of all witnesses; if infant children, and even

brute beasts, declare almost in words, under the teaching and guidance of

nature, that nothing is prosperous but pleasure, nothing hateful but

pain—a matter as to which their decision is neither erroneous nor

corrupt—ought we not to feel the greatest gratitude to that man who,

having heard this voice of nature, as I may call it, has embraced it with

such firmness and steadiness, that he has led all sensible men into the

path of a peaceful, tranquil, and happy life? And as for his appearing to

you to be a man of but little learning, the reason of that is, that he

thought no learning deserving of the name except such as assisted in the

attainment of a happy life. Was he a man to waste his time in reading

poets, as Triarius and I do at your instigation? men in whose works there

is no solid utility, but only a childish sort of amusement; or to devote

himself, like Plato, to music, geometry, arithmetic, and astronomy?

studies which, starting from erroneous principles, cannot possibly be

true; and which, if they were true, would constitute nothing to our living

more agreeably, that is to say, better. Should he, then, pursue such

occupations as those, and abandon the task of laying down principles of

living, laborious, but, at the same time, useful as they are?

Epicurus, then, was not destitute of learning; but those persons are

ignorant who think that those studies which it is discreditable for boys

not to have learnt, are to be continued till old age.

And when he had spoken thus,—I have now, said he, explained my opinions,

and have done so with the design of learning your judgment of them. But

the opportunity of doing so, as I wished, has never been offered me before

to-day.

Second Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.

I. On this, when both of them fixed their eyes on me, and showed that they

were ready to listen to me:—In the first place, said I, I intreat you not

to fancy that I, like a professed philosopher, am going to explain to you

the doctrines of some particular school; a course which I have never much

approved of when adopted by philosophers themselves. For when did

Socrates, who may fairly be called the parent of philosophy, ever do

anything of the sort? That custom was patronized by those who at that time

were called Sophists, of which number Georgias of Leontium was the first

who ventured in an assembly to demand a question,—that is to say, to

desire any one in the company to say what he wished to hear discussed. It

was a bold proceeding; I should call it an impudent one, if this fashion

had not subsequently been borrowed by our own philosophers. But we see

that he whom I have just mentioned, and all the other Sophists, (as may be

gathered from Plato,) were all turned into ridicule by Socrates; for he,

by questioning and interrogating them, was in the habit of eliciting the

opinions of those with whom he was arguing, and then, if he thought it

necessary, of replying to the answers which they had given him. And as

that custom had not been preserved by those who came after him, Arcesilaus

re-introduced it, and established the custom, that those who wished to

become his pupils were not to ask him questions, but themselves to state

their opinions; and then, when they had stated them, he replied to what

they had advanced; but those who came to him for instruction defended

their own opinions as well as they could.

But with all the rest of the philosophers the man who asks the question

says no more; and this practice prevails in the Academy to this day. For

when he who wishes to receive instruction has spoken thus, “Pleasure

appears to me to be the chief good,” they argue against this proposition

in an uninterrupted discourse; so that it may be easily understood that

they who say that they entertain such and such an opinion, do not of

necessity really entertain it, but wish to hear the arguments which may be

brought against it. We follow a more convenient method, for not only has

Torquatus explained what his opinions are, but also why he entertains

them: but I myself think, although I was exceedingly delighted with his

uninterrupted discourse, that still, when you stop at each point that

arises, and come to an understanding what each party grants, and what he

denies, you draw the conclusion you desire from what is admitted with more

convenience, and come to an end of the discussion more readily. For when a

discourse is borne on uninterruptedly, like a torrent, although it hurries

along in its course many things of every kind, you still can take hold of

nothing, and put your hand on nothing, and can find no means of

restraining that rapid discourse.

II. But every discourse which is concerned in the investigation of any

matter, and which proceeds on any system and principle, ought first to

establish the rule (as is done in lawsuits, where one proceeds according

to set formulas), in order that it may be agreed between the parties to

the discussion, what the subject of the discussion really is. This rule

was approved by Epicurus, as it was laid down by Plato in his “Phædrus,”

and he considered that it ought to be adopted in every controversy. But he

did not perceive what was the necessary consequence of it, for he asserts

that the subject ought not to be defined; but if this be not done, it is

sometimes impossible that the disputants should agree what the matter is

that is the subject of discussion, as in this very case which we are

discussing now, for we are inquiring into the End of Good. How can we know

what the character of this is, if, when we have used the expression the

End of Good, we do not compare with one another our ideas of what is meant

by the End, and of what the Good itself is?

And this laying open of things covered up, as it were, when it is once

explained what each thing is, is the definition of it; which you sometimes

used without being aware of it; for you defined this very thing, whether

it is to be called the End, or the extremity, or the limit, to be that to

which everything which was done rightly was referred, and which was itself

never referred to anything. So far was very well said; and, perhaps, if it

had been necessary, you would also have defined the Good itself, and told

us what that was; making it to be that which is desirable by nature, or

that which is profitable, or that which is useful, or that which is

pleasant: and now, since you have no general objections to giving

definitions, and do it when you please, if it is not too much trouble, I

should be glad if you would define what is pleasure, for that is what all

this discussion relates to.

As if, said he, there were any one who is ignorant what pleasure is, or

who is in need of any definition to enable him to understand it better.

I should say, I replied, that I myself am such a man, if I did not seem to

myself to have a thorough acquaintance with, and an accurate idea and

notion of, pleasure firmly implanted in my mind. But, at present, I say

that Epicurus himself does not know, and that he is greatly in error on

this subject; and that he who mentions the subject so often ought to

explain carefully what the meaning of the words he uses is, but that he

sometimes does not understand what the meaning of this word pleasure is,

that is to say, what the idea is which is contained under this word.

III. Then he laughed, and said,—This is a capital idea, indeed, that he

who says that pleasure is the end of all things which are to be desired,

the very extreme point and limit of Good, should be ignorant of what it

is, and of what is its character. But, I replied, either Epicurus is

ignorant of what pleasure is, or else all the rest of the world are. How

so? said he.

Because all men feel that this is pleasure which moves the senses when

they receive it, and which has a certain agreeableness pervading it

throughout. What then, said he, is Epicurus ignorant of that kind of

pleasure? Not always, I replied; for sometimes he is even too well

acquainted with it, inasmuch as he declares that he is unable even to

understand where it is, or what any good is, except that which is enjoyed

by the instrumentality of meat or drink, or the pleasure of the ears, or

sensual enjoyment: is not this what he says? As if, said he, I were

ashamed of these things, or as if I were unable to explain in what sense

these things are said. I do not doubt, I replied, that you can do so

easily; nor is there any reason why you need be ashamed of arguing with a

wise man, who is the only man, as far as I know, who has ever ventured to

profess himself a wise man. For they do not think that Metrodorus himself

professed this, but only that, when he was called wise by Epicurus, he was

unwilling to reject such an expression of his goodwill. But the Seven had

this name given to them, not by themselves, but by the universal suffrage

of all nations. However, in this place, I will assume that Epicurus, by

these expressions, certainly meant to intimate the same kind of pleasure

that the rest do; for all men call that pleasing motion by which the

senses are rendered cheerful, ἡδονὴ in Greek, and _voluptas_ in Latin.

What is it, then, that you ask? I will tell you, said I, and that for the

sake of learning rather than of finding fault with either you or Epicurus.

I too, said he, should be more desirous to learn of you, if you can impart

anything worth learning, than to find fault with you.

Well, then, said I, you are aware of what Hieronymus(25) of Rhodes says is

the chief good, to which he thinks that everything ought to be referred? I

know, said he, that he thinks that the great end is freedom from pain.

Well, what are his sentiments respecting pleasure? He affirms, he replied,

that it is not to be sought for its own sake; for he thinks that rejoicing

is one thing, and being free from pain another. And indeed, continued he,

he is in this point greatly mistaken, for, as I proved a little while ago,

the end of increasing pleasure is the removal of all pain. I will examine,

said I, presently, what the meaning of the expression, freedom from pain,

is; but unless you are very obstinate, you must admit that pleasure is a

perfectly distinct thing from mere freedom from pain. You will, however,

said he, find that I am obstinate in this; for nothing can be more real

than the identity between the two. Is there, now, said I, any pleasure

felt by a thirsty man in drinking? Who can deny it? said he. Is it, asked

I, the same pleasure that he feels after his thirst is extinguished? It

is, replied he, another kind of pleasure; for the state of extinguished

thirst has in it a certain stability of pleasure, but the pleasure of

extinguishing it is pleasure in motion. Why, then, said I, do you call

things so unlike one another by the same name? Do not you recollect, he

rejoined, what I said just now,—that when all pain is banished, pleasure

is varied, not extinguished? I recollect, said I; but you spoke in

admirable Latin, indeed, but yet not very intelligibly; for _varietas_ is

a Latin word, and properly applicable to a difference of colour, but it is

applied metaphorically to many differences: we apply the adjective,

_varias_, to poems, orations, manners, and changes of fortune; it is

occasionally predicated also of pleasure, when it is derived from many

things unlike one another, which cause pleasures which are similarly

unlike. Now, if that is the variety you mean, I should understand you, as,

in fact, I do understand you, without your saying so: but still, I do not

see clearly what that variety is, because you say, that when we are free

from pain we are then in the enjoyment of the greatest pleasure; but when

we are eating those things which cause a pleasing motion to the senses,

then there is a pleasure in the emotion which causes a variety in the

pleasure; but still, that that pleasure which arises from the freedom from

pain is not increased;—and why you call that pleasure I do not know.

IV. Is it possible, said he, for anything to be more delightful than

freedom from pain? Well, said I, but grant that nothing is preferable to

that, (for that is not the point which I am inquiring about at present,)

does it follow on that account, that pleasure is identical with what I may

call painlessness? Undoubtedly it is identical with it, said he; and that

painlessness is the greatest of pleasures which no other can possibly

exceed. Why, then, said I, do you hesitate, after you have defined the

chief good in this manner, to uphold, and defend, and maintain the

proposition, that the whole of pleasure consists in freedom from pain? For

what necessity for your introducing pleasure among the council of the

virtues, any more than for bringing in a courtezan to an assembly of

matrons? The very name of pleasure is odious, infamous, and a just object

of suspicion: therefore, you are all in the constant habit of saying that

we do not understand what Epicurus means when he speaks of pleasure. And

whenever such an assertion is made to me,—and I hear it advanced pretty

often,—although I am usually a very peaceful arguer, still I do on such

occasions get a little angry. Am I to be told that I do not know what that

is which the Greeks call ἡδονὴ, and the Latins _voluptas_? Which language

is it, then, that I do not understand? Then, too, how comes it about that

I do not understand, though every one else does, who chooses to call

himself an Epicurean? when the disciples of your school argue most

excellently, that there is no need whatever for a man, who wishes to

become a philosopher, to be acquainted with literature. Therefore, just as

our ancestors tore Cincinnatus away from his plough to make him Dictator,

in like manner you collect from among the Greeks all those men, who may in

truth be respectable men enough, but who are certainly not over-learned.

Do they then understand what Epicurus means, and do I not understand it?

However, that you may know that I do understand, first of all I tell you

that _voluptas_ is the same thing that he calls ἡδονὴ. And, indeed, we

often have to seek for a Latin word equivalent to, and exactly equipollent

to a Greek one; but here we had nothing to seek for: for no word can be

found which will more exactly express in Latin what ἡδονὴ does in Greek,

than _voluptas_. Now every man in the world who understands Latin,

comprehends under this word two things,—joy in the mind, and an agreeable

emotion of pleasantness in the body. For when the man in Trabea(26) calls

an excessive pleasure of the mind joy, (_lætitia_,) he says much the same

as the other character in Cæcilius’s play, who says that he is joyful with

every sort of joy.

However, there is this difference, that pleasure is also spoken of as

affecting the mind; which is wrong, as the Stoics think, who define it

thus: “An elation of the mind without reason, when the mind has an idea

that it is enjoying some great good.” But the words _lætitia_ (gladness),

and _gaudium_ (joy), do not properly apply to the body. But the word

_voluptas_ (pleasure) is applied to the body by the usage of all people

who speak Latin, whenever that pleasantness is felt which moves any one of

the senses. Now transfer this pleasantness, if you please, to the mind;

for the verb _juvo_ (to please) is applied both to body and mind, and the

word _jucundus_ is derived from it; provided you understand that between

the man who says,

I am transported with gladness now

That I am scarce myself....

and him who says,

Now then at length my mind’s on fire, ...

one of whom is beside himself with joy, and the other is being tormented

with anguish, there is this intermediate person, whose language is,

Although this our acquaintance is so new,

who feels neither gladness nor anguish. And, in the same manner, between

the man who is in the enjoyment of the pleasures of the body, which he has

been wishing for, and him who is being tormented with extreme anguish,

there is a third man, who is free alike from pleasure and from pain.

V. Do I not, then, seem to you sufficiently to understand the meaning of

words, or must I at this time of life be taught how to speak Greek, and

even Latin? And yet I would have you consider, whether if I, who, as I

think, understand Greek very fairly, do still not understand what Epicurus

means, it it may not be owing to some fault of his for speaking so as not

to be intelligible. And this sometimes happens in two ways, without any

blame; either if you do so on purpose, as Heraclitus did, who got the

surname of σκοτεινὸς,(27) because he spoke with too much obscurity about

natural philosophy; or when the obscurity of the subject itself, not of

the language, prevents what is said from being clearly understood, as is

the case in the Timæus of Plato. But Epicurus, as I imagine, is both

willing, if it is in his power, to speak intelligibly, and is also

speaking, not of an obscure subject like the natural philosophers, nor of

one depending on precise rules, as the mathematicians are, but he is

discussing a plain and simple matter, which is a subject of common

conversation among the common people. Although you do not deny that we

understand the usual meaning of the word _voluptas_, but only what he

means by it: from which it follows, not that we do not understand what is

the meaning of that word, but that he follows his own fashion, and

neglects our usual one; for if he means the same thing that Hieronymus

does, who thinks that the chief good is to live without any annoyance, why

does he prefer using the term “pleasure” rather than freedom from pain, as

Hieronymus does, who is quite aware of the force of the words which he

employs? But, if he thinks that he ought to add, that pleasure which

consists in motion, (for this is the distinction he draws, that this

agreeable pleasure is pleasure in motion, but the pleasure of him who is

free from pain is a state of pleasure,) then why does he appear to aim at

what is impossible, namely, to make any one who knows himself—that is to

say, who has any proper comprehension of his own nature and

sensations—think freedom from pain, and pleasure, the same thing?

This, O Torquatus, is doing violence to one’s senses; it is wresting out

of our minds the understanding of words with which we are imbued; for who

can avoid seeing that these three states exist in the nature of things:

first, the state of being in pleasure; secondly, that of being in pain;

thirdly, that of being in such a condition as we are at this moment, and

you too, I imagine, that is to say, neither in pleasure nor in pain; in

such pleasure, I mean, as a man who is at a banquet, or in such pain as a

man who is being tortured. What! do you not see a vast multitude of men

who are neither rejoicing nor suffering, but in an intermediate state

between these two conditions? No, indeed, said he; I say that all men who

are free from pain are in pleasure, and in the greatest pleasure too. Do

you, then, say that the man who, not being thirsty himself, mingles some

wine for another, and the thirsty man who drinks it when mixed, are both

enjoying the same pleasure?

VI. Then, said he, a truce, if you please, to all your questions; and,

indeed, I said at the beginning that I would rather have none of them, for

I had a provident dread of these captious dialectics. Would you rather,

then, said I, that we should argue rhetorically than dialectically? As if,

said he, a continuous discourse belonged solely to orators, and not to

philosophers also! I will tell you, said I, what Zeno the Stoic said; he

said, as Aristotle had said before him, that all speaking was divided into

two kinds, and that rhetoric resembled the open palm, dialectics the

closed fist, because orators usually spoke in a rather diffuse, and

dialecticians in a somewhat compressed style. I will comply, then, with

your desires, and will speak, if I can, in an oratorical style, but still

with the oratory of the philosophers, and not that which we use in the

forum; which is forced at times, when it is speaking so as to suit the

multitude, to submit to a very ordinary style. But while Epicurus, O

Torquatus, is expressing his contempt for dialectics, an art which by

itself contains the whole science both of perceiving what the real subject

is in every question, and also of judging what the character of each thing

is, by its system and method of conducting the argument, he goes on too

fast, as it seems to me, and does not distinguish with any skill at all

the different points which he is intent upon proving, as in this very

instance which we were just now speaking of.

Pleasure is pronounced to be the chief good. We must then open the

question, What is pleasure? for otherwise, the thing which we are seeking

for cannot be explained. But, if he had explained it, he would not

hesitate; for either he would maintain that same definition of pleasure

which Aristippus did, namely, that it is that feeling by which the senses

are agreeably and pleasantly moved, which even cattle, if they could

speak, would call pleasure; or else, if he chose rather to speak in his

own style, than like

All the Greeks from high Mycenæ,

All Minerva’s Attic youth,

and the rest of the Greeks who are spoken of in these anapæsts, then he

would call this freedom from pain alone by the name of pleasure, and would

despise the definition of Aristippus; or, if he thought both definitions

good, as in fact he does, he would combine freedom from pain with

pleasure, and would employ the two extremes in his own definition: for

many, and they, too, great philosophers, have combined these extremities

of goods, as, for instance, Aristotle, who united in his idea the practice

of virtue with the prosperity of an entire life. Callipho(28) added

pleasure to what is honourable. Diodorus, in his definition, added to the

same honourableness, freedom from pain. Epicurus would have done so too,

if he had combined the opinion which was held by Hieronymus, with the

ancient theory of Aristippus. For those two men disagree with one another,

and on this account they employ separate definitions; and, while they both

write the most beautiful Greek, still, neither does Aristippus, who calls

pleasure the chief good, ever speak of freedom from pain as pleasure; nor

does Hieronymus, who lays it down that freedom from pain is the chief

good, ever use the word “pleasure” for that painlessness, inasmuch as he

never even reckons pleasure at all among the things which are desirable.

VII. They are also two distinct things, that you may not think that the

difference consists only in words and names. One is to be without pain,

the other to be with pleasure. But your school not only attempt to make

one name for these two things which are so exceedingly unlike, (for I

would not mind that so much,) but you endeavour also to make one thing out

of the two, which is utterly impossible. But Epicurus, who admits both

things, ought to use both expressions, and in fact he does divide them in

reality, but still he does not distinguish between them in words. For

though he in many places praises that very pleasure which we all call by

the same name, he ventures to say that he does not even suspect that there

is any good whatever unconnected with that kind of pleasure which

Aristippus means; and he makes this statement in the very place where his

whole discourse is about the chief good. But in another book, in which he

utters opinions of the greatest weight in a concise form of words, and in

which he is said to have delivered oracles of wisdom, he writes in those

words which you are well acquainted with, O Torquatus. For who is there of

you who has not learnt the κύριαι δόξαι of Epicurus, that is to say, his

fundamental maxims? because they are sentiments of the greatest gravity

intended to guide men to a happy life, and enunciated with suitable

brevity. Consider, therefore, whether I am not translating this maxim of

his correctly. “If those things which are the efficient causes of

pleasures to luxurious men were to release them from all fear of the gods,

and of death, and of pain, and to show them what are the proper limits to

their desires, we should have nothing to find fault with; as men would

then be filled with pleasures from all quarters, and have on no side

anything painful or melancholy, for all such things are evil.”

On this Triarius could restrain himself no longer. I beg of you,

Torquatus, said he, to tell me, is this what Epicurus says?—because he

appeared to me, although he knew it himself, still to wish to hear

Torquatus admit it. But he was not at all put out, and said with great

confidence, Indeed, he does, and in these identical words; but you do not

perceive what he means. If, said I, he says one thing and means another,

then I never shall understand what he means, but he speaks plainly enough

for me to see what he says. And if what he says is that luxurious men are

not to be blamed if they are wise men, he talks absurdly; just as if he

were to say that parricides are not to be found fault with if they are not

covetous, and if they fear neither gods, nor death, nor pain. And yet,

what is the object of making any exception as to the luxurious, or of

supposing any people, who, while living luxuriously, would not be reproved

by that consummate philosopher, provided only they guard against all other

vices. Still, would not you, Epicurus, blame luxurious men for the mere

fact of their living in such a manner as to pursue every sort of pleasure;

especially when, as you say, the chief pleasure of all is to be free from

pain? But yet we find some debauched men so far from having any religious

scruples, that they will eat even out of the sacred vessels; and so far

from fearing death that they are constantly repeating that passage out of

the Hymnis,(29)—

Six months of life for me are quite sufficient,

The seventh may be for the shades below,—

and bringing up that Epicurean remedy for pain, as if they were taking it

out of a medicine chest: “If it is bitter, it is of short duration; if it

lasts a long time, it must be slight in degree.” There is one thing which

I do not understand, namely, how a man who is devoted to luxury can

possibly have his appetites under restraint.

VIII. What then is the use of saying, I should have nothing to reproach

them with if they only set bounds to their appetites? This is the same as

saying, I should not blame debauched men if they were not debauched men.

In the same way one might say, I should not blame even wicked men if they

were virtuous. This man of strict morality does not think luxury of itself

a thing to be blamed. And, indeed, O Torquatus, to speak the truth, if

pleasure is the chief good, he is quite right not to think so. For I

should be sorry to picture to myself, (as you are in the habit of doing,)

men so debauched as to vomit over the table and be carried away from

banquets, and then the next day, while still suffering from indigestion,

gorge themselves again; men who, as they say, have never in their lives

seen the sun set or rise, and who, having devoured their patrimony, are

reduced to indigence. None of us imagine that debauched men of that sort

live pleasantly. You, however, rather mean to speak of refined and elegant

_bons vivans_, men who, by the employment of the most skilful cooks and

bakers, and by carefully culling the choicest products of fishermen,

fowlers, and hunters, avoid all indigestion—

Men who draw richer wines from foaming casks.

As Lucilius says, men who

So strain, so cool the rosy wine with snow,

That all the flavour still remains uninjured—

and so on—men in the enjoyment of luxuries such that, if they are taken

away, Epicurus says that he does not know what there is that can be called

good. Let them also have beautiful boys to attend upon them; let their

clothes, their plate, their articles of Corinthian _vertu_, the

banqueting-room itself, all correspond, still I should never be induced to

say that these men so devoted to luxury were living either well or

happily. From which it follows, not indeed that pleasure is not pleasure,

but that pleasure is not the chief good. Nor was Lælius, who, when a young

man, was a pupil of Diogenes the Stoic, and afterwards of Panætius, called

a wise man because he did not understand what was most pleasant to the

taste, (for it does not follow that the man who has a discerning heart

must necessarily have a palate destitute of discernment,) but because he

thought it of but small importance.

O sorrel, how that man may boast himself,

By whom you’re known and valued! Proud of you,

That wise man Lælius would loudly shout,

Addressing all our epicures in order.

And it was well said by Lælius, and he may be truly called a wise man,—

You Publius, Gallonius, you whirlpool,

You are a miserable man; you never

In all your life have really feasted well,

Though spending all your substance on those prawns,

And overgrown huge sturgeons.

The man who says this is one who, as he attributes no importance to

pleasure himself, denies that the man feasts well who refers everything to

pleasure. And yet he does not deny that Gallonius has at times feasted as

he wished: for that would be speaking untruly: he only denies that he has

ever feasted well. With such dignity and severe principle does he

distinguish between pleasure and good. And the natural inference is, that

all who feast well feast as they wish, but that it does not follow that

all who feast as they wish do therefore feast well. Lælius always feasted

well. How so? Lucilius shall tell you—

He feasted on well season’d, well arranged—

what? What was the chief part of his supper?

Converse of prudent men,—

Well, and what else?

with cheerful mind.

For he came to a banquet with a tranquil mind, desirous only of appeasing

the wants of nature. Lælius then is quite right to deny that Gallonius had

ever feasted well; he is quite right to call him miserable; especially as

he devoted the whole of his attention to that point. And yet no one

affirms that he did not sup as he wished. Why then did he not feast well?

Because feasting well is feasting with propriety, frugality, and good

order; but this man was in the habit of feasting badly, that is, in a

dissolute, profligate, gluttonous, unseemly manner. Lælius, then, was not

preferring the flavour of sorrel to Gallonius’s sturgeon, but merely

treating the taste of the sturgeon with indifference; which he would not

have done if he had placed the chief good in pleasure.

IX. We must then discard pleasure, not only in order to follow what is

right, but even to be able to talk becomingly. Can we then call that the

chief good in life, which we see cannot possibly be so even in a banquet?

But how is it that this philosopher speaks of three kinds of

appetites,—some natural and necessary, some natural but not necessary, and

others neither natural nor necessary? In the first place, he has not made

a neat division; for out of two kinds he has made three. Now this is not

dividing, but breaking in pieces. If he had said that there are two kinds

of appetites, natural and superfluous ones, and that the natural appetites

might be also subdivided into two kinds, necessary and not necessary, he

would have been all right. And those who have learnt what he despises do

usually say so. For it is a vicious division to reckon a part as a genus.

However, let us pass over this, for he despises elegance in arguing; he

speaks confusedly. We must submit to this as long as his sentiments are

right. I do not, however, approve, and it is as much as I can do to

endure, a philosopher speaking of the necessity of setting bounds to the

desires. Is it possible to set bounds to the desires? I say that they must

be banished, eradicated by the roots. For what man is there in whom

appetites(30) dwell, who can deny that he may with propriety be called

appetitive? If so, he will be avaricious, though to a limited extent; and

an adulterer, but only in moderation; and he will be luxurious in the same

manner. Now what sort of a philosophy is that which does not bring with it

the destruction of depravity, but is content with a moderate degree of

vice? Although in this division I am altogether on his side as to the

facts, only I wish he would express himself better. Let him call these

feelings the wishes of nature; and let him keep the name of desire for

other objects, so as, when speaking of avarice, of intemperance, and of

the greatest vices, to be able to indict it as it were on a capital

charge. However, all this is said by him with a good deal of freedom, and

is often repeated; and I do not blame him, for it is becoming in so great

a philosopher, and one of such a great reputation, to defend his own

degrees fearlessly.

But still, from the fact of his often appearing to embrace that pleasure,

(I mean that which all nations call by this name,) with a good deal of

eagerness, he is at times in great difficulties, so that, if he could only

pass undetected, there is nothing so shameful that it does not seem likely

that he would do it for the sake of pleasure. And then, when he has been

put to the blush, (for the power of nature is very great,) he takes refuge

in denying that any addition can possibly be made to the pleasure of the

man who is free from pain. But that state of freedom from pain is not

called pleasure. I do not care, says he, about the name. But what do you

say about the thing being utterly different?—I will find you many men, or

I may say an innumerable host, not so curious nor so embarrassing as you

are, whom I can easily convince of whatever I choose. Why then do we

hesitate to say that, if to be free from pain is the highest degree of

pleasure, to be destitute of pleasure is the highest degree of pain?

Because it is not pleasure which is the contrary to pain, but the absence

of pain.

X. But this he does not see, that it is a great proof that at the very

moment when he says that if pleasure be once taken away he has no idea at

all what remaining thing can be called good, (and he follows up this

assertion with the statement that he means such pleasure as is perceptible

by the palate and by the ears, and adds other things which decency ought

to forbid him to mention,) he is, like a strict and worthy philosopher,

aware that this which he calls the chief good is not even a thing which is

worth desiring for its own sake, that he himself informs us that we have

no reason to wish for pleasure at all, if we are free from pain. How

inconsistent are these statements! If he had learnt to make correct

divisions or definitions of his subject, if he had a proper regard to the

usages of speaking and the common meaning of words, he would never have

fallen into such difficulties. But as it is, you see what it is he is

doing. That which no one has ever called pleasure at all, and that also

which is real active pleasure, which are two distinct things, he makes but

one. For he calls them agreeable and, as I may say, sweet-tasted

pleasures. At times he speaks so lightly of them that you might fancy you

were listening to Marcus Curius. At times he extols them so highly that he

says he cannot form even the slightest idea of what else is good—a

sentiment which deserves not the reproof of a philosopher, but the brand

of the censor. For vice does not confine itself to language, but

penetrates also into the manners. He does not find fault with luxury

provided it to be free from boundless desires and from fear. While

speaking in this way he appears to be fishing for disciples, that men who

wish to become debauchees may become philosophers first.

Now, in my opinion, the origin of the chief good is to be sought in the

first origin of living animals. As soon as an animal is born it rejoices

in pleasure, and seeks it as a good; it shuns pain as an evil. And

Epicurus says that excellent decisions on the subject of the good and the

evil are come to by those animals which are not yet depraved. You, too,

have laid down the same position, and these are your own words. How many

errors are there in them! For by reference to which kind of pleasure will

a puling infant judge of the chief good; pleasure in stability or pleasure

in motion?—since, if the gods so will, we are learning how to speak from

Epicurus. If it is from pleasure as a state, then certainly nature desires

to be exempt from evil herself; which we grant; if it is from pleasure in

motion, which, however, is what you say, then there will be no pleasure so

discreditable as to deserve to be passed over. And at the same time that

just-born animal you are speaking of does not begin with the highest

pleasure; which has been defined by you to consist in not being in pain.

However, Epicurus did not seek to derive this argument from infants, or

even from beasts, which he looks upon as mirrors of nature as it were; so

as to say that they, under the guidance of nature, seek only this pleasure

of being free from pain. For this sort of pleasure cannot excite the

desires of the mind; nor has this state of freedom from pain any impulse

by which it can act upon the mind. Therefore Hieronymus blunders in this

same thing. For that pleasure only acts upon the mind which has the power

of alluring the senses. Therefore Epicurus always has recourse to this

pleasure when wishing to prove that pleasure is sought for naturally;

because that pleasure which consists in motion both allures infants to

itself, and beasts; and this is not done by that pleasure which is a state

in which there is no other ingredient but freedom from pain. How then can

it be proper to say that nature begins with one kind of pleasure, and yet

to put the chief good in another?

XI. But as for beasts, I do not consider that they can pronounce any

judgment at all. For although they are not depraved, it is still possible

for them to be wrong. Just as one stick may be bent and crooked by having

been made so on purpose, and another may be so naturally; so the nature of

beasts is not indeed depraved by evil education, but is wrong naturally.

Nor is it correct to say that nature excites the infant to desire

pleasure, but only to love itself and to desire to preserve itself safe

and unhurt. For every animal the moment that it is born loves itself, and

every part of itself, and above all does it love its two principal parts,

namely its mind and body, and afterwards it proceeds to love the separate

parts of each. For there are in the mind and also in the body some parts

of especial consequence; and as soon as it has got a slight perception of

this fact, it then begins to make distinctions, so as to desire those

things which are by nature given to it as its principal goods, and to

reject the contrary. Now it is a great question whether among these

primary natural goods, pleasure has any place or not. But to think that

there is nothing beyond pleasure, no limbs, no sensations, no emotions of

the mind, no integrity of the body, no health, appears to me to be a token

of the greatest ignorance. And on this the whole question of good and evil

turns. Now Polemo and also Aristotle thought those things which I

mentioned just now the greatest of goods. And from this originated that

opinion of the Old Academy and of the Peripatetic School, which led them

to say that the greatest good was to live in accordance with nature—that

is to say, to enjoy the chief good things which are given by nature, with

the accompaniment of virtue. Callipho added nothing to virtue except

pleasure; Diodorus nothing except freedom from pain. And all these men

attach the idea of the greatest good to some one of these things which I

have mentioned. Aristippus thought it was simple pleasure. The Stoics

defined it to be agreeing with nature, which they say can only be living

virtuously, living honourably. And they interpret it further thus—to live

with an understanding of those things which happen naturally, selecting

those which are in accordance with nature, and rejecting the contrary. So

there are three definitions, all of which exclude honesty:—one, that of

Aristippus or Epicurus; the second, that of Hieronymus; the third, that of

Carneades: three in which honesty is admitted with some qualifying

additions; those, namely, of Polemo, Callipho, and Diodorus: one single

one, of which Zeno is the author, which is wholly referred to what is

becoming; that is to say, to honesty. For Pyrrho, Aristo, and Herillus,

have long since sunk into oblivion. The rest have been consistent with

themselves, so as to make their ends agree with their beginnings; so that

Aristippus has defined it to be pleasure; Hieronymus, freedom from pain;

and Carneades, the enjoyment of what are pointed out by nature as the

principal goods.

XII. But when Epicurus had given pleasure the highest rank, if he meant

the same pleasure that Aristippus did he ought to have adopted the same

thing as the chief good that he did; if he meant the same that Hieronymus

did, he would then have been assigning the first rank to Hieronymus’s

pleasure, and not to that of Aristippus.

For, as to what he says, that it is decided by the senses themselves that

pleasure is a good and that pain is an evil, he has attributed more weight

to the senses than the laws allow them. We are the judges of private

actions, but we cannot decide anything which does not legally come under

the cognisance of our tribunal; and, in such a case, it is to no purpose

that judges are in the habit, when they pronounce sentence, of adding, “if

the question belongs to my jurisdiction;” for, if the matter did not come

under their jurisdiction, this additional form of words would not any the

more give validity to their decision. Now, what is it that the senses are

judges of? Whether a thing is sweet or bitter, soft or hard, near or far

off; whether it is standing still or moving; whether it is square or

round. What sentence, then, will reason pronounce, having first of all

called in the aid of the knowledge of divine and human affairs, which is

properly called wisdom; and having, after that, associated to itself the

virtues which reason points out as the mistresses of all things, but which

you make out to be only the satellites and handmaidens of pleasures? The

sentence, however, of all these qualities, will pronounce first of all,

respecting pleasure, that there is no room for it; not only no room for

its being placed by itself in the rank of the chief good, which is what we

are looking for, but no room even for its being placed in connexion even

with what is honourable.

The same sentence will be passed upon freedom from pain; Carneades also

will be disregarded; nor will any definition of the chief good be approved

of, which has any close connexion with pleasure, or freedom from pain, or

which is devoid of what is honourable. And so it will leave two, which it

will consider over and over again; for it will either lay down the maxim,

that nothing is good except what is honourable, nothing evil except what

is disgraceful; that everything else is either of no consequence at all,

or, at all events, of only so much, that it is neither to be sought after

nor avoided, but only selected or rejected; or else, it will prefer that

which it shall perceive to be the most richly endowed with what is

honourable, and enriched, at the same time, with the primary good things

of nature, and with the perfection of the whole life; and it will do so

all the more clearly, if it comes to a right understanding whether the

controversy between them is one of facts, or only of words.

XIII. I now, following the authority of this man, will do the same as he

has done; for, as far as I can, I will diminish the disputes, and will

regard all their simple opinions in which there is no association of

virtue, as judgments which ought to be utterly removed to a distance from

philosophy. First of all, I will discard the principles of Aristippus, and

of all the Cyrenaics,—men who were not afraid to place the chief good in

that pleasure which especially excited the senses with its sweetness,

disregarding that freedom from pain. These men did not perceive that, as a

horse is born for galloping, and an ox for ploughing, and a dog for

hunting, so man, also, is born for two objects, as Aristotle says, namely,

for understanding and for acting as if he were a kind of mortal god. But,

on the other hand, as a slow moving and languid sheep is born to feed, and

to take pleasure in propagating his species, they fancied also that this

divine animal was born for the same purposes; than which nothing can

appear to me more absurd; and all this is in opposition to Aristippus, who

considers that pleasure not only the highest, but also the only one, which

all the rest of us consider as only one of the pleasures.

You, however, think differently; but he, as I have already said, is

egregiously wrong,—for neither does the figure of the human body, nor the

admirable reasoning powers of the human mind, intimate that man was born

for no other end than the mere enjoyment of pleasure; nor must we listen

to Hieronymus, whose chief good is the same which you sometimes, or, I

might say, too often call so, namely, freedom from pain; for it does not

follow, because pain is an evil, that to be free from that evil is

sufficient for living well. Ennius speaks more correctly, when he says,—

The man who feels no evil, does

Enjoy too great a good.

Let us define a happy life as consisting, not in the repelling of evil,

but in the acquisition of good; and let us seek to procure it, not by

doing nothing, whether one is feeling pleasure, as Aristippus says, or

feeling no pain, as Hieronymus insists, but by doing something, and giving

our mind to thought. And all these same things may be said against that

chief good which Carneades calls such; which he, however, brought forward,

not so much for the purpose of proving his position, as of contradicting

the Stoics, with whom he was at variance: and this good of his is such,

that, when added to virtue, it appears likely to have some authority, and

to be able to perfect a happy life in a most complete manner, and it is

this that the whole of this present discussion is about; for they who add

to virtue pleasure, which is the thing which above all others virtue

thinks of small importance, or freedom from pain, which, even if it be a

freedom from evil, is nevertheless not the chief good, make use of an

addition which is not very easily recommended to men in general, and yet I

do not understand why they do it in such a niggardly and restricted

manner: for, as if they had to bring something to add to virtue, first of

all they add things of the least possible value; afterwards they add

things one by one, instead of uniting everything which nature had approved

of as the highest goods, to pleasure. And as all these things appeared to

Aristo and to Pyrrho absolutely of no consequence at all, so that they

said that there was literally no difference whatever between being in a

most perfect state of health, and in a most terrible condition of disease,

people rightly enough have long ago given up arguing against them; for,

while they insisted upon it that everything was comprised in virtue alone,

to such a degree as to deprive it of all power of making any selection of

external circumstances, and while they gave it nothing from which it could

originate, or on which it could rely, they in reality destroyed virtue

itself, which they were professing to embrace. But Herillus, who sought to

refer everything to knowledge, saw, indeed, that there was one good, but

what he saw was not the greatest possible good, nor such an one that life

could be regulated by it; therefore, he also has been discarded a long

time ago, for, indeed, there has been no one who has argued against him

since Chrysippus.

XIV. Your school, then, is now the only one remaining to be combated; for

the contest with the Academicians is an uncertain one, for they affirm

nothing, and, as if they despaired of arriving at any certain knowledge,

wish to follow whatever is probable. But we have more trouble with

Epicurus, because he combines two kinds of pleasure, and because he and

his friends, and many others since, have been advocates of that opinion;

and somehow or other, the people, who, though they have the least

authority, have nevertheless the greatest power, are on his side; and,

unless we refute them, all virtue, and all reputation, and all true glory,

must be abandoned. And so, having put aside the opinions of all the rest,

there remains a contest, not between Torquatus and me, but between virtue

and pleasure; and this contest Chrysippus, a man of great acuteness and

great industry, is far from despising; and he thinks that the whole

question as to the chief good is at stake in this controversy: but I

think, if I show the reality of what is honourable, and that it is a thing

to be sought for by reason of its own intrinsic excellence, and for its

own sake, that all your arguments are at once overthrown; therefore, when

I have once established what its character is, speaking briefly, as the

time requires, I shall approach all your arguments, O Torquatus, unless my

memory fails me.

We understand, then, that to be honourable which is such that, leaving all

advantage out of the question, it can be deservedly praised by itself,

without thinking of any reward or profit derived from it. And what its

character is may be understood, not so much by the definition which I have

employed, (although that may help in some degree,) as by the common

sentiments of all men, and by the zeal and conduct of every virtuous man;

for such do many things for this sole reason, because they are becoming,

because they are right, because they are honourable, even though they do

not perceive any advantage likely to result from them: for men differ from

beasts in many other things indeed, but especially in this one particular,

that they have reason and intellect given to them by nature, and a mind,

active, vigorous, revolving many things at the same time with the greatest

rapidity, and, if I may so say, sagacious to perceive the causes of

things, and their consequences and connexions, and to use metaphors, and

to combine things which are unconnected, and to connect the future with

the present, and to embrace in its view the whole course of a consistent

life. The same reason has also made man desirous of the society of men,

and inclined to agree with them by nature, and conversation, and custom;

so that, setting out with affection for his friends and relations, he

proceeds further, and unites himself in a society, first of all of his

fellow-countrymen, and subsequently of all mortals; and as Plato wrote to

Archytas, recollects that he has been born, not for himself alone, but for

his country and his family; so that there is but a small portion of

himself left for himself. And since the same nature has implanted in man a

desire of ascertaining the truth, which is most easily visible when, being

free from all cares, we wish to know what is taking place, even in the

heavens; led on from these beginnings we love everything that is true,

that is to say, that is faithful, simple, consistent, and we hate what is

vain, false and deceitful, such as fraud, perjury, cunning and injustice.

The same reason has in itself something large and magnificent, suited for

command rather than for obedience; thinking all events which can befal a

man not only endurable, but insignificant; something lofty and sublime,

fearing nothing, yielding to no one, always invincible. And, when these

three kinds of the honourable have been noticed, a fourth follows, of the

same beauty and suited to the other three, in which order and moderation

exist; and when the likeness of it to the others is perceived in the

beauty and dignity of all their separate forms, we are transported across

to what is honourable in words and actions; for, in consequence of these

three virtues which I have already mentioned, a man avoids rashness, and

does not venture to injure any one by any wanton word or action, and is

afraid either to do or to say anything which may appear at all unsuited to

the dignity of a man.

XV. Here, now, O Torquatus, you have a picture of what is honourable

completely filled in and finished; and it is contained wholly in these

four virtues which you also mentioned. But your master Epicurus says that

he knows nothing whatever of it, and does not understand what, or what

sort of quality those people assert it to be, who profess to measure the

chief good by the standard of what is honourable. For if everything is

referred to that, and if they say that pleasure has no part in it, then he

says that they are talking idly, (these are his very words,) and do not

understand or see what real meaning ought to be conveyed under this word

honourable; for, as custom has it, he says that that alone is honourable

which is accounted glorious by common report; and that, says he, although

it is often more pleasant than some pleasures, still is sought for the

sake of pleasure. Do you not see how greatly these two parties differ? A

noble philosopher, by whom not only Greece and Italy, but all the

countries of the barbarians are influenced, says that he does not

understand what honourableness is, if it be not in pleasure, unless,

perchance, it is that thing which is praised by the common conversation of

the populace. But my opinion is, that this is often even dishonourable,

and that real honourableness is not called so from the circumstance of its

being praised by the many, but because it is such a thing that even if men

were unacquainted with it, or if they said nothing about it, it would

still be praiseworthy by reason of its own intrinsic beauty and

excellence.

And so he again, being forced to yield to the power of nature, which is

always irresistible, says in another place what you also said a little

while ago,—that a man cannot live pleasantly unless he also lives

honourably. Now then, what is the meaning of honourably? does it mean the

same as pleasantly? If so, this statement will come to this, that a man

cannot live honourably unless he lives honourably. Is it honourably

according to public report? Therefore he affirms that a man cannot live

pleasantly without he has public report in his favour. What can be more

shameful than for the life of a wise man to depend on the conversation of

fools? What is it, then, that in this place he understands by the word

honourable? Certainly nothing except what can be deservedly praised for

its own sake; for if it be praised for the sake of pleasure, then what

sort of praise, I should like to know, is that which can be sought for in

the shambles? He is not a man, while he places honourableness in such a

rank that he affirms it to be impossible to live pleasantly without it, to

think that honourable which is popular, and to affirm that one cannot live

pleasantly without popularity; or to understand by the word honourable

anything except what is right, and deservedly to be praised by itself and

for itself, from a regard to its own power and influence and intrinsic

nature.

XVI. Therefore, Torquatus, when you said that Epicurus asserted loudly

that a man could not live pleasantly if he did not also live honourably,

and wisely, and justly, you appeared to me to be boasting yourself. There

was such energy in your words, on account of the dignity of those things

which were indicated by those words, that you became taller, that you rose

up, and fixed your eyes upon us as if you were giving a solemn testimony

that honourableness and justice are sometimes praised by Epicurus. How

becoming was it to you to use that language, which is so necessary for

philosophers, that if they did not use it we should have no great need of

philosophy at all! For it is out of love for those words, which are very

seldom employed by Epicurus—I mean wisdom, fortitude, justice, and

temperance—that men of the most admirable powers of mind have betaken

themselves to the study of philosophy.

“The sense of our eyes,” says Plato, “is most acute in us; but yet we do

not see wisdom with them. What a vehement passion for itself would it

excite if it could be beheld by the eyes!” Why so? Because it is so

ingenious as to be able to devise pleasures in the most skilful manner.

Why is justice extolled? or what is it that has given rise to that old and

much-worn proverb, “He is a man with whom you may play(31) in the dark.”

This, though applied to only one thing, has a very extensive application;

so that in every case we are influenced by the facts, and not by the

witness.

For those things which you were saying were very weak and powerless

arguments,—when you urged that the wicked were tormented by their own

consciences, and also by fear of punishment, which is either inflicted on

them, or keeps them in constant fear that it will be inflicted. One ought

not to imagine a man timid, or weak in his mind, nor a good man, who,

whatever he has done, keeps tormenting himself, and dreads everything; but

rather let us fancy one, who with great shrewdness refers everything to

usefulness—an acute, crafty, wary man, able with ease to devise plans for

deceiving any one secretly, without any witness, or any one being privy to

it. Do you think that I am speaking of Lucius Tubulus?—who, when as prætor

he had been sitting as judge upon the trial of some assassins, took money

to influence his decision so undisguisedly, that the next year Publius

Scævola, being tribune of the people, made a motion before the people,

that an inquiry should be made into the case. In accordance with which

decree of the people, Cnæus Cæpio, the consul, was ordered by the senate

to investigate the affair. Tubulus immediately went into banishment, and

did not dare to make any reply to the charge, for the matter was

notorious.

XVII. We are not, therefore, inquiring about a man who is merely wicked,

but about one who mingles cunning with his wickedness, (as Quintus

Pompeius(32) did when he repudiated the treaty of Numantia,) and yet who

is not afraid of everything, but who has rather no regard for the stings

of conscience, which it costs him no trouble at all to stifle; for a man

who is called close and secret is so far from informing against himself,

that he will even pretend to grieve at what is done wrong by another; for

what else is the meaning of the word crafty (_versutus_)? I recollect on

one occasion being present at a consultation held by Publius Sextilius

Rufus, when he reported the case on which he asked advice to his friends

in this manner: That he had been left heir to Quintus Fadius Gallus; in

whose will it had been written that he had entreated Sextilius to take

care that what he left behind him should come to his daughter. Sextilius

denied that he had done so. He could deny it with impunity, for who was

there to convict him? None of us believed him; and it was more likely that

he should tell a lie whose interest it was to do so, than he who had set

down in his will that he had made the request which he ought to have made.

He added, moreover, that having sworn to comply with the Voconian(33) law,

he did not dare to violate it, unless his friends were of a contrary

opinion. I myself was very young when I was present on this occasion, but

there were present also many men of the highest character, not one of whom

thought that more ought to be given to Fadia than could come to her under

the provisions of the Voconian law. Sextilius retained a very large

inheritance; of which, if he had followed the opinion of those men who

preferred what was right and honourable to all profit and advantage, he

would never have touched a single penny. Do you think that he was

afterwards anxious and uneasy in his mind on that account? Not a bit of

it: on the contrary, he was a rich man, owing to that inheritance, and he

rejoiced in his riches, for he set a great value on money which was

acquired not only without violating the laws, but even by the law. And

money is what you also think worth seeking for, even with great risk, for

it is the efficient cause of many and great pleasures. As, therefore,

every danger appears fit to be encountered for the sake of what is

becoming and honourable, by those who decide that what is right and

honourable is to be sought for its own sake; so the men of your school,

who measure everything by pleasure, must encounter every danger in order

to acquire great pleasures, if any great property or any important

inheritance is at stake, since numerous pleasures are procured by money.

And your master Epicurus must, if he wishes to pursue what he himself

considers the chief of all good things, do the same that Scipio did, who

had a prospect of great glory before him if he could compel Annibal to

return into Africa. And with this view, what great dangers did he

encounter! for he measured the whole of his enterprise by the standard of

honour, not of pleasure. And in like manner, your wise man, being excited

by the prospect of some advantage, will fight(34) courageously, if it

should be necessary. If his exploits are undiscovered, he will rejoice; if

he is taken, he will despise every kind of punishment, for he will be

thoroughly armed for a contempt of death, banishment, and even of pain,

which you indeed represent as intolerable when you hold it out to wicked

men as a punishment, but as endurable when you argue that a wise man has

always more good than evil in his fortune.

XVIII. But picture to yourself a man not only cunning, so as to be

prepared to act dishonestly in any circumstances that may arise, but also

exceedingly powerful; as, for instance, Marcus Crassus was, who, however,

always exercised his own natural good disposition; or as at this day our

friend Pompeius is, to whom we ought to feel grateful for his virtuous

conduct; for, although he is inclined to act justly, he could be unjust

with perfect impunity. But how many unjust actions can be committed which

nevertheless no one could find any ground for attacking! Suppose your

friend, when dying, has entreated you to restore his inheritance to his

daughter, and yet has never set it down in his will, as Fadius did, and

has never mentioned to any one that he has done so, what will you do? You

indeed will restore it. Perhaps Epicurus himself would have restored it;

just as Sextus Peducæus the son of Sextus did; he who has left behind him

a son, our intimate friend, a living image of his own virtue and honesty,

a learned person, and the most virtuous and upright of all men; for he,

though no one was aware that he had been entreated by Caius Plotius, a

Roman knight of high character and great fortune, of the district of

Nursia, to do so, came of his own accord to his widow, and, though she had

no notion of the fact, detailed to her the commission which he had

received from her husband, and made over the inheritance to her. But I ask

you (since you would certainly have acted in the same manner yourself), do

you not understand that the power of nature is all the greater, inasmuch

as you yourselves, who refer everything to your own advantage, and, as you

yourselves say, to pleasure, still perform actions from which it is

evident that you are guided not by pleasure, but by principles of duty,

and that your own upright nature has more influence over you than any

vicious reasoning?

If you knew, says Carneades, that a snake was lying hid in any place, and

that some one was going ignorantly to sit down upon it whose death would

bring you some advantage, you would be acting wickedly if you did not warn

him not to sit down there; and yet you could not be punished, for who

could possibly convict you? However, I am dwelling too long on this point;

for it is evident, unless equity, good faith and justice proceed from

nature, and if all these things are referred to advantage, that a good man

cannot possibly be found. But on this subject we have put a sufficient

number of arguments into the mouth of Lælius, in our books on a Republic.

XIX. Now apply the same arguments to modesty, or temperance, which is a

moderation of the appetites, in subordination to reason. Can we say that a

man pays sufficient regard to the dictates of modesty, who indulges his

lusts in such a manner as to have no witnesses of his conduct? or is there

anything which is intrinsically flagitious, even if no loss of reputation

ensues? What do brave men do? Do they enter into an exact calculation of

pleasure, and so enter the battle, and shed their blood for their country?

or are they excited rather by a certain ardour and impetuosity of courage?

Do you think, O Torquatus, that that imperious ancestor of yours, if he

could hear what we are now saying, would rather listen to your sentiments

concerning him, or to mine, when I said that he had done nothing for his

own sake, but everything for that of the republic; and you, on the

contrary, affirm that he did nothing except with a view to his own

advantage? But if you were to wish to explain yourself further, and were

to say openly that he did nothing except for the sake of pleasure, how do

you think that he would bear such an assertion?

Be it so. Let Torquatus, if you will, have acted solely with a view to his

own advantage, for I would rather employ that expression than pleasure,

especially when speaking of so eminent a man,—did his colleague too,

Publius Decius, the first man who ever was consul in that family, did he,

I say, when he was devoting himself, and rushing at the full speed of his

horse into the middle of the army of the Latins, think at all of his own

pleasures? For where or when was he to find any, when he knew that he

should perish immediately, and when he was seeking that death with more

eager zeal than Epicurus thinks even pleasure deserving to be sought with?

And unless this exploit of his had been deservedly extolled, his son would

not have imitated it in his fourth consulship; nor, again, would his son,

when fighting against Pyrrhus, have fallen in battle when he was consul,

and so offered himself up for the sake of the republic as a third victim

in an uninterrupted succession from the same family. I will forbear giving

any more examples. I might get a few from the Greeks, such as Leonidas,

Epaminondas, and three or four more perhaps. And if I were to begin

hunting up our own annals for such instances, I should soon establish my

point, and compel Pleasure to give herself up, bound hand and foot, to

virtue. But the day would be too short for me. And as Aulus Varius, who

was considered a rather severe judge, was in the habit of saying to his

colleague, when, after some witnesses had been produced, others were still

being summoned, “Either we have had witnesses enough, or I do not know

what is enough;” so I think that I have now brought forward witnesses

enough.

For, what will you say? Was it pleasure that worked upon you, a man

thoroughly worthy of your ancestors, while still a young man, to rob

Publius Sylla of the consulship? And when you had succeeded in procuring

it for your father, a most gallant man, what a consul did he prove, and

what a citizen at all times, and most especially after his consulship!

And, indeed, it was by his advice that we ourselves behaved in such a

manner as to consult the advantage of the whole body of the citizens

rather than our own.

But how admirably did you seem to speak, when on the one side you drew a

picture of a man loaded with the most numerous and excessive pleasures,

with no pain, either present or future; and on the other, of a man

surrounded with the greatest torments affecting his whole body, with no

pleasure, either present or hoped for; and asked who could be more

miserable than the one, or more happy than the other? and then concluded,

that pain was the greatest evil, and pleasure the greatest good.

XX. There was a man of Lanuvium, called Lucius Thorius Balbus, whom you

cannot remember; he lived in such a way that no pleasure could be imagined

so exquisite, that he had not a superfluity of it. He was greedy of

pleasure, a critical judge of every species of it, and very rich. So far

removed from all superstition, as to despise the numerous sacrifices which

take place, and temples which exist in his country; so far from fearing

death, that he was slain in battle fighting for the republic. He bounded

his appetites, not according to the division of Epicurus, but by his own

feelings of satiety. He took sufficient exercise always to come to supper

both thirsty and hungry. He ate such food as was at the same time nicest

in taste and most easy of digestion; and selected such wine as gave him

pleasure, and was, at the same time, free from hurtful qualities. He had

all those other means and appliances which Epicurus thinks so necessary,

that he says that if they are denied, he cannot understand what is good.

He was free from every sort of pain; and if he had felt any, he would not

have borne it impatiently, though he would have been more inclined to

consult a physician than a philosopher. He was a man of a beautiful

complexion, of perfect health, of the greatest influence, in short, his

whole life was one uninterrupted scene of every possible variety of

pleasures. Now, you call this man happy. Your principles compel you to do

so. But as for me, I will not, indeed, venture to name the man whom I

prefer to him—Virtue herself shall speak for me, and she will not hesitate

to rank Marcus Regulus before this happy man of yours. For Virtue asserts

loudly that this man, when, of his own accord, under no compulsion, except

that of the pledge which he had given to the enemy, he had returned to

Carthage, was, at the very moment when he was being tortured with

sleeplessness and hunger, more happy than Thorius while drinking on a bed

of roses.

Regulus had had the conduct of great wars; he had been twice consul; he

had had a triumph; and yet he did not think those previous exploits of his

so great or so glorious as that last misfortune which he incurred, because

of his own good faith and constancy; a misfortune which appears pitiable

to us who hear of it, but was actually pleasant to him who endured it. For

men are happy, not because of hilarity, or lasciviousness, or laughter, or

jesting, the companion of levity, but often even through sorrow endured

with firmness and constancy. Lucretia, having been ravished by force by

the king’s son, called her fellow-citizens to witness, and slew herself.

This grief of hers, Brutus being the leader and mover of the Roman people,

was the cause of liberty to the whole state. And out of regard for the

memory of that woman, her husband and her father were made consuls(35) the

first year of the republic. Lucius Virginius, a man of small property and

one of the people, sixty years after the reestablishment of liberty, slew

his virgin daughter with his own hand, rather than allow her to be

surrendered to the lust of Appius Claudius, who was at that time invested

with the supreme power.

XXI. Now you, O Torquatus, must either blame all these actions, or else

you must abandon the defence of pleasure. And what a cause is that, and

what a task does the man undertake who comes forward as the advocate of

pleasure, who is unable to call any one illustrious man as evidence in her

favour or as a witness to her character? For as we have awakened those men

from the records of our annals as witnesses, whose whole life has been

consumed in glorious labours; men who cannot bear to hear the very name of

pleasure: so on your side of the argument history is dumb. I have never

heard of Lycurgus, or Solon, Miltiades, or Themistocles, or Epaminondas

being mentioned in the school of Epicurus; men whose names are constantly

in the mouth of all the other philosophers. But now, since we have begun

to deal with this part of the question, our friend Atticus, out of his

treasures, will supply us with the names of as many great men as may be

sufficient for us to bring forward as witnesses. Is it not better to say a

little of these men, than so many volumes about Themista?(36) Let these

things be confined to the Greeks: although we have derived philosophy and

all the liberal sciences from them, still there are things which may be

allowable for them to do, but not for us. The Stoics are at variance with

the Peripatetics. One sect denies that anything is good which is not also

honourable: the other asserts that it allows great weight, indeed, by far

the most weight, to what is honourable, but still affirms that there are

in the body also, and around the body, certain positive goods. It is an

honourable contest and a splendid discussion. For the whole question is

about the dignity of virtue.

But when one is arguing with philosophers of your school, one is forced to

hear a great deal about even the obscure pleasures which Epicurus himself

continually mentions. You cannot then, Torquatus, believe me, you cannot

uphold those principles, if you examine into yourself, and your own

thoughts and studies. You will, I say, be ashamed of that picture which

Cleanthes was in the habit of drawing with such accuracy in his

description. He used to desire those who came to him as his pupils, to

think of Pleasure painted in a picture, clad in beautiful robes, with

royal ornaments, and sitting on a throne. He represented all the Virtues

around her, as her handmaidens, doing nothing else, and thinking nothing

else their duty, but to minister to Pleasure, and only just to whisper in

her ear (if, indeed, that could be made intelligible in a picture) a

warning to be on her guard to do nothing imprudent, nothing to offend the

minds of men, nothing from which any pain could ensue. We, indeed, they

would say, we Virtues are only born to act as your slaves; we have no

other business.

XXII. But Epicurus (for this is your great point) denies that any man who

does not live honourably can live agreeably; as if I cared what he denies

or what he affirms. What I inquire is, what it is consistent for that man

to say who places the chief good in pleasure. What reason do you allege

why Thorius, why Chius, why Postumius, why the master of all these men,

Orata, did not live most agreeably? He himself, as I have already said,

asserts that the life of men devoted to luxury is not deserving of blame,

unless they are absolute fools, that is to say, unless they abandon

themselves to become slaves to their desires or to their fears. And when

he promises them a remedy for both these things, he, in so doing, offers

them a licence for luxury. For if you take away these things, then he says

that he cannot find anything in the life of debauched men which deserves

blame. You then, who regulate everything by the standard of pleasure,

cannot either defend or maintain virtue. For he does not deserve to be

accounted a virtuous or a just man who abstains from injustice in order to

avoid suffering evil. You know the line, I suppose—

He’s not a pious man whom fear constrains

To acts of piety ... a man—

And nothing can be more true. For a man is not just while he is in a state

of alarm. And certainly when he ceases to be in fear, he will not be just.

But he will not be afraid if he is able to conceal his actions, or if he

is able, by means of his great riches and power, to support what he has

done. And he will certainly prefer being regarded as a good man, though he

is not one, to being a good man and not being thought one. And so, beyond

all question, instead of genuine and active justice, you give us only an

effigy of justice, and you teach us, as it were, to disregard our own

unvarying conscience, and to go hunting after the fleeting vagabond

opinions of others.

And the same may be said of the other virtues also; the foundation of all

which you place in pleasure, which is like building on water. For what are

we to say? Can we call that same Torquatus a brave man? For I am

delighted, though I cannot, as you say, bribe you; I am delighted with

your family and with your name. And, in truth, I have before my eyes Aulus

Torquatus,(37) a most excellent man, and one greatly attached to me; and

both of you must certainly be aware how great and how eminent his zeal in

my behalf was in those times which are well known to every one. And that

conduct of his would not have been delightful to me, who wish both to be,

and to be considered, grateful, if I did not see clearly that he was

friendly to me for my own sake, not for his own; unless, indeed, you say,

it was for his own sake, because it is for the interest of every one to

act rightly. If you say that, we have gained our point. For what we are

aiming at, what we are contending for, is, that duty itself is the reward

of duty. But that master of yours will not admit this, and requires

pleasure to result from every action as a sort of wages.

However, I return to him. If it was for the sake of pleasure that

Torquatus, when challenged, fought with the Gaul on the Anio, and out of

his spoils took his chain and earned his surname, or if it was for any

other reason but that he thought such exploits worthy of a man, then I do

not account him brave. And, indeed, if modesty, and decency, and chastity,

and, in one word, temperance, is only upheld by the fear of punishment or

infamy, and not out of regard to their own sanctity, then what lengths

will adultery and debauchery and lust shrink from proceeding to, if there

is a hope either of escaping detection, or of obtaining impunity or

licence?

What shall I say more? What is your idea, O Torquatus, of this?—that you,

a man of your name, of your abilities, of your high reputation, should not

dare to allege in a public assembly what you do, what you think, what you

contend for, the standard to which you refer everything, the object for

the sake of which you wish to accomplish what you attempt, and what you

think best in life. For what can you claim to deserve, when you have

entered upon your magistracy, and come forward to the assembly, (for then

you will have to announce what principles you intend to observe in

administering the law, and perhaps, too, if you think fit, you will, as is

the ancient custom, say something about your ancestors and

yourself,)—what, I say, can you claim as your just desert, if you say that

in that magistracy you will do everything for the sake of pleasure? and

that you have never done anything all your life except with a view to

pleasure? Do you think, say you, that I am so mad as to speak in that way

before ignorant people? Well, say it then in the court of justice, or if

you are afraid of the surrounding audience, say it in the senate: you will

never do so. Why not, except that such language is disgraceful? Do you

then think Triarius and me fit people for you to speak before in a

disgraceful manner?

XXIII. However, be it so. The name of pleasure certainly has no dignity in

it, and perhaps we do not exactly understand what is meant by it; for you

are constantly saying that we do not understand what you mean by the word

pleasure: no doubt it is a very difficult and obscure matter. When you

speak of atoms, and spaces between worlds, things which do not exist, and

which cannot possibly exist, then we understand you; and cannot we

understand what pleasure is, a thing which is known to every sparrow? What

will you say if I compel you to confess that I not only do know what

pleasure is (for it is a pleasant emotion affecting the senses), but also

what you mean by the word? For at one time you mean by the word the very

same thing which I have just said, and you give it the description of

consisting in motion, and of causing some variety: at another time you

speak of some other highest pleasure, which is susceptible of no addition

whatever, but that it is present when every sort of pain is absent, and

you call it then a state, not a motion: let that, then, be pleasure. Say,

in any assembly you please, that you do everything with a view to avoid

suffering pain: if you do not think that even this language is

sufficiently dignified, or sufficiently honourable, say that you will do

everything during your year of office, and during your whole life, for the

sake of your own advantage; that you will do nothing except what is

profitable to yourself, nothing which is not prompted by a view to your

own interest. What an uproar do you not suppose such a declaration would

excite in the assembly, and what hope do you think you would have of the

consulship which is ready for you? And can you follow these principles,

which, when by yourself, or in conversation with your dearest friends, you

do not dare to profess and avow openly? But you have those maxims

constantly in your mouth which the Peripatetics and Stoics profess. In the

courts of justice and in the senate you speak of duty, equity, dignity,

good faith, uprightness, honourable actions, conduct worthy of power,

worthy of the Roman people; you talk of encountering every imaginable

danger in the cause of the republic—of dying for one’s country. When you

speak in this manner we are all amazed, like a pack of blockheads, and you

are laughing in your sleeve: for, among all those high-sounding and

admirable expressions, pleasure has no place, not only that pleasure which

you say consists in motion, and which all men, whether living in cities or

in the country, all men, in short, who speak Latin, call pleasure, but

even that stationary pleasure, which no one but your sect calls pleasure

at all.

XXIV. Take care lest you find yourselves obliged to use our language,

though adhering to your own opinions. But if you were to put on a feigned

countenance or gait, with the object of appearing more dignified, you

would not then be like yourself; and yet are you to use fictitious

language, and to say things which you do not think, or, as you have one

dress to wear at home, and another in which you appear in court, are you

to disguise your opinions in a similar manner, so as to make a parade with

your countenance, while you are keeping the truth hidden within? Consider,

I intreat you, whether this is proper. My opinion is that those are

genuine sentiments which are honourable, which are praiseworthy, which are

creditable; which a man is not ashamed to avow in the senate, before the

people, in every company and every assembly, so that he will be ashamed to

think what he is ashamed to say.

But what room can there be for friendship, or who can be a friend to any

one whom he does not love for his own sake? And what is loving, from which

verb (_amo_) the very name of friendship (_amicitia_) is derived, but

wishing a certain person to enjoy the greatest possible good fortune, even

if none of it accrues to oneself? Still, you say, it is a good thing for

me to be of such a disposition. Perhaps it may be so; but you cannot be so

if it is not really your disposition; and how can you be so unless love

itself has seized hold of you? which is not usually generated by any

accurate computation of advantage, but is self-produced, and born

spontaneously from itself. But, you will say, I am guided by prospects of

advantage. Friendship, then, will remain just as long as any advantage

ensues from it; and if it be a principle of advantage which is the

foundation of friendship, the same will be its destruction. But what will

you do, if, as is often the case, advantage takes the opposite side to

friendship? Will you abandon it? what sort of friendship is that? Will you

preserve it? how will that be expedient for you? For you see what the

rules are which you lay down respecting friendship which is desirable only

for the sake of one’s own advantage:—I must take care that I do not incur

odium if I cease to uphold my friend. Now, in the first place, why should

such conduct incur odium, except because it is disgraceful? But, if you

will not desert your friend lest you should incur any disadvantage from so

doing, still you will wish that he was dead, to release you from being

bound to a man from whom you get no advantage. But suppose he not only

brings you no advantage, but you even incur loss of property for his sake,

and have to undertake labours, and to encounter danger of your life; will

you not, even then, show some regard for yourself, and recollect that

every one is born for himself and for his own pleasures? Will you go bail

to a tyrant for your friend in a case which may affect your life, as that

Pythagorean(38) did when he became surety to the Tyrant of Sicily? or,

when you are Pylades, will you affirm that you are Orestes, that you may

die for your friend? or, if you were Orestes, would you contradict

Pylades, and give yourself up? and, if you could not succeed then, would

you intreat that you might be both put to death together?

XXV. You, indeed, O Torquatus, would do all these things. For I do not

think that there is anything deserving of great praise, which you would be

likely to shrink from out of fear of death or pain: nor is it the question

what is consistent with your nature, but with the doctrines of your

school—that philosophy which you defend, those precepts which you have

learnt, and which you profess to approve of, utterly overthrow

friendship—even though Epicurus should, as indeed he does, extol it to the

skies. Oh, you will say, but he himself cultivated friendship. As if any

one denied that he was a good, and courteous, and kind-hearted man; the

question in these discussions turns on his genius, and not on his morals.

Grant that there is such perversity in the levity of the Greeks, who

attack those men with evil speaking with whom they disagree as to the

truth of a proposition. But, although he may have been courteous in

maintaining friendships, still, if all this is true, (for I do not affirm

anything myself), he was not a very acute arguer. Oh, but he convinced

many people. And perhaps it was quite right that he should; still, the

testimony of the multitude is not of the greatest possible weight; for in

every art, or study, or science, as in virtue itself, whatever is most

excellent is also most rare. And to me, indeed, the very fact of he

himself having been a good man, and of many Epicureans having also been

such, and being to this day faithful in their friendships, and consistent

throughout their whole lives, and men of dignified conduct, regulating

their lives, not by pleasure, but by their duty, appears to show that the

power of what is honourable is greater, and that of pleasure smaller. For

some men live in such a manner that their language is refuted by their

lives; and as others are considered to speak better than they act, so

these men seem to me to act better than they speak.

XXVI. However, all this is nothing to the purpose. Let us just consider

those things which have been said by you about friendship, and among them

I fancied that I recognized one thing as having been said by Epicurus

himself, namely, that friendship cannot be separated from pleasure, and

that it ought on that account to be cultivated, because without it men

could not live in safety, and without fear, nor even with any kind of

pleasantness. Answer enough has been given to this argument. You also

brought forward another more humane one, invented by these more modern

philosophers, and never, as far as I know, advanced by the master himself,

that at first, indeed, a friend is sought out with a view to one’s own

advantage, but that when intimacy has sprung up, then the man is loved for

himself, all hope or idea of pleasure being put out of the question. Now,

although this argument is open to attack on many accounts, still I will

accept what they grant; for it is enough for me, though not enough for

them: for they admit that it is possible for men to act rightly at times,

without any expectation of, or desire to acquire pleasure.

You also affirmed that some people say that wise men make a kind of treaty

among themselves, that they shall have the same feelings towards their

friends that they entertain for themselves, and that that is possible, and

is often the case, and that it has especial reference to the enjoyment of

pleasures. If they could make this treaty, they at the same time make that

other to love equity, moderation, and all the virtues for their own sake,

without any consideration of advantage. But if we cultivate friendships

for the sake of their profits, emoluments, and advantages which may be

derived from them, if there is to be no affection which may make the

friendship desirable for its own sake, on its own account, by its own

influences, by itself and for itself, is there any doubt at all that in

such a case we must prefer our farms and estates to our friends? And here

you may again quote those panegyrics which have been uttered in most

eloquent language by Epicurus himself, on the subject of friendship. I am

not asking what he says, but what he can possibly say which shall be

consistent with his own system and sentiments.

Friendship has been sought for the sake of advantage; do you, then, think

that my friend Triarius, here, will be more useful to you than your

granaries at Puteol? Think of all the circumstances which you are in the

habit of recollecting; the protection which friends are to a man. You have

sufficient protection in yourself, sufficient in the laws, sufficient also

in moderate friendships. As it is, you cannot be looked upon with

contempt; but you will easily avoid odium and unpopularity, for precepts

on that subject are given by Epicurus. And yet you, by employing such

large revenues in purposes of liberality, even without any Pyladean

friendship, will admirably defend and protect yourself by the goodwill of

numbers. But with whom, then, is a man to share his jests, his serious

thoughts, as people say, and all his secrets and hidden wishes? With you,

above all men; but if that cannot be, why with some tolerably intimate

friend. However, grant that all these circumstances are not unreasonable;

what comparison can there be between them and the utility of such large

sums of money? You see, then, if you measure friendship by the affection

which it engenders, that nothing is more excellent; if by the advantage

that is derived from it, then you see that the closest intimacies are

surpassed by the value of a productive farm. You must therefore love me,

myself, and not my circumstances, if we are to be real friends.

XXVII. But we are getting too prolix in the most self-evident matters;

for, as it has been concluded and established that there is no room

anywhere for either virtues or friendships if everything is referred to

pleasure, there is nothing more which it is of any great importance should

be said. And yet, that I may not appear to have passed over any topic

without a reply, I will, even now, say a few words on the remainder of

your argument.

Since, then, the whole sum of philosophy is directed to ensure living

happily, and since men, from a desire of this one thing, have devoted

themselves to this study; but different people make happiness of life to

consist in different circumstances; you, for instance, place it in

pleasure; and, in the same manner you, on the other hand, make all

unhappiness to consist in pain: let us consider, in the first place, what

sort of thing this happy life of yours is. But you will grant this, I

think, that if there is really any such thing as happiness, it ought to be

wholly in the power of a wise man to secure it; for, if a happy life can

be lost, it cannot be happy. For who can feel confident that a thing will

always remain firm and enduring in his case, which is in reality fleeting

and perishable? But the man who distrusts the permanence of his good

things, must necessarily fear that some day or other, when he has lost

them, he will become miserable; and no man can be happy who is in fear

about most important matters. No one, then, can be happy; for a happy life

is usually called so, not in some part only, but in perpetuity of time;

and, in fact, life is not said to be happy at all till it is completed and

finished. Nor is it possible for any man to be sometimes happy and

sometimes miserable; for he who thinks it possible that he may become

miserable, is certainly not happy. For, when a happy life is once

attained, it remains as long as the maker of the happy life herself,

namely, wisdom; nor does it wait till the last period of a man’s

existence, as Herodotus says that Crœsus was warned by Solon.

But, as you yourself were saying, Epicurus denies that length of time has

any influence on making life happy, and that no less pleasure can be felt

in a short time than would be the case if the pleasure were everlasting.

Now these statements are most inconsistent. For, when he places the chief

good in pleasure, he denies that pleasure can be greater in infinite time,

than it can in a finite and moderate period. The man who places all good

in virtue, has it in his power to say that a happy life is made so by the

perfection of virtue; for he consistently denies that time can bring any

increase to his chief good. But he who thinks that life is made happy by

pleasure, must surely be inconsistent with himself if he denies that

pleasure is increased by length of time: if so, then pain is not either.

Shall we, then, say that all pain is most miserable in proportion as it is

most lasting, and yet that duration does not make pleasure more desirable?

Why, then, is it that Epicurus always speaks of God as happy and eternal?

For, if you only take away his eternity, Jupiter is in no respect more

happy than Epicurus; for each of them is in the enjoyment of the chief

good, namely, pleasure. Oh, but Epicurus is also liable to pain. That does

not affect him at all; for he says that if he were being burnt, he would

say, “How pleasant it is.” In what respect, then, is he surpassed by the

God, if he is not surpassed by him because of his eternity? For what good

has the God, except the highest degree of pleasure, and that, too,

everlasting! What, then, is the good of speaking so pompously, if one does

not speak consistently? Happiness of life is placed in pleasure of body,

(I will add of mind also, if you please, as long as that pleasure of the

mind is derived from the pleasure of the body.) What? who can secure this

pleasure to a wise man in perpetuity? For the circumstances by which

pleasures are generated are not in the power of a wise man; for happiness

does not consist in wisdom itself, but in those things which wisdom

provides for the production of pleasure. And all these circumstances are

external; and what is external is liable to accident. And thus fortune is

made the mistress of happiness in life,—Fortune, which, Epicurus says, has

but little to do with a wise man.

XXVIII. But you will say, Come, these things are trifles. Nature by

herself enriches the wise man; and, indeed, Epicurus has taught us that

the riches of nature are such as can be acquired. This is well said, and I

do not object to it; but still these same assertions are inconsistent with

one another. For Epicurus denies there is less pleasure derived from the

poorest food, from the most despised kinds of meat and drink, than from

feasting on the most delicious dishes. Now if he were to assert that it

makes no difference as to the happiness of life what food a man ate, I

would grant it, I would even praise him for saying so; for he would be

speaking the truth; and I know that Socrates, who ranked pleasure as

nothing at all, said the same thing, namely, that hunger was the best

seasoning for meat, and thirst for drink. But I do not comprehend how a

man who refers everything to pleasure, lives like Gallonius, and yet talks

like that great man Frugi Piso; nor, indeed, do I believe that what he

says is his real opinion. He has said that natural riches can be acquired,

because nature is contented with a little. Certainly, unless you estimate

pleasure at a great value. No less pleasure, says he, is derived from the

most ordinary things than from the most valuable. Now to say this, is not

only not to have a heart, but not to have even a palate. For they who

despise pleasure itself, may be allowed to say that they do not prefer a

sturgeon to a herring. But the man who places his chief good in pleasure,

must judge of everything by his sensations, not by his reason, and must

pronounce those things best which are most pleasant.

However, be it so. Let him acquire the greatest possible pleasures, not

only at a cheap rate, but, as far as I am concerned, for nothing at all,

if he can manage it. Let there be no less pleasure in eating a nasturtium,

which Xenophon tells us the Persians used to eat, than in those Syracusan

banquets which are so severely blamed by Plato. Let, I say, the

acquisition of pleasure be as easy as you say it is. What shall we say of

pain? the torments of which are so great that, if at least pain is the

greatest of evils, a happy life cannot possibly exist in company with it.

For Metrodorus himself, who is almost a second Epicurus, describes a happy

man in these words. When his body is in good order, and when he is quite

certain that it it will be so for the future. Is it possible for any one

to be certain in what condition his body will be, I do not say a year

hence, but even this evening? Pain, therefore, which is the greatest of

evils, will always be dreaded even if it is not present. For it will

always be possible that it may be present. But how can any fear of the

greatest possible evil exist in a happy life?

Oh, says he, Epicurus has handed down maxims according to which we may

disregard pain. Surely, it is an absurdity to suppose that the greatest

possible evil can be disregarded. However, what is the maxim? The greatest

pain, says he, is short-lived. Now, first of all, what do you call

short-lived? And, secondly, what do you call the greatest pain? For what

do you mean? Cannot extreme pain last for many days? Aye, and for many

months? Unless, indeed, you intend to assert that you mean such pain as

kills a man the moment it seizes on him. Who is afraid of that pain? I

would rather you would lessen that pain by which I have seen that most

excellent and kind-hearted man, Cnæus Octavius, the son of Marcus

Octavius, my own intimate friend, worn out, and that not once, or for a

short time, but very often, and for a long period at once. What agonies, O

ye immortal gods, did that man use to bear, when all his limbs seemed as

if they were on fire. And yet he did not appear to be miserable, (because

in truth pain was not the greatest of evils,) but only afflicted. But if

he had been immersed in continued pleasure, passing at the same time a

vicious and infamous life, then he would have been miserable.

XXIX. But when you say that great pains last but a short time, and that if

they last long they are always light, I do not understand the meaning of

your assertion. For I see that some pains are very great, and also very

durable. And there is a better principle which may enable one to endure

them, which however you cannot adopt, who do not love what is honourable

for its own sake. There are some precepts for, and I may almost say laws

of, fortitude, which forbid a man to behave effeminately in pain.

Wherefore it should be accounted disgraceful, I do not say to grieve, (for

that is at times unavoidable,) but to make those rocks of Lemnos

melancholy with such outcries as those of Philoctetes—

Who utters many a tearful note aloud,

With ceaseless groaning, howling, and complaint.

Now let Epicurus, if he can, put himself in the place of that man—

Whose veins and entrails thus are racked with pain

And horrid agony, while the serpent’s bite

Spreads its black venom through his shuddering frame.

Let Epicurus become Philoctetes. If his pain is sharp it is short. But in

fact he has been lying in his cave for ten years. If it lasts long it is

light, for it grants him intervals of relaxation. In the first place it

does not do so often; and in the second place what sort of relaxation is

it when the memory of past agony is still fresh, and the fear of further

agony coming and impending is constantly tormenting him. Let him die, says

he. Perhaps that would be the best thing for him; but then what becomes of

the argument, that the wise man has always more pleasure than pain? For if

that be the case I would have you think whether you are not recommending

him a crime, when you advise him to die. Say to him rather, that it is a

disgraceful thing for a man to allow his spirit to be crushed and broken

by pain, that it is shameful to yield to it. For as for your maxim, if it

is violent it is short, if it lasts long it is slight, that is mere empty

verbiage. The only real way to mitigate pain is by the application of

virtue, of magnanimity, of patience, of courage.

XXX. Listen, that I may not make too wide a digression, to the words of

Epicurus when dying; and take notice how inconsistent his conduct is with

his language. “Epicurus to Hermarchus greeting. I write this letter,” says

he, “while passing a happy day, which is also the last day of my life. And

the pains of my bladder and bowels are so intense that nothing can be

added to them which can make them greater.” Here is a man miserable, if

pain is the greatest possible evil. It cannot possibly be denied. However,

let us see how he proceeds. “But still I have to balance this a joy in my

mind, which I derive from the recollection of my philosophical principles

and discoveries. But do you, as becomes the goodwill which from your youth

upwards you have constantly discovered for me and for philosophy, protect

the children of Metrodorus.” After reading this, I do not consider the

death of Epaminondas or Leonidas preferable to his. One of whom defeated

the Lacedæmonians at Mantinea,(39) and finding that he had been rendered

insensible by a mortal wound, when he first came to himself, asked whether

his shield was safe? When his weeping friends had answered him that it

was, he then asked whether the enemy was defeated? And when he received to

this question also the answer which he wished, he then ordered the spear

which was sticking in him to be pulled out. And so, losing quantities of

blood, he died in the hour of joy and victory.

But Leonidas, the king of the Lacedæmonians, put himself and those three

hundred men, whom he had led from Sparta, in the way of the enemy of

Thermopylæ,(40) when the alternative was a base flight, or a glorious

death. The deaths of generals are glorious, but philosophers usually die

in their beds. But still Epicurus here mentions what, when dying, he

considered great credit to himself. “I have,” says he, “a joy to

counterbalance these pains.” I recognise in these words, O Epicurus, the

sentiments of a philosopher, but still you forgot what you ought to have

said. For, in the first place, if those things be true, in the

recollection of which you say you rejoice, that is to say, if your

writings and discoveries are true, then you cannot rejoice. For you have

no pleasure here which you can refer to the body. But you have constantly

asserted that no one ever feels joy or pain except with reference to his

body. “I rejoice,” says he, “in the past.” In what that is past? If you

mean such past things as refer to the body, then I see that you are

counterbalancing your agonies with your reason, and not with your

recollection of pleasures which you have felt in the body. But if you are

referring to your mind, then your denial of there being any joy of the

mind which cannot be referred to some pleasure of the body, must be false.

Why, then, do you recommend the children of Metrodorus to Hermarchus? In

that admirable exercise of duty, in that excellent display of your good

faith, for that is how I look upon it, what is there that you refer to the

body?

XXXI. You may twist yourself about in every direction as you please,

Torquatus, but you will not find in this excellent letter anything written

by Epicurus which is in harmony and consistent with the rules he laid

down. And so he is convicted by himself, and his writings are upset by his

own virtue and goodness. For that recommendation of those children, that

recollection of them, and affectionate friendship for them, that attention

to the most important duties at the last gasp, indicates that honesty

without any thought of personal advantage was innate in the man; that it

did not require the invitation of pleasure, or the allurements of

mercenary rewards. For what greater evidence can we require that those

things which are honourable and right are desirable of themselves for

their own sake, than the sight of a dying man so anxious in the discharge

of such important duties? But, as I think that letter deserving of all

commendation of which I have just given you a literal translation,

(although it was in no respect consistent with the general system of that

philosopher,) so also I think that his will is inconsistent not only with

the dignity of a philosopher, but even with his own sentiments. For he

wrote often, and at great length, and sometimes with brevity and suitable

language, in that book which I have just named, that death had nothing to

do with us; for that whatever was dissolved was void of sensation, and

whatever was void of sensation had nothing whatever to do with us. Even

this might have been expressed better and more elegantly. For when he lays

down the position that what has been dissolved is void of sensation, that

is such an expression that it is not very plain what he means by the word

dissolved. However, I understand what he really does mean. But still I ask

why, when every sensation is extinguished by dissolution, that is to say,

by death, and when there is nothing else whatever that has any connexion

with us, he should still take such minute and diligent care to enjoin

Amynomachus and Timocrates, his heirs, to furnish every year what in the

opinion of Hermarchus shall be enough to keep his birthday in the month

Gamelion, with all proper solemnity. And also, shall every month, on the

twentieth day of the month, supply money enough to furnish a banquet for

those men who have studied philosophy with him, in order that his memory,

and that of Metrodorus, may be duly honoured. Now I cannot deny that these

injunctions are in keeping with the character of a thoroughly accomplished

and amiable man; but still I utterly deny that it is inconsistent with the

wisdom of a philosopher, especially of a natural philosopher, which is the

character he claims for himself, to think that there is such a day as the

birthday of any one. What? Can any day which has once passed recur over

again frequently. Most indubitably not; or can any day like it recur? Even

that is impossible, unless it may happen after an interval of many

thousand years, that there may be a return of all the stars at the same

moment to the point from which they set out. There is, therefore, no such

thing as anybody’s birthday. But still it is considered that there is. As

if I did not know that. But even if there be, is it to be regarded after a

man’s death? And is a man to give injunctions in his will that it shall be

so, after he has told you all, as if with the voice of an oracle, that

there is nothing which concerns us at all after death? These things are

very inconsistent in a man who, in his mind, had travelled over

innumerable worlds and boundless regions, which were destitute of all

limits and boundaries. Did Democritus ever say such a thing as this? I

will pass over every one else, and call him only as a witness whom

Epicurus himself followed to the exclusion of others.

But if a day did deserve to be kept, which was it more fitting to observe,

the day on which a man was born, or that on which he became wise? A man,

you will say, could not have become wise unless he had been born. And, on

the same principle, he could not if his grandmother had never been born.

The whole business, Torquatus, is quite out of character for a learned man

to wish to have the recollection of his name celebrated with banquets

after his death. I say nothing of the way in which you keep these days,

and to how many jokes from witty men you expose yourselves. There is no

need of quarrelling. I only say that it would have been more becoming in

you to keep Epicurus’s birthday, than in him to leave injunctions in his

will that it should be kept.

XXXII. However, to return to our subject, (for while we were talking of

pain we digressed to that letter of his,) we may now fairly come to this

conclusion. The man who is in the greatest evil, while he is in it, is not

happy. But the wise man is always happy, and is also occasionally in pain.

Therefore, pain is not the greatest evil. What kind of doctrine, then, is

this, that goods which are past are not lost to a wise man, but that he

ought not to remember past evils. First of all, is it in our power to

decide what we will remember. When Simonides, or some one else, offered to

Themistocles to teach him the art of memory, “I would rather,” said he,

“that you would teach me that of forgetfulness; for I even now recollect

what I would rather not; but I cannot forget what I should like to.” This

was a very sensible answer. But still the fact is that it is the act of a

very arbitrary philosopher to forbid a man to recollect. It seems to me a

command very much in the spirit of your ancestor, Manlius, or even worse,

to command what it is impossible for me to do. What will you say if the

recollection of past evils is even pleasant? For some proverbs are more

true than your dogmas. Nor does Euripides speak all when he says, I will

give it you in Latin, if I can, but you all know the Greek line—

Sweet is the memory of sorrows past.(41)

However, let us return to the consideration of past goods. And if you were

to utter such maxims as might be capable of consoling Caius Marius, and

enabling him when banished, indigent, and up to his neck in a marsh, to

relieve his anguish by the recollection of his past trophies, I would

listen to you, and approve of all you could say. Nor, indeed, can the

happiness of a philosopher be complete or continue to the end, if all the

admirable discoveries which he has made, and all his virtuous actions, are

to be lost by his own forgetfulness. But, in your case, you assert that

the recollection of pleasures which have been felt makes life happy, and

of such pleasures too, as affect the body. For if there are any other

pleasures, then it is incorrect to say that all the pleasures of the mind

originate in its connexion with the body.

But if pleasures felt by the body, even when they are past, can give

pleasure, then I do not understand why Aristotle should turn the

inscription on the tomb of Sardanapalus into so much ridicule; in which

the king of Assyria boasts that he has taken with him all his lascivious

pleasures. For, says Aristotle, how could those things which even while he

was alive he could not feel a moment longer than while he was actually

enjoying them, possibly remain to him after he was dead? The pleasure,

then, of the body is lost, and flies away at the first moment, and oftener

leaves behind reasons for repenting of it than for recollecting it.

Therefore, Africanus is happier when addressing his country in this

manner—

Cease, Rome, to dread your foes....

And in the rest of his admirable boast—

For you have trophies by my labour raised.

He is rejoicing here in his labours which are past. But you would bid him

exult in past pleasures. He traces back his feelings to things which had

never had any reference to his body. You cling to the body to the

exclusion of everything else.

XXXIII. But how can that proposition possibly be maintained which you

urge, namely, that all the pleasures and pains of the mind are connected

inseparably with the pleasures and pains of the body? Is there, then,

nothing which ever delights you, (I know whom I am addressing,) is there

nothing, O Torquatus, which ever delights you for its own sake? I say

nothing about dignity, honourableness, the beauty of virtue, which I have

mentioned before. I will put all these things aside as of less

consequence. But is there anything when you are writing, or reading a

poem, or an oration, when you are investigating the history of exploits or

countries, or anything in a statue, or picture, or pleasant place; in

sports, in hunting, or in a villa of Lucullus, (for if I were to say of

your own, you would have a loophole to escape through, saying that that

had connexion with your body,) is there any of all these things, I say,

which you can refer to your body, or do they not please you, if they

please you at all, for their own sake?

You must either be the most obstinate of men, if you persist in referring

these things, which I have just mentioned, to the body, or else you must

abandon Epicurus’s whole theory of pleasure, if you admit that they have

no connexion with it.

But as for your argument, that the pleasures and pains of the mind are

greater than those of the body, because the mind is a partaker of three

times,(42) but nothing but what is present is felt by the body; how can it

possibly be allowed that a man who rejoices for my sake rejoices more than

I do myself? The pleasure of the mind originates in the pleasure of the

body, and the pleasure of the mind is greater than that of the body. The

result, then, is, that the party who congratulates the other is more

rejoiced than he whom he congratulates. But while you are trying to make

out the wise man to be happy, because he is sensible of the greatest

pleasures in his mind, and, indeed, of pleasures which are in all their

parts greater than those which he is sensible of in his body, you do not

see what really happens. For he will also feel the pains of the mind to be

in every respect greater than those of the body. And so he must

occasionally be miserable, whom you endeavour to represent as being always

happy. Nor, indeed, will it be possible for you ever to fill up the idea

of perfect and uninterrupted happiness while you refer everything to

pleasure and pain.

On which account, O Torquatus, we must find out something else which is

the chief good of man. Let us grant pleasure to the beasts, to whom you

often appeal as witnesses on the subject of the chief good. What will you

say, if even the beasts do many things under the guidance of their various

natures, partly out of indulgence to other beasts, and at the cost of

their own labour, as, for instance, it is very visible in bringing forth

and rearing their young, that they have some other object in view besides

their own pleasure? and partly, too, when they rejoice in running about

and travelling; and some assemble in herds, in such a manner as to imitate

in some degree a human state. In some species of birds we see certain

indications of affection, knowledge, and memory; in many we see what even

looks like a regular system of action. Shall there, then, be in beasts

some images of human virtues, quite unconnected with pleasure, and shall

there be no virtue in man except for the sake of pleasure? and though he

is as superior as can be to all the other animals, shall we still affirm

that he has no peculiar attributes given to him by nature?

XXXIV. But we, if indeed all things depend on pleasure, are greatly

surpassed by beasts, for which the earth, of her own accord, produces

various sorts of food, in every kind of abundance, without their taking

any trouble about it; while the same necessaries are scarcely (sometimes I

may even use stronger language still) supplied to us, when we seek them

with great labour. Nor is it possible that I should ever think that the

chief good was the same in the case of a beast and a man. For what can be

the use of having so many means and appliances for the carrying out of the

most excellent arts,—what can be the use of such an assemblage of most

honourable pursuits, of such a crowd of virtues, if they are all got

together for no other end but pleasure? As if, when Xerxes, with such vast

fleets, such countless troops of both cavalry and infantry, had bridged

over the Hellespont and dug through Mount Athos, had walked across the

sea, and sailed(43) over the land, if, when he had invaded Greece with

such irresistible violence, any one had asked him for the cause of

collecting so vast an army, and waging so formidable a war, and he had

replied that he wished to get some honey from Hymettus, certainly he would

have been thought to have undertaken such an enterprise for an

insufficient cause. And in like manner, if we were to say that a wise man,

furnished and provided with numerous and important virtues and

accomplishments, not, indeed, travelling like him over sea on foot, and

over mountains with his fleet, but embracing the whole heaven, all the

earth, and the universal sea with his mind, had nothing in view but

pleasure, we might say that he, too, was taking a great deal of trouble

for a little honey.

Believe me, Torquatus, we were born for more lofty and noble ends; and you

may see this, not only by considering the parts of the mind, in which

there is the recollection of a countless number of things, (and from

thence proceed infinite conjectures as to the consequences of them, not

very far differing from divination; there is also in them shame, which is

the regulator of desire, and the faithful guardianship of justice, so

necessary to human society, and a firm enduring contempt for pain and

death, shown in the enduring of labours and the encountering of dangers.)

All these things, I say, are in the mind. But I would have you consider

also the limbs and the senses, which, like the other parts of the body,

will appear to you to be not only the companions of the virtues, but also

their slaves. What will you say, if many things in the body itself appear

to deserve to be preferred to pleasure? such as strength, health,

activity, beauty? And if this is the case, how many qualities of the mind

will likewise seem so? For in the mind, the old philosophers—those most

learned men—thought that there was something heavenly and divine. But if

the chief good consisted in pleasure, as you say, then it would be natural

that we should wish to live day and night in the midst of pleasure,

without any interval or interruption, while all our senses were, as it

were, steeped in and influenced wholly by pleasure. But who is there, who

is worthy of the name of a man, who would like to spend even the whole of

one day in that kind of pleasure? The Cyrenaic philosophers, indeed, would

not object. Your sect is more modest in this respect, though their’s is

perhaps the more sincere.

However, let us contemplate with our minds, not, indeed, these most

important arts, which are so valuable, that those who were ignorant of

them were accounted useless by our ancestors; but I ask you whether you

think that (I will not say Homer, or Archilochus, or Pindar, but) Phidias,

or Polycletus, or Zeuxis directed the whole of their skill to cause more

pleasure. Shall, then, an artist propose to himself a higher aim, with

reference to the beauty of figures, than a virtuous citizen with reference

to the nobleness of action? But what other cause can there be for such a

blunder being so widely and extensively diffused, except that he who

determines that pleasure is the chief good, deliberates not with that part

of his mind in which reason and wisdom dwell, but with his desires, that

is to say, with the most trifling portion of his mind. For I put the

question to you yourself, if there are gods, as you think that there are,

how have they the power of being happy, when they are not able to feel any

pleasure in their bodies? or if they are happy, though destitute of that

kind of pleasure, why do you refuse to recognize the possibility of a

similar exertion of intellect on the part of a wise man?

XXXV. Read, O Torquatus, the panegyrics, not of those men who have been

praised by Homer, not the encomiums passed on Cyrus, or Agesilaus, or

Aristides, or Themistocles, or Philip, or Alexander; but read the praises

of our own fellow-countrymen, of the heroes of your own family. You will

not find any one praised on the ground of having been a cunning contriver,

or procurer, of pleasure. The eulogies on their monuments signify no such

thing; like this one which is at one of our gates, “In whose favour many

nations unanimously agree that he was the noblest man of the nation.” Do

we think that many nations judged of Calatinus, that he was the noblest

man of the nation, because he was the most skilful in the devising of

pleasures? Shall we, then, say that there is great hope and an excellent

disposition in those young men whom we think likely to consult their own

advantage, and to see what will be profitable to themselves? Do we not see

what a great confusion of everything would ensue? what great disorder?

Such a doctrine puts an end to all beneficence, to all gratitude, which

are the great bonds of agreement. For if you do good to any one for your

own sake, that is not to be considered a kindness, but only usury; nor

does any gratitude appear due to the man who has benefited another for his

own sake.

But if pleasure is the dominant power, it is inevitable that all the

virtues must be trampled under foot. For there are many kinds of base

conduct, which, unless honourableness is naturally to have the most

influence, must, or at least it is not easy to explain why they should

not, overcome a wise man; and, not to go hunting for too many instances,

it is quite clear, that virtue deservedly praised, must cut off all the

approaches of pleasure.

Do not, now, expect any more arguments from me. Look, Torquatus, yourself,

into your own mind; turn the question over in all your thoughts; examine

yourself, whether you would prefer to pass your life in the enjoyment of

perpetual pleasure, in that tranquillity which you have often felt, free

from all pain, with the addition also of that blessing which you often

speak of as an addition, but which is, in fact, an impossible one, the

absence of all fear; or, while deserving well of all nations, and bearing

assistance and safety to all who are in need of it, to encounter even the

distresses of Hercules. For so our ancestors, even in the case of a god,

called labours which were unavoidable by the most melancholy name,

distresses.(44) I would require you, and compel you to answer me, if I

were not afraid that you might say that Hercules himself performed those

exploits, which he performed with the greatest labour for the safety of

nations, for the sake of pleasure.

And when I had said this,—I know, said Torquatus, who it is that I have to

thank for this; and although I might be able to do something myself, yet I

am still more glad to find my friends better prepared than I am.

I suppose you mean Syro and Philodemus, excellent citizens and most

learned men. You are right, said he. Come, then, said I. But it would be

more fair for Triarius to give some opinion on this discussion of ours.

Indeed, said he smiling, it would be very unfair, at least on this

subject: for you manage the question more gently; but this man attacks us

after the fashion of the Stoics. Then Triarius said, Hereafter I will

speak more boldly still: for I shall have all these arguments which I have

just heard ready to my hand; and I will not begin before I see you

equipped by those philosophers whom you mention.

And when this had been said, we made an end both of our walk and of our

discussion.

Third Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.

I. I think, Brutus, that Pleasure, if she were to speak for herself, and

had not such pertinacious advocates, would yield to Virtue, as having been

vanquished in the preceding book. In truth, she would be destitute of

shame if she were to resist Virtue any longer, or persist in preferring

what is pleasant to what is honourable, or were to contend that a tickling

pleasure, as it were, of the body, and the joy arising out of it, is of

more importance than dignity of mind and consistency. So that we may

dismiss Pleasure, and desire her to confine herself within her own

boundaries, so that the strictness of our discussions may not be hindered

by her allurements and blandishments. For we have now to inquire what that

chief good is which we are anxious to discover; since pleasure is quite

unconnected with it, and since nearly the same arguments can be urged

against those who have considered freedom from pain as the greatest of

goods.

Nor, indeed, can anything be admitted to be the chief good which is

destitute of virtue, to which nothing can be superior. Therefore, although

in that discourse which was held with Torquatus we were not remiss, still

we have now a much sharper contest before us with the Stoics. For the

statements which are made about pleasure are not expressed with any great

acuteness or refinement. For they who defend it are not skilful in

arguing, nor have those who take the opposite side a very difficult cause

to oppose. Even Epicurus himself says, that one ought not even to argue

about pleasure, because the decision respecting it depends on the

sensations, so that it is sufficient for us to be warned respecting it,

and quite unnecessary for us to be instructed. And on this account, that

previous discussion of ours was a simple one on both sides; for there was

nothing involved or intricate in the discourse of Torquatus, and my own

language, as it seems to me, was very clear. But you are not ignorant what

a subtle, or I might rather say, thorny kind of arguing it is which is

employed by the Stoics. And if it is so among the Greeks, much more so is

it among us, who are forced even to invent words, and to give new names to

new things. And this is what no one who is even moderately learned will

wonder at, when he considers that in every art which is not in common and

ordinary use, there is a great variety of new names, as appellations are

forced to be given to everything about which each art is conversant.

Therefore, both dialecticians and natural philosophers use those words

which are not common in the ordinary conversation of the Greeks; and

geometricians, musicians, and grammarians, all speak after a peculiar

fashion of their own. And even the rhetoricians, whose art is a forensic

one, and wholly directed to the people, still in giving their lessons use

words which are, as it were, their peculiar private property.

II. And, without dwelling on the case of these liberal and gentlemanly

professions, even artisans would not be capable of exercising their trades

properly if they did not use technical words, which are not understood by

us, though in common use among them. Agriculture, also, which is as

distant as can be from all polite refinement, still marks those matters

with which it is conversant by new names. And much more is this course

allowable in a philosopher; for philosophy is the art of life, and a man

who is discussing that cannot borrow his language from the forum,—although

there is no school of philosophers which has made so many innovations as

the Stoics. Zeno too, their chief, was not so much a discoverer of new

things as of new words. But if, even in that language which most people

consider richer than our own, Greece has permitted the most learned men to

use words not in ordinary use about subjects which are equally unusual,

how much more ought the same licence to be granted to us, who are now

venturing to be the very first of our countrymen to touch on such matters?

And though we have often said,—and that, too, in spite of some complaints

not only of the Greeks, but of those men also who would prefer being

accounted Greeks to being thought our own countrymen,—that we are so far

from being surpassed by the Greeks in the richness and copiousness of our

language, that we are even superior to them in that particular; we must

labour to establish this point, not only in our own national arts, but in

those too which we have derived from them. Although, since they have

become established by habit, we may fairly consider those words as our own

which, in accordance with ancient custom, we use as Latin words; such as

_philosophia_ itself, _rhetorica_, _dialectica_, _grammatica_,

_geometria_, _musica_,—although they could, no doubt, be translated into

more genuine Latin.

Enough, however, of the names of things. But with respect to the things

themselves, I am often afraid, Brutus, that I may be blamed when I am

writing to you, who have made so much progress, not only in philosophy,

but in the most excellent kind of philosophy. And if I wrote as if I were

giving you any instruction, I should deserve to be blamed; but such

conceit is far from me. Nor do I send letters to you under the idea of

making you acquainted with what is thoroughly known to you before; but

because I am fond of supporting myself by your name, and because also I

consider you the most candid critic and judge of those studies which both

you and I apply ourselves to in common. I know, therefore, that you will

pay careful attention to what I write, as is your wont, and that you will

decide on the dispute which took place between your uncle—a most

heavenly-minded and admirable man—and myself.

For when I was at my villa near Tusculum, and was desirous to make use of

some books in the library of the young Lucullus, I went one day to his

house, in order to take away (as I was in the habit of doing) the books

which I wanted. And when I had arrived there, I found Marcus Cato, whom I

did not know to be there, sitting in the library, surrounded by a number

of the books of the Stoics. For he had, as you know, a boundless desire

for reading, one which was quite insatiable,—so much so, indeed, that he

was not afraid of the causeless reproaches of the common people, but was

accustomed to continue reading even in the senate-house itself, while the

senate was assembling, without, however, at all relaxing in his attention

to the affairs of the republic. And now, being in the enjoyment of

complete leisure, and being surrounded by a great abundance of such

treasures, he appeared to be completely gorging himself with books, if I

may use such an expression about so respectable a subject. And as it so

happened that neither of us expected to see the other, he at once rose up

on my entrance; and, after the first salutations which are usual at such a

meeting, What object has brought you here? said he; for I presume you are

come from your own villa, and if I had known that you had been there, I

should have come myself to see you. I only, said I, left the city

yesterday after the commencement of the games, and got home in the

evening. But my object in coming here was to take some books away with me;

and it will be a pity, Cato, if our friend Lucullus does not some day or

other become acquainted with all these treasures; for I would rather have

him take delight in these books than in all the rest of the furniture of

the villa. For he is a youth I am very anxious about; although, indeed, it

is more peculiarly your business to take care that he shall be so educated

as to do credit to his father, and to our friend Cæpio, and to you who are

such a near relation of his.(45) But I myself have some right to feel an

interest in him; for I am influenced by my recollection of his

grandfather,—and you well know what a regard I had for Cæpio, who, in my

opinion, would now be one of the first men of the city if he were alive;

and I also have Lucullus himself always before my eyes,—a man not only

excelling in every virtue, but connected with me both by friendship and a

general resemblance of inclination and sentiment. You do well, said he, to

retain a recollection of those persons, both of whom recommended their

children to your care by their wills, and you are right too to be attached

to this youth. And as for your calling it my peculiar business, I will not

decline the office, but I claim you for my partner in the duty. I will say

this also, that the boy has already shown me many indications both of

modesty and of ability; but you see how young he is as yet. To be sure I

do, said I; but even now he ought to receive a tincture of those

accomplishments which, if he drinks of them now while he is young, will

hereafter make him more ready for more important business. And so we will

often talk over this matter anxiously together, and we will act in

concert. However, let us sit down, says he, if you please. So we sat down.

III. Then Cato said: But now, what books in the world are they that you

are looking for here, when you have such a library at home? I want, said

I, some of the Aristotelian Commentaries, which I know are here; and I

came to carry them off, to read when I have leisure, which is not, as you

know, very often the case with me. How I wish, said he, that you had an

inclination towards our Stoic sect; for certainly it is natural for you,

if it ever was so for any one, to think nothing a good except virtue. May

I not, I replied, rejoin that it would be natural for you, as your opinion

in reality is the same as mine, to forbear giving new names to things? for

our principles are the same,—it is only our language that is at variance.

Indeed, said he, our principles are not the same at all; for I can never

agree to your calling anything desirable except what is honourable, and to

your reckoning such things among the goods,—and, by so doing,

extinguishing honourableness, which is, as it were, the light of virtue,

and utterly upsetting virtue herself. Those are all very fine words, said

I, O Cato; but do you not see that all those pompous expressions are

shared by you in common with Pyrrho and Aristo, who think all things

equal? And I should like to know what your opinion of them is. Mine? said

he; do you want to know what I think of them? I think that those men whom

we have either heard of from our ancestors, or seen ourselves, to be good,

brave, just, and moderate in the republic,—those who, following nature

herself, without any particular learning or system, have done many

praiseworthy actions, have been educated by nature herself better than

they could have been educated by philosophy, if they had adopted any other

philosophy except that which ranks nothing whatever among the goods except

what is honourable, and nothing among the evils except what is

disgraceful. As for all other systems of philosophy, they differ entirely

in their estimate of good and evil; but still I consider no one of them

which classes anything destitute of virtue among either the goods or the

evils, as being of any use to men, or as uttering any sentiment by which

we may become better; but I think that they all tend rather to deprave

nature herself. For if this point be not conceded, that that alone is good

which is honourable, it follows that it must be impossible to prove that

life is made happy by virtue. And if that be the case, then I do not see

why any attention should be bestowed on philosophy; for if a wise man can

be miserable, then of a truth I do not consider that virtue, which is

accounted so glorious and memorable a thing, of any great value.

IV. All that you have been saying, Cato, I replied, you might say if you

agreed with Pyrrho or Aristo; for you are not ignorant that they consider

that honourableness not only the chief good, but also (as you yourself

maintain) the only good. And if this is the case, the consequence which I

see you aim at follows necessarily, that all wise men are always happy. Do

you then praise these men, and do you think that we ought to follow their

opinion? By no means, said he; for as this is a peculiar attribute of

virtue to make its selection of those things which are in accordance with

nature, those who have made all things equal in such a manner as to

consider all things on either side perfectly indifferent, so as to leave

no room for any selection, have utterly put an end to virtue. You say

right, said I; but I ask you whether you, too, must not do the same thing,

when you say that there is nothing good which is not right and honourable,

and so put an end to all the difference between other things? That would

be the case, said he, if I did put an end to it; but I deny the fact—I

leave it. How so, said I? If virtue alone,—if that thing alone which you

call honourable, right, praiseworthy, and creditable, (for it will be more

easily seen what is the character that you ascribe to it, if it be pointed

out by many words tending to the same point,)—if, I say, that is the sole

good, what else will there be for you to follow? And, on the other hand,

if nothing is evil except what is disgraceful, dishonourable, unbecoming,

wrong, flagitious, and base, (to make this also manifest by giving it many

names,) what else will there be which you can say ought to be avoided?

I will not, said he, reply to each point of your question, as you are not,

as I suspect, ignorant of what I am going to say, but seeking rather to

find something to carp at in my brief answer: I will rather, since we have

plenty of time, explain to you, unless you think it foreign to the

subject, the whole opinion of Zeno and the Stoics on the matter. Very far

from foreign to the subject, said I; indeed, your explanations will be of

great service in elucidating to me the points about which I am inquiring.

Let us try, then, said he, although this system of the Stoics has in it

something rather difficult and obscure; for, as formerly, when these

matters were discussed in the Greek language, the very names of things

appeared strange which have now become sanctioned by daily use, what do

you think will be the case when we are discussing them in Latin? Still,

said I, we must do so; for if Zeno might take the liberty when he had

discovered anything not previously common, to fix on it a name that was

likewise unprecedented, why may not Cato take the same? Nor will it be

necessary for you to render what he has said word for word, as translators

are in the habit of doing who have no command of language of their own,

whenever there is a word in more ordinary use which has the same meaning.

I indeed myself am in the habit, if I cannot manage it any other way, of

using many words to express what the Greeks have expressed in one; and yet

I think that we ought to be allowed to use a Greek word on occasions when

we cannot find a Latin one, and to employ such terms as _proegmena_ and

_apoproegmena_, just as freely as we say _ephippia_ and _acratophori_,

though it may be sufficient to translate these two particular words by

_preferred_ and _rejected_. I am much obliged to you, said he, for your

hint; and I will in preference use those Latin terms which you have just

mentioned; and in other cases, too, you shall come to my assistance if you

see me in difficulties. I will do so, said I, with great goodwill; but

fortune favours the bold. So make the attempt, I beg of you; for what more

divine occupation can we have?

V. Those philosophers, said he, whose system I approve of, consider that

as soon as an animal is born, (for this is where we must begin,) he is

instinctively induced and excited to preserve himself and his existing

condition, and to feel attachment to those things which have a tendency to

preserve that condition; and to feel an abhorrence of dissolution, and of

those circumstances which appear to be pregnant with dissolution. And they

prove that this is the case, because, before either pleasure or pain has

affected it, even while it is very little, it seeks what is salutary, and

shuns the contrary: and this would not be the case if they were not fond

of their condition, and afraid of dissolution; and it would not be

possible for them to seek any particular thing if they had not some sense

of themselves, and if that did not influence them to love themselves and

what belongs to them. From which it ought to be understood that it is from

the animal itself that the principle of self-love in it is derived. But

among these natural principles of self-love most of the Stoics do not

admit that pleasure ought to be classed; and I entirely agree with them,

to avoid the many discreditable things which must ensue if nature should

appear to have placed pleasure among those things which are the first

objects of desire. But it appears to be proof enough why we naturally love

those things which are by nature placed in the first rank, that there is

no one, who, when either alternative is equally in his power, would not

prefer to have all the parts of his body in a suitable and entire

condition, rather than impaired by use, or in any particular distorted or

depraved.

But as for the knowledge of things—or if you do not so much approve of

this word _cognitio_, or find it less intelligible, we will call it

κατάληψις—that we think is naturally to be acquired for its own sake,

because it contains something which has, as it were, embraced and seized

upon truth. And this is perceptible even in infants; whom we see amused if

they have succeeded in finding out anything themselves by reason, even

though it may be of no service whatever to them. And moreover, we consider

arts worth attending to on their own account, both because there is in

them something worth acceptance, and also because they depend upon

knowledge, and contain in themselves something which proceeds on system

and method. But I think that we are more averse to assent on false grounds

than to anything else which is contrary to nature. Now of the limbs, that

is to say, of the parts of the body, some appear to have been given to us

by nature because of the use which, they are of to us, as, for instance,

the hands, legs, and feet, and also those internal organs of the body, of

which I may leave it to the physicians to explain the exceeding

usefulness; but others with no view to utility, but for ornament as it

were, as the tail is given to the peacock, plumage of many colours to the

dove, breasts and a beard to man. Perhaps you will say this is but a dry

enumeration; for these things are, as it were, the first elements of

nature, which cannot well have any richness of language employed upon

them; nor indeed am I thinking of displaying any; but when one is speaking

of more important matters, then the subject itself hurries on the

language: and then one’s discourse is at the same time more impressive and

more ornate. It is as you say, said I; but still everything which is said

in a lucid manner about a good subject appears to me to be said well. And

to wish to speak of subjects of that kind in a florid style is childish;

but to be able to explain them with clearness and perspicuity, is a token

of a learned and intelligent man.

VI. Let us then proceed, said he, since we have digressed from these first

principles of nature, which everything which follows ought to be in

harmony with. But this is the first division of the subject. A thing is

said to be estimable: for so we may, I think, call that which is either

itself in accordance with nature, or else which is the efficient cause of

something of such a character that it is worthy of being selected because

it has in it some weight worth appreciating, which he calls ἀχία; and, on

the other hand, something not estimable, which is the contrary of the

preceding. The first principles, therefore, being laid down, that those

things which are according to nature are to be chosen for their own sakes,

and those which are contrary to it are in like manner to be rejected; the

first duty (for that is how I translate the word καθῆκον) is, for a man to

preserve himself in his natural condition; next to that, to maintain those

things which are in accordance with nature, and reject what is opposite to

it; and when this principle of selection and rejection has been

discovered, then follows selection in accordance with duty; and then that

third kind, which is perpetual, and consistent to the end, and

corresponding to nature, in which there first begins to be a proper

understanding of what there is which can be truly called good. For the

first attraction of man is to those things which are according to nature.

But as soon as he has received that intelligence, or perhaps I should say,

notion, which they call ἔννοια, and has seen the order and, if I may so

say, the harmony in which things are to be done, he then estimates it at a

higher value than all the things which he loved at first; and by this

knowledge, and by reasoning, he comes to such a conclusion that he decides

that the chief good of man, which deserves to be praised and desired for

its own sake, is placed in what the Stoics call ὁμολογία, and we

agreement, if you approve of this translation of the term; as therefore it

is in this that that good is placed to which all things [which are done

honourably] are to be referred, and honour itself, which is reckoned among

the goods, although it is only produced subsequently, still this alone

deserves to be sought for on account of its intrinsic power and worth; but

of those things which are the principal natural goods there is not one

which is to be sought for its own sake.

But as those things which I have called duties proceed from the first

principles of nature, they must necessarily be referred to them; so that

it may be fairly said that all duties are referred to this end, of

arriving at the principles of nature; not, however, that this is the

highest of all goods, because there is no such thing as honourable action

in the first attractions of nature; for that is what follows, and arises

subsequently, as I have said before. But still it is according to nature,

and encourages us to desire itself much more than all those things which

have been previously mentioned. But, first of all, we must remove a

mistake, that no one may think that it follows that there are two supreme

goods. For as, if it were the purpose of any one to direct an arrow or a

spear straight at any object, just as we have said that there is an

especial point to be aimed at in goods,—the archer ought to do all in his

power to aim straight at the target, and the other man ought also to do

his endeavour to hit the mark, and gain the end which he has proposed to

himself: let this then which we call the chief good in life be, as it

were, his mark; and his endeavour to hit it must be furthered by careful

selection, not by mere desire.

VII. But as all duties proceed from the first principles of nature, it

follows inevitably that wisdom itself must proceed from the same source.

But as it often happens, that he who has been recommended to any one

considers him to whom he has been recommended of more importance than him

who recommended him; so it is not at all strange that in the first

instance we are recommended to wisdom by the principles of nature, but

that subsequently wisdom herself becomes dearer to us than the starting

place from which we arrive at it. And as limbs have been given to us in

such a way that it is plain they have been given for some purpose of life;

so that appetite of the mind which in Greek is called ὁρμὴ, appears to

have been given to us, not for any particular kind of life, but rather for

some especial manner of living: and so too is system and perfect method.

For as an actor employs gestures, and a dancer motions, not practising any

random movement, but a regular systematic action; so life must be passed

according to a certain fixed kind, and not any promiscuous way, and that

certain kind we call a suitable and harmonious one. Nor do we think wisdom

similar to the art of navigation or medicine, but rather to that kind of

action which I have spoken of, and to dancing; I mean, inasmuch as the

ultimate point, that is to say, the production of the art, lies in the art

itself, and is not sought for from foreign sources. And yet there are

other points in which there is a difference between wisdom and those arts;

because in those arts those things which are done properly do nevertheless

not comprise all the parts of the arts of which they consist. But the

things which we call right, or rightly done, if you will allow the

expression, and which they call κατορθώματα, contain in them the whole

completeness of virtue. For wisdom is the only thing which is contained

wholly in itself; and this is not the case with the other arts.

And it is only out of ignorance that the object of the art of medicine or

navigation is compared with the object of wisdom; for wisdom embraces

greatness of mind and justice, and judges all the accidents which befal

mankind beneath itself: and this too is not the case in the other arts.

But no one will be able to maintain those very virtues of which I have

just made mention, unless he lays down a rule that there is nothing which

is of any importance, nothing which differs from anything else, except

what is honourable or disgraceful.

VIII. Let us see now how admirably these rules follow from those

principles which I have already laid down. For as this is the ultimate

(_extremum_) point, (for you have noticed, I dare say, that I translate

what the Greek philosopher calls τέλος, sometimes by the word _extremum_,

sometimes by _ultimum_, and sometimes by _summum_, and instead of

_extremum_ or _ultimum_, I may also use the word _finis_,)—as, then, this

is the ultimate point, to live in a manner suitable to and harmonising

with nature; it follows of necessity that all wise men do always live

happily, perfectly, and fortunately; that they are hindered by nothing,

embarrassed by nothing; that they are in want of nothing. And that which

holds together not more that school of which I am speaking than our lives

and fortunes, that is to say, the principle of accounting what is

honourable to be the sole good, may indeed easily be embellished and

enlarged upon at great length, with great richness of illustration, with

great variety of carefully chosen expressions, and with the most pompous

sentiments in a rhetorical manner; but I prefer the brief, acute,

conclusive arguments of the Stoics. Now their conclusions are arrived at

in this manner: “Everything which is good is praiseworthy; but everything

which is praiseworthy is honourable;—therefore, everything which is good

is honourable.” Does not this appear properly deduced? Undoubtedly;—for

the result which was obtained from the two premises which were assumed,

you see was contained in them. But of the two premises from which the

conclusion was inferred it is only the major one which can be

contradicted—if you say that it is not the case, that everything which is

good is praiseworthy: for it is granted that whatever is praiseworthy is

honourable. But it is utterly absurd to say, that there is anything good

which is not to be sought for; or, that there is anything which ought to

be sought for which is not pleasing; or, that if it is pleasing it ought

not likewise to be loved. Then it ought also to be approved of. Then it is

praiseworthy. But what is praiseworthy is honourable. And so the result

is, that whatever is good is also honourable. In the next place, I ask,

who can boast of a life which is miserable; or avoid boasting of one which

is happy?—therefore men boast only of a life which is happy. From which

the consequence follows, that a happy life deserves to be boasted of; but

this cannot properly be predicated of any life which is not an honourable

one. From this it follows, that a happy life must be an honourable one.

And since the man to whom it happens to be deservedly praised has some

eminent qualities tending to credit and glory, so that he may rightly be

called happy on account of such important qualities; the same thing is

properly predicated of the life of such a man. And so, if a happy life is

discerned by its honourableness, then what is honourable ought to be

considered the sole good. And, as this cannot possibly be denied, what man

do we say can ever exist of a stable and firm and great mind,—whom, in

fact, can we ever call brave,—unless the point is established, that pain

is not an evil? For as it is impossible that the man who ranks death among

evils should not fear it, so in every case it is impossible for a man to

disregard what he judges to be an evil, and to despise it. And when this

point has been laid down, and ratified by universal assent, this is

assumed next, that the man who is of a brave and magnanimous spirit

despises and utterly disregards every accident which can befal a man. And

as this is the case, the consequence is, that there is nothing evil which

is not disgraceful. And that man of lofty and excellent spirit,—that

magnanimous and truly brave man, who considers all human accidents beneath

his notice,—the man I mean whom we wish to make so, whom at all events we

are looking for,—ought to confide in himself, and in his own life both

past and to come, and to form a favourable judgment of himself, laying

down as a principle, that no evil can happen to a wise man. From which

again the same result follows, that the sole good is that which is

honourable; and that to live happily is to live honourably, that is,

virtuously.

IX. Not that I am ignorant that the opinions of philosophers have been

various, of those I mean who have placed the chief good, that which I call

the end, in the mind. And although some people have followed them very

incorrectly, still I prefer their theory, not only to that of the three

sects who have separated virtue from the chief good, while ranking either

pleasure, or freedom from pain, or the original gifts of nature among

goods, but also to the other three who have thought that virtue would be

crippled without some reinforcement, and on that account have each added

to it one of those other particulars which I have just enumerated. I,

however, as I said, prefer to all these the men, whoever they may be, who

have described the chief good as consisting in the mind and in virtue. But

nevertheless, those also are extremely absurd who have said that to live

with knowledge is the highest good, and who have asserted that there is no

difference between things, and so, that a wise man will surely be a happy

one, never at any moment of his life preferring one thing to another: as

some of the Academics are said to have laid it down, that the highest good

and the chief duty of a wise man is to resist appearances, and firmly to

withhold his assent from them.

Now people often make very lengthy replies to each of these assertions;

yet what is very clear ought not to be long. But what is more evident

than, if there be no selection made, discarding those things which are

contrary to nature, and selecting those which are according to nature, all

that prudence which is so much sought after and extolled would be done

away with? If, then, we discard those sentiments which I have mentioned,

and all others which resemble them, it remains that the chief good must be

to live, exercising a knowledge of those things which happen by nature,

selecting what is according to nature, and rejecting any which are

contrary to nature; that is to say, to live in a manner suitable and

corresponding to nature.

But in other arts, when anything is said to have been done according to

the rules of art, there is something to be considered which is subsequent

and follows upon such compliance; which they call ἐπιγεννηματικόν. But

when we say in any matter that a thing has been done wisely, that same

thing is from the first said also to have been done most properly; for

whatever proceeds from a wise man must at once be perfect in all its

parts: for in him is placed that quality which we say is to be desired.

For as it is a sin to betray one’s country, to injure one’s parents, to

plunder temples, which are all sins of commission; so it is likewise a sin

to be afraid, to grieve, to be under the dominion of lust, even if no

overt act follows these feelings. But, as these are sins, not in their

later periods and consequences, but at once from the first moment; so

those actions which proceed from virtue are to be considered right at the

first moment that they are undertaken, and not only when they are

accomplished.

X. But it may be as well to give an explanation and definition of the word

good, which, has been so often employed in this discourse. But the

definitions of those philosophers differ a good deal from one another, and

yet have all reference to the same facts. I myself agree with Diogenes,

who has defined good to be that which in its nature is perfect. But that

which follows, that which is profitable (for so we may translate his

ὼφέλημα), he considered to be a motion, or a state, arising out of the

nature of the perfect. And as the notions of things arise in the mind, if

anything has become known either by practice, or by combination, or by

similitude, or by the comparison of reason; then by this fourth means,

which I have placed last, the knowledge of good is arrived at. For when,

by a comparison of the reason, the mind ascends from those things which

are according to reason, then it arrives at a notion of good. And this

good we are speaking of, we both feel to be and call good, not because of

any addition made to it, nor from its growth, nor from comparing it with

other things, but because of its own proper power. For as honey, although

it is very sweet, is still perceived to be sweet by its own peculiar kind

of taste, and not by comparison with other things; so this good, which we

are now treating of, is indeed to be esteemed of great value; but that

valuation depends on kind and not on magnitude. For as estimation, which

is called ἀξί, is not reckoned among goods, nor, on the other hand, among

evils, whatever you add to it will remain in its kind. There is,

therefore, another kind of estimation proper to virtue, which is of weight

from its character, and not because of its increasing. Nor, indeed, are

the perturbations of the mind, which make the lives of the unwise bitter

and miserable, and which the Greeks call πάθη, (I might translate the word

itself by the Latin _morbi_, but it would not suit all the meanings of the

Greek word; for who ever calls pity, or even anger, a disease—_morbus_)?

but the Greeks do call such a feeling πάθος. Let us then translate it

perturbation, which is by its very name pointed out to be something

vicious. Nor are these perturbations, I say, excited by any natural force;

and they are altogether in kind four, but as to their divisions they are

more numerous. There is melancholy, fear, lust, and that feeling which the

Stoics call by the common name which they apply to both mind and body,

ἡδονὴ, and which I prefer translating joy (_lætitia_), rather than a

pleasurable elation of an exulting mind. But perturbations are not excited

by any force of nature; and all those feelings are judgments and opinions

proceeding from light-mindedness; and, therefore, the wise man will always

be free from them.

XI. But that everything which is honourable is to be sought for its own

sake, is an opinion common to us with many other schools of philosophers.

For, except the three sects which exclude virtue from the chief good, this

opinion must be maintained by all philosophers, and above all by us, who

do not rank anything whatever among goods except what is honourable. But

the defence of this opinion is very easy and simple indeed; for who is

there, or who ever was there, of such violent avarice, or of such

unbridled desires as not infinitely to prefer that anything which he

wishes to acquire, even at the expense of any conceivable wickedness,

should come into his power without crime, (even though he had a prospect

of perfect impunity,) than through crime? and what utility, or what

personal advantage do we hope for, when we are anxious to know whether

those bodies are moving whose movements are concealed from us, and owing

to what causes they revolve through the heavens? And who is there that

lives according to such clownish maxims, or who has so rigorously hardened

himself against the study of nature, as to be averse to things worthy of

being understood, and to be indifferent to and disregard such knowledge,

merely because there is no exact usefulness or pleasure likely to result

from it? or, who is there who—when he comes to know the exploits, and

sayings, and wise counsels of our forefathers, of the Africani, or of that

ancestor of mine whom you are always talking of, and of other brave men,

and citizens of pre-eminent virtue—does not feel his mind affected with

pleasure? and who that has been brought up in a respectable family, and

educated as becomes a freeman, is not offended with baseness as such,

though it may not be likely to injure him personally? Who can keep his

equanimity while looking on a man who, he thinks, lives in an impure and

wicked manner? Who does not hate sordid, fickle, unstable, worthless men?

But what shall we be able to say, (if we do not lay it down that baseness

is to be avoided for its own sake), is the reason why men do not seek

darkness and solitude, and then give the rein to every possible infamy,

except that baseness of itself detects them by reason of its own intrinsic

foulness? Innumerable arguments may be brought forward to support this

opinion; but it is needless, for there is nothing which can be less a

matter of doubt than that what is honourable ought to be sought for its

own sake; and, in the same manner, what is disgraceful ought to be

avoided.

But after that point is established, which we have previously mentioned,

that what is honourable is the sole good; it must unavoidably be

understood that that which is honourable, is to be valued more highly than

those intermediate goods which we derive from it. But when we say that

folly, and rashness, and injustice, and intemperance are to be avoided on

account of those things which result from them, we do not speak in such a

manner that our language is at all inconsistent with the position which

has been laid down, that that alone is evil which is dishonourable.

Because those things are not referred to any inconvenience of the body,

but to dishonourable actions, which arise out of vicious propensities

(_vitia_). For what the Greeks call κακία I prefer translating by _vitium_

rather than by _malitia_.

XII. Certainly; Cato, said I, you are employing very admirable language,

and such as expresses clearly what you mean; and, therefore, you seem to

me to be teaching philosophy in Latin, and, as it were, to be presenting

it with the freedom of the city. For up to this time she has seemed like a

stranger at Rome, and has not put herself in the way of our conversation;

and that, too, chiefly because of a certain highly polished thinness of

things and words. For I am aware that there are some men who are able to

philosophise in any language, but who still employ no divisions and no

definitions; and who say themselves that they approve of those things

alone to which nature silently assents. Therefore, they discuss, without

any great degree of labour, matters which are not very obscure. And, on

this account, I am now prepared to listen eagerly to you, and to commit to

memory all the names which you give to those matters to which this

discussion refers. For, perhaps, I myself may some day have reason to

employ them too.

You, then, appear to me to be perfectly right, and to be acting in strict

accordance with our usual way of speaking, when you lay it down that there

are vices the exact opposites of virtues; for that which is blameable

(_vituperabile_) for its own sake, I think ought, from that very fact, to

be called a vice; and perhaps this verb, _vitupero_, is derived from

_vitium_. But if you had translated κακία by _malitia_,(46) then the usage

of the Latin language would have limited us to one particular vice; but,

as it is, all vice is opposed to all virtue by one generic opposite name.

XIII. Then he proceeded:—After these things, therefore, are thus laid

down, there follows a great contest, which has been handled by the

Peripatetics somewhat too gently, (for their method of arguing is not

sufficiently acute, owing to their ignorance of dialectics;) but your

Carneades has pressed the matter with great vigour and effect, displaying

in reference to it a most admirable skill in dialectics, and the most

consummate eloquence; because he has never ceased to contend throughout

the whole of this discussion, which turns upon what is good and what is

bad, that the controversy between the Stoics and Peripatetics is not one

of things, but only of names. But, to me, nothing appears so evident as

that the opinions of these two schools differ from one another far more as

to facts than to names; I mean to say, that there is much greater

difference between the Stoics and Peripatetics in principle than in

language. Forasmuch as the Peripatetics assert that everything which they

themselves call good, has a reference to living happily; but our school

does not think that a happy life necessarily embraces everything which is

worthy of any esteem.

But can anything be more certain than that, according to the principles of

those men who rank pain among the evils, a wise man cannot be happy when

he is tormented on the rack? While the principles of those who do not

consider pain among the evils, certainly compels us to allow that a happy

life is preserved to a wise man among all torments. In truth, if those men

endure pain with greater fortitude who suffer it in the cause of their

country, than those who do so for any slighter object; then it is plain

that it is opinion, and not nature, which makes the force of pain greater

or less. Even that opinion of the Peripatetics is more than I can agree

to, that, as there are three kinds of goods, as they say, each individual

is the happier in proportion as he is richer in the goods of the body or

external goods, so that we must be forced also to approve of this

doctrine, that that man is happier who has a greater quantity of those

things which are accounted of great value as affecting the body. For they

think that a happy life is made complete by bodily advantages; but there

is nothing which our philosophers can so little agree to. For, as our

opinion is that life is not even made in the least more happy by an

abundance of those goods which we call goods of nature, nor more

desirable, nor deserving of being more highly valued, then certainly a

multitude of bodily advantages can have still less effect on making life

happy. In truth, if to be wise be a desirable thing, and to be well be so

too, then both together must be more desirable than wisdom by itself; but

it does not follow, if each quality deserves to be esteemed, that

therefore, the two taken together deserve to be esteemed more highly than

wisdom does by itself. For we who consider good health worthy of any

esteem, and yet do not rank it among the goods, think, at the same time,

that the esteem to which it is entitled is by no means such as that it

ought to be preferred to virtue. But this is not the doctrine of the

Peripatetics; and they ought to tell us, that that which is an honourable

action and unaccompanied by pain, is more to be desired than the same

action would be if it were attended with pain. We think not: whether we

are right or wrong may be discussed hereafter; but can there possibly be a

greater disagreement respecting facts and principles?

XIV. For as the light of a candle is obscured and put out by the light of

the sun; and as a drop of brine is lost in the magnitude of the Ægæan sea;

or an addition of a penny amid the riches of Crœsus; or as one step is of

no account in a march from here to India; so, if that is the chief good

which the Stoics affirm is so, then, all the goods which depend on the

body must inevitably be obscured and overwhelmed by, and come to nothing

when placed by the side of the splendour and importance of virtue. And

since opportunity, (for that is how we may translate εὐκαιρία,) is not

made greater by extending the time, (for whatever is said to be opportune

has its own peculiar limit;) so a right action, (for that is how I

translate κατόρθωσις, and a right deed I call κατόρθωμα,)—a right action,

I say, and suitableness, and, in short, the good itself, which depends on

the fact of its being in accordance with nature, has no possibility of

receiving any addition or growth. For as that opportunity is not made

greater by the extension of time, so neither are these things which I have

mentioned. And, on that account, a happy life does not seem to the Stoics

more desirable or more deserving of being sought after, if it is long than

if it is short; and they prove this by a simile:—As the praise of a buskin

is to fit the foot exactly, and as many buskins are not considered to fit

better than few, and large ones are not thought better than small ones;

so, in the case of those the whole good of which depends upon its

suitableness and fitness; many are not preferred to few, nor what is

durable to what is short-lived. Nor do they exhibit sufficient acuteness

when they say, if good health is more to be esteemed when it lasts long

than when it lasts only a short time, then the longest possible enjoyment

of wisdom must clearly be of the greatest value. They do not understand

that the estimate of good health is formed expressly with reference to its

duration; of virtue with reference to its fitness of time; so that men who

argue in this manner, seem as if they would speak of a good death, or a

good labour, and call one which lasted long, better than a short one. They

do not perceive that some things are reckoned of more value in proportion

to their brevity; and some in proportion to their length. Therefore, it is

quite consistent with what has been said, that according to the principles

of those who think that that end of goods which we call the extreme or

chief good, is susceptible of growth, they may also think that one man can

be wiser than another; and, in like manner then, one man may sin more, or

act more rightly than another. But such an assertion is not allowable to

us, who do not think the end of goods susceptible of growth. For as men

who have been submerged under the water, cannot breathe any more because

they are at no great depth below the surface, (though they may on this

account be able at times to emerge,) than if they were at the bottom, nor

can the puppy who is nearly old enough to see, as yet see any more than

one who is but this moment born; so the man who has made some progress

towards the approach to virtue, is no less in a state of misery than he

who has made no such advance at all.

XV. I am aware that all this seems very strange. But as unquestionably the

previous propositions are true and uncontrovertible, and as these others

are in harmony with, and are the direct consequences of them; we cannot

question their truth also. But although some people deny that either

virtues or vices are susceptible of growth, still they believe that each

of them is in some degree diffused, and as it were extended. But Diogenes

thinks that riches have not only such power, that they are, as it were,

guides to pleasure and to good health, but that they even contain them:

but that they have not the same power with regard to virtue, or to the

other arts to which money may indeed be a guide, but which it cannot

contain. Therefore, if pleasure or if good health be among the goods,

riches also must be classed among the goods; but if wisdom be a good, it

does not follow that we are also to call riches a good; nor can that which

is classed among the goods be contained by anything which is not placed in

the same classification. And on that account, because the knowledge and

comprehension of those things by which arts are produced, excite a desire

for them, as riches are not among the goods, therefore no art can be

contained in riches.

But if we grant this to be true with respect to arts, still it is not to

follow that the same rule holds good with respect to virtue; because

virtue requires a great deal of meditation and practice, and this is not

always the case with arts; and also because virtue embraces the stability,

firmness, and consistency of the entire life; and we do not see that the

same is the case with arts.

After this, we come to explain the differences between things. And if we

were to say that there is none, then all life would be thrown into

confusion, as it is by Aristo. Nor could any office or work be found for

wisdom, if there were actually no difference between one thing and

another, and if there were no power of selection at all requisite to be

exerted. Therefore, after it had been sufficiently established that that

alone was good which was honourable, and that alone evil which was

disgraceful, they asserted that there were some particulars in which those

things which had no influence on the misery or happiness of life, differed

from one another, so that some of them deserved to be esteemed, some to be

despised, and others were indifferent. But as to those things which

deserved to be esteemed, some of them had in themselves sufficient reason

for being preferred to others, as good health, soundness of the senses,

freedom from pain, glory, riches, and similar things. But others were not

of this kind. And in like manner, as to those things which were worthy of

no esteem at all, some had cause enough in themselves why they should be

rejected, such as pain, disease, loss of senses, poverty, ignominy, and

things like them, and some had not. And thus, from this distinction, came

what Zeno called προηγμένον, and on the other hand what he called

ἀποπροηγμένον, as though writing in so copious a language, he chose to

employ new terms of his own invention; a license which is not allowed to

us in this barren language of ours; although you often insist that it is

richer than the Greek. But it is not foreign to our present subject, in

order that the meaning of the word may be more easily understood, to

explain the principle on which Zeno invented these terms.

XVI. For as, says he, no one in a king’s palace says that the king is, as

it were, led forward towards his dignity (for that is the real meaning of

the word προηγμένον, but the term is applied to those who are of some rank

whose order comes next to his, so as to be second to the kingly dignity);

so in life too, it is not those things which are in the first rank, but

those which are in the second which are called προηγμένα, or led forward.

And we may translate the Greek by _productum_ (this will be a strictly

literal translation), or we may call it and its opposite _promotum_ and

_remotum_, or as we have said before, we may call προηγμένον, _præpositum_

or _præcipuum_, and its opposite _rejectum_. For when the thing is

understood, we ought to be very ductile as to the words which we employ.

But since we say that everything which is good holds the first rank, it

follows inevitably that this which we call _præcipuum_ or _præpositum_,

must be neither good nor bad. And therefore we define it as something

indifferent, attended with a moderate esteem. For that which they call

ἀδιάφορον, it occurs to me to translate _indifferens_. Nor, indeed, was it

at all possible that there should be nothing left intermediate, which was

either according to nature or contrary to it; nor, when that was left,

that there should be nothing ranked in this class which was tolerably

estimable; nor, if this position were once established, that there should

not be some things which are preferred. This distinction, then, has been

made with perfect propriety, and this simile is employed by them to make

the truth more easily seen. For as, say they, if we were to suppose this

to be, as it were, the end and greatest of goods, to throw a die in such a

manner that it should stand upright, then the die which is thrown in such

a manner as to fall upright, will have some particular thing preferred as

its end, and _vice versâ_. And yet that preference of the die will have no

reference to the end of which I have been speaking. So those things which

have been preferred are referred indeed to the end, but have no reference

at all to its force or nature.

Next comes that division, that of goods some have reference to that end

(for so I express those which they call τελικὰ, for we must here, as we

have said before, endure to express in many words, what we cannot express

by one so as to be thoroughly intelligible,) some are efficient causes,

and some are both together. But of those which have reference to that end,

nothing is good except honourable actions; of those which are efficient

causes, nothing is good except a friend. But they assert that wisdom is

both a referential and an efficient good. For, because wisdom is suitable

action, it is of that referential character which I have mentioned; but

inasmuch as it brings and causes honourable actions, it may be so far

called efficient.

XVII. Now these things which we have spoken of as preferred, are preferred

some for their own sake, some because they effect something else, and some

for both reasons. Some are preferred for their own sake, such as some

particular appearance or expression of countenance, some particular kind

of gait, or motion, in which there are some things which may well be

preferred, and some which may be rejected. Others are said to be preferred

because they produce something, as money; and others for a combination of

both reasons, as soundness of the senses, or good health. But respecting

good reputation, (for what they call εὐδοξία is more properly called, in

this place, good reputation than glory,) Chrysippus and Diogenes denied

its whole utility, and used to say that one ought not even to put forth a

finger for the sake of it, with whom I entirely and heartily agree. But

those who came after them, being unable to withstand the arguments of

Carneades, said that this good reputation, as I call it, was preferred for

its own sake, and ought to be chosen for its own sake, and that it was

natural for a man of good family, who had been properly brought up, to

wish to be praised by his parents, his relations, and by good men in

general, and that too for the sake of the praise itself, and not of any

advantage which might ensue from it. And they say, too, that as we wish to

provide for our children, even for such as may be posthumous children, for

their own sake, so we ought also to show a regard for posthumous fame

after our death, for its own sake, without any thought of gain or

advantage.

But as we assert that what is honourable is the only good, still it is

consistent with this assertion to discharge one’s duty, though we do not

class duty among either the goods or the evils. For there is in these

things some likelihood, and that of such a nature that reasons can be

alleged for there being such; and therefore of such a nature, that

probable reasons may be adduced for adopting such a line of conduct. From

which it follows that duty is a sort of neutral thing, which is not to be

classed either among the goods or among the opposites of goods. And since,

in those things which are neither ranked among the virtues nor among the

vices, there is still something which may be of use; that is not to be

destroyed. For there is a certain action of that sort, and that too of

such a character that reason requires one to do and perform it. But that

which is done in obedience to reason we call duty; duty, then, is a thing

of that sort, that it must not be ranked either among the goods or among

the opposites of goods.

XVIII. And this also is evident, that in these natural things the wise man

is not altogether inactive. He therefore, when he acts, judges that that

is his duty; and because he is never deceived in forming his judgment,

duty must be classed among neutral things; and this is proved also by this

conclusion of reason. For since we see that there is something which we

pronounce to have been rightly done (for that is duty when accomplished),

there must also be something which is rightly begun: as, if to restore

what has been justly deposited belongs to the class of right actions, then

it must be classed among the duties to restore a deposit; and the addition

of the word “justly” makes the duty to be rightly performed: but the mere

fact of restoring is classed as a duty. And since it is not doubtful, that

in those things which we call intermediate or neutral, some ought to be

chosen and others rejected, whatever is done or said in this manner comes

under the head of ordinary duty. And from this it is understood, since all

men naturally love themselves, that a fool is as sure as a wise man to

choose what is in accordance with nature, and to reject what is contrary

to it; and so there is one duty in common both to wise men and to fools;

from which it follows that duty is conversant about those things which we

call neutral. But since all duties proceed from these things, it is not

without reason that it is said that all our thoughts are referred to these

things, and among them our departure from life, and our remaining in life.

For he in whom there are many things which are in accordance with nature,

his duty it is to remain in life; but as to the man in whom there either

is or appears likely to be a preponderance of things contrary to nature,

that man’s duty is to depart from life. From which consideration it is

evident, that it is sometimes the duty of a wise man to depart from life

when he is happy, and sometimes the duty of a fool to remain in life

though he is miserable. For that good and that evil, as has been often

said, comes afterwards. But those principal natural goods, and those which

hold the second rank, and those things which are opposite to them, all

come under the decision of, and are matters for the reflection of the wise

man; and are, as it were, the subject matter of wisdom. Therefore the

question of remaining in life, or of emigrating from it, is to be measured

by all those circumstances which I have mentioned above; for death is not

to be sought for by those men who are retained in life by virtue, nor by

those who are destitute of virtue. But it is often the duty of a wise man

to depart from life, when he is thoroughly happy, if it is in his power to

do so opportunely; and that is living in a manner suitable to nature, for

their maxim is, that living happily depends upon opportunity. Therefore a

rule is laid down by wisdom, that if it be necessary a wise man is even to

leave her herself.

Wherefore, as vice has not such power as to afford a justifying cause for

voluntary death, it is evident that it is the duty even of fools, and of

those too who are miserable, to remain in life, if they are surrounded by

a preponderance of those things which we call according to nature. And

since such a man is equally miserable, whether departing from life, or

abiding in it, and since the duration of misery is not any the more a

cause for fleeing from life, therefore it is not a causeless assertion,

that those men who have the power of enjoying the greatest number of

natural goods, ought to abide in life.

XIX. But they think it is very important with reference to this subject,

that it should be understood that it is the work of nature, that children

are beloved by their parents; and that this is the first principle from

which we may trace the whole progress of the common society of the human

race. And that this may be inferred, in the first place, from the figure

and members of the body, which of themselves declare that a due regard for

everything connected with generation has been exhibited by nature; nor can

these two things possibly be consistent with one another, that nature

should desire that offspring should be propagated, and yet take no care

that what is propagated should be loved. But even in beasts the power of

nature may be discerned; for when we see such labour bestowed upon the

bringing forth and bearing of their offspring, we seem to be hearing the

voice of nature herself. Wherefore, as it is evident that we are by nature

averse to pain; so also it is clear that we are impelled by nature herself

to love those whose existence we have caused. And from this it arises that

there is such a recommendation by nature of one man to another, that one

man ought never to appear unfriendly to another, for the simple reason

that he is a man.

For as among the limbs some appear to be created for themselves as it

were, as the eyes and ears; others assist the rest of the limbs, as the

legs and hands; so there are some monstrous beasts born for themselves

alone: but that fish which floats in an open shell and is called the

pinna, and that other which swims out of the shell, and, because it is a

guard to the other, is called the pinnoteres, and when it has withdrawn

within the shell again, is shut up in it, so that it appears that it has

given it warning to be on its guard; and also ants, and bees, and storks,

do something for the sake of others. Much more is this the case with

reference to the union of men. And therefore we are by nature adapted for

companionship, for taking counsel together, for forming states. But they

think that this world is regulated by the wisdom of the gods, and that it

is, as it were, a common city and state of men and gods, and that every

individual of us is a part of the world. From which that appears to follow

by nature, that we should prefer the general advantage to our own. For as

the laws prefer the general safety to that of individuals, so a good and

wise man, and one who obeys the laws and who is not ignorant of his duty

as a citizen, consults the general advantage rather than that of any

particular individual, or even than his own. Nor is a betrayer of his

country more to be blamed, than one who deserts the general advantage or

the general safety on account of his own private advantage or safety. From

which it also follows, that that man deserves to be praised who encounters

death voluntarily for the sake of the republic, because it is right that

the republic should be dearer to us than ourselves. And since it is said

to be a wicked thing, and contrary to human nature, for a man to say that

he would not care if, after his own death, a general conflagration of the

whole world were to happen, which is often uttered in a Greek(47) verse;

so it is certainly true that we ought to consult the interests of those

who are to come after us, for the sake of the love which we bear them.

XX. It is in this disposition of mind that wills, and the recommendations

of dying persons, have originated. And because no one would like to pass

his life in solitude, not even if surrounded with an infinite abundance of

pleasures, it is easily perceived that we are born for communion and

fellowship with man, and for natural associations. But we are impelled by

nature to wish to benefit as many persons as possible, especially by

instructing them and delivering them precepts of prudence. Therefore, it

is not easy to find a man who does not communicate to some other what he

knows himself; so prone are we not only to learn, but also to teach. And

as the principle is by nature implanted in bulls to fight in behalf of

their calves with the greatest vigour and earnestness, even against lions;

so those who are rich or powerful, and are able to do so, are excited by

nature to preserve the race of mankind, as we have heard by tradition was

the case with Hercules and Libera. And also when we call Jupiter

all-powerful and all-good, and likewise when we speak of him as the

salutary god, the hospitable god, or as Stator, we mean it to be

understood that the safety of men is under his protection. But it is very

inconsistent, when we are disregarded and despised by one another, to

entreat, that we may be dear to and beloved by the immortal gods. As,

therefore, we make use of our limbs before we have learnt the exact

advantage with a view to which we are endowed with them, so also we are

united and associated by nature in a community of fellow-citizens. And if

this were not the case, there would be no room for either justice or

benevolence.

And as men think that there are bonds of right which connect man with man,

so also there is no law which connects man with the beasts. For well did

Chrysippus say, that all other animals have been born for the sake of men

and of the gods; but that men and gods have been born only for the sake of

their own mutual communion and society, so that men might be able to use

beasts for their own advantage without any violation of law or right. And

since the nature of man is such that he has, as it were, a sort of right

of citizenship connecting him with the whole human race, a man who

maintains that right is just, and he who departs from it is unjust.

But as, although a theatre is publicly open, still it may be fairly said

that the place which each individual has occupied belongs to him; so in a

city, or in the world, which is likewise common to all, there is no

principle of right which hinders each individual from having his own

private property. But since we see that man has been born for the purpose

of defending and preserving men, so it is consistent with this nature that

a wise man should wish to manage and regulate the republic; and, in order

to live in compliance with nature, to marry a wife and beget children. Nor

do philosophers think virtuous love inconsistent with a wise man. But

others say that the principles and life of the Cynics are more suited to a

wise man; if, indeed, any chance should befal him which might compel him

to act in such a manner; while others wholly deny it.

XXI. But in order that the society, and union, and affection between man

and man may be completely preserved, they have laid it down that all

benefits and injuries, which they call ὠφελήματα and βλάμματα, are

likewise common; of which the former are advantageous, and the latter

injurious. Nor have they been contented with calling them common, but they

have also asserted their equality. But as for disadvantages and

advantages, (by which words I translate εὐχρηστήματα and δυσχρηστήματα,)

those they assert to be common, but they deny that they are equal. For

those things which profit or which injure are either good or evil; and

they must necessarily be equal. But advantages and disadvantages are of

that kind which we have already called things preferred or rejected; and

they cannot be equal. But advantages are said to be common; but things

done rightly, and sins, are not considered common. But they think that

friendship is to be cultivated because it is one of that class of things

which is profitable. But although, in friendship, some people assert that

the interest of a man’s friend is as dear to him as his own; others, on

the other hand, contend that every man has a greater regard for his own.

Yet these latter confess that it is inconsistent with justice, for which

we seem to be born, to take anything from another for the purpose of

appropriating it to oneself. But philosophers of this school which I am

speaking of, never approve of either friendship or justice being exercised

or sanctioned for the sake of its usefulness: for they say that the same

principles of usefulness may, at times, undermine or overturn them. In

truth, neither justice nor friendship can have any existence at all,

unless they be sought for their own sake. They contend also that all

right, which has any pretence to the name and appellation, is so by

nature; and that it is inconsistent with the character of a wise man, not

only to do any injustice to any one, but even to do him any damage. Nor is

it right to make such a league with one’s friends as to share in all their

good deeds, or to become a partner in every act of injustice; and they

argue, with the greatest dignity and truth, that justice can never be

separated from usefulness: and that whatever is just and equitable is also

honourable; and, reciprocally, that whatever is honourable must be also

just and equitable.

And to those virtues which we have discussed, they also add dialectics and

natural philosophy; and they call both these sciences by the name of

virtues: one, because it has reason, so as to prevent our assenting to any

false proposition, or being even deceived by any plausible probability;

and to enable us to maintain and defend what we were saying about good and

evil. For without this act they think that any one may be led away from

the truth and deceived; accordingly, if rashness and ignorance is in every

case vicious, this power which removes them is properly named virtue.

XXII. The same honour is also attributed to natural philosophy, and not

without reason, because the man who wishes to live in a manner suitable to

nature, must begin by studying the universal world, and the laws which

govern it. Nor can any one form a correct judgment of good and evil

without being acquainted with the whole system of nature, and of the life

of the gods also, and without knowing whether or not the nature of man

agrees with universal nature. He must also have learnt the ancient rules

of those wise men who bid men yield to the times, and obey God, and know

oneself, and shun every kind of excess. Now, without a knowledge of

natural philosophy, no man can see what great power these rules have; and

it is as great as can be: and also this is the only knowledge which can

teach a man how greatly nature assists in the cultivation of justice, in

the maintenance of friendship and the rest of the affections. Nor can

piety towards the Gods, nor the gratitude which is due to them, be

properly understood and appreciated without a correct understanding of the

laws of nature.

But I feel now that I have advanced further than I had intended, or than

the subject before me required. But the admirable arrangement of the Stoic

doctrine, and the incredible beauty of the system, drew me on. And, in the

name of the immortal gods! can you forbear to admire it? For what is there

in all nature—though nothing is better or more accurately adapted to its

ends than that—or what can be found in any work made by the hand, so well

arranged, and united, and put together? What is there which is posterior,

which does not agree with what has preceded it? What is there which

follows, and does not correspond to what has gone before? What is there

which is not connected with something else in such a manner, that if you

only move one letter the whole will fall to pieces? Nor, indeed, is there

anything which can be moved.

But what a grand and magnificent and consistent character is that of the

wise man which is drawn by them! For he, after reason has taught him that

that which is honourable is alone good, must inevitably be always happy,

and must have a genuine right to those names which are often ridiculed by

the ignorant. For he will be more properly called king than Tarquin, who

was able to govern neither himself nor his family; he will deserve to be

called the master of the people more than Sylla, who was only the master

of three pestiferous vices, luxury, avarice, and cruelty; he will be

called rich more properly than Crassus, who would never have desired to

cross the Euphrates without any legitimate cause for war, if he had not

been in want of something. Everything will be properly said to belong to

that man, who alone knows how to make use of everything. He will also

rightly be called beautiful, for the features of the mind are more

beautiful than those of the body: he will deservedly be called the only

free man, who is neither subject to the domination of any one, nor

subservient to his own passions. He will fairly be called invincible, on

whose mind, even though his body be bound with chains, no fetters can ever

be imposed. Nor will he wait till the last period of his life, so as to

have it decided whether he has been happy or not, after he has come to the

last day of life and closed his eyes in death, in the spirit of the

warning which one of the wise men gave to Crœsus, without showing much

wisdom in so doing. For if he had ever been happy, then he would have

borne his happy life with him, even as far as the funeral pile built for

him by Cyrus.

But if it be true that no one except a good man is happy, and that all

good men are happy, then what deserves to be cultivated more than

philosophy, or what is more divine than virtue?

Fourth Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.

I. And when he had made an end of saying these things, I replied, Truly, O

Cato, you have displayed a wonderful memory in explaining to us such a

number of things, and in laying such obscure things so clearly before us.

So that we must either give up having any meaning or wish contrary to what

you have said, or else we must take time to deliberate: for it is not easy

to learn thoroughly the principles of a school which has not only had its

foundation laid, but which has even been built up with such diligence,

although perhaps with some errors as to its truth, (which, however, I will

not as yet dare to affirm,) but at all events with such care and accuracy.

Then, said he, is that what you say, when I have seen you, in obedience to

this new law, reply to the prosecutor on the same day on which he has

brought forward his charge, and sum up for three hours; and then do you

think that I am going to allow an adjournment in this cause? which,

however, will not be conducted by you better than those which are at times

entrusted to you. Wherefore, I desire that you will now apply yourself to

this one, especially as it has been handled by others, and also by

yourself several times; so that you cannot be at a loss for arguments or

language.

I replied, I do not, in truth, venture to argue inconsiderately against

the Stoics, not because I agree with them in any great degree, but I am

hindered by shame; because they say so much that I hardly understand. I

confess, said he, that some of our arguments are obscure; not that we make

them so on purpose, but because there is some obscurity in the subjects

themselves. Why, then, said I, when the Peripatetics discuss the same

subjects, does not a single word occur which is not well understood? Do

they discuss the same subjects? said he; or have I failed to prove to you

that the Stoics differ from the Peripatetics, not in words only, but in

the whole of the subject, and in every one of their opinions? But, said I,

if, O Cato, you can establish that, I will allow you to carry me over,

body and soul, to your school. I did think, said he, that I had said

enough on that point; wherefore answer me on that head first, if you

please; and afterwards you can advance what arguments you please. I do not

think it too much, said I, if I claim to answer you on that topic as I

myself please. As you will, said he; for although the other way would have

been more common, yet it is only fair to allow every one to adopt his own

method.

II. I think, then, said I, O Cato, that those ancient pupils of Plato,

Speusippus, Aristotle and Xenocrates, and afterwards their pupils, Polemo

and Theophrastus, had a system laid down with sufficient richness and

eloquence of language; so that Zeno had no reason, after having been a

pupil of Polemo, for deserting him and his predecessors who had

established this school. And in this school I should like you to observe

what you think ought to be changed, and not to wait while I am replying to

everything which has been said by you. For I think that I must contend

with the whole of their system, against the whole of yours.

And as these men said that we are born with the view of being generally

well adapted to those virtues which are well known and conspicuous, I mean

justice and temperance, and others of the same kind, all which resemble

the other arts, and differ only for the better in their subject matter and

way of handling;—and as they saw that we desired those very virtues in a

somewhat magnificent and ardent spirit; and that we had also a certain

instruction, or, I should rather say, innate desire of knowledge; and that

we were born for companionship with men, and for society and communion

with the human race, and that these qualities are most conspicuous in the

greatest geniuses;—they divided all philosophy into three parts; and we

see that this same division was retained by Zeno: and as one of these

parts is that by which the manners are thought to be formed, I postpone

the consideration of that part, which is, as it were, the foundation of

this question. For what is the chief good I will discuss presently; but at

this moment I only say that that topic which I think we shall be right in

calling the civil one, and which the Greeks call πολιτικὸς, has been

treated of in a dignified and copious manner by the ancient Peripatetics

and Academicians who, agreeing in parts, differed from one another only in

words.

III. How many books have these men written on the republic! how many on

laws! How many precepts in art, and, more than that, how many instances of

good speaking in orations have they bequeathed to us! For, in the first

place, they said with the greatest degree of polish and fitness those very

things which were to be argued in a subtle manner, laying down both

definitions and divisions: as your friends have also done: but you have

done it in a more shabby manner; while you see how brilliant their

language is. In the second place, with what splendid language have they

adorned that part of the subject which required ornate and impressive

eloquence! how gloriously have they illustrated it! discussing justice,

and fortitude, and friendship, and the method of passing life, and

philosophy, and the government of the state, and temperance, not like men

picking out thorns, like the Stoics, or laying bare the bones, but like

men who knew how to handle great subjects elegantly, and lesser ones

clearly. What, therefore, are their consolations? What are their

exhortations? What also are their warnings and advice written to the most

eminent men? For their practice in speaking was, like the nature of the

things themselves, of a two-fold character. For whatever is made a

question of, contains a controversy either as to the genus itself, without

reference to persons or times; or else, with these additions, a dispute as

to the fact, or the right, or the name. And therefore, they exercised

themselves in both kinds; and that discipline it was which produced that

great copiousness of eloquence among them in both kinds of argumentation.

Now Zeno, and those who imitated him, were either unable to do much in

this kind of argument, or else were unwilling, or at all events they did

not do it. Although Cleanthes wrote a treatise on the art of rhetoric, and

so too did Chrysippus, but still in such a manner, that if any one were to

wish to be silent, he ought to read nothing else. Therefore you see how

they speak. They invent new words—they abandon old established terms.

But what great attempts do they make? They say that this universal world

is our town; accordingly, this excites those who hear such a statement.

You see, now, how great a business you are undertaking; to make a man who

lives at Circeii believe that this universal world is merely a town for

himself to live in. What will be the end of this? Shall he set fire to it?

He will rather extinguish it, if he has received it on fire. The next

thing said is that list of titles which you briefly enumerated,—king,

dictator, rich man, the only wise man; words poured out by you decorously

and roundly: they well might be, for you have learnt them from the

orators. But how vague and unsubstantial are those speeches about the

power of virtue! which they make out to be so great that it can, by

itself, secure the happiness of man. They prick us with narrow little bits

of questions as with pins; and those who assent to them are not at all

changed in their minds, and go away the same as they came: for matters

which are perhaps true, and which certainly are important, are not handled

as they ought to be, but in a more minute and petty manner.

IV. The next thing is the principle of arguing, and the knowledge of

nature. For we will examine the chief good presently, as I said before,

and apply the whole discussion to the explanation of it. There was, then,