I. Neoptolemus, in Ennius, indeed, says, that the study of philosophy was
expedient for him; but that it required limiting to a few subjects, for
that to give himself up entirely to it, was what he did not approve of.
And for my part, Brutus, I am perfectly persuaded that it is expedient for
me to philosophize; for what can I do better, especially as I have no
regular occupation? but I am not for limiting my philosophy to a few
subjects, as he does; for philosophy is a matter in which it is difficult
to acquire a little knowledge without acquainting yourself with many, or
all its branches, nor can you well take a few subjects without selecting
them out of a great number; nor can any one, who has acquired the
knowledge of a few points, avoid endeavouring with the same eagerness to
understand more. But still, in a busy life, and in one mainly occupied
with military matters, such as that of Neoptolemus was at that time, even
that limited degree of acquaintance with philosophy may be of great use,
and may yield fruit, not perhaps so plentiful as a thorough knowledge of
the whole of philosophy, but yet such as in some degree may at times
deliver us from the dominion of our desires, our sorrows, and our fears;
just as the effect of that discussion which we lately maintained in my
Tusculan villa seemed to be, that a great contempt of death was
engendered; which contempt is of no small efficacy towards delivering the
mind from fear; for whoever dreads what cannot be avoided, can by no means
live with a quiet and tranquil mind. But he who is under no fear of death,
not only because it is a thing absolutely inevitable, but also because he
is persuaded that death itself hath nothing terrible in it, provides
himself with a very great resource towards a happy life. However, I am not
ignorant, that many will argue strenuously against us; and, indeed, that
is a thing which can never be avoided, except by abstaining from writing
at all. For if my Orations, which were addressed to the judgment and
approbation of the people, (for that is a popular art, and the object of
oratory is popular applause,) have been criticised by some people who are
inclined to withhold their praise from every thing but what they are
persuaded they can attain to themselves, and who limit their ideas of good
speaking by the hopes which they conceive of what they themselves may
attain to, and who declare, when they are overwhelmed with a flow of words
and sentences, that they prefer the utmost poverty of thought and
expression to that plenty and copiousness; (from which arose the Attic
kind of oratory, which they who professed it were strangers to, though
they have now been some time silenced, and laughed out of the very courts
of justice;) what may I not expect, when at present I cannot have the
least countenance from the people, by whom I used to be upheld before? For
philosophy is satisfied with a few judges, and of her own accord
industriously avoids the multitude, who are jealous of it, and utterly
displeased with it; so that, should any one undertake to cry down the
whole of it, he would have the people on his side; while, if he should
attack that school which I particularly profess, he would have great
assistance from those of the other philosophers.
II. But I have answered the detractors of philosophy in general, in my
Hortensius. And what I had to say in favour of the Academics, is, I think,
explained with sufficient accuracy in my four books of the Academic
Question.
But yet I am so far from desiring that no one should write against me,
that it is what I most earnestly wish; for philosophy would never have
been in such esteem in Greece itself, if it had not been for the strength
which it acquired from the contentions and disputations of the most
learned men; and therefore I recommend all men who have abilities to
follow my advice, to snatch this art also from declining Greece, and to
transport it to this city; as our ancestors by their study and industry
have imported all their other arts, which were worth having. Thus the
praise of oratory, raised from a low degree, is arrived at such
perfection, that it must now decline, and, as is the nature of all things,
verge to its dissolution in a very short time. Let philosophy then derive
its birth in Latin language from this time, and let us lend it our
assistance, and bear patiently to be contradicted and refuted; and
although those men may dislike such treatment who are bound and devoted to
certain predetermined opinions, and are under such obligations to maintain
them that they are forced, for the sake of consistency, to adhere to them
even though they do not themselves wholly approve of them; we, on the
other hand, who pursue only probabilities, and who cannot go beyond that
which seems really likely, can confute others without obstinacy, and are
prepared to be confuted ourselves without resentment. Besides, if these
studies are ever brought home to us, we shall not want even Greek
libraries, in which there is an infinite number of books, by reason of the
multitude of authors among them;—for it is a common practice with many to
repeat the same things which have been written by others, which serves no
purpose, but to stuff their shelves: and this will be our case, too, if
many apply themselves to this study.
III. But let us excite those, if possible, who have had a liberal
education, and are masters of an elegant style, and who philosophize with
reason and method.
For there is a certain class of them who would willingly be called
philosophers, whose books in our language are said to be numerous, and
which I do not despise, for indeed I never read them: but still because
the authors themselves declare that they write without any regularity, or
method, or elegance, or ornament, I do not care to read what must be so
void of entertainment. There is no one in the least acquainted with
literature, who does not know the style and sentiments of that school;
wherefore, since they are at no pains to express themselves well, I do not
see why they should be read by anybody except by one another: let them
read them, if they please, who are of the same opinions: for in the same
manner as all men read Plato, and the other Socratics, with those who
sprung from them, even those who do not agree with their opinions, or are
very indifferent about them; but scarcely any one except their own
disciples, take Epicurus, or Metrodorus, into their hands; so they alone
read these Latin books, who think that the arguments contained in them are
sound. But, in my opinion, whatever is published, should be recommended to
the reading of every man of learning; and though we may not succeed in
this ourselves, yet nevertheless we must be sensible that this ought to be
the aim of every writer. And on this account I have always been pleased
with the custom of the Peripatetics, and Academics, of disputing on both
sides of the question; not solely from its being the only method of
discovering what is probable on every subject, but also because it affords
the greatest scope for practising eloquence; a method that Aristotle first
made use of, and afterward all the Aristotelians; and in our own memory
Philo, whom we have often heard, appointed one time to treat of the
precepts of the rhetoricians, and another for philosophical discussion, to
which custom I was brought to conform by my friends at my Tusculum; and
accordingly our leisure time was spent in this manner. And therefore, as
yesterday before noon, we applied ourselves to speaking; and in the
afternoon went down into the Academy: the discussions which were held
there I have acquainted you with, not in the manner of a narration, but in
almost the very same words which were employed in the debate.
IV. The discourse, then, was introduced in this manner, whilst we were
walking, and it was commenced by some such an opening as this.
_A._ It is not to be expressed how much I was delighted, or rather
edified, by your discourse of yesterday. For although I am conscious to
myself that I have never been too fond of life, yet at times, when I have
considered that there would be an end to this life, and that I must some
time or other part with all its good things, a certain dread and
uneasiness used to intrude itself on my thoughts; but now, believe me, I
am so freed from that kind of uneasiness, that there is nothing that I
think less worth any regard.
_M._ I am not at all surprised at that, for it is the effect of
philosophy, which is the medicine of our souls; it banishes all groundless
apprehensions, frees us from desires, and drives away fears: but it has
not the same influence over all men; it is of very great influence when it
falls in with a disposition well adapted to it. For not only does Fortune,
as the old proverb says, assist the bold, but reason does so in a still
greater degree; for it, by certain precepts, as it were, strengthens even
courage itself. You were born naturally great and soaring, and with a
contempt for all things which pertain to man alone; therefore a discourse
against death took easy possession of a brave soul. But do you imagine
that these same arguments have any force with those very persons who have
invented, and canvassed, and published them, excepting indeed some very
few particular persons? For how few philosophers will you meet with, whose
life and manners are conformable to the dictates of reason! who look on
their profession, not as a means of displaying their learning, but as a
rule for their own practice! who follow their own precepts, and comply
with, their own decrees! You may see some of such levity, and such vanity,
that it would have been better for them to have been ignorant; some
covetous of money, some others eager for glory, many slaves to their
lusts; so that their discourses and their actions are most strangely at
variance; than which nothing in my opinion can be more unbecoming: for
just as if one who professed to teach grammar, should speak with
impropriety; or a master of music sing out of tune; such conduct has the
worse appearance in these men, because they blunder in the very particular
with which they profess that they are well acquainted: so a philosopher,
who errs in the conduct of his life, is the more infamous, because he is
erring in the very thing which he pretends to teach, and whilst he lays
down rules to regulate life by, is irregular in his own life.
V. _A._ Should this be the case, is it not to be feared that you are
dressing up philosophy in false colours? for what stronger argument can
there be that it is of little use, than that some very profound
philosophers live in a discreditable manner?
_M._ That, indeed, is no argument at all, for as all the fields which are
cultivated are not fruitful, (and this sentiment of Accius is false, and
asserted without any foundation,
The ground you sow on, is of small avail;
To yield a crop good seed can never fail:)
it is not every mind which has been properly cultivated that produces
fruit;—and to go on with the comparison, as a field, although it may be
naturally fruitful cannot produce a crop, without dressing, so neither can
the mind, without education; such is the weakness of either without the
other. Whereas philosophy is the culture of the mind: this it is which
plucks up vices by the roots; prepares the mind for the receiving of
seeds, commits them to it, or, as I may say, sows them, in the hope that,
when come to maturity, they may produce a plentiful harvest. Let us
proceed, then, as we begun; say, if you please, what shall be the subject
of our disputation.
_A._ I look on pain to be the greatest of all evils.
_M._ What, even greater than infamy?
_A._ I dare not indeed assert that, and I blush to think I am so soon
driven from my ground.
_M._ You would have had greater reason for blushing had you persevered in
it; for what is so unbecoming—what can appear worse to you, than disgrace,
wickedness, immorality? To avoid which, what pain is there which we ought
not (I will not say to avoid shirking, but even) of our own accord to
encounter, and undergo, and even to court?
_A._ I am entirely of that opinion; but notwithstanding that pain is not
the greatest evil, yet surely it is an evil.
_M._ Do you perceive, then, how much of the terror of pain you have given
up on a small hint?
_A._ I see that plainly; but I should be glad to give up more of it.
_M._ I will endeavour to make you do so, but it is a great undertaking,
and I must have a disposition on your part, which is not inclined to offer
any obstacles.
_A._ You shall have such: for as I behaved yesterday, so now I will follow
reason wherever she leads.
VI. _M._ First, then, I will speak of the weakness of many philosophers,
and those too of various sects; the head of whom, both in authority and
antiquity, was Aristippus, the pupil of Socrates, who hesitated not to
say, that pain was the greatest of all evils. And after him Epicurus
easily gave into this effeminate and enervated doctrine. After him
Hieronymus, the Rhodian, said, that to be without pain was the chief good,
so great an evil did pain appear to him to be. The rest, with the
exceptions of Zeno, Aristo, Pyrrho, were pretty much of the same opinion
that you were of just now, that it was indeed an evil, but that there were
many worse. When then nature herself and a certain generous feeling of
virtue at once prevents you from persisting in the assertion that pain is
the chief evil, and when you were driven from such an opinion when
disgrace was contrasted with pain, shall philosophy, the preceptress of
life, cling to this idea for so many ages? What duty of life, what praise,
what reputation would be of such consequence that a man should be desirous
of gaining it at the expense of submitting to bodily pain, when he has
persuaded himself that pain is the greatest evil? On the other side, what
disgrace, what ignominy, would he not submit to, that he might avoid pain,
when persuaded that it was the greatest of evils? Besides, what person, if
it be only true that pain is the greatest of evils, is not miserable, not
only when he actually feels pain, but also whenever he is aware that it
may befal him? And who is there whom pain may not befal? so that it is
clear that there is absolutely no one who can possibly be happy.
Metrodorus, indeed, thinks that man perfectly happy, whose body is free
from all disorders, and who has an assurance that it will always continue
so; but who is there who can be assured of that?
VII. But Epicurus, indeed, says such things that it should seem that his
design was only to make people laugh; for he affirms somewhere, that if a
wise man were to be burned, or put to the torture,—you expect, perhaps,
that he is going to say he would bear it, he would support himself under
it with resolution! he would not yield to it, and that, by Hercules! would
he very commendable, and worthy of that very Hercules whom I have just
invoked: but even this will not satisfy Epicurus, that robust and hardy
man! No; his wise man, even if he were in Phalaris’s bull, would say, How
sweet it is! how little do I regard it! What sweet? is it not sufficient,
if it is not disagreeable? But those very men who deny pain to be an evil,
are not in the habit of saying that it is agreeable to any one to be
tormented; they rather say, that it is cruel, or hard to bear, afflicting,
unnatural, but still not an evil: while this man who says that it is the
only evil, and the very worst of all evils, yet thinks that a wise man
would pronounce it sweet. I do not require of you to speak of pain in the
same words which Epicurus uses—a man, as you know, devoted to pleasure: he
may make no difference, if he pleases, between Phalaris’s bull, and his
own bed: but I cannot allow the wise man to be so indifferent about pain.
If he bears it with courage, it is sufficient; that he should rejoice in
it, I do not expect; for pain is, beyond all question, sharp, bitter,
against nature, hard to submit to, and to bear. Observe Philoctetes: We
may allow him to lament, for he saw Hercules himself groaning loudly
through extremity of pain on mount Œta: the arrows with which Hercules
presented him, were then no consolation to him, when
The viper’s bite, impregnating his veins
With poison, rack’d him with its bitter pains.
And therefore he cries out, desiring help, and wishing to die,
Oh! that some friendly hand its aid would lend,
My body from this rock’s vast height to send
Into the briny deep! I’m all on fire,
And by this fatal wound must soon expire.
It is hard to say that the man who was obliged to cry out in this manner,
was not oppressed with evil, and great evil too.
VIII. But let us observe Hercules himself, who was subdued by pain at the
very time when he was on the point of attaining immortality by death. What
words does Sophocles here put in his mouth, in his Trachiniæ? who, when
Deianira had put upon him a tunic dyed in the centaur’s blood, and it
stuck to his entrails, says,
What tortures I endure no words can tell,
Far greater these, than those which erst befel
From the dire terror of thy consort, Jove;
E’en stern Eurystheus’ dire command above;
This of thy daughter, Œneus, is the fruit,
Beguiling me with her envenom’d suit,
Whose close embrace doth on my entrails prey,
Consuming life; my lungs forbid to play;
The blood forsakes my veins, my manly heart
Forgets to beat; enervated, each part
Neglects its office, whilst my fatal doom
Proceeds ignobly from the weaver’s loom.
The hand of foe ne’er hurt me, nor the fierce
Giant issuing from his parent earth.
Ne’er could the Centaur such a blow enforce,
No barbarous foe, nor all the Grecian force;
This arm no savage people could withstand,
Whose realms I traversed to reform the land.
Thus, though I ever bore a manly heart,
I fall a victim to a woman’s art.
IX. Assist, my son, if thou that name dost hear,
My groans preferring to thy mother’s tear;
Convey her here, if, in thy pious heart,
Thy mother shares not an unequal part:
Proceed, be bold, thy father’s fate bemoan,
Nations will join, you will not weep alone.
O what a sight is this same briny source,
Unknown before, through all my labours’ course!
That virtue, which could brave each toil but late,
With woman’s weakness now bewails its fate.
Approach, my son; behold thy father laid,
A wither’d carcase that implores thy aid;
Let all behold; and thou, imperious Jove,
On me direct thy lightning from above:
Now all its force the poison doth assume,
And my burnt entrails with its flame consume.
Crest-fallen, unembraced I now let fall
Listless, those hands that lately conquer’d all;
When the Nemæan lion own’d their force,
And he indignant fell a breathless corse:
The serpent slew, of the Lernean lake,
As did the Hydra of its force partake:
By this, too, fell the Erymanthian boar:
E’en Cerberus did his weak strength deplore.
This sinewy arm did overcome with ease
That dragon, guardian of the golden fleece.
My many conquests let some others trace;
It’s mine to say, I never knew disgrace.(80)
Can we, then, despise pain, when we see Hercules himself giving vent to
his expressions of agony with such impatience?
IX. Let us see what Æschylus says, who was not only a poet, but a
Pythagorean philosopher, also, for that is the account which you have
received of him; how doth he make Prometheus bear the pain he suffered for
the Lemnian theft, when he clandestinely stole away the celestial fire,
and bestowed it on men, and was severely punished by Jupiter for the
theft. Fastened to mount Caucasus, he speaks thus:
Thou heav’n-born race of Titans here fast bound,
Behold thy brother! As the sailors sound
With care the bottom, and their ships confine
To some safe shore, with anchor and with line:
So, by Jove’s dread decree the god of fire
Confines me here the victim of Jove’s ire.
With baneful art his dire machine he shapes;
From such a god what mortal e’er escapes?
When each third day shall triumph o’er the night,
Then doth the vulture, with his talons light,
Seize on my entrails; which, in rav’nous guise,
He preys on! then with wing extended flies
Aloft, and brushes with his plumes the gore:
But when dire Jove my liver doth restore,
Back he returns impetuous to his prey,
Clapping his wings, he cuts th’ ethereal way.
Thus do I nourish with my blood this pest,
Confined my arms, unable to contest;
Entreating only, that in pity Jove
Would take my life, and this cursed plague remove.
But endless ages past, unheard my moan,
Sooner shall drops dissolve this very stone.(81)
And therefore it scarcely seems possible to avoid calling a man who is
suffering, miserable; and if he is miserable, then pain is an evil.
XI. _A._ Hitherto you are on my side; I will see to that by-and-by; and,
in the meanwhile, whence are those verses? I do not remember them.
_M._ I will inform you, for you are in the right to ask. Do you see that I
have much leisure?
_A._ What then?
_M._ I imagine, when you were at Athens, you attended frequently at the
schools of the philosophers.
_A._ Yes, and with great pleasure.
_M._ You observed then, that, though none of them at that time were very
eloquent, yet they used to mix verses with their harangues.
_A._ Yes, and particularly Dionysius, the Stoic, used to employ a great
many.
_M._ You say right; but they were quoted without any appropriateness or
elegance. But our friend Philo used to give a few select lines and well
adapted; and in imitation of him, ever since I took a fancy to this kind
of elderly declamation, I have been very fond of quoting our poets, and
where I cannot be supplied from them, I translate from the Greek, that the
Latin language may not want any kind of ornament in this kind of
disputation.
But do you not see how much harm is done by poets? They introduce the
bravest men lamenting over their misfortunes: they soften our minds, and
they are besides so entertaining, that we do not only read them, but get
them by heart. Thus the influence of the poets is added to our want of
discipline at home, and our tender and delicate manner of living, so that
between them they have deprived virtue of all its vigour and energy. Plato
therefore was right in banishing them from his commonwealth, where he
required the best morals, and the best form of government. But we, who
have all our learning from Greece, read and learn these works of theirs
from our childhood; and look on this as a liberal and learned education.
XII. But why are we angry with the poets? we may find some philosophers,
those masters of virtue, who have taught that pain was the greatest of
evils. But you, young man, when you said but just now that it appeared so
to you, upon being asked by me what appeared greater than infamy, gave up
that opinion at a word. Suppose I ask Epicurus the same question. He will
answer, that a trifling degree of pain is a greater evil than the greatest
infamy; for that there is no evil in infamy itself, unless attended with
pain. What pain then attends Epicurus, when he says this very thing, that
pain is the greatest evil; and yet nothing can be a greater disgrace to a
philosopher than to talk thus. Therefore, you allowed enough when you
admitted that infamy appeared to you to be a greater evil than pain. And
if you abide by this admission, you will see how far pain should be
resisted: and that our inquiry should be not so much whether pain be an
evil; as how the mind may be fortified for resisting it. The Stoics infer
from some petty quibbling arguments, that it is no evil, as if the dispute
was about a word, and not about the thing itself. Why do you impose upon
me, Zeno? for when you deny what appears very dreadful to me to be an
evil; I am deceived, and am at a loss to know why that which appears to me
to be a most miserable thing, should be no evil. The answer is, that
nothing is an evil but what is base and vicious. You return to your
trifling, for you do not remove what made me uneasy. I know that pain is
not vice,—you need not inform me of that: but show me, that it makes no
difference to me whether I am in pain or not. It has never anything to do,
say you, with a happy life, for that depends upon virtue alone; but yet
pain is to be avoided. If I ask, why? it is disagreeable, against nature,
hard to bear, woful and afflicting.
XIII. Here are many words to express that by so many different forms,
which we call by the single word, evil. You are defining pain, instead of
removing it, when you say, it is disagreeable, unnatural, scarcely
possible to be endured or borne: nor are you wrong in saying so; but the
man who vaunts himself in such a manner should not give way in his
conduct, if it be true that nothing is good but what is honest, and
nothing evil but what is disgraceful. This would be wishing, not
proving.—This argument is a better one, and has more truth in it, that all
things which nature abhors are to be looked upon as evil; that those which
she approves of, are to be considered as good: for when this is admitted,
and the dispute about words removed, that which they with reason embrace,
and which we call honest, right, becoming, and sometimes include under the
general name of virtue, appears so far superior to everything else, that
all other things which are looked upon as the gifts of fortune, or the
good things of the body, seem trifling and insignificant: and no evil
whatever, nor all the collective body of evils together, appears to be
compared to the evil of infamy. Wherefore, if, as you granted in the
beginning, infamy is worse than pain, pain is certainly nothing; for while
it appears to you base and unmanly to groan, cry out, lament, or faint
under pain—while you cherish notions of probity, dignity, honour, and
keeping your eye on them, refrain yourself—pain will certainly yield to
virtue, and by the influence of imagination, will lose its whole
force.—For you must either admit that there is no such thing as virtue, or
you must despise every kind of pain. Will you allow of such a virtue as
prudence, without which no virtue whatever can even be conceived? What
then? will that suffer you to labour and take pains to no purpose? Will
temperance permit you to do anything to excess? Will it be possible for
justice to be maintained by one who through the force of pain discovers
secrets, or betrays his confederates, or deserts many duties of life? Will
you act in a manner consistently with courage, and its attendants,
greatness of soul, resolution, patience, and contempt for all worldly
things? Can you hear yourself called a great man, when you lie groveling,
dejected, and deploring your condition, with a lamentable voice; no one
would call you even a man, while in such a condition: you must therefore
either abandon all pretensions to courage, or else pain must be put out of
the question.
XIV. You know very well, that even though part of your Corinthian
furniture were gone, the remainder might be safe without that; but if you
lose one virtue (though virtue in reality cannot be lost), still if, I
say, you should acknowledge that you were deficient in one, you would be
stripped of all. Can you, then, call yourself a brave man, of a great
soul, endued with patience and steadiness above the frowns of fortune? or
Philoctetes? for I choose to instance him, rather than yourself, for he
certainly was not a brave man, who lay in his bed, which was watered with
his tears,
Whose groans, bewailings, and whose bitter cries,
With grief incessant rent the very skies.
I do not deny pain to be pain; for were that the case, in what would
courage consist? but I say it should be assuaged by patience, if there be
such a thing as patience: if there be no such thing, why do we speak so in
praise of philosophy? or why do we glory in its name? Does pain annoy us?
let it sting us to the heart: if you are without defensive armour, bare
your throat to it; but if you are secured by Vulcanian armour, that is to
say by resolution, resist it; should you fail to do so, that guardian of
your honour, your courage, will forsake and leave you.—By the laws of
Lycurgus, and by those which were given to the Cretans by Jupiter, or
which Minos established under the direction of Jupiter, as the poets say,
the youths of the state are trained by the practice of hunting, running,
enduring hunger and thirst, cold and heat. The boys at Sparta are scourged
so at the altars, that blood follows the lash in abundance, nay,
sometimes, as I used to hear when I was there, they are whipped even to
death; and yet not one of them was ever heard to cry out, or so much as
groan. What then? shall men not be able to bear what boys do? and shall
custom have such great force, and reason none at all?
XV. There is some difference betwixt labour and pain; they border upon one
another, but still there is a certain difference between them. Labour is a
certain exercise of the mind or body, in some employment or undertaking of
serious trouble and importance; but pain is a sharp motion in the body,
disagreeable to our senses.—Both these feelings, the Greeks, whose
language is more copious than ours, express by the common name of Πόνος;
therefore they call industrious men, pains-taking, or rather fond of
labour; we, more conveniently, call them laborious; for labouring is one
thing and enduring pain another. You see, O Greece, your barrenness of
words, sometimes, though you think you are always so rich in them. I say,
then, that there is a difference betwixt labouring and being in pain. When
Caius Marius had an operation performed for a swelling in his thigh, he
felt pain; when he headed his troops in a very hot season, he laboured.
Yet these two feelings bear some resemblance to one another; for the
accustoming ourselves to labour makes the endurance of pain more easy to
us.—And it was because they were influenced by this reason, that the
founders of the Grecian form of government provided that the bodies of
their youth should be strengthened by labour, which custom the Spartans
transferred even to their women, who in other cities lived more
delicately, keeping within the walls of their houses, but it was otherwise
with the Spartans.
The Spartan women, with a manly air,
Fatigues and dangers with their husbands share:
They in fantastic sports have no delight,
Partners with them in exercise and fight.
And in these laborious exercises pain interferes sometimes; they are
thrown down, receive blows, have bad falls, and are bruised, and the
labour itself produces a sort of callousness to pain.
XVI. As to military service, (I speak of our own, not of that of the
Spartans, for they used to march slowly to the sound of the flute, and
scarce a word of command was given without an anapæst;) you may see in the
first place whence the very name of an army (Exercitus)(82) is derived;
and secondly, how great the labour is of an army on its march; then
consider that they carry more than a fortnight’s provision, and whatever
else they may want: that they carry the burthen of the stakes,(83) for as
to shield, sword, or helmet, they look on them as no more encumbrance than
their own limbs, for they say that arms are the limbs of a soldier, and
those indeed they carry so commodiously, that when there is occasion they
throw down their burdens, and use their arms as readily as their limbs.
Why need I mention the exercises of the legions? and how great the labour
is which is undergone in the running, encounters, shouts! Hence it is,
that their minds are worked up to make so light of wounds in action. Take
a soldier of equal bravery, but undisciplined, and he will seem a woman.
Why is it that there is this sensible difference betwixt a raw recruit and
a veteran soldier? The age of the young soldiers is for the most part in
their favour, but it is practice only that enables men to bear labour, and
despise wounds. Moreover, we often see, when the wounded are carried off
the field, the raw untried soldier, though but slightly wounded, cries out
most shamefully; but the more brave experienced veteran only inquires for
some one to dress his wounds, and says,
Patroclus, to thy aid I must appeal
Ere worse ensue, my bleeding wounds to heal;
The sons of Æsculapius are employ’d,
No room for me, so many are annoy’d.
XVII. This is certainly Eurypylus himself. What an experienced man!—Whilst
his friend is continually enlarging on his misfortunes, you may observe
that he is so far from weeping, that he even assigns a reason why he
should bear his wounds with patience.
Who at his enemy a stroke directs,
His sword to light upon himself expects.
Patroclus, I suppose, will lead him off to his chamber to bind up his
wounds, at least if he be a man: but not a word of that; he only inquires
how the battle went.
Say how the Argives bear themselves in fight?—
And yet no words can show the truth as well as those, your deeds and
visible sufferings.
Peace! and my wounds bind up;
but though Eurypylus could bear these afflictions, Æsopus could not,
Where Hector’s fortune press’d our yielding troops;
and he explains the rest, though in pain; so unbounded is military glory
in a brave man! Shall, then, a veteran soldier be able to behave in this
manner, and shall a wise and learned man not be able? Surely the latter
might be able to bear pain better, and in no small degree either: at
present, how ever, I am confining myself to what is engendered practice
and discipline. I am not yet come to speak of reason and philosophy. You
may often hear of old women living without victuals for three or four
days: but take away a wrestler’s provisions but for one day, and he will
implore the aid of Jupiter Olympius, the very God for whom he exercises
himself: he will cry out that he cannot endure it. Great is the force of
custom! Sportsmen will continue whole nights in the snow: they will bear
being almost frozen upon the mountains. From practice boxers will not so
much as utter a groan, however bruised by the cestus. But what do you
think of those to whom a victory in the Olympic games seemed almost on a
par with the ancient consulships of the Roman people? What wounds will the
gladiators bear, who are either barbarians, or the very dregs of mankind!
How do they, who are trained to it, prefer being wounded to basely
avoiding it! How often do they prove that they consider nothing but the
giving satisfaction to their masters or to the people! for when covered
with wounds, they send to their masters to learn their pleasure; if it is
their will, they are ready to lie down and die. What gladiator, of even
moderate reputation, ever gave a sigh? who ever turned pale? who ever
disgraced himself either in the actual combat, or even when about to die?
who that had been defeated ever drew in his neck to avoid the stroke of
death? So great is the force of practice, deliberation, and custom! Shall
this, then, be done by
A Samnite rascal, worthy of his trade;
and shall a man born to glory have so soft a part in his soul as not to be
able to fortify it by reason and reflection? The sight of the gladiators’
combats is by some looked on as cruel and inhuman, and I do not know, as
it is at present managed, but it may be so; but when the guilty fought, we
might receive by our ears perhaps (but certainly by our eyes we could not)
better training to harden us against pain and death.
XVIII. I have now said enough about the effects of exercise, custom, and
careful meditation; proceed we now to consider the force of reason, unless
you have something to reply to what has been said.
_A._ That I should interrupt you! by no means; for your discourse has
brought me over to your opinion. Let the Stoics, then, think it their
business to determine whether pain be an evil or not, while they endeavour
to show by some strained and trifling conclusions, which are nothing to
the purpose, that pain is no evil. My opinion is, that whatever it is, it
is not so great as it appears; and I say, that men are influenced to a
great extent by some false representations and appearance of it, and that
all which is really felt is capable of being endured. Where shall I begin,
then? shall I superficially go over what I said before, that my discourse
may have a greater scope?
This, then, is agreed upon by all, and not only by learned men, but also
by the unlearned, that it becomes the brave and magnanimous, those that
have patience and a spirit above this world, not to give way to pain. Nor
has there ever been any one who did not commend a man who bore it in this
manner. That, then, which is expected from a brave man, and is commended
when it is seen, it must surely be base in any one to be afraid of at its
approach, or not to bear when it comes. But I would have you consider
whether, as all the right affections of the soul are classed under the
name of virtues, the truth is that this is not properly the name of them
all, but that they all have their name from that leading virtue which is
superior to all the rest: for the name, “virtue,” comes from _vir_, a man,
and courage is the peculiar distinction of a man: and this virtue has two
principal duties, to despise death and pain. We must, then, exert these,
if we would be men of virtue, or rather, if we would be men, because
virtue (_virtus_) takes its very name from _vir_, man.
XIX. You may inquire, perhaps, how? and such an inquiry is not amiss, for
philosophy is ready with her assistance. Epicurus offers himself to you, a
man far from a bad, or, I should rather say, a very good man; he advises
no more than he knows. “Despise pain,” says he. Who is it saith this? Is
it the same man who calls pain the greatest of all evils? It is not,
indeed, very consistent in him. Let us hear what he says:—“If the pain is
excessive it must needs be short.” I must have that over again, for I do
not apprehend what you mean exactly by “excessive” or “short.” That is
excessive, than which nothing can be greater; that is short, than which
nothing is shorter. I do not regard the greatness of any pain from which,
by reason of the shortness of its continuance, I shall be delivered almost
before it reaches me. But, if the pain be as great as that of Philoctetes,
it will appear great indeed to me, but yet not the greatest that I am
capable of bearing; for the pain is confined to my foot: but my eye may
pain me, I may have a pain in the head, or sides, or lungs, or in every
part of me. It is far, then, from being excessive; therefore, says he,
pain of a long continuance has more pleasure in it than uneasiness. Now I
cannot bring myself to say so great a man talks nonsense; but I imagine he
is laughing at us. My opinion is that the greatest pain (I say the
greatest, though it may be ten atoms less than another) is not therefore
short, because acute; I could name to you a great many good men who have
been tormented many years with the acutest pains of the gout. But this
cautious man doth not determine the measure of that greatness or of
duration, so as to enable us to know what he calls excessive, with regard
to pain, or short, with respect to its continuance. Let us pass him by,
then, as one who says just nothing at all; and let us force him to
acknowledge, notwithstanding he might behave himself somewhat boldly under
his cholic and his strangury, that no remedy against pain can be had from
him who looks on pain as the greatest of all evils. We must apply, then,
for relief elsewhere, and nowhere better (if we seek for what is most
consistent with itself) than to those who place the chief good in honesty,
and the greatest evil in infamy. You dare not so much as groan, or
discover the least uneasiness in their company, for virtue itself speaks
to you through them.
XX. Will you, when you may observe children at Lacedæmon, and young men at
Olympia, and barbarians in the amphitheatre, receive the severest wounds,
and bear them without once opening their mouths,—will you, I say, if any
pain should by chance attack you, cry out like a woman? will you not
rather bear it with resolution and constancy? and not cry, It is
intolerable, nature cannot bear it. I hear what you say,—Boys bear this
because they are led thereto by glory: some bear it through shame, many
through fear, and yet are we afraid that nature cannot bear what is borne
by many, and in such different circumstances? Nature not only bears it,
but challenges it, for there is nothing with her preferable, nothing which
she desires more, than credit, and reputation, and praise, and honour, and
glory. I choose here to describe this one thing under many names, and I
have used many that you may have the clearer idea of it; for what I mean
to say is, that whatever is desirable of itself, proceeding from virtue,
or placed in virtue, and commendable on its own account, (which I would
rather agree to call the only good than deny it to be the chief good,) is
what men should prefer above all things. And as we declare this to be the
case with respect to honesty, so we speak in the contrary manner of
infamy; nothing is so odious, so detestable, nothing so unworthy of a man:
and if you are thoroughly convinced of this (for, at the beginning of this
discourse, you allowed that there appeared to you more evil in infamy than
in pain), it follows that you ought to have the command over yourself,
though I scarcely know how this expression may seem an accurate one, which
appears to represent man as made up of two natures, so that one should be
in command and the other be subject to it.
XXI. Yet this division does not proceed from ignorance; for the soul
admits of a two-fold division, one of which partakes of reason, the other
is without it; when, therefore, we are ordered to give a law to ourselves,
the meaning is, that reason should restrain our rashness. There is in the
soul of every man, something naturally soft, low, enervated in a manner,
and languid. Were there nothing besides this, men would be the greatest of
monsters; but there is present to every man reason, which presides over,
and gives laws to all; which, by improving itself, and making continual
advances, becomes perfect virtue. It behoves a man, then, to take care
that reason shall have the command over that part which is bound to
practise obedience. In what manner? you will say. Why, as a master has
over his slave, a general over his army, a father over his son. If that
part of the soul which I have called soft behaves disgracefully, if it
gives itself up to lamentations and womanish tears, then let it be
restrained, and committed to the care of friends and relations, for we
often see those persons brought to order by shame, whom no reasons can
influence. Therefore, we should confine those feelings, like our servants,
in safe custody, and almost with chains. But those who have more
resolution, and yet are not utterly immovable, we should encourage with
our exhortations, as we would good soldiers, to recollect themselves, and
maintain their honour. That wisest man of all Greece, in the Niptræ, does
not lament too much over his wounds, or rather, he is moderate in his
grief:—
Move slow, my friends, your hasty speed refrain,
Lest by your motion you increase my pain.
Pacuvius is better in this than Sophocles, for in the one Ulysses bemoans
his wounds too vehemently; for the very people who carried him after he
was wounded, though his grief was moderate, yet, considering the dignity
of the man, did not scruple to say,
And thou, Ulysses, long to war inured,
Thy wounds, though great, too feebly hast endured.
The wise poet understood that custom was no contemptible instructor how to
bear pain. But the same hero complains with more decency, though in great
pain,—
Assist, support me, never leave me so;
Unbind my wounds, oh! execrable woe!
He begins to give way, but instantly checks himself:—
Away, begone, but cover first the sore;
For your rude hands but make my pains the more.
Do you observe how he constrains himself; not that his bodily pains were
less, but because he checks the anguish of his mind? Therefore, in the
conclusion of the Niptræ, he blames others, even when he himself is
dying:—
Complaints of fortune may become the man,
None but a woman will thus weeping stand.
And so that soft place in his soul obeys his reason, just as an abashed
soldier does his stern commander.
XXII. The man, then, in whom absolute wisdom exists (such a man, indeed,
we have never as yet seen, but the philosophers have described in their
writings what sort of man he will be, if he should exist); such a man, or
at least that perfect and absolute reason which exists in him, will have
the same authority over the inferior part as a good parent has over his
dutiful children, he will bring it to obey his nod, without any trouble or
difficulty. He will rouse himself, prepare and arm himself to oppose pain
as he would an enemy. If you inquire what arms he will provide himself
with, they will be contention, encouragement, discourse with himself; he
will say thus to himself, Take care that you are guilty of nothing base,
languid, or unmanly. He will turn over in his mind all the different kinds
of honour. Zeno of Elea will occur to him, who suffered everything rather
than betray his confederates in the design of putting an end to the
tyranny. He will reflect on Anaxarchus, the pupil of Democritus, who
having fallen into the hands of Nicocreon king of Cyprus, without the
least entreaty for mercy, or refusal, submitted to every kind of torture.
Calanus the Indian will occur to him, an ignorant man and a barbarian,
born at the foot of Mount Caucasus, who committed himself to the flames by
his own free, voluntary act. But we, if we have the tooth-ache, or a pain
in the foot, or if the body be any ways affected, cannot bear it. For our
sentiments of pain, as well as pleasure, are so trifling and effeminate,
we are so enervated and relaxed by luxuries, that we cannot bear the sting
of a bee without crying out. But Caius Marius, a plain country-man, but of
a manly soul, when he had an operation performed on him, as I mentioned
above, at first refused to be tied down; and he is the first instance of
any one’s having had an operation performed on him without being tied
down. Why, then, did others bear it afterwards? Why, from the force of
example. You see, then, that pain exists more in opinion than in nature,
and yet the same Marius gave a proof that there is something very sharp in
pain, for he would not submit to have the other thigh cut. So that he bore
his pain with resolution as a man; but, like a reasonable person, he was
not willing to undergo any greater pain without some necessary reason. The
whole, then, consists in this, that you should have command over yourself.
I have already told you what kind of command this is; and by considering
what is most consistent with patience, fortitude, and greatness of soul, a
man not only restrains himself, but somehow or other mitigates even pain
itself.
XXIII. Even as in a battle, the dastardly and timorous soldier throws away
his shield on the first appearance of an enemy, and runs as fast as he
can, and on that account loses his life sometimes, though he has never
received even one wound, when he who stands his ground has nothing of the
sort happen to him; so, they who cannot bear the appearances of pain,
throw themselves away, and give themselves up to affliction and dismay;
but they that oppose it, often come off more than a match for it. For the
body has a certain resemblance to the soul: as burdens are more easily
borne the more the body is exerted, while they crush us if we give way; so
the soul by exerting itself resists the whole weight that would oppress
it; but if it yields, it is so pressed, that it cannot support itself. And
if we consider things truly, the soul should exert itself in every
pursuit, for that is the only security for its doing its duty. But this
should be principally regarded in pain, that we must not do anything
timidly, or dastardly, or basely, or slavishly, or effeminately, and above
all things we must dismiss and avoid that Philoctetean sort of outcry. A
man is allowed sometimes to groan, but yet seldom; but it is not
permissible even in a woman to howl; for such a noise as this is
forbidden, by the twelve tables, to be used even at funerals. Nor does a
wise or brave man ever groan, unless when he exerts himself to give his
resolution greater force, as they who run in the stadium make as much
noise as they can. The wrestlers, too, do the same when they are training;
and the boxers, when they aim a blow with the cestus at their adversary,
give a groan, not because they are in pain, or from a sinking of their
spirits, but because their whole body is put upon the stretch by the
throwing out of these groans, and the blow comes the stronger.
XXIV. What! they who would speak louder than ordinary, are they satisfied
with working their jaws, sides, or tongue, or stretching the common organs
of speech and utterance? the whole body and every muscle is at full
stretch, if I may be allowed the expression, every nerve is exerted to
assist their voice. I have actually seen the knees of Marcus Antonius
touch the ground when he was speaking with vehemence for himself, with
relation to the Varian law. For as the engines you throw stones or darts
with, throw them out with the greater force the more they are strained and
drawn back; so it is in speaking, running, or boxing, the more people
strain themselves, the greater their force. Since, therefore, this
exertion has so much influence—if in a moment of pain groans help to
strengthen the mind, let us use them; but if they be groans of
lamentation, if they be the expression of weakness or abjectness, or
unmanly weeping, then I should scarcely call him a man who yielded to
them. For even supposing that such groaning could give any ease, it still
should be considered, whether it were consistent with a brave and resolute
man. But, if it does not ease our pain, why should we debase ourselves to
no purpose? for what is more unbecoming in a man than to cry like a woman?
But this precept which is laid down with respect to pain is not confined
to it; we should apply this exertion of the soul to everything else. Is
anger inflamed? is lust excited? we must have recourse to the same
citadel, and apply to the same arms; but since it is pain which we are at
present discussing, we will let the other subjects alone. To bear pain,
then, sedately and calmly, it is of great use to consider with all our
soul, as the saying is, how noble it is to do so, for we are naturally
desirous (as I said before, but it cannot be too often repeated) and very
much inclined to what is honourable, of which, if we discover but the
least glimpse, there is nothing which we are not prepared to undergo and
suffer to attain it. From this impulse of our minds, this desire for
genuine glory and honourable conduct, it is that such dangers are
supported in war, and that brave men are not sensible of their wounds in
action, or if they are sensible of them, prefer death to the departing but
the least step from their honour. The Decii saw the shining swords of
their enemies when they were rushing into the battle. But the honourable
character and the glory of the death which they were seeking, made all
fear of death of little weight. Do you imagine that Epaminondas groaned
when he perceived that his life was flowing out with his blood? No; for he
left his country triumphing over the Lacedæmonians, whereas he had found
it in subjection to them. These are the comforts, these are the things
that assuage the greatest pain.
XXV. You may ask, how the case is in peace? what is to be done at home?
how we are to behave in bed? You bring me back to the philosophers, who
seldom go to war. Among these, Dionysius of Heraclea, a man certainly of
no resolution, having learned fortitude of Zeno, quitted it on being in
pain; for, being tormented with a pain in his kidneys, in bewailing
himself he cried out, that those things were false which he had formerly
conceived of pain. And when his fellow-disciple, Cleanthes, asked him why
he had changed his opinion, he answered, “That the case of any man who had
applied so much time to philosophy, and yet was unable to bear pain, might
be a sufficient proof that pain is an evil. That he himself had spent many
years at philosophy, and yet could not bear pain. It followed, therefore,
that pain was an evil.” It is reported that Cleanthes on that struck his
foot on the ground, and repeated a verse out of the Epigonæ—
Amphiaraus, hear’st thou this below?
He meant Zeno: he was sorry the other had degenerated from him.
But it was not so with our friend Posidonius, whom I have often seen
myself, and I will tell you what Pompey used to say of him: that when he
came to Rhodes, after his departure from Syria, he had a great desire to
hear Posidonius, but was informed that he was very ill of a severe fit of
the gout; yet he had great inclination to pay a visit to so famous a
philosopher. Accordingly, when he had seen him, and paid his compliments,
and had spoken with great respect of him, he said he was very sorry that
he could not hear him lecture. But indeed you may, replied the other, nor
will I suffer any bodily pain to occasion so great a man to visit me in
vain. On this Pompey relates that, as he lay on his bed, he disputed with
great dignity and fluency on this very subject—That nothing was good but
what was honest; and that in his paroxysms he would often say, “Pain, it
is to no purpose, notwithstanding you are troublesome, I will never
acknowledge you an evil.” And in general all celebrated and notorious
afflictions become endurable by disregarding them.
XXVI. Do we not observe, that where those exercises called gymnastic are
in esteem, those who enter the lists never concern themselves about
dangers: that where the praise of riding and hunting is highly esteemed,
they who practise these arts decline no pain. What shall I say of our own
ambitious pursuits, or desire of honours? What fire have not candidates
run through to gain a single vote? Therefore Africanus had always in his
hands Xenophon, the pupil of Socrates, being particularly pleased with his
saying, that the same labours were not equally heavy to the general and to
the common man, because the honour itself made the labour lighter to the
general. But yet, so it happens, that even with the illiterate vulgar, an
idea of honour is of great influence, though they cannot understand what
it is. They are led by report and common opinion to look on that as
honourable, which has the general voice. Not that I would have you, should
the multitude be ever so fond of you, rely on their judgment, nor approve
of everything which they think right; you must use your own judgment. If
you are satisfied with yourself when you have approved of what is right,
you will not only have the mastery over yourself, (which I recommend to
you just now,) but over everybody, and everything. Lay this down, then, as
a rule, that a great capacity, and lofty elevation of soul, which
distinguishes itself most by despising and looking down with contempt on
pain, is the most excellent of all things, and the more so, if it does not
depend on the people, and does not aim at applause, but derives its
satisfaction from itself. Besides, to me indeed everything seems the more
commendable the less the people are courted, and the fewer eyes there are
to see it. Not that you should avoid the public, for every generous action
loves the public view; yet no theatre for virtue is equal to a
consciousness of it.
XXVII. And let this be principally considered, that this bearing of pain,
which I have often said is to be strengthened by an exertion of the soul,
should be the same in everything. For you meet with many who, through a
desire of victory, or for glory, or to maintain their rights, or their
liberty, have boldly received wounds, and borne themselves up under them;
and yet those very same persons, by relaxing that intenseness of their
minds, were unequal to bearing the pain of a disease. For they did not
support themselves under their former sufferings by reason or philosophy,
but by inclination and glory. Therefore some barbarians and savage people
are able to fight very stoutly with the sword, but cannot bear sickness
like men: but the Grecians, men of no great courage, but as wise as human
nature will admit of, cannot look an enemy in the face, yet the same will
bear to be visited with sickness tolerably, and with a sufficiently manly
spirit; and the Cimbrians and Celtiberians are very alert in battle, but
bemoan themselves in sickness; for nothing can be consistent which has not
reason for its foundation. But when you see those who are led by
inclination or opinion, not retarded by pain in their pursuits, nor
hindered by it from succeeding in them, you may conclude, either that pain
is no evil, or that, notwithstanding you may choose to call an evil
whatever is disagreeable and contrary to nature, yet it is so very
trifling an evil, that it may so effectually be got the better of by
virtue as quite to disappear. And I would have you think of this night and
day; for this argument will spread itself, and take up more room sometime
or other, and not be confined to pain alone; for if the motives to all our
actions are to avoid disgrace and acquire honour, we may not only despise
the stings of pain, but the storms of fortune, especially if we have
recourse to that retreat which was pointed out in our yesterday’s
discussion: for as, if some God had advised a man who was pursued by
pirates to throw himself overboard, saying, There is something at hand to
receive you; either a dolphin will take you up, as it did Arion of
Methymna; or those horses sent by Neptune to Pelops (who are said to have
carried chariots so rapidly as to be borne up by the waves) will receive
you, and convey you wherever you please; cast away all fear: so, though
your pains be ever so sharp and disagreeable, if the case is not such that
it is worth your while to endure them, you see whither you may betake
yourself. I think this will do for the present. But perhaps you still
abide by your opinion.
_A._ Not in the least, indeed; and I hope I am freed by these two days’
discourses from the fear of two things that I greatly dreaded.
_M._ To-morrow then for rhetoric, as we were saying; but I see we must not
drop our philosophy.
_A._ No, indeed, we will have the one in the forenoon, and this at the
usual time.
_M._ It shall be so, and I will comply with your very laudable
inclinations.