I. What reason shall I assign, O Brutus, why, as we consist of mind and
body, the art of curing and preserving the body should be so much sought
after, and the invention of it, as being so useful, should be ascribed to
the immortal Gods; but the medicine of the mind should not have been so
much the object of inquiry, whilst it was unknown, nor so much attended to
and cultivated after its discovery, nor so well received or approved of by
some, and accounted actually disagreeable, and looked upon with an envious
eye by many? Is it because we, by means of the mind, judge of the pains
and disorders of the body, but do not, by means of the body, arrive at any
perception of the disorders of the mind? Hence it comes that the mind only
judges of itself, when that very faculty by which it is judged is in a bad
state. Had nature given us faculties for discerning and viewing herself,
and could we go through life by keeping our eye on her—our best
guide—there would be no reason certainly why any one should be in want of
philosophy or learning: but, as it is, she has furnished us only with some
feeble rays of light, which we immediately extinguish so completely by
evil habits and erroneous opinions, that the light of nature is nowhere
visible. The seeds of virtues are natural to our constitutions, and, were
they suffered to come to maturity, would naturally conduct us to a happy
life; but now, as soon as we are born and received into the world, we are
instantly familiarized with all kinds of depravity and perversity of
opinions; so that we may be said almost to suck in error with our nurse’s
milk. When we return to our parents, and are put into the hands of tutors
and governors, we are imbued with so many errors, that truth gives place
to falsehood, and nature herself to established opinion.
II. To these we may add the poets; who, on account of the appearance they
exhibit of learning and wisdom, are heard, read, and got by heart, and
make a deep impression on our minds. But when to these are added the
people, who are as it were one great body of instructors, and the
multitude, who declare unanimously for what is wrong, then are we
altogether overwhelmed with bad opinions, and revolt entirely from nature;
so that they seem to deprive us of our best guide, who have decided that
there is nothing better for man, nothing more worthy of being desired by
him, nothing more excellent than honours and commands, and a high
reputation with the people; which indeed every excellent man aims at; but
whilst he pursues that only true honour, which nature has in view above
all other objects, he finds himself busied in arrant trifles, and in
pursuit of no conspicuous form of virtue, but only some shadowy
representation of glory. For glory is a real and express substance, not a
mere shadow. It consists in the united praise of good men, the free voice
of those who form a true judgment of preeminent virtue; it is, as it were,
the very echo of virtue; and being generally the attendant on laudable
actions, should not be slighted by good men. But popular fame, which would
pretend to imitate it, is hasty and inconsiderate, and generally commends
wicked and immoral actions, and throws discredit upon the appearance and
beauty of honesty, by assuming a resemblance of it. And it is owing to
their not being able to discover the difference between them that some
men, ignorant of real excellence, and in what it consists, have been the
destruction of their country and of themselves. And thus the best men have
erred, not so much in their intentions, as by a mistaken conduct. What, is
no cure to be attempted to be applied to those who are carried away by the
love of money, or the lust of pleasures, by which they are rendered little
short of madmen, which is the case of all weak people? or is it because
the disorders of the mind are less dangerous than those of the body? or
because the body will admit of a cure, while there is no medicine whatever
for the mind?
III. But there are more disorders of the mind than of the body, and they
are of a more dangerous nature; for these very disorders are the more
offensive, because they belong to the mind, and disturb it; and the mind,
when disordered, is, as Ennius says, in a constant error; it can neither
bear nor endure anything, and is under the perpetual influence of desires.
Now, what disorders can be worse to the body than these two distempers of
the mind (for I overlook others), weakness and desire? But how, indeed,
can it be maintained that the mind cannot prescribe for itself, when she
it is who has invented the medicines for the body, when, with regard to
bodily cures, constitution and nature have a great share, nor do all, who
suffer themselves to be cured, find that effect instantly; but those minds
which are disposed to be cured, and submit to the precepts of the wise,
may undoubtedly recover a healthy state? Philosophy is certainly the
medicine of the soul, whose assistance we do not seek from abroad, as in
bodily disorders, but we ourselves are bound to exert our utmost energy
and power in order to effect our cure. But as to philosophy in general, I
have, I think, in my “Hortensius,” sufficiently spoken of the credit and
attention which it deserves: since that, indeed, I have been continually
either disputing or writing on its most material branches: and I have laid
down in these books all the discussions which took place between myself
and my particular friends at my Tusculan Villa: but as I have spoken in
the two former of pain and death, this book shall be devoted to the
account of the third day of our disputations.
We came down into the Academy when the day was already declining towards
afternoon, and I asked one of those who were present to propose a subject
for us to discourse on; and then the business was carried on in this
manner.
IV. _A._ My opinion is, that a wise man is subject to grief.
_M._ What, and to the other perturbations of mind, as fears, lusts, anger?
For these are pretty much like what the Greeks call πάθη. I might call
them diseases, and that would be a literal translation, but it is not
agreeable to our way of speaking. For envy, delight, and pleasure, are all
called by the Greeks diseases, being affections of the mind not in
subordination to reason: but we, I think, are right, in calling the same
motions of a disturbed soul perturbations, and in very seldom using the
term diseases; though, perhaps, it appears otherwise to you.
_A._ I am of your opinion.
_M._ And do you think a wise man subject to these?
_A._ Entirely, I think.
_M._ Then that boasted wisdom is but of small account, if it differs so
little from madness?
_A._ What? does every commotion of the mind seem to you to be madness?
_M._ Not to me only; but I apprehend, though I have often been surprised
at it, that it appeared so to our ancestors many ages before Socrates:
from whom is derived all that philosophy which relates to life and morals.
_A._ How so?
_M._ Because the name madness(84) implies a sickness of the mind and
disease, that is to say an unsoundness, and an unhealthiness of mind,
which they call madness. But the philosophers call all perturbations of
the soul diseases, and their opinion is that no fool is ever free from
these: but all that are diseased are unsound; and the minds of all fools
are diseased; therefore all fools are mad. For they held that soundness of
the mind depends on a certain tranquillity and steadiness; and a mind
which was destitute of these qualities they called insane, because
soundness was inconsistent with a perturbed mind just as much as with a
disordered body.
V. Nor were they less ingenious in calling the state of the soul devoid of
the light of the mind, “a being out of one’s mind,” “a being beside
oneself.” From whence we may understand, that they who gave these names to
things were of the same opinion with Socrates, that all silly people were
unsound, which the Stoics have carefully preserved as being derived from
him; for whatever mind is distempered, (and as I just now said, the
philosophers call all perturbed motions of the mind distempers,) is no
more sound than a body is when in a fit of sickness. Hence it is, that
wisdom is the soundness of the mind, folly a sort of unsoundness, which is
insanity, or a being out of one’s mind: and these are much better
expressed by the Latin words than the Greek; which you will find the case
also in many other topics. But we will discuss that point elsewhere: let
us now attend to our present subject. The very meaning of the word
describes the whole thing about which we are inquiring, both as to its
substance and character. For we must necessarily understand by “sound,”
those whose minds are under no perturbation from any motion as if it were
a disease. They who are differently affected we must necessarily call
“unsound.” So that nothing is better than what is usual in Latin, to say,
that they who are run away with by their lust or anger, have quitted the
command over themselves; though anger includes lust, for anger is defined
to be the lust of revenge. They, then, who are said not to be masters of
themselves, are said to be so because they are not under the government of
reason, to which is assigned by nature the power over the whole soul. Why
the Greeks should call this μανία, I do not easily apprehend; but we
define it much better than they, for we distinguish this madness
(_insania_), which, being allied to folly, is more extensive, from what we
call _furor_, or raving. The Greeks indeed would do so too, but they have
no one word that will express it: what we call _furor_, they call
μελαγχολία, as if the reason were affected only by a black bile, and not
disturbed as often by a violent rage, or fear, or grief. Thus we say
Athamas, Alcmæon, Ajax, and Orestes, were raving (_furere_): because a
person affected in this manner was not allowed, by the twelve tables, to
have the management of his own affairs; therefore the words are not, if he
is mad (_insanus_), but, if he begins to be raving (_furiosus_). For they
looked upon madness to be an unsettled humour, that proceeded from not
being of sound mind; yet such a person might perform his ordinary duties,
and discharge the usual and customary requirements of life: but they
considered one that was raving as afflicted with a total blindness of the
mind, which, notwithstanding it is allowed to be greater than madness, is
nevertheless of such a nature, that a wise man may be subject to raving
(_furor_), but cannot possibly be afflicted by insanity (_insania_). But
this is another question: let us now return to our original subject.
VI. I think you said that it was your opinion that a wise man was liable
to grief.
_A._ And so, indeed, I think.
_M._ It is natural enough to think so, for we are not the offspring of
flints: but we have by nature something soft and tender in our souls,
which may be put into a violent motion by grief, as by a storm; nor did
that Crantor, who was one of the most distinguished men that our Academy
has ever produced, say this amiss: “I am by no means of their opinion who
talk so much in praise of I know not what insensibility, which neither can
exist, nor ought to exist: I would choose,” says he, “never to be ill; but
should I be so, still I should choose to retain my sensation, whether
there was to be an amputation, or any other separation of anything from my
body. For that insensibility cannot be but at the expense of some
unnatural ferocity of mind, or stupor of body.” But let us consider
whether to talk in this manner be not allowing that we are weak, and
yielding to our softness. Notwithstanding, let us be hardy enough, not
only to lop off every arm of our miseries, but even to pluck up every
fibre of their roots: yet still something perhaps may be left behind, so
deep does folly strike its roots: but whatever may be left, it will be no
more than is necessary. But let us be persuaded of this, that unless the
mind be in a sound state, which philosophy alone can effect, there can be
no end of our miseries. Wherefore, as we begun, let us submit ourselves to
it for a cure; we shall be cured if we choose to be. I shall advance
something further. I shall not treat of grief alone, though that indeed is
the principal thing; but, as I originally proposed, of every perturbation
of the mind, as I termed it, disorder, as the Greeks call it: and first,
with your leave, I shall treat it in the manner of the Stoics, whose
method is to reduce their arguments into a very small space; afterwards I
shall enlarge more in my own way.
VII. A man of courage is also full of faith; I do not use the word
confident, because, owing to an erroneous custom of speaking, that word
has come to be used in a bad sense, though it is derived from confiding,
which is commendable. But he who is full of faith, is certainly under no
fear; for there is an inconsistency between faith and fear. Now whoever is
subject to grief is subject to fear; for whatever things we grieve at when
present, we dread when hanging over us and approaching. Thus it comes
about, that grief is inconsistent with courage: it is very probable,
therefore, that whoever is subject to grief, is also liable to fear, and
to a broken kind of spirits and sinking. Now whenever these befal a man,
he is in a servile state, and must own that he is overpowered: for whoever
admits these feelings, must admit timidity and cowardice. But these cannot
enter into the mind of a man of courage; neither therefore can grief: but
the man of courage is the only wise man; therefore grief cannot befal the
wise man. It is besides necessary, that whoever is brave, should be a man
of great soul; that whoever is a man of a great soul, should be
invincible: whoever is invincible looks down with contempt on all things
here, and considers them beneath him. But no one can despise those things
on account of which he may be affected with grief: from whence it follows,
that a wise man is never affected with grief: for all wise men are brave;
therefore a wise man is not subject to grief. And as the eye, when
disordered, is not in a good condition for performing its office properly;
and as the other parts, and the whole body itself, when unsettled, cannot
perform their office and business; so the mind, when disordered, is but
ill-fitted to perform its duty. The office of the mind is to use its
reason well; but the mind of a wise man is always in condition to make the
best use of his reason, and therefore is never out of order. But grief is
a disorder of the mind; therefore a wise man will be always free from it.
VIII. And from these considerations we may get at a very probable
definition of the temperate man, whom the Greeks call σώφρων, and they
call that virtue σωφροσύνην, which I at one time call temperance, at
another time moderation, and sometimes even modesty; but I do not know
whether that virtue may not be properly called frugality, which has a more
confined meaning with the Greeks; for they call frugal men χρησίμους,
which implies only that they are useful: but our name has a more extensive
meaning; for all abstinence, all innocency, (which the Greeks have no
ordinary name for, though they might use the word ἀβλάβεια, for innocency
is that disposition of mind which would offend no one,) and several other
virtues, are comprehended under frugality; but, if this quality were of
less importance, and confined in as small a compass as some imagine, the
surname of Piso(85) would not have been in so great esteem. But as we
allow him not the name of a frugal man (_frugi_), who either quits his
post through fear, which is cowardice; or who reserves to his own use what
was privately committed to his keeping, which is injustice; or who fails
in his military undertakings through rashness, which is folly; for that
reason the word frugality takes in these three virtues of fortitude,
justice, and prudence, though it is indeed common to all virtues, for they
are all connected and knit together. Let us allow, then, frugality itself
to be another and fourth virtue; for its peculiar property seems to be, to
govern and appease all tendencies to too eager a desire after anything, to
restrain lust, and to preserve a decent steadiness in everything. The vice
in contrast to this is called prodigality (_nequitia_). Frugality, I
imagine, is derived from the word _fruge_, the best thing which the earth
produces; _nequitia_ is derived (though this is perhaps rather more
strained, still let us try it; we shall only be thought to have been
trifling if there is nothing in what we say) from the fact of everything
being to no purpose (_nequicquam_) in such a man; from which circumstance
he is called also _Nihil_, nothing. Whoever is frugal, then, or, if it is
more agreeable to you, whoever is moderate and temperate, such a one must
of course be consistent; whoever is consistent, must be quiet; the quiet
man must be free from all perturbation, therefore from grief likewise: and
these are the properties of a wise man; therefore a wise man must be free
from grief.
IX. So that Dionysius of Heraclea is right when, upon this complaint of
Achilles in Homer—
Well hast thou spoke, but at the tyrant’s name
My rage rekindles, and my soul’s in flame:
’Tis just resentment, and becomes the brave,
Disgraced, dishonour’d like the vilest slave(86)—
he reasons thus: Is the hand as it should be, when it is affected with a
swelling? or is it possible for any other member of the body, when swollen
or enlarged, to be in any other than a disordered state? Must not the
mind, then, when it is puffed up, or distended, be out of order? But the
mind of a wise man is always free from every kind of disorder; it never
swells, never is puffed up: but the mind when in anger is in a different
state. A wise man therefore is never angry; for when he is angry, he lusts
after something; for whoever is angry naturally has a longing desire to
give all the pain he can to the person who he thinks has injured him; and
whoever has this earnest desire must necessarily be much pleased with the
accomplishment of his wishes; hence he is delighted with his neighbour’s
misery; and as a wise man is not capable of such feelings as these, he is
therefore not capable of anger. But should a wise man be subject to grief,
he may likewise be subject to anger; for as he is free from anger, he must
likewise be free from grief. Again, could a wise man be subject to grief,
he might also be liable to pity, or even might be open to a disposition
towards envy (_invidentia_); I do not say to envy (_invidia_), for that
can only exist by the very act of envying: but we may fairly form the word
_invidentia_ from _invidendo_, and so avoid the doubtful name _invidia_;
for this word is probably derived from _in_ and _video_, looking too
closely into another’s fortune; as it is said in the Melanippus,
Who envies me the flower of my children?
where the Latin is _invidit florem_. It may appear not good Latin, but it
is very well put by Accius; for as _video_ governs an accusative case, so
it is more correct to say _invideo florem_ than _flori_. We are debarred
from saying so by common usage: the poet stood in his own right, and
expressed himself with more freedom.
X. Therefore compassion and envy are consistent in the same man; for
whoever is uneasy at any one’s adversity, is also uneasy at another’s
prosperity: as Theophrastus while he laments the death of his companion
Callisthenes, is at the same time disturbed at the success of Alexander;
and therefore he says, that Callisthenes met with a man of the greatest
power and good fortune, but one who did not know how to make use of his
good fortune. And as pity is an uneasiness which arises from the
misfortunes of another, so envy is an uneasiness that proceeds from the
good success of another: therefore whoever is capable of pity, is capable
of envy. But a wise man is incapable of envy, and consequently incapable
of pity. But were a wise man used to grieve, to pity also would be
familiar to him; therefore to grieve, is a feeling which cannot affect a
wise man. Now, though these reasonings of the Stoics, and their
conclusions, are rather strained and distorted, and ought to be expressed
in a less stringent and narrow manner, yet great stress is to be laid on
the opinions of those men who have a peculiarly bold and manly turn of
thought and sentiment. For our friends the Peripatetics, notwithstanding
all their erudition, gravity, and fluency of language, do not satisfy me
about the moderation of these disorders and diseases of the soul which
they insist upon; for every evil, though moderate, is in its nature great.
But our object is to make out that the wise man is free from all evil; for
as the body is unsound if it is ever so slightly affected, so the mind
under any moderate disorder loses its soundness: therefore the Romans
have, with their usual accuracy of expression, called trouble, and
anguish, and vexation, on account of the analogy between a troubled mind
and a diseased body, disorders. The Greeks call all perturbation of mind
by pretty nearly the same name; for they name every turbid motion of the
soul πάθος, that is to say, a distemper. But we have given them a more
proper name; for a disorder of the mind is very like a disease of the
body. But lust does not resemble sickness; neither does immoderate joy,
which is an elated and exulting pleasure of the mind. Fear, too, is not
very like a distemper, though it is akin to grief of mind, but properly,
as is also the case with sickness of the body, so too sickness of mind has
no name separated from pain. And therefore I must explain the origin of
this pain, that is to say, the cause that occasions this grief in the
mind, as if it were a sickness of the body. For as physicians think they
have found out the cure, when they have discovered the cause of the
distemper; so we shall discover the method of curing melancholy, when the
cause of it is found out.
XI. The whole cause, then, is in opinion; and this observation applies not
to this grief alone, but to every other disorder of the mind, which are of
four sorts, but consisting of many parts. For as every disorder or
perturbation is a motion of the mind, either devoid of reason, or in
despite of reason, or in disobedience to reason, and as that motion is
excited by an opinion of either good or evil; these four perturbations are
divided equally into two parts: for two of them proceed from an opinion of
good, one of which is an exulting pleasure, that is to say, a joy elated
beyond measure, arising from an opinion of some present great good; the
other is a desire which may fairly be called even a lust, and is an
immoderate inclination after some conceived great good, without any
obedience to reason. Therefore these two kinds, the exulting pleasure, and
the lust, have their rise from an opinion of good, as the other two, fear
and grief, have from an opinion of evil. For fear is an opinion of some
great evil impending over us, and grief is an opinion of some great evil
present; and, indeed, it is a freshly conceived opinion of an evil so
great, that to grieve at it seems right: it is of that kind, that he who
is uneasy at it thinks he has good reason to be so. Now we should exert
our utmost efforts to oppose these perturbations—which are, as it were, so
many furies let loose upon us, and urged on by folly—if we are desirous to
pass this share of life that is allotted to us with ease and satisfaction.
But of the other feelings I shall speak elsewhere; our business at present
is to drive away grief if we can, for that shall be the object of our
present discussion, since you have said that it was your opinion that a
wise man might be subject to grief, which I can by no means allow of; for
it is a frightful, miserable, and detestable thing, which we should fly
from with our utmost efforts—with all our sails and oars, as I may say.
XII. That descendant of Tantalus, how does he appear to you? he who sprung
from Pelops, who formerly stole Hippodamia from her father-in-law, king
Œnomaus, and married her by force? He who was descended from Jupiter
himself, how broken-hearted and dispirited does he not seem!—
Stand off, my friends, nor come within my shade,
That no pollutions your sound hearts pervade,
So foul a stain my body doth partake.
Will you condemn yourself, Thyestes, and deprive yourself of life, on
account of the greatness of another’s crime? What do you think of that son
of Phœbus? do you not look upon him as unworthy of his own father’s light?
Hollow his eyes, his body worn away,
His furrow’d cheeks his frequent tears betray;
His beard neglected, and his hoary hairs
Rough and uncomb’d, bespeak his bitter cares.
O foolish Æetes, these are evils which you yourself have been the cause
of, and are not occasioned by any accidents with which chance has visited
you; and you behaved as you did, even after you had been inured to your
distress, and after the first swelling of the mind had subsided! whereas
grief consists (as I shall show) in the notion of some recent evil; but
your grief, it is very plain, proceeded from the loss of your kingdom, not
of your daughter, for you hated her, and perhaps with reason, but you
could not calmly bear to part with your kingdom. But surely it is an
impudent grief which preys upon a man for not being able to command those
that are free. Dionysius, it is true, the tyrant of Syracuse, when driven
from his country taught a school at Corinth; so incapable was he of living
without some authority. But what could be more impudent than Tarquin? who
made war upon those who could not bear his tyranny; and when he could not
recover his kingdom by the aid of the forces of the Veientians and the
Latins, is said to have betaken himself to Cuma, and to have died in that
city, of old age and grief!
XIII. Do you, then, think that it can befal a wise man to be oppressed
with grief, that is to say, with misery? for, as all perturbation is
misery, grief is the rack itself. Lust is attended with heat, exulting joy
with levity, fear with meanness, but grief with something greater than
these; it consumes, torments, afflicts, and disgraces a man; it tears him,
preys upon his mind, and utterly destroys him: if we do not so divest
ourselves of it as to throw it completely off, we cannot be free from
misery. And it is clear that there must be grief where anything has the
appearance of a present sore and oppressing evil. Epicurus is of opinion,
that grief arises naturally from the imagination of any evil; so that
whosoever is eye-witness of any great misfortune, if he conceives that the
like may possibly befal himself, becomes sad instantly from such an idea.
The Cyrenaics think that grief is not engendered by every kind of evil,
but only by unexpected, unforeseen evil; and that circumstance is, indeed,
of no small effect on the heightening of grief; for whatsoever comes of a
sudden appears more formidable. Hence these lines are deservedly
commended—
I knew my son, when first he drew his breath,
Destined by fate to an untimely death;
And when I sent him to defend the Greeks,
War was his business, not your sportive freaks.
XIV. Therefore, this ruminating beforehand upon future evils which you see
at a distance, makes their approach more tolerable; and on this account,
what Euripides makes Theseus say, is much commended. You will give me
leave to translate them, as is usual with me—
I treasured up what some learn’d sage did tell,
And on my future misery did dwell;
I thought of bitter death, of being drove
Far from my home by exile, and I strove
With every evil to possess my mind,
That, when they came, I the less care might find.(87)
But Euripides says that of himself, which Theseus said he had heard from
some learned man, for the poet had been a pupil of Anaxagoras, who, as
they relate, on hearing of the death of his son, said, “I knew that my son
was mortal;” which speech seems to intimate that such things afflict those
men who have not thought on them before. Therefore, there is no doubt but
that all those things which are considered evils are the heavier from not
being foreseen. Though, notwithstanding this is not the only circumstance
which occasions the greatest grief, still, as the mind, by foreseeing and
preparing for it, has great power to make all grief the less, a man should
at all times consider all the events that may befal him in this life; and
certainly the excellence and divine nature of wisdom consists in taking a
near view of, and gaining a thorough acquaintance with, all human affairs,
in not being surprised when anything happens, and in thinking, before the
event, that there is nothing but what may come to pass.
Wherefore ev’ry man,
When his affairs go on most swimmingly,
E’en then it most behoves to arm himself
Against the coming storm: loss, danger, exile,
Returning ever, let him look to meet;
His son in fault, wife dead, or daughter sick:
All common accidents, and may have happen’d,
That nothing shall seem new or strange. But if
Aught has fall’n out beyond his hopes, all that
Let him account clear gain.(88)
XV. Therefore, as Terence has so well expressed what he borrowed from
philosophy, shall not we, from whose fountains he drew it, say the same
thing in a better manner, and abide by it with more steadiness? Hence came
that steady countenance, which, according to Xantippe, her husband
Socrates always had; so that she said that she never observed any
difference in his looks when he went out, and when he came home. Yet the
look of that old Roman, M. Crassus, who, as Lucilius says, never smiled
but once in his lifetime, was not of this kind, but placid and serene, for
so we are told. He, indeed, might well have had the same look at all times
who never changed his mind, from which the countenance derives its
expression. So that I am ready to borrow of the Cyrenaics those arms
against the accidents and events of life, by means of which, by long
premeditation, they break the force of all approaching evils; and at the
same time, I think that those very evils themselves arise more from
opinion than nature, for, if they were real, no forecast could make them
lighter. But I shall speak more particularly on these matters after I have
first considered Epicurus’s opinion, who thinks that all people must
necessarily be uneasy who believe themselves to be in any evils, let them
be either foreseen and expected, or habitual to them; for, with him, evils
are not the less by reason of their continuance, nor the lighter for
having been foreseen; and it is folly to ruminate on evils to come, or
such as, perhaps, never may come; every evil is disagreeable enough when
it does come; but he who is constantly considering that some evil may
befal him, is loading himself with a perpetual evil, and even should such
evil never light on him, he voluntarily takes upon himself unnecessary
misery, so that he is under constant uneasiness, whether he actually
suffers any evil, or only thinks of it. But he makes the alleviation of
grief depend on two things, a ceasing to think on evil, and a turning to
the contemplation of pleasure. For he thinks that the mind may possibly be
under the power of reason, and follow her directions; he forbids us,
therefore, to mind trouble, and calls us off from sorrowful reflections:
he throws a mist over our eyes to hinder us from the contemplation of
misery. Having sounded a retreat from this statement, he drives our
thoughts on again, and encourages them to view and engage the whole mind
in the various pleasures with which he thinks the life of a wise man
abounds, either from reflecting on the past, or from the hope of what is
to come. I have said these things in my own way, the Epicureans have
theirs: however, let us examine what they say; how they say it is of
little consequence.
XVI. In the first place, they are wrong in forbidding men to premeditate
on futurity, and blaming their wish to do so; for there is nothing that
breaks the edge of grief and lightens it more, than considering, during
one’s whole life, that there is nothing which it is impossible should
happen; or, than considering what human nature is, on what conditions life
was given, and how we may comply with them. The effect of which is, that
we are always grieving, but that we never do so; for whoever reflects on
the nature of things, the various turns of life, and the weakness of human
nature, grieves, indeed, at that reflection; but while so grieving he is,
above all other times, behaving as a wise man: for he gains these two
things by it; one, that while he is considering the state of human nature
he is performing the especial duties of philosophy, and is provided with a
triple medicine against adversity: in the first place, because he has long
reflected that such things might befal him, and this reflection by itself
contributes much towards lessening and weakening all misfortunes; and,
secondly, because he is persuaded that we should bear all the accidents
which can happen to a man, with the feelings and spirit of a man; and
lastly, because he considers that what is blameable is the only evil; but
it is not your fault that something has happened to you which it was
impossible for man to avoid. For that withdrawing of our thoughts which he
recommends when he calls us off from contemplating our misfortunes, is an
imaginary action; for it is not in our power to dissemble or to forget
those evils which lie heavy on us; they tear, vex, and sting us—they burn
us up, and leave no breathing-time; and do you order us to forget them,
(for such forgetfulness is contrary to nature,) and at the same time
deprive us of the only assistance which nature affords, the being
accustomed to them? for that, though it is but a slow medicine (I mean
that which is brought by lapse of time), is still a very effectual one.
You order me to employ my thoughts on something good, and forget my
misfortunes. You would say something worthy a great philosopher, if you
thought those things good which are best suited to the dignity of human
nature.
XVII. Should Pythagoras, Socrates, or Plato, say to me, Why are you
dejected, or sad? Why do you faint, and yield to fortune, which, perhaps,
may have power to harass and disturb you, but should not quite unman you?
There is great power in the virtues; rouse them if they chance to droop.
Take fortitude for your guide, which will give you such spirits, that you
will despise everything that can befal man, and look on it as a trifle.
Add to this temperance, which is moderation, and which was just now called
frugality, which will not suffer you to do anything base or bad—for what
is worse or baser than an effeminate man? Not even justice will suffer you
to act in this manner, though she seems to have the least weight in this
affair; but still, notwithstanding, even she will inform you that you are
doubly unjust when you both require what does not belong to you, inasmuch
as though you who have been born mortal, demand to be placed in the
condition of the immortals, and at the same time you take it much to heart
that you are to restore what was lent you. What answer will you make to
prudence, who informs you that she is a virtue sufficient of herself both
to teach you a good life, and also to secure you a happy one? And, indeed,
if she were fettered by external circumstances, and dependent on others,
and if she did not originate in herself and return to herself, and also
embrace everything in herself, so as to seek no adventitious aid from any
quarter, I cannot imagine why she should appear deserving of such lofty
panegyrics, or of being sought after with such excessive eagerness. Now,
Epicurus, if you call me back to such goods as these, I will obey you, and
follow you, and use you as my guide, and even forget, as you order me, all
my misfortunes; and I will do this the more readily from a persuasion that
they are not to be ranked amongst evils at all. But you are for bringing
my thoughts over to pleasure. What pleasures? pleasures of the body, I
imagine, or such as are recollected or imagined on account of the body. Is
this all? Do I explain your opinion rightly? for your disciples are used
to deny that we understand at all what Epicurus means. This is what he
says, and what that subtle fellow, old Zeno, who is one of the sharpest of
them, used, when I was attending lectures at Athens, to enforce and talk
so loudly of; saying that he alone was happy who could enjoy present
pleasure, and who was at the same time persuaded that he should enjoy it
without pain, either during the whole or the greatest part of his life; or
if, should any pain interfere, if it was very sharp, then it must be
short; should it be of longer continuance, it would have more of what was
sweet than bitter in it; that whosoever reflected on these things would be
happy, especially if satisfied with the good things which he had already
enjoyed, and if he were without fear of death, or of the Gods.
XVIII. You have here a representation of a happy life according to
Epicurus, in the words of Zeno, so that there is no room for contradiction
in any point. What then? Can the proposing and thinking of such a life
make Thyestes grief the less, or Æetes’s, of whom I spoke above, or
Telamon’s, who was driven from his country to penury and banishment? in
wonder at whom men exclaimed thus:—
Is this the man surpassing glory raised?
Is this that Telamon so highly praised
By wondering Greece, at whose sight, like the sun,
All others with diminish’d lustre shone?
Now, should any one, as the same author says, find his spirits sink with
the loss of his fortune, he must apply to those grave philosophers of
antiquity for relief, and not to these voluptuaries: for what great
abundance of good do they promise? Suppose that we allow that to be
without pain is the chief good? yet that is not called pleasure. But it is
not necessary at present to go through the whole: the question is, to what
point are we to advance in order to abate our grief? Grant that to be in
pain is the greatest evil; whosoever, then, has proceeded so far as not to
be in pain, is he, therefore, in immediate possession of the greatest
good? Why, Epicurus, do we use any evasions, and not allow in our own
words the same feeling to be pleasure, which you are used to boast of with
such assurance? Are these your words or not? This is what you say in that
book which contains all the doctrine of your school; for I will perform,
on this occasion, the office of a translator, lest any one should imagine
that I am inventing anything. Thus you speak: “Nor can I form any notion
of the chief good, abstracted from those pleasures which are perceived by
taste, or from what depends on hearing music, or abstracted from ideas
raised by external objects visible to the eye, or by agreeable motions, or
from those other pleasures which are perceived by the whole man by means
of any of his senses; nor can it possibly be said that the pleasures of
the mind are excited only by what is good; for I have perceived men’s
minds to be pleased with the hopes of enjoying those things which I
mentioned above, and with the idea that it should enjoy them without any
interruption from pain.” And these are his exact words, so that any one
may understand what were the pleasures with which Epicurus was acquainted.
Then he speaks thus, a little lower down: “I have often inquired of those
who have been called wise men, what would be the remaining good if they
should exclude from consideration all these pleasures, unless they meant
to give us nothing but words? I could never learn anything from them; and
unless they choose that all virtue and wisdom should vanish and come to
nothing, they must say with me, that the only road to happiness lies
through those pleasures which I mentioned above.” What follows is much the
same, and his whole book on the chief good everywhere abounds with the
same opinions. Will you, then, invite Telamon to this kind of life to ease
his grief? and should you observe any one of your friends under
affliction, would you rather prescribe him a sturgeon than a treatise of
Socrates? or advise him to listen to the music of a water-organ rather
than to Plato? or lay before him the beauty and variety of some garden,
put a nosegay to his nose, burn perfumes before him, and bid him crown
himself with a garland of roses and woodbines? Should you add one thing
more, you would certainly wipe out all his grief.
XIX. Epicurus must admit these arguments; or he must take out of his book
what I just now said was a literal translation; or rather he must destroy
his whole book, for it is crammed full of pleasures. We must inquire,
then, how we can ease him of his grief, who speaks in this manner:—
My present state proceeds from fortune’s stings;
By birth I boast of a descent from kings;
Hence may you see from what a noble height
I’m sunk by fortune to this abject plight.
What! to ease his grief, must we mix him a cup of sweet wine, or something
of that kind? Lo! the same poet presents us with another sentiment
somewhere else:—
I, Hector, once so great, now claim your aid.
We should assist her, for she looks out for help.
Where shall I now apply, where seek support?
Where hence betake me, or to whom resort?
No means remain of comfort or of joy,
In flames my palace, and in ruins Troy;
Each wall, so late superb, deformed nods,
And not an altar’s left t’ appease the gods.
You know what should follow, and particularly this:—
Of father, country, and of friends bereft,
Not one of all these sumptuous temples left;
Which, whilst the fortune of our house did stand,
With rich-wrought ceilings spoke the artist’s hand.
O excellent poet! though despised by those who sing the verses of
Euphorion. He is sensible that all things which come on a sudden are
harder to be borne. Therefore, when he had set off the riches of Priam to
the best advantage, which had the appearance of a long continuance, what
does he add?—
Lo, these all perish’d in one blazing pile;
The foe old Priam of his life beguiled,
And with his blood, thy altar, Jove, defiled.
Admirable poetry! There is something mournful in the subject, as well as
in the words and measure. We must drive away this grief of her’s: how is
that to be done? Shall we lay her on a bed of down: introduce a singer;
shall we burn cedar, or present her with some pleasant liquor, and provide
her something to eat? Are these the good things which remove the most
afflicting grief? for you but just now said you knew of no other good. I
should agree with Epicurus that we ought to be called off from grief to
contemplate good things, if we could only agree upon what was good.
XX. It may be said, What! do you imagine Epicurus really meant this, and
that he maintained anything so sensual? Indeed I do not imagine so, for I
am sensible that he has uttered many excellent things and sentiments, and
delivered maxims of great weight. Therefore, as I said before, I am
speaking of his acuteness, not of his morals. Though he should hold those
pleasures in contempt, which he just now commended, yet I must remember
wherein he places the chief good. For he was not contented with barely
saying this, but he has explained what he meant: he says, that taste, and
embraces, and sports, and music, and those forms which affect the eyes
with pleasure, are the chief good. Have I invented this? have I
misrepresented him? I should be glad to be confuted; for what am I
endeavouring at, but to clear up truth in every question? Well, but the
same man says, that pleasure is at its height where pain ceases, and that
to be free from all pain is the very greatest pleasure. Here are three
very great mistakes in a very few words. One is, that he contradicts
himself; for, but just now, he could not imagine anything good, unless the
senses were in a manner tickled with some pleasure; but now he says that
to be free from pain is the highest pleasure. Can any one contradict
himself more? The next mistake is, that where there is naturally a
threefold division, the first, to be pleased; next, to be in pain; the
last, to be affected neither by pleasure nor pain: he imagines the first
and the last to be the same, and makes no difference betwixt pleasure and
a cessation of pain. The last mistake he falls into in common with some
others; which is this: that as virtue is the most desirable thing, and as
philosophy has been investigated with a view to the attainment of it, he
has separated the chief good from virtue. But he commends virtue, and that
frequently; and indeed C. Gracchus, when he had made the largest
distributions of the public money, and had exhausted the treasury,
nevertheless spoke much of defending the treasury. What signifies what men
say, when we see what they do? That Piso, who was surnamed Frugal, had
always harangued against the law that was proposed for distributing the
corn, but when it had passed, though a man of consular dignity, he came to
receive the corn. Gracchus observed Piso standing in the court, and asked
him, in the hearing of the people, how it was consistent for him to take
corn by a law he had himself opposed? “It was,” said he, “against your
distributing my goods to every man as you thought proper; but, as you do
so, I claim my share.” Did not this grave and wise man sufficiently show
that the public revenue was dissipated by the Sempronian law? Read
Gracchus’s speeches, and you will pronounce him the advocate of the
treasury. Epicurus denies that any one can live pleasantly who does not
lead a life of virtue; he denies that fortune has any power over a wise
man: he prefers a spare diet to great plenty, and maintains that a wise
man is always happy. All these things become a philosopher to say, but
they are not consistent with pleasure. But the reply is, that he doth not
mean _that_ pleasure: let him mean any pleasure, it must be such a one as
makes no part of virtue. But suppose we are mistaken as to his pleasure,
are we so too as to his pain? I maintain therefore the impropriety of
language which that man uses when talking of virtue, who would measure
every great evil by pain?
XXI. And indeed the Epicureans, those best of men, for there is no order
of men more innocent, complain, that I take great pains to inveigh against
Epicurus. We are rivals, I suppose, for some honour or distinction. I
place the chief good in the mind, he in the body; I in virtue, he in
pleasure; and the Epicureans are up in arms, and implore the assistance of
their neighbours, and many are ready to fly to their aid. But, as for my
part, I declare that I am very indifferent about the matter, and that I
consider the whole discussion which they are so anxious about at an end.
For what! is the contention about the Punic war? on which very subject,
though M. Cato and L. Lentulus were of different opinions, still there was
no difference betwixt them. But these men behave with too much heat,
especially as the opinions which they would uphold are no very spirited
ones, and such as they dare not plead for either in the senate, or before
the assembly of the people, or before the army, or the censors: but,
however, I will argue with them another time, and with such a disposition
that no quarrel shall arise between us; for I shall be ready to yield to
their opinions when founded on truth. Only I must give them this advice:
That were it ever so true, that a wise man regards nothing but the body;
or, to express myself with more decency, never does anything except what
is expedient, and views all things with exclusive reference to his own
advantage; as such things are not very commendable, they should confine
them to their own breasts, and leave off talking with that parade of them.
XXII. What remains is the opinion of the Cyrenaics, who think that men
grieve when anything happens unexpectedly. And that is, indeed, as I said
before, a great aggravation of a misfortune; and I know that it appeared
so to Chrysippus, “Whatever falls out unexpected is so much the heavier.”
But the whole question does not turn on this; though the sudden approach
of an enemy sometimes occasions more confusion than it would if you had
expected him, and a sudden storm at sea throws the sailors into a greater
fright than one which they have foreseen; and it is the same in many other
cases. But when you carefully consider the nature of what was expected,
you will find nothing more, than that all things which come on a sudden
appear greater; and this upon two accounts: first of all, because you have
not time to consider how great the accident is; and secondly, because you
are probably persuaded that you could have guarded against it had you
foreseen it, and therefore the misfortune, having been seemingly
encountered by your own fault, makes your grief the greater. That it is
so, time evinces; which, as it advances, brings with it so much
mitigation, that though the same misfortunes continue, the grief not only
becomes the less, but in some cases is entirely removed. Many
Carthaginians were slaves at Rome, and many Macedonians when Perseus their
king was taken prisoner. I saw, too, when I was a young man, some
Corinthians in the Peloponnesus. They might all have lamented with
Andromache,—
All these I saw...;
but they had perhaps given over lamenting themselves, for by their
countenances, and speech, and other gestures, you might have taken them
for Argives or Sicyonians. And I myself was more concerned at the ruined
walls of Corinth, than the Corinthians themselves were, whose minds by
frequent reflection and time had become callous to such sights. I have
read a book of Clitomachus, which he sent to his fellow-citizens, who were
prisoners, to comfort them after the destruction of Carthage; there is in
it a treatise written by Carneades, which, as Clitomachus says, he had
inserted into his book; the subject was, “That it appeared probable that a
wise man would grieve at the state of subjection of his country,” and all
the arguments which Carneades used against this proposition are set down
in the book. There the philosopher applies such a strong medicine to a
fresh grief, as would be quite unnecessary in one of any continuance; nor,
if this very book had been sent to the captives some years after, would it
have found any wounds to cure, but only scars; for grief, by a gentle
progress and slow degrees, wears away imperceptibly. Not that the
circumstances which gave rise to it are altered, or can be, but that
custom teaches what reason should, that those things which before seemed
to be of some consequence, are of no such great importance after all.
XXIII. It may be said, What occasion is there to apply to reason, or to
any sort of consolation such as we generally make use of, to mitigate the
grief of the afflicted? For we have this argument always at hand, that
nothing ought to appear unexpected. But how will any one be enabled to
bear his misfortunes the better by knowing that it is unavoidable that
such things should happen to man? Saying this subtracts nothing from the
sum of the grief: it only asserts that nothing has fallen out but what
might have been anticipated; and yet this manner of speaking has some
little consolation in it, though I apprehend not a great deal. Therefore
those unlooked-for things have not so much force as to give rise to all
our grief; the blow perhaps may fall the heavier, but whatever happens
does not appear the greater on that account; no, it is the fact of its
having happened lately, and not of its having befallen us unexpectedly,
that makes it seem the greater. There are two ways then of discerning the
truth, not only of things that seem evil, but of those that have the
appearance of good. For we either inquire into the nature of the thing, of
what description, and magnitude, and importance it is,—as sometimes with
regard to poverty, the burden of which we may lighten when by our
disputations we show how few things nature requires, and of what a
trifling kind they are,—or, without any subtle arguing, we refer them to
examples, as here we instance a Socrates, there a Diogenes, and then again
that line in Cæcilius,
Wisdom is oft conceal’d in mean attire.
For as poverty is of equal weight with all, what reason can be given, why
what was borne by Fabricius should be spoken of by any one else as
unsupportable when it falls upon themselves? Of a piece with this is that
other way of comforting, which consists in pointing out that nothing has
happened but what is common to human nature; for this argument doth not
only inform us what human nature is, but implies that all things are
tolerable which others have borne and are bearing.
XXIV. Is poverty the subject? they tell you of many who have submitted to
it with patience. Is it the contempt of honours? they acquaint you with
some who never enjoyed any, and were the happier for it; and of those who
have preferred a private retired life to public employment, mentioning
their names with respect; they tell you of the verse(89) of that most
powerful king, who praises an old man, and pronounces him happy, because
he was unknown to fame, and seemed likely to arrive at the hour of death
in obscurity and without notice. Thus too they have examples for those who
are deprived of their children; they who are under any great grief are
comforted by instances of like affliction; and thus the endurance of every
misfortune is rendered more easy by the fact of others having undergone
the same, and the fate of others causes what has happened to appear less
important than it has been previously thought, and reflection thus
discovers to us how much opinion had imposed on us. And this is what that
Telamon declares, “I, when my son was born,” etc.; and thus Theseus, “I on
my future misery did dwell;” and Anaxagoras, “I knew my son was mortal.”
All these men, by frequently reflecting on human affairs, had discovered
that they were by no means to be estimated by the opinion of the
multitude; and indeed it seems to me to be pretty much the same case with
those who consider beforehand as with those who derive their remedies from
time, excepting that a kind of reason cures the one, and the other remedy
is provided by nature; by which we discover (and this contains the whole
marrow of the matter) that what was imagined to be the greatest evil, is
by no means so great as to defeat the happiness of life. And the effect of
this is, that the blow is greater by reason of its not having been
foreseen, and not, as they suppose, that when similar misfortunes befal
two different people, that man only is affected with grief whom this
calamity has befallen unexpectedly. So that some persons, under the
oppression of grief, are said to have borne it actually worse for hearing
of this common condition of man, that we are born under such conditions as
render it impossible for a man to be exempt from all evil.
XXV. For this reason Carneades, as I see our friend Antiochus writes, used
to blame Chrysippus for commending these verses of Euripides,—
Man, doom’d to care, to pain, disease, and strife,
Walks his short journey thro’ the vale of life:
Watchful attends the cradle and the grave,
And passing generations longs to save:
Last, dies himself: yet wherefore should we mourn?
For man must to his kindred dust return;
Submit to the destroying hand of fate,
As ripen’d ears the harvest-sickle wait.(90)
He would not allow a speech of this kind to avail at all to the cure of
our grief, for he said it was a lamentable case itself, that we were
fallen into the hands of such a cruel fate; and that a speech like that,
preaching up comfort from the misfortunes of another, was a comfort
adapted only to those of a malevolent disposition. But to me it appears
far otherwise; for the necessity of bearing what is the common condition
of humanity forbids your resisting the will of the Gods, and reminds you
that you are a man; which reflection greatly alleviates grief; and the
enumeration of these examples is not produced with a view to please those
of a malevolent disposition, but in order that any one in affliction may
be induced to bear what he observes many others have previously borne with
tranquillity and moderation. For they who are falling to pieces, and
cannot hold together through the greatness of their grief, should be
supported by all kinds of assistance. From whence Chrysippus thinks that
grief is called λύπη, as it were λύσις, that is to say, a dissolution of
the whole man. The whole of which I think may be pulled up by the roots,
by explaining, as I said at the beginning, the cause of grief; for it is
nothing else but an opinion and judgment formed of a present acute evil.
And thus any bodily pain, let it be ever so grievous, may be endurable
where any hopes are proposed of some considerable good; and we receive
such consolation from a virtuous and illustrious life, that they who lead
such lives are seldom attacked by grief, or but slightly affected by it.
XXVI. But as besides this opinion of great evil there is this other added
also, that we ought to lament what has happened, that it is right so to
do, and part of our duty; then is brought about that terrible disorder of
mind, grief. And it is to this opinion that we owe all those various and
horrid kinds of lamentation, that neglect of our persons, that womanish
tearing of our cheeks, that striking on our thighs, breasts, and heads.
Thus Agamemnon, in Homer and in Accius,—
Tears in his grief his uncomb’d locks;(91)
from whence comes that pleasant saying of Bion, that the foolish king in
his sorrow tore away the hairs of his head, imagining that his grief would
be alleviated by baldness. But men do all these things from being
persuaded that they ought to do so. And thus Æschines inveighs against
Demosthenes for sacrificing within seven days after the death of his
daughter. But with what eloquence, with what fluency does he attack him!
what sentiments does he collect! what words does he hurl against him! You
may see by this that an orator may do anything; but nobody would approve
of such licence if it were not that we have an idea innate in our minds,
that every good man ought to lament the loss of a relation as bitterly as
possible. And it is owing to this that some men, when in sorrow, betake
themselves to deserts, as Homer says of Bellerophon;—
Distracted in his mind,
Forsook by heaven, forsaking human kind,
Wide o’er the Aleïan field he chose to stray,
A long, forlorn, uncomfortable way!(92)
And thus Niobe is feigned to have been turned into stone, from her never
speaking, I suppose, in her grief. But they imagine Hecuba to have been
converted into a bitch, from her rage and bitterness of mind. There are
others who love to converse with solitude itself, when in grief, as the
nurse in Ennius,—
Fain would I to the heavens and earth relate
Medea’s ceaseless woes and cruel fate.(93)
XXVII. Now all these things are done in grief, from a persuasion of their
truth, and propriety, and necessity; and it is plain, that those who
behave thus, do so from a conviction of its being their duty; for should
these mourners by chance drop their grief, and either act or speak for a
moment in a more calm or cheerful manner, they presently check themselves
and return to their lamentations again, and blame themselves for having
been guilty of any intermissions from their grief. And parents and masters
generally correct children not by words only, but by blows, if they show
any levity by either word or deed when the family is under affliction,
and, as it were, oblige them to be sorrowful. What? does it not appear,
when you have ceased to mourn, and have discovered that your grief has
been ineffectual, that the whole of that mourning was voluntary, on your
part? What does that man say, in Terence, who punishes himself, the
Self-tormentor?
I think I do my son less harm, O Chremes,
As long as I myself am miserable.
He determines to be miserable: and can any one determine on anything
against his will?
I well might think that I deserved all evil.
He would think he deserved any misfortune, were he otherwise than
miserable! Therefore, you see the evil is in opinion, not in nature. How
is it, when some things do of themselves prevent your grieving at them? as
in Homer, so many died and were buried daily, that they had not leisure to
grieve: where you find these lines,—
The great, the bold, by thousands daily fall,
And endless were the grief to weep for all.
Eternal sorrows what avails to shed?
Greece honours not with solemn fasts the dead:
Enough when death demands the brave to pay
The tribute of a melancholy day.
One chief with patience to the grave resign’d,
Our care devolves on others left behind.(94)
Therefore it is in our own power to lay aside grief upon occasion; and is
there any opportunity (seeing the thing is in our own power) that we
should let slip of getting rid of care and grief? It was plain, that the
friends of Cnæus Pompeius, when they saw him fainting under his wounds, at
the very moment of that most miserable and bitter sight were under great
uneasiness how they themselves, surrounded by the enemy as they were,
should escape, and were employed in nothing but encouraging the rowers and
aiding their escape; but when they reached Tyre, they began to grieve and
lament over him. Therefore, as fear with them prevailed over grief, cannot
reason and true philosophy have the same effect with a wise man?
XXVIII. But what is there more effectual to dispel grief than the
discovery that it answers no purpose, and has been undergone to no
account? Therefore, if we can get rid of it, we need never have been
subject to it. It must be acknowledged, then, that men take up grief
wilfully and knowingly; and this appears from the patience of those who,
after they have been exercised in afflictions and are better able to bear
whatever befals them, suppose themselves hardened against fortune; as that
person in Euripides—
Had this the first essay of fortune been,
And I no storms thro’ all my life had seen,
Wild as a colt I’d broke from reason’s sway;
But frequent griefs have taught me to obey.(95)
As, then, the frequent bearing of misery makes grief the lighter, we must
necessarily perceive that the cause and original of it does not lie in the
calamity itself. Your principal philosophers, or lovers of wisdom, though
they have not yet arrived at perfect wisdom, are not they sensible that
they are in the greatest evil? For they are foolish, and foolishness is
the greatest of all evils, and yet they lament not. How shall we account
for this? Because opinion is not fixed upon that kind of evil; it is not
our opinion that it is right, meet, and our duty to be uneasy because we
are not all wise men. Whereas this opinion is strongly affixed to that
uneasiness where mourning is concerned, which is the greatest of all
grief. Therefore Aristotle, when he blames some ancient philosophers for
imagining that by their genius they had brought philosophy to the highest
perfection, says, they must be either extremely foolish or extremely vain;
but that he himself could see that great improvements had been made
therein in a few years, and that philosophy would in a little time arrive
at perfection. And Theophrastus is reported to have reproached nature at
his death for giving to stags and crows so long a life, which was of no
use to them, but allowing only so short a span to men, to whom length of
days would have been of the greatest use; for if the life of man could
have been lengthened, it would have been able to provide itself with all
kinds of learning, and with arts in the greatest perfection. He lamented,
therefore, that he was dying just when he had begun to discover these.
What? does not every grave and distinguished philosopher acknowledge
himself ignorant of many things, and confess that there are many things
which he must learn over and over again? and yet, though these men are
sensible that they are standing still in the very midway of folly, than
which nothing can be worse, they are under no great affliction, because no
opinion that it is their duty to lament is ever mingled with this
knowledge. What shall we say of those who think it unbecoming in a man to
grieve? amongst whom we may reckon Q. Maximus, when he buried his son that
had been consul, and L. Paulus, who lost two sons within a few days of one
another. Of the same opinion was M. Cato, who lost his son just after he
had been elected prætor, and many others, whose names I have collected in
my book on Consolation. Now what made these men so easy, but their
persuasion that grief and lamentation was not becoming in a man?
Therefore, as some give themselves up to grief from an opinion that it is
right so to do, they refrained themselves, from an opinion that it was
discreditable; from which we may infer that grief is owing more to opinion
than nature.
XXIX. It may be said, on the other side, Who is so mad as to grieve of his
own accord? Pain proceeds from nature; which you must submit to, say they,
agreeably to what even your own Crantor teaches, for it presses and gains
upon you unavoidably, and cannot possibly be resisted. So that the very
same Oileus, in Sophocles, who had before comforted Telamon on the death
of Ajax, on hearing of the death of his own son is broken-hearted. On this
alteration of his mind we have these lines:—
Show me the man so well by wisdom taught
That what he charges to another’s fault,
When like affliction doth himself betide,
True to his own wise counsel will abide.(96)
Now when they urge these things, their endeavour is to prove that nature
is absolutely and wholly irresistible; and yet the same people allow that
we take greater grief on ourselves than nature requires. What madness is
it then in us to require the same from others? But there are many reasons
for our taking grief on us. The first is from the opinion of some evil, on
the discovery and certainty of which grief comes of course. Besides, many
people are persuaded that they are doing something very acceptable to the
dead when they lament bitterly over them. To these may be added a kind of
womanish superstition, in imagining that when they have been stricken by
the afflictions sent by the gods, to acknowledge themselves afflicted and
humbled by them is the readiest way of appeasing them. But most men appear
to be unaware what contradictions these things are full of. They commend
those who die calmly, but they blame those who can bear the loss of
another with the same calmness, as if it were possible that it should be
true, as is occasionally said in love speeches, that any one can love
another more than himself. There is, indeed, something excellent in this,
and, if you examine it, something no less just than true, that we love
those who ought to be most dear to us as well as we love ourselves; but to
love them more than ourselves is absolutely impossible; nor is it
desirable in friendship that I should love my friend more than myself, or
that he should love me so; for this would occasion much confusion in life,
and break in upon all the duties of it.
XXX. But we will speak of this another time: at present it is sufficient
not to attribute our misery to the loss of our friends, nor to love them
more than, if they themselves could be sensible of our conduct, they would
approve of, or at least not more than we do ourselves. Now as to what they
say, that some are not at all appeased by our consolations; and moreover
as to what they add, that the comforters themselves acknowledge they are
miserable when fortune varies the attack and falls on them,—in both these
cases the solution is easy: for the fault here is not in nature, but in
our own folly; and much may be said against folly. But men who do not
admit of consolation seem to bespeak misery for themselves; and they who
cannot bear their misfortunes with that temper which they recommend to
others, are not more faulty in this particular than most other persons;
for we see that covetous men find fault with others who are covetous; as
do the vain-glorious with those who appear too wholly devoted to the
pursuit of glory. For it is the peculiar characteristic of folly to
perceive the vices of others, but to forget its own. But since we find
that grief is removed by length of time, we have the greatest proof that
the strength of it depends not merely on time, but on the daily
consideration of it. For if the cause continues the same, and the man be
the same, how can there be any alteration in the grief, if there is no
change in what occasioned the grief, nor in him who grieves? Therefore it
is from daily reflecting that there is no real evil in the circumstance
for which you grieve, and not from the length of time, that you procure a
remedy for your grief.
XXXI. Here some people talk of moderate grief; but if such be natural,
what occasion is there for consolation? for nature herself will determine
the measure of it; but if it depends on and is caused by opinion, the
whole opinion should be destroyed. I think that it has been sufficiently
said, that grief arises from an opinion of some present evil, which
includes this belief, that it is incumbent on us to grieve. To this
definition Zeno has added very justly, that the opinion of this present
evil should be recent. Now this word recent they explain thus;—those are
not the only recent things which happened a little while ago, but as long
as there shall be any force or vigour or freshness in that imagined evil,
so long it is entitled to the name of recent. Take the case of Artemisia,
the wife of Mausolus king of Caria, who made that noble sepulchre at
Halicarnassus; whilst she lived she lived in grief, and died of it, being
worn out by it, for that opinion was always recent with her: but you
cannot call that recent, which has already begun to decay through time.
Now the duty of a comforter is, to remove grief entirely, to quiet it, or
draw it off as much as you can, or else to keep it under, and prevent its
spreading any further, and to divert one’s attention to other matters.
There are some who think with Cleanthes, that the only duty of a comforter
is to prove, that what one is lamenting is by no means an evil. Others, as
the Peripatetics, prefer urging that the evil is not great. Others, with
Epicurus, seek to divert your attention from the evil to good: some think
it sufficient to show, that nothing has happened but what you had reason
to expect, and this is the practice of the Cyrenaics. But Chrysippus
thinks that the main thing in comforting is, to remove the opinion from
the person who is grieving, that to grieve is his bounden duty. There are
others who bring together all these various kinds of consolations, for
people are differently affected; as I have done myself in my book on
Consolation: for as my own mind was much disordered, I have attempted in
that book to discover every method of cure. But the proper season is as
much to be attended to in the cure of the mind, as of the body; as
Prometheus in Æschylus, on its being said to him,
I think, Prometheus, you this tenet hold,
That all men’s reason should their rage control;
answers,
Yes, when one reason properly applies;
Ill-timed advice will make the storm but rise.(97)
XXXII. But the principal medicine to be applied in consolation, is to
maintain either that it is no evil at all, or a very inconsiderable one:
the next best to that is, to speak of the common condition of life, having
a view, if possible, to the state of the person whom you comfort
particularly. The third is, that it is folly to wear oneself out with
grief which can avail nothing. For the comfort of Cleanthes is suitable
only for a wise man, who is in no need of any comfort at all; for could
you persuade one in grief, that nothing is an evil but what is base, you
would not only cure him of grief, but folly. But the time for such
precepts is not well chosen. Besides, Cleanthes does not seem to me
sufficiently aware that affliction may very often proceed from that very
thing which he himself allows to be the greatest misfortune. For what
shall we say? When Socrates had convinced Alcibiades, as we are told, that
he had no distinctive qualifications as a man different from other people,
and that in fact there was no difference betwixt him, though a man of the
highest rank, and a porter; and when Alcibiades became uneasy at this, and
entreated Socrates, with tears in his eyes, to make him a man of virtue,
and to cure him of that mean position; what shall we say to this,
Cleanthes? Was there no evil in what afflicted Alcibiades thus? What
strange things does Lycon say? who, making light of grief, says that it
arises from trifles, from things that affect our fortune or bodies, not
from the evils of the mind. What, then—did not the grief of Alcibiades
proceed from the defects and evils of the mind? I have already said enough
of Epicurus’s consolation.
XXXIII. Nor is that consolation much to be relied on, though it is
frequently practised, and sometimes has some effect, namely, “That you are
not alone in this.”—It has its effect, as I said, but not always, nor with
every person; for some reject it, but much depends on the application of
it; for you ought rather to show, not how men in general have been
affected with such evils, but how men of sense have borne them. As to
Chrysippus’s method, it is certainly founded in truth; but it is difficult
to apply it in time of distress. It is a work of no small difficulty to
persuade a person in affliction that he grieves, merely because he thinks
it right so to do. Certainly then, as in pleadings we do not state all
cases alike, (if I may adopt the language of lawyers for a moment,) but
adapt what we have to say to the time, to the nature of the subject under
debate, and to the person; so too in alleviating grief, regard should be
had to what kind of cure the party to be comforted can admit of. But,
somehow or other, we have rambled from what you originally proposed. For
your question was concerning a wise man, with whom nothing can have the
appearance of evil, that is not dishonourable: or at least, anything else
would seem so small an evil, that by his wisdom he would so over-match it,
as to make it wholly disappear; and such a man makes no addition to his
grief through opinion, and never conceives it right to torment himself
above measure, nor to wear himself out with grief, which is the meanest
thing imaginable. Reason, however, it seems, has demonstrated, (though it
was not directly our object at the moment to inquire whether anything can
be called an evil except what is base,) that it is in our power to
discern, that all the evil which there is in affliction has nothing
natural in it, but is contracted by our own voluntary judgment of it, and
the error of opinion.
XXXIV. But the kind of affliction of which I have treated is that which is
the greatest; in order that when we have once got rid of that, it may
appear a business of less consequence to look after remedies for the
others. For there are certain things which are usually said about poverty;
and also certain statements ordinarily applied to retired and
undistinguished life. There are particular treatises on banishment, on the
ruin of one’s country, on slavery, on weakness, on blindness, and on every
incident that can come under the name of an evil. The Greeks divide these
into different treatises and distinct books: but they do it for the sake
of employment: not but that all such discussions are full of
entertainment; and yet, as physicians, in curing the whole body, attend to
even the most insignificant part of the body which is at all disordered,
so does philosophy act, after it has removed grief in general, (still if
any other deficiency exists, should poverty bite, should ignominy sting,
should banishment bring a dark cloud over us, or should any of those
things which I have just mentioned appear,)—there is for each its
appropriate consolation: which you shall hear whenever you please. But we
must have recourse again to the same original principle, that a wise man
is free from all sorrow, because it is vain, because it answers no
purpose, because it is not founded in nature, but on opinion and
prejudice, and is engendered by a kind of invitation to grieve, when once
men have imagined that it is their duty to do so. When then we have
subtracted what is altogether voluntary, that mournful uneasiness will be
removed; yet some little anxiety, some slight pricking will still remain.
They may indeed call this natural, provided they give it not that horrid,
solemn, melancholy name of grief, which can by no means consist with
wisdom. But how various, and how bitter, are the roots of grief! Whatever
they are, I propose, after having felled the trunk, to destroy them all;
even if it should be necessary, by allotting a separate dissertation to
each, for I have leisure enough to do so, whatever time it may take up.
But the principle of every uneasiness is the same, though they may appear
under different names. For envy is an uneasiness; so are emulation,
detraction, anguish, sorrow, sadness, tribulation, lamentation, vexation,
grief, trouble, affliction, and despair. The Stoics define all these
different feelings, and all those words which I have mentioned belong to
different things, and do not, as they seem, express the same ideas; but
they are to a certain extent distinct, as I shall make appear perhaps in
another place. These are those fibres of the roots, which, as I said at
first, must be traced back and cut off, and destroyed, so that not one
shall remain. You say it is a great and difficult undertaking:—who denies
it? But what is there of any excellency which has not its difficulty?—Yet
philosophy undertakes to effect it, provided we admit its superintendence.
But enough of this: the other books, whenever you please, shall be ready
for you here, or any where else.