BOOK III.

ON GRIEF OF MIND.

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 while 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 honors and commands,

and a high reputation with the people; which indeed every excellent man

aims at; but while he pursues that only true honor 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 pre-eminent

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 [Greek:

pathê]. 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[35] 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

one's self." 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 mania, 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 [Greek: melancholia], 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

humor 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 began, 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; afterward 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 befall 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 befall 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 [Greek: sôphrôn]:

and they call that virtue [Greek: sôphrosynên], 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 [Greek: chrêsimous], 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 [Greek: ablabeia], 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[36] 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, dishonor'd like the vilest slave[37]--

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 neighbor'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 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 [Greek: pathos], 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 Oenomaus, 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 Phoebus? 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 befall 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 befall 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.[38]

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 befall 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 behooves 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.[39]

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 befall 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 befall 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 man with the feelings and spirit of a man; and,

lastly, because he considers that what is blamable 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 befall 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 among 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's 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, while 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 hers: how

is that to be done? Shall we lay her on a bed of down; introduce a

singer; shall we burn cedar, or present here 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 endeavoring 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 between 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 honor 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 neighbors, 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 between 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 if, 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 honors? 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[40] 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 the 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

befall 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.[41]

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 [Greek: lypê], as it were

[Greek: lysis], 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;[42]

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 license 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![43]

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 find earth relate

Medea's ceaseless woes and cruel fate.[44]

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 honors 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.[45]

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 befalls 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.[46]

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? among 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.[47]

Now, when they urge these things, their endeavor 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

vainglorious 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 vigor,

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; while 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.[48]

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 one's self

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 between 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

dishonorable; or at least, anything else would seem so small an evil

that by his wisdom he would so overmatch 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

anywhere else.

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