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July 22nd, 2009
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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" ?> The Academic Questions, Treatise De Finibus. and Tusculan Disputations Of M. T. Cicero With A Sketch of the Greek Philosophers Mentioned by Cicero. Literally Translated by C. D. Yonge, B.A. London: George Bell and Sons York Street Covent Garden Printed by William Clowes and Sons, Stamford Street and Charing Cross. 1875 In the works translated in the present volume, Cicero makes such constant references to the doctrines and systems of the ancient Greek Philosophers, that it seems desirable to give a brief account of the most remarkable of those mentioned by him; not entering at length into the history of their lives, but indicating the principal theories which they maintained, and the main points in which they agreed with, or differed from, each other. The earliest of them was Anaximander further held that the earth was of a cylindrical form, suspended in the middle of the universe, and surrounded by water, air, and fire, like the coats of an onion; but that the interior stratum of fire was broken up and collected into masses, from which originated the sun, moon, and stars; which he thought were carried round by the three spheres in which they were respectively fixed. He believed that the moon had a light of her own, not a borrowed light; that she was nineteen times as large as the earth, and the sun twenty-eight. He thought that all animals, including man, were originally produced in water, and proceeded gradually to become land animals. According to Diogenes Laertius, he was the inventor of the gnomon, and of geographical maps; at all events, he was the first person who introduced the use of the gnomon into Greece. He died about 547 Many of his peculiar tenets are believed to have been derived from the Tyrrhenian Pelasgians, with whom he is said to have been connected. His contemporaries at Crotona in South Italy, where he lived, looked upon him as a man peculiarly connected with the gods; and some of them even identified him with the Hyperborean Apollo. He himself is said to have laid claim to the gifts of divination and prophecy. The religious element was clearly predominant in his character. Grote says of him, On his arrival at Crotona, he formed a school, consisting at first of three hundred of the richest of the citizens, who bound themselves by a sort of vow to himself and to each other, for the purpose of cultivating the ascetic observances which he enjoined, and of studying his religious and philosophical theories. All that took place in this school was kept a profound secret; and there were gradations among the pupils themselves, who were not all admitted, or at all events not at first, to a full acquaintance with their master’s doctrines. They were also required to submit to a period of probation. The statement of his forbidding his pupils the use of animal food is denied by many of the best authorities, and that of his insisting on their maintaining an unbroken silence for five years, rests on no sufficient authority, and is incredible. It is beyond our purpose at present to enter into the question of how
Pythagoras is said to have been the first who assumed the title of φιλόσοφος; but there is great uncertainty as to the most material of his philosophical and religious opinions. It is believed that he wrote nothing himself, and that the earliest Pythagorean treatises were the work of Philolaus, a contemporary of Socrates. It appears, however, that he undertook to solve by reference to one single primary principle the problem of the origin and constitution of the universe. His predilection for mathematics led him to trace the origin of all things to Music and harmony too, played almost as important a
The most distant region he called Olympus; the space between the fixed stars and the moon he called κόσμος; the space between the moon and the earth οὐρανός. He, or at least his disciples, taught that the earth revolved on its axis, (though Philolaus taught that its revolutions were not round its axis but round the central fire). The universe itself they considered as a large sphere, and the intervals between the heavenly bodies they thought were determined according to the laws and relations of musical harmony. And from this theory arose the doctrine of the Music of the Spheres; as the heavenly bodies in their motion occasioned a sort of sound depending on their distances and velocities; and as these were determined by the laws of harmonic intervals, the sounds, or notes, formed a regular musical scale. The light and heat of the central fire he believed that we received through the sun, which he considered a kind of lens: and perfection, he conceived to exist in direct ratio to the distance from the central fire. The universe, itself, they looked upon as having subsisted from all eternity, controlled by an eternal supreme Deity; who established both limits and infinity; and whom they often speak of as the absolute μονὰς, or unity. He pervaded (though he was distinct from) and presided over the universe. Sometimes, too, he is called the absolute With respect to man, the doctrine of Pythagoras was that known by the name of the Metempsychosis,—that the soul after death rested a certain time till it was purified, and had acquired a forgetfulness of what had previously happened to it; and then reanimated some other body. The ethics of the Pythagoreans consisted more in ascetic practice and maxims for the restraint of the passions, than in any scientific theories. Wisdom they considered as superior to virtue, as being connected with the contemplation of the upper and purer regions, while virtue was conversant only with the sublunary part of the world. Happiness, they thought, consisted in the science of the perfection of the soul; or in the perfect science of numbers; and the main object of all the endeavours of man was to be, to resemble the Deity as far as possible. He was a man of vast and varied learning, and a most voluminous author, though none of his works have come down to us;—in them he carried out the theory of atoms which he had derived from Leucippus; insisting on the reality of a vacuum and of motion, which he held was the eternal and necessary consequence of the original variety of atoms in this vacuum. These atoms, according to this theory, being in constant motion and impenetrable, offer resistance to one another, and so create a whirling motion which gives birth to worlds. Moreover, from this arise combinations of distinct atoms which become real things and beings. The first cause of all existence he called Besides the infinite number of atoms, he likewise supposed the existence of an infinite number of worlds, each being kept together by a sort of shell or skin. He derived the four elements from the form, quality, and proportionate magnitude of the atoms predominating in each; and in deriving individual things from atoms, he mainly considered the qualities of warm and cold; the soul he considered as derived from fire atoms; and he did not consider mind as anything peculiar, or as a power distinct from the soul or sensuous perception; but he considered knowledge derived from reason to be a sensuous perception. In his ethical philosophy, he considered (as we may see from the He was a man of great genius and extensive learning; it is not known whose pupil he was, nor are any of his disciples mentioned except Gorgias. He was well versed in the tenets of the Eleatic and Pythagorean schools; but he did not adopt the fundamental principles of either; though he agreed with Pythagoras in his belief in the metempsychosis, in the influence of numbers, and in one or two other points; and with the Eleatics in disbelieving that anything could be generated out of nothing. Aristotle speaks of him as very much resembling in his opinions Democritus and Anaxagoras. He was the first who established the number of four elements, which had been previously pointed out one by one, partly as fundamental substances, and partly as transitive changes of things coming into existence. He first suggested the idea of two opposite directions of the moving power, an attractive and a repelling one: and he believed that originally these two coexisted in a state of repose and inactivity. He also assumed a periodical change of the formation of the world; or perhaps, like the philosophers of the pure Ionic school, a perpetual continuance of pure fundamental substances; to which the parts of the world that are tired of change return, and prepare the formation of the sphere for the next period of the world. Like the Eleatics, he strove to purify the notion of the Deity, saying that he, That he was an atheist, however, appears to have been quite untrue. Like Socrates, he took new and peculiar views respecting the Gods and their worship; and seems to have ridiculed the honours paid to their statues, and the common notions which were entertained of their actions and conduct. (See De Nat. Deor. iii. 37.) He is said also to have attacked objects held in the greatest veneration at Athens, such as the Eleusinian Mysteries, and to have dissuaded people from being initiated into them. He appears also, in his theories on the divine nature, to have substituted in some degree the active powers of nature for the activity of the Gods. In his own conduct he was a man of strict morality and virtue. He died at Corinth before the end of the century. His fundamental principle was, that everything is motion, and that that is the efficient cause of everything; that nothing From his disciples Plato and Xenophon we have a very full account of his habits and doctrines; though it has been much disputed which of the two is to be considered as giving the most accurate description of his opinions. As a young man he had been to a certain extent a pupil of Archelaus (the disciple of Anaxagoras), and derived his fondness for the dialectic style of argument from Zeno the Eleatic, the favourite Pupil of Parmenides. He differed, however, from all preceding philosophers in discarding and excluding wholly from his
Socrates, then, looked at all knowledge from the point of view of human practice. He first, as Cicero says, (Tusc. Dis. v. 4,) Such then being the capacity of man for wisdom and virtue, his object was to impart that wisdom to them; and the first step necessary, he considered to be eradicating one great fault which was a barrier to all improvement. This fault he described as And if his objects were new, his method was no less so. He was the parent of dialectics and logic. Aristotle says, The fault of the Socratic theory is well remarked by Grote to be, that while he resolved all virtue into knowledge or wisdom, and all vice into ignorance or folly, he omitted to notice what is not less essential to virtue, the proper condition of the passions, desires, &c., and limited his views too exclusively to the intellect; still while laying down a theory which is too narrow, he escaped the erroneous consequences of it by a partial inconsistency. For no one ever insisted more emphatically on the necessity of control over the passions and appetites, of enforcing good habits, and on the value of that state of the sentiments and emotions which such a course tended to form. He constantly pointed out that the chief pleasures were such as inevitably arise from the performance of one’s duty, and that as to happiness, a very moderate degree of good fortune is sufficient as to external things, provided the internal man be properly disciplined. Grote remarks further, (and this remark is particularly worth remembering in the reading of Cicero’s philosophical works,) that The system, then, of Socrates was animated by the truest spirit of positive science, and formed an indispensable precursor to its attainment. And we may form some estimate of his worth and genius if we recollect, that while the systems and speculations of other ancient philosophers serve only as curiosities to make us wonder, or as beacons to warn us into what absurdities the ablest men may fall, the principles and the system of Socrates and his followers, and of that school alone, exercise to this day an important influence on all human argument and speculation. He pronounced pleasure to be the chief good, and pain the chief evil; but he denied that either of these was a mere negative inactive state, considering them, on the contrary, both to be motions of the soul,—pain a violent, and pleasure a moderate one. As to actions, he asserted that they were all morally indifferent, that men should only look to their results, and that law and custom are the only authorities which make an action either good or bad. Whatever conduces to pleasure,
His works have come down to us in a more complete form than those of any other ancient author who was equally voluminous; and from them we get a clear idea of the principal doctrines which he inculcated on his followers. Like Socrates, he was penetrated with the idea, that knowledge and wisdom were the things most necessary to man, and the greatest goods assigned to him by God. Wisdom he looked on as the great purifier of the soul; and as any approach to wisdom presupposes an original communion with The chief point, however, to which Plato directed his attention, was ethics, which, especially in his system, are closely connected with politics. He devotes the Protagoras, and several shorter dialogues, to refute the sensual and selfish theories of some of his predecessors, in order to adopt a more scientific treatment of the subject; and in these dialogues he urges that neither happiness nor virtue are attainable by the indulgence of our desires, but that men must bring these into proper restraint, if they are desirous of either. He supposes an inward harmony, the preservation of which is pleasure, while its disturbance is pain; and as pleasure is always dependent on the activity from which it springs, the more this activity is elevated the purer the pleasure becomes. Virtue he considered the fitness of the soul for the operations that are proper to it; and it manifests itself by means of its inward harmony, beauty, and health. Different phases of virtue are distinguishable so far as the soul is not pure spirit, but just as the spirit should rule both the other elements of the soul, so also should wisdom, as the inner development of the spirit, rule the other virtues. Politics he considered an inseparable part of ethics, and the state as the copy of a well-regulated individual life: from the three different activities of the soul he deduced the three main elements of the state, likening the working class to the appetitive element of the soul, both of which equally require to be kept under control; the military order, which answered, in his idea, to the emotive element, ought to develop itself in thorough dependence on the reason; and from that the governing order, answering to the rational faculty, must proceed. The right of passing from a subordinate to a dominant position must depend on the individual capacity and ability for raising itself. But from the difficulties of realizing his theories, he renounces this absolute separation of ranks in his book on Laws, limits the power of the governors, attempts to
With respect to his theology, he appears to have agreed entirely with Socrates. His learning was immense, and his most voluminous writings embraced almost every subject conceivable; but only a very small portion of them has come down to us. Cicero, however, alludes to him only as a moral philosopher, and occasionally as a natural historian; so that it may be
God he considered to be the highest and purest energy of eternal intellect,—an absolute principle,—the highest reason, the object of whose thought is himself; expanding and declaring, in a more profound manner, the νοῦς of Anaxagoras. With respect to man, the object of all action, he taught, was happiness: and this happiness he defines to be an energy of the soul (or of life) according to virtue, existing by and for itself. Virtue, again, he subdivided into moral and intellectual, according to the distinction between the reasoning faculty and that quality in the soul which obeys reason. Again, moral virtue is the proper medium between excess and deficiency, and can only be acquired by practice; intellectual virtue can be taught; and by the constant practice of moral virtue a man becomes virtuous, but he can only practise it by a resolute determination to do so. Virtue, therefore, is defined further as a habit accompanied by, or arising out of, deliberate choice, and based upon free and conscious action. From these principles, Aristotle is led to take a wider view of virtue than other philosophers: he includes friendship under this head, as one of the very greatest virtues, and a principal means for a steady continuance in all virtue; and as the unrestricted exercise of each species of activity directed towards the good, produces a feeling of pleasure, he considers pleasure as a very powerful means of virtue. Connected with Aristotle’s system of ethics was his system of politics, the former being only a part, as it were, of the latter; the former aiming at the happiness of individuals, the latter at that of communities; so that the latter is the perfection and completion of the former. For Aristotle looked upon man as a He was a very voluminous writer on many subjects, but directed his chief attention to continuing the researches into natural history which had been begun by Aristotle. As, however, only a few fragments of his works have come down to us, and these in a very corrupt state, we know but little what peculiar views he entertained; though we learn from Cicero (De Inv. i. 42-50) that he departed a good deal from the doctrines of Aristotle in his principles of ethics, and also in his metaphysical and theological speculations; and Cicero (De Nat. Deor. i. 13) complains that he did not express himself with precision or with consistency about the Deity; and in other places (Acad. i. 10, Tusc. Quæst. v. 9), that he appeared unable to comprehend a happiness resting merely on virtue; so that he had attributed to virtue a rank very inferior to its deserts. He was not a man of great genius, but of unwearied industry and the purest virtue and integrity. None of his works have come down to us; but, from the notices of other writers, we are acquainted with some of his peculiar doctrines.
In his ethics he endeavoured to render the Platonic theory more complete, and to give it a more direct applicability to human life; admitting, besides the good and the bad, of something which is neither good nor bad, and some of these intermediate things, such as health, beauty, fame, good fortune, he would not admit to be absolutely worthless and indifferent. He maintained, however, in the most decided manner, that virtue is the only thing valuable in itself, and that the value of everything else is conditional, (see Cic. de Fin. iv. 18, de Leg. i. 21, Acad. i. 6, Tusc. Quæst. v. 10-18,) that happiness ought to coincide with the consciousness of virtue. He did not allow that mere intellectual scientific wisdom was the only true wisdom to be sought after as such by men: and in one point he came nearer the precepts of Christianity than any of the ancients, when he asserted the indispensableness of the morality of the thoughts to virtue, and declared it to be the same thing, whether a person cast longing eyes on the possessions of his neighbour, or attempted to possess himself of them by force. In his philosophical system, which was almost confined to ethics, he appears to have aimed at novelty rather than truth or common sense. He taught that in all that the wise man does he conforms to perfect virtue, and that pleasure is so far from being necessary to man, that it is a positive evil. He is reported also to have gone the length of pronouncing pain and infamy blessings rather than evils, though when he spoke of pleasure as worthless, he probably meant that pleasure which arises from the gratification of sensual or artificial desires; for he praised that which arises from the intellect, and from friendship. The In a treatise in which he discussed the nature of the Gods he contended for the unity of the Deity, and asserted that man is unable to know him by any sensible representation, since he is unlike any being on earth; and demonstrated the sufficiency of virtue for happiness, by the doctrine that outward events are regulated by God so as to benefit the wise and good. In speaking of the Stoic doctrines, it is not very clear how much of them proceeded from Zeno himself, and how much from Chrysippus and other eminent men of the school in subsequent years. In natural philosophy he considered that there was a primary matter which was never increased or diminished, and which was the foundation of everything which existed: and which was brought into existence by the operative power,—that is, by the Deity. He saw this operative power in fire and in æther as the basis of all vital activity, (see Cic. Acad. i. 11, ii. 41; de Nat. Deor. ii. 9, iii. 14,) and he taught that the universe comes into being when the primary substance passing from fire through the intermediate stage of air becomes liquefied, and then the thick portion becomes earth, the thinner portion air, which is again rarefied till it becomes fire. This fire he conceived to be identical with the Deity, (Cic. de Nat. Deor. ii. 22,) and to be endowed with consciousness and foresight. At other times he defined the Deity as that law of nature which ever accomplishes what is right, and prevents the opposite, and identified it with unconditional necessity. The soul of man he considered as being of the nature of fire, or of a warm breath, (Cic. Tusc. Quæst. i. 9; de Nat. Deor. iii. 4,) and therefore as mortal. In ethics he agreed with the Cynics in recognising the constitutional nature of moral obligations, though he differed from them with respect to things indifferent, and opposed their
His doctrines do not appear to have differed from those of Zeno; only that, from feeling the dangerous influence of the Epicurean principles, he endeavoured to popularize the Stoic ethics. None of his works have come down to us. With regard to his philosophical system, in spite of his boast of being self-taught and having borrowed from no one, he clearly derived the chief part of his natural philosophy from Democritus, and of his moral philosophy from Aristippus and the Cyrenaics. He considered human happiness the end of all philosophy, and agreed with the Cyrenaics that pleasure constituted the greatest happiness; still this theory in his hands acquired a far loftier character; for pleasure, in his idea, was not a mere momentary and transitory sensation, but something lasting and imperishable, consisting in pure mental enjoyments, and in the freedom from pain and any other influence which could disturb man’s peace of mind. And the In his natural philosophy he embraced the atomic theories of Democritus and Diagoras, carrying them even further than they themselves had done, to such a degree that he drew upon himself the reproach of Atheism. He regarded the Gods themselves as consisting of atoms, and our notions of them as based upon the images (εἴδωλα) which are reflected from them, and so pass into our minds. And he believed that they exercised no influence whatever on the world, or on the actions or fortunes of man. The limits of this volume forbid more than the preceding very brief sketch of the chiefs of the ancient philosophy. For a more detailed account the reader is referred to the Biographical Dictionary edited by Dr. Smith, from which valuable work much of this sketch has been derived. The account of Socrates has been principally derived from Mr. Grote’s admirable history of Greece: in which attention has so successfully been devoted to the history of philosophy and the sophists, that a correct idea of the subject can hardly be acquired without a careful study of that work. It was intended to subjoin a comparison of the systems of the different sects, but it would take more space than can be spared; and it is moreover unnecessary, as, the distinctive tenets of each having been explained, the reader is supplied with sufficient materials to institute such a comparison for himself. He will not wonder that men without the guidance of revelation should at times have lost their way in speculations beyond the reach of human faculties, but will the more admire that genius and virtue which manifested itself in such men as Socrates, Plato, and Cicero, for the perpetual enlightenment of the human race. The following account of the two Books of the Academics is extracted from the Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography, edited by Dr. W. Smith:— The following are the most important of the passages referred to:— αὐτῷ τῷ μέτρῳ καὶ λῶιον αἴκε δύνωμαι. The Antiochus mentioned above was a native of Ascalon, and the founder of the fifth Academy; he had been the teacher of Cicero while he studied at Athens; and he had also a school in Syria and another in Alexandria. Cicero constantly speaks of him with great regard and esteem. The leaders of the Academy since the time of Plato, (and Cicero ranks even him among those philosophers who denied the certainty of any kind of knowledge,) had gradually fallen into a degree of scepticism that seemed to strike at the root of all truth, theoretical and practical. But Antiochus professed to revive the doctrines of the old Academy, maintaining, in opposition to Carneades and Philo, that the intellect had in itself a test by which it could distinguish between what was real and what existed only in the imagination. He himself appears to have held doctrines very nearly coinciding with those of Aristotle; agreeing however so far with the Stoics as to insist that all emotions ought to be suppressed. So that Cicero almost inclines to class him among the Stoics; though it appears that he considered himself as an Eclectic philosopher, uniting the doctrines of the Stoics and Academics so as to revive the old Academy. 12, 13, 14, 16, 18, 19, 21,
I. When a short time ago my friend Atticus Marcus Terentius Varro was ten years older than Cicero, and a man of the most extensive and profound learning. He had held a naval command against the pirates, and against Mithridates, and served as lieutenant to Pompey in Spain, at the beginning of the civil war, adhering to his party till after the battle of Pharsalia, when he was pardoned, and taken into favour by Cæsar. He was proscribed by the second triumvirate, but escaped, and died In philosophy he had been a pupil of Antiochus, and attached himself to the Academy with something of a leaning to the Stoics. Varro, that he had arrived in Rome the day before in the evening, and that if he had not found himself too tired after his journey he should have proceeded at once to see us. But when we heard this, we thought that we ought not to suffer anything to delay our seeing a man so intimately connected with us by an identity of studies, and by a very long standing intimacy and friendship. And so we set out at once to go to see him; and when we were no great distance from his villa we saw him coming towards us; and when we had embraced him, as the manner of friends is, after some time we accompanied him back to his villa. And as I was asking a few questions, and inquiring what was the news at Rome, Never mind those things, said Atticus, which we can neither inquire about nor hear of without vexation, but ask him rather whether he has written anything new; for the muse of Varro has been silent much longer than usual; though I rather suppose he is suppressing for a time what he has written, than that he has been really idle. You are quite wrong, said he; for I think it very foolish conduct in a man to write what he wishes to have concealed. But I have a
I have been waiting to see it a long time, Varro, said I, but still I have not ventured to ask for it. For I heard from our friend Libo, with whose zeal you are well acquainted, (for I can never conceal anything of that kind,) that you have not been slackening in the business, but are expending a great deal of care on it, and in fact never put it out of your hands. But it has never hitherto come into my mind to ask you about it; however now, since I have begun to commit to a durable record those things which I learnt in your company, and to illustrate in the Latin language that ancient philosophy which originated with Socrates, I must ask you why it is that, while you write on so many subjects, you pass over this one, especially when you yourself are very eminent in it; and when that study, and indeed the whole subject, is far superior in importance to all other studies and arts. II. You are asking me, he replied, about a matter on which I have often deliberated and frequently revolved in my mind. And, therefore, I will answer you without any hesitation; still, however, speaking quite off-hand, because I have, as I said just now, thought over the subject both deeply and frequently. For as I saw that philosophy had been explained with great care in the Greek language, I thought that if any of our countrymen were engrossed by the study of it, who were well versed in Greek literature, they would be more likely to read Greek treatises than Latin ones: but that those men who were averse to Greek science and to the schools of the Greek philosophers would not care the least for such matters as these, which could not be understood at all without some acquaintance with Greek literature. And, therefore, I did not choose to write treatises which unlearned men could not understand, and learned men would not be at the trouble of reading. And you yourself are aware of this. For you have learnt that we cannot resemble Amafanius For those men are so simple as to think the good of a sheep and of a man the same thing. While you know the character and extent of the accuracy which philosophers of our school profess. Again, if you follow Zeno, it is a hard thing to make any one understand what that genuine and simple good is which cannot be separated from honesty; while Epicurus asserts that he is wholly unable to comprehend what the character of that good may be which is unconnected with pleasures which affect the senses. But if we follow the doctrines of the Old Academy which, as you know, we prefer, then with what accuracy must we apply ourselves to explain it; with what shrewdness and even with what obscurity must we argue against the Stoics! The whole, therefore, of that eagerness for philosophy I claim for myself, both for the purpose of strengthening my firmness of conduct as far as I can, and also for the delight of my mind. Nor do I think, as Plato says, that any more important or more valuable gift has been given to men by the gods. But I send all my friends who
III. The fact, I replied, is just as you say, Varro. For while we were sojourners, as it were, in our own city, and wandering about like strangers, your books have conducted us, as it were, home again, so as to enable us at last to recognise who and where we were. You have discussed the antiquity of our country, and the variety of dates and chronology relating to it. You have explained the laws which regulate sacrifices and priests; you have unfolded the customs of the city both in war and peace; you have described the
You allege, indeed, a very plausible reason for this. For, you say, those who are learned men will prefer reading philosophical treatises in Greek, and those who are ignorant of Greek will not read them even in Latin. However, tell me now, do you really agree with your own argument? I would rather say, those who are unable to read them in the one language will read them in the other; and even those who can read them in Greek will not despise their own language. For what reason can be imagined why men learned in Greek literature should read the Latin poets, and not read the Latin philosophers? Or again, if Ennius, Cicero ranges these poets here in chronological order. Ennius was born at Rudiæ in Calabria, Pacuvius was a native of Brundusium, and a relation, probably a nephew, of Ennius. He was born about Pacuvius, Accius, and many others who have given us, I will not say the exact expressions, but the meaning of the Greeks, delight their readers; how much more will the philosophers delight them, if, as the poets have imitated Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, they in like manner imitate Plato, Aristotle, and Theophrastus? I see, too, that any orators among us are praised who imitate Hyperides or Demosthenes.
But I, (for I will speak the plain truth,) as long as ambition and the pursuit of public honours and the pleading of causes, and not a mere regard for the republic, but even a
IV. Then he replied. I will indeed consider of these matters, but only in your company. But still, said he, what is this which I hear about you yourself? On what subject? said I. Why, that the old system is deserted by you, and that you have espoused the principles of the new school. What of that? said I. Why should Antiochus, my own intimate friend, be more at liberty to return back again from the new school to the old, than I myself to migrate to the new from the old? For certainly everything that is most recent is corrected and amended in the highest degree; although Philo, the master of Antiochus, a great man, as you yourself consider him, used to deny in his books that there were two Academies (and we ourselves have heard him assert the same things in his lectures); and he convicts those who say that there are, of palpable mistake. It is as you say, said he, but I do not imagine that you are ignorant of what Antiochus has written in reply to the arguments of Philo. Certainly, said I, I am not, and I should like to hear the whole cause of the Old Academy, from which I have been so long absent,
Socrates appears to me, and indeed it is the universal opinion, to have been the first person who drew philosophy away from matters of an abstruse character, which had been shrouded in mystery by nature herself, and in which all the philosophers before his time had been wholly occupied, and to have diverted it to the objects of ordinary life; directing its speculations to virtues and vices, and generally to whatever was good or bad. And he thought that the heavenly bodies were either far out of the reach of our knowledge, or that, even if we became ever so intimately acquainted with them, they had no influence on living well. In nearly all his discourses, which have been reported in great variety and very fully by those who were his pupils, he argues in such a manner that he affirms nothing himself, but refutes the assertions of others. He says that he knows nothing, except that one fact, that he is ignorant; and that he is superior to others in this particular, that they believe that they do know what they do not, while he knows this one thing alone, that he knows nothing. And it is on that account that he imagines he was pronounced by Apollo the wisest of all men, because this alone is the whole of wisdom, for a man not to think that he knows what he does not know. And as he was always saying this, and persisting in the maintenance of this opinion, his discourse was entirely devoted to the praise of virtue, and to encouraging all men to the study of virtue; as may be plainly seen in the books of the disciples of Socrates, and above all in those of Plato. But by the influence of Plato, a man of vast and varied and eloquent genius, a system of philosophy was established which was one and identical, though under two names; the system namely of the Academics and Peripatetics. For these two schools agreed in reality, and differed only in name. For when Plato had left Speusippus, his
V. I entreat you however, said Atticus, I entreat you to go on, Varro. For I am greatly attached to my own countrymen and to their works; and those subjects delight me beyond measure when they are treated in Latin, and in such a manner as you treat them. And what, said I, do you think that I must feel, who have already engaged to display philosophy to our nation? Let us then, said he, continue the subject, since it is agreeable to you. A threefold system of philosophising, then, was already received from Plato. One, on the subject of life and morals. A second, on nature and abstruse matters. The third, on discussion, and on what is true or false; what is right or wrong in a discourse; what is consistent or inconsistent in forming a decision. And that first division of the subject, that namely of living well, they sought in nature herself, and said that it was necessary to obey her; and that that chief good to which everything was referred was not to be sought in anything whatever except in nature. And they laid it down that the crowning point of all desirable things, and the chief good, was to have received from nature everything which is requisite for the mind, or the body, or for life. But of the goods of the body, they placed some in the whole, and others in the parts. Health, strength, and beauty in the whole. In the parts, soundness of the senses, and a certain excellence of the individual parts. As in the feet, swiftness; in the hands, strength; in the voice, clearness; in the tongue, a distinct articulation of words. The excellences of the mind they considered those which were suitable to the comprehension of virtue by the disposition. And those they divided under the separate heads of nature and morals. Quickness in learning and memory they attributed to nature; each of which was described as a property of the mind and genius. Under the head of The third division was that of life. And they said that those things which had influence in facilitating the practice of virtue were connected with this division. For virtue is discerned in some good qualities of the mind and body, which are added not so much to nature as to a happy life. They thought that a man was as it were a certain part of the state, and of the whole human race, and that he was connected with other men by a sort of human society. And this is the way in which they deal with the chief and natural good. But they think that everything else is connected with it, either in the way of increasing or of maintaining it; as riches, power, glory, and influence. And thus a threefold division of goods is inferred by them. VI. And these are those three kinds which most people believe the Peripatetics speak of: and so far they are not wrong; for this division is the work of that school. But they are mistaken if they think that the Academicians—those at least who bore this name at that time—are different from the Peripatetics. The principle, and the chief good asserted by both appeared to be the same—namely, to attain those things which were in the first class by nature, and which were intrinsically desirable; the whole of them, if possible, or, at all events, the most important of them. But those are the most important which exist in the mind itself, and are conversant about virtue itself. Therefore, all that ancient philosophy perceived that a happy life was placed in virtue alone; and yet that it was not the happiest life possible, unless the good qualities of the body were added to it, and all the other things which have been already mentioned, which are serviceable towards acquiring a habit of virtue. From this definition of theirs, a certain principle of action in life, and of duty itself, was discovered, which consisted in the preservation of those things which nature might prescribe. Hence arose the avoidance of sloth, and contempt of pleasures; from which proceeded the willingness to encounter many and great labours and pains, for the sake of what was right and honourable, and of those things which are conformable to the objects of nature. Hence was generated friendship, and justice, and equity; and these things were preferred to pleasure and to many of the advantages of life. This was the system of morals recommended in their school, and the method and design of that division which I have placed first. But concerning nature (for that came next), they spoke in such a manner that they divided it into two parts,—making one efficient, and the other lending itself, as it were, to the first, as subject matter to be worked upon. For that part which was efficient they thought there was power; and in that which was made something by it they thought there was some matter; and something of both in each. For they considered that matter itself could have no cohesion, unless it were held together by some power; and that power could have none without some matter to work upon; for that is nothing which is not necessarily somewhere. But
VII. To be sure we will, said Atticus. Moreover, you may even use Greek words when you wish, if by chance you should be at a loss for Latin ones. You are very kind; but I will endeavour to express myself in Latin, except in the case of such words as these— Of these qualities, then, said he, some are principal ones, and others arise out of them. The principal ones are of one character and simple; but those which arise out of them are various, and, as it were, multiform. Therefore, air (we use the Greek word ἀὴρ as Latin), fire, water, and earth are principal ones; and out of them there arise the forms of living creatures, and of those things which are produced out of the earth. Therefore, those first are called principles and (to translate the Greek word) elements: from which air and fire have the power of movement and efficiency: the other divisions—I
But they think that there is placed under all of these a certain matter without any form, and destitute of all quality (for we may as well, by constant use, make this word more usual and notorious), from which all things are sketched out and made; which can receive everything in its entirety, and can be changed in every manner and in every part. And also that it perishes, not so as to become nothing, but so as to be dissolved with its component parts, which again are able to be cut up and divided, And they say that the parts of the world are all the things which exist in it, and which are maintained by sentient nature; in which perfect reason is placed, which is also everlasting: for that there is nothing more powerful which can be the cause of its dissolution. And this power they call the soul of the world, and also its intellect and perfect wisdom. And they call it God, a providence watching over everything subject to its dominion, and, above all, over the heavenly bodies; and, next to them, over those things on earth which concern men: which also they sometimes call necessity, because nothing can be done in a manner different from that in which it has been arranged by it in a destined (if I may so say) and inevitable continuation of eternal order. Sometimes, too, they call it fortune, because it brings about many unforeseen things, which have never been expected by us, on account of the obscurity of their causes, and our ignorance of them. VIII. The third part of philosophy, which is next in order, being conversant about reason and discussion, was thus handled by both schools. They said that, although it originated in the senses, still the power of judging of the truth was not in the senses. They insisted upon it that intellect was the judge of things. They thought that the only thing deserving of belief, because it alone discerned that which was always simple and uniform, and which perceived its real character. This they call But they thought that all the senses were dull and slow, and that they did not by any means perceive those things which appeared subjected to the senses; which were either so small as to be unable to come under the notice of sense, or so moveable and rapid that none of them was ever one consistent thing, nor even the same thing, because everything was in a continual state of transition and disappearance. And therefore they called all this division of things one resting wholly on opinion. But they thought that science had no existence anywhere except in the notions and reasonings of the mind; on which account they approved of the definitions of things, and employed them on everything which was brought under discussion. The explanation of words also was approved of—that is to say, the explanation of the cause why everything was named as it was; and that they called etymology. Afterwards they used arguments, and, as it were, marks of things, for the proof and conclusion of what they wished to have explained; in which the whole system of dialectics—that is to say, of an oration brought to its conclusion by ratiocination, was handed down. And to this there was added, as a kind of second part, the oratorical power of speaking, which consists in developing a continued discourse, composed in a manner adapted to produce conviction. IX. This was the first philosophy handed down to them by Plato. And if you like I will explain to you those discussions which have originated in it. Indeed, said I, we shall be glad if you will; and I can answer for Atticus as well as for myself. You are quite right, said he; for the doctrine both of the Peripatetics and of the old Academy is most admirably explained. Aristotle, then, was the first to undermine the doctrine of
X. Zeno, then, was not at all a man like Theophrastus, to cut through the sinews of virtue; but, on the other hand, he was one who placed everything which could have any effect in producing a happy life in virtue alone, and who reckoned nothing else a good at all, and who called that honourable which was single in its nature, and the sole and only good. But as for all other things, although they were neither good nor bad, he divided them, calling some according to, and others contrary to nature. There were others which he looked upon as placed between these two classes, and which he called intermediate. Those which were according to nature, he taught his disciples, deserved to be taken, and to be considered worthy of a certain esteem. To those which were contrary to nature, he assigned a contrary character; and those of the
And while they did not entirely remove all perturbation of mind from man, (for they admitted that man did by nature grieve, and desire, and fear, and become elated by joy,) but only contracted it, and reduced it to narrow bounds; he maintained that the wise man was wholly free from all these diseases as they might be called. And as the ancients said that those perturbations were natural, and devoid of reason, and placed desire in one part of the mind and reason in another, he did not agree with them either; for he thought that all perturbations were voluntary, and were admitted by the judgment of the opinion, and that a certain unrestrained intemperance was the mother of all of them. And this is nearly what he laid down about morals. XI. But about natures he held these opinions. In the first place, he did not connect this fifth nature, out of which his predecessors thought that sense and intellect were produced, with those four principles of things. For he laid it down that fire is that nature which produces everything, and intellect, and sense. But he differed from them again, inasmuch
But he made a great many alterations in that third part of his philosophy, in which, first of all, he said some new things of the senses themselves: which he considered to be united by some impulse as it were, acting upon them from without, which he called φαντασία, and which we may term And from this he attributed credit also to the senses, because, as I have said above, comprehension made by the senses appeared to him to be true and trustworthy. Not because it comprehended all that existed in a thing, but because it left out nothing which could affect it, and because
XII. And when he had spoken thus—You have, said I, O Varro, explained the principles both of the Old Academy and of the Stoics with brevity, but also with great clearness. But I think it to be true, as Antiochus, a great friend of mine, used to assert, that it is to be considered rather as a corrected edition of the Old Academy, than as any new sect. Then Varro replied—It is your part now, who revolt from the principles of the ancients, and who approve of the innovations which have been made by Arcesilas, to explain what that division of the two schools which he made was, and why he made it; so that we may see whether that revolt of his was justifiable. Then I replied—Arcesilas, as we understand, directed all his attacks against Zeno, not out of obstinacy or any desire of gaining the victory, as it appears to me, but by reason of the obscurity of those things which had brought Socrates to the confession of ignorance, and even before Socrates, Democritus, Anaxagoras, Empedocles, and nearly all the ancients; who asserted that nothing could be ascertained, or perceived, or known: that the senses of man were narrow, his mind feeble, the course of his life short, and that truth, as Democritus said, was sunk in the deep; that everything depended on opinions and established customs; that nothing was left to truth. They said in short, that everything was enveloped in darkness; therefore Arcesilas asserted that there was nothing which could be known, not even that very piece of knowledge which Socrates had left himself. Thus he thought that everything lay hid in secret, and that there was nothing which could be discerned or understood; for which reasons it was not right for any one to profess or affirm anything, or sanction anything by his assent, but men ought always to restrain their rashness and to keep it in check
This they call the New Academy, which however appears to me to be the old one, if, at least, we reckon Plato as one of that Old Academy. For in his books nothing is affirmed positively, and many arguments are allowed on both sides of a question; everything is investigated, and nothing positive affirmed. Still let the school whose principles I have explained, be called the Old Academy, and this other the New; which, having continued to the time of Carneades, who was the fourth in succession after Arcesilas, continued in the same principles and system as Arcesilas. But Carneades, being a man ignorant of no part of philosophy, and, as I have learnt from those who had been his pupils, and particularly from Zeno the Epicurean, who, though he greatly differed from him in opinion, still admired him above all other men, was also a person of incredible abilities… I. Lucius Lucullus was a man of great genius, and very much devoted to the study of the most important arts; every branch of liberal learning worthy of a man of high birth, was thoroughly understood by him; but at the time when he might have made the greatest figure in the forum, he was wholly removed from all participation in the business of the city. For while he was very young, he, uniting with his brother, a man of equal sense of duty and diligence with himself,
Lucullus having this great genius, added to it that study which Themistocles had despised: therefore, as we write down in letters what we wish to commit to monuments, he, in like manner, had the facts engraved in his mind. Therefore, he was a general of such perfect skill in every kind of war, in battles, and sieges, and naval fights, and in the whole equipment and management of war, that that king, the greatest that has ever lived since the time of Alexander, confessed, that he considered him a greater general than any one of whom he had ever read. He also displayed such great prudence in arranging and regulating the affairs of the different cities, and such great justice too, that to this very day, Asia is preserved by the careful maintenance of the regulations, and by following as it were in the footsteps of Lucullus. But although it was greatly to the advantage of the republic, still that great virtue and genius was kept abroad at a distance from the eyes both of the forum and the senate-house, for a longer time than I could have wished. Moreover, when he had returned victorious from the war against Mithridates, owing to the calumnies of his adversaries, he did not celebrate his triumph till three years later than he ought to have done. For I may almost say, that I myself when consul led into the city the chariot of that most illustrious man, and I might enlarge upon the great advantage that his counsel and authority were to me, in the most critical circumstances, if it were not that to do so would compel me to speak of myself, which at this
II. But as for those exploits of Lucullus, which were entitled to be celebrated by the praises of the nation, they have been extolled both in Greek and Latin writings. For those outward exploits of his are known to us in common with the multitude; but his interior excellences (if I may so call them) we and a few of his friends have learnt from himself. For Lucullus used to apply himself to every kind of literature, and especially to philosophy, with greater eagerness than those who were not acquainted with him believed. And he did so, not only at his first entrance into life, but also when he was proquæstor, as he was for several years, and even during the time of war itself, a time when men are usually so fully occupied with their military business, that very little leisure is left to the general, even in his own tent. And as of all the philosophers of that day, Antiochus, who had been a pupil of Philo, was thought to excel in genius and learning, he kept him about him while he was quæstor, and some years afterwards when he was general. And as he had that extraordinary memory which I have mentioned already, by hearing frequently of things, he arrived at a thorough acquaintance with them; as he recollected everything that he had heard of only once. And he was wonderfully delighted in the reading books of which he heard any one speak. And I sometimes fear lest I may even diminish the glory of such characters as his, even while wishing to enhance it; for there are many people who are altogether averse to Greek literature, still more who have a dislike to philosophy, and men in general, even though they do not positively disapprove of them, still think the discussion of such matters not altogether suitable for the chiefs of the state. But I, having heard that Marcus Cato learnt Greek in his old age, and learning from history that Panætius was above all other men the chosen companion of Publius Africanus, in that noble embassy which he was employed on before he entered on the censorship, think I have no need of any other instance to justify his study of Greek literature or of philosophy. It remains for me to reply to those men who disapprove of such dignified characters being mixed up in discussions of this
And I think, that not only is the glory of those men not diminished, but that it is even increased by our adding to their popular and notorious praises these also which are less known and less spoken of. Some people also deny that those men who are introduced in our writings as disputants had any knowledge of those affairs which are the subjects of discussion. But they appear to me to be showing their envy, not only of the living but also of the dead. III. There remains one class of critics who disapprove of the general principles of the Academy. Which we should be more concerned at if any one approved of any school of philosophy except that which he himself followed. But we, since we are in the habit of arguing against every one who appears to himself to know anything, cannot object to others also dissenting from us. Although our side of the question is an easier one, since we wish to discover the truth without any dispute, and we seek for that with the greatest anxiety and diligence. For although all knowledge is beset with many difficulties, and there is that obscurity in the things themselves and that infirmity in our own judgment, that it is not without reason that the most learned and ancient philosophers have distrusted their power of discovering what they wished; yet they have not been deficient in any respect, nor do we allow ourselves to abandon the pursuit of truth through fatigue; nor have our discussions ever any other object except that of,
And in this we are more free and unfettered than they are, because our power of judging is unimpeached, and because we are not compelled by any necessity to defend theories which are laid upon as injunctions, and, if I may say so, as commands. For in the first place, those of the other schools have been bound hand and foot before they were able to judge what was best; and, secondly, before their age or their understanding had come to maturity, they have either followed the opinion of some friend, or been charmed by the eloquence of some one who was the first arguer whom they ever heard, and so have been led to form a judgment on what they did not understand, and now they cling to whatever school they were, as it were, dashed against in a tempest, like sailors clinging to a rock. For as to their statement that they are wholly trusting to one whom they judge to have been a wise man, I should approve of that if that were a point which they, while ignorant and unlearned, were able to judge of, (for to decide who is a wise man appears to me most especially the task of one who is himself wise.) But they have either formed their opinion as well as they could from a hearing of all the circumstances, and also from a knowledge of the opinions of philosophers of all the other schools; or else, having heard the matter mentioned once, they have surrendered themselves to the guidance of some one individual. But, I know not how it is, most people prefer being in error, and defending with the utmost pugnacity that opinion which they have taken a fancy to, to inquiring without any obstinacy what is said with the greatest consistency. And these subjects were very frequently and very copiously discussed by us at other times, and once also in the villa of Hortensius, which is at Bauli, when Catulus, and Lucullus, and I myself had arrived there the day after we had been staying with Catulus. And we had come thither rather early
IV. Then Catulus said,—Although what we were inquiring into yesterday was almost wholly explained in such a manner that nearly the whole question appears to have been discussed, still I long to hear what you promised to tell us, Lucullus, as being what you had learnt from Antiochus. I, indeed, said Hortensius, did more than I intended, for the whole matter ought to have been left untouched for Lucullus, and indeed, perhaps it was: for I only said such things as occurred to me at the moment; but I hope to hear something more recondite from Lucullus. Lucullus rejoined, I am not much troubled, Hortensius, at your expectation, although there is nothing so unfavourable for those who wish to give pleasure; but still, as I am not very anxious about how far I can prove to your satisfaction the arguments which I advance, I am the less disturbed. For the arguments which I am going to repeat are not my own, nor such that, if they are incorrect, I should not prefer being defeated to gaining the victory; but, in truth, as the case stands at present, although the doctrines of my school were somewhat shaken in yesterday’s discussion, still they do seem to me to be wholly true. I will therefore argue as Antiochus used to argue; for the subject is one with which I am well acquainted. For I used to listen to his lectures with a mind quite unengaged, and with great pleasure, and, moreover, he frequently discussed the same subject over again; so that you have some grounds for expecting more from me than you had from Hortensius a little while ago. When he had begun in this manner we prepared to listen with great attention. And he spoke thus:—When I was at Alexandria, as proquæstor, Antiochus was with me, and before my arrival, Heraclitus, of Tyre, a friend of Antiochus, had already settled in Alexandria, a man who had been for many years a pupil of Clitomachus and of Philo, and who had a great and deserved reputation in that school, which having been almost utterly discarded, is now coming again into fashion; and I used often to hear Antiochus arguing with him; but they both conducted
I therefore, then, as I was much interested in hearing Heraclitus arguing against Antiochus, and Antiochus against the Academicians, paid great attention to Antiochus, in order to learn the whole matter from him. Accordingly, for many days, collecting together Heraclitus and several learned men, and among them Aristus, the brother of Antiochus, and also Ariston and Dion, men whom he considered only second to his brother in genius, we devoted a great deal of time to that single discussion. But we must pass over that part of it which was bestowed on refuting the doctrines of Philo; for he is a less formidable adversary, who altogether denies that the Academicians advance those arguments which were maintained yesterday. For although he is quite wrong as to the fact, still he is a less invincible adversary. Let us speak of Arcesilas and Carneades. V. And having said this, he began again:—You appear to me, in the first place, (and he addressed me by name,) when you speak of the old natural philosophers, to do the same
In like manner, you, when you are seeking to overturn a well-established system of philosophy, in the same way as those men endeavoured to overturn the republic, bring forward the names of Empedocles, Anaxagoras, Democritus, Parmenides, Xenophanes, and even Plato and Socrates. But Saturninus, (that I may name my own enemy rather than any one else,) had nothing in him resembling those ancient men; nor are the ungrounded accusations of Arcesilas to be compared to the modesty of Democritus. And yet those natural philosophers, though very seldom, when they have any very great difficulty, make loud and violent outcries, as if under the influence of some great excitement, Empedocles, indeed, does so to such a degree, that he appears to me at times to be mad, crying out that all things are hidden, that we feel nothing, see nothing, and cannot find out the true character of anything whatever. But for the most part all those men appear to me to affirm some things rather too positively, and to profess that they know more than they really do know. But if they then hesitated while discussing new subjects, like children lately born, are we for that reason
VI. But, however, we will allow, if you like, that all those things were unknown to the ancients:—was nothing effected then, by their being thoroughly investigated, after that Arcesilas, disparaging Zeno, (for that is supposed to have been his object,) as discovering nothing new, but only correcting previous changes of names, while seeking to upset his definitions, had attempted to envelop the clearest possible matters in darkness? And his system, which was at first not at all approved of, although it was illustrated both by acute genius and by an admirable wittiness of language, was in the next generation adopted by no one but Lacydes; but subsequently it was perfected by Carneades, who was the fourth in succession from Arcesilas; for he was the pupil of Hegesinus, who had been the pupil of Evander, the disciple of Lacydes, and Lacydes himself had been the pupil of Arcesilas; but Carneades maintained it for a long time, for he lived ninety years; and those who had been his pupils had a very high reputation, of whom Clitomachus displayed the most industry, as the number of books which he composed testifies; nor was there less brilliancy of genius in him than there was of eloquence in Charmadas, or of sweetness in Melanthius of Rhodes.
But the business that we now propose to ourselves, of arguing against the Academicians, appears to some philosophers, and those, too, men of no ordinary calibre, to be a thing that ought not to be done at all; and they think that there is no sense at all in, and no method of disputing with men who approve of nothing; and they blame Antipater, the Stoic, who was very fond of doing so, and say that there is no need of laying down exact definitions of what knowledge is, or perception, or, if we want to render word for word, comprehension, which they call κατάληψις; and they say that those who wish to persuade men that there is anything which can be comprehended and perceived, are acting ignorantly; because there is nothing clearer than ἐνάργεια, as the Greeks call it, and which we may call perspicuity, or evidentness if you like,—coining words, if you will permit us to do so, that this fellow (meaning me) may not think that he is the only person to whom such liberties are permitted. Still they thought that no discourse could be found which should be more intelligible than evidentness itself; and they thought that there was no need of defining things which were so clear. But others declared that they would never be the first to speak in behalf of this evidentness; but they thought that a reply ought to be made to those arguments which were advanced against it, to prevent any one being deceived by them. There are also many men who do not disapprove of the definitions of the evident things themselves, and who think the subject one worthy of being inquired into, and the men worthy of being argued with. But Philo, while he raises some new questions, because he was scarcely able to withstand the things which were said against the obstinacy of the Academicians, speaks falsely, without disguise, as he was reproached for doing by the elder Catulus; and also, as Antiochus told him, falls into the very trap of which he was afraid. For as he asserted that there was nothing which could be comprehended, (for that is what we conceive to be meant by ἀκατάληπτος,) if that was, as Zeno defined it, such a perception, (for we have already spent time
VII. Let us begin then with the senses—the judgments of which are so clear and certain, that if an option were given to our nature, and if some god were to ask of it whether it is content with its own unimpaired and uncorrupted senses, or whether it desires something better, I do not see what more it could ask for. Nor while speaking on this topic need you wait while I reply to the illustration drawn from a bent oar, or the neck of a dove; for I am not a man to say that everything which seems is exactly of that character of which it seems to be. Epicurus may deal with this idea, and with many others; but in my opinion there is the very greatest truth in the senses, if they are in sound and healthy order, and if everything is removed which could impede or hinder them. Therefore we often wish the light to be changed, or the situation of those things which we are looking at; and we either narrow or enlarge distances; and we do many things until our sight causes us to feel confidence in our judgment. And the same thing takes place with respect to sounds, and smell, and taste, so that there is not one of us who, in each one of his senses, requires a more acute judgment as to each sort of thing. But when practice and skill are added, so that one’s eyes are charmed by a picture, and one’s ears by songs, who is there who can fail to see what great power there is in the senses? How many things do painters see in shadows and in projections which we do not see? How many beauties which
But such as those things are which we say are perceived by the senses, such also are those things which are said to be perceived, not by the senses themselves, but by the senses after a fashion; as these things—that is white, this is sweet, that is tuneful, this is fragrant, that is rough. We have these ideas already comprehended by the mind, not by the senses. Again, this is a house, that is a dog. Then the rest of the series follows, connecting the more important links; such as these, which embrace, as it were, the full comprehension of things;—If he is a man, he is a mortal animal partaking of reason:—from which class of arguments the notions of things are impressed upon us, without which nothing can be understood, nor inquired into, nor discussed. But if those notions were false, (for you seemed to me to translate ἔννοιαι VIII. And most especially does the knowledge of virtues confirm the assertion that many things can be perceived and comprehended. And in those things alone do we say that science exists; which we consider to be not a mere comprehension of things, but one that is firm and unchangeable; and we consider it also to be wisdom, the art of living which, by itself, derives consistency from itself. But if that consistency has no perception or knowledge about it, then I ask whence it has originated and how? I ask also, why that good man who has made up his mind to endure every kind of torture, to be torn by intolerable pain, rather than to betray his duty or his faith, has imposed on himself such bitter conditions, when he has nothing comprehended, perceived, known, or established, to lead him to think that he is bound to do so? It cannot, then, by any possibility be the case that any one should estimate equity and good faith so highly as to shrink from no punishment for the sake of preserving them, unless he has assented to those facts which cannot be false. But as to wisdom itself, if it be ignorant of its own character, and if it does not know whether it be wisdom or not, in the first place, how is it to obtain its name of wisdom? Secondly, how will it venture to undertake any exploit, or to perform it with confidence, when it has nothing certain to follow? But when it doubts what is the chief and highest good, being ignorant to what everything is referred, how can it be wisdom? And that also is manifest, that it is necessary that there should be laid down in the first place a principle which wisdom may follow when it begins to act; and that principle must be
And again, if it does not occur to a man’s mind what his duty is, he will actually never do anything, he will never be excited to any action, he will never be moved. But if he ever is about to do anything, then it is necessary that that which occurs to him must appear to him to be true. What! But if those things are true, is the whole of reason, which is, as it were, the light and illumination of life, put an end to? And still will you persist in that wrong-headedness? For it is reason which has brought men the beginning of inquiry, which has perfected virtue, after reason herself had been confirmed by inquiry. But inquiry is the desire of knowledge; and the end of inquiry is discovery. But no one can discover what is false; nor can those things which continue uncertain be discovered. But when those things which have, as it were, been under a veil, are laid open, then they are said to be discovered; and so reason contains the beginning of inquiry, and the end of perceiving and comprehending. Therefore the conclusion of an argument, which in Greek is called ἀπόδειξις, is thus defined:—Reason, which leads one from facts which are perceived, to that which was not perceived. IX. But if all things which are seen were of that sort that those men say they are, so that they either could possibly be false, or that no discernment could distinguish whether they were false or not, then how could we say that any one had either formed any conclusion, or discovered anything? Or what trust could be placed in an argument when brought to a conclusion? And what end will philosophy itself have, which is bound to proceed according to reason? And what will become of wisdom? which ought not to doubt about its own character, nor about its decrees, which philosophers call δόγματα; none of which can be betrayed without wickedness. For when a decree is betrayed, the law of truth
Antiochus, on this topic, seems to press his antagonist more closely. For since the Academicians adopted that rule, (for you understand that I am translating by this word what they call δόγμα,) that nothing can be perceived, he urged that they ought not to waver in their rule as in other matters, especially as the whole of their philosophy consisted in it: for that the fixing of what is true and false, known and unknown, is the supreme law of all philosophy. And since they adopted this principle, and wished to teach what ought to be received by each individual, and what rejected, undoubtedly, said he, they ought to perceive this very thing from which the whole judgment of what is true and false arises. He urged, in short, that there were these two principal objects in philosophy, the knowledge of truth, and the attainment of the chief good; and that a man could not be wise who was ignorant of either the beginning of knowledge, or of the end of desire, so as not to know either where to start from, or
In this manner, therefore, it was more fitting to demand of them that they should at least admit that this fact was perceived, namely, that nothing could be perceived. But enough, I imagine, has been said of the inconsistency of their whole opinion, if, indeed, you can say that a man who approves of nothing has any opinion at all. X. The next point for discussion is one which is copious enough, but rather abstruse; for it touches in some points on natural philosophy, so that I am afraid that I may be giving the man who will reply to me too much liberty and licence. For what can I think that he will do about abstruse and obscure matters, who seeks to deprive us of all light? But one might argue with great refinement the question,—with how much artificial skill, as it were, nature has made, first of all, every animal; secondly, man most especially;—how great the power of the senses is; in what manner things seen first affect us; then, how the desires, moved by these things, followed; and, lastly, in what manner we direct our senses to the perception of things. For the mind itself, which is the source of the senses, and which itself is sense, has a natural power, which it directs towards those things by which it is moved. Therefore it seizes on other things which are seen in such a manner as to use them at once; others it stores up; and from these memory arises: but all other things it arranges by similitudes, from which notions of things are engendered; which the Greeks call, at one time ἔννοιαι, and at another προλήψεις. And when to this there is added reason and the conclusion of the argument, and a multitude of countless circumstances, then the perception of all those things is manifest, and the same reason, being made perfect by these steps, arrives at wisdom. As, therefore, the mind of man is admirably calculated for the science of things and the consistency of life, it embraces knowledge most especially. And it loves that κατάληψις, (which we, as I have said, will call Nor can I sufficiently make out what their ideas or intentions really are. For sometimes, when we address them with this argument,—that if the doctrines which we are upholding are not true, then everything must be uncertain: they reply,—Well, what is that to us? is that our fault? blame nature, who, as Democritus says, has buried truth deep in the bottom of the sea. But others defend themselves more elegantly, who complain also that we accuse them of calling everything uncertain; and they endeavour to explain how much difference there is between what is uncertain and what cannot be perceived, and to make a distinction between them. Let us, then, now deal with those who draw this distinction, and let us abandon, as incurable and desperate, those who say that everything is as uncertain as whether the number of the stars be odd or even. For they contend, (and I noticed that you were especially moved by this,) that there is something probable, and, as I may say, likely; and that they adopt that likelihood as a rule in steering their course of life, and in making inquiries and conducting discussions. XI. But what rule can there be, if we have no notion whatever of true or false, because it is impossible to distinguish one from the other? For, if we have such a notion, then there must be a difference between what is true and what is false, as there is between what is right and what is wrong. If there is no difference, then there is no rule; nor can a man to whom what is true and what is false appear under one common aspect, have any means of judging of, or any mark at all by which he can know the truth. For when they say, that they take away nothing but the idea of anything being able to appear in such a manner that it cannot possibly appear false in the same manner but that they admit everything else, they are acting childishly. For though they have
Wherefore, whether you bring forward a perception which is merely probable, or one which is at once probable and free from all hindrance, as Carneades contended, or anything else that you may follow, you will still have to return to that perception of which we are treating. But in it, if there be but one common characteristic of what is false and true, there will be no judgment possible, because nothing peculiar can be noted in one sign common to two things: but if there be no such community, then I have got what I want; for I am seeking what appears to me to be so true, that it cannot possibly appear false. They are equally mistaken when, being convicted and overpowered by the force of truth, they wish to distinguish between what is evident and what is perceived, and endeavour to prove that there is something evident,—being a truth impressed on the mind and intellect,—and yet that it cannot be perceived and comprehended. For how can you say distinctly that anything is white, when it may happen that that which is black may appear white? Or how are we to call those things evident, or to say that they are impressed faithfully on the mind, when it is uncertain whether it is really moved or only in an illusory manner? And so there is neither colour, nor body, nor truth, nor argument, nor sense, nor anything certain left us. And, owing to this, it frequently happens that, whatever they say, they are asked by some people,—Do you, then, perceive that? But they who put this question to them are laughed at by them; for they do not press them hard enough so as to prove that no one can insist upon any point, or make any positive assertion, without some certain and peculiar mark to distinguish that thing which each individual says that he is persuaded of. What, then, is this probability of yours? For if that which occurs to every one, and which, at its first look, as it were, appears probable, is asserted positively, what can be more
XII. However, we have said enough about perception. For if any one wishes to invalidate what has been said, truth will easily defend itself, even if we are absent. These things, then, which have now been explained, being sufficiently understood, we will proceed to say a little on the subject of assent and approbation, which the Greeks call συγκατάθεσις. Not that the subject itself is not an extensive one, but because the foundations have been already laid a little while ago. For when we were explaining what power there was in the senses, this point was at the same time established, that many things were comprehended and perceived by the senses, which is a thing which cannot take place without assent. Secondly, as this is the principal difference between an inanimate and an animated being, that the inanimate being does nothing, but the animated one does something (for it is impossible even to imagine what kind of animal that can be which does nothing)—either sense must be taken from it, or else assent (which is wholly in our own power) must be given. But mind is in some degree denied to those beings whom they will not allow either to feel or to assent. For as it is inevitable that one scale of a balance
Although, if those principles which we have been maintaining are true, there is no advantage whatever in discussing assent. For he who perceives anything, assents immediately. But these inferences also follow,—that memory can have no existence without assent, no more can notions of things or arts. And what is most important of all is, that, although some things may be in our power, yet they will not be in the power of that man who assents to nothing. Where, then, is virtue, if nothing depends on ourselves? But it is above all things absurd that vices should be in the power of the agents, and that no one should do wrong except by deliberate consent to do so, and yet that this should not be the case with virtue; all the consistency and firmness of which depends on the things to which it has assented, and which it has approved. And altogether it is necessary that something should be perceived before we act, and before we assent to what is perceived; wherefore, he who denies the existence of perception or assent, puts an end to all action in life. XIII. Now let us examine the arguments which are commonly advanced by this school in opposition to these principles. But, first of all, you have it in your power to become acquainted with what I may call the foundations of their system. They then, first of all, compound a sort of art of those things which we call perceptions, and define their power and kinds; and at the same time they explain what the character of that thing which can be perceived and comprehended is, in the very same words as the Stoics. In the next place, they explain those two principles, which contain, as it were, the whole of this question; and which appear in such a manner that even others may appear in the same, nor is there any difference between them, so that it is impossible that some of them should be perceived, and that others should not be perceived; but that it makes no difference, not only if they are in every part of the same character, but even if they cannot be distinguished. And when these principles are laid down, then these men comprehend the whole cause in the conclusion of one argument. But this conclusion, thus compounded, runs in this way: But of the axioms which they assume, in order to draw the conclusions which they desire, they think that two ought to be granted to them; for no one objects to them. They are these: But their other propositions they defend by numerous and varied arguments, and they likewise are two in number. One is— XIV. Now all this subtlety I consider indeed thoroughly worthy of philosophy, but still wholly unconnected with the case which they advocate who argue thus. For definitions, and divisions, and a discourse which employs these ornaments, and also similarities and dissimilarities, and the subtle and fine-drawn distinctions between them, belong to men who are confident that those arguments which they are upholding are true, and firm, and certain; and not to men who assert loudly that those things are no more true than false. For what would they do if, after they had defined anything, some one were to ask them whether that definition could be transferred to something else? If they said it could, then what reason could they give why it should be a true definition? If they said no,—then it must be confessed, since that definition of what is true cannot be transferred to what is false, that that which is explained by that definition can be perceived; which is the last thing they mean. The same thing may be said on every article of the division. For if they say that they see clearly the things about which they are arguing, and they cannot be hindered by any similarity of appearance, then they will confess that they are able to comprehend those things. But if they affirm that true perceptions cannot be distinguished from false ones, how can they go any further? For the same objections will be made to them which have been made already; for an argument cannot be concluded, unless the premises which are taken to deduce the conclusion from are so established that nothing of the same kind can be false. Therefore, if reason, relying on things comprehended and perceived, and advancing in reliance on them, establishes the point that nothing can be comprehended, what can be found which can be more inconsistent with itself? And as the very nature of an accurate discourse professes that it will develop something which is not apparent, and that, in order the more easily to succeed in its object, it will employ the senses and those things which are evident, what sort of discourse is that which is uttered by those men who insist upon it that everything has not so much an existence as a mere appearance? But they are convicted most of all when they assume, as consistent with each other, these two propositions which are
But let us proceed further, and act so as in no respect to seem to be flattering ourselves; and let us follow up what is said by them, in such a manner as to allow nothing to be passed over. In the first place, then, that evidentness which we have mentioned has sufficiently great power of itself to point out to us the things which are just as they are. But still, in order that we may remain with firmness and constancy in our trust in what is evident, we have need of a greater degree of either skill or diligence, in order not, by some sort of juggling or trick, to be driven away from those things which are clear of themselves. For Epicurus, who wished to remedy those errors, which seem to perplex one’s knowledge of the truth, and who said that it was the duty of a wise man to separate opinion from evident knowledge, did no good at all; for he did not in the least remove the errors of opinion itself. XV. Wherefore, as there are two causes which oppose what is manifest and evident, it is necessary also to provide oneself with an equal number of aids. For this is the first obstacle, that men do not sufficiently exert and fix their minds upon those things which are evident, so as to be able to understand how great the light is with which they are surrounded. The second is, that some men, being deluded and deceived by fallacious and captious interrogatories, when they cannot clear them up, abandon the truth. It is right, therefore, for us to have those answers ready which may be given in defence of the evidentness of a thing,—and we have already spoken of them,—and to be armed, in order to be able to encounter the questions of those people, and to scatter their captious objections to the winds: and this is what I propose to do next. I will, therefore, explain their arguments one by one; since even they themselves are in the habit of speaking in a sufficiently lucid manner. In the first place, they endeavour to show that many things can appear to exist, which in reality have no existence; when minds are moved to no purpose by things which do not exist, in the same manner as by things that do. For when you say (say they) that some visions are sent by God, as those, for instance, which are seen during sleep, and those also which are revealed by oracles, and auspices, and the entrails of victims, (for they say that the Stoics, against whom they are arguing, admit all these things,) they ask how God can make those things probable which appear to be false; and how it is that He cannot make those appear so which plainly come as near as possible to truth? Or if He can likewise make those appear probable, why He cannot make the others appear so too, which are only with great difficulty distinguished from them? And if He can make these appear so, then why He cannot also make those things appear so which are absolutely different in no respect whatever? In the next place, since the mind is moved by itself,—as those things which we picture to ourselves in thought, and those which present themselves to the sight of madmen or sleeping men declare,—is it not, say they, probable that the mind is also moved in such a manner, that not only it does not distinguish between the perceptions, as to whether they be true or false, but that there really is no difference between them? As, for instance, if any men of their own accord trembled and grew pale, on account of some agitation of mind, or because some terrible object came upon them from without, there would be no means of distinguishing one trembling and paleness from the other, nor indeed would there be any difference between the external and internal alarm which caused them. Lastly, if no perceptions are probable which are false, then we must seek for other principles; but if they are probable, then why may not one say the same of such as are not easily distinguished from one another? Why not also of such as have actually no difference at all between them? Especially when you yourselves say that the wise man when enraged withholds himself from all assent, because there is no distinction between his perceptions which is visible to him. XVI. Now on all these empty perceptions Antiochus brought forward a great many arguments, and one whole day was occupied in the discussion of this subject. But I do not
And in the first place, they are blameable in this, that they use a most captious kind of interrogation. And the system of adding or taking away, step by step, minute items from a proposition, is a kind of argument very little to be approved of in philosophy. They call it sorites, There is then one means of getting rid of all unreal perceptions,
And again in his Epicharmus he says— Therefore, as soon as we are awakened, we despise those things which we have seen, and do not regard them as we do the things which we have done in the forum. XVII. But while these visions are being beheld, they assume the same appearance as those things which we see while awake. There is a good deal of real difference between them; but we may pass over that. For what we assert is, that there is not the same power or soundness in people when asleep that there is in them while waking, either in intellect or in sensation. What even drunken men do, they do not do with the same deliberate approbation as sober men. They doubt, they hesitate, they check themselves at times, and give but a feeble assent to what they see or agree too. And when they have slept off their drunkenness, then they understand how unreal their perceptions were. And the same thing is the case with madmen; that when their madness is beginning, they both feel and say that something appears to them to exist that has no real existence. And when their frenzy abates, they feel and speak like Alcmæon;— But even in madness the wise man puts restraint upon himself, so far as not to approve of what is false as if it were true. And he does so often at other times, if there is by
But from the whole character of this discussion we may see the worthless nature of the argument of those men who wish to throw everything into confusion. We want judgment, marked with gravity, consistency, firmness, and wisdom: and we use the examples of men dreaming, mad, or drunk. I press this point, that in all this discussion we are speaking with great inconsistency. For we should not bring forward men sunk in wine or sleep, or deprived of sense, in such an absurd manner as at one time to say there is a difference between the perceptions of men awake and sober and sensible, and those of men in a different condition, and at other times that there was no difference at all. They do not even perceive that by this kind of argument they are making out everything to be uncertain, which they do not wish to do. I call that uncertain which the Greeks call ἄδηλον. For if the fact be that there is no difference between the appearance that a thing presents to a madman and to a person in his senses, then who can feel quite sure of his own sanity? And to wish to produce such an effect as that is a proof of no ordinary madness. But they follow up in a childish manner the likenesses of twins, or of impressions of rings. For who of us denies that there are such things as likenesses, when they are visible in numbers of things? But if the fact of many things being like many other things is sufficient to take away knowledge, why are you not content with that, especially as we admit it? And why do you rather insist upon that assertion which the nature of things will not suffer, that everything is not in its own kind of that character of which it really is? and that there is a conformity without any difference whatever in two or more things; so that eggs are entirely like eggs, and bees like bees? What then are you contending for? or what do you seek to gain by talking about twins? For it is granted that they are alike; and you might be content with that. But you try to make
Then you have recourse to those natural philosophers who are so greatly ridiculed in the Academy, but whom you will not even now desist from quoting. And you tell us that Democritus says that there are a countless number of worlds, and that there are some which are not only so like one another, but so completely and absolutely equal in every point, that there is no difference whatever between them, and that they are quite innumerable; and so also are men. Then you require that, if the world be so entirely equal to another world that there is absolutely not the slightest difference between them, we should grant to you that in this world of ours also there must be something exactly equal to something else, so that there is no difference whatever or distinction between them. For why, you will say, since there not only can be, but actually are innumerable Quinti Lutatii Catuli formed out of those atoms, from which Democritus affirms that everything is produced, in all the other worlds, which are likewise innumerable,—why may not there be a second Catulus formed in this identical world of ours, since it is of such a size as we see it? XVIII. First of all I reply, that you are bringing me to the arguments of Democritus, with whom I do not agree. And I will the more readily refute them, on account of that doctrine which is laid down very clearly by the more refined natural philosophers, that everything has its own separate property. For grant that those ancient Servilii who were twins were as much alike as they are said to have been, do you think that that would have made them the same? They were not distinguished from one another out of doors, but they were at home. They were not distinguished from one another by strangers, but they were by their own family. Do we not see that this is frequently the case, that those people whom we should never have expected to be able to know from one another, we do by practice distinguish so easily that they do not appear to be even in the least alike? Here, however, you may struggle; I will not oppose you. Moreover, I will grant that that very wise man who is the subject of all this discussion, when things like one another come under his notice, in which he has not remarked any
But that is a monstrous absurdity of yours, when you say that you follow what is probable when you are not hindered by anything from doing so. In the first place, how can you avoid being hindered, when what is false does not differ from what is true? Secondly, what judgment can be formed of what is true, when what is true is undistinguishable from what is false? From these facts there springs unavoidably ἐποχὴ, that is to say, a suspension of assent: for which
There remains this other statement of theirs, that for the sake of discovering the truth, one ought to speak against every side, and in favour of every side. I wish then to see what they have discovered. We are not in the habit, says he, of showing that. What then is the object of all this mystery? or why do you conceal your opinion as something discreditable? In order, says he, that those who hear us may be influenced by reason rather than led by authority. What if they are influenced by both? would there be any harm in that? However, they do not conceal one of their theories, namely, that there is nothing which can be conceived. Is authority no hindrance to entertaining this opinion? It seems to me to be a great one. For who would ever have embraced so openly and undisguisedly such perverse and false principles, if there had not been such great richness of ideas and power of eloquence in Arcesilas, and, in a still greater degree, in Carneades? XIX. These are nearly the arguments which Antiochus used to urge at Alexandria, and many years afterwards, with much more positiveness too, in Syria, when he was there with me, a little before he died. But, as my case is now established, I will not hesitate to warn you, as you are my dearest friend, (he was addressing me,) and one a good deal younger than myself. Will you, then, after having extolled philosophy with such panegyrics, and provoked our friend Hortensius, who disagrees with us, now follow that philosophy which confounds what is true with what is false, deprives us of all judgment, strips us of the power of approval, and robs us of all
And having said this he stopped. But Hortensius, admiring all he said very greatly, (so much, indeed, that all the time that Lucullus was speaking he kept lifting up his hands; and it was no wonder, for I do not believe that an argument had ever been conducted against the Academy with more acuteness,) began to exhort me, either jestingly or seriously, (for that was a point that I was not quite sure about,) to abandon my opinions. Then, said Catulus, if the discourse of Lucullus has had such influence over you,—and it has been a wonderful exhibition of memory, accuracy, and ingenuity,—I have nothing to say; nor do I think it my duty to try and deter you from changing opinion if you choose. But I should not think it well for you to be influenced merely by his authority. For he was all but warning you, said he, jestingly, to take care that no worthless tribune of the people, of whom you know what a number there will always be, seize upon you, and ask of you in the public assembly how you are consistent with yourself, when at one time you assert that nothing certain can be discovered, and at another time affirm that you yourself have discovered something. I entreat you, do not let him terrify you. But I would rather have you disagree
XX. Then I, being no less agitated than I usually am when pleading important causes, began to speak something after this fashion:— The discourse of Lucullus, O Catulus, on the matter itself, moved me a good deal, being the discourse of a learned and ingenious and quick-witted man, and of one who passes over nothing which can be said for his side; but still I am not afraid but that I may be able to answer him. But no doubt such authority as his would have influenced me a good deal, if you had not opposed your own to it, which is of equal weight. I will endeavour, therefore, to reply to him after I have said a few words in defence of my own reputation, as it were. If it is by any desire of display, or any zeal for contentious disputes, that I have been chiefly led to rank myself as an adherent of this school of philosophy, I should think not only my folly, but also my disposition and nature deserving of severe censure; for if obstinacy is found fault with in the most trifling matters, and if also calumny is repressed, should I choose to contend with others in a quarrelsome manner about the general condition and conduct of my whole life, or to deceive others and also my own self? Therefore, if I did not think it foolish in such a discussion to do what, when one is discussing affairs of state, is sometimes done, I would swear by Jupiter and my household gods, that I am inflamed with a desire of discovering the truth, and that I do truly feel what I say. For how can I avoid wishing to discover the truth, when I rejoice if I have discovered anything resembling the truth? But although I consider to see the truth a most beautiful thing, so also do I think it a most disgraceful one to approve of what is false as if it were true. Not, indeed, that I am myself a man who never approve of anything false, who never give assent to any such thing, and am never guided by opinion; but we are speaking of a wise man. But I myself am very apt to adopt opinions, for I am not a
as Aratus says;—and those mariners steer in a more direct course because they keep looking at the constellation, but looking rather towards Helice, and the bright north star, that is to say, to these reasons of a more expansive kind, not polished away to a point; and therefore I roam and wander about in a freer course. However, the question, as I said just now, is not about myself, but about a wise man. For when these perceptions have made a violent impression on the intellect and senses, I admit them, and sometimes I even assent to them, but still I do not perceive them: for I do not think that anything can be perceived. I am not a wise man, therefore I submit to perceptions and cannot resist them: but Arcesilas, being on this point in agreement with Zeno, thinks that this is the most important part of the power of a wise man, that he can guard against being entangled, and provide against being deceived. For there is nothing more incompatible with the idea which we have of the gravity of a wise man than error, levity, and temerity. Why, then, need I speak of the firmness of a wise man? whom even you too, Lucullus, admit to be never guided by mere opinion. And since this is sanctioned by you, (if I am dealing irregularly with you at this moment, I will soon return to the proper order of your arguments,) just consider what force this first conclusion has. XXI. If the wise man ever assents to anything, he will likewise sometimes form opinions: but he never will form opinions: therefore he will never assent to anything. This conclusion was approved of by Arcesilas, for it confirmed both his first and second proposition. But Carneades sometimes granted that minor premiss, that the wise man did at times assent: then it followed that he also was at times guided by opinion; which you will not allow; and you are right, as it seems to me: but the first proposition, that the wise man, if he expresses assent, must also be guided by opinion, is denied by the Stoics and their follower on this point, Antiochus. For they say that they can distinguish what is false from what is true, and what cannot be perceived from what can. But, in the first place, even if anything can be perceived, still the very custom of expressing assent appears to us to be perilous and unsure. Wherefore, as it is plain that is so faulty a proceeding, to assent to anything that is either false or unknown, all assent must rather be removed, lest it should rush on into difficulties if it proceeds rashly. For what is false is so much akin to what is true, and the things which cannot be perceived to those which can, (if, indeed, there are any such, for we shall examine that point presently,) that a wise man ought not to trust himself in such a hazardous position. But if I assume that there is actually nothing which can be perceived, and if I also take what you grant me, that a wise man is never guided by opinion, then the consequence will be that the wise man will restrain all assent on his part; so that you must consider whether you would rather have it so, or let the wise man sometimes form opinions. You do not approve of either, you will say. Let us, then, endeavour to prove that nothing can be perceived; for that is what the whole controversy turns upon. XXII. But first I must say a few words to Antiochus; who under Philo learnt this very doctrine which I am now defending, for such a length of time, that it is certain that no one was ever longer studying it; and who wrote on these subjects with the greatest acuteness, and who yet attacked it in his old age with no less energy than he had defended it in his youth. Although therefore he may have been a shrewd arguer, as indeed he was, still his authority is diminished by his inconsistency. For what day, I should like to know, will ever dawn, which shall reveal to him that distinctive characteristic of what is true and what is false, of which for so many years he denied the existence? Has he devised anything new? He says the same that the Stoics say. Does he repent of having held such an opinion? Why did he not cross over to some other school, and especially to the Stoics? for this disagreement with the Academy was peculiarly theirs. What? did he repent of Mnesarchus or Dardanus, who at that time were the chiefs of the Stoics at Athens? He never deserted Philo till after the time when he himself began to have pupils. But from whence was the Old Academy on a sudden recalled? He appears to have wished to preserve the dignity of the name, after he had given up the reality; which however some people said, that he did from a view to his own glory, and that he even hoped that those who followed him might be called Antiochians. But to me it seems, that he could not stand that concourse of all the philosophers. In truth, there are among them all, some common principles on the other points; but this doctrine is peculiar to the Academicians, and not one of the other philosophers approves of it. Therefore, he quitted it; and, like those men who, where the new shops stand, cannot bear the sun, so he, when he was hot, took refuge under the shade of the Old Academicians, as those men do under the shade of the old shops near the pillar of Mænius. There was also an argument which he was in the habit of employing, when he used to maintain that nothing could be perceived; namely, asking whether Dionysius of Heraclea had comprehended the doctrine which he had espoused for many years, because he was guided by that certain characteristic, and whether he believed the doctrine of his master Zeno, that whatever was honourable was the only good; or, whether he adopted the assertion which he defended subsequently, that the name of honourableness is a mere phantom, and that pleasure is the chief good: for from this change of opinion on his part he wished to prove, that nothing can be so stamped on our minds by the truth, that it cannot also be impressed on them in the same manner by falsehood; and so he took care that others should derive from his own conduct the same argument which he himself had derived from Dionysius. XXIII. But we will argue this point more at length another time; at present we will turn what has been said, Lucullus, to you. And in the first place, let us examine the assertion which you made at the beginning, and see what sort of assertion it is; namely, that we spoke of the ancient philosophers in a manner similar to that in which seditious men were in the habit of speaking of illustrious men, who were however friends of the people. These men do not indeed pursue good objects, but still wish to be considered to resemble good men; but we say that we hold those opinions, which you yourselves confess to have been entertained by the most illustrious philosophers. Anaxagoras said, that snow was
But he does not say this, which we, who do not deny that there is some truth, declare cannot be perceived: he absolutely denies that there is any truth. He says that the senses are not merely dim, but utterly dark; for that is what Metrodorus of Chios, who was one of his greatest admirers, says of them, at the beginning of his book on Nature. Empedocles appears to you to be mad; but to me he seems to utter words very worthy of the subjects of which he speaks. Does he then blind us, or deprive us of our senses, if he thinks that there is but little power in them to judge of those things which are brought under their notice? Parmenides and Xenophanes blame, as if they were angry with them, though in no very poetical verses, the arrogance of those people who, though nothing can be known, venture to say that they know something. And you said that Socrates and Plato were distinct from these men. Why so? Are there any men of whom we can speak more certainly? I indeed seem to myself to have lived with these men; so many of their discourses have been reported, from which one cannot possibly doubt that Socrates thought that nothing could be known. He excepted one thing only, asserting that he did know that he knew nothing; but he made no other
XXIV. Do I not seem to you, not, like Saturninus, to be content with naming illustrious men, but also sometimes even to imitate them, though never unless they are really eminent and noble? And I might have opposed to you men who are annoying to you, but yet disputants of great accuracy; Stilpo, Diodorus, and Alexinus: men who indulged in far-fetched and pointed sophisms; for that was the name given usually to fallacious conclusions. But why need I enumerate them, when I have Chrysippus, who is considered to be the great support of the portico of the Stoics? How many of the arguments against the senses, how many against everything which is approved by ordinary practice, did he not refute! It is true that I do not think very much of his refutations; but still, let us grant that he did refute them. Certainly he would never have collected so many arguments to deceive us with their excessive probability, unless he saw that it was not easily possible to resist them. What do you think of the Cyrenaic School? philosophers far from contemptible, who affirm that there is nothing which can be perceived externally; and that they perceive those things alone which they feel by their inmost touch, such as pain, or pleasure. And that they do not know what colour anything is of, or what sound it utters; but only feel that they themselves are affected in a certain manner. We have said enough about authors: although you had asked me whether I did not think that since the time of those ancient philosophers, in so many ages, the truth might have been discovered, when so many men of genius and diligence were looking for it? What was discovered we will consider presently, and you yourself shall be the judge. But it is easily seen that Arcesilas did not contend with Zeno for the sake of disparaging him; but that he wished to discover the truth. No one, I say, of preceding philosophers had said positively, no one had even hinted that it was possible for man never to form opinions: and that for a wise man it was not only possible, but indispensable. The opinion of Arcesilas
Perhaps he asked of Zeno what would happen if a wise man could not possibly perceive anything, and if to form mere opinion was unworthy of a wise man? He answered, I suppose, that the wise man never would form mere opinion, since there were things which admitted of being perceived. What then were they? Perceptions, I suppose. What sort of perceptions then? In reply to this he gave a definition, That it was such as is impressed and stamped upon and figured in us, according to and conformably to something which exists. Afterwards the question was asked, whether, if such a perception was true, it was of the same character as one that was false? Here Zeno saw clearly enough that there was no perception that could be perceived at all, if the perception derived from that which is, could possibly resemble that which is derived from that which is not. Arcesilas was quite right in admitting this. An addition was made to the definition; namely, That nothing false could be perceived; nor anything true either, if it was of such a character as that which was false. But he applied himself diligently to these discussions, in order to prove that no perception originated in what was true of such a kind that there might not be a similar one originating in what was false. And this is the one subject of controversy which has lasted to this day. For the other doctrine, that the wise man would never assent to anything, had nothing to do with this question. For it was quite possible for a man to perceive nothing, and nevertheless to be guided at times by opinion; which is said to have been admitted by Carneades. I, indeed, trusting rather to Clitomachus than to Philo or Metrodorus, believe that he argued this point rather than that he admitted it. XXV. However, let us say no more about this. Undoubtedly, when opinion and perception are put an end to, the retention of every kind of assent must follow; as, if I prove that nothing can be perceived, you would then grant that a philosopher would never assent to anything. What is there then that can be perceived, if even the senses do not warn us of the truth? But you, O Lucullus, defend them by a common topic; and to prevent you from being able to do so it was, that I yesterday, when it was not otherwise necessary, said so
If any god were to ask you, while your senses are sound and unimpaired, whether you desire anything further, what would you answer? I wish, indeed, he would ask me! You should hear how ill he treats us: for how far are we to look in order to see the truth? I can see the Cumæan villa of Catulus from this place, but not his villa near Pompeii; not that there is any obstacle interposed, but my eyesight cannot extend so far. What a superb view! We see Puteoli, but we do not see our friend Avianus, though he may perhaps be walking in the portico of Neptune; there was, however, some one or other who is often spoken of in the Schools who could see things that were a thousand and eighty furlongs off; and some birds can see further still. I should therefore answer your god boldly, that I am not at all contented with these eyes of mine. He will tell me, perhaps, that I can see better than some fishes; which are not seen by us, and which even now are beneath our eyes, and yet they cannot look up far
XXVI. What need had I to speak of the ship? for I saw that what I said about the oar was despised by you; perhaps you expect something more serious. What can be greater than the sun, which the mathematicians affirm to be more than eighteen times as large as the earth? How little does it appear to us! To me, indeed, it seems about a foot in diameter; but Epicurus thinks it possible that it may be even less than it seems, but not much; nor does he think that it is much greater, but that it is very near the size it seems to be: so that our eyes are either quite correct, or, at all events, not very incorrect. What becomes then of the exception, However, to abridge the controversy, consider, I pray you, within what narrow bounds you are confined. There are four principles which conduct you to the conclusion that there is nothing which can be known, or perceived, or comprehended;—and it is about this that the whole dispute is. The first principle is, that some perceptions are false; the second, that such cannot be perceived; the third, that of perceptions between which there is no difference, it is not possible that some of them can be perceived and that others cannot; the fourth, that there is no true perception proceeding from the senses, to which there is not some other perception opposed which in no respect differs from it, and which cannot be perceived. Now of these four principles, the second and third are admitted by every one. Epicurus does not admit the
The man, then, who saw Publius Servilius Geminus, if he thought that he saw Quintus, fell into a perception of that kind that could not be perceived; because what was true was distinguished by no characteristic mark from what was false: and if this distinctive mark were taken away, what characteristic of the same kind could he have by which to recognise Caius Cotta, who was twice consul with Geminus, which could not possibly be false? You say that such a likeness as that is not in the nature of things. You fight the question vigorously, but you are fighting a peaceably disposed adversary. Grant, then, that it is not; at all events, it is possible that it should seem to be so; therefore it will deceive the senses. And if one likeness deceives them, it will have made everything doubtful; for when that judgment is once taken away by which alone things can be known, then, even if the person whom you see, be really the person whom he appears to you to be, still you will not judge by that characteristic which you say you ought, being of such a character that one of the same kind cannot be false. If, therefore, it is possible that Publius Geminus may appear to you to be Quintus, what certainty have you that he may not appear to you to be Cotta though he is not, since some things do appear to you to be what they are not? You say that everything has its own peculiar genus; that there is nothing the same as something else. That is a stoic doctrine, and one not very credible, for they say that there is not a single hair or a single grain in every respect like another hair or grain. These things could all be refuted, but I do not wish to be contentious; for it has nothing in the world to do with the question whether the things which are seen do not differ at all in any part, or whether they cannot be distinguished from another even though they do differ. But, granting that there cannot be such a likeness between men, can there not be such between statues? Tell me, could not Lysippus, using the same brass, the same composition of metals, the same atmosphere, water, and all other appliances, have made a hundred Alexanders exactly alike? How then could you distinguish between them? Again; if I, with this ring, make a hundred impressions on the same piece of wax, is it possible that there
XXVII. But you have recourse to art, which you call in to the aid of the senses. A painter sees what we do not see; and as soon as a flute-player plays a note the air is recognised by a musician. Well? Does not this argument seem to tell against you, if, without great skill, such as very few persons of our class attain to, we can neither see nor hear? Then you give an excellent description of the skill with which nature has manufactured our senses, and intellect, and the whole construction of man, in order to prevent my being alarmed at rashness of opinions. Can you also, Lucullus, affirm that there is any power united with wisdom and prudence which has made, or, to use your own expression, manufactured man? What sort of a manufacture is that? Where is it exercised? when? why? how? These points are all handled ingeniously, they are discussed even elegantly. Let it be said even that they appear likely; only let them not be affirmed positively. But we will discuss natural philosophy hereafter, and, indeed, we will do so that you, who said a little while ago that I should speak of it, may appear not to have spoken falsely. However, to come to what is clearer, I shall now bring forward general facts on which whole volumes have been filled, not only by those of our own School, but also by Chrysippus. But the Stoics complain of him, that, while he studiously collected every argument which could be brought forward against the senses and clearness, and against all custom, and against reason, when he came to reply to himself, he was inferior to what he had been at first; and therefore that, in fact, he put arms into the hands of Carneades. Those arguments are such as have been ingeniously handled by you. You said that the perceptions of men asleep, or drunk, or mad, were less vigorous than those of men awake, sober, and sane. How do you prove that? because, when Ennius had awakened, he would not say that he had seen Homer, but only that Homer had seemed to be present. And Alcmæon says— And one may say the same of men who are drunk. As if any one denied that when a man has awakened he ceases to think his dreams true; and that a man whose frenzy has passed away, no longer conceives those things to be real which appeared so to him during his madness. But that is not the question: the question is, how those things appear to us, at the time when they do appear. Unless, indeed, we suppose that Ennius heard the whole of that address— (if, indeed, he did dream it), just as he would have heard it if he had been awake. For when awake, he was able to think those things phantoms—as, in fact, they were—and dreams. But while he was asleep, he felt as sure of their reality as if he had been awake. Again, Iliona, in that dream of hers, where she hears— does she not believe that her son has spoken, just as she would have believed it if she had been awake? On which account she adds— Does she here seem to place less trust in what she has seen than people do when awake? XXVIII. Why should I speak of madmen?—such as your relation Tuditanus was, Catulus. Does any man, who may be ever so much in his senses, think the things which he sees as certain as he used to think those that appeared to him? Again, the man who cries out— does he not twice cry out that he is seeing what he never sees at all? Again, when Hercules, in Euripides, shot his own sons with his arrows, taking them for the sons of Eurystheus,—when he slew his wife,—when he endeavoured even to slay his father,—was he not worked upon by false ideas, just as he might have been by true ones? Again, does not your own Alcmæon, who says that his heart distrusts the witness of his eyes, say in the same place, while inflamed by frenzy— And presently afterwards— Listen, how he implores the good faith of the virgin:— Have you any doubt here that he appears to himself to see these things? And then the rest of his speech:— How could he have believed these things any more if they had really existed than he did when they only seemed to exist? For it is clear that at the moment his heart was not distrusting his eyes. But all these instances are cited in order to prove that than which nothing can be more certain, namely, that between true and false perceptions there is no difference at all, as far as the assent of the mind is concerned. But you prove nothing when you merely refute those false perceptions of men who are mad or dreaming, by their own recollection. For the question is not what sort of recollection those people usually have who have awakened, or those who have recovered from madness, but what sort of perception madmen or dreamers had at the moment when they were under the influence of their madness or their dream. However, we will say no more about the senses. What is there that can be perceived by reason? You say that Dialectics have been discovered, and that that science is, as it were, an arbiter and judge of what is true and false. Of what true and false?—and of true and false on what subject? Will a dialectician be able to judge, in geometry, what is true and false, or in literature, or in music? He knows nothing about those things. In philosophy, then? What is it to him how large the sun is? or what means has he which may enable him to judge what the chief good is? What then will he judge of? Of what combination or disjunction of ideas is accurate,—of what is an ambiguous expression,—of what follows from each fact, or what is inconsistent with it? If the science of dialectics judges of these things, or things like
XXIX. What then, you will say; are we to be blamed for that viciousness? The nature of things has not given us any knowledge of ends, so as to enable us, in any subject whatever, to say how far we can go. Nor is this the case only in respect of the heap of wheat, from which the name is derived, but in no matter whatever where the argument is conducted by minute questions: for instance, if the question be whether a man is rich or poor, illustrious or obscure,—whether things be many or few, great or small, long or short, broad or narrow,—we have no certain answer to give, how much must be added or taken away to make the thing in question either one or the other. But the sorites is a vicious sort of argument:—crush it, then, if you can, to prevent its being troublesome; for it will be so, if you do not guard against it. We have guarded against it, says he. For Chrysippus’s plan is, when he is interrogated step by step (by way of giving an instance), whether there are three, or few, or many, to rest a little before he comes to the Nothing hurts me, says he; for I, like a skilful driver, will rein in my horses before I come to the end, and all the more if the ground which the horses are approaching is precipitous. And thus, too, says he, I will check myself, and not reply any more to one who addresses me with captious questions. If you have a clear answer to make, and refuse to make it, you are giving yourself airs; if you have not, even you yourself do not perceive it. If you stop, because the question is obscure, I admit that it is so; but you say that you do not proceed as far as what is obscure. You stop, then, where the case is still clear. If then all you do is to hold your tongue, you gain nothing by that. For what does it matter to the man who wishes to catch you, whether he entangles you owing to your silence or to your talking? Suppose, for instance, you were to say, without hesitation, that up to the number nine, is That art, therefore, does not help you against the sorites; inasmuch as it does not teach a man, who is using either the increasing or diminishing scale, what is the first point, or the last. May I not say that that same art, like Penelope undoing her web, at last undoes all the arguments which have gone before? Is that your fault, or ours? In truth, it is the foundation of dialectics, that whatever is enunciated (and that is what they call ἀξίωμα, which answers to our word XXX. However, I will pass over all this. I ask, if those things cannot be explained, and if no means of judging of them is discovered, so that you can answer whether they are true or false, then what has become of that definition,— These are the arguments of Chrysippus, which even he himself did not refute. For what could he do with such a conclusion as this,— This, however, is their last resource. They demand that one should make an exception with regard to these points which are inexplicable. I give my vote for their going to some tribune of the people; for they shall never obtain this exception from me. In truth, when they cannot prevail on Epicurus, who despises and ridicules the whole science of dialectics, to grant this proposition to be true, which we may express thus— For if a disjunctive proposition made up of contraries, (I call those propositions contraries when one affirms and the other denies,) if, I say, such a disjunctive can be false, then no one is ever true. But what quarrel have they with me who am following their system? When anything of that kind happened, Carneades used to joke in this way:— I, therefore, follow that system which I learnt from Antiochus; and I find no reason why I should judge XXXI. However, to pass over all those prickles, and all that tortuous kind of discussion, and to show what we are:—after having explained the whole theory of Carneades, all the quibbles of Antiochus will necessarily fall to pieces. Nor will I say anything in such a way as to lead any one to suspect that anything is invented by me. I will take what I say from Clitomachus, who was with Carneades till his old age, a man of great shrewdness, (indeed, he was a Carthaginian,) and very studious and diligent. And he has written four books on the subject of withholding assent; but what I am going to say is taken out of the first. Carneades asserts that there are two kinds of appearances; and that the first kind may be divided into those which can be perceived and those which cannot; and the other into those which are probable and those which are not. Therefore, those which are pronounced to be contrary to the senses and contrary to evidentness belong to the former division;
And, in truth, that wise man whom you are bringing on the stage, is often guided by what is probable, not being comprehended, nor perceived, nor assented to, but only likely; and unless a man acts on such circumstances there is an end to the whole system of life. For what must happen? Has the wise man, when he embarks on board ship, a positive comprehension and perception in his mind that he will have a successful voyage? How can he? But suppose he goes from this place to Puteoli, thirty furlongs, in a seaworthy vessel, with a good pilot, and in fine weather like this, it appears probable that he will arrive there safe. According to appearances of this kind, then, he will make up his mind to act or not to act; and he will be more willing to find the snow white than Anaxagoras, who not only denied that fact, but who affirmed, because he knew that water, from which snow was congealed, was of a dark colour, that snow did not even look white. And he will be influenced by anything which affects him in such a way that the appearance is probable, and not interfered with by any obstacle. For such a man is not cut out of stone or hewn out of oak. He has a body, he has a mind, he is influenced by intellect, he is influenced by his senses, so that many things appear to him to be true, and yet not to have conspicuous and peculiar characteristics by which to be perceived. And therefore the wise man does not assent to them, because it is possible that something false may exist of the same kind as this true thing. Nor do we speak against the senses differently from the Stoics, who say that many things
XXXII. But if this is the case, that one false idea can be entertained by the senses, you will find some one in a moment who will deny that anything can be perceived by the senses. And so, while we are silent, all perception and comprehension is done away with by the two principles laid down, one by Epicurus and the other by you. What is Epicurus’s maxim?—If anything that appears to the senses be false, then nothing can be perceived. What is yours?—The appearances presented to the senses are false.—What is the conclusion? Even if I hold my tongue, it speaks for itself, that nothing can be perceived. I do not grant that, says he, to Epicurus. Argue then with him, as he is wholly at variance with you, but leave me alone, who certainly agree with you so far, that the senses are liable to error. Although nothing appears so strange to me, as that such things should be said, especially by Antiochus, to whom the propositions which I have just mentioned were thoroughly known. For although, if he pleases, any one may find fault with this, namely with our denying that anything can be perceived; at all events it is not a very serious reproof that we can have to endure. But as for our statement that some things are probable, this does not seem to you to be sufficient. Grant that it is not. At least we ought to escape the reproaches which are incessantly bandied about by you, I explained just now, on the testimony of Clitomachus, in what manner Carneades intended those statements to be taken. Hear now, how the same things are stated by Clitomachus in that book which he dedicated to Caius Lucilius, the poet, after he had written on the same subject to Lucius Censorinus, the one, I mean, who was consul with Marcus Manilius; he then used almost these very words; for I am well acquainted with them, because the first idea and arrangement of those very matters which we are now discussing is contained in that book. He then uses the following language— And after having explained this, he adds, that there are two senses in which the wise man may be said to suspend his assent: one, when it is understood that he, as a general rule, assents to nothing; the other, when he forbears answering, so as to say that he approves or disapproves of anything, or, so as to deny or affirm anything. This being the case, he approves of the one sense, so as never to assent to anything; and adheres to the other, so as to be able to answer yes, or no, following probability whenever it either occurs or is wanting. And that one may not be astonished at one, who in every matter withholds himself from expressing his assent, being nevertheless agitated and excited to action, he leaves us perceptions of the sort by which we are excited to action, and those owing to which we can, when questioned, answer either way, being guided only by appearances, as long as we avoid expressing a deliberate assent. And yet we must look upon all appearances of that kind as probable, but only those which have no obstacles to counteract them. If we do not induce you to approve of these ideas, they may perhaps be false, but they certainly do not deserve odium. For we are not depriving you of any light; but with reference to the things which you assert are perceived and comprehended, we say, that if they be only probable, they appear to be true. XXXIII. Since, therefore, what is probable, is thus inferred and laid down, and at the same time disencumbered of all difficulties, set free and unrestrained, and disentangled from all extraneous circumstances; you see, Lucullus, that that defence of perspicuity which you took in hand is utterly overthrown. For this wise man of whom I am speaking will survey the heaven and earth and sea with the same eyes as your wise man; and will feel with the same senses all those other things which fall under each respective sense. That sea, which now, as the west wind is rising over it, appears
Whence then,—for this was the question which you asked,—comes memory, if we perceive nothing, since we cannot recollect anything which we have seen unless we have comprehended it? What? Did Polyænus, who is said to have been a great mathematician, after he had been persuaded by Epicurus to believe all geometry to be false, forget all the knowledge which he had previously possessed? But that which is false cannot be comprehended as you yourselves assert. If, therefore, memory is conversant only with things which have been perceived and comprehended, then it retains as comprehended and perceived all that every one remembers. But nothing false can be comprehended; and Scyron recollects all the dogmas of Epicurus; therefore they are all true. For all I care, they may be; but you also must either admit that they are so, and that is the last thing in your thoughts, or else you must allow me memory, and grant that there is plenty of room for it, even if there be no comprehension or perception. What then is to become of the arts? Of what arts? of those, which of their own accord confess that they proceed on conjecture more than on knowledge; or of those which only follow what appears to them, and are destitute of that art which you possess to enable them to distinguish between truth and falsehood? But there are two lights which, more than any others, contain the whole case; for, in the first place, you deny the possibility of any man invariably withholding his assent from everything. But that is quite plain; since Panætius, almost the greatest man, in my opinion, of all the Stoics, says that he is in doubt as to that matter, which all the Stoics except him think absolutely certain, namely as to the truth of the auspices taken by soothsayers, and of oracles, and dreams, and prophecies; and forbears to express any assent respecting
The second point is that you declare that man incapable of action who withholds his assent from everything. For first of all we must see in what assent consists. For the Stoics say that the senses themselves are assents; that desire comes after them, and action after desire. But that every thing is at an end if we deny perception. XXXIV. Now on this subject many things have been said and written on both sides, but the whole matter may be summed up in a few words. For although I think it a very great exploit to resist one’s perceptions, to withstand one’s vague opinions, to check one’s propensity to give assent to propositions,—and though I quite agree with Clitomachus, when he writes that Carneades achieved a Herculean labour when, as if it had been a savage and formidable monster, he extracted assent, that is to say, vague opinion and rashness, from our minds,—yet, supposing that part of the defence is wholly omitted, what will hinder the action of that man who follows probability, without any obstacle arising to embarrass him? This thing of itself, says he, will embarrass him,—that he will lay it down, that even the thing he approves of cannot be perceived. And that will hinder you, also, in sailing, in planting, in marrying a wife, in becoming the parent of children, and in many things in which you follow nothing except what is probable. And, nevertheless, you bring up again that old and often repudiated objection, to employ it not as Antipater did, but, as you say, in a closer manner. For you tell us that Antipater was blamed for saying, that it was consistent in a man who affirmed that nothing could be comprehended, to say that at least this fact of that impossibility could be comprehended; which appeared even to Antiochus to be a stupid kind of
Nor have you, O Lucullus, omitted that other objection of Antiochus (and, indeed, it is no wonder, for it is a very notorious one,) by which he used to say that Philo was above all things perplexed. For when one proposition was assumed, that some appearances were false, and a second one that there was no difference between them and true ones, he said that that school omitted to take notice that the former proposition had been granted by him, because there did appear to be some difference between appearances; but that that was put an end to by the second proposition, which asserted that there was no difference between false and true ones; for that no two assertions could be more contradictory. And this objection would be correct if we altogether put truth out of the question: but we do not; for we see both true appearances and false ones. But there is a show of probability in them, though of perception we have no sign whatever. XXXV. And I seem to myself to be at this moment adopting too meagre an argument; for, when there is a wide plain, in which our discourse may rove at liberty, why should we
And, first of all, I will ask him how it is that he is a follower of that Academy to which he professes to belong? For, to pass over other points, who is there, either of the Old Academy or of the Peripatetics, who has ever made these two assertions which are the subject of discussion,—either that that alone could be perceived which was a truth of such a nature, as what was false could not be; or that a wise man was never guided by opinion? Certainly no one of them ever said so. Neither of these propositions was much maintained before Zeno’s time. But I consider both of them true; and I do not say so just to serve the present turn, but it is my honest opinion. XXXVI. This is what I cannot bear. When you forbid me to assent to what I do not know, and say such a proceeding is most discreditable, and full of rashness,—when you, at the same time, arrogate so much to yourself, as to take upon yourself to explain the whole system of wisdom, to unfold the nature of all things, to form men’s manners, to fix the limits of good and evil, to describe men’s duties, and also to undertake
Wisdom, then, is distributed by most people, and indeed by us, into three parts. First therefore, if you please, let us consider the researches that have been made into the nature of things. Is there any one so puffed up with a false opinion of himself as to have persuaded himself that he knows those things? I am not asking about those reasons which depend on conjecture, which are dragged every way by discussions, and which do not admit any necessity of persuasion. Let the geometricians look to that, who profess not to persuade men to believe them, but to compel them to do so; and who prove to you everything that they describe. I am not asking these
XXXVII. First of all, Thales, one of the seven, to whom they say that the other six yielded the preeminence, said that everything originated out of water; but he failed to convince Anaximander, his countryman and companion, of this theory; for his idea was that there was an infinity of nature from which all things were produced. After him, his pupil, Anaximenes, said that the air was infinite, but that the things which were generated from it were finite; and that the earth, and water, and fire, were generated, and that from them was produced everything else. Anaxagoras said that matter was infinite; but that from it were produced minute particles resembling one another; that at first they were confused, but afterwards brought into order by divine intellect. Xenophanes, who was a little more ancient still, asserted that
Now of all these different teachers the wise man will, I imagine, select some one to follow; all the rest, numerous, and great men as they are, will be discarded by him and condemned; but whichever doctrine he approves of he will retain in his mind, being comprehended in the same manner as those things which he comprehends by means of the senses; nor will he feel any greater certainty of the fact of its now being day, than, since he is a Stoic, of this world being wise, being endowed with intellect, which has made both itself and the world, and which regulates, sets in motion, and governs everything. He will also be persuaded that the sun, and moon, and all the stars, and the earth, and sea, are gods, because a certain animal intelligence pervades and passes through them all: but nevertheless that it will happen some day or other that all this world will be burnt up with fire. XXXVIII. Suppose that all this is true: (for you see already that I admit that something is true,) still I deny that these things are comprehended and perceived. For when that wise Stoic of yours has repeated all that to you, syllable by syllable, Aristotle will come forward pouring forth a golden stream of eloquence, and pronounce him a fool; and assert that the world has never had a beginning, because there never existed any beginning of so admirable a work from the adoption of a new plan: and that the world is so excellently made in every part that no power could be great enough to cause such motion, and such changes; nor could any time whatever be long enough to produce an old age capable of causing all this beauty to decay and perish. It will be indispensable for
You say that nothing can have any power without God. Exactly opposite is the doctrine of Strato of Lampsacus, who gives that God of his exemption from all important business. But as the priests of the gods have a holiday, how much more reasonable is it that the gods should have one themselves? He then asserts that he has no need of the aid of the gods to account for the making of the world. Everything that exists, he says, was made by Nature: not agreeing with that other philosopher who teaches, that the universe is a concrete mass of rough and smooth, and hooked and crooked bodies, with the addition of a vacuum: this he calls a dream of Democritus, and says that he is here not teaching, but wishing;—but he himself, examining each separate part of the world, teaches that whatever exists, and whatever is done, is caused, or has been caused, by natural weights and motions. In this way he releases God from a great deal of hard work, and me from fear; for who is there who, (when he thinks that he is an object of divine care,) does not feel an awe of the divine power day and night? And who, whenever any misfortunes happen to him (and what man is there to whom none happen?) feels a dread lest they may have befallen him deservedly—not, indeed, that I agree with that; but neither do I with you: at one time I think one doctrine more probable, and at other times I incline to the other. XXXIX. All these mysteries, O Lucullus, lie concealed and enveloped in darkness so thick that no human ingenuity
Hiretas of Syracuse, as Theophrastus tells us, thinks that the sun, and moon, and stars, and all the heavenly bodies, in short, stand still; and that nothing in the world moves except the earth; and, as that turns and revolves on its own axis with the greatest rapidity, he thinks that everything is made to appear by it as if it were the heaven which is moved while the earth stands still. And, indeed, some people think that Plato, in the Timæus, asserts this, only rather obscurely. What is your opinion, Epicurus? Speak. Do you think that the sun is so small?—Do I? Do you yourselves think it so large? But all of you are ridiculed by him, and you in your turn mock him. Socrates, then, is free from this ridicule, and so is Ariston of Chios, who thinks that none of these matters can be known. But I return to the mind and body. Is it sufficiently known by us what is the nature of the sinews and of the veins? Do we comprehend what the mind is?—where it is?—or, in short, whether it exists at all, or whether, as Dicæarchus
XL. Some of these theories seem certain to your wise man: but ours does not even see what is most probable; so nearly equal in weight are the opposite arguments in most cases. If you proceed more modestly, and reproach me, not because I do not assent to your reasoning, but because I do not assent to any, I will not resist any further: but I will select some one with whom I may agree. Whom shall I choose?—whom? Democritus? for, as you know, I have always been a favourer of noble birth. I shall be at once overwhelmed with the reproaches of your whole body. Can you think, they will say to me, that there is any vacuum, when everything is so filled and close packed that whenever any body leaves its place and moves, the place which it leaves is immediately occupied by some other body? Or can you believe that there are any atoms to which whatever is made by their combination is entirely unlike? or that any excellent thing can be made without intellect? And, since this admirable beauty is found in one world, do you think that there are also innumerable other worlds, above, below, on the right hand and on the left, before, and behind, some unlike this one, and some of the same kind? And, as we are now at Bauli, and are beholding Puteoli, do you think that there are in other places like these a countless host of men, of the same names and rank, and exploits, and talents, and appearances, and ages, arguing on the same subjects? And if at this moment, or when we are asleep, we seem to see anything in our mind, do you think that those images enter from without, penetrating into our minds through our bodies? You can never adopt such ideas as these, or give your assent to such preposterous notions. It is better to have no ideas at all than to have such erroneous ones as these. Your object, then, is not to make me sanction anything by
XLI. But why should you seek to disparage me? May I not confess that I do not understand what I really do not? Or may the Stoics argue with one other, and may I not argue with them? Zeno, and nearly all the rest of the Stoics, consider Æther as the Supreme God, being endued with reason, by which everything is governed. Cleanthes, who we may call a Stoic, Let us now come to the question of the knowledge of good and evil. But we must say a few words by way of preface. It appears to me that they who speak so positively about those questions of natural philosophy, do not reflect that they are depriving themselves of the authority of those ideas which appear more clear. For they cannot give a clearer assent to, or a more positive approval of the fact that it is now daylight, than they do, when the crow croaks, to the idea that it is commanding or prohibiting something. Nor will they affirm that that statue is six feet high more positively after they have measured it, than that the sun, which they cannot measure, is more than eighteen times as large as the earth. From which this conclusion arises: if it cannot be perceived how large the sun is, he who assents to other things in the same manner as he does to the magnitude of the sun, does not perceive them. But the magnitude of the sun cannot be perceived. He, then, who assents to a statement about it, as if he perceived it, perceives nothing. Suppose they were to reply that it is possible to perceive how large the sun is; I will not object as long as they admit that other things too can be perceived and comprehended in the same manner. For they cannot affirm that one thing can be comprehended more or less than another, since there is only one definition of the comprehension of everything. XLII. However, to go back to what I had begun to say—What have we in good and bad certainly ascertained? (we must, of course, fix boundaries to which the sum of good and evil is to be referred;) what subject, in fact, is there about which there is a greater disagreement between the most learned men? I say nothing about those points which seem now to be abandoned; or about Herillus, who places the chief good in knowledge and science: and though he had been a pupil of Zeno, you see how far he disagrees with him, and how very little he differs from Plato. The school of the Megaric philosophers was a very celebrated one; and its chief, as I see it stated in books, was Xenophanes, whom I mentioned just now. After him came Parmenides and Zeno; and from them
To say nothing, then, of all these opinions, let us now examine those others which have been long and vigorously maintained. Some have accounted pleasure the chief good; the chief of whom was Aristippus, who had been a pupil of Socrates, and from whom the Cyrenaic school spring. After him came Epicurus, whose school is now better known, though he does not exactly agree with the Cyrenaics about pleasure itself. But Callipho thought that pleasure and honour combined made up the chief good. Hieronymus placed it in being free from all annoyance; Diodorus in this state when combined with honour. Both these last men were Peripatetics. To live honourably, enjoying those things which nature makes most dear to man, was the definition both of the Old Academy, (as we may learn from the writings of Polemo, who is highly approved of by Antiochus,) and of Aristotle, and it is the one to which his friends appear now to come nearest. Carneades also introduced a definition, (not because he approved of it himself, but for the sake of opposition to the Stoics,) that the chief good is to enjoy those
XLIII. This now is plain enough, that all these chief goods which I have mentioned have a chief evil corresponding to them, which is their exact opposite. I now put it to you, whom shall I follow? only do not let any one make me so ignorant and absurd a reply as, Any one, provided only that you follow some one or other. Nothing more inconsiderate can be said: I wish to follow the Stoics. Will Antiochus, (I do not say Aristotle, a man almost, in my opinion, unrivalled as a philosopher, but will Antiochus) give me leave? And he was called an Academic; but he would have been, with very little alteration, something very like a Stoic. The matter shall now be brought to a decision. For we must either give the wise man to the Stoics or to the Old Academy. He cannot belong to both; for the contention between them is not one about boundaries, but about the whole territory. For the whole system of life depends on the definition of the chief good; and those who differ on that point, differ about the whole system of life. It is impossible, therefore, that those of both these schools should be wise, since they differ so much from one another: but one of them only can be so. If it be the disciple of Polemo, then the Stoic is wrong, who assents to an error: and you say that nothing is so incompatible with the character of a wise man as that. But if the principles of Zeno be true, then we must say the same of the Old Academics and of the Peripatetics; and as I do not know which is the more wise of the two, I give my assent to neither. What? when Antiochus in some points disagrees with the Stoics whom he is so fond of, does he not show that these principles cannot be approved of by a wise man? The Stoics assert that all offences are equal: but Antiochus energetically resists this doctrine. At least, let me consider before I decide which opinion I will embrace. Cut the matter short, says he, do at last decide on something. What? The reasons which are given appear to me to be both shrewd and nearly equal: may I not then be on my guard against committing a crime? for you called it a crime, Lucullus, to violate a principle; I, therefore, restrain myself, lest I should
Here, however, is a much greater difference.—Zeno thinks that a happy life depends on virtue alone. What says Antiochus? He admits that this is true of a happy life, but not of the happiest possible life. The first is a god, who thinks that nothing can be wanting to virtue; the latter is a miserable man, who thinks that there are many things besides virtue, some of which are dear to a man, and some even necessary. But I am afraid that the former may be attributing to virtue more than nature can bear; especially since Theophrastus has said many things with eloquence and copiousness on this subject; and I fear that even he may not be quite consistent with himself. For though he admits that there are some evils both of body and fortune, he nevertheless thinks that a man may be happy who is afflicted by them all, provided he is wise. I am perplexed here; at one time the one opinion appears to me to be more probable, and at another time the other does. And yet, unless one or the other be true, I think virtue must be entirely trampled under foot. XLIV. However, they differ as to this principle. What then? Can we approve, as true, of those maxims on which they agree; namely, that the mind of the wise man is never influenced by either desire or joy? Come, suppose this opinion is a probable one, is this other one so too; namely, that it never feels either alarm or grief? Cannot the wise fear? And if his country be destroyed, cannot he grieve? That seems harsh, but Zeno thinks it inevitable; for he considers nothing good except what is honourable. But you do not think it true in the least, Antiochus. For you admit that there are many good things besides honour, and many evils besides baseness; and it is inevitable that the wise man must fear such when coming, and grieve when they have come. But I ask when it was decided by the Old Academy that they were to deny that the mind of the wise man could be agitated or disturbed? They approved of intermediate states, and asserted that there was a kind of natural mean in every agitation. We have all read the treatise on Grief, by Crantor, a disciple of the Old Academy. It is not large, but it is a golden book, and one, as Panætius tells Tubero, worth learning by
XLV. I have read in Clitomachus, that when Carneades and Diogenes the Stoic were standing in the capitol before the senate, Aulus Albonus (who was prætor at the time, in the consulship of Publius Scipio and Marcus Marcellus, the same Albonus who was consul, Lucullus, with your own grandfather, a learned man, as his own history shows, which is written in Greek) said jestingly to Carneades— But you are all afraid for me, lest I should descend to opinions, and adopt and approve of something that I do not understand; which you would be very sorry for me to do. What advice do you give me? Chrysippus often testifies that there are three opinions only about the chief good which can be defended; he cuts off and discards all the rest. He says that either honour is the chief good, or pleasure, or both combined. For that those who say that the chief good is to be free from all annoyance, shun the unpopular name of pleasure, but hover about its neighbourhood. And those also do the same who combine that freedom from annoyance with honour. And those do not much differ from them who unite to honour the chief advantages of nature. So he leaves three opinions which he thinks may be maintained by probable arguments. Be it so. Although I am not easily to be moved from the definition of Polemo and the Peripatetics, and Antiochus, nor have I anything more probable to bring forward. Still, I see how sweetly pleasure allures our senses. I am inclined to agree with Epicurus or Aristippus. But virtue recalls me, or rather leads me back with her hand; says that these are the feelings of cattle, and that man is akin to the Deity. I may take a middle course; so that, since Aristippus, as if we had no mind, defends nothing but the body, and Zeno espouses the cause of the mind alone, as if we were destitute of body, I may follow Callipho, whose opinion Carneades used to defend with such zeal, that he appeared wholly to approve of it; although Clitomachus affirmed that he never could understand what Carneades approved of. But if I were to choose to follow him, would not truth itself, and all sound and proper reason, oppose me? Will you, when honour consists in despising pleasure, unite honour to pleasure, joining, as it were, a man to a beast? XLVI. There is now, then, only one pair of combatants left—pleasure and honour; between which Chrysippus, as far as I can see, was not long in perplexity how to decide. If you follow the one, many things are overthrown, especially the fellowship of the human race, affection, friendship, justice, and all other virtues, none of which can exist at all without disinterestedness: for the virtue which is impelled to action by pleasure, as by a sort of wages, is not really virtue, but only a deceitful imitation and pretence of virtue. Listen, on
I come now to the third part of philosophy. There is an idea advanced by Protagoras, who thinks that that is true to each individual which seems so to him; and a completely different one put forward by the Cyrenaics, who think that there is no such thing as certain judgment about anything except the inner feelings: and a third, different from either, maintained by Epicurus, who places all judgment in the senses, and in our notions of things, and in pleasure. But Plato considered that the whole judgment of truth, and that truth itself, being abstracted from opinions and from the senses, belonged to the province of thought and of the intellect. Does our friend Antiochus approve of any of these principles? He does not even approve of those who may be called his own ancestors in philosophy: for where does he follow Xenocrates, who has written a great many books on the method of speaking, which are highly esteemed?—or Aristotle himself, than whom there is no more acute or elegant writer? He never goes one step without Chrysippus. XLVII. Do we then, who are called Academics, misuse the glory of this name? or why are we to be compelled to follow those men who differ from one another? In this very thing, which the dialecticians teach among the elements of their art,
Now, are these arguments less formidable than yours? They are not, perhaps, very refined; and those others show
And this doctrine is confirmed also by the diligence of our ancestors, who ordained, in the first place, that every one should swear XLVIII. But since the sailor is making signals, and the west wind is showing us too, by its murmur, that it is time for us, Lucullus, to set sail, and since I have already said a great deal, I must now conclude. But hereafter, when we inquire into these subjects, we will discuss the great disagreements between the most eminent on the subject of the obscurity of nature, and the errors of so many philosophers who differ from one another about good and evil so widely, that, as more than one of their theories cannot be true, it is inevitable that many illustrious schools must fall to the ground, rather than the theories about the false impressions of the eyes and the other senses, and sorites, or false syllogism,—rods which the Stoics have made to beat themselves with. Then Lucullus replied, I am not at all sorry that we have had this discussion; for often, when we meet again, especially in our Tusculan villas, we can examine other questions which seem worth investigation. Certainly, said I; but what does
So, after we had finished our discourse, Catulus remained behind, and we went down to the shore to embark in our vessels. Introduction. The following treatise was composed by Cicero a little before the publication of his Tusculan Disputations. It consists of a series of Dialogues, in which the opinions of the different schools of Greek philosophy, especially the Epicureans, Stoics, and Peripatetics, on the Supreme Good, as the proper object or end ( He gives an account himself of the work and of his design and plan in the following terms. (Epist. ad Att. xiii. 19.) In the third book the scene is laid in the library of Lucullus, where Cicero had accidentally met Cato; and from conversing on the books by which they were surrounded they proceeded to discuss the difference between the ethics of the Stoics, and those of the Old Academy and the Peripatetics; Cicero insisting that the disagreement was merely verbal and not real, and that Zeno was wrong in leaving Plato and Aristotle and establishing a new school; but Cato asserts, on the other hand, that the difference is a real one, and that the views held by the Stoics of the Supreme Good are of a much loftier and purer character than those which had been previously entertained. In the fourth book Cicero gives us the arguments with which the philosophers of the New Academy assailed the Stoics. And this conversation is supposed to have been held two years before that in the first book: for at the beginning of Book IV. there is a reference to the law for limiting the length of the speeches of counsel passed in the second consulship of Pompey, In the fifth book we are carried back to I. I was not ignorant, Brutus, when I was endeavouring to add to Latin literature the same things which philosophers of the most sublime genius and the most profound and accurate learning had previously handled in the Greek language, that my labours would be found fault with on various grounds. For some, and those too, far from unlearned men, are disinclined to philosophy altogether; some, on the other hand, do not blame a moderate degree of attention being given to it, but do not approve of so much study and labour being devoted to it. There will be others again, learned in Greek literature and despising Latin compositions, who will say that they would rather spend their time in reading Greek; and, lastly, I suspect that there will be some people who will insist upon it that I ought to apply myself to other studies, and will urge that, although this style of writing may be an elegant accomplishment, it is still beneath my character and dignity. And to all these objections I think I ought to make a brief reply; although, indeed, I have already given a sufficient answer to the enemies of philosophy in that book in which philosophy is defended and extolled by me after having been attacked and disparaged by Hortensius. For, if it be possible that men should arrive at wisdom, then it must not only be acquired by us, but even enjoyed. Or if this be difficult, still there is no limit to the way in which one is to seek for truth except one has found it; and it is base to be wearied in seeking a thing, when what we do seek for is the most honourable thing possible. In truth, if we are amused when we are writing, who is so envious as to wish to deny us that pleasure? If it is a labour to us, who will fix a limit to another person’s industry? For as the Chremes for he is not in this dissuading him from industry, but only from such labour as is beneath a gentleman; so, on the other hand those men are over scrupulous who are offended by my devoting myself to a labour which is far from irksome to myself. II. It is more difficult to satisfy those men who allege that they despise Latin writings. But, first of all, I may express my wonder at their not being pleased with their native language in matters of the highest importance, when they are fond enough of reading fables in Latin, translated word for word from the Greek. For what man is such an enemy (as I may almost call it) to the Roman name, as to despise or reject the Medea of Ennius, or the Antiope of Pacuvius? and to express a dislike of Latin literature, while at the same time he speaks of being pleased with the plays of Euripides? Cæcilius Statius was the predecessor of Terence; by birth an Insubrian Gaul and a native of Milan. He died Vincere Cæcilius gravitate, Terentius arte. or the Andria of Terence, than either of these plays in the original of Menander? But I disagree with men of these opinions so entirely, that though
My own opinion is, that no one is sufficiently learned who is not well versed in the works written in our own language. Shall we not be as willing to read— as the same idea when expressed in Greek? And is there any objection to having the discussions which have been set out by Plato, on the subject of living well and happily, arrayed in a Latin dress? And if we do not limit ourselves to the office of translators, but maintain those arguments which have been advanced by people with whom we argue, and add to them the exposition of our own sentiments, and clothe the whole in our own language, why then should people prefer the writings of the Greeks to those things which are written by us in an elegant style, without being translated from the works of Greek philosophers? For if they say that these matters have been discussed by those foreign writers, then there surely is no necessity for their reading such a number of those Greeks as they do. For what article of Stoic doctrine has been passed over by Chrysippus? And yet we read also Diogenes, III. Although if I were to translate Plato or Aristotle in as bold a manner as our poets have translated the Greek plays, then, I suppose, I should not deserve well at the hands of my fellow-countrymen, for having brought those divine geniuses within their reach. However, that is not what I have hitherto done, though I do not consider myself interdicted from doing so. Some particular passages, if I think it desirable, I shall translate, especially from those authors whom I have just named, when there is an opportunity of doing so with propriety; just as Ennius often translates passages from Homer, and Afranius Lucius Afranius lived about 100 Dicitur Afranî toga convenisse Menandro. Cicero praises his language highly (Brut. 45). from Menander. Nor will I, like Lucilius, make any objection to everybody reading my writings. I should be glad to have that Persius Caius Lucilius was the earliest of the Roman satirists, born at Suessa Aurunca, Persium non curo legere: Lælium Decimum volo. This Persius being a very learned man; in comparison with whom Lælius was an ignoramus. But I imagine that some people have become accustomed to feel a repugnance to Latin writing because they have fallen in with some unpolished and inelegant treatises translated from bad Greek into worse Latin. And with those men I agree, provided they will not think it worth while to read the Greek books written on the same subject. But who would object to read works on important subjects expressed in well-selected diction, with dignity and elegance; unless, indeed, he wishes to be taken absolutely for a Greek, as Albucius was saluted at Athens by Scævola, when he was prætor? And this topic has been handled by that same Lucilius with great elegance and abundant wit; where he represents Scævola as saying— But surely Scævola was right. However, I can never sufficiently express my wonder whence this arrogant disdain of everything national arose among us. This is not exactly the place for lecturing on the subject; but my own feelings are, and I have constantly urged them, that the Latin language is not only not deficient, so as to deserve to be generally
IV. And I myself (as I do not think that I can be accused of having, in my forensic exertions, and labours, and dangers, deserted the post in which I was stationed by the Roman people,) am bound, forsooth, to exert myself as much as I can to render my fellow-countrymen more learned by my labours and studies and diligence, and not so much to contend with those men who prefer reading Greek works, provided that they really do read them, and do not only pretend to do so; and to fall in also with the wishes of those men who are desirous either to avail themselves of both languages, or who, as long as they have good works in their own, do not care very much about similar ones in a foreign tongue. But those men who would rather that I would write on other topics should be reasonable, because I have already composed so many works that no one of my countrymen has ever published more, and perhaps I shall write even more if my life is prolonged so as to allow me to do so. And yet, whoever accustoms himself to read with care these things which I am now writing on the subject of philosophy, will come to the conclusion that no works are better worth reading than these. For what is there in life which deserves to be investigated so diligently as every subject which belongs to philosophy, and especially that which is discussed in this treatise, namely, what is the end, the object, the standard to which all the ideas of living well and acting rightly are to be referred? What it is that nature follows as the chief of all desirable things? what she avoids as the principal of all evils? And as on this subject there is great difference of opinion among the most learned men, who can think it inconsistent with that dignity which every one allows to belong to me, to examine what is in every situation in life the best and truest good? Shall the chief men of the city, Publius Scævola and Marcus Manilius argue whether the offspring of a female slave ought to be considered the gain of the master of the slave; and shall Marcus Brutus express his dissent from their opinion, (and this is a kind of discussion giving great room
V. To begin, however, with that which is easiest, we will first of all take the doctrine of Epicurus, which is well known to most people; and you shall see that it is laid down by us in such a way that it cannot be explained more accurately even by the adherents of that sect themselves. For we are desirous of ascertaining the truth; not of convicting some adversary. But the opinion of Epicurus about pleasure was formerly defended with great precision by Lucius Torquatus, a man accomplished in every kind of learning; and I myself replied to him, while Caius Triarius, a most learned and worthy young man, was present at the discussion. For as it happened that both of them had come to my villa near Cumæ to pay me a visit, first of all we conversed a little about literature, to which they were both of them greatly devoted; and after a while Torquatus said—Since we have found you in some degree at leisure, I should like much to hear from you why it is that you, I will not say hate our master Epicurus—as most men do who differ from him in opinion—but still why you disagree with him whom I consider as the only man who has discerned the real truth, and who I think has delivered the minds of men from the greatest errors, and has handed down every precept which can have any influence on making men live well and happily. But I imagine that you, like my friend Triarius here, like him the less because he neglected the ornaments of diction in which Plato, and Aristotle, and Theophrastus indulged. For I can hardly be persuaded to
VI. What is it, then, said he, which you do not approve of in them, for I am very anxious to hear? In the first place, said I, he is utterly wrong in natural philosophy, which is his principal boast. He only makes some additions to the doctrine of Democritus, altering very little, and that in such a way that he seems to me to make those points worse which he endeavours to correct. He believes that atoms, as he calls them, that is to say bodies which by reason of their solidity are indivisible, are borne about in an interminable vacuum, destitute of any highest, or lowest, or middle, or furthest, or nearest boundary, in such a manner that by their concourse they cohere together; by which cohesion everything which exists and which is seen is formed. And he thinks that motion of atoms should be understood never to have had a beginning, but to have subsisted from all eternity. But in those matters in which Epicurus follows Democritus, he is usually not very wrong. Although there are many
For he thinks that those indivisible and solid bodies are borne downwards by their own weight in a straight line; and that this is the natural motion of all bodies. After this assertion, that shrewd man,—as it occurred to him, that if everything were borne downwards in a straight line, as I have just said, it would be quite impossible for one atom ever to touch another,—on this account he introduced another purely imaginary idea, and said that the atoms diverged a little from the straight line, which is the most impossible thing in the world. And he asserted that it is in this way that all those embraces, and conjunctions, and unions of the atoms with one another took place, by which the world was made, and all the parts of the world, and all that is in the world. And not only is all this idea perfectly childish, but it fails in effecting its object. For this very divergence is invented in a most capricious manner, (for he says that each atom diverges without any cause,) though nothing can be more discreditable to a natural philosopher than to say that anything takes place without a cause; and also, without any reason, he deprives atoms of that motion which is natural to every body of any weight (as he himself lays it down) which goes downwards from the upper regions; and at the same time he does not obtain the end for the sake of which he invented all these theories. For if every atom diverges equally, still none will ever meet with one another so as to cohere; but if some diverge, and others are borne straight down by their natural inclination, in the first place this will be distributing provinces as it were among the atoms, and dividing them so that some are borne down straight, and others obliquely; and in the next place, this turbulent concourse of atoms, which is a blunder of Democritus also, will never be able to produce this beautifully ornamented world which we see around us. Even this,
The sun appears to Democritus to be of vast size, as he is a man of learning and of a profound knowledge of geometry. Epicurus perhaps thinks that it is two feet across, for he thinks it of just that size which it appears to be, or perhaps a little larger or smaller. So what he changes he spoils; what he accepts comes entirely from Democritus,—the atoms, the vacuum, the appearances, which they call εἴδωλα, to the inroads of which it is owing not only that we see, but also that we think; and all that infiniteness, which they call ἀπειρία, is borrowed from Democritus; and also the innumerable worlds which are produced and perish every day. And although I cannot possibly agree myself with all those fancies, still I should not like to see Democritus, who is praised by every one else, blamed by this man who has followed him alone. VII. And as for the second part of philosophy, which belongs to investigating and discussing, and which is called λογικὴ, there your master as it seems to me is wholly unarmed and defenceless. He abolishes definitions; he lays down no rules for division and partition; he gives no method for drawing conclusions or establishing principles; he does not point out how captious objections may be refuted, or ambiguous terms explained. He places all our judgments of things in our senses; and if they are once led to approve of anything false as if it were true, then he thinks that there is an end to all our power of distinguishing between truth and falsehood. But in the third part, which relates to life and manners, with respect to establishing the end of our actions, he utters not one single generous or noble sentiment. He lays down above all others the principle, that nature has but two things as objects of adoption and aversion, namely, pleasure and pain:
However, to say nothing of the dangers, and labours, and even of the pain which every virtuous man willingly encounters on behalf of his country, or of his family, to such a degree that he not only does not seek for, but even disregards all pleasures, and prefers even to endure any pain whatever rather than to forsake any part of his duty; let us come to those things which show this equally, but which appear of less importance. What pleasure do you, O Torquatus, what pleasure does this Triarius derive from literature, and history, and the knowledge of events, and the reading of poets, and his wonderful recollection of such numbers of verses? And do not say to me, Why all these things are a pleasure to me. So, too, were those noble actions to the Torquati.
These principles, then, of Epicurus, I say, I do not approve of. As for other matters, I wish either that he himself had been a greater master of learning, (for he is, as you yourself cannot help seeing, not sufficiently accomplished in those branches of knowledge which men possess who are accounted learned,) or at all events that he had not deterred others from the study of literature: although I see that you yourself have not been at all deterred from such pursuits by him. VIII. And when I had said this, more for the purpose of exciting him than of speaking myself, Triarius, smiling gently, said,—You, indeed, have almost entirely expelled Epicurus from the number of philosophers. For what have you left him except the assertion that, whatever his language might he, you understood what he meant? He has in natural philosophy said nothing but what is borrowed from others, and even then nothing which you approved of. If he has tried to amend anything he has made it worse. He had no skill whatever in disputing. When he laid down the rule that pleasure was the chief good, in the first place he was very short-sighted in making such an assertion; and secondly, even this very doctrine was a borrowed one; for Aristippus had said the same thing before, and better too. You added, at last, that he was also destitute of learning. It is quite impossible, O Triarius, I replied, for a person not to state what he disapproves of in the theory of a man with whom he disagrees. For what could hinder me from being an Epicurean if I approved of what Epicurus says? especially
I quite agree with you, said Torquatus; for one cannot dispute at all without finding fault with your antagonist; but on the other hand you cannot dispute properly if you do so with ill-temper or with pertinacity. But, if you have no objection, I have an answer to make to these assertions of yours. Do you suppose, said I, that I should have said what I have said if I did not desire to hear what you had to say too? Would you like then, says he, that I should go through the whole theory of Epicurus, or that we should limit our present inquiry to pleasure by itself; which is what the whole of the present dispute relates to? We will do, said I, whichever you please. That then, said he, shall be my present course. I will explain one matter only, being the most important one. At another time I will discuss the question of natural philosophy; and I will prove to you the theory of the divergence of the atoms, and of the magnitude of the sun, and that Democritus committed many errors which were found fault with and corrected by Epicurus. At present, I will confine myself to pleasure; not that I am saying anything new, but still I will adduce arguments which I feel sure that even you yourself will approve of. Undoubtedly, said I, I will not be obstinate; and I will willingly agree with you if you will only prove your assertions to my satisfaction. I will prove them, said he, provided only that you are as impartial as you profess yourself: but I would rather employ a connected discourse than keep on asking or being asked questions. As you please, said I. On this he began to speak;— IX. First of all then, said he, I will proceed in the manner which is sanctioned by the founder of this school: I will lay down what that is which is the subject of our inquiry, and what its character is: not that I imagine that you do not know, but in order that my discourse may proceed in a systematic and orderly manner. We are inquiring, then, what is the end,—what is the extreme point of good, which, in the opinion of all philosophers, ought to be such that everything
Therefore, they say that this notion is implanted in our minds naturally and instinctively, as it were; so that we X. But that you may come to an accurate perception of the source whence all this error originated of those people who attack pleasure and extol pain, I will unfold the whole matter; and I will lay before you the very statements which have been made by that discoverer of the truth, and architect, as it were, of a happy life. For no one either despises, or hates, or avoids pleasure itself merely because it is pleasure, but because great pains overtake those men who do not understand how to pursue pleasure in a reasonable manner. Nor is there any one who loves, or pursues, or wishes to acquire pain because it is pain, but because sometimes such occasions arise that a man attains to some great pleasure through labour and pain. For, to descend to trifles, who of us ever undertakes any laborious exertion of body except in order to gain some advantage by so doing? and who is there who could fairly blame a man who should wish to be in that state of pleasure which no annoyance can interrupt, or one who shuns that pain by which no subsequent pleasure is procured? But we do accuse those men, and think them entirely worthy of the greatest hatred, who, being made effeminate and corrupted by the allurements of present pleasure, are so blinded by passion that they do not foresee what pains and annoyances they will hereafter be subject to; and who are equally guilty with those who, through weakness of mind, that is to say, from eagerness to avoid labour and pain, desert their duty. And the distinction between these things is quick and easy. For at a time when we are free, when the option of choice is in our own power, and when there is nothing to prevent our being able to do whatever we choose, then every pleasure may be enjoyed, and every pain repelled. But on particular occasions it will often happen, owing either to the obligations of duty or the necessities of business, that pleasures must be declined and annoyances must not be shirked. Therefore the wise man holds to this principle of choice in those matters, that he rejects some pleasures, so as, by the rejection, to obtain others which are greater, and encounters some pains, so as by that means to escape others which are more formidable. Now, as these are my sentiments, what reason can I have for fearing that I may not be able to accommodate our Torquati to them—men whose examples you just now quoted from memory, with a kind and friendly feeling towards us? However, you have not bribed me by praising my ancestors, nor made me less prompt in replying to you. But I should like to know from you how you interpret their actions? Do you think that they attacked the enemy with such feelings, or that they were so severe to their children and to their own blood as to have no thought of their own advantage, or of what might be useful to themselves? But even wild beasts do not do that, and do not rush about and cause confusion in such a way that we cannot understand what is the object of their motions. And do you think that such illustrious men performed such great actions without a reason? What their reason was I will examine presently; in the meantime I will lay down this rule,—If there was any reason which instigated them to do those things which are undoubtedly splendid exploits, then virtue by herself was not the sole cause of their conduct. One man tore a chain from off his enemy, and at the same time he defended himself from being slain; but he encountered great danger. Yes, but it was before the eyes of the whole army. What did he get by that? Glory, and the affection of his countrymen, which are the surest bulwarks to enable a man to pass his life without fear. He put his son to death by the hand of the executioner. If he did so without any reason, then I should be sorry to be descended from so inhuman and merciless a man. But if his object was to establish military discipline and obedience to command, at the price of his own anguish, and at a time of a most formidable war to restrain his army by the fear of punishment, then he was providing for the safety of his fellow-citizens, which he was well aware embraced his own. And this principle is one of extensive application. For the very point respecting which your whole school, and yourself most especially, who are such a diligent investigator of ancient instances, are in the habit of vaunting yourself and using high-flown language, namely, the mention of brave and illustrious men, and the extolling of their actions, as proceeding not from any regard to advantage, but from pure principles of honour and a love of glory, is entirely upset, when once that
XI. But, however, for the present we have said enough about the illustrious and glorious actions of celebrated men; for there will be, hereafter, a very appropriate place for discussing the tendency of all the virtues to procure pleasure. But, at present, I will explain what pleasure itself is, and what its character is; so as to do away with all the mistakes of ignorant people, and in order that it may be clearly understood how dignified, and temperate, and virtuous that system is, which is often accounted voluptuous, effeminate, and delicate. For we are not at present pursuing that pleasure alone which moves nature itself by a certain sweetness, and which is perceived by the senses with a certain pleasurable feeling; but we consider that the greatest of all pleasures which is felt when all pain is removed. For since, when we are free from pain, we rejoice in that very freedom itself, and in the absence of all annoyance,—but everything which is a cause of our rejoicing is pleasure, just as everything that gives us offence is pain,—accordingly, the absence of all pain is rightly denominated pleasure. For, as when hunger and thirst are driven away by meat and drink, the very removal of the annoyance brings with it the attainment of pleasure, so, in every case, the removal of pain produces the succession of pleasure. And therefore Epicurus would not admit that there was any intermediate state between pleasure and pain; for he insisted that that very state which seems to some people the intermediate one, when a man is free from every sort of pain, is not only pleasure, but the highest sort of pleasure. For whoever feels how he is affected must inevitably be either in a state of pleasure or in a state of pain. But Epicurus thinks that the highest pleasure consists in an absence of all pains; so that pleasure may afterwards be varied, and may be of different kinds, but cannot be increased or amplified. And even at Athens, as I have heard my father say, when he was jesting in a good-humoured and facetious way upon the Stoics, there is a statue in the Ceramicus of Chrysippus, sitting down with his hand stretched out; and this attitude
XII. But that pleasure is the boundary of all good things may be easily seen from this consideration. Let us imagine a person enjoying pleasures great, numerous, and perpetual, both of mind and body, with no pain either interrupting him at present or impending over him; what condition can we call superior to or more desirable than this? For it is inevitable that there must be in a man who is in this condition a firmness of mind which fears neither death nor pain, because death is void of all sensation; and pain, if it is of long duration, is a trifle, while if severe it is usually of brief duration; so that its brevity is a consolation if it is violent, and its trifling nature if it is enduring. And when there is added to these circumstances that such a man has no fear of the deity of the gods, and does not suffer past pleasures to be entirely lost, but delights himself with the continued recollection of them, what can be added to this which will be any improvement to it? Imagine, on the other hand, any one worn out with the greatest pains of mind and body which can possibly befal a man, without any hope being held out to him that they will hereafter be lighter, when, besides, he has no pleasure whatever
XIII. And those who place this in virtue alone, and, being caught by the splendour of a name, do not understand what nature requires, will be delivered from the greatest blunder imaginable if they will listen to Epicurus. For unless those excellent and beautiful virtues which your school talks about produced pleasure, who would think them either praiseworthy or desirable? For as we esteem the skill of physicians not for the sake of the art itself, but from our desire for good health,—and as the skill of the pilot, who has the knowledge how to navigate a vessel well, is praised with reference to its utility, and not to his ability,—so wisdom, which should be considered the art of living, would not be sought after if it effected nothing; but at present it is sought after because it is, as it were, the efficient cause of pleasure, which is a legitimate object of desire and acquisition. And now you understand what pleasure I mean, so that what I say may not be brought into odium from my using an unpopular word. For as the chief annoyances to human life proceed from ignorance of what things are good and what bad, and as by reason of that mistake men are often deprived of the greatest pleasures, and tortured by the most bitter grief of mind, we have need to exercise wisdom, which, by removing groundless alarms and vain desires, and by banishing the rashness of all erroneous
And the consequence of this is, to make life thoroughly wretched; so that the wise man is the only one who, having cut away all vanity and error, and removed it from him, can live contented within the boundaries of nature, without melancholy and without fear. For what diversion can be either more useful or more adapted for human life than that which Epicurus employed? For he laid it down that there were three kinds of desires; the first, such as were natural and necessary; the second, such as were natural but not necessary; the third, such as were neither natural nor necessary. And these are all such, that those which are necessary are satisfied without much trouble or expense: even those which are natural and not necessary, do not require a great deal, because nature itself makes the riches, which are sufficient to content it, easy of acquisition and of limited quantity: but as for vain desires, it is impossible to find any limit to, or any moderation in them. XIV. But if we see that the whole life of man is thrown into disorder by error and ignorance; and that wisdom is the only thing which can relieve us from the sway of the passions and the fear of danger, and which can teach us to bear the injuries of fortune itself with moderation, and which shows us all the ways which lead to tranquillity and peace; what reason is there that we should hesitate to say that wisdom is to be sought for the sake of pleasure, and that folly is to be avoided on account of its annoyances? And on the same principle we shall say that even temperance is not to be sought for its own sake, but because it brings peace to the mind, and soothes and tranquillizes them by what I may call a kind of
But these men who wish to enjoy pleasure in such a way that no grief shall ever overtake them in consequence, and who retain their judgment so as never to be overcome by pleasure as to do what they feel ought not to be done; these men, I say, obtain the greatest pleasure by passing pleasure by. They often even endure pain, in order to avoid encountering greater pain hereafter by their shunning it at present. From which consideration it is perceived that intemperance is not to be avoided for its own sake; and that temperance is to be sought for, not because it avoids pleasures, but because it attains to greater ones. XV. The same principle will be found to hold good with respect to courage. For the discharge of labours and the endurance of pain are neither of them intrinsically tempting; nor is patience, nor diligence, nor watchfulness, nor industry which is so much extolled, nor even courage itself: but we cultivate these habits in order that we may live without care and fear, and may be able, as far as is in our power, to release our minds and bodies from annoyance. For as the whole condition of tranquil life is thrown into confusion by the fear of death, and as it is a miserable thing to yield to pain and to bear it with a humble and imbecile mind; and as on account of that weakness of mind many men have ruined their parents, many men their friends, some their country, and very many indeed have utterly undone themselves; so a vigorous and lofty mind is free from all care and pain, since it despises death, which only places those who encounter it in
XVI. Justice remains to be mentioned, that I may not omit any virtue whatever; but nearly the same things may be said respecting that. For, as I have already shown that wisdom, temperance, and fortitude are connected with pleasure in such a way that they cannot possibly be separated or divided from it, so also we must consider that it is the case with justice. Which not only never injures any one; but on the contrary always nourishes something which tranquillizes the mind, partly by its own power and nature, and partly by the hopes that nothing will be wanting of those things which a nature not depraved may fairly derive. Since rashness and lust and idleness always torture the mind, always make it anxious, and are of a turbulent character, so too, wherever injustice settles in any man’s mind, it is turbulent from the mere fact of its existence and presence there; and if it forms any plan, although it executes it ever so secretly, still it never believes that what has been done will be concealed for ever. For generally, when wicked men do anything, first of all suspicion overtakes their actions; then the common conversation and report of men; then the prosecutor and the judge; and many even, as was the case when you were consul, have given information against themselves. But if any men appear to themselves to be sufficiently fenced round and protected from the consciousness of men, still they dread the knowledge of the Gods, and think that those very anxieties by which their minds are eaten up night and day, are inflicted upon them by the immortal Gods for the sake of punishment. And how is it possible that wicked actions can ever have as much influence towards alleviating
For those desires which proceed from nature are easily satisfied without any injustice; but those which are vain ought not to be complied with. For they desire nothing which is really desirable; and there is more disadvantage in the mere fact of injustice than there is advantage in what is acquired by the injustice. Therefore a person would not be right who should pronounce even justice intrinsically desirable for its own sake; but because it brings the greatest amount of what is agreeable. For to be loved and to be dear to others is agreeable because it makes life safer, and pleasure more abundant. Therefore we think dishonesty should be avoided, not only on account of those disadvantages which befal the wicked, but even much more because it never permits the man in whose mind it abides to breathe freely, and never lets him rest. But if the praise of those identical virtues in which the discourse of all other philosophers so especially exults, cannot find any end unless it be directed towards pleasure, and if pleasure be the only thing which calls and allures us to itself by its own nature; then it cannot be doubtful that that is the highest and greatest of all goods, and that to live happily is nothing else except to live with pleasure. XVII. And I will now explain in a few words the things which are inseparably connected with this sure and solid opinion. There is no mistake with respect to the ends themselves of good and evil, that is to say, with respect to pleasure and pain; but men err in these points when they do not know what they are caused by. But we admit that the pleasures and pains of the mind are caused by the pleasures and pains of the body. Therefore I grant what you were saying just now, that if any philosophers of our school think differently (and I see that many men do so, but they are ignorant people) they must be convicted of error. But although pleasure of mind brings us joy, and pain causes us grief, it is still true that each of these feelings originates in the body, and is referred to the body; and it does not follow on that account that both the pleasures and pains of the mind are not much more important than those of the body. For with the body we are unable to feel anything which is not actually existent and present; but with our mind we feel things past and things to come. For although when we are suffering bodily pain, we are equally in pain in our minds, still a very great addition may be made to that if we believe that any endless and boundless evil is impending over us. And we may transfer this assertion to pleasure, so that that will be greater if we have no such fear. This now is entirely evident, that the very greatest pleasure or annoyance of the mind contributes more to making life happy or miserable than either of these feelings can do if it is in the body for an equal length of time. But we do not agree that, if pleasure be taken away, grief follows immediately, unless by chance it happens that pain has succeeded and taken the place of pleasure; but, on the other hand, we affirm that men do rejoice at getting rid of pain even if no pleasure which can affect the senses succeeds. And from this it may be understood how great a pleasure it is not to be in pain. But as we are roused by those good things which we are in expectation of, so we rejoice at those which we recollect. But foolish men are tortured by the recollection of past evils; wise men are delighted by the memory of past good things, which are thus renewed by the agreeable recollection. But there is a feeling implanted in us by which we
XVIII. Oh what a splendid, and manifest, and simple, and plain way of living well! For as certainly nothing could be better for man than to be free from all pain and annoyance, and to enjoy the greatest pleasures of both mind and body, do you not see how nothing is omitted which can aid life, so as to enable men more easily to arrive at that chief good which is their object! Epicurus cries out—the very man whom you pronounce to be too devoted to pleasure—that man cannot live agreeably, unless he lives honourably, justly, and wisely; and that, if he lives wisely, honourably, and justly, it is impossible that he should not live agreeably. For a city in sedition cannot be happy, nor can a house in which the masters are quarrelling. So that a mind which disagrees and quarrels with itself, cannot taste any portion of clear and unrestrained pleasure. And a man who is always giving in to pursuits and plans which are inconsistent with and contrary to one another, can never know any quiet or tranquillity. But if the pleasure of life is hindered by the graver diseases of the body, how much more must it be so by those of the mind? But the diseases of the mind are boundless and vain desires of riches, or glory, or domination, or even of lustful pleasures. Besides these there are melancholy, annoyance, sorrow, which eat up and destroy with anxiety the minds of those men who do not understand that the mind ought not to grieve about anything which is unconnected with some present or future pain of body. Nor is there any fool who does not suffer under some one of these diseases. Therefore there is no fool who is not miserable. Besides these things there is death, which is always hanging over us as his rock is over Tantalus; and superstition, a feeling which prevents any one who is imbued with it from ever enjoying tranquillity. Besides, such men as they do not recollect their past good fortune, do not enjoy what is present, but do nothing but expect what is to come; and as that cannot be certain, they wear themselves out with grief and apprehension, and are tormented most especially when they find out, after it is too
Therefore, there is no fool who is happy, and no wise man who is not. And we put this much more forcibly and truly than the Stoics: for they assert that there is no good whatever, but some imaginary shadow which they call τὸ καλὸν, a name showy rather than substantial; and they insist upon it, that virtue relying on this principle of honour stands in need of no pleasure, and is content with its own resources as adequate to secure a happy life. XIX. However, these assertions may be to a certain extent made not only without our objecting to them, but even with our concurrence and agreement. For in this way the wise man is represented by Epicurus as always happy. He has limited desires; he disregards death; he has a true opinion concerning the immortal Gods without any fear; he does not hesitate, if it is better for him, to depart from life. Being prepared in this manner, and armed with these principles, he is always in the enjoyment of pleasure; nor is there any period when he does not feel more pleasure than pain. For he remembers the past with gratitude, and he enjoys the present so as to notice how important and how delightful the joys which it supplies are; nor does he depend on future good, but he waits for that and enjoys the present; and is as far removed as possible from those vices which I have enumerated; and when he compares the life of fools to his own he feels great pleasure. And pain, if any does attack him, has never such power that the wise man has not more to rejoice at than to be grieved at. But Epicurus does admirably in saying that fortune has but little power over the wise man, and that the greatest and most important events of such a man’s life are managed
But in your dialectics he thought that there was no power which could contribute either to enable men to live better, or argue more conveniently. To natural philosophy he attributed a great deal of importance. For by the one science it is only the meaning of words and the character of a speech, and the way in which arguments follow from or are inconsistent with one another, that can be seen; but if the nature of all things is known, we are by that knowledge relieved from superstition, released from the fear of death, exempted from being perplexed by our ignorance of things, from which ignorance horrible fears often arise. Lastly, we shall be improved in our morals when we have learnt what nature requires. Moreover, if we have an accurate knowledge of things, preserving that rule which has fallen from heaven as it were for the knowledge of all things, by which all our judgments of things are to be regulated, we shall never abandon our opinions because of being overcome by any one’s eloquence. For unless the nature of things is thoroughly known, we shall have no means by which we can defend the judgments formed by our senses. Moreover, whatever we discern by our intellect, all arises from the senses. And if our senses are all correct, as the theory of Epicurus affirms, then something may be discerned and understood accurately; but as to those men who deny the power of the senses, and say that nothing can be known by them, those very men, if the senses are discarded, will be unable to explain that very point which they are arguing about. Besides, if all knowledge and science is put out of the question, then there is an end also of all settled principles of living and of doing anything. Thus, by means of natural philosophy, courage is desired to withstand the fear of death, and constancy to put aside the claims engendered by superstition; and by removing ignorance of all secret things, tranquillity of mind is produced; and by explaining the nature of desires and their different kinds, we get moderation: and (as I just now explained) by means of this rule of knowledge, and of the judgment which is established and corrected by it, the power of distinguishing truth from falsehood is put into man’s hands. XX. There remains a topic necessary above all others to this discussion, that of friendship, namely: which you, if pleasure is the chief good, affirm to have no existence at all. Concerning which Epicurus speaks thus: "That of all the things which wisdom has collected to enable man to live happily, nothing is more important, more influential, or more delightful than friendship." Nor did he prove this assertion by words only, but still more by his life, and conduct, and actions. And how important a thing it is, the fables of the ancients abundantly intimate, in which, many and varied as they are, and traced back to the remotest antiquity, scarcely three pairs of friends are found, even if you begin as far back as Theseus, and come down to Orestes. But in one single house, and that a small one, what great crowds of friends did Epicurus collect, and how strong was the bond of affection that held them together! And this is the case even now among the Epicureans. However, let us return to our subject: it is not necessary for us to be discussing men. I see, then, that the philosophers of our school have treated the question of friendship in three ways. Some, as they denied that those pleasures which concerned our friends were to be sought with as much eagerness for their own sake, as we display in seeking our own, (by pressing which topic some people think that the stability of friendship is endangered,) maintain that doctrine resolutely, and, as I think, easily explain it. For, as in the case of the virtues which I have already mentioned, so too they deny that friendship can ever be separated from pleasure. For, as a life which is solitary and destitute of friends is full of treachery and alarm, reason itself warns us to form friendships. And when such are formed, then our minds are strengthened, and cannot be drawn away from the hope of attaining pleasure. And as hatred, envy, and contempt are all opposed to pleasures, so friendships are not only the most faithful favourers, but also are the efficient causes of pleasures to one’s friends as well as to oneself; and men not only enjoy those pleasures at the moment, but are also roused by hopes of subsequent and future time. And as we cannot possibly maintain a lasting and continued happiness of life without friendship, nor maintain friendship itself unless we love our friends and ourselves equally, therefore this very effect is produced in friendship, and friendship is combined with pleasure. For we rejoice in the joy of our friends as much as we do in our own, and we are equally grieved at their sorrows. Wherefore the wise man will feel towards his friend as he does towards himself, and whatever labour he would encounter with a view to his own pleasure, he will encounter also for the sake of that of his friend. And all that has been said of the virtues as to the way in which they are invariably combined with pleasure, should also be said of friendship. For admirably does Epicurus say, in almost these exact words: There are, however, some Epicureans who are rather intimidated by the reproaches of your school, but still men of sufficient acuteness, and they are afraid lest, if we think that friendship is only to be sought after with a view to our own pleasure, all friendships should, as it were, appear to be crippled. Therefore they admit that the first meetings, and unions, and desires to establish intimacy, do arise from a desire of pleasure; but, they say, that when progressive habit has engendered familiarity, then such great affection is ripened, that friends are loved by one another for their own sake, even without any idea of advantage intermingling with such love. In truth, if we are in the habit of feeling affection for places, and temples, and cities, and gymnasia, and the Campus Martius, and for dogs, and horses, and sports, in consequence of our habit of exercising ourselves, and hunting, and so on, how much more easily and reasonably may such a feeling be produced in us by our intimacy with men! But some people say that there is a sort of agreement entered into by wise men not to love their friends less than themselves; which we both imagine to be possible, and indeed see to be often the case; and it is evident that nothing can be found having any influence on living agreeably, which is better suited to it than such a union. From all which considerations it may be inferred, not only that the principle of friendship is not hindered by our placing the chief good in pleasure, but that without such a principle it is quite impossible that any friendship should be established. XXI. Wherefore, if the things which I have been saying
Epicurus, then, was not destitute of learning; but those persons are ignorant who think that those studies which it is discreditable for boys not to have learnt, are to be continued till old age. And when he had spoken thus,—I have now, said he, explained my opinions, and have done so with the design of learning your judgment of them. But the opportunity of doing so, as I wished, has never been offered me before to-day. I. On this, when both of them fixed their eyes on me, and showed that they were ready to listen to me:—In the first place, said I, I intreat you not to fancy that I, like a professed philosopher, am going to explain to you the doctrines of some particular school; a course which I have never much approved of when adopted by philosophers themselves. For when did Socrates, who may fairly be called the parent of philosophy, ever do anything of the sort? That custom was patronized by those who at that time were called Sophists, of which number Georgias of Leontium was the first who ventured in an assembly to demand a question,—that is to say, to desire any one in the company to say what he wished to hear discussed. It was a bold proceeding; I should call it an impudent one, if this fashion had not subsequently been borrowed by our own philosophers. But we see that he whom I have just mentioned, and all the other Sophists, (as may be gathered from Plato,) were all turned into ridicule by Socrates; for he, by questioning and interrogating them, was in the habit of eliciting the opinions of those with whom he was arguing, and then, if he thought it necessary, of replying to the answers which they had given him. And as that custom had not been preserved by those who came after him, Arcesilaus re-introduced it, and established the custom, that those who wished to become his pupils were not to ask him questions, but themselves to state their opinions; and then, when they had stated them, he replied to what they had advanced; but those who came to him for instruction defended their own opinions as well as they could. But with all the rest of the philosophers the man who asks the question says no more; and this practice prevails in the Academy to this day. For when he who wishes to receive instruction has spoken thus, II. But every discourse which is concerned in the investigation of any matter, and which proceeds on any system and principle, ought first to establish the rule (as is done in lawsuits, where one proceeds according to set formulas), in order that it may be agreed between the parties to the discussion, what the subject of the discussion really is. This rule was approved by Epicurus, as it was laid down by Plato in his And this laying open of things covered up, as it were, when it is once explained what each thing is, is the definition of it; which you sometimes used without being aware of it; for you defined this very thing, whether it is to be called the End, or the extremity, or the limit, to be that to which everything which was done rightly was referred, and which was itself
As if, said he, there were any one who is ignorant what pleasure is, or who is in need of any definition to enable him to understand it better. I should say, I replied, that I myself am such a man, if I did not seem to myself to have a thorough acquaintance with, and an accurate idea and notion of, pleasure firmly implanted in my mind. But, at present, I say that Epicurus himself does not know, and that he is greatly in error on this subject; and that he who mentions the subject so often ought to explain carefully what the meaning of the words he uses is, but that he sometimes does not understand what the meaning of this word pleasure is, that is to say, what the idea is which is contained under this word. III. Then he laughed, and said,—This is a capital idea, indeed, that he who says that pleasure is the end of all things which are to be desired, the very extreme point and limit of Good, should be ignorant of what it is, and of what is its character. But, I replied, either Epicurus is ignorant of what pleasure is, or else all the rest of the world are. How so? said he. Because all men feel that this is pleasure which moves the senses when they receive it, and which has a certain agreeableness pervading it throughout. What then, said he, is Epicurus ignorant of that kind of pleasure? Not always, I replied; for sometimes he is even too well acquainted with it, inasmuch as he declares that he is unable even to understand where it is, or what any good is, except that which is enjoyed by the instrumentality of meat or drink, or the pleasure of the ears, or sensual enjoyment: is not this what he says? As if, said he, I were ashamed of these things, or as if I were unable to explain in what sense these things are said. I do not doubt, I replied, that you can do so easily; nor is there any reason why you need be ashamed of arguing with a wise
What is it, then, that you ask? I will tell you, said I, and that for the sake of learning rather than of finding fault with either you or Epicurus. I too, said he, should be more desirous to learn of you, if you can impart anything worth learning, than to find fault with you. Well, then, said I, you are aware of what Hieronymus IV. Is it possible, said he, for anything to be more delightful than freedom from pain? Well, said I, but grant that nothing is preferable to that, (for that is not the point which I am inquiring about at present,) does it follow on that account, that pleasure is identical with what I may call painlessness? Undoubtedly it is identical with it, said he; and that painlessness is the greatest of pleasures which no other can possibly exceed. Why, then, said I, do you hesitate, after you have defined the chief good in this manner, to uphold, and defend, and maintain the proposition, that the whole of pleasure consists in freedom from pain? For what necessity for your introducing pleasure among the council of the virtues, any more than for bringing in a courtezan to an assembly of matrons? The very name of pleasure is odious, infamous, and a just object of suspicion: therefore, you are all in the constant habit of saying that we do not understand what Epicurus means when he speaks of pleasure. And whenever such an assertion is made to me,—and I hear it advanced pretty often,—although I am usually a very peaceful arguer, still I do on such occasions get a little angry. Am I to be told that I do not know what that is which the Greeks
Do they then understand what Epicurus means, and do I not understand it? However, that you may know that I do understand, first of all I tell you that However, there is this difference, that pleasure is also spoken of as affecting the mind; which is wrong, as the Stoics think, who define it thus: and him who says, one of whom is beside himself with joy, and the other is being tormented with anguish, there is this intermediate person, whose language is, who feels neither gladness nor anguish. And, in the same manner, between the man who is in the enjoyment of the pleasures of the body, which he has been wishing for, and him who is being tormented with extreme anguish, there is a third man, who is free alike from pleasure and from pain. V. Do I not, then, seem to you sufficiently to understand the meaning of words, or must I at this time of life be taught how to speak Greek, and even Latin? And yet I would have you consider, whether if I, who, as I think, understand Greek very fairly, do still not understand what Epicurus means, it it may not be owing to some fault of his for speaking so as not to be intelligible. And this sometimes happens in two ways, without any blame; either if you do so on purpose, as Heraclitus did, who got the surname of σκοτεινὸς, This, O Torquatus, is doing violence to one’s senses; it is wresting out of our minds the understanding of words with which we are imbued; for who can avoid seeing that these three states exist in the nature of things: first, the state of being in pleasure; secondly, that of being in pain; thirdly, that of being in such a condition as we are at this moment, and you too, I imagine, that is to say, neither in pleasure nor in pain; in such pleasure, I mean, as a man who is at a banquet, or in such pain as a man who is being tortured. What! do you not see a vast multitude of men who are neither rejoicing nor suffering, but in an intermediate state between these two conditions? No, indeed, said he; I say that all men who are free from pain are in pleasure, and in the greatest pleasure too. Do you, then, say that the man who, not being thirsty himself, mingles some wine for another, and the thirsty man who drinks it when mixed, are both enjoying the same pleasure? VI. Then, said he, a truce, if you please, to all your questions; and, indeed, I said at the beginning that I would rather have none of them, for I had a provident dread of these captious dialectics. Would you rather, then, said I, that we should argue rhetorically than dialectically? As if, said he, a continuous discourse belonged solely to orators, and not to philosophers also! I will tell you, said I, what Zeno the Stoic said; he said, as Aristotle had said before him, that all speaking was divided into two kinds, and that rhetoric resembled the open palm, dialectics the closed fist, because orators usually spoke in a rather diffuse, and dialecticians in a somewhat compressed style. I will comply, then, with your desires, and will speak, if I can, in an oratorical style, but still with the oratory of the philosophers, and not that which we use in the forum; which is forced at times, when it is speaking so as to suit the multitude, to submit to a very ordinary style. But while Epicurus, O Torquatus, is
Pleasure is pronounced to be the chief good. We must then open the question, What is pleasure? for otherwise, the thing which we are seeking for cannot be explained. But, if he had explained it, he would not hesitate; for either he would maintain that same definition of pleasure which Aristippus did, namely, that it is that feeling by which the senses are agreeably and pleasantly moved, which even cattle, if they could speak, would call pleasure; or else, if he chose rather to speak in his own style, than like and the rest of the Greeks who are spoken of in these anapæsts, then he would call this freedom from pain alone by the name of pleasure, and would despise the definition of Aristippus; or, if he thought both definitions good, as in fact he does, he would combine freedom from pain with pleasure, and would employ the two extremes in his own definition: for many, and they, too, great philosophers, have combined these extremities of goods, as, for instance, Aristotle, who united in his idea the practice of virtue with the prosperity of an entire life. Callipho VII. They are also two distinct things, that you may not think that the difference consists only in words and names. One is to be without pain, the other to be with pleasure. But your school not only attempt to make one name for these two things which are so exceedingly unlike, (for I would not mind that so much,) but you endeavour also to make one thing out of the two, which is utterly impossible. But Epicurus, who admits both things, ought to use both expressions, and in fact he does divide them in reality, but still he does not distinguish between them in words. For though he in many places praises that very pleasure which we all call by the same name, he ventures to say that he does not even suspect that there is any good whatever unconnected with that kind of pleasure which Aristippus means; and he makes this statement in the very place where his whole discourse is about the chief good. But in another book, in which he utters opinions of the greatest weight in a concise form of words, and in which he is said to have delivered oracles of wisdom, he writes in those words which you are well acquainted with, O Torquatus. For who is there of you who has not learnt the κύριαι δόξαι of Epicurus, that is to say, his fundamental maxims? because they are sentiments of the greatest gravity intended to guide men to a happy life, and enunciated with suitable brevity. Consider, therefore, whether I am not translating this maxim of his correctly. On this Triarius could restrain himself no longer. I beg of you, Torquatus, said he, to tell me, is this what Epicurus says?—because he appeared to me, although he knew it himself, still to wish to hear Torquatus admit it. But he was not at all put out, and said with great confidence, Indeed, he does, and in these identical words; but you do not perceive what he means. If, said I, he says one thing and means another, then I never shall understand what he means, but
and bringing up that Epicurean remedy for pain, as if they were taking it out of a medicine chest: VIII. What then is the use of saying, I should have nothing to reproach them with if they only set bounds to their appetites? This is the same as saying, I should not blame debauched men if they were not debauched men. In the same way one might say, I should not blame even wicked men if they were virtuous. This man of strict morality does not think luxury of itself a thing to be blamed. And, indeed, O Torquatus, to speak the truth, if pleasure is the chief good, he is quite right not to think so. For I should be sorry to picture to myself, (as you are in the habit of doing,) men so debauched as to vomit over the table and be carried away from banquets, and then the next day, while still suffering from indigestion, gorge themselves again; men who, as they say, have never in their lives seen the sun set or rise, and who, having devoured their patrimony, are reduced to indigence.
As Lucilius says, men who and so on—men in the enjoyment of luxuries such that, if they are taken away, Epicurus says that he does not know what there is that can be called good. Let them also have beautiful boys to attend upon them; let their clothes, their plate, their articles of Corinthian And it was well said by Lælius, and he may be truly called a wise man,— The man who says this is one who, as he attributes no importance to pleasure himself, denies that the man feasts well who refers everything to pleasure. And yet he does not deny that Gallonius has at times feasted as he wished: for that would
what? What was the chief part of his supper? Well, and what else? For he came to a banquet with a tranquil mind, desirous only of appeasing the wants of nature. Lælius then is quite right to deny that Gallonius had ever feasted well; he is quite right to call him miserable; especially as he devoted the whole of his attention to that point. And yet no one affirms that he did not sup as he wished. Why then did he not feast well? Because feasting well is feasting with propriety, frugality, and good order; but this man was in the habit of feasting badly, that is, in a dissolute, profligate, gluttonous, unseemly manner. Lælius, then, was not preferring the flavour of sorrel to Gallonius’s sturgeon, but merely treating the taste of the sturgeon with indifference; which he would not have done if he had placed the chief good in pleasure. IX. We must then discard pleasure, not only in order to follow what is right, but even to be able to talk becomingly. Can we then call that the chief good in life, which we see cannot possibly be so even in a banquet? But how is it that this philosopher speaks of three kinds of appetites,—some natural and necessary, some natural but not necessary, and others neither natural nor necessary? In the first place, he has not made a neat division; for out of two kinds he has made three. Now this is not dividing, but breaking in pieces. If he had said that there are two kinds of appetites, natural and superfluous ones, and that the natural appetites might be also subdivided into two kinds, necessary and not necessary, he would have been all right. And those who have learnt what he despises do usually say so. For it is a vicious division to reckon a part as a genus. However, let us pass over this, for he despises elegance in arguing; he
But still, from the fact of his often appearing to embrace that pleasure, (I mean that which all nations call by this name,) with a good deal of eagerness, he is at times in great difficulties, so that, if he could only pass undetected, there is nothing so shameful that it does not seem likely that he would do it for the sake of pleasure. And then, when he has been put to the blush, (for the power of nature is very great,) he takes refuge in denying that any addition can possibly be made to the pleasure of the man who is free from pain. But that state of freedom from pain is not called pleasure. I do not care, says he, about the name. But what do you say about the thing being utterly different?—I will find you many men, or I may say an innumerable host, not so curious nor so embarrassing as you are, whom I can easily convince of whatever I choose. Why then do we hesitate to say that,
X. But this he does not see, that it is a great proof that at the very moment when he says that if pleasure be once taken away he has no idea at all what remaining thing can be called good, (and he follows up this assertion with the statement that he means such pleasure as is perceptible by the palate and by the ears, and adds other things which decency ought to forbid him to mention,) he is, like a strict and worthy philosopher, aware that this which he calls the chief good is not even a thing which is worth desiring for its own sake, that he himself informs us that we have no reason to wish for pleasure at all, if we are free from pain. How inconsistent are these statements! If he had learnt to make correct divisions or definitions of his subject, if he had a proper regard to the usages of speaking and the common meaning of words, he would never have fallen into such difficulties. But as it is, you see what it is he is doing. That which no one has ever called pleasure at all, and that also which is real active pleasure, which are two distinct things, he makes but one. For he calls them agreeable and, as I may say, sweet-tasted pleasures. At times he speaks so lightly of them that you might fancy you were listening to Marcus Curius. At times he extols them so highly that he says he cannot form even the slightest idea of what else is good—a sentiment which deserves not the reproof of a philosopher, but the brand of the censor. For vice does not confine itself to language, but penetrates also into the manners. He does not find fault with luxury provided it to be free from boundless desires and from fear. While speaking in this way he appears to be fishing for disciples, that men who wish to become debauchees may become philosophers first. Now, in my opinion, the origin of the chief good is to be sought in the first origin of living animals. As soon as an animal is born it rejoices in pleasure, and seeks it as a good; it shuns pain as an evil. And Epicurus says that excellent decisions on the subject of the good and the evil are come to by those animals which are not yet depraved. You, too, have laid down the same position, and these are your own
However, Epicurus did not seek to derive this argument from infants, or even from beasts, which he looks upon as mirrors of nature as it were; so as to say that they, under the guidance of nature, seek only this pleasure of being free from pain. For this sort of pleasure cannot excite the desires of the mind; nor has this state of freedom from pain any impulse by which it can act upon the mind. Therefore Hieronymus blunders in this same thing. For that pleasure only acts upon the mind which has the power of alluring the senses. Therefore Epicurus always has recourse to this pleasure when wishing to prove that pleasure is sought for naturally; because that pleasure which consists in motion both allures infants to itself, and beasts; and this is not done by that pleasure which is a state in which there is no other ingredient but freedom from pain. How then can it be proper to say that nature begins with one kind of pleasure, and yet to put the chief good in another? XI. But as for beasts, I do not consider that they can pronounce any judgment at all. For although they are not depraved, it is still possible for them to be wrong. Just as one stick may be bent and crooked by having been made so on purpose, and another may be so naturally; so the nature of beasts is not indeed depraved by evil education, but is wrong naturally. Nor is it correct to say that nature excites the infant to desire pleasure, but only to love itself and to desire to preserve itself safe and unhurt. For every animal the moment that it is born loves itself, and every part of itself, and above all does it love its two principal parts, namely its mind and body, and afterwards it proceeds to love the separate
XII. But when Epicurus had given pleasure the highest
For, as to what he says, that it is decided by the senses themselves that pleasure is a good and that pain is an evil, he has attributed more weight to the senses than the laws allow them. We are the judges of private actions, but we cannot decide anything which does not legally come under the cognisance of our tribunal; and, in such a case, it is to no purpose that judges are in the habit, when they pronounce sentence, of adding, The same sentence will be passed upon freedom from pain; Carneades also will be disregarded; nor will any definition of the chief good be approved of, which has any close connexion with pleasure, or freedom from pain, or which is devoid of what is honourable. And so it will leave two, which it will consider over and over again; for it will either lay down the maxim, that nothing is good except what is honourable, nothing evil except what is disgraceful; that everything else is either of no consequence at all, or, at all events, of only so much, that it is neither to be sought after nor avoided, but only selected or rejected; or else, it will prefer that which it
XIII. I now, following the authority of this man, will do the same as he has done; for, as far as I can, I will diminish the disputes, and will regard all their simple opinions in which there is no association of virtue, as judgments which ought to be utterly removed to a distance from philosophy. First of all, I will discard the principles of Aristippus, and of all the Cyrenaics,—men who were not afraid to place the chief good in that pleasure which especially excited the senses with its sweetness, disregarding that freedom from pain. These men did not perceive that, as a horse is born for galloping, and an ox for ploughing, and a dog for hunting, so man, also, is born for two objects, as Aristotle says, namely, for understanding and for acting as if he were a kind of mortal god. But, on the other hand, as a slow moving and languid sheep is born to feed, and to take pleasure in propagating his species, they fancied also that this divine animal was born for the same purposes; than which nothing can appear to me more absurd; and all this is in opposition to Aristippus, who considers that pleasure not only the highest, but also the only one, which all the rest of us consider as only one of the pleasures. You, however, think differently; but he, as I have already said, is egregiously wrong,—for neither does the figure of the human body, nor the admirable reasoning powers of the human mind, intimate that man was born for no other end than the mere enjoyment of pleasure; nor must we listen to Hieronymus, whose chief good is the same which you sometimes, or, I might say, too often call so, namely, freedom from pain; for it does not follow, because pain is an evil, that to be free from that evil is sufficient for living well. Ennius speaks more correctly, when he says,— Let us define a happy life as consisting, not in the repelling of evil, but in the acquisition of good; and let us seek to procure it, not by doing nothing, whether one is feeling pleasure,
XIV. Your school, then, is now the only one remaining to be combated; for the contest with the Academicians is an uncertain one, for they affirm nothing, and, as if they despaired of arriving at any certain knowledge, wish to follow
We understand, then, that to be honourable which is such that, leaving all advantage out of the question, it can be deservedly praised by itself, without thinking of any reward or profit derived from it. And what its character is may be understood, not so much by the definition which I have employed, (although that may help in some degree,) as by the common sentiments of all men, and by the zeal and conduct of every virtuous man; for such do many things for this sole reason, because they are becoming, because they are right, because they are honourable, even though they do not perceive any advantage likely to result from them: for men differ from beasts in many other things indeed, but especially in this one particular, that they have reason and intellect given to them by nature, and a mind, active, vigorous, revolving many things at the same time with the greatest rapidity, and, if I may so say, sagacious to perceive the causes of things, and their consequences and connexions, and to use metaphors, and to combine things which are unconnected, and to connect the future with the present, and to embrace in its view the whole course of a consistent life. The same reason has also made man desirous of the society of men, and inclined to agree with
The same reason has in itself something large and magnificent, suited for command rather than for obedience; thinking all events which can befal a man not only endurable, but insignificant; something lofty and sublime, fearing nothing, yielding to no one, always invincible. And, when these three kinds of the honourable have been noticed, a fourth follows, of the same beauty and suited to the other three, in which order and moderation exist; and when the likeness of it to the others is perceived in the beauty and dignity of all their separate forms, we are transported across to what is honourable in words and actions; for, in consequence of these three virtues which I have already mentioned, a man avoids rashness, and does not venture to injure any one by any wanton word or action, and is afraid either to do or to say anything which may appear at all unsuited to the dignity of a man. XV. Here, now, O Torquatus, you have a picture of what is honourable completely filled in and finished; and it is contained wholly in these four virtues which you also mentioned. But your master Epicurus says that he knows nothing whatever of it, and does not understand what, or what sort of quality those people assert it to be, who profess to measure the chief good by the standard of what is honourable. For if everything is referred to that, and if they say that pleasure has no part in it, then he says that they are talking idly, (these are his very words,) and do not understand or see what real meaning ought to be conveyed under this word honourable; for, as custom has it, he says that that alone is honourable
And so he again, being forced to yield to the power of nature, which is always irresistible, says in another place what you also said a little while ago,—that a man cannot live pleasantly unless he also lives honourably. Now then, what is the meaning of honourably? does it mean the same as pleasantly? If so, this statement will come to this, that a man cannot live honourably unless he lives honourably. Is it honourably according to public report? Therefore he affirms that a man cannot live pleasantly without he has public report in his favour. What can be more shameful than for the life of a wise man to depend on the conversation of fools? What is it, then, that in this place he understands by the word honourable? Certainly nothing except what can be deservedly praised for its own sake; for if it be praised for the sake of pleasure, then what sort of praise, I should like to know, is that which can be sought for in the shambles? He is not a man, while he places honourableness in such a rank that he affirms it to be impossible to live pleasantly without it, to think that honourable which is popular, and to affirm that one cannot live pleasantly without popularity; or to understand by the word honourable anything except what is right, and deservedly to be praised by itself and for itself, from a regard to its own power and influence and intrinsic nature. XVI. Therefore, Torquatus, when you said that Epicurus asserted loudly that a man could not live pleasantly if he did not also live honourably, and wisely, and justly, you
For those things which you were saying were very weak and powerless arguments,—when you urged that the wicked were tormented by their own consciences, and also by fear of punishment, which is either inflicted on them, or keeps them in constant fear that it will be inflicted. One ought not to imagine a man timid, or weak in his mind, nor a good man, who, whatever he has done, keeps tormenting himself, and dreads everything; but rather let us fancy one, who with great shrewdness refers everything to usefulness—an acute, crafty, wary man, able with ease to devise plans for deceiving any one secretly, without any witness, or any one being privy to it. Do you think that I am speaking of Lucius Tubulus?—who, when as prætor he had been sitting as judge upon the
XVII. We are not, therefore, inquiring about a man who is merely wicked, but about one who mingles cunning with his wickedness, (as Quintus Pompeius XVIII. But picture to yourself a man not only cunning, so as to be prepared to act dishonestly in any circumstances that may arise, but also exceedingly powerful; as, for instance, Marcus Crassus was, who, however, always exercised his own natural good disposition; or as at this day our friend Pompeius is, to whom we ought to feel grateful for his virtuous conduct; for, although he is inclined to act justly, he could be unjust with perfect impunity. But how many unjust actions can be committed which nevertheless no one could find any ground for attacking! Suppose your friend, when dying, has entreated you to restore his inheritance to his daughter, and yet has never set it down in his will, as Fadius did, and has never mentioned to any one that he has done so, what will you do? You indeed will restore it. Perhaps Epicurus himself would have restored it; just as Sextus Peducæus the son of Sextus did; he who has left behind him a son, our intimate friend, a living image of his own virtue and honesty, a learned person, and the most virtuous and upright of all men; for he, though no one was aware that he had been entreated by Caius Plotius, a Roman knight of high character and great fortune, of the district of Nursia, to do so, came of his own accord to his widow, and, though she had no notion of the fact, detailed to her the commission which he had received from her husband, and made over the inheritance to her. But I ask you (since you would certainly have acted in the same manner yourself), do you not understand that the power of nature is all the greater, inasmuch as you yourselves, who refer everything to your own advantage, and, as you yourselves say, to pleasure, still perform actions from which it is evident that you are guided not by pleasure, but by principles of duty, and that your own upright nature has more influence over you than any vicious reasoning? If you knew, says Carneades, that a snake was lying hid in any place, and that some one was going ignorantly to sit
XIX. Now apply the same arguments to modesty, or temperance, which is a moderation of the appetites, in subordination to reason. Can we say that a man pays sufficient regard to the dictates of modesty, who indulges his lusts in such a manner as to have no witnesses of his conduct? or is there anything which is intrinsically flagitious, even if no loss of reputation ensues? What do brave men do? Do they enter into an exact calculation of pleasure, and so enter the battle, and shed their blood for their country? or are they excited rather by a certain ardour and impetuosity of courage? Do you think, O Torquatus, that that imperious ancestor of yours, if he could hear what we are now saying, would rather listen to your sentiments concerning him, or to mine, when I said that he had done nothing for his own sake, but everything for that of the republic; and you, on the contrary, affirm that he did nothing except with a view to his own advantage? But if you were to wish to explain yourself further, and were to say openly that he did nothing except for the sake of pleasure, how do you think that he would bear such an assertion? Be it so. Let Torquatus, if you will, have acted solely with a view to his own advantage, for I would rather employ that expression than pleasure, especially when speaking of so eminent a man,—did his colleague too, Publius Decius, the first man who ever was consul in that family, did he, I say, when he was devoting himself, and rushing at the full speed of his horse into the middle of the army of the Latins, think at all of his own pleasures? For where or when was he to find any, when he knew that he should perish immediately, and when he was seeking that death with more eager zeal than Epicurus thinks even pleasure deserving to be sought
For, what will you say? Was it pleasure that worked upon you, a man thoroughly worthy of your ancestors, while still a young man, to rob Publius Sylla of the consulship? And when you had succeeded in procuring it for your father, a most gallant man, what a consul did he prove, and what a citizen at all times, and most especially after his consulship! And, indeed, it was by his advice that we ourselves behaved in such a manner as to consult the advantage of the whole body of the citizens rather than our own. But how admirably did you seem to speak, when on the one side you drew a picture of a man loaded with the most numerous and excessive pleasures, with no pain, either present or future; and on the other, of a man surrounded with the greatest torments affecting his whole body, with no pleasure, either present or hoped for; and asked who could be more miserable than the one, or more happy than the other? and then concluded, that pain was the greatest evil, and pleasure the greatest good. XX. There was a man of Lanuvium, called Lucius Thorius Balbus, whom you cannot remember; he lived in such a way that no pleasure could be imagined so exquisite, that he had not a superfluity of it. He was greedy of pleasure, a critical judge of every species of it, and very rich. So far removed
Regulus had had the conduct of great wars; he had been twice consul; he had had a triumph; and yet he did not think those previous exploits of his so great or so glorious as that last misfortune which he incurred, because of his own good faith and constancy; a misfortune which appears pitiable to us who hear of it, but was actually pleasant to him who endured it. For men are happy, not because of hilarity, or lasciviousness, or laughter, or jesting, the companion of levity, but often even through sorrow endured with firmness and constancy. Lucretia, having been ravished by force by the king’s son, called her fellow-citizens to witness, and slew herself. This grief of hers, Brutus being the leader and mover of the Roman people, was the cause of liberty to the
XXI. Now you, O Torquatus, must either blame all these actions, or else you must abandon the defence of pleasure. And what a cause is that, and what a task does the man undertake who comes forward as the advocate of pleasure, who is unable to call any one illustrious man as evidence in her favour or as a witness to her character? For as we have awakened those men from the records of our annals as witnesses, whose whole life has been consumed in glorious labours; men who cannot bear to hear the very name of pleasure: so on your side of the argument history is dumb. I have never heard of Lycurgus, or Solon, Miltiades, or Themistocles, or Epaminondas being mentioned in the school of Epicurus; men whose names are constantly in the mouth of all the other philosophers. But now, since we have begun to deal with this part of the question, our friend Atticus, out of his treasures, will supply us with the names of as many great men as may be sufficient for us to bring forward as witnesses. Is it not better to say a little of these men, than so many volumes about Themista? But when one is arguing with philosophers of your school, one is forced to hear a great deal about even the obscure pleasures which Epicurus himself continually mentions. You cannot then, Torquatus, believe me, you cannot uphold those principles, if you examine into yourself, and your own thoughts and studies. You will, I say, be ashamed of that picture which Cleanthes was in the habit of drawing with such accuracy in his description. He used to desire those who came to him as his pupils, to think of Pleasure painted in a picture, clad in beautiful robes, with royal ornaments, and sitting on a throne. He represented all the Virtues around her, as her handmaidens, doing nothing else, and thinking nothing else their duty, but to minister to Pleasure, and only just to whisper in her ear (if, indeed, that could be made intelligible in a picture) a warning to be on her guard to do nothing imprudent, nothing to offend the minds of men, nothing from which any pain could ensue. We, indeed, they would say, we Virtues are only born to act as your slaves; we have no other business. XXII. But Epicurus (for this is your great point) denies that any man who does not live honourably can live agreeably; as if I cared what he denies or what he affirms. What I inquire is, what it is consistent for that man to say who places the chief good in pleasure. What reason do you allege why Thorius, why Chius, why Postumius, why the master of all these men, Orata, did not live most agreeably? He himself, as I have already said, asserts that the life of men devoted to luxury is not deserving of blame, unless they are absolute fools, that is to say, unless they abandon themselves to become slaves to their desires or to their fears. And when he promises them a remedy for both these things, he, in so doing, offers them a licence for luxury. For if you take away these things, then he says that he cannot find anything in the life of debauched men which deserves blame. You then, who regulate everything by the standard of pleasure, cannot either defend or maintain virtue. For he does not deserve to be accounted a virtuous or a just man who abstains from injustice in order to avoid suffering evil. You know the line, I suppose— And nothing can be more true. For a man is not just while he is in a state of alarm. And certainly when he ceases to be in fear, he will not be just. But he will not be afraid if he is able to conceal his actions, or if he is able, by means of his great riches and power, to support what he has done. And he will certainly prefer being regarded as a good man, though he is not one, to being a good man and not being thought one. And so, beyond all question, instead of genuine and active justice, you give us only an effigy of justice, and you teach us, as it were, to disregard our own unvarying conscience, and to go hunting after the fleeting vagabond opinions of others. And the same may be said of the other virtues also; the foundation of all which you place in pleasure, which is like building on water. For what are we to say? Can we call that same Torquatus a brave man? For I am delighted, though I cannot, as you say, bribe you; I am delighted with your family and with your name. And, in truth, I have before my eyes Aulus Torquatus, However, I return to him. If it was for the sake of pleasure that Torquatus, when challenged, fought with the Gaul on the Anio, and out of his spoils took his chain and earned his surname, or if it was for any other reason but that he thought such exploits worthy of a man, then I do not
What shall I say more? What is your idea, O Torquatus, of this?—that you, a man of your name, of your abilities, of your high reputation, should not dare to allege in a public assembly what you do, what you think, what you contend for, the standard to which you refer everything, the object for the sake of which you wish to accomplish what you attempt, and what you think best in life. For what can you claim to deserve, when you have entered upon your magistracy, and come forward to the assembly, (for then you will have to announce what principles you intend to observe in administering the law, and perhaps, too, if you think fit, you will, as is the ancient custom, say something about your ancestors and yourself,)—what, I say, can you claim as your just desert, if you say that in that magistracy you will do everything for the sake of pleasure? and that you have never done anything all your life except with a view to pleasure? Do you think, say you, that I am so mad as to speak in that way before ignorant people? Well, say it then in the court of justice, or if you are afraid of the surrounding audience, say it in the senate: you will never do so. Why not, except that such language is disgraceful? Do you then think Triarius and me fit people for you to speak before in a disgraceful manner? XXIII. However, be it so. The name of pleasure certainly has no dignity in it, and perhaps we do not exactly understand what is meant by it; for you are constantly saying that we do not understand what you mean by the word pleasure: no doubt it is a very difficult and obscure matter. When you speak of atoms, and spaces between worlds, things which do not exist, and which cannot possibly exist, then we understand you; and cannot we understand what pleasure is, a thing which is known to every sparrow? What will you say if I compel you to confess that I not only do know what pleasure is (for it is a pleasant emotion affecting the senses), but also what you mean by the word? For at one time you
XXIV. Take care lest you find yourselves obliged to use our language, though adhering to your own opinions. But if you were to put on a feigned countenance or gait, with the object of appearing more dignified, you would not then be like yourself; and yet are you to use fictitious language, and to say things which you do not think, or, as you have one dress to wear at home, and another in which you appear in court,
But what room can there be for friendship, or who can be a friend to any one whom he does not love for his own sake? And what is loving, from which verb ( XXV. You, indeed, O Torquatus, would do all these things. For I do not think that there is anything deserving of great praise, which you would be likely to shrink from out of fear of death or pain: nor is it the question what is consistent with your nature, but with the doctrines of your school—that philosophy which you defend, those precepts which you have learnt, and which you profess to approve of, utterly overthrow friendship—even though Epicurus should, as indeed he does, extol it to the skies. Oh, you will say, but he himself cultivated friendship. As if any one denied that he was a good, and courteous, and kind-hearted man; the question in these discussions turns on his genius, and not on his morals. Grant that there is such perversity in the levity of the Greeks, who attack those men with evil speaking with whom they disagree as to the truth of a proposition. But, although he may have been courteous in maintaining friendships, still, if all this is true, (for I do not affirm anything myself), he was not a very acute arguer. Oh, but he convinced many people. And perhaps it was quite right that he should; still, the testimony of the multitude is not of the greatest possible weight; for in every art, or study, or science, as in virtue itself, whatever is most excellent is also most rare. And to me, indeed, the very fact of he himself having been a good man, and of many Epicureans having also been such, and being to this day faithful in their friendships, and consistent throughout their whole lives, and men of dignified conduct, regulating their lives, not by pleasure, but by their duty, appears to show that the power of what is honourable is greater, and that of pleasure smaller. For some men live in such a manner that their language is refuted by their lives; and as others are considered
XXVI. However, all this is nothing to the purpose. Let us just consider those things which have been said by you about friendship, and among them I fancied that I recognized one thing as having been said by Epicurus himself, namely, that friendship cannot be separated from pleasure, and that it ought on that account to be cultivated, because without it men could not live in safety, and without fear, nor even with any kind of pleasantness. Answer enough has been given to this argument. You also brought forward another more humane one, invented by these more modern philosophers, and never, as far as I know, advanced by the master himself, that at first, indeed, a friend is sought out with a view to one’s own advantage, but that when intimacy has sprung up, then the man is loved for himself, all hope or idea of pleasure being put out of the question. Now, although this argument is open to attack on many accounts, still I will accept what they grant; for it is enough for me, though not enough for them: for they admit that it is possible for men to act rightly at times, without any expectation of, or desire to acquire pleasure. You also affirmed that some people say that wise men make a kind of treaty among themselves, that they shall have the same feelings towards their friends that they entertain for themselves, and that that is possible, and is often the case, and that it has especial reference to the enjoyment of pleasures. If they could make this treaty, they at the same time make that other to love equity, moderation, and all the virtues for their own sake, without any consideration of advantage. But if we cultivate friendships for the sake of their profits, emoluments, and advantages which may be derived from them, if there is to be no affection which may make the friendship desirable for its own sake, on its own account, by its own influences, by itself and for itself, is there any doubt at all that in such a case we must prefer our farms and estates to our friends? And here you may again quote those panegyrics which have been uttered in most eloquent language by Epicurus himself, on the subject of friendship. I am not asking what he says, but what he can possibly say which shall be consistent with his own system and sentiments. Friendship has been sought for the sake of advantage; do you, then, think that my friend Triarius, here, will be more useful to you than your granaries at Puteol? Think of all the circumstances which you are in the habit of recollecting; the protection which friends are to a man. You have sufficient protection in yourself, sufficient in the laws, sufficient also in moderate friendships. As it is, you cannot be looked upon with contempt; but you will easily avoid odium and unpopularity, for precepts on that subject are given by Epicurus. And yet you, by employing such large revenues in purposes of liberality, even without any Pyladean friendship, will admirably defend and protect yourself by the goodwill of numbers. But with whom, then, is a man to share his jests, his serious thoughts, as people say, and all his secrets and hidden wishes? With you, above all men; but if that cannot be, why with some tolerably intimate friend. However, grant that all these circumstances are not unreasonable; what comparison can there be between them and the utility of such large sums of money? You see, then, if you measure friendship by the affection which it engenders, that nothing is more excellent; if by the advantage that is derived from it, then you see that the closest intimacies are surpassed by the value of a productive farm. You must therefore love me, myself, and not my circumstances, if we are to be real friends. XXVII. But we are getting too prolix in the most self-evident matters; for, as it has been concluded and established that there is no room anywhere for either virtues or friendships if everything is referred to pleasure, there is nothing more which it is of any great importance should be said. And yet, that I may not appear to have passed over any topic without a reply, I will, even now, say a few words on the remainder of your argument. Since, then, the whole sum of philosophy is directed to ensure living happily, and since men, from a desire of this one thing, have devoted themselves to this study; but different people make happiness of life to consist in different circumstances; you, for instance, place it in pleasure; and, in the same manner you, on the other hand, make all unhappiness to consist in pain: let us consider, in the first place, what sort of thing this happy life of yours is. But you will grant this, I think, that if there is really any such thing as happiness,
But, as you yourself were saying, Epicurus denies that length of time has any influence on making life happy, and that no less pleasure can be felt in a short time than would be the case if the pleasure were everlasting. Now these statements are most inconsistent. For, when he places the chief good in pleasure, he denies that pleasure can be greater in infinite time, than it can in a finite and moderate period. The man who places all good in virtue, has it in his power to say that a happy life is made so by the perfection of virtue; for he consistently denies that time can bring any increase to his chief good. But he who thinks that life is made happy by pleasure, must surely be inconsistent with himself if he denies that pleasure is increased by length of time: if so, then pain is not either. Shall we, then, say that all pain is most miserable in proportion as it is most lasting, and yet that duration does not make pleasure more desirable? Why, then, is it that Epicurus always speaks of God as happy and eternal? For, if you only take away his eternity, Jupiter is in no respect more happy than Epicurus; for each of them is in the enjoyment of the chief good, namely, pleasure. Oh, but Epicurus is also liable to pain. That does not affect him at all; for he says that if he were being burnt, he would say, XXVIII. But you will say, Come, these things are trifles. Nature by herself enriches the wise man; and, indeed, Epicurus has taught us that the riches of nature are such as can be acquired. This is well said, and I do not object to it; but still these same assertions are inconsistent with one another. For Epicurus denies there is less pleasure derived from the poorest food, from the most despised kinds of meat and drink, than from feasting on the most delicious dishes. Now if he were to assert that it makes no difference as to the happiness of life what food a man ate, I would grant it, I would even praise him for saying so; for he would be speaking the truth; and I know that Socrates, who ranked pleasure as nothing at all, said the same thing, namely, that hunger was the best seasoning for meat, and thirst for drink. But I do not comprehend how a man who refers everything to pleasure, lives like Gallonius, and yet talks like that great man Frugi Piso; nor, indeed, do I believe that what he says is his real opinion. He has said that natural riches can be acquired, because nature is contented with a little. Certainly, unless you estimate pleasure at a great value. No less pleasure, says he, is derived from the most ordinary things than from the most valuable. Now to say this, is not only not to have a heart, but not to have even a palate. For they who despise pleasure itself, may be allowed to say that they do not prefer a sturgeon to a herring. But the man who places his chief
However, be it so. Let him acquire the greatest possible pleasures, not only at a cheap rate, but, as far as I am concerned, for nothing at all, if he can manage it. Let there be no less pleasure in eating a nasturtium, which Xenophon tells us the Persians used to eat, than in those Syracusan banquets which are so severely blamed by Plato. Let, I say, the acquisition of pleasure be as easy as you say it is. What shall we say of pain? the torments of which are so great that, if at least pain is the greatest of evils, a happy life cannot possibly exist in company with it. For Metrodorus himself, who is almost a second Epicurus, describes a happy man in these words. When his body is in good order, and when he is quite certain that it it will be so for the future. Is it possible for any one to be certain in what condition his body will be, I do not say a year hence, but even this evening? Pain, therefore, which is the greatest of evils, will always be dreaded even if it is not present. For it will always be possible that it may be present. But how can any fear of the greatest possible evil exist in a happy life? Oh, says he, Epicurus has handed down maxims according to which we may disregard pain. Surely, it is an absurdity to suppose that the greatest possible evil can be disregarded. However, what is the maxim? The greatest pain, says he, is short-lived. Now, first of all, what do you call short-lived? And, secondly, what do you call the greatest pain? For what do you mean? Cannot extreme pain last for many days? Aye, and for many months? Unless, indeed, you intend to assert that you mean such pain as kills a man the moment it seizes on him. Who is afraid of that pain? I would rather you would lessen that pain by which I have seen that most excellent and kind-hearted man, Cnæus Octavius, the son of Marcus Octavius, my own intimate friend, worn out, and that not once, or for a short time, but very often, and for a long period at once. What agonies, O ye immortal gods, did that man use to bear, when all his limbs seemed as if they were on fire. And yet he did not appear to be miserable, (because in truth pain was not the greatest of evils,) but only afflicted. But if he had been immersed in
XXIX. But when you say that great pains last but a short time, and that if they last long they are always light, I do not understand the meaning of your assertion. For I see that some pains are very great, and also very durable. And there is a better principle which may enable one to endure them, which however you cannot adopt, who do not love what is honourable for its own sake. There are some precepts for, and I may almost say laws of, fortitude, which forbid a man to behave effeminately in pain. Wherefore it should be accounted disgraceful, I do not say to grieve, (for that is at times unavoidable,) but to make those rocks of Lemnos melancholy with such outcries as those of Philoctetes— Now let Epicurus, if he can, put himself in the place of that man— Let Epicurus become Philoctetes. If his pain is sharp it is short. But in fact he has been lying in his cave for ten years. If it lasts long it is light, for it grants him intervals of relaxation. In the first place it does not do so often; and in the second place what sort of relaxation is it when the memory of past agony is still fresh, and the fear of further agony coming and impending is constantly tormenting him. Let him die, says he. Perhaps that would be the best thing for him; but then what becomes of the argument, that the wise man has always more pleasure than pain? For if that be the case I would have you think whether you are not recommending him a crime, when you advise him to die. Say to him rather, that it is a disgraceful thing for a man to allow his spirit to be crushed and broken by pain, that it is shameful to yield to it. For as for your maxim, if it is violent it is short, if it lasts long it is slight, that is mere empty verbiage. The only real way to mitigate pain is by the application of virtue, of magnanimity, of patience, of courage. XXX. Listen, that I may not make too wide a digression, to the words of Epicurus when dying; and take notice how
But Leonidas, the king of the Lacedæmonians, put himself and those three hundred men, whom he had led from Sparta, in the way of the enemy of Thermopylæ, XXXI. You may twist yourself about in every direction as you please, Torquatus, but you will not find in this excellent letter anything written by Epicurus which is in harmony and consistent with the rules he laid down. And so he is convicted by himself, and his writings are upset by his own virtue and goodness. For that recommendation of those children, that recollection of them, and affectionate friendship for them, that attention to the most important duties at the last gasp, indicates that honesty without any thought of personal advantage was innate in the man; that it did not require the invitation of pleasure, or the allurements of mercenary rewards. For what greater evidence can we require that those things which are honourable and right are desirable of themselves for their own sake, than the sight of a dying man so anxious in the discharge of such important duties? But, as I think that letter deserving of all commendation of which I have just given you a literal translation, (although it was in no respect consistent with the general system of that philosopher,) so also I think that his will is inconsistent not only with the dignity of a philosopher, but even with his own sentiments. For he wrote often, and at great length, and sometimes with brevity and suitable language, in that book which I have just named, that death had nothing to do with us; for that whatever was dissolved was void of sensation, and whatever was void of sensation had nothing whatever to do with us. Even this might have been expressed better and more elegantly. For when he lays down the position that what has been dissolved is void of sensation, that is such an expression that it is not very plain what he means by the word dissolved. However, I understand what he really does mean. But still I ask why, when every sensation is extinguished
But if a day did deserve to be kept, which was it more fitting to observe, the day on which a man was born, or that on which he became wise? A man, you will say, could not have become wise unless he had been born. And, on the same principle, he could not if his grandmother had never been born. The whole business, Torquatus, is quite out of character for a learned man to wish to have the recollection
XXXII. However, to return to our subject, (for while we were talking of pain we digressed to that letter of his,) we may now fairly come to this conclusion. The man who is in the greatest evil, while he is in it, is not happy. But the wise man is always happy, and is also occasionally in pain. Therefore, pain is not the greatest evil. What kind of doctrine, then, is this, that goods which are past are not lost to a wise man, but that he ought not to remember past evils. First of all, is it in our power to decide what we will remember. When Simonides, or some one else, offered to Themistocles to teach him the art of memory, The Greek line occurs in the Orestes, 207. Ὡ πότνια λήθη τῶν κακῶν ὡς εἶ γλυκύ. Virgil has the same idea— Vos et Scyllæam rabiem, penitusque sonantes Which Dryden translates— With me the rocks of Scylla have you tried, However, let us return to the consideration of past goods. And if you were to utter such maxims as might be capable of consoling Caius Marius, and enabling him when banished, indigent, and up to his neck in a marsh, to relieve his anguish by the recollection of his past trophies, I would listen to you, and approve of all you could say. Nor, indeed, can the happiness of a philosopher be complete or continue to the end, if all the admirable discoveries which he has made, and all his virtuous actions, are to be lost by his own forgetfulness. But, in your case, you assert that the recollection of pleasures which have been felt makes life happy, and of such pleasures too, as affect the body. For if there are any other pleasures, then it is incorrect to say that all the pleasures of the mind originate in its connexion with the body. But if pleasures felt by the body, even when they are past, can give pleasure, then I do not understand why Aristotle should turn the inscription on the tomb of Sardanapalus into so much ridicule; in which the king of Assyria boasts that he has taken with him all his lascivious pleasures. For, says Aristotle, how could those things which even while he was alive he could not feel a moment longer than while he was actually enjoying them, possibly remain to him after he was dead? The pleasure, then, of the body is lost, and flies away at the first moment, and oftener leaves behind reasons for repenting of it than for recollecting it. Therefore, Africanus is happier when addressing his country in this manner— And in the rest of his admirable boast— He is rejoicing here in his labours which are past. But you would bid him exult in past pleasures. He traces back his feelings to things which had never had any reference to his body. You cling to the body to the exclusion of everything else. XXXIII. But how can that proposition possibly be maintained which you urge, namely, that all the pleasures and pains of the mind are connected inseparably with the pleasures and pains of the body? Is there, then, nothing which ever delights you, (I know whom I am addressing,) is there nothing, O Torquatus, which ever delights you for its own sake? I say nothing about dignity, honourableness, the beauty of virtue, which I have mentioned before. I will put
You must either be the most obstinate of men, if you persist in referring these things, which I have just mentioned, to the body, or else you must abandon Epicurus’s whole theory of pleasure, if you admit that they have no connexion with it. But as for your argument, that the pleasures and pains of the mind are greater than those of the body, because the mind is a partaker of three times, On which account, O Torquatus, we must find out something else which is the chief good of man. Let us grant pleasure to the beasts, to whom you often appeal as witnesses on the subject of the chief good. What will you say, if even the beasts do many things under the guidance of their various
XXXIV. But we, if indeed all things depend on pleasure, are greatly surpassed by beasts, for which the earth, of her own accord, produces various sorts of food, in every kind of abundance, without their taking any trouble about it; while the same necessaries are scarcely (sometimes I may even use stronger language still) supplied to us, when we seek them with great labour. Nor is it possible that I should ever think that the chief good was the same in the case of a beast and a man. For what can be the use of having so many means and appliances for the carrying out of the most excellent arts,—what can be the use of such an assemblage of most honourable pursuits, of such a crowd of virtues, if they are all got together for no other end but pleasure? As if, when Xerxes, with such vast fleets, such countless troops of both cavalry and infantry, had bridged over the Hellespont and dug through Mount Athos, had walked across the sea, and sailed This seems to refer to the Greek epigram— Τὸν γαίης καὶ πόντου ἀμειφθείσαισι κελεύθοις, Which may be translated— Him who the paths of land and sea disturb’d, over the land, if, when he had invaded Greece with such
Believe me, Torquatus, we were born for more lofty and noble ends; and you may see this, not only by considering the parts of the mind, in which there is the recollection of a countless number of things, (and from thence proceed infinite conjectures as to the consequences of them, not very far differing from divination; there is also in them shame, which is the regulator of desire, and the faithful guardianship of justice, so necessary to human society, and a firm enduring contempt for pain and death, shown in the enduring of labours and the encountering of dangers.) All these things, I say, are in the mind. But I would have you consider also the limbs and the senses, which, like the other parts of the body, will appear to you to be not only the companions of the virtues, but also their slaves. What will you say, if many things in the body itself appear to deserve to be preferred to pleasure? such as strength, health, activity, beauty? And if this is the case, how many qualities of the mind will likewise seem so? For in the mind, the old philosophers—those most learned men—thought that there was something heavenly and divine. But if the chief good consisted in pleasure, as you say, then it would be natural that we should wish to live day and night in the midst of pleasure, without any interval or interruption, while all our senses were, as it were, steeped in and influenced wholly by pleasure. But who is there, who is worthy of the name of a man, who would like to spend even the whole of one day in that kind of pleasure? The Cyrenaic philosophers, indeed, would not object. Your sect is more modest in this respect, though their’s is perhaps the more sincere. However, let us contemplate with our minds, not, indeed, these most important arts, which are so valuable, that those who were ignorant of them were accounted useless by our ancestors; but I ask you whether you think that (I will not say Homer, or Archilochus, or Pindar, but) Phidias, or Polycletus, or Zeuxis directed the whole of their skill to cause more pleasure. Shall, then, an artist propose to himself a higher aim, with reference to the beauty of figures, than a virtuous citizen with reference to the nobleness of action? But what other cause can there be for such a blunder being so widely and extensively diffused, except that he who determines that pleasure is the chief good, deliberates not with that part of his mind in which reason and wisdom dwell, but with his desires, that is to say, with the most trifling portion of his mind. For I put the question to you yourself, if there are gods, as you think that there are, how have they the power of being happy, when they are not able to feel any pleasure in their bodies? or if they are happy, though destitute of that kind of pleasure, why do you refuse to recognize the possibility of a similar exertion of intellect on the part of a wise man? XXXV. Read, O Torquatus, the panegyrics, not of those men who have been praised by Homer, not the encomiums passed on Cyrus, or Agesilaus, or Aristides, or Themistocles, or Philip, or Alexander; but read the praises of our own fellow-countrymen, of the heroes of your own family. You will not find any one praised on the ground of having been a cunning contriver, or procurer, of pleasure. The eulogies on their monuments signify no such thing; like this one which is at one of our gates, But if pleasure is the dominant power, it is inevitable that all the virtues must be trampled under foot. For there are many kinds of base conduct, which, unless honourableness is naturally to have the most influence, must, or at least it is not easy to explain why they should not, overcome a wise man; and, not to go hunting for too many instances, it is quite clear, that virtue deservedly praised, must cut off all the approaches of pleasure. Do not, now, expect any more arguments from me. Look, Torquatus, yourself, into your own mind; turn the question over in all your thoughts; examine yourself, whether you would prefer to pass your life in the enjoyment of perpetual pleasure, in that tranquillity which you have often felt, free from all pain, with the addition also of that blessing which you often speak of as an addition, but which is, in fact, an impossible one, the absence of all fear; or, while deserving well of all nations, and bearing assistance and safety to all who are in need of it, to encounter even the distresses of Hercules. For so our ancestors, even in the case of a god, called labours which were unavoidable by the most melancholy name, distresses. The Latin is Et potiores I would require you, and compel you to answer me, if I were not afraid that you might say that Hercules himself performed those exploits, which he performed with the greatest labour for the safety of nations, for the sake of pleasure.
And when I had said this,—I know, said Torquatus, who it is that I have to thank for this; and although I might be able to do something myself, yet I am still more glad to find my friends better prepared than I am. I suppose you mean Syro and Philodemus, excellent citizens and most learned men. You are right, said he. Come, then, said I. But it would be more fair for Triarius to give
And when this had been said, we made an end both of our walk and of our discussion. I. I think, Brutus, that Pleasure, if she were to speak for herself, and had not such pertinacious advocates, would yield to Virtue, as having been vanquished in the preceding book. In truth, she would be destitute of shame if she were to resist Virtue any longer, or persist in preferring what is pleasant to what is honourable, or were to contend that a tickling pleasure, as it were, of the body, and the joy arising out of it, is of more importance than dignity of mind and consistency. So that we may dismiss Pleasure, and desire her to confine herself within her own boundaries, so that the strictness of our discussions may not be hindered by her allurements and blandishments. For we have now to inquire what that chief good is which we are anxious to discover; since pleasure is quite unconnected with it, and since nearly the same arguments can be urged against those who have considered freedom from pain as the greatest of goods. Nor, indeed, can anything be admitted to be the chief good which is destitute of virtue, to which nothing can be superior. Therefore, although in that discourse which was held with Torquatus we were not remiss, still we have now a much sharper contest before us with the Stoics. For the statements which are made about pleasure are not expressed with any great acuteness or refinement. For they who defend it are not skilful in arguing, nor have those who take the opposite side a very difficult cause to oppose. Even
II. And, without dwelling on the case of these liberal and gentlemanly professions, even artisans would not be capable of exercising their trades properly if they did not use technical words, which are not understood by us, though in common use among them. Agriculture, also, which is as distant as can be from all polite refinement, still marks those matters with which it is conversant by new names. And much more is this course allowable in a philosopher; for philosophy is the art of life, and a man who is discussing that cannot borrow his language from the forum,—although there is no school of philosophers which has made so many innovations as the Stoics. Zeno too, their chief, was not so much a discoverer of new things as of new words. But if, even in that language which most people consider richer than our own, Greece has permitted the most learned men to use words not in ordinary use about subjects which are equally unusual, how much more ought the same licence to be granted to us,
Enough, however, of the names of things. But with respect to the things themselves, I am often afraid, Brutus, that I may be blamed when I am writing to you, who have made so much progress, not only in philosophy, but in the most excellent kind of philosophy. And if I wrote as if I were giving you any instruction, I should deserve to be blamed; but such conceit is far from me. Nor do I send letters to you under the idea of making you acquainted with what is thoroughly known to you before; but because I am fond of supporting myself by your name, and because also I consider you the most candid critic and judge of those studies which both you and I apply ourselves to in common. I know, therefore, that you will pay careful attention to what I write, as is your wont, and that you will decide on the dispute which took place between your uncle—a most heavenly-minded and admirable man—and myself. For when I was at my villa near Tusculum, and was desirous to make use of some books in the library of the young Lucullus, I went one day to his house, in order to take away (as I was in the habit of doing) the books which I wanted. And when I had arrived there, I found Marcus Cato, whom I did not know to be there, sitting in the library, surrounded by a number of the books of the Stoics. For he had, as you know, a boundless desire for reading, one which was quite insatiable,—so much so, indeed, that he was not
III. Then Cato said: But now, what books in the world are they that you are looking for here, when you have such a library at home? I want, said I, some of the Aristotelian Commentaries, which I know are here; and I came to carry them off, to read when I have leisure, which is not, as you know, very often the case with me. How I wish, said he, that you had an inclination towards our Stoic sect; for certainly it is natural for you, if it ever was so for any one, to think nothing a good except virtue. May I not, I replied, rejoin that it would be natural for you, as your opinion in reality is the same as mine, to forbear giving new names to things? for our principles are the same,—it is only our language that is at variance. Indeed, said he, our principles are not the same at all; for I can never agree to your calling anything desirable except what is honourable, and to your reckoning such things among the goods,—and, by so doing, extinguishing honourableness, which is, as it were, the light of virtue, and utterly upsetting virtue herself. Those are all very fine words, said I, O Cato; but do you not see that all those pompous expressions are shared by you in common with Pyrrho and Aristo, who think all things equal? And I should like to know what your opinion of them is. Mine? said he; do you want to know what I think of them? I think that those men whom we have either heard of from our ancestors, or seen ourselves, to be good, brave, just, and moderate in the republic,—those who, following nature herself, without any particular learning or system, have done many praiseworthy actions, have been educated by nature herself better than they could have been educated by philosophy, if they had adopted any other philosophy except that which ranks nothing whatever among the goods except what
IV. All that you have been saying, Cato, I replied, you might say if you agreed with Pyrrho or Aristo; for you are not ignorant that they consider that honourableness not only the chief good, but also (as you yourself maintain) the only good. And if this is the case, the consequence which I see you aim at follows necessarily, that all wise men are always happy. Do you then praise these men, and do you think that we ought to follow their opinion? By no means, said he; for as this is a peculiar attribute of virtue to make its selection of those things which are in accordance with nature, those who have made all things equal in such a manner as to consider all things on either side perfectly indifferent, so as to leave no room for any selection, have utterly put an end to virtue. You say right, said I; but I ask you whether you, too, must not do the same thing, when you say that there is nothing good which is not right and honourable, and so put an end to all the difference between other things? That would be the case, said he, if I did put an end to it; but I deny the fact—I leave it. How so, said I? If virtue alone,—if that thing alone which you call honourable, right, praiseworthy, and creditable, (for it will be more easily seen what is the character that you ascribe to it, if it be pointed out by many words tending to the same point,)—if, I say, that is the sole good, what else will there be for you to follow? And, on the other hand, if nothing is evil except what is disgraceful, dishonourable, unbecoming, wrong, flagitious, and base, (to make
I will not, said he, reply to each point of your question, as you are not, as I suspect, ignorant of what I am going to say, but seeking rather to find something to carp at in my brief answer: I will rather, since we have plenty of time, explain to you, unless you think it foreign to the subject, the whole opinion of Zeno and the Stoics on the matter. Very far from foreign to the subject, said I; indeed, your explanations will be of great service in elucidating to me the points about which I am inquiring. Let us try, then, said he, although this system of the Stoics has in it something rather difficult and obscure; for, as formerly, when these matters were discussed in the Greek language, the very names of things appeared strange which have now become sanctioned by daily use, what do you think will be the case when we are discussing them in Latin? Still, said I, we must do so; for if Zeno might take the liberty when he had discovered anything not previously common, to fix on it a name that was likewise unprecedented, why may not Cato take the same? Nor will it be necessary for you to render what he has said word for word, as translators are in the habit of doing who have no command of language of their own, whenever there is a word in more ordinary use which has the same meaning. I indeed myself am in the habit, if I cannot manage it any other way, of using many words to express what the Greeks have expressed in one; and yet I think that we ought to be allowed to use a Greek word on occasions when we cannot find a Latin one, and to employ such terms as V. Those philosophers, said he, whose system I approve of, consider that as soon as an animal is born, (for this is where we must begin,) he is instinctively induced and excited to
But as for the knowledge of things—or if you do not so much approve of this word VI. Let us then proceed, said he, since we have digressed from these first principles of nature, which everything which follows ought to be in harmony with. But this is the first division of the subject. A thing is said to be estimable: for so we may, I think, call that which is either itself in accordance with nature, or else which is the efficient cause of something of such a character that it is worthy of being selected because it has in it some weight worth appreciating, which he calls ἀχία; and, on the other hand, something not estimable, which is the contrary of the preceding. The first principles, therefore, being laid down, that those things which are according to nature are to be chosen for their own sakes, and those which are contrary to it are in like manner to be rejected; the first duty (for that is how I translate the word καθῆκον) is, for a man to preserve himself in his natural condition; next to that, to maintain those things which are in accordance with nature, and reject what is opposite to it; and when this principle of selection and rejection has been discovered, then follows selection in accordance with duty; and then that third kind, which is perpetual, and consistent to the end, and corresponding to nature, in which there first begins to be a proper understanding
But as those things which I have called duties proceed from the first principles of nature, they must necessarily be referred to them; so that it may be fairly said that all duties are referred to this end, of arriving at the principles of nature; not, however, that this is the highest of all goods, because there is no such thing as honourable action in the first attractions of nature; for that is what follows, and arises subsequently, as I have said before. But still it is according to nature, and encourages us to desire itself much more than all those things which have been previously mentioned. But, first of all, we must remove a mistake, that no one may think that it follows that there are two supreme goods. For as, if it were the purpose of any one to direct an arrow or a spear straight at any object, just as we have said that there is an especial point to be aimed at in goods,—the archer ought to do all in his power to aim straight at the target, and the other man ought also to do his endeavour to hit the mark, and gain the end which he has proposed to himself: let this then which we call the chief good in life be, as it were, his mark; and his endeavour to hit it must be furthered by careful selection, not by mere desire. VII. But as all duties proceed from the first principles of nature, it follows inevitably that wisdom itself must proceed
And it is only out of ignorance that the object of the art of medicine or navigation is compared with the object of wisdom; for wisdom embraces greatness of mind and justice, and judges all the accidents which befal mankind beneath itself: and this too is not the case in the other arts. But no one will be able to maintain those very virtues of which I have just made mention, unless he lays down a rule that there is nothing which is of any importance, nothing which differs from anything else, except what is honourable or disgraceful. VIII. Let us see now how admirably these rules follow from
IX. Not that I am ignorant that the opinions of philosophers have been various, of those I mean who have placed the chief good, that which I call the end, in the mind. And although some people have followed them very incorrectly, still I prefer their theory, not only to that of the three sects who have separated virtue from the chief good, while ranking either pleasure, or freedom from pain, or the original gifts of nature among goods, but also to the other three who have thought that virtue would be crippled without some reinforcement, and on that account have each added to it one of those other particulars which I have just enumerated. I,
Now people often make very lengthy replies to each of these assertions; yet what is very clear ought not to be long. But what is more evident than, if there be no selection made, discarding those things which are contrary to nature, and selecting those which are according to nature, all that prudence which is so much sought after and extolled would be done away with? If, then, we discard those sentiments which I have mentioned, and all others which resemble them, it remains that the chief good must be to live, exercising a knowledge of those things which happen by nature, selecting what is according to nature, and rejecting any which are contrary to nature; that is to say, to live in a manner suitable and corresponding to nature. But in other arts, when anything is said to have been done according to the rules of art, there is something to be considered which is subsequent and follows upon such compliance; which they call ἐπιγεννηματικόν. But when we say in any matter that a thing has been done wisely, that same thing is from the first said also to have been done most properly; for whatever proceeds from a wise man must at once be perfect in all its parts: for in him is placed that quality which we say is to be desired. For as it is a sin to betray one’s country, to injure one’s parents, to plunder temples, which are all sins of commission; so it is likewise a sin to be afraid, to grieve, to be under the dominion of lust, even if no overt act follows these feelings. But, as these are sins, not in their later periods and consequences, but at once from the first moment; so those actions which proceed from virtue are to be considered right at the first moment that they are undertaken, and not only when they are accomplished. X. But it may be as well to give an explanation and definition of the word good, which, has been so often employed in this discourse. But the definitions of those philosophers differ a good deal from one another, and yet have all reference to the same facts. I myself agree with Diogenes, who has defined good to be that which in its nature is perfect. But that which follows, that which is profitable (for so we may translate his ὼφέλημα), he considered to be a motion, or a state, arising out of the nature of the perfect. And as the notions of things arise in the mind, if anything has become known either by practice, or by combination, or by similitude, or by the comparison of reason; then by this fourth means, which I have placed last, the knowledge of good is arrived at. For when, by a comparison of the reason, the mind ascends from those things which are according to reason, then it arrives at a notion of good. And this good we are speaking of, we both feel to be and call good, not because of any addition made to it, nor from its growth, nor from comparing it with other things, but because of its own proper power. For as honey, although it is very sweet, is still perceived to be sweet by its own peculiar kind of taste, and not by comparison with other things; so this good, which we are now treating of, is indeed to be esteemed of great value; but that valuation depends on kind and not on magnitude. For as estimation, which is called ἀξί, is not reckoned among goods, nor, on the other hand, among evils, whatever you add to it will remain in its kind. There is, therefore, another kind of estimation proper to virtue, which is of weight from its character, and not because of its increasing. Nor, indeed, are the perturbations of the mind, which make the lives of the unwise bitter and miserable, and which the Greeks call πάθη, (I might translate the word itself by the Latin XI. But that everything which is honourable is to be sought for its own sake, is an opinion common to us with many other schools of philosophers. For, except the three sects which exclude virtue from the chief good, this opinion must be maintained by all philosophers, and above all by us, who do not rank anything whatever among goods except what is honourable. But the defence of this opinion is very easy and simple indeed; for who is there, or who ever was there, of such violent avarice, or of such unbridled desires as not infinitely to prefer that anything which he wishes to acquire, even at the expense of any conceivable wickedness, should come into his power without crime, (even though he had a prospect of perfect impunity,) than through crime? and what utility, or what personal advantage do we hope for, when we are anxious to know whether those bodies are moving whose movements are concealed from us, and owing to what causes they revolve through the heavens? And who is there that lives according to such clownish maxims, or who has so rigorously hardened himself against the study of nature, as to be averse to things worthy of being understood, and to be indifferent to and disregard such knowledge, merely because there is no exact usefulness or pleasure likely to result from it? or, who is there who—when he comes to know the exploits, and sayings, and wise counsels of our forefathers, of the Africani, or of that ancestor of mine whom you are always talking of, and of other brave men, and citizens of pre-eminent virtue—does not feel his mind affected with pleasure? and who that has been brought up in a respectable family, and educated as becomes a freeman, is not offended with baseness as such, though it may not be likely to injure him personally? Who can keep his equanimity while looking on a man who, he thinks, lives in an impure and wicked manner? Who does not hate sordid, fickle, unstable, worthless men? But what shall we be able to say, (if we do not lay it down that baseness is to be avoided for its own sake), is the reason why men do not seek darkness and solitude, and then give the rein
But after that point is established, which we have previously mentioned, that what is honourable is the sole good; it must unavoidably be understood that that which is honourable, is to be valued more highly than those intermediate goods which we derive from it. But when we say that folly, and rashness, and injustice, and intemperance are to be avoided on account of those things which result from them, we do not speak in such a manner that our language is at all inconsistent with the position which has been laid down, that that alone is evil which is dishonourable. Because those things are not referred to any inconvenience of the body, but to dishonourable actions, which arise out of vicious propensities ( XII. Certainly; Cato, said I, you are employing very admirable language, and such as expresses clearly what you mean; and, therefore, you seem to me to be teaching philosophy in Latin, and, as it were, to be presenting it with the freedom of the city. For up to this time she has seemed like a stranger at Rome, and has not put herself in the way of our conversation; and that, too, chiefly because of a certain highly polished thinness of things and words. For I am aware that there are some men who are able to philosophise in any language, but who still employ no divisions and no definitions; and who say themselves that they approve of those things alone to which nature silently assents. Therefore, they discuss, without any great degree of labour, matters which are not very obscure. And, on this account, I am now prepared to listen eagerly to you, and to commit to memory all the names which you give to those matters to which this discussion refers. For, perhaps, I myself may some day have reason to employ them too. You, then, appear to me to be perfectly right, and to be acting in strict accordance with our usual way of speaking,
XIII. Then he proceeded:—After these things, therefore, are thus laid down, there follows a great contest, which has been handled by the Peripatetics somewhat too gently, (for their method of arguing is not sufficiently acute, owing to their ignorance of dialectics;) but your Carneades has pressed the matter with great vigour and effect, displaying in reference to it a most admirable skill in dialectics, and the most consummate eloquence; because he has never ceased to contend throughout the whole of this discussion, which turns upon what is good and what is bad, that the controversy between the Stoics and Peripatetics is not one of things, but only of names. But, to me, nothing appears so evident as that the opinions of these two schools differ from one another far more as to facts than to names; I mean to say, that there is much greater difference between the Stoics and Peripatetics in principle than in language. Forasmuch as the Peripatetics assert that everything which they themselves call good, has a reference to living happily; but our school does not think that a happy life necessarily embraces everything which is worthy of any esteem. But can anything be more certain than that, according to the principles of those men who rank pain among the evils, a wise man cannot be happy when he is tormented on the rack? While the principles of those who do not consider pain among the evils, certainly compels us to allow that a happy life is preserved to a wise man among all torments. In truth, if those men endure pain with greater fortitude who suffer it in the cause of their country, than those who do so for any slighter object; then it is plain that it is opinion, and not nature, which makes the force of pain greater or less. Even that opinion of the Peripatetics is more than I can
XIV. For as the light of a candle is obscured and put out by the light of the sun; and as a drop of brine is lost in the magnitude of the Ægæan sea; or an addition of a penny amid the riches of Crœsus; or as one step is of no account in a march from here to India; so, if that is the chief good which the Stoics affirm is so, then, all the goods which depend on the body must inevitably be obscured and overwhelmed by, and come to nothing when placed by the side of the splendour and importance of virtue. And since opportunity, (for that is how we may translate εὐκαιρία,) is not made greater by extending the time, (for whatever is said to be opportune has its own peculiar limit;) so a right action, (for
XV. I am aware that all this seems very strange. But as unquestionably the previous propositions are true and uncontrovertible, and as these others are in harmony with, and are the direct consequences of them; we cannot question their truth also. But although some people deny that either virtues or vices are susceptible of growth, still they believe that each of them is in some degree diffused, and as it were extended. But Diogenes thinks that riches have not only such power, that they are, as it were, guides to pleasure and to good health, but that they even contain them: but that they have not the same power with regard to virtue, or to the other arts to which money may indeed be a guide, but which it cannot contain. Therefore, if pleasure or if good health be among the goods, riches also must be classed among the goods; but if wisdom be a good, it does not follow that we are also to call riches a good; nor can that which is classed among the goods be contained by anything which is not placed in the same classification. And on that account, because the knowledge and comprehension of those things by which arts are produced, excite a desire for them, as riches are not among the goods, therefore no art can be contained in riches. But if we grant this to be true with respect to arts, still it is not to follow that the same rule holds good with respect to virtue; because virtue requires a great deal of meditation and practice, and this is not always the case with arts; and also because virtue embraces the stability, firmness, and consistency of the entire life; and we do not see that the same is the case with arts. After this, we come to explain the differences between things. And if we were to say that there is none, then all life would be thrown into confusion, as it is by Aristo. Nor could any office or work be found for wisdom, if there were actually no difference between one thing and another, and if there were no power of selection at all requisite to be exerted. Therefore, after it had been sufficiently established that that alone was good which was honourable, and that alone evil which was disgraceful, they asserted that there were some particulars in which those things which had no influence on
XVI. For as, says he, no one in a king’s palace says that the king is, as it were, led forward towards his dignity (for that is the real meaning of the word προηγμένον, but the term is applied to those who are of some rank whose order comes next to his, so as to be second to the kingly dignity); so in life too, it is not those things which are in the first rank, but those which are in the second which are called προηγμένα, or led forward. And we may translate the Greek by But since we say that everything which is good holds the first rank, it follows inevitably that this which we call Next comes that division, that of goods some have reference to that end (for so I express those which they call τελικὰ, for we must here, as we have said before, endure to express in many words, what we cannot express by one so as to be thoroughly intelligible,) some are efficient causes, and some are both together. But of those which have reference to that end, nothing is good except honourable actions; of those which are efficient causes, nothing is good except a friend. But they assert that wisdom is both a referential and an efficient good. For, because wisdom is suitable action, it is of that referential character which I have mentioned; but inasmuch as it brings and causes honourable actions, it may be so far called efficient. XVII. Now these things which we have spoken of as preferred, are preferred some for their own sake, some because they effect something else, and some for both reasons. Some are preferred for their own sake, such as some particular appearance or expression of countenance, some particular kind of gait, or motion, in which there are some things which may well be preferred, and some which may be rejected. Others are said to be preferred because they produce something, as money; and others for a combination of both reasons, as soundness of the senses, or good health. But respecting good reputation, (for what they call εὐδοξία is more properly called, in this place, good reputation than glory,)
But as we assert that what is honourable is the only good, still it is consistent with this assertion to discharge one’s duty, though we do not class duty among either the goods or the evils. For there is in these things some likelihood, and that of such a nature that reasons can be alleged for there being such; and therefore of such a nature, that probable reasons may be adduced for adopting such a line of conduct. From which it follows that duty is a sort of neutral thing, which is not to be classed either among the goods or among the opposites of goods. And since, in those things which are neither ranked among the virtues nor among the vices, there is still something which may be of use; that is not to be destroyed. For there is a certain action of that sort, and that too of such a character that reason requires one to do and perform it. But that which is done in obedience to reason we call duty; duty, then, is a thing of that sort, that it must not be ranked either among the goods or among the opposites of goods. XVIII. And this also is evident, that in these natural things the wise man is not altogether inactive. He therefore, when he acts, judges that that is his duty; and because he is never deceived in forming his judgment, duty must be classed among neutral things; and this is proved also by this conclusion of reason. For since we see that there is something which we pronounce to have been rightly done (for that is duty when accomplished), there must also be something which is rightly begun: as, if to restore what has been justly
For he in whom there are many things which are in accordance with nature, his duty it is to remain in life; but as to the man in whom there either is or appears likely to be a preponderance of things contrary to nature, that man’s duty is to depart from life. From which consideration it is evident, that it is sometimes the duty of a wise man to depart from life when he is happy, and sometimes the duty of a fool to remain in life though he is miserable. For that good and that evil, as has been often said, comes afterwards. But those principal natural goods, and those which hold the second rank, and those things which are opposite to them, all come under the decision of, and are matters for the reflection of the wise man; and are, as it were, the subject matter of wisdom. Therefore the question of remaining in life, or of emigrating from it, is to be measured by all those circumstances which I have mentioned above; for death is not to be sought for by those men who are retained in life by virtue, nor by those who are destitute of virtue. But it is often the duty of a wise man to depart from life, when he is thoroughly happy, if it is in his power to do so opportunely; and that is living in a manner suitable to nature, for their maxim is, that living happily depends upon opportunity. Therefore a rule is laid down by wisdom, that if it be necessary a wise man is even to leave her herself. Wherefore, as vice has not such power as to afford a justifying cause for voluntary death, it is evident that it is the duty even of fools, and of those too who are miserable, to remain in life, if they are surrounded by a preponderance of those things which we call according to nature. And since such a man is equally miserable, whether departing from life, or abiding in it, and since the duration of misery is not any the more a cause for fleeing from life, therefore it is not a causeless assertion, that those men who have the power of enjoying the greatest number of natural goods, ought to abide in life. XIX. But they think it is very important with reference to this subject, that it should be understood that it is the work of nature, that children are beloved by their parents; and that this is the first principle from which we may trace the whole progress of the common society of the human race. And that this may be inferred, in the first place, from the figure and members of the body, which of themselves declare that a due regard for everything connected with generation has been exhibited by nature; nor can these two things possibly be consistent with one another, that nature should desire that offspring should be propagated, and yet take no care that what is propagated should be loved. But even in beasts the power of nature may be discerned; for when we see such labour bestowed upon the bringing forth and bearing of their offspring, we seem to be hearing the voice of nature herself. Wherefore, as it is evident that we are by nature averse to pain; so also it is clear that we are impelled by nature herself to love those whose existence we have caused. And from this it arises that there is such a recommendation by nature of one man to another, that one man ought never to appear unfriendly to another, for the simple reason that he is a man. For as among the limbs some appear to be created for themselves as it were, as the eyes and ears; others assist the rest of the limbs, as the legs and hands; so there are some monstrous beasts born for themselves alone: but that fish which floats in an open shell and is called the pinna, and that other which swims out of the shell, and, because it is a guard to the other, is called the pinnoteres, and when it has withdrawn within the shell again, is shut up in it, so that it
XX. It is in this disposition of mind that wills, and the recommendations of dying persons, have originated. And because no one would like to pass his life in solitude, not even if surrounded with an infinite abundance of pleasures, it is easily perceived that we are born for communion and fellowship with man, and for natural associations. But we are impelled by nature to wish to benefit as many persons as possible, especially by instructing them and delivering them precepts of prudence. Therefore, it is not easy to find a man who does not communicate to some other what he knows himself; so prone are we not only to learn, but also to teach. And as the principle is by nature implanted in bulls to fight
And as men think that there are bonds of right which connect man with man, so also there is no law which connects man with the beasts. For well did Chrysippus say, that all other animals have been born for the sake of men and of the gods; but that men and gods have been born only for the sake of their own mutual communion and society, so that men might be able to use beasts for their own advantage without any violation of law or right. And since the nature of man is such that he has, as it were, a sort of right of citizenship connecting him with the whole human race, a man who maintains that right is just, and he who departs from it is unjust. But as, although a theatre is publicly open, still it may be fairly said that the place which each individual has occupied belongs to him; so in a city, or in the world, which is likewise common to all, there is no principle of right which hinders each individual from having his own private property. But since we see that man has been born for the purpose of defending and preserving men, so it is consistent with this nature that a wise man should wish to manage and regulate the republic; and, in order to live in compliance with nature, to marry a wife and beget children. Nor do philosophers think virtuous love inconsistent with a wise man. But others say that the principles and life of the Cynics are more suited to a wise man; if, indeed, any chance should befal him which
XXI. But in order that the society, and union, and affection between man and man may be completely preserved, they have laid it down that all benefits and injuries, which they call ὠφελήματα and βλάμματα, are likewise common; of which the former are advantageous, and the latter injurious. Nor have they been contented with calling them common, but they have also asserted their equality. But as for disadvantages and advantages, (by which words I translate εὐχρηστήματα and δυσχρηστήματα,) those they assert to be common, but they deny that they are equal. For those things which profit or which injure are either good or evil; and they must necessarily be equal. But advantages and disadvantages are of that kind which we have already called things preferred or rejected; and they cannot be equal. But advantages are said to be common; but things done rightly, and sins, are not considered common. But they think that friendship is to be cultivated because it is one of that class of things which is profitable. But although, in friendship, some people assert that the interest of a man’s friend is as dear to him as his own; others, on the other hand, contend that every man has a greater regard for his own. Yet these latter confess that it is inconsistent with justice, for which we seem to be born, to take anything from another for the purpose of appropriating it to oneself. But philosophers of this school which I am speaking of, never approve of either friendship or justice being exercised or sanctioned for the sake of its usefulness: for they say that the same principles of usefulness may, at times, undermine or overturn them. In truth, neither justice nor friendship can have any existence at all, unless they be sought for their own sake. They contend also that all right, which has any pretence to the name and appellation, is so by nature; and that it is inconsistent with the character of a wise man, not only to do any injustice to any one, but even to do him any damage. Nor is it right to make such a league with one’s friends as to share in all their good deeds, or to become a partner in every act of injustice; and they argue, with the greatest dignity and truth, that justice can never be separated from usefulness: and that whatever is just and equitable is also honourable; and, reciprocally,
And to those virtues which we have discussed, they also add dialectics and natural philosophy; and they call both these sciences by the name of virtues: one, because it has reason, so as to prevent our assenting to any false proposition, or being even deceived by any plausible probability; and to enable us to maintain and defend what we were saying about good and evil. For without this act they think that any one may be led away from the truth and deceived; accordingly, if rashness and ignorance is in every case vicious, this power which removes them is properly named virtue. XXII. The same honour is also attributed to natural philosophy, and not without reason, because the man who wishes to live in a manner suitable to nature, must begin by studying the universal world, and the laws which govern it. Nor can any one form a correct judgment of good and evil without being acquainted with the whole system of nature, and of the life of the gods also, and without knowing whether or not the nature of man agrees with universal nature. He must also have learnt the ancient rules of those wise men who bid men yield to the times, and obey God, and know oneself, and shun every kind of excess. Now, without a knowledge of natural philosophy, no man can see what great power these rules have; and it is as great as can be: and also this is the only knowledge which can teach a man how greatly nature assists in the cultivation of justice, in the maintenance of friendship and the rest of the affections. Nor can piety towards the Gods, nor the gratitude which is due to them, be properly understood and appreciated without a correct understanding of the laws of nature. But I feel now that I have advanced further than I had intended, or than the subject before me required. But the admirable arrangement of the Stoic doctrine, and the incredible beauty of the system, drew me on. And, in the name of the immortal gods! can you forbear to admire it? For what is there in all nature—though nothing is better or more accurately adapted to its ends than that—or what can be found in any work made by the hand, so well arranged, and united, and put together? What is there which is posterior, which does not agree with what has preceded it? What is there
But what a grand and magnificent and consistent character is that of the wise man which is drawn by them! For he, after reason has taught him that that which is honourable is alone good, must inevitably be always happy, and must have a genuine right to those names which are often ridiculed by the ignorant. For he will be more properly called king than Tarquin, who was able to govern neither himself nor his family; he will deserve to be called the master of the people more than Sylla, who was only the master of three pestiferous vices, luxury, avarice, and cruelty; he will be called rich more properly than Crassus, who would never have desired to cross the Euphrates without any legitimate cause for war, if he had not been in want of something. Everything will be properly said to belong to that man, who alone knows how to make use of everything. He will also rightly be called beautiful, for the features of the mind are more beautiful than those of the body: he will deservedly be called the only free man, who is neither subject to the domination of any one, nor subservient to his own passions. He will fairly be called invincible, on whose mind, even though his body be bound with chains, no fetters can ever be imposed. Nor will he wait till the last period of his life, so as to have it decided whether he has been happy or not, after he has come to the last day of life and closed his eyes in death, in the spirit of the warning which one of the wise men gave to Crœsus, without showing much wisdom in so doing. For if he had ever been happy, then he would have borne his happy life with him, even as far as the funeral pile built for him by Cyrus. But if it be true that no one except a good man is happy, and that all good men are happy, then what deserves to be cultivated more than philosophy, or what is more divine than virtue? I. And when he had made an end of saying these things, I replied, Truly, O Cato, you have displayed a wonderful memory in explaining to us such a number of things, and in laying such obscure things so clearly before us. So that we must either give up having any meaning or wish contrary to what you have said, or else we must take time to deliberate: for it is not easy to learn thoroughly the principles of a school which has not only had its foundation laid, but which has even been built up with such diligence, although perhaps with some errors as to its truth, (which, however, I will not as yet dare to affirm,) but at all events with such care and accuracy. Then, said he, is that what you say, when I have seen you, in obedience to this new law, reply to the prosecutor on the same day on which he has brought forward his charge, and sum up for three hours; and then do you think that I am going to allow an adjournment in this cause? which, however, will not be conducted by you better than those which are at times entrusted to you. Wherefore, I desire that you will now apply yourself to this one, especially as it has been handled by others, and also by yourself several times; so that you cannot be at a loss for arguments or language. I replied, I do not, in truth, venture to argue inconsiderately against the Stoics, not because I agree with them in any great degree, but I am hindered by shame; because they say so much that I hardly understand. I confess, said he, that some of our arguments are obscure; not that we make them so on purpose, but because there is some obscurity in the subjects themselves. Why, then, said I, when the Peripatetics discuss the same subjects, does not a single word occur which is not well understood? Do they discuss the same subjects? said he; or have I failed to prove to you that the Stoics differ from the Peripatetics, not in words only, but in the whole of the subject, and in every one of their opinions? But, said
II. I think, then, said I, O Cato, that those ancient pupils of Plato, Speusippus, Aristotle and Xenocrates, and afterwards their pupils, Polemo and Theophrastus, had a system laid down with sufficient richness and eloquence of language; so that Zeno had no reason, after having been a pupil of Polemo, for deserting him and his predecessors who had established this school. And in this school I should like you to observe what you think ought to be changed, and not to wait while I am replying to everything which has been said by you. For I think that I must contend with the whole of their system, against the whole of yours. And as these men said that we are born with the view of being generally well adapted to those virtues which are well known and conspicuous, I mean justice and temperance, and others of the same kind, all which resemble the other arts, and differ only for the better in their subject matter and way of handling;—and as they saw that we desired those very virtues in a somewhat magnificent and ardent spirit; and that we had also a certain instruction, or, I should rather say, innate desire of knowledge; and that we were born for companionship with men, and for society and communion with the human race, and that these qualities are most conspicuous in the greatest geniuses;—they divided all philosophy into three parts; and we see that this same division was retained by Zeno: and as one of these parts is that by which the manners are thought to be formed, I postpone the consideration of that part, which is, as it were, the foundation of this question. For what is the chief good I will discuss presently; but at this moment I only say that that topic which I think we shall be right in calling the civil one, and which the Greeks call πολιτικὸς, has been treated of in a dignified and copious manner by the ancient Peripatetics and Academicians
III. How many books have these men written on the republic! how many on laws! How many precepts in art, and, more than that, how many instances of good speaking in orations have they bequeathed to us! For, in the first place, they said with the greatest degree of polish and fitness those very things which were to be argued in a subtle manner, laying down both definitions and divisions: as your friends have also done: but you have done it in a more shabby manner; while you see how brilliant their language is. In the second place, with what splendid language have they adorned that part of the subject which required ornate and impressive eloquence! how gloriously have they illustrated it! discussing justice, and fortitude, and friendship, and the method of passing life, and philosophy, and the government of the state, and temperance, not like men picking out thorns, like the Stoics, or laying bare the bones, but like men who knew how to handle great subjects elegantly, and lesser ones clearly. What, therefore, are their consolations? What are their exhortations? What also are their warnings and advice written to the most eminent men? For their practice in speaking was, like the nature of the things themselves, of a two-fold character. For whatever is made a question of, contains a controversy either as to the genus itself, without reference to persons or times; or else, with these additions, a dispute as to the fact, or the right, or the name. And therefore, they exercised themselves in both kinds; and that discipline it was which produced that great copiousness of eloquence among them in both kinds of argumentation. Now Zeno, and those who imitated him, were either unable to do much in this kind of argument, or else were unwilling, or at all events they did not do it. Although Cleanthes wrote a treatise on the art of rhetoric, and so too did Chrysippus, but still in such a manner, that if any one were to wish to be silent, he ought to read nothing else. Therefore you see how they speak. They invent new words—they abandon old established terms. But what great attempts do they make? They say that this universal world is our town; accordingly, this excites those who hear such a statement. You see, now, how great
IV. The next thing is the principle of arguing, and the knowledge of nature. For we will examine the chief good presently, as I said before, and apply the whole discussion to the explanation of it. There was, then, in those two parts nothing which Zeno wished to alter. For the whole thing, in both its divisions, is in an excellent state; for what has been omitted by the ancients in that kind of argument which is of influence in discussion? For they have both given many definitions, and have bequeathed to us titles for defining; and that important addition to definition, I mean the dividing of the subject into parts, is both done by them, and they have also left us rules to enable us to do so too; and I may say the same of contraries; from which they came to genera, and to the forms of genera. Now, they make those things which they call evident, the beginning of an argument concluded by reason: then they follow an orderly arrangement; and the conclusion at last shows what is true in the separate propositions. But what a great variety of arguments, which lead to conclusions according to reason, do they give us, and how dissimilar are they to captious questions! What shall we say of their denouncing, as it were, in many places, that we ought neither entirely to trust our senses when unsupported by reason, nor reason when unsupported by our senses; but that, at the same time, we ought to keep the line between
And the consequence is, that it is not necessary for one now to be always repeating a sort of dictated lesson on the same subject, or to be afraid to go beyond one’s note-books: for he who knows where everything is placed, and how he can arrive at it, even if anything be completely buried, will be able to dig it up, and will always have his wits about him in every discussion. And although men who are endowed with great abilities, attain to a certain copiousness of eloquence without any definite principles of oratory, still art is a surer guide than nature. For it is one thing to pour out words after the fashion of poets, and another to distinguish on settled principles and rules all that you say. V. Similar things may be said about the explanation of natural philosophy, which both the Peripatetics and Stoics apply themselves to; and that not on two accounts only, as Epicurus thinks, namely, to get rid of the fears of death and of religion; but besides this, the knowledge of heavenly things imparts some degree of modesty to those who see what great moderation and what admirable order there is likewise among the gods: it inspires them also with magnanimity when they contemplate the arts and works of the gods; and justice, too, when they come to know how great is the power and wisdom, and what the will is also, of the supreme ruler and master of the world, whose reason, in accordance with nature, is called by philosophers the true and supreme law. There is in the same study of nature, an insatiable kind of
What numbers of facts have been investigated and accumulated by them with respect to the genus, and birth, and limbs, and age of all kinds of animals! and in like manner with respect to those things which are produced out of the earth! How many causes have they developed, and in what numerous cases, why everything is done, and what numerous demonstrations have they laid open how everything is done! And from this copiousness of theirs most abundant and undeniable arguments are derived for the explanation of the nature of everything. Therefore, as far as I understand, there is no necessity at all for any change of name. For it does not follow that, though he may have differed from the Peripatetics in some points, he did not arise out of them. And I, indeed, consider Epicurus, as far as his natural philosophy is concerned, as only another Democritus: he alters very few of his doctrines; and I should think him so even if he had changed more: but in numerous instances, and certainly on all the most important points, he coincides with him exactly. And though the men of your school do this, they do not show sufficient gratitude to the original discoverers. VI. But enough of this. Let us now, I beg, consider the
But this chief good, which is understood in the third signification of the definition, and that life which is passed in conformity with that good, can happen to the wise man alone, because virtue is connected with it. And that summit of good, as we see it expressed by the Stoics themselves, was laid down by Xenocrates and by Aristotle; and so that first arrangement of the principles of nature, with which you also began, is explained by them in almost these very words. VII. All nature desires to be a preserver of itself, in order that it may be both safe itself, and that it may be preserved in its kind. They say that for this end arts have been invented
But, as they asserted that wisdom was the guardian and regulator of the entire man, being the companion and assistant of nature, they said that the especial office of wisdom was to defend the being who consisted of mind and body,—to assist him and support him in each particular. And so, the matter being first laid down simply, pursuing the rest of the argument with more subtlety, they thought that the goods of the body admitted of an easy explanation, but they inquired more accurately into those of the mind. And, first of all, they found out that they contained the seeds of justice; and they were the first of all philosophers to teach that the principle that those which were the offspring should be beloved by their parents, was implanted in all animals by nature; and they said, also, that that which precedes the birth of offspring, in point of time,—namely, the marriage of men and women,—was a bond of union suggested by nature, and that this was the root from which the friendships between relations sprang. And, beginning with these first principles, they proceeded to investigate the origin and progress of all the virtues; by which course a great magnanimity was engendered, enabling them easily to resist and withstand fortune, because the most important events were in the power of the wise man; and a life conducted according to the precepts of the ancient philosophers was easily superior to all the changes and injuries of fortune. But when these foundations had been laid by nature, certain great increases of good were produced,—some arising from the contemplation of more secret things, because there is a love of knowledge innate in the mind, in which also the fondness for explaining principles and for discussing them originates; and because man is the only animal which has
VIII. You here, O Cato, have a sketch of the philosophers of whom I am speaking; and, now that I have given you this, I wish to know what reason there is why Zeno departed from their established system; and which of all their doctrines it was that he disapproved of? Did he object to their calling all nature a preserver of itself?—or to their saying that every animal was naturally fond of itself, so as to wish to be safe and uninjured in its kind?—or, as the end of all arts is to arrive at what nature especially requires, did he think that the same principle ought to be laid down with respect to the art of the entire life?—or, since we consist of mind and body, did he think that these and their excellences ought to be chosen for their own sakes?—or was he displeased with the preeminence which is attributed by the Peripatetics to the virtue of the mind?—or did he object to what they said about prudence, and the knowledge of things, and the union of the human race, and temperance, and modesty, and magnanimity, and honourableness in general? The Stoics must confess that all these things were excellently explained by the others, and that they gave no reason to Zeno for deserting their school. They must allege some other excuse. I suppose they will say that the errors of the ancients were very great, and that he, being desirous of investigating the truth, could by no means endure them. For what can be more perverse—what can be more intolerable, or more stupid, than to place good health, and freedom from all pain, and soundness of the eyes and the rest of the senses, among the goods, instead of saying that there is no difference at all between them and their contraries? For that all those things which the Peripatetics called goods, were only things preferable, not good. And also that the ancients had been very foolish when they said that these excellences of the body were desirable for their own sake: they were to be accepted, but not to be desired. And the same might be said of all the
IX. Oh, what a splendid force is there in such genius, and what an excellent reason is this for setting up a new school! Go on; for it will follow,—and, indeed, you have most learnedly adopted the principle,—that all folly, and all injustice, and all other vices are alike, and that all errors are equal; and that those who have made great progress, through natural philosophy and learning, towards virtue, if they have not arrived at absolute perfection in it, are completely miserable, and that there is no difference between their life and that of the most worthless of men,—as Plato, that greatest of men, if he was not thoroughly wise, lived no better, and in no respect more happily, than the most worthless of men. This is, forsooth, the Stoic correction and improvement of the old philosophy; but it can never find any entrance into the city, or the forum, or the senate-house. For who could endure to hear a man, who professed to be a teacher of how to pass life with dignity and wisdom, speaking in such a manner—altering the names of things; and though he was in reality of the same opinion as every one else, still giving new names to the things to which he attributed just the same force that others did, without proposing the least alteration in the ideas to be entertained of them? Would the advocate of a cause, when summing up for a defendant, deny that exile or the confiscation of his client’s property was an evil?—that these things were to be rejected, though not to be fled from?—or would he say that a judge ought not to be merciful? But if he were speaking in the public assembly,—if Hannibal had arrived at the gates and had driven his javelin into the wall, would he deny that it was an evil to be taken prisoner, to be sold, to be slain, to lose one’s country? Or could the senate, when it was voting a triumph to Africanus, have expressed itself,—Because by his virtue and good fortune … if there could not properly be said to be any virtue or any
X. But, however, to come, O Cato, more closely to what you have been saying, let us treat this question more narrowly, and compare what you have just said with those assertions which I prefer to yours. Now, those arguments which you employ in common with the ancients, we may make use of as admitted. But let us, if you please, confine our discussion to those which are disputed. I do please, said he: I am very glad to have the question argued with more subtlety, and, as you call it, more closely; for what you have hitherto advanced are mere popular assertions, but from you I expect something more elegant. From me? said I. However, I will try; and, if I cannot find arguments enough, I will not be above having recourse to those which you call popular. But let me first lay down this position, that we are so recommended to ourselves by nature, and that we have this principal desire implanted in us by nature, that our first wish is to preserve ourselves. This is agreed. It follows, that we must take notice what we are, that so we may preserve ourselves in that character of which we ought to be. We are, therefore, men: we consist of mind and body,—which are
XI. Come, now let them teach us, or rather do so yourself, (for who is better able?) in what way you proceed from these principles, and prove that to live honourably (for that is the meaning of living according to virtue, or in a manner suitable to nature) is the chief good; and in what manner, or in what place, you on a sudden get rid of the body, and leave all those things which, as they are according to nature, are out of our own power; and, lastly, how you get rid of duty itself. I ask, therefore, how it is that all these recommendations, having proceeded from nature, are suddenly abandoned by wisdom? But if it were not the chief good of man that we were inquiring into, but only that of some animal, and if he were nothing except mind (for we may make such a supposition as that, in order more easily to discover the truth), still this chief good of yours would not belong to that mind. For it would wish for good health, for freedom from pain; it would also desire the preservation of itself, and the guardianship of these qualities, and it would appoint as its own end to live according to nature, which is, as I have said, to have those things which are according to nature, either all of them, or most of them, and all the most important ones. For whatever kind of animal you make him out, it is necessary, even though he be incorporeal, as we are supposing him, still that there must be in the mind something like those qualities which exist in the body; so that the chief good cannot possibly be defined in any other manner but that which I have mentioned. But Chrysippus, when explaining the differences between living creatures, says, that some excel in their bodies, others in their minds, some in both. And then he argues that
XII. But in one case the chief good might rightly be placed in virtue alone, if there were any animal which consisted wholly of mind; and that, too, in such a manner that that mind had in itself nothing that was according to nature, as health is. But it cannot even be imagined what kind of thing that is, so as not to be inconsistent with itself. But if he says that some things are obscure, and are not visible because they are very small, we also admit that; as Epicurus says of pleasure, that those pleasures which are very small are often obscured and overwhelmed. But that kind has not so many advantages of body, nor any which last so long, or are so great. Therefore, in those in which obscuration follows because of their littleness, it often happens that we confess that it makes no difference to us whether they exist at all or not; just as when the sun is out, as you yourself said, it is of no consequence to add the light of a candle, or to add a penny to the riches of Crœsus. But in those matters in which so great an obscuration does not take place, it may still be the case, that the matter which makes a difference is of no great consequence. As if, when a man had lived ten years agreeably, an additional month’s life of equal pleasantness were given to him, it would be good, because any addition has some power to produce what is agreeable; but if that is not admitted, it does not follow that a happiness of life is at once put an end to. But the goods of the body are more like this instance which I have just mentioned. For they admit of additions worthy of having pains taken about them; so that on this point the Stoics appear to me sometimes to be joking, when they say that, if a bottle or a comb were given as an addition to a life which is being passed with virtue, a wise man would rather choose that life, because these additions were given to it, but yet that he would not be happier on that account. Now, is not this simile to be upset by ridicule rather than by serious discourse? For who would not be deservedly ridiculed, if he were anxious whether he had another bottle or
We will not inquire, then, what is obscured, or what is destroyed, because it is something very small; but what is of such a character as to complete the whole sum of happiness. One pleasure out of many may be obscured in that life of pleasure; but still, however small an one it may be, it is a part of that life which consists wholly of pleasure. One coin is lost of the riches of Crœsus, still it is a part of his riches. Wherefore those things, too, which we say are according to nature, may be obscured in a happy life, still they must be parts of the happy life. XIII. But if, as we ought to agree, there is a certain natural desire which longs for those things which are according to nature, then, when taken altogether, they must be considerable in amount. And if this point is established, then we may be allowed to inquire about those things at our leisure, and to investigate the greatness of them, and their excellence, and to examine what influence each has on living happily, and also to consider the very obscurations themselves, which, on account of their smallness, are scarcely ever, or I may say never, visible. What should I say about that as to which there is no dispute? For there is no one who denies that that which is the standard to which everything is referred resembles every nature, and that is the chief thing which is to be desired. For every nature is attached to itself. For what nature is there which ever deserts itself, or any portion of itself, or any one of its parts or faculties, or, in short, any one of those things, or motions, or states which are in accordance with nature? And what nature has ever been forgetful of its original purpose and establishment? There has never been one which does not observe this law from first to last. How,
Now wisdom is like this: for wisdom is not herself the parent of man, but she has received him after he has been commenced by nature. And without regard to her, she ought to complete that work of her’s, as an artist would complete a statue. What kind of man, then, is it that nature has commenced? and what is the office and task of wisdom? What is it that ought to be finished and completed by her? If there is nothing to be made further in man, except some kind of motion of the mind, that is to say, reason, then it follows, that the ultimate object is to mould the life according to virtue. For the perfection of reason is virtue. If there is nothing but body, then the chief goods must be good health, freedom from pain, beauty, and so on. The question at this moment is about the chief good of man. XIV. Why do we hesitate, then, to inquire as to his whole nature, what has been done? For as it is agreed by all, that the whole duty and office of wisdom is to be occupied about
As if the culture of the vine, the object of which is to cause the vine, with all its parts, to be in the best possible condition, (however that is what we understand it to be, for
XV. But now you say that virtue cannot properly be established, if those things which are external to virtue have any influence on living happily. But the exact contrary is the case. For virtue cannot possibly be introduced, unless everything which it chooses and which it neglects is all referred to one general end. For if we entirely neglect ourselves, we then fall into the vices and errors of Ariston, and shall forget the principles which we have attributed to virtue itself. But if we do not neglect those things, and yet do not refer them to the chief good, we shall not be very far removed from the trivialities of Herillus. For we shall have to adopt two different plans of conduct in life: for he makes out that there are two chief goods unconnected with each other; but if they were real goods, they ought to be united; but at present they are separated, so that they never can be united. But nothing can be more perverse than this. Therefore, the fact is exactly contrary to your assertion: for virtue cannot possibly be established firmly, unless it maintains those things which are the principles of nature as having an influence on the object. For we have been looking
And, indeed, if the custom of man could speak, this would be its language. That its first beginnings were, as it were, beginnings of desire that it might preserve itself in that nature in which it had been born. For it had not yet been sufficiently explained what nature desired above all things. Let it therefore be explained. What else then will be understood but that no part of nature is to be neglected? And if there is nothing in it besides reason, then the chief good must be in virtue alone. But if there is also body, then will that explanation of nature have caused us to abandon the belief which we held before the explanation. Is it, then, being in a manner suitable to nature to abandon nature? As some philosophers do, when having begun with the senses they have seen something more important and divine, and then abandoned the senses; so, too, these men, when they had beheld the beauty of virtue developed in its desire for particular things, abandoned everything which they had seen for the sake of virtue herself, forgetting that the whole nature of desirable things was so extensive that it remained from beginning to end; and they do not understand that they are taking away the very foundations of these beautiful and admirable things. XVI. Therefore, all those men appear to me to have made a blunder who have pronounced the chief good to be to live honourably. But some have erred more than others,—Pyrrho above all, who, having fixed on virtue as the chief good, refuses to allow that there is anything else in the world deserving of being desired; and, next to him, Aristo, who did not, indeed, venture to leave nothing else to be desired, but who introduced influence, by which a wise man might be excited, and desire whatever occurred to his mind, and whatever even appeared so to occur. He was more right than Pyrrho, inasmuch as he left man some kind of desire; but worse than the rest, inasmuch as he departed wholly from nature: but the Stoics, because they place the chief good in virtue alone, resemble these men: but inasmuch as they seek for a principle of duty, they are superior to Pyrrho; and as they do not admit the desire of those objects which offer
And hitherto I have been showing how destitute Zeno was of any good reason for abandoning the authority of previous philosophers: now let us consider the rest of his arguments; unless, indeed, O Cato, you wish to make any reply to what I have been saying, or unless we are getting tedious. Neither, said he; for I wish this side of the question to be completely argued by you; nor does your discourse seem to me to be at all tedious. I am glad to hear it, I replied; for what can be more desirable for me than to discuss the subject of virtue with Cato, who is the most virtuous of men in every point? But, first of all, remark that that imposing sentiment of yours, which brings a whole family after it, namely, that what is honourable is the only good, and that to live honourably is the chief good, will be shared in common with you by all who define the chief good as consisting in virtue alone; and, as to what you say, that virtue cannot be formed if anything except what is honourable is included in the account, the same statement will be made by those whom I have just named. But it appeared to me to be fairer, advancing from one common beginning, to see where Zeno, while disputing with Polemo, from whom he had learnt what the principles of nature were, first took his stand, and what the original cause of the controversy was; and not to stand on their side, who did not even allow that their own chief good was derived from nature, and to employ the same arguments which they did, and to maintain the same sentiments. XVII. But I am very far from approving this conduct of yours, that when you have proved, as you imagine, that that
Therefore you are all of you seeking for this, and so are those who say that they pursue whatever comes into their mind and occurs to them; and you return to nature. But nature will fairly reply to you, that it is not true that the chief happiness of life is to be sought in another quarter, but the principles of action in herself: for that there is one system only, in which both the principles of action and the chief good too is contained; and that, as the opinion of Aristo is exploded, when he says that one thing does not differ from another, and that there is nothing except virtue and vice in which there was any difference whatever; so, too, Zeno was in the wrong, who affirmed that there was no influence in anything, except virtue or vice, of the very least power to assist in the attainment of the chief good: and as that had no influence on making life happy, but only in creating a desire for things, he said that there was some power of attraction in them: just as if this desire had no reference to the acquisition of the chief good. But what can be less consistent than what they say, namely, that when they have obtained the knowledge of the chief good they then return to nature, in order to seek in it the principle of action, that is to say, of duty? For it is not the principle of action or duty which impels them to desire those things which are
XVIII. Now I come to those brief statements of yours which you call conclusions; and first of all to that—than which, certainly, nothing can be more brief—that "everything good is praiseworthy; but everything praiseworthy is honourable; therefore everything good is honourable." Oh, what a leaden dagger!—for who will grant you your first premises? And if it should be granted to you, then you have no need of the second: for if everything good is praiseworthy, so is everything honourable; who, then, will grant you this, except Pyrrho, Aristo, and men like them?—whom you do not approve of. Aristotle, Xenocrates, and all that school, will not grant it; inasmuch as they call health, strength, riches, glory, and many other things good, but not praiseworthy; and they therefore do not think that the chief good is contained in virtue alone, though still they do prefer virtue to everything else. What do you think that those men will do who have utterly separated virtue from the chief good, Epicurus, Hieronymus, and those too, if indeed there are any such, who wish to defend the definition of the chief good given by Carneades? And how will Callipho and Diodorus be able to grant you what you ask, men who join to honourableness something else which is not of the same genus?—Do you, then, think it proper, Cato, after you have assumed premises which no one will grant to you, to derive whatever conclusion you please from them? Take this sorites, than which you think nothing can be more faulty: But those men whose chief good has no virtue in it, will perhaps not grant to you that a happy life has anything in it of which a man can rightly boast, although they also, at times, represent virtues as subjects for boasting. You see, therefore, that you are either assuming propositions which are not admitted, or else such as, even if they are granted, will do you no good. XIX. In truth, in all these conclusions, I should think this worthy both of philosophy and of ourselves,—and that, too, most especially so when we were inquiring into the chief good,—that our lives, and designs, and wishes should be corrected, and not our expressions. For who, when he has heard those brief and acute arguments of yours which, as you say, give you so much pleasure, can ever have his opinion changed by them? For when men fix their attention on them, and wish to hear why pain is not an evil, they tell him that to be in pain is a bitter, annoying, odious, unnatural condition, and one difficult to be borne; but, because there is in pain no fraud, or dishonesty, or malice, or fault, or baseness, therefore it is not an evil. Now, the man who hears this said, even if he does not care to laugh, will still depart without being a bit more courageous as to bearing pain than he was when he came. But you affirm that no one can be courageous who thinks pain an evil. Why should he be more courageous if he thinks it—what you yourself admit it to be—bitter and scarcely endurable? For timidity is generated by things, and not by words. And you say, that if one letter is moved, the whole system of the school will be undermined. Do I seem, then, to you to be moving a letter, or rather whole pages? For although the order of things, which is what you so especially extol, may be preserved among them, and although everything may be well joined and connected together, (for that is what you said,) still we ought not to follow them too far, if arguments, having set out from false principles, are consistent with themselves, and do not wander from the end they propose to themselves. Accordingly, in his first establishment of his system, your master, Zeno, departed from nature; and as he had placed the chief good on that superiority of disposition which we call virtue, and had affirmed that there was nothing whatever good which was not honourable, and that virtue could have no real existence if in other things there were things of which one was better or worse than another; having laid down these premises, he naturally maintained the conclusions. You say truly; for I cannot deny it. But the conclusions which follow from his premises are so false that the premises from which they are deduced cannot be true. For the dialecticians, you know, teach us that if the conclusions which follow from any premises are false, the premises from which they follow cannot be true. And so that conclusion is not only true, but so evident that even the dialecticians do not think it necessary that any reasons should be given for it— XX. Afterwards that little Phœnician of yours (for you know that the people of Citium, your clients, came from Phœnicia), a shrewd man, as he was not succeeding in his case, since nature herself contradicted him, began to withdraw his words; and first of all he granted in favour of those things which we consider good, that they might be considered fit, and useful, and adapted to nature; and he began to confess that it was more advantageous for a wise—that is to say for a perfectly happy—man, to have those things which he does not venture indeed to call goods, but yet allows to be well adapted to nature. And he denies that Plato, if he were not a wise man, would be in the same circumstances as the tyrant Dionysius; for that to die was better for the one,
What more need I say? What do you say about the happy life to which everything is referred? You affirm that it is not that life which is filled with everything which nature requires; and you place it entirely in virtue alone. And as every controversy is usually either about a fact or a name, both kinds of dispute arise if either the fact is not understood or if a mistake is made as to the name; and if neither of these is the case, we must take care to use the most ordinary language possible, and words as suitable as can be,—that is, such as make the subject plain. Is it, then, doubtful that if the former philosophers have not erred at all as to the fact itself, they certainly express themselves more conveniently? Let us, then, examine their opinions, and then return to the question of names. XXI. They say that the desire of the mind is excited when anything appears to it to be according to nature; and that all things which are according to nature are worthy of some esteem; and that they deserve to be esteemed in proportion to the weight that there is in each of them: and that of those things which are according to nature, some have in themselves nothing of that appetite of which we have already frequently spoken, being neither called honourable nor praiseworthy; and some, again, are accompanied by pleasure in the
In short, the things which Zeno has called estimable, and worth choosing, and suitable to nature, they call goods; but they call that a happy life which consists of those things which I have mentioned, or, if not of all, at least of the greatest number of them, and of the most important. But Zeno calls that the only good which has some peculiar beauty of its own to make it desirable; and he calls that life alone happy which is passed with virtue. XXII. If we are to discuss the reality of the case, then there cannot possibly, Cato, be any disagreement between you and me: for there is nothing on which you and I have different opinions; let us only compare the real circumstances, after changing the names. Nor, indeed, did he fail to see this; but he was delighted with the magnificence and splendour of the language: and if he really felt what he said, and what his words intimate, then what would be the difference between him and Pyrrho or Aristo? But if he did not approve of them, then what was his object in differing in language with those men with whom he agreed in reality? What would you do if these Platonic philosophers, and those, too, who were their pupils, were to come to life again, and address you thus:— XXIII. But if you were to answer truly, Cato, you would be forced to say this—That you do not approve of those men, men of great genius and great authority as they are. But that you have noticed that the things which, by reason of their antiquity they have failed to see, have been thoroughly comprehended by the Stoics, and that these latter have discussed the same matters with more acuteness, and have also entertained more dignified and courageous sentiments,
Those ancients, then, must have been far from clever, to think that life more desirable, better, and happier. But the Stoics think it only to be preferred if one has a choice; not because this life is happier, but because it is better adapted to nature; and they think that all who are not wise are equally miserable. The Stoics, forsooth, thought this; but it had entirely escaped the perception of those philosophers who preceded them, for they thought that men stained with all sorts of parricide and wickedness were not at all more miserable than those who, though they lived purely and uprightly, had not yet attained complete wisdom. And while on this topic, you brought forth those similes which they are in the habit of employing, which are, in truth, no similes at all. For who is ignorant that, if many men should choose to emerge from the deep, those would be nearer breathing who came close to the surface, but still would not be actually able to breathe any more than those who are at the bottom? Therefore, on your principles, it is of no avail to make progress and advancement in virtue, in order to be less utterly miserable before you have actually arrived at it, since it is of no use in the case of men in the water. And since puppies who are on the point of opening their eyes, are just as blind as those that are but this moment born; it is plain also that Plato, as he had not yet seen wisdom, was as blind in his intellect as Phalaris. XXIV. These cases are not alike, Cato. For in these
But I will compare your grandfather, Drusus, with Caius Gracchus, who was nearly his contemporary. He healed the wounds which the other inflicted on the republic. But there is nothing which makes men so miserable as impiety and wickedness. Grant that all those who are unwise are miserable, as, in fact, they are; still he is not equally miserable who consults the interest of his country with him who wishes for its destruction. Therefore, those men are already a great deal relieved from their vices who have made any considerable advance towards virtue. But the men of your school admit that advance towards virtue can be made, but yet assert that no relief from vices takes place in consequence. But it is worth while to consider on what arguments acute men rely for proving this point. Those arts, say they, of which the perfection can be increased, show that the completeness of their contraries can likewise be increased. But no addition can be made to the perfection of virtue. Therefore, also, vices will not be susceptible of any increase, for they are the contraries of virtues. Shall we say, then, that things which are doubtful are made plain by things which are evident, or that things which are evident are obscured by things that are doubtful? But this is evident, that different vices are greater in different people. This is doubtful, whether
XXV. What, then, is the cause of these difficulties? A vain-glorious parade in defining the chief good. For when it is positively asserted that what is honourable is the sole good, all care for one’s health, all attention to one’s estate, all regard for the government of the republic, all regularity in transacting business, all the duties of life, in short, are put an end to. Even that very honourableness, in which alone you assert that everything is comprised, must be abandoned. All which arguments are carefully urged against Ariston by Chrysippus. And from that embarrassment it is that all those fallaciously speaking wiles, as Attius calls them, have arisen. For because wisdom had no ground on which to rest her foot, when all the duties were taken away, (and duties were taken away when all power of selection and discrimination was denied; for what choice, or what discrimination could there be when all things were so completely equal that there was no difference whatever between them?) from these difficulties there arose worse errors than even those of Aristo. For his arguments were at all events simple; those of your school are full of craft. For suppose you were to ask Aristo whether these things, freedom from pain, riches, and good health, appear to him to be goods? He would deny it. What next? Suppose you ask him whether the contraries of these things are bad? He would deny that equally. Suppose you were to ask Zeno the same question? He would give you the same answer, word for word. Suppose further, that we, being full of astonishment, were to ask them both how it will be possible for us to live, if we think that it makes not the least difference to
XXVI. However, let us hear a little more. Those things, says he, which you have mentioned, to be well, to be rich, to be free from pain, I do not call goods; but I will call them in Greek προηγμένα (which you may translate by the Latin Do you not see, then, that your master Zeno agrees with Aristo in words, but differs from him as to facts; but that he agrees with Aristotle and those other philosophers as to facts, but differs from them only in words? Why, then, when we
XXVII. Piso, then—a most excellent man, and, as you well know, a great friend of yours—used to argue in this manner. And now let us make an end of this, after we have just said a few additional words. For it would take a long time to reply to all your assertions. For from the same tricks with words, originate all those kingdoms, and commands, and riches, and universal dominion which you say belong to the wise man. You say besides, that he alone is handsome, he alone is free, he alone is a citizen; and that everything which is the contrary of all these things belongs to the foolish man, who is also insane, as you assert
XXVIII. However, they press on, and relax nothing. Since, say they, every offence is one of imbecility and inconsistency, and since these vices are equally great in all fools, it follows necessarily that offences are equal: as if it were admitted that vices are equally great in all fools, and that Lucius Tubulus was a man of the same imbecility and inconsistency as Publius Scævola, on whose motion he was condemned; and as if there were no difference at all between the things themselves which are the subject of the offences; so that, in proportion as they are more or less important, the offences committed in respect of them are so too. Therefore, for I may now bring this discourse to an end, your Stoics seem to me to be most especially open to this charge, that they fancy they can support two opposite propositions. For what is so inconsistent as for the same person to say that what is honourable is the only good, and also that the desire of things adapted for human life proceeds from nature? But when they wish to maintain the arguments which are suitable for the former propositions, they agree with Aristo; when they avoid that, they in reality are upholding the same doctrines as the Peripatetics; they cling to words with great tenacity; and as they cannot bear to have them taken from them one after another, they become more fierce, and rough, and harsher both in their language and manners. But Panætius, wishing to avoid their moroseness and asperity, would not approve of either the bitterness of their sentiments, or their captious way of arguing: and so in one respect he was more gentle, and in the other more intelligible. And he was always quoting Plato, and Aristotle, and Xenocrates, and Theophrastus, and Dicæarchus, as his own writings show. And indeed, I feel very sure that it would do you a great deal of good if you too were to study those authors with care and diligence. But since it is getting towards evening, and I must return to my villa, we will stop this discussion at this point, but we will often return to it on other occasions. Indeed we will, said he, for what can we do better? And indeed I shall require of you to give me a hearing while I refute what you have said; but recollect that you approve of all our opinions,
I. One day when I had been hearing Antiochus lecture, as I was in the habit of doing, O Brutus, in company with Marcus Piso, in that gymnasium which is called Ptolemy’s, my brother Quintus being with me, and Titus Pomponius, and Lucius Cicero, our cousin on the father’s side as to relationship, but our own brother as to affection, we determined to take our afternoon’s walk in the Academy, principally because at that time of day that place was free from any crowd. Accordingly, at the appointed time we all met at Piso’s house, and from thence we walked half-a-dozen furlongs from the Dipylus to the Academy, beguiling the road with discourse on various subjects; and when we had arrived at the deservedly celebrated space of the Academy, we there found the solitude which we desired. Then said Piso—Shall I say that this is implanted in us by nature, or by some mistake, that when we see those places which we have heard that men who deserve to be had in recollection have much frequented, we are more moved than when we hear even of their actual deeds, or than when we read some one of their writings?—just as I am affected now. For the remembrance of Plato comes into my mind, whom we understand to have been the first person who was accustomed to dispute in this place; and whose neighbouring gardens not only recal him vividly to my recollection, but seem even to place the man himself before my eyes. Here Speusippus, here Xenocrates, here his pupil Polemo used to walk; and the latter used to sit in the very spot which is now before us. There is our senate-house (I mean the Curia
II. On this I chimed in:—Our friend Pomponius, said I, appears to be joking, and perhaps he has a right to do so; for he has established himself at Athens in such a way that he has almost become an Athenian, and indeed so as to seem likely to earn such a surname. But I, Piso, agree with you that we do get into a habit of thinking a good deal more earnestly and deeply on illustrious men in consequence of the warnings of place. For you know that once I went with you to Metapontum, and did not turn into the house of my entertainer until I had seen the very place where Pythagoras passed his life, and his house; and at this present time, although all over Athens there are many traces of eminent men in the places themselves, still I am greatly affected by this seat which is before me. For here Charmadas lately sat,—a man
Then Piso continued:—But, Cicero, said he, those inclinations are the inclinations of clever men, if they lead to the imitation of great men; but if they only tend to bringing up again the traces of ancient recollections, that is mere curiosity. But we all exhort you,—though you of your own accord, as I hope, are running that way,—to imitate those men whom you wish that you had known. Although, I replied, our friend Piso here does, as you see, what you recommended, still your exhortation is pleasing to me. Then said he, in a most friendly manner, as was his wont,—Let all of us, then, contribute every assistance to his youth, especially urging him to devote some of his studies to philosophy, either for the sake of imitating you whom he loves, or else of being able to do what he is desirous to do with more elegance. But do you, O Lucius, said he, require to be exhorted by us, or are you inclined that way of your own accord? You appear, indeed, to me to be very assiduous in your attendance on Antiochus, whose pupil you are. Then replied he, timidly,—or, I ought rather to say, modestly,—I am indeed; but did you not just now hear Charmadas’s name mentioned? I am attracted in that direction, but Antiochus drags me back again; nor is there any one else whose lectures it would be possible to attend. III. Piso replied—Although, while our friend here (meaning me) is present, this matter will perhaps not be quite so easy; yet I will endeavour to call you back from this New
I replied—You know well, O Piso, that my opinion is the same: but still the mention of it by you was very seasonable; for my relation Cicero is anxious to hear what was the doctrine of that Old Academy which you have been speaking of, and of the Peripatetics, about the chief good; and we think that you can very easily explain it to us, because you entertained Staseas the Neapolitan in your house for many years, and because, too, we are aware that you have been many months at Athens, investigating these very things, as a pupil of Antiochus. And he said, with a laugh, Come, come,—for you have very cleverly drawn me in to begin the discussion,—let us explain it to the young man if we can; for this solitude gives us the opportunity: but, even if a god had told me so, I would never have believed that I should be disputing in the Academy, like a philosopher. However, I hope I shall not annoy the rest of you while complying with his request. Annoy me, said I, who asked you? Quintus and Pomponius also said that they entertained the same wish; so he began. And I beg of you, Brutus, to consider whether what he said appears to you to sufficiently embrace the doctrines of Antiochus, which I know you, who were a constant attendant on the lectures of his brother Aristus, approve of highly. Thus he spoke:— IV. What great elegance there is in the Peripatetic system I have explained a little time ago, as briefly as I could. But
But, as the third division was occupied about the rules of living well, it was also brought back by those same people, not only to the system of private life, but also to the direction of affairs of state. For from Aristotle we have acquired a knowledge of the manners, and customs, and institutions of almost every state, not of Greece only, but also of the Barbarians; and from Theophrastus we have learnt even their laws: and each of them taught what sort of man a leader in a state ought to be, and also wrote at great length to explain what was the best constitution for a state. But Theophrastus also detailed very copiously what were the natural inclinations of affairs, and what the influences of opportunities which required regulating as occasion might demand. And as for living, a quiet method of life appeared to them to be the best, passed in the contemplation and knowledge of things; which, inasmuch as it had the greatest resemblance to the life of the gods, appeared to them to be most worthy of a wise man; and on these subjects they held very lofty and dignified language. V. But respecting the chief good, because there are two kinds of books,—one addressed to the people, which they used to call ἐξωτερικὸν, the other written in a more polished style, which they left behind in commentaries,—they appear not always to say the same thing; and yet in their ultimate conclusion there is no variety in the language of the men whom I have named, nor is there any disagreement between them. But, as a happy life is the object of search, and as that is the only thing which philosophy ought to pursue and regard, there never appears to be the least difference or doubt in their writings, as to whether happiness is wholly in the power of the wise man, or whether it can be undermined or taken from him by adversity. And this point is the especial subject of the book of Theophrastus, on a Happy Life; in which a great deal is attributed to fortune: and if that theory is correct, then wisdom cannot make life happy. Now, this seems to me rather too tender (if I may say so) and delicate a doctrine, more so than the power and importance of virtue can sanction. Wherefore let us rather hold with Aristotle, and his son Nicomachus,—whose admirably written books on Morals are said, indeed, to be Aristotle’s; but I do not see why the son may not have been like his father; but, in most cases, let us apply to Theophrastus, as long as we attribute a little more firmness and strength to virtue than he did. Let us, then, be content with these guides; for their successors are wiser men, indeed, in my opinion, than the philosophers of other schools: but still they degenerate so from these great men, that they seem to me rather to have arisen from themselves than from them. In the first place, Strato, the pupil of Theophrastus, called himself a natural philosopher: and though, in truth, he is an eminent man in that line, still most of what he said was novel; and he said very little about morals. His pupil Lyco was rich in eloquence, but very meagre in matter. Then his pupil Aristo was a neat and elegant writer, but still he had not that dignity which we look for in a great philosopher: he wrote a great deal, certainly, and in a polished style; but, somehow or other, his writings do not carry any weight. I pass over several, and among them that learned man and pleasant writer, Hieronymus; and I do not know why I should call him a Peripatetic, for he defined the chief good to be freedom from pain: and
VI. My young friend Lucius, therefore, acts prudently when he wishes chiefly to be instructed about the chief good; for when this point is once settled in philosophy, everything is settled. For in other matters, if anything is passed over, or if we are ignorant of anything, the inconvenience thus produced is no greater than the importance the matter is of in which the omission has taken place; but if one is ignorant of what is the chief good, one must necessarily be ignorant of the true principles of life; and from this ignorance such great errors ensue that they cannot tell to what port to betake themselves. But when one has acquired a knowledge of the chief ends,—when one knows what is the chief good and the chief evil,—then a proper path of life, and a proper regulation of all the duties of life, is found out. There is, therefore, an object to which everything may be referred; from which a system of living happily, which is what every one desires, may be discovered and adopted. But since there is a great division of opinion as to what that consists in, we had better employ the division of Carneades, which our friend Antiochus prefers, and usually adopts. He therefore saw not only how many different opinions of philosophers on the subject of the chief good there were, but how many there could be. Accordingly, he asserted that there was no art which proceeded from itself; for, in truth, that which is comprehended by an art is always exterior to the art. There is no need of prolonging this argument by adducing instances; for it is evident that no art is conversant about itself, but that the art itself is one thing, and the object which is proposed to be attained by the art another. Since, therefore, prudence is the art of living, just as medicine is of health, or
VII. Some people consider the first desire to be a desire of pleasure, and the first thing which men seek to ward off to be pain: others think that the first thing wished for is freedom from pain, and the first thing shunned, pain; and from these men others proceed, who call the first goods natural ones; among which they reckon the safety and integrity of all one’s parts, good health, the senses unimpaired, freedom from pain, strength, beauty, and other things of the same sort, the images of which are the first things in the mind, like the sparks and seeds of the virtues. And of these three, as there is some one thing by which nature is originally moved to feel desire, or to repel something, and as it is impossible that there should be anything except these three things, it follows unavoidably that every duty, whether of avoiding or of pursuing anything, is referred to some one of these things; so that that prudence, which we have called the art of life, is always conversant about some one of these three things from which it derives the beginning of the whole life: and from that which it has pronounced to be the original cause by which nature is excited, the principle of what is right and honourable arises; which can agree with some one of these three divisions; so that it is honourable to do everything for the sake of pleasure, even if you do not obtain it; or else for the
Now then that we have detailed six opinions about the chief good, these are the chief advocates of the three last-mentioned opinions,—Aristippus, the advocate of pleasure; Hieronymus, of freedom from pain; and Carneades, of the enjoyment of those things which we have called the principal things in accordance with nature (though he, indeed, was not the author of this theory, but only its advocate, for the sake of maintaining a debate). Now, the three former were such as might possibly be true, though only one of them was defended, and that was vehemently maintained. For no one says, that to do everything for the sake of pleasure, or that, even though we obtain nothing, still the very design of acting so is of itself desirable, and honourable, and the only good; no one ever even placed the avoidance of pain (not even if it could be avoided) among things intrinsically desirable; but to do everything with a view to obtain the things which are according to nature, even though we do not succeed in obtaining them, the Stoics do affirm to be honourable, and the only thing to be desired for its own sake, and the only good. VIII. These, then, are six plain opinions about the chief good and the chief evil,—two having no advocate, but four being defended. But of united and twofold explanations of the chief good there were in all three; nor could there be more if you examine the nature of things thoroughly. For either pleasure can be added to honourableness, as Callipho and Dinomachus thought; or freedom from pain, as Diodorus asserted; or the first gifts of nature, as the ancients said, whom we call at the same time Academics and Peripatetics. But, since everything cannot be said at once, at present these things ought to be known, that pleasure ought to be excluded; since, as it will presently appear, we have been born for higher purposes; and nearly the same may be said of freedom from
The Stoics remain, who after they had borrowed everything from the Peripatetics and Academics, pursued the same objects under different names. It is better to reply to them all separately. But let us stick to our present subject; we can deal with those men at a more convenient season. But the IX. Therefore, after the fashion of the ancients, which the Stoics also adopt, let us make this beginning:—Every animal loves itself, and as soon as it is born labours to preserve itself, because this is the first desire given to it by nature, to regulate its whole life, to preserve itself, and to be so disposed as it best may in accordance with nature. At the beginning it has such a confused and uncertain kind of organization that it can only just take care of itself, whatever it is; but it does not understand either what it is, or what its powers are, or what its nature is. But when it has advanced a little, and begins to perceive how far anything touches it, or has reference to it, then it begins gradually to improve, and to comprehend itself, and to understand for what cause it has that appetite of the mind which I have spoken of; and begins also to desire those things which it feels to be suited to its nature, and to keep off the contrary. Therefore, in the case of every animal, what it wishes is placed in that thing which is adapted to its nature. And so the chief good is to live according to nature, with the best disposition and the most suitable to nature that can be engendered. But since every animal has his own peculiar nature, it is plain that the object of each must be to have his nature satisfied. For there is no hindrance to there being some things in common to all other animals, and some common both to men and beasts, since the nature of all is common. But that highest and chief good and evil which we are in search of, is distributed and divided among the different kinds of animals, each having its own peculiar good and evil, adapted to that end which the nature of each class of animal requires. Wherefore, when we say that the chief good to all animals is to live according to nature, this must be understood as if we said that they had all the same chief good. But as it may truly be said to be common to all arts to be conversant about some science, and that there is a separate science belonging to each art, so we may say that it is common to all animals to live according to nature, but that there are different natures; so that the horse has by nature one chief good, the ox another, man another; and yet in all there is one common end; and
X. Since then, said he, we have explained the limit of those things which are to be desired, we must next show why the facts are as I have stated them. Wherefore, let us set out from the position which I first laid down, which is also in reality the first, so that we may understand that every animal loves itself. And though there is no doubt of this, (for it is a principle fixed deep in nature itself, and is comprehended by the sense of every one, in such a degree that if any one wished to argue against it, he would not be listened to,) yet, that I may not pass over anything, I think it as well to adduce some reasons why this is the case. Although, how can any one either understand or fancy that there is any animal which hates itself? It would be a contradiction of facts; for when that appetite of the mind has begun designedly to attract anything to itself which is an hindrance to it, because it is an enemy to itself,—when it does that for its own sake, it will both hate itself and love itself, which is impossible. It is unavoidable that, if any one is an enemy to himself, he must
like men who have declared war against themselves, who like to be tortured all day and tormented all night, and who yet do not accuse themselves of having omitted to consult their own interests; for this is a complaint made by those men who are dear to and who love themselves. Wherefore, whenever a man is said to be but little obliged to himself, to be a foe and enemy to himself, and in short to flee from life, it should be understood that there is some cause of that kind lying beneath the surface; so that it may be understood from that very instance that every one is dear to himself. Nor is it sufficient that there has never been any one who hated himself; but we must understand also that there is no one who thinks that it is a matter of indifference to him in what condition he is; for all desire of the mind will be put an end to if, as in those things between which there is no difference we are not more inclined to either side, so also, in the case of our own selves, we think it makes no difference to us in what way we are affected. XI. And this also would be a very absurd thing if any one were to say it, namely, that a man is loved by himself in such a manner that that vehement love is referred to some other thing, and not to that very man who loves himself. Now when this is said in the case of friendship, of duty, or of virtue, however it is said, it is still intelligible what is meant by it; but in regard to our own selves, it cannot even be understood that we should love ourselves for the sake of
and if it is a vice to dread the dissolution of nature so excessively, (and the same thing on the same principle may be asserted of our aversion to pain,) still the fact that nearly every one is affected in this manner, is a sufficient proof that nature abhors destruction. And though some men show this dread or aversion to such a degree that they are deservedly blamed for it, still this may show us that such feelings would not be so excessive in some people, if a moderate degree of them were not implanted in mankind by nature. Nor, indeed, do I mean that fear of death which is shown by those men who, because they think that they are being deprived of the goods of life, or because they fear some terrible events after death, or who, because they are afraid of dying in pain, therefore shun death; for in the case of children, who can have no such ideas or apprehensions, they often show fear if, when playing with them, we threaten to throw them down from any place; and even beasts, as Pacuvius says, shudder when the fear of death comes before them. And, indeed, who entertains a different opinion of the wise man himself? who, even when he has decided that he must die, still is affected by the departure from his family, and by the fact that he must leave the light of day. And above all is the power of nature visible in the human race, since many endure beggary to preserve life, and men worn out with old age are tortured with the idea of the approach of death, and endure such things as we see Philoctetes in the play suffer, who, while he was kept in torture by intolerable pains, nevertheless preserved his life by the game which he could kill with his arrows. as Attius says, and made himself coverings for his body by plaiting the feathers together. I am speaking of mankind, and, indeed, generally of all animals, though plants and trees have nearly the same nature, whether, as is the opinion of some most learned men, because some predominant and divine cause has implanted this power in them, or whether it is accidental. We see those things which the earth produces preserved in vigour by their bark and roots, which happens to animals by the arrangement of their senses, and a certain compact conformation of limb. And with reference to this subject, although I agree with those men who think that all these things are regulated by nature, and that if nature neglected to regulate them, the animals themselves could not exist, still I grant that those who differ on this subject may think what they please, and may either understand that when I say the nature of man I mean man (for it makes no difference); for a man will be able to depart from himself sooner than he can lose the desire of those things which are advantageous to him. Rightly, therefore, have the most learned philosophers sought the principle of the chief good in nature, and thought that that appetite for things adapted to nature is implanted in all men, for they are kept together by that recommendation of nature in obedience to which they love themselves. XII. The next thing which we must examine is, what is the nature of man, since it is sufficiently evident that every one is dear to himself by nature; for that is the thing which we are really inquiring about. But it is evident that man consists of mind and body, and that the first rank belongs to the mind, and the second to the body. In the next place we see, also, that his body is so formed as to excel that of other animals, and that his mind is so constituted as to be furnished with senses, and to have excellence of intellect which the whole nature of man obeys, in which there is a certain admirable force of reason, and knowledge, and science, and all kinds of virtues; for the things which are parts of the body have no authority to be compared with that possessed by the parts of the mind; and they are more easily known. Therefore, let us begin with them. It is evident, now, how suitable to nature are the parts of our body, and the whole general figure, form, and stature of
XIII. But there are many virtues of the mind, and of that part of the mind which is the chief, and which is called the intellect; but these virtues are divided into two principal classes: one, consisting of those which are implanted by nature, and are called involuntary; the other, of those which depend on the will, and are more often spoken of by their proper name of virtues; whose great excellence is attributed to the mind as a subject of praise. Now in the former class are docility, memory, and others, nearly all of which are called by the one name of XIV. But there are some beasts in which there is something resembling virtue, such as lions, dogs, and horses; in which we see movements not of the body only, as we do in pigs, but to a certain extent we may discern some movements of mind. But in man the whole dominant power lies in the mind; and the dominant power of the mind is reason:
XV. As, therefore, the form of nature is such as I have described it, if, as I said at the beginning, each individual as soon as he is born could know himself, and form a correct estimate of what is the power both of his entire nature and of its separate parts, he would see immediately what this was which we are in search of, namely, the highest and best of all the things which we desire: nor would it be possible for him to make a mistake in anything. But now nature is from the very beginning concealed in a wonderful manner, nor can it be perceived nor comprehended. But as our age advances, we gradually, or I should rather say slowly, come to a kind of knowledge of ourselves. Therefore, that original recommendation which is given to us by our nature, is obscure and uncertain; and that first appetite of the mind only goes the length of wishing to secure our own safety and soundness. But when we begin to look around us, and to feel what we are, and in what we differ from all the other animals, then we begin to pursue the objects for which we were born. And we see a similar thing take place in beasts, who at first do not move from the place in which they were born; but afterwards all move, influenced by some desire of their own. And so we see snakes crawl, ducks swim, blackbirds fly, oxen use their horns, scorpions their stings; and we see nature a guide to each animal in its path of life. And the case is similar with the human race. For infants at their first birth lie as if they were utterly devoid of mind; but when a little strength has been added to them, they use both their mind and their senses, and endeavour to raise themselves up and to use their hands; and they recognise those by whom they are being brought up; and afterwards they are amused with those of their own age, and gladly associate with them, and give themselves up to play, and are attracted by hearing stories, and are fond of pleasing others with their own superfluities; and take curious notice of what is done at home, and begin to make remarks, and to learn; and do not like to be ignorant of the names of those whom
For, as I have often said already, the power of nature is discerned through a cloud while we are of a weak age and feeble intellect; but when our mind has made progress and acquired strength, then it recognises the power of nature, but still in such a way that it can make more progress still, and that it must derive the beginning of that progress from itself. XVI. We must therefore enter into the nature of things, and see thoroughly what it demands; for otherwise we cannot arrive at the knowledge of ourselves. And because this precept was too important an one to be discerned by a man, it has on that account been attributed to God. The Pythian Apollo, then, enjoins us to know ourselves: but this knowledge is to know the power of our mind and body, and to follow that course of life which enjoys the circumstances in which it is placed. And since that desire of the mind to have all the things which I have mentioned in the most perfect manner in which nature could provide them, existed from the beginning, we must admit, when we have obtained what we desired, that nature consists in that as its extreme point, and that that is the chief good: which certainly must in every case be sought for spontaneously for its own sake, since it has already been proved, that even all its separate parts
XVII. And hitherto, indeed, reason has advanced with us in such a way as to be wholly derived from the original recommendation of nature. But now we must pursue another kind of argument, namely, that we are moved in these matters of our own exceeding goodwill, not only because we love ourselves, but because there is both in the body and in the mind a peculiar power belonging to each part of nature. And, (to begin with the body,) do you not see that if there is anything in their limbs deformed, or weak, or deficient, men conceal it? and take pains, and labour earnestly, if they can possibly contrive it, to prevent that defect of the body from being visible, or else to render it as little visible as possible? and that they submit to great pain for the sake of curing any such defect? in order that, even though the actual use of the limb, after the application of the remedy, be likely to be not greater, but even less, still the appearance of the limb may be restored to the ordinary course of nature. In truth, as all men fancy that they are altogether desirable by nature, and that too, not on any other account, but for their own sakes, it follows inevitably that each part of them should be desired for its own sake, because the whole body is sought for its own sake. What more need I say? Is there nothing in the motion and condition of the body which nature herself decides ought to be noticed? for instance, how a person walks or sits, what the expression of his countenance is, what
For if we consider distortion or disfigurement of the body a thing to be avoided for its own sake, why should we not also, and perhaps still more, cultivate dignity of form for its own sake? And if we avoid what is unseemly, both in the condition and motion of the body, why may we not on the other hand pursue beauty? And we also desire health, strength, and freedom from pain, not merely because of their utility, but also for their own sakes. For since nature wishes to be made complete in all her parts, she desires this condition of the body, which is most according to nature, for its own sake: but nature is put into complete confusion if the body is either sick, or in pain, or destitute of strength. XVIII. Let us consider the parts of the mind, the appearance of which is more noble; for in proportion as they are more sublime, they give a more clear indication of their nature. So vehement a love, then, of knowledge and science is innate in us, that no one can doubt that the nature of man is drawn to them without being attracted by any external gain. Do we not see how boys cannot be deterred even by stripes from the consideration and investigation of such and such things? how, though they may be beaten, they still pursue their inquiries, and rejoice in having acquired some knowledge? how they delight in telling others what they have learnt? how they are attracted by processions, and games, and spectacles of that kind, and will endure even hunger and thirst for such an object? Can I say no more? Do we not see those who are fond of liberal studies and arts regard neither their health nor their estate? and endure everything because they are charmed with the intrinsic beauty of knowledge and science? and that they put the pleasures which they derive from learning in the scale against the greatest care and labour? And Homer himself appears to me to have had some such feeling as this, which he has developed in what he has said about the songs of the Sirens: for they do
Homer saw that the story would not be probable if he represented so great a man as caught by mere songs; so they promise him knowledge, which it was not strange that a man desirous of wisdom should consider dearer than his country. And, indeed, to wish to know everything of every kind, is natural to the curious; but, to be attracted by the contemplation of greater objects, to entertain a general desire for knowledge, ought to be considered a proof of a great man. XIX. What ardour for study do you not suppose there must have been in Archimedes, who was so occupied in drawing some mathematical figures in the sand, that he was not aware that his city was taken? And what a mighty genius was that of Aristoxenus which, we see, was devoted to music? What fondness, too, for study, must have inspired Aristophanes, to dedicate his whole life to literature! What shall we say of Pythagoras? Why should I speak of Plato and of Democritus, by whom, we see, that the most distant countries were travelled over, on account of their desire for learning? And those who are blind to this have never loved anything very worthy of being known. And here I may say, that those who say that those studies which I have mentioned are cultivated for the sake of the pleasures of the mind, do not understand that they are desirable for their own sakes, because the mind is delighted by them, without the interruption of any ideas of utility, and rejoices in the mere fact of
It must, therefore, be understood, that the allurements are in the things themselves which are learnt and known, and that it is they themselves which excite us to learning and to the acquisition of information. And, indeed, the old philosophers, in their fictitious descriptions of the islands of the blessed, intimate the kind of life which the wise pass, whom they imagine to be free from all care, requiring no cultivation or appointments of life as necessary, and doing, and about to do nothing else but devote their whole time to inquiring and learning and arriving at a knowledge of nature. But we see that that is not only the delight of a happy life, but also a relief from misery. Therefore, many men while in the power of enemies or tyrants, many while in prison or in exile, have relieved their sorrow by the study of literature. A great man of this city, Demetrius Phalereus, when he had been unjustly banished from his country, fled to Alexandria, to king Ptolemy; and, as he was very eminent for his knowledge of this philosophy to which we are exhorting you, and had been
I, indeed, have often heard Cnæus Aufidius, a man of prætorian rank, of great learning, but blind, say that he was affected more by a regret for the loss of light, than of any actual benefit which he derived from his eyes. Lastly, if sleep did not bring us rest to our bodies, and a sort of medicine after labour, we should think it contrary to nature, for it deprives us of our senses, and takes away our power of action. Therefore, if either nature were in no need of rest, or if it could obtain it by any other means, we should be glad, since even now we are in the habit of doing without sleep, in a manner almost contrary to nature, when we want to do or to learn something. XX. But there are tokens supplied by nature, still clearer, or, I may say, entirely evident and indubitable,—more especially, indeed, in man, but also in every animal,—that the mind is always desirous to be doing something, and can in no condition endure perpetual rest. It is easy to see this in the earliest age of children; for although I fear that I may appear prolix on this subject, still all the ancient philosophers, and especially those of our own country, have recourse to the cradle for illustrations, because they think that in childhood they can most easily detect the will of nature. We see, then, that even infants cannot rest; but, when they have advanced a little, then they are delighted with even laborious sports, so that they cannot be deterred from them even by beating: and that desire for action grows with their growth. Therefore, we should not like to have the slumber of Endymion given to us, not even if we expected to enjoy the most delicious dreams; and if it were, we should think it like death. Moreover, we see that even the most indolent men, men of a singular worthlessness, are still always in motion both in mind and body; and when they are not hindered by some unavoidable circumstance, that they demand a dice-box or some game of some kind, or conversation; and, as they have none of the liberal delights of learning, seek circles and assemblies. Even beasts, which we shut up for our own
For men wish either to do something as individuals, or those who have loftier souls undertake the affairs of the state, and devote themselves to the attainment of honours and commands, or else wholly addict themselves to the study of learning; in which path of life they are so far from getting pleasures, that they even endure care, anxiety and sleeplessness, enjoying only that most excellent portion of man which may be accounted divine in us, I mean the acuteness of the genius and intellect, and they neither seek for pleasure nor shun labour. Nor do they intermit either their admiration of the discoveries of the ancients, or their search after new ones; and, as they are insatiable in their pursuit of such, they forget everything else, and admit no low or grovelling thoughts; and such great power is there in those studies, that we see even those who have proposed to themselves other chief goods, which they measure by advantage or pleasure, still devote their lives to the investigation of things, and to the explanation of the mysteries of nature. XXI. This, then, is evident, that we were born for action. But there are several kinds of action, so that the lesser are thrown into the shade by those more important. But those of most consequence are, first of all, as it appears to me, and to those philosophers whose system we are at present discussing, the consideration and knowledge of the heavens, and of those things which are hidden and concealed by nature, but into which reason can still penetrate. And, next to them, the management of state affairs, or a prudent, temperate, courageous principle of government and knowledge, and the other virtues, and such actions as are in harmony with those virtues, which we, embracing them all in one word, call honourable; to the knowledge and practice of which we are led by nature herself, who goes before us as our guide, we having been already encouraged to pursue it. For the beginnings of all things are small, but, as they proceed, they
For, admirably does Plato say, Nature, then, has made and fashioned the body of man in such a manner, that it makes some parts of him perfect at his first birth, and forms others as he advances in age; and, at the same time, does not employ many external or adventitious aids. But she has filled up the perfection of the mind in the same way as that of the body; for she has adorned it with senses suitable for the effecting of its purposes, so that it is not in the least, or not much, in want of any assistance for strengthening itself. But that which is most excellent and important in man it has abandoned: although it has given him an intellect able to receive every kind of virtue, and has implanted in him, even without instruction, a slight knowledge of the most important things, and has begun, as it were, to teach him, and has led him on to those elements as I may call them, of virtue which existed in him. But it has only begun virtue itself, nothing more. Therefore it belongs to us,—when I say to us, I mean to our art,—to trace back the consequences to those principles which we have received, until we have accomplished our object, which is indeed of a good deal more consequence, and a good deal more to be desired for its own sake, than either the senses, or those parts of the body which we have mentioned; which the excellent perfection of the mind is so far superior to, that it can scarcely be imagined how great the difference is. Therefore, all honour, all admiration, all study is referred to virtue, and to those actions which are consistent with virtue; and all those things which are either in our minds in that state, or are done in that manner, are called by one common name—honourable. And we shall presently see what knowledge we
XXII. But at present we need only explain that these things which I call honourable, (besides the fact of our living ourselves on their account,) are also by their own nature deserving of being sought for their own sake. Children show this, in whom nature is perceived as in a mirror. What eagerness is there in them when contending together! how vigorous are their contests! how elated are those who win! how ashamed those who are beaten! how unwilling are they to be blamed! how eager to be praised! what labours will they not endure to surpass their fellows! what a recollection have they of those who are kind to them! how anxious are they to prove their gratitude! and these qualities are most visible in the best dispositions; in which all these honourable qualities which we appreciate are filled up as it were by nature. But in children they are only sketched. Again, in more mature age, who is so unlike a man as not to be moved to a dislike of baseness and approval of what is honourable? Who is there who does not loathe a libidinous and licentious youth? who, on the contrary, does not love modesty and constancy in that age, even though his own interest is not at all concerned? Who does not detest Pullus Numitorius, of Fregellæ, the traitor, although he was of use to our own republic? who does not praise Codrus, the saviour of his city, and the daughters of Erectheus? Who does not detest the name of Tubulus? and love the dead Aristides? Do we forget how much we are affected at hearing or reading when we are brought to the knowledge of anything which has been done in a pious, or friendly, or magnanimous spirit? Why should I speak of men like ourselves, who have been born and brought up and trained to praise and glory? What shouts of the common people and of the unlettered crowd are excited in the theatres when this sentence is uttered— and when, on the other hand, the other actor says— But when one of them is allowed to depart by the perplexed and bewildered king, and they demand to die together, is this
XXIII. And having briefly explained these matters, (for I have not sought to adduce the number of examples which I might have done, because there was no doubt on the subject,) it is shown sufficiently by these facts that all the virtues, and that honourableness which arises from these virtues, and clings to them, are worthy to be sought for their own sake. But in the whole of this honourableness of which we are speaking, there is nothing so eminent, nor so extensive in its operation, as the union of man with man, and a certain partnership in and communication of advantages, and the affection itself of the human race; which originating in that first feeling according to which the offspring is loved by the parent, and the whole house united by the bonds of wedlock and descent, creeps gradually out of doors, first of all to one’s relations, then to one’s connexions, then to one’s friends and neighbours, then to one’s fellow-countrymen, and to the public friends and allies of one’s country; then it embraces the whole human race: and this disposition of mind, giving every one his due, and protecting with liberality and equity this union of human society which I have spoken of, is called
For as the nature of man has been created such that it has a sort of innate principle of society and citizenship, which the Greeks call πολιτικὸν, whatever each virtue does will not be inconsistent with that principle of common union, and that human affection and society which I have spoken of; and justice, as she founds herself in practice on the other virtues, will also require them, for justice cannot be maintained except by a courageous and wise man. Honourableness itself, then, is a thing of the same character as all this conspiracy and agreement of the virtues which I have been speaking of; since it is either virtue itself, or an action virtuously performed. And a life acting in harmony and consistency with this system, and with virtue, may fairly be thought upright and honourable, and consistent, and natural. And this union and combination of virtues is nevertheless divided by philosophers on some principle of their own. For though they are so joined and connected as to be all partners with one another, and to be unable to be separated from one another, yet each has its peculiar sphere of duty; as, for instance, fortitude is discerned in labour and danger; temperance, in the disregard of pleasures; prudence, in the choice of good and evil; justice, in giving every one his due. Since, then, there is in every virtue a certain care which turns its eyes abroad, as it were, and which is anxious about and embraces others, the conclusion is, that friends, and brothers, and relations, and connexions, and fellow-countrymen, and in short everybody, since we wish the society of all mankind to be one, are to be sought after for their own sakes. But still, of all these things and people there is nothing of such a kind that it can be accounted the chief good. And from this it follows, that there are found to be two kinds of goods which are to be sought for their own sake. One kind which exists in those things in which that chief good is brought to perfection: and they are qualities of either the mind or body. But these things which are external, that is to say, which are in neither mind nor body, such as friends, parents, children, relations, or one’s country, are indeed dear to me for their
XXIV. How then, you will say, can it be true that everything is referred to the chief good, if friendship, and relationship, and all other external things are not contained in the chief good? Why, on this principle,—because we protect those things which are external with those duties which arise from their respective kinds of virtue. For the cultivation of the regard of a friend or a parent, which is the discharge of a duty, is advantageous in the actual fact of its being such, inasmuch as to discharge a duty is a good action; and good actions spring from virtues; and wise men attend to them, using nature as a kind of guide. But men who are not perfect, though endued with admirable talents and dispositions, are often excited by glory, which has the form and likeness of honourableness. But if they were to be thoroughly acquainted with the nature of that honourableness which is wholly complete and perfect, that one thing which is the most admirable of all things, and the most praiseworthy, with what joy would they be filled, when they are so greatly delighted at its outline and bare idea! For who that is given up to pleasure, and inflamed with the conflagration of desire in the enjoyment of those things which he has most eagerly wished for, can we imagine to be full of such joy as the elder Africanus after he had conquered Hannibal, or the younger one after he had destroyed Carthage? What man was there who was so much elated with the way in which all the people flocked to the Tiber on that day of festivity as Lucius Paullus, when he was leading in triumph king Perses as his prisoner, who was conveyed down on the same river? Come now, my friend Lucius, build up in your mind the lofty excellence of virtue, and you will not doubt that the men who are possessed of it, and who live with a magnanimous and upright spirit, are always happy; men who are aware that all the movements of fortune, all the changes of affairs and circumstances, must be insignificant and powerless if ever they come to a contest with virtue. For those things which are considered by us as goods of the body, do indeed
We must, therefore, allow these things some influence: provided only that we understand how much we ought to allow them. It is, however, the part of a philosopher, who seeks not so much for what is specious as for what is true, neither utterly to disregard those things which those very boastful men used to admit to be in accordance with nature; and at the same time to see that the power of virtue, and the authority, if I may say so, of honourableness, is so great that all those other things appear to be, I will not say nothing, but so trivial as to be little better than nothing. This is the language natural to a man who, on the one hand, does not despise everything except virtue, and who, at the same time, honours virtue with the praises which it deserves. This, in short, is a full and perfect explanation of the chief good; and as the others have attempted to detach different portions from the main body of it, each individual among them has wished to appear to have established his own theory as the victorious one. XXV. The knowledge of things has been often extolled in a wonderful manner by Aristotle and Theophrastus for its own sake. And Herillus, being allured by this single fact, maintained that knowledge was the chief good, and that there was no other thing whatever that deserved to be sought for its own sake. Many things have been said by the ancients on the subject of despising and contemning all human affairs. This was the one principle of Aristo; he declared that there was nothing which ought to be avoided or desired except vice and virtue. And our school has placed freedom from pain among those things which are in accordance with nature. Hieronymus has said that this is the chief good: but Callipho,
The Stoics remain to be mentioned. They, indeed, have borrowed not one idea or another from us, but have appropriated our whole system of philosophy. And as other thieves alter the marks on the things which they have stolen, so they, in order to be able to use our opinions as their own, have changed the names which are like the private marks on things. And so this school alone remains worthy of those men who study the liberal arts, worthy of the learned, worthy of eminent men, worthy of princes, worthy of kings. And when he had said this, and then stopped to take breath for a while; What is the matter? said he; do I not seem to have said enough in your presence for my own defence? I replied,—Indeed, O Piso, as has often been the case before, you have seemed to-day to have so thorough an acquaintance with all these things, that, if we could always have the advantage of your company, I should not think that we had much reason to have recourse to the Greeks. Which, indeed, I have been the more pleased with, because I recollect that Staseas, the Neapolitan, your preceptor, a very illustrious Peripatetic, was at times accustomed to discuss these points differently, agreeing with those men who attributed a great deal of weight to prosperity and adversity, and to the good or evil qualities of the body. It is as you say, he replied: but these points are argued with much more accuracy and impressiveness by my friend Antiochus than they used to be by Staseas. Although I do not ask what I have proved to your satisfaction, but what I have proved to the satisfaction of this friend of mine, the young Cicero, a pupil whom I wish to seduce from you. XXVI. Then Lucius said,—Indeed, I quite agree with what you have said, and I think my brother does too. Then said Piso to me: Is it so? Do you pardon the youth? or would
It seemed to me that it was too hasty an assertion of yours that all wise men were always happy. I know not how such a sentence escaped you; but unless it is proved, I fear that the assertion which Theophrastus made with respect to fortune, and pain, and bodily torture be true, with which he did not consider that a happy life could possibly be joined, must be true. For it is exceedingly inconsistent that the same person should be happy, and afflicted with many misfortunes; and how these things can be reconciled, I do not at all understand. Which assertion then, said he, is it that you object to? Do you deny that the power of virtue is so great that she can by herself be sufficient for happiness? or, if you admit that, do you think it impossible that those persons who are possessed of virtue may be happy, even if they are afflicted with some evils? I, indeed, I replied, wish to attribute as much power as possible to virtue; however, we may discuss at another time how great her power is; at present the only question is, whether she has so much power as this, if anything external to virtue is reckoned among the goods. But, said he, if you grant to the Stoics that virtue alone, if it be present, makes life happy, you grant it also to the Peripatetics; for those things which they do not venture to call evils, but which they admit to be unpleasant and inconvenient, and to be rejected, and odious to nature
XXVII. I will answer, said I, that I am not inquiring at present what virtue can effect, but what is said consistently on the subject, and why the assertions are at variance with one another. How so? said he. Because, said I, when this pompous assertion is uttered by Zeno, as if he were an oracle,— Now I will address the same language to you. You say that all the goods and evils are the same that those men pronounce them to be who have never even seen a philosopher in a picture, as the saying is—namely, health, strength, stature, beauty, the soundness of all a man’s nails, you call good—deformity, disease, weakness you call evils. These are all externals; do not go on any more; but at all events you will reckon these things among the goods, as the goods of the body which help to compose them, namely, friends, children, relations, riches, honour, power. Take notice that I say nothing against this. If those are evils into which a wise man can fall, then it follows that to be a wise man is not sufficient to secure a happy life. Indeed, said he, it is very
I have noticed, said he, that you made this distinction a little while ago, and I know that our friend Antiochus used to speak in this manner. But what can be less approved of than the idea of a person being happy, and yet not happy enough? For when anything is enough, then whatever is added to that is excess: and no one is too happy: and no one is happier than a happy man. Therefore, said he, was not Quintus Metellus, who saw three of his sons consuls, one of whom was also censor and celebrated a triumph, and a fourth prætor; and who left them all in safety behind him, and who saw his three daughters married, having been himself consul, censor and augur, and having celebrated a triumph; was he not, I say, in your opinion, (supposing him to have been a wise man,) happier than Regulus, who being in the power of the enemy, was put to death by sleeplessness and hunger, though he may have been equally wise? XXVIII. Why do you ask me that? said I; ask the Stoics. What answer, then, said he, do you suppose they will make? They will say that Metellus was in no respect more happy than Regulus. Let us, then, said he, hear what they have got to say. But, said I, we are wandering from our subject; for I am not asking what is true, but what each person ought to say. I wish, indeed, that they would say that one man is happier than another: you should see the ruin I would make of them. For, as the chief good consists in virtue alone, and in honourableness; and as neither virtue, as they say, nor honourableness is capable of growth, and as that alone is good which makes him who enjoys it necessarily happy, as that in which alone happiness is placed cannot be increased, how is it possible that one person can be happier than another? Do you not see how all these things agree together? And, in truth, (for I must avow what I feel,) the mutual dependence of all these things on one another is marvellous: the last part corresponds to the first, the middle to each extremity, and each extremity to the other. They see all that follows from, or is inconsistent with them. In geometry, if you grant the premises the conclusion follows. Grant that there is nothing good except what is honourable, and you must grant that happiness is placed in virtue alone. Try it the other
To be in pain is an evil; the man who is fastened to a cross cannot be happy. Children are a good; childlessness is an evil. One’s country is a good; exile is an evil. Health is a good; disease is an evil. Vigour of body is a good; feebleness is an evil. Clear sight is a good; blindness is an evil. But, though a man may be able to alleviate any single one of these evils by consolation, how will he be able to endure them all? For, suppose one person were blind, feeble, afflicted with grievous sickness, banished, childless, in indigence, and put to the torture; what will you call him, Zeno? Happy, says he. Will you call him most perfectly happy? To be sure I will, says he, when I have taught him that happiness does not admit of degrees any more than virtue, the mere possession of which makes him happy. This seems to you incredible that he can call him perfectly happy. What is your own doctrine? is that credible? For if you appeal to the people, you will never convince them that a man in such a condition is happy. If you appeal to prudent men, perhaps they will doubt as to one point, namely, whether there is so much force in virtue that men endued with that can be happy, even in Phalaris’s bull; but they will not doubt at all that the Stoic language is consistent with itself and that yours is not. Do you then, says he, approve of the book of Theophrastus on a happy life? We are wandering from our subject; and that I may not be too tedious—if, said I, Piso, those things are evils, I wholly approve of it. Do not they then, said he, seem to you to be evils? Do you ask that? said I; whatever answer I give you, you will find yourself in embarrassment. How so? said he. Because, if they are evils, a man
XXIX. Listen then, said he, O Lucius; for, as Theophrastus says, I must direct my discourse to you,—the whole authority of philosophy consists in making life happy; for we are all inflamed with a desire of living happily. This, both your brother and I agree upon. Wherefore we must see whether the system of the philosophers can give us this. It promises to do so certainly: for, unless it made that promise, why did Plato travel over Egypt, to learn numbers and knowledge of the heavenly mysteries from barbarian priests? Why afterwards did he go to Tarentum to Archytas; and to the other Pythagoreans of Locri, Echecrates, Timæus, and Acrion; in order, after he had drained Socrates to the dregs, to add the doctrine of the Pythagoreans to his, and to learn in addition those things which Socrates rejected? Why did Pythagoras himself travel over Egypt, and visit the Persian Magi; why did he go on foot over so many countries of the barbarians, and make so many voyages? Why did Democritus do the same? who, (whether it is true or false, we will not stop to inquire,) is said to have put out his own eyes; certainly, in order that his mind might be abstracted from contemplation as little as possible; he neglected his patrimony, and left his lands uncultivated, and what other object could he have had except a happy life? And if he placed that in the knowledge of things, still from that investigation of natural philosophy he sought to acquire equanimity; for he called the summum bonum εὐθυμία, and very often ἀθαμβία, that is to say, a mind free from alarm. But, although this was well said, it was not very elegantly expressed; for he said very little about virtue, and even what he did say, he did not express very clearly. For it was not till after his death that these subjects were discussed in this city, first by Socrates, and from Socrates they got entrance into the Academy. Nor was there any doubt that all hope of living well and also happily was placed in virtue: and when Zeno had learnt this from our school, he began to express himself on the same
He asserts that the life of Metellus was not happier than that of Regulus, but admits that it was preferable to it; he says it was not more to be sought after, but still to be taken in preference; and that if one had a choice, one would choose the life of Metellus, and reject that of Regulus. What then he calls preferable, and worthy to be chosen in preference, I call happier; and yet I do not attribute more importance to that sort of life than the Stoics do. For what difference is there between us, except that I call well-known things by well-known names, and that they seek for new terms to express the same ideas? And so, as there is always some one in the senate who wants an interpreter, we, too, must listen to them with an interpreter. I call that good which is in accordance with nature; and whatever is contrary to nature I call evil. Nor do I alone use the definition; you do also, O Chrysippus, in the forum and at home; but in the school you discard it. What then? Do you think that men in general ought to speak in one way, and philosophers in another, as to the importance of which everything is? that learned men should hold one language, and unlearned ones another? But as learned men are agreed of how much importance everything is, (if they were men, they would speak in the usual fashion,) why, as long as they leave the facts alone, they are welcome to mould the names according to their fancy. XXX. But I come now to the charge of inconsistency, that you may not repeat that I am making digressions; which you think exist only in language, but which I used to consider depended on the subject of which one was speaking. If it is sufficiently perceived (and here we have most excellent assistance from the Stoics), that the power of virtue is so great, that if everything else were put on the opposite side, it would not be even visible, when all things which they admit at least to be advantages, and to deserve to be taken, and chosen, and preferred, and which they define as worthy of being highly estimated; when, I say, I call these things goods which have so many names given them by the Stoics,
But, if I do not attribute more importance to them when I say that they deserve to be wished for, than you do who say they only deserve to be chosen, and if I do not value them more highly when I call them I will venture, then, to call the rest of the things which are in accordance with nature, goods, and not to cheat them of their ancient title, rather than go and hunt for some new name for them; and the dignity of virtue I will put, as it were, in the other scale of the balance. Believe me, that scale will outweigh both earth and sea; for the whole always has its name from that which embraces its largest part, and is the most widely diffused. We say that one man lives merrily. Is there, then, an end of this merry life of his if he is for a moment a little poor? But, in the case of that Marcus Crassus, who, Lucilius says, laughed once in his life, the fact of his having done so did not deliver him from being called ἀγέλαστος. They call Polycrates of Samos happy. Nothing had ever happened to him which he did not like, except that he had thrown into the sea a ring which he valued greatly; therefore he was unhappy as to that one annoyance; but subsequently he was
XXXI. Do you not grant even this to the Peripatetics, that they may say that the life of all good, that is, of all wise men, and of men adorned with every virtue, has in all its parts more good than evil? Who says this? The Stoics may say so. By no means. But do not those very men who measure everything by pleasure and pain, say loudly that the wise man has always more things which he likes than dislikes? When, then, these men attribute so much to virtue, who confess that they would not even lift a finger for the sake of virtue, if it did not bring pleasure with it, what ought we to do, who say that ever so inconsiderable an excellence of mind is so superior to all the goods of the body, that they are put wholly out of sight by it? For who is there who can venture to say, that it can happen to a wise man (even if such a thing were possible) to discard virtue for ever, with a view of being released from all pain? Who of our school, who are not ashamed to call those things evils which the Stoics call only bitter, would say that it was better to do anything dishonourably with pleasure than honourably with pain? To us, indeed, Dionysius of Heraclea appears to have deserted the Stoics in a shameful manner, on account of the pain of his eyes; as if he had learnt from Zeno not to be in pain when he was in pain. He had heard, but he had not learnt, that it was not an evil, because it was not dishonourable, and because it might be borne by a man. If he had been a Peripatetic he would, I suppose, have adhered to his opinion, since they say that pain is an evil. And with respect to bearing its bitterness, they give the same precepts as the Stoics; and, indeed, your friend Arcesilas, although he was a rather pertinacious arguer, was still on our side; for he was a pupil of Polemo; and when he was suffering under the pain of the gout, and Carneades, a most intimate friend of Epicurus, had come to see him, and was going away very melancholy, said, XXXII. This, then, is our doctrine, which appears to you to be inconsistent, since, by reason of a certain heavenly, divine, and inexpressible excellence of virtue, so great, that wherever virtue and great, desirable, and praiseworthy exploits done by virtue are, there misery and grief cannot be, but nevertheless labour and annoyance can be, I do not hesitate to affirm that all wise men are always happy, but still, that it is possible that one man may be more happy than another. But this is exactly the assertion, Piso, said I, which you are bound to prove over and over again; and if you establish it, then you may take with you not only my young Cicero here, but me too. Then, said Quintus, it appears to me that this has been sufficiently proved. I am glad, indeed, that philosophy, the treasures of which I have been used to value above the possession of everything else (so rich did it appear to me, that I could ask of it whatever I desired to know in our studies),—I rejoice, therefore, that it has been found more acute than all other arts, for it was in acuteness that some people asserted that it was deficient. Not a mite more so than ours, surely, said Pomponius, jestingly. But, seriously, I have been very much pleased with what you have said; for what I did not think could be expressed in Latin has been expressed by you, and that no less clearly than by the Greeks, and in not less well adapted language. But it is time to depart, if you please; and let us go to my house. And when he had said this, as it appeared that we had discussed the subject sufficiently, we all went into the town to the house of Pomponius. In the year It was his custom in the opportunities of his leisure to take some friends with him into the country, where, instead of amusing themselves with idle sports or feasts, their diversions were wholly speculative, tending to improve the mind and enlarge the understanding. In this manner he now spent five days at his Tusculan villa in discussing with his friends the several questions just mentioned. For, after employing the mornings in declaiming and rhetorical exercises, they used to retire in the afternoon into a gallery, called the Academy, which he had built for the purpose of philosophical conferences, where, after the manner of the Greeks, he held a school as they called it, and invited the company to call for any subject that they desired to hear explained, which being proposed accordingly by some of the audience became immediately
I. At a time when I had entirely, or to a great degree, released myself from my labours as an advocate, and from my duties as a senator, I had recourse again, Brutus, principally by your advice, to those studies which never had been out of my mind, although neglected at times, and which after a long interval I resumed: and now since the principles and rules of all arts which relate to living well depend on the study of wisdom, which is called philosophy, I have thought it an employment worthy of me to illustrate them in the Latin tongue: not because philosophy could not be understood in the Greek language, or by the teaching of Greek masters; but it has always been my opinion, that our countrymen have, in some instances, made wiser discoveries than the Greeks, with reference to those subjects which they have considered worthy of devoting their attention to, and in others have improved upon their discoveries, so that in one way or other we surpass them on every point: for, with regard to the manners and habits of private life, and family and domestic affairs, we certainly manage them with more elegance, and better than they did; and as to our republic, that our ancestors have, beyond all dispute, formed on better customs and laws. What shall I say of our military affairs; in which our ancestors have been most eminent in valour, and still more so in discipline? As to those things which are attained not by study, but nature, neither Greece, nor any nation, is comparable to us: for what people has displayed such gravity, such steadiness, such greatness of soul, probity, faith—such distinguished virtue of every kind, as to be equal to our ancestors. In learning, indeed, and all kinds of literature, Greece did excel us, and it was
Archilochus was a native of Paros, and flourished about 714-676, Parios ego primus Iambos Epist. I. xix. 25. And in another place he says— Archilochum proprio rabies armavit Iambo.—A. P. 74. was a contemporary of Romulus,—we received poetry much later. For it was about five hundred and ten years after the building of Rome before Livius II. It was, therefore, late before poets were either known or received amongst us; though we find in Cato de Originibus that the guests used, at their entertainments, to sing the praises of famous men to the sound of the flute; but a speech of Cato’s shows this kind of poetry to have been in no great esteem, as he censures Marcus Nobilior, for carrying poets with him into his province: for that consul, as we know, carried Ennius with him into Ætolia. Therefore the less esteem poets were in, the less were those studies pursued: though even then those who did display the greatest abilities that way, were not very inferior to the Greeks. Do we imagine that if it had been considered commendable in Fabius, III. But on the contrary, we early entertained an esteem for the orator; though he was not at first a man of learning, but only quick at speaking; in subsequent times he became learned; for it is reported that Galba, Africanus, and Lælius, were men of learning; and that even Cato, who preceded them in point of time, was a studious man: then succeeded the Lepidi, Carbo, and Gracchi, and so many great orators after them, down to our own times, that we were very little, if at all, inferior to the Greeks. Philosophy has been at a low ebb even to this present time, and has had no assistance from our own language, and so now I have undertaken to raise and illustrate it, in order that, as I have been of service to my countrymen, when employed on public affairs, I may, if possible, be so likewise in my retirement; and in this I must take the more pains, because there are already many books in the Latin language which are said to be written inaccurately, having been composed by excellent men, only not of sufficient learning: for indeed it is possible that a man may think well, and yet not be able to express his thoughts elegantly; but for any one to publish thoughts which he can neither arrange skilfully nor illustrate so as to entertain his reader, is an unpardonable abuse of letters and retirement: they, therefore, read their books to one another, and no one ever takes them up but those who wish to have the same licence for careless writing allowed to themselves. Wherefore,
IV. But, as Aristotle, V. Perhaps, too, you dread the inexorable judges, Minos and Rhadamanthus; before whom neither L. Crassus, nor M. Antonius can defend you; and where, since the cause lies before Grecian judges, you will not even be able to employ Demosthenes: but you must plead for yourself before a very great assembly. These things perhaps you dread, and therefore look on death as an eternal evil. VI. So Horace joins these two classes as inventors of all kinds of improbable fictions— Pictoribus atque poetis Which Roscommon translates— Painters and poets have been still allow’d
VII. VIII. IX. X. But what I have said as to the heart, the blood, the brain, air, or fire being the soul, are common opinions: the others are only entertained by individuals; and indeed there were many amongst the ancients who held singular opinions on this subject, of whom the latest was Aristoxenus, a man who was both a musician and a philosopher; he maintained a certain straining of the body, like what is called harmony in music, to be the soul; and believed that, from the figure and nature of the whole body, various motions are excited, as sounds are from an instrument. He adhered steadily to his system, and yet he said something, the nature of which, whatever it was, had been detailed and explained a great while before by Plato. Xenocrates denied that the soul had any figure, or anything like a body; but said it was a number, the power of which, as Pythagoras had fancied, some ages before, was the greatest in nature: his master, Plato, imagined a three-fold soul; a dominant portion of which, that is to say, reason, he had lodged in the head, as in a tower; and the other two parts, namely, anger and desire, he made subservient to this one, and allotted them distinct abodes, placing anger in the breast, and desire under the præcordia. But Dicæarchus, in that discourse of some learned disputants, held at Corinth, which he details to us in three books; in the first book introduces many speakers; and in the other two he introduces a certain Pherecrates, an old man of Phthia, who, as he said, was descended from Deucalion; asserting, that there is in fact no such thing at all as a soul; but that it is a name, without a meaning; and that it is idle to use the expression, XI. If I have not forgotten anything unintentionally, these are the principal opinions concerning the soul. I have omitted Democritus, a very great man indeed, but one who deduces the soul from the fortuitous concourse of small, light, and round substances; for, if you believe men of his school, there is nothing which a crowd of atoms cannot effect. Which of these opinions is true, some god must determine. It is an important question for us, which has the most appearance of truth. Shall we, then, prefer determining between them, or shall we return to our subject? XII. as Ennius saith, agreeing with the common belief; hence, too Hercules is considered so great and propitious a god amongst the Greeks, and from them he was introduced among us, and his worship has extended even to the very ocean itself. This is how it was that Bacchus was deified, the offspring of Semele; and from the same illustrious fame we receive Castor and Pollux as gods, who are reported not only to have helped the Romans to victory in their battles, but to have been the messengers of their success. What shall we say of Ino, the daughter of Cadmus? is she not called Leucothea by the Greeks, and Matuta by us? Nay more; is not the whole of heaven (not to dwell on particulars) almost filled with the offspring of men? Should I attempt to search into antiquity, and produce from thence what the Greek writers have asserted, it would appear that even those who are called their principal gods, were taken from among men up into heaven. XIII. Examine the sepulchres of those which are shown in Greece; recollect, for you have been initiated, what lessons are taught in the mysteries; then will you perceive how extensive this doctrine is. But they who were not acquainted with natural philosophy, (for it did not begin to be in vogue till many years later,) had no higher belief than what natural reason could give them; they were not acquainted with the principles and causes of things; they were often induced by certain visions, and those generally in the night, to think that those men, who had departed from this life, were
XIV. But the greatest proof of all is, that nature herself gives a silent judgment in favour of the immortality of the soul, inasmuch as all are anxious, and that to a great degree, about the things which concern futurity;— as Statius saith in his Synephebi. What is his object in doing so, except that he is interested in posterity? Shall the industrious husbandman, then, plant trees the fruit of which he shall never see? and shall not the great man found laws, institutions, and a republic? What does the procreation of children imply—and our care to continue our names—and our adoptions—and our scrupulous exactness in drawing up wills—and the inscriptions on monuments, and panegyrics, but that our thoughts run on futurity? There is no doubt but a judgment may be formed of nature in general, from looking at each nature in its most perfect specimens; and what is a more perfect specimen of a man, than those are who look on themselves as born for the assistance, the protection, and the preservation of others? Hercules has gone to heaven; he never would have gone thither, had he not, whilst amongst
XV. What will you say? what do you imagine that so many and such great men of our republic, who have sacrificed their lives for its good, expected? Do you believe that they thought that their names should not continue beyond their lives? None ever encountered death for their country, but under a firm persuasion of immortality! Themistocles might have lived at his ease; so might Epaminondas; and, not to look abroad and amongst the ancients for instances, so might I myself. But, somehow or other, there clings to our minds a certain presage of future ages; and this both exists most firmly and appears most clearly, in men of the loftiest genius and greatest souls. Take away this, and who would be so mad as to spend his life amidst toils and dangers? I speak of those in power. What are the poet’s views but to be ennobled after death? What else is the object of these lines— He is challenging the reward of glory from those men whose ancestors he himself had ennobled by his poetry. And in the same spirit he says in another passage— Why do I mention poets? the very mechanics are desirous of fame after death. Why did Phidias include a likeness of himself in the shield of Minerva, when he was not allowed to inscribe his name on it? What do our philosophers think on the subject? do not they put their names to those very books which they write on the contempt of glory? If, then, universal consent is the voice of nature, and if it is the general opinion everywhere, that those who have quitted this life are still interested in something; we also must subscribe to that opinion. And if we think that men of the greatest abilities and virtue see most clearly into the power of nature, because they themselves are her most perfect work; it is very probable that, as every great man is especially anxious to benefit posterity, there is something of which he himself will be sensible after death. XVI. But as we are led by nature to think there are gods,
and the error prevailed so much, though indeed at present it seems to me to be removed, that although men knew that the bodies of the dead had been burned, yet they conceived such things to be done in the infernal regions as could not be executed or imagined without a body; for they could not conceive how disembodied souls could exist; and, therefore, they looked out for some shape or figure. This was the origin of all that account of the dead in Homer. This was the idea that caused my friend Appius to frame his Necromancy; and this is how there got about that idea of the lake of Avernus, in my neighbourhood,— And they must needs have these appearances speak, which is not possible without a tongue, and a palate, and jaws, and without the help of lungs and sides, and without some shape or figure; for they could see nothing by their mind alone, they referred all to their eyes. To withdraw the mind from sensual objects, and abstract our thoughts from what we are accustomed to, is an attribute of great genius: I am persuaded, indeed, that there were many such men in former
XVII. But I return to the ancients. They scarcely ever gave any reason for their opinion but what could be explained by numbers or definitions. It is reported of Plato, that he came into Italy to make himself acquainted with the Pythagoreans; and that when there, amongst others, he made an acquaintance with Archytas Archytas was a native of Tarentum, and is said to have saved the life of Plato by his influence with the tyrant Dionysius. He was especially great as a mathematician and geometrician, so that Horace calls him Maris et terræ numeroque carentis arenæ Plato is supposed to have learnt some of his views from him, and Aristotle to nave borrowed from him every idea of the Categories. and Timæus, XVIII. We will pass over Dicæarchus, I will have nothing at all to do with that fortuitous concourse of individual light and round bodies, notwithstanding Democritus insists on their being warm, and having breath, that is to say, life. But this soul, which is compounded of either of the four principles from which we assert that all things are derived, is of inflamed air, as seems particularly to have been the opinion of Panætius, and must necessarily mount upwards; for air and fire have no tendency downwards, but always ascend; so should they be dissipated, that must be at some distance from the earth; but should they remain, and preserve their original state, it is clearer still that they must be carried heavenward; and this gross and concrete air, which is nearest the earth, must be divided and broken by them; for the soul is warmer, or rather hotter than that air, which I just now called gross and concrete; and this may be made evident from this consideration,—that our bodies, being compounded of the earthy class of principles, grow warm by the heat of the soul. XIX. We may add, that the soul can the more easily escape from this air, which I have often named, and break through it; because nothing is swifter than the soul; no swiftness is comparable to the swiftness of the soul; which, should it remain uncorrupt and without alteration, must necessarily be carried on with such velocity as to penetrate
Now, as we are usually incited to all sorts of desires by the stimulus of the body, and the more so, as we endeavour to rival those who are in possession of what we long for, we shall certainly be happy when, being emancipated from that body, we at the same time get rid of these desires and this rivalry: and, that which we do at present, when, dismissing all other cares, we curiously examine and look into anything, we shall then do with greater freedom; and we shall employ ourselves entirely in the contemplation and examination of things; because there is naturally in our minds a certain insatiable desire to know the truth; and the very region itself where we shall arrive, as it gives us a more intuitive and easy knowledge of celestial things, will raise our desires after knowledge. For it was this beauty of the heavens, as seen even here upon earth, which gave birth to that national and hereditary philosophy, (as Theophrastus calls it,) which was thus excited to a desire of knowledge. But those persons will in a most especial degree enjoy this philosophy, who, while they were only inhabitants of this world and enveloped in darkness, were still desirous of looking into these things with the eye of their mind. XX. For, if those men now think that they have attained something who have seen the mouth of the Pontus, and those straits which were passed by the ship called Argo, because, or those who have seen the straits of the ocean, What kind of sight do you imagine that will be, when the whole earth is laid open to our view? and that, too, not only in its position, form, and boundaries, nor those parts of it only which are habitable, but those also that lie uncultivated, through the extremities of heat and cold to which they are exposed; for not even now is it with our eyes that we view what we see, for the body itself has no senses; but (as the naturalists, aye, and even the physicians assure us, who have opened our bodies, and examined them), there are certain perforated channels from the seat of the soul to the eyes, ears, and nose; so that frequently, when either prevented by meditation, or the force of some bodily disorder, we neither hear nor see, though our eyes and ears are open, and in good condition; so that we may easily apprehend that it is the soul itself which sees and hears, and not those parts which are, as it were, but windows to the soul; by means of which, however, she can perceive nothing, unless she is on the spot, and exerts herself. How shall we account for the fact, that by the same power of thinking we comprehend the most different things; as colour, taste, heat, smell, and sound? which the soul could never know by her five messengers, unless everything was referred to her, and she were the sole judge of all. And we shall certainly discover these things in a more clear and perfect degree when the soul is disengaged from the body, and has arrived at that goal to which nature leads her; for at present, notwithstanding nature has contrived, with the greatest skill, those channels which lead from the body to the soul, yet are they, in some way or other, stopped up with earthy and concrete bodies; but when we shall be nothing but soul, then nothing will interfere to prevent our seeing everything in its real substance, and in its true character. XXI. It is true, I might expatiate, did the subject require it, on the many and various objects with which the soul will be entertained in those heavenly regions; when I reflect on which, I am apt to wonder at the boldness of some philosophers, who are so struck with admiration at the knowledge of nature, as to thank, in an exulting manner, the first inventor and teacher of natural philosophy, and to reverence him as a God: for they declare that they have been delivered by his
And does it become a philosopher to boast that he is not afraid of these things, and that he has discovered them to be false? And from this we may perceive how acute these men were by nature, who, if they had been left without any instruction would have believed in these things. But now they have certainly made a very fine acquisition in learning that when the day of their death arrives they will perish entirely; and, if that really is the case, for I say nothing either way, what is there agreeable or glorious in it? Not that I see any reason why the opinion of Pythagoras and Plato may not be true: but even although Plato were to have assigned no reason for his opinion (observe how much I esteem the man), the weight of his authority would have borne me down; but he has brought so many reasons, that he appears to me to have endeavoured to convince others, and certainly to have convinced himself. XXII. But there are many who labour on the other side of the question, and condemn souls to death, as if they were criminals capitally convicted; nor have they any other reason to allege why the immortality of the soul appears to them to be incredible, except that they are not able to conceive what sort of thing the soul can be when disentangled from the body; just as if they could really form a correct idea as to what sort of thing it is, even when it is in the body; what its form, and size, and abode are; so that were they able to have a full view of all that is now hidden from them in a living body, they have no idea whether the soul would be discernible by them, or whether it is of so fine a texture that it would escape their sight. Let those consider this, who say that they are unable to form any idea of the soul without the body, and then they will see whether they can form any adequate idea of what it is when it is in the body. For my own part, when I reflect on the nature of the
XXIII. Now, should all the lower order of philosophers, (for so I think they may be called, who dissent from Plato and Socrates and that school,) unite their force, they never would be able to explain anything so elegantly as this, nor even to understand how ingeniously this conclusion is drawn. The soul, then, perceives itself to have motion, and at the same time that it gets that perception, it is sensible that it derives that motion from its own power, and not from the agency of another; and it is impossible that it should ever forsake itself; and these premises compel you to allow its eternity, unless you have something to say against them. XXIV. XXV. Should you ask what this leads to, I think we may understand what that power is, and whence we have it. It certainly proceeds neither from the heart, nor from the blood, nor from the brain, nor from atoms; whether it be air or fire, I know not, nor am I, as those men are, ashamed in cases where I am ignorant, to own that I am so. If in any other obscure matter I were able to assert anything positively, then I would swear that the soul, be it air or fire, is divine. Just think, I beseech you,—can you imagine this wonderful power of memory to be sown in, or to be a part of the composition
XXVI. To me, indeed, it appears that even those studies which are more common and in greater esteem are not without some divine energy: so that I do not consider that a poet can produce a serious and sublime poem, without some divine impulse working on his mind; nor do I think that eloquence, abounding with sonorous words and fruitful sentences, can flow thus, without something beyond mere human power. But as to philosophy, that is the parent of all the arts, what can we call that but, as Plato says, a gift, or as I express it, an invention of the Gods? This it was which first taught us the worship of the Gods; and then led us on to justice, which arises from the human race being formed into society: and after that it imbued us with modesty, and elevation of soul. This it was which dispersed darkness from our souls, as it is dispelled from our eyes, enabling us to see all things that are above or below, the beginning, end, and middle of every thing. I am convinced entirely, that that which could effect so many and such great things must be a divine power. For what is memory of words and circumstances? what, too, is invention? Surely they are things than which nothing greater can be conceived in a God! for I do not imagine the Gods to be delighted with nectar and ambrosia, or with Juventas presenting them with a cup; nor do I put any faith in Homer, who says that Ganymede was carried away by the Gods, on account of his beauty, in order to give Jupiter his wine. Too weak reasons for doing Laomedon such injury! These were mere inventions of Homer, who gave his Gods the imperfections of men. I would rather that he had given men the perfections of the Gods! those perfections, I mean, of uninterrupted health, wisdom, invention, memory. Therefore the soul (which is, as I say, divine,) is, as Euripides more boldly expresses it, a God. And thus, if the divinity be air or fire, the soul of man is the same: for as that celestial nature has nothing earthly or humid about it, in like manner the soul of man is also free from both these qualities: but if it is of that fifth kind of nature, first introduced by Aristotle, then both Gods and souls are of the same. XXVII. As this is my opinion, I have explained it in these very words, in my book on Consolation. XXVIII. Of this kind and nature is the intellect of man. Where, then, is this intellect seated, and of what character is it? where is your own, and what is its character? are you able to tell? If I have not faculties for knowing all that I could desire to know, will you not even allow me to make use of those which I have? The soul has not sufficient capacity to comprehend itself; yet, the soul, like the eye, though it has no distinct view of itself, sees other things: it does not see (which is of least consequence) its own shape; perhaps not, though it possibly may; but we will pass that by: but it certainly sees that it has vigour, sagacity, memory, motion, and velocity; these are all great, divine, eternal properties. What its appearance is, or where it dwells, it is not necessary even to inquire. As when we behold, first of all, the beauty and brilliant appearance of the heavens; secondly, the vast velocity of its revolutions, beyond power of our imagination to conceive; then the vicissitudes of nights and days; the
the other, towards the south pole, is unknown to us; but is called by the Greeks ἀντίχθονα: the other parts are uncultivated, because they are either frozen with cold, or burnt up with heat; but where we dwell, it never fails in its season, then the multitude of cattle, fit part for food, part for tilling the ground, others for carrying us, or for clothing us; and man himself, made as it were on purpose to contemplate the heavens and the Gods, and to pay adoration to them; lastly, the whole earth, and wide extending seas, given to man’s use. When we view these, and numberless other things, can we doubt that they have some being who presides over them, or has made them (if, indeed, they have been made, as is the opinion of Plato, or if, as Aristotle thinks, they are eternal), or who at all events is the regulator of so immense a fabric and so great a blessing to men? Thus, though you see not the soul of man, as you see not the Deity, yet, as by the contemplation of his works you are led to acknowledge a God, so you must own the divine power of the soul, from its
XXIX. In my opinion it is seated in the head, and I can bring you reasons for my adopting that opinion. At present, let the soul reside where it will, you certainly have one in you. Should you ask what its nature is? It has one peculiarly its own; but admitting it to consist of fire, or air, it does not affect the present question; only observe this, that as you are convinced there is a God, though you are ignorant where he resides, and what shape he is of; in like manner you ought to feel assured that you have a soul, though you cannot satisfy yourself of the place of its residence, nor its form. In our knowledge of the soul, unless we are grossly ignorant of natural philosophy, we cannot but be satisfied that it has nothing but what is simple, unmixed, uncompounded, and single; and if this is admitted, then it cannot be separated, nor divided, nor dispersed, nor parted, and therefore it cannot perish; for to perish implies a parting asunder, a division, a disunion of those parts which, whilst it subsisted, were held together by some band; and it was because he was influenced by these and similar reasons that Socrates neither looked out for anybody to plead for him when he was accused, nor begged any favour from his judges, but maintained a manly freedom, which was the effect not of pride, but of the true greatness of his soul: and on the last day of his life, he held a long discourse on this subject; and a few days before, when he might have been easily freed from his confinement, he refused to be so, and when he had almost actually hold of that deadly cup, he spoke with the air of a man not forced to die, but ascending into heaven. XXX. For so indeed he thought himself, and thus he spoke:— XXXI. For what else is it that we do, when we call off our minds from pleasure, that is to say, from our attention to the body, from the managing our domestic estate, which is a sort of handmaid and servant of the body, or from duties of a public nature, or from all other serious business whatever? What else is it, I say, that we do, but invite the soul to reflect on itself? oblige it to converse with itself, and, as far as possible,
XXXII. Are you willing to hear then why, even allowing this, death cannot be an evil? XXXIII. These arguments may be refuted; for they proceed
XXXIV. I am not without hopes myself that such may be our fate. But admit what they assert; that the soul does not continue to exist after death. The epigram is— Εἴπας Ἥλιε χαῖρε, Κλεόμβροτος Ὅμβρακιώτης Which may be translated, perhaps— Farewell, O sun, Cleombrotus exclaim’d, on Cleombrotus of Ambracia; who, without any misfortune having befallen him, as he says, threw himself
XXXV. Mention, therefore, some one, who never knew distress; who never received any blow from fortune. The great Metellus had four distinguished sons; but Priam had fifty, seventeen of which were born to him by his lawful wife: Fortune had the same power over both, though she exercised it but on one: for Metellus was laid on his funeral pile by a great company of sons and daughters, grandsons, and grandaughters; but Priam fell by the hand of an enemy, after having fled to the altar, and having seen himself deprived of all his numerous progeny. Had he died before the death of his sons and the ruin of his kingdom, would he then have been taken from good or from evil? It would indeed, at that time, have appeared that he was being taken away from good; yet surely, it would have turned out advantageous for him; nor should we have had these mournful verses,— As if anything better could have happened to him at that time, than to lose his life in that manner; but yet, if it had befallen him sooner, it would have prevented all those consequences; but even as it was it released him from any further sense of them. The case of our friend Pompey This is alluded to by Juvenal— Provida Pompeio dederat Campania febres was something
Pompey’s second wife was Julia, the daughter of Julius Cæsar; she died the year before the death of Crassus, in Parthia. Virgil speaks of Cæsar and Pompey as relations, using the same expression (socer) as Cicero— Aggeribus socer Alpinis atque arce Monœci XXXVI. These calamities are avoided by death, for even though they should never happen, there is a possibility that they may; but it never occurs to a man, that such a disaster may befal him himself. Every one hopes to be as happy as Metellus: as if the number of the happy exceeded that of the miserable; or as if there were any certainty in human affairs; or again, as if there were more rational foundation for hope than fear. But should we grant them even this, that men are by death deprived of good things, would it follow that the dead are therefore in need of the good things of life, and are miserable on that account? Certainly they must necessarily say so. Can he who does not exist, be in need of anything? To be in need of, has a melancholy sound, because it in effect amounts to this,—he had, but he has not; he regrets, he looks back upon, he wants. Such are, I suppose, the distresses of one who is in need of. Is he deprived of eyes? to be blind is misery. Is he destitute of children? not to have them is misery. These considerations apply to the living, but the dead are neither in need of the blessings of
But a living man does not want a good, unless he is distressed without it; and yet, we can easily understand how any man alive can be without a kingdom. But this cannot be predicated of you with any accuracy: it might have been asserted of Tarquin, when he was driven from his kingdom: but when such an expression is used respecting the dead it is absolutely unintelligible. For to want, implies to be sensible; but the dead are insensible; therefore the dead can be in no want. XXXVII. But what occasion is there to philosophize here, in a matter with which we see that philosophy is but little concerned? How often have not only our generals, but whole armies, rushed on certain death! but if it had been a thing to be feared, L. Brutus would never have fallen in fight, to prevent the return of that tyrant whom he had expelled; nor would Decius the father have been slain in fighting with
XXXVIII. Why, then, should Camillus be affected with the thoughts of these things happening three hundred and fifty years after his time? And why should I be uneasy if I were to expect that some nation might possess itself of this city, ten thousand years hence? Because so great is our regard for our country, as not to be measured by our own feeling, but by its own actual safety. Death, then, which threatens us daily from a thousand accidents, and which, by reason of the shortness of life, can never be far off, does not deter a wise man from making such provision for his country and his family, as he hopes may last for ever; and from regarding posterity, of which he can never have any real perception, as belonging to himself. Wherefore a man may act for eternity, even though he be persuaded that his soul is mortal; not, indeed, from a desire of glory,
XXXIX. Away, then, with those follies which are little better than the old women’s dreams, such as that it is miserable to die before our time. What time do you mean? That of nature? But she has only lent you life, as she might lend you money, without fixing any certain time for its repayment. Have you any grounds of complaint, then, that she recals it at her pleasure? for you received it on these terms. They that complain thus, allow, that if a young child dies the survivors ought to bear his loss with equanimity; that if an infant in the cradle dies, they ought not even to utter a complaint; and yet nature has been more severe with them in demanding back what she gave. They answer by saying, that such have not tasted the sweets of life; while the other had begun to conceive hopes of great happiness, and indeed had begun to realize them. Men judge better in other things, and allow a part to be preferable to none; why do they not admit the same estimate in life? Though
But because there is nothing beyond old age, we call that long; all these things are said to be long or short, according to the proportion of time they were given us for. Aristotle saith, there is a kind of insect near the river Hypanis, which runs from a certain part of Europe into the Pontus, whose life consists but of one day; those that die at the eighth hour, die in full age; those who die when the sun sets are very old, especially when the days are at the longest. Compare our longest life with eternity and we shall be found almost as short-lived as those little animals. XL. Let us, then, despise all these follies—for what softer name can I give to such levities?—and let us lay the foundation of our happiness in the strength and greatness of our minds, in a contempt and disregard of all earthly things, and in the practice of every virtue. For at present we are enervated by the softness of our imaginations, so that, should we leave this world before the promises of our fortune-tellers are made good to us, we should think ourselves deprived of some great advantages, and seem disappointed and forlorn. But if, through life, we are in continual suspense, still expecting, still desiring, and are in continual pain and torture, good Gods! how pleasant must that journey be which ends in security and ease! How pleased am I with Theramenes! of how exalted a soul does he appear! For, although we never read of him without tears, yet that illustrious man is not to be lamented in his death, who, when he had been imprisoned by the command of the thirty tyrants, drank off, at one draught, as if he had been thirsty, the poisoned cup, and threw the remainder out of it with such force, that it sounded as it fell; and then, on hearing the sound of the drops, he said, with a smile, XLI. This idea is beautifully expanded by Byron:— Yet if, as holiest men have deem’d, there be Can this
In this manner he proceeded: there is no part of his speech which I admire more than his last words: XLII. Surely I would rather have had this man’s soul, than all the fortunes of those who sat in judgment on him; although that very thing which he says no one except the Gods knows, namely, whether life or death is most preferable, he knows himself, for he had previously stated his opinion on it; but he maintained to the last that favourite maxim of his, of affirming nothing. And let us, too, adhere to this rule of not thinking anything an evil, which is a general provision of nature: and let us assure ourselves, that if death is an evil, it is an eternal evil, for death seems to be the end of a miserable life; but if death is a misery, there can be no end of that. But why do I mention Socrates, or Theramenes, men distinguished by the glory of virtue and wisdom? when a certain Lacedæmonian, whose name is not so much as known, held death in such contempt, that, when led to it by the ephori, he bore a cheerful and pleasant countenance; and, when he was asked by one of his enemies whether he despised
The epitaph in the original is,— Ὥ ξεῖν᾽ ἀγγεῖλον Λακεδαιμονίοις ὅτι τῇδε What was it that Leonidas, their general, said to them? XLIII. What, then, have we not reason to admire Theodorus the Cyrenean, a philosopher of no small distinction? who, when Lysimachus threatened to crucify him, bade him keep those menaces for his courtiers: XLIV. But all things are full of errors. Achilles drags Hector, tied to his chariot; he thinks, I suppose, he tears his flesh, and that Hector feels the pain of it; therefore, he avenges himself on him, as he imagines; but Hecuba bewails this as a sore misfortune— What Hector? or how long will he be Hector? Accius is better in this, and Achilles, too, is sometimes reasonable— It was not Hector that you dragged along, but a body that had been Hector’s. Here another starts from underground, and will not suffer his mother to sleep— When these verses are sung with a slow and melancholy tune, so as to affect the whole theatre with sadness, one can scarce help thinking those unhappy that are unburied— He is afraid he shall not have the use of his limbs so well if they are torn to pieces, but is under no such apprehensions if they are burned— I do not understand what he could fear who could pour forth such excellent verses to the sound of the flute. We must, therefore, adhere to this, that nothing is to be regarded after we are dead, though many people revenge themselves on their dead enemies. Thyestes pours forth several curses in some good lines of Ennius, praying, first of all, that Atreus may perish by a shipwreck, which is certainly a very terrible thing, for such a death is not free from very grievous sensations. Then follow these unmeaning expressions:— The rocks themselves were not more destitute of feeling than he who was hanging to them by his side; though Thyestes imagines he is wishing him the greatest torture. It would be torture indeed, if he were sensible; but as he is not, it can be none; then how very unmeaning is this! You see under what mistaken notions all this is said. He imagines the body has its haven, and that the dead are at rest in their graves. Pelops was greatly to blame in not having informed and taught his son what regard was due to everything. XLV. But what occasion is there to animadvert on the opinions of individuals, when we may observe whole nations to fall into all sorts of errors? The Egyptians embalm their dead, and keep them in their houses; the Persians dress them over with wax, and then bury them, that they may preserve their bodies as long as possible. It is customary with the Magi, to bury none of their order, unless they have been first torn by wild beasts. In Hyrcania, the people maintain dogs for the public use, the nobles have their own; and we know that they have a good breed of dogs; but every one, according to his ability, provides himself with some, in order to be torn by them; and they hold that to be the best kind of interment. Chrysippus, who is curious in all kinds of historical facts, has collected many other things of this kind, but some of them are so offensive as not to admit of being related. All that has been said of burying, is not worth our regard with respect to ourselves, though it is not to be neglected as to our friends, provided we are thoroughly aware that the dead are insensible; but the living, indeed, should consider what is due to custom and opinion, only they should at the same time consider that the dead are no ways interested in it. But death truly is then met with the greatest tranquillity, when the dying man can comfort himself with his own praise. No one dies too soon who has finished the course of perfect virtue. I myself have known many occasions when I have seemed in danger of immediate death; oh! how I wish it had come to me, for I have gained nothing by the delay. I had gone over and over again the duties of life; nothing remained but to contend with fortune. If reason, then, cannot sufficiently fortify us to enable us to feel a contempt for death, at all events, let our past life prove that we have lived long enough, and even longer than was necessary; for notwithstanding the deprivation of sense, the dead are not without that good which peculiarly belongs to them, namely, the praise and glory which they have acquired, even though they are not sensible of it. For although there be nothing in glory to make it desirable, yet it follows virtue as its shadow. And the genuine judgment of the multitude on good men, if ever they form any, is more to their own praise, than of any real advantage to the dead; yet I cannot say, however it may be received, that Lycurgus and
XLVI. For Neptune shall sooner bury Salamis itself with his waters, than the memory of the trophies gained there; and the Bœotian Leuetra shall perish, sooner than the glory of that great battle. And longer still shall fame be before it deserts Curius, and Fabricius, and Calatinus, and the two Scipios, and the two Africani, and Maximus, and Marcellus, and Paulus, and Cato, and Lælius, and numberless other heroes; and whoever has caught any resemblance of them, not estimating it by common fame, but by the real applause of good men, may with confidence, when the occasion requires, approach death, on which we are sure that even if the chief good is not continued, at least no evil is. Such a man would even wish to die, whilst in prosperity; for all the favours that could be heaped on him, would not be so agreeable to him, as the loss of them would be painful. That speech of the Lacedæmonian seems to have the same meaning, who, when Diagoras the Rhodian, who had himself been a conqueror at the Olympic games, saw two of his own sons conquerors there on the same day, approached the old man, and congratulating him, said, I might have given you a sufficient answer, as it seems to me, on this point, in a few words, as you had allowed the dead were not exposed to any positive evil; but I have spoken at greater length on the subject for this reason, because this is our greatest consolation in the losing and bewailing of our friends. For we ought to bear with moderation any grief which arises from ourselves, or is endured on our own account, lest we should seem to be too much influenced by self-love. But should we suspect our departed friends to be under those evils, which they are generally imagined to be
XLVII. XLVIII. There is also a story told of Silenus, who, when taken prisoner by Midas, is said to have made him this present for his ransom; namely, that he informed him This was expressed in the Greek verses— Ἀρχὴν μὲν μὴ φῦναι ἐπιχθονίοισιν ἄριστον, which by some authors are attributed to Homer. that never to have been born, was by far the greatest blessing that could happen to man; and that the next best thing was, to die very soon; which very opinion Euripides makes use of in his Cresphontes, saying,—
This is the first fragment of the Cresphontes.—Ed. Var. vii. p. 594 Ἔδει γὰρ ἡμᾶς σύλλογον ποιουμένους There is something like this in Crantor’s Consolation; for he says, that Terinæus of Elysia, when he was bitterly lamenting the loss of his son, came to a place of divination to be informed why he was visited with so great affliction, and received in his tablet these three verses,— The Greek verses are quoted by Plutarch— … Ἤπου νήπιε, ἠλίθιοι φρένες ἀνδρᾶν On these and similar authorities they affirm that the question has been determined by the Gods. Nay more; Alcidamas, an ancient rhetorician of the very highest reputation, wrote
XLIX. From hence they proceed to instances of a fresher date. Harmodius and Aristogiton are in everybody’s mouth; the memory of Leonidas the Lacedæmonian, and Epaminondas the Theban, is as fresh as ever. Those philosophers were not acquainted with the many instances in our country—to give a list of whom would take up too much time—who, we see, considered death desirable as long as it was accompanied with honour. But, notwithstanding this is the correct view of the case, we must use much persuasion, speak as if we were endued with some higher authority, in order to bring men to begin to wish to die, or cease to be afraid of death. For if that last day does not occasion an entire extinction, but a change of abode only, what can be more desirable? and if it on the other hand destroys, and absolutely puts an end to us, what can be preferable to the having a deep sleep fall on us, in the midst of the fatigues of life, and being thus overtaken, to sleep to eternity? And, should this
But the wise Solon says— The Greek is, μήδε μοι ἄκλαυστος θάνατος μόλοι, ἀλλὰ φίλοισι But let us, if indeed it should be our fate to know the time which is appointed by the Gods for us to die, prepare ourselves for it, with a cheerful and grateful mind, thinking ourselves like men who are delivered from a jail, and released from their fetters, for the purpose of going back to our eternal habitation, which may be more emphatically called our own; or else to be divested of all sense and trouble. If, on the other hand, we should have no notice given us of this decree, yet let us cultivate such a disposition as to look on that formidable hour of death as happy for us, though shocking to our friends; and let us never imagine anything to be an evil, which is an appointment of the immortal Gods, or of nature, the common parent of all. For it is not by hazard or without design that we have been born and situated as we have. On the contrary, beyond all doubt there is a certain power, which consults the happiness of human nature; and this would neither have produced nor provided for a being, which after having gone through the labours of life was to fall into eternal misery by death. Let us rather infer, that we have a retreat and haven prepared for us, which I wish we could crowd all sail and arrive at; but though the winds should not serve, and we should be driven back, yet we shall to a certainty arrive at that point eventually, though somewhat later. But how can that be miserable for one which all must of necessity undergo? I have given you a peroration, that you might not think I had overlooked or neglected anything. I. Neoptolemus, in Ennius, indeed, says, that the study of philosophy was expedient for him; but that it required limiting to a few subjects, for that to give himself up entirely to it, was what he did not approve of. And for my part, Brutus, I am perfectly persuaded that it is expedient for me to philosophize; for what can I do better, especially as I have no regular occupation? but I am not for limiting my philosophy to a few subjects, as he does; for philosophy is a matter in which it is difficult to acquire a little knowledge without acquainting yourself with many, or all its branches, nor can you well take a few subjects without selecting them out of a great number; nor can any one, who has acquired the knowledge of a few points, avoid endeavouring with the same eagerness to understand more. But still, in a busy life, and in one mainly occupied with military matters, such as that of Neoptolemus was at that time, even that limited degree of acquaintance with philosophy may be of great use, and may yield fruit, not perhaps so plentiful as a thorough knowledge of the whole of philosophy, but yet such as in some degree may at times deliver us from the dominion of our desires, our sorrows, and our fears; just as the effect of that discussion which we lately maintained in my Tusculan villa seemed to be, that a great contempt of death was engendered; which contempt is of no small efficacy towards delivering the mind from fear; for whoever dreads what cannot be avoided, can by no means live with a quiet and tranquil mind. But he who is under no fear of death, not only because it is a thing absolutely inevitable, but also because he is persuaded that death itself hath nothing terrible in it, provides himself with a very great resource towards a happy life. However, I am not ignorant, that many will argue strenuously
II. But I have answered the detractors of philosophy in general, in my Hortensius. And what I had to say in favour of the Academics, is, I think, explained with sufficient accuracy in my four books of the Academic Question. But yet I am so far from desiring that no one should write against me, that it is what I most earnestly wish; for philosophy would never have been in such esteem in Greece itself, if it had not been for the strength which it acquired from the contentions and disputations of the most learned men; and therefore I recommend all men who have abilities to follow my advice, to snatch this art also from declining Greece, and to transport it to this city; as our ancestors by their study and industry have imported all their other arts, which were worth having. Thus the praise of oratory, raised from a low degree, is arrived at such perfection, that it must now decline, and, as is the nature of all things, verge to its dissolution in a very short time. Let philosophy then derive its birth in
III. But let us excite those, if possible, who have had a liberal education, and are masters of an elegant style, and who philosophize with reason and method. For there is a certain class of them who would willingly be called philosophers, whose books in our language are said to be numerous, and which I do not despise, for indeed I never read them: but still because the authors themselves declare that they write without any regularity, or method, or elegance, or ornament, I do not care to read what must be so void of entertainment. There is no one in the least acquainted with literature, who does not know the style and sentiments of that school; wherefore, since they are at no pains to express themselves well, I do not see why they should be read by anybody except by one another: let them read them, if they please, who are of the same opinions: for in the same manner as all men read Plato, and the other Socratics, with those who sprung from them, even those who do not agree with their opinions, or are very indifferent about them; but scarcely any one except their own disciples, take Epicurus, or Metrodorus, into their hands; so they alone read these Latin books, who think that the arguments contained in them are sound. But, in my opinion, whatever is published, should be recommended to the reading of every man of learning; and though we may not succeed in
IV. The discourse, then, was introduced in this manner, whilst we were walking, and it was commenced by some such an opening as this. V. it is not every mind which has been properly cultivated that produces fruit;—and to go on with the comparison, as a field, although it may be naturally fruitful cannot produce a crop, without dressing, so neither can the mind, without education; such is the weakness of either without the other. Whereas philosophy is the culture of the mind: this it is which plucks up vices by the roots; prepares the mind for the receiving of
VI. VII. But Epicurus, indeed, says such things that it should seem that his design was only to make people laugh; for he affirms somewhere, that if a wise man were to be burned, or put to the torture,—you expect, perhaps, that he is going to say he would bear it, he would support himself under it with resolution! he would not yield to it, and that, by Hercules! would he very commendable, and worthy of that very Hercules whom I have just invoked: but even this will not satisfy Epicurus, that robust and hardy man! No; his wise man, even if he were in Phalaris’s bull, would say, How sweet it is! how little do I regard it! What sweet? is it not sufficient, if it is not disagreeable? But those very men who deny pain to be an evil, are not in the habit of saying that it is agreeable to any one to be tormented; they rather say, that it is cruel, or hard to bear, afflicting, unnatural, but still not an evil: while this man who says that it is the only evil, and the very worst of all evils, yet thinks that a wise man would pronounce it sweet. I do not require of you to speak of pain in the same words which Epicurus uses—a man, as you know, devoted to pleasure: he may make no difference, if he pleases, between Phalaris’s bull, and his own bed: but I cannot allow the wise man to be so indifferent about pain. If he bears it with courage, it is sufficient; that he should rejoice in it, I do not expect; for pain is, beyond all question, sharp, bitter, against nature, hard to submit to, and to bear. Observe Philoctetes: We may allow
And therefore he cries out, desiring help, and wishing to die, It is hard to say that the man who was obliged to cry out in this manner, was not oppressed with evil, and great evil too. VIII. But let us observe Hercules himself, who was subdued by pain at the very time when he was on the point of attaining immortality by death. What words does Sophocles here put in his mouth, in his Trachiniæ? who, when Deianira had put upon him a tunic dyed in the centaur’s blood, and it stuck to his entrails, says, Can we, then, despise pain, when we see Hercules himself giving vent to his expressions of agony with such impatience? IX. Let us see what Æschylus says, who was not only a poet, but a Pythagorean philosopher, also, for that is the account which you have received of him; how doth he make Prometheus bear the pain he suffered for the Lemnian theft, when he clandestinely stole away the celestial fire, and bestowed it on men, and was severely punished by Jupiter for the theft. Fastened to mount Caucasus, he speaks thus: And therefore it scarcely seems possible to avoid calling a man who is suffering, miserable; and if he is miserable, then pain is an evil. XI. But do you not see how much harm is done by poets? They introduce the bravest men lamenting over their misfortunes: they soften our minds, and they are besides so entertaining, that we do not only read them, but get them by heart. Thus the influence of the poets is added to our want of discipline at home, and our tender and delicate manner of living, so that between them they have deprived virtue of all its vigour and energy. Plato therefore was right in banishing
XII. But why are we angry with the poets? we may find some philosophers, those masters of virtue, who have taught that pain was the greatest of evils. But you, young man, when you said but just now that it appeared so to you, upon being asked by me what appeared greater than infamy, gave up that opinion at a word. Suppose I ask Epicurus the same question. He will answer, that a trifling degree of pain is a greater evil than the greatest infamy; for that there is no evil in infamy itself, unless attended with pain. What pain then attends Epicurus, when he says this very thing, that pain is the greatest evil; and yet nothing can be a greater disgrace to a philosopher than to talk thus. Therefore, you allowed enough when you admitted that infamy appeared to you to be a greater evil than pain. And if you abide by this admission, you will see how far pain should be resisted: and that our inquiry should be not so much whether pain be an evil; as how the mind may be fortified for resisting it. The Stoics infer from some petty quibbling arguments, that it is no evil, as if the dispute was about a word, and not about the thing itself. Why do you impose upon me, Zeno? for when you deny what appears very dreadful to me to be an evil; I am deceived, and am at a loss to know why that which appears to me to be a most miserable thing, should be no evil. The answer is, that nothing is an evil but what is base and vicious. You return to your trifling, for you do not remove what made me uneasy. I know that pain is not vice,—you need not inform me of that: but show me, that it makes no difference to me whether I am in pain or not. It has never anything to do, say you, with a happy life, for that depends upon virtue alone; but yet pain is to be avoided. If I ask, why? it is disagreeable, against nature, hard to bear, woful and afflicting. XIII. Here are many words to express that by so many different forms, which we call by the single word, evil. You are defining pain, instead of removing it, when you say, it is disagreeable, unnatural, scarcely possible to be endured or
XIV. You know very well, that even though part of your Corinthian furniture were gone, the remainder might be safe
I do not deny pain to be pain; for were that the case, in what would courage consist? but I say it should be assuaged by patience, if there be such a thing as patience: if there be no such thing, why do we speak so in praise of philosophy? or why do we glory in its name? Does pain annoy us? let it sting us to the heart: if you are without defensive armour, bare your throat to it; but if you are secured by Vulcanian armour, that is to say by resolution, resist it; should you fail to do so, that guardian of your honour, your courage, will forsake and leave you.—By the laws of Lycurgus, and by those which were given to the Cretans by Jupiter, or which Minos established under the direction of Jupiter, as the poets say, the youths of the state are trained by the practice of hunting, running, enduring hunger and thirst, cold and heat. The boys at Sparta are scourged so at the altars, that blood follows the lash in abundance, nay, sometimes, as I used to hear when I was there, they are whipped even to death; and yet not one of them was ever heard to cry out, or so much as groan. What then? shall men not be able to bear what boys do? and shall custom have such great force, and reason none at all? XV. There is some difference betwixt labour and pain; they border upon one another, but still there is a certain difference between them. Labour is a certain exercise of the mind or body, in some employment or undertaking of serious trouble and importance; but pain is a sharp motion in the body, disagreeable to our senses.—Both these feelings, the Greeks, whose language is more copious than ours, express by the common name of Πόνος; therefore they call industrious men, pains-taking, or rather fond of labour; we, more conveniently, call them laborious; for labouring is one thing
And in these laborious exercises pain interferes sometimes; they are thrown down, receive blows, have bad falls, and are bruised, and the labour itself produces a sort of callousness to pain. XVI. As to military service, (I speak of our own, not of that of the Spartans, for they used to march slowly to the sound of the flute, and scarce a word of command was given without an anapæst;) you may see in the first place whence the very name of an army (Exercitus) XVII. This is certainly Eurypylus himself. What an experienced man!—Whilst his friend is continually enlarging on his misfortunes, you may observe that he is so far from weeping, that he even assigns a reason why he should bear his wounds with patience. Patroclus, I suppose, will lead him off to his chamber to bind up his wounds, at least if he be a man: but not a word of that; he only inquires how the battle went. And yet no words can show the truth as well as those, your deeds and visible sufferings. but though Eurypylus could bear these afflictions, Æsopus could not, and he explains the rest, though in pain; so unbounded is military glory in a brave man! Shall, then, a veteran soldier be able to behave in this manner, and shall a wise and learned man not be able? Surely the latter might be able to bear pain better, and in no small degree either: at present, how ever, I am confining myself to what is engendered practice and discipline. I am not yet come to speak of reason and philosophy. You may often hear of old women living without
and shall a man born to glory have so soft a part in his soul as not to be able to fortify it by reason and reflection? The sight of the gladiators’ combats is by some looked on as cruel and inhuman, and I do not know, as it is at present managed, but it may be so; but when the guilty fought, we might receive by our ears perhaps (but certainly by our eyes we could not) better training to harden us against pain and death. XVIII. I have now said enough about the effects of exercise, custom, and careful meditation; proceed we now to consider the force of reason, unless you have something to reply to what has been said. This, then, is agreed upon by all, and not only by learned men, but also by the unlearned, that it becomes the brave and magnanimous, those that have patience and a spirit above this world, not to give way to pain. Nor has there ever been any one who did not commend a man who bore it in this manner. That, then, which is expected from a brave man, and is commended when it is seen, it must surely be base in any one to be afraid of at its approach, or not to bear when it comes. But I would have you consider whether, as all the right affections of the soul are classed under the name of virtues, the truth is that this is not properly the name of them all, but that they all have their name from that leading virtue which is superior to all the rest: for the name, XIX. You may inquire, perhaps, how? and such an inquiry is not amiss, for philosophy is ready with her assistance. Epicurus offers himself to you, a man far from a bad, or, I should rather say, a very good man; he advises no more than he knows. XX. Will you, when you may observe children at Lacedæmon, and young men at Olympia, and barbarians in the amphitheatre, receive the severest wounds, and bear them without once opening their mouths,—will you, I say, if any pain should by chance attack you, cry out like a woman? will you not rather bear it with resolution and constancy? and not cry, It is intolerable, nature cannot bear it. I hear what you say,—Boys bear this because they are led thereto by glory: some bear it through shame, many through fear, and yet are we afraid that nature cannot bear what is borne by many, and in such different circumstances? Nature not only bears it, but challenges it, for there is nothing with her preferable, nothing which she desires more, than credit, and reputation, and praise, and honour, and glory. I choose here
XXI. Yet this division does not proceed from ignorance; for the soul admits of a two-fold division, one of which partakes of reason, the other is without it; when, therefore, we are ordered to give a law to ourselves, the meaning is, that reason should restrain our rashness. There is in the soul of every man, something naturally soft, low, enervated in a manner, and languid. Were there nothing besides this, men would be the greatest of monsters; but there is present to every man reason, which presides over, and gives laws to all; which, by improving itself, and making continual advances, becomes perfect virtue. It behoves a man, then, to take care that reason shall have the command over that part which is bound to practise obedience. In what manner? you will say. Why, as a master has over his slave, a general over his army, a father over his son. If that part of the soul which I have called soft behaves disgracefully, if it gives itself up to lamentations and womanish tears, then let it be restrained, and committed to the care of friends and relations, for we often see those persons brought to order by shame, whom no reasons can influence. Therefore, we should confine those feelings, like our servants, in safe custody, and almost with chains. But those who have more resolution, and yet are not utterly immovable, we should encourage with our exhortations, as we would good soldiers, to recollect themselves, and
Pacuvius is better in this than Sophocles, for in the one Ulysses bemoans his wounds too vehemently; for the very people who carried him after he was wounded, though his grief was moderate, yet, considering the dignity of the man, did not scruple to say, The wise poet understood that custom was no contemptible instructor how to bear pain. But the same hero complains with more decency, though in great pain,— He begins to give way, but instantly checks himself:— Do you observe how he constrains himself; not that his bodily pains were less, but because he checks the anguish of his mind? Therefore, in the conclusion of the Niptræ, he blames others, even when he himself is dying:— And so that soft place in his soul obeys his reason, just as an abashed soldier does his stern commander. XXII. The man, then, in whom absolute wisdom exists (such a man, indeed, we have never as yet seen, but the philosophers have described in their writings what sort of man he will be, if he should exist); such a man, or at least that perfect and absolute reason which exists in him, will have the same authority over the inferior part as a good parent has over his dutiful children, he will bring it to obey his nod, without any trouble or difficulty. He will rouse himself, prepare and arm himself to oppose pain as he would an enemy. If you inquire what arms he will provide himself with, they will be contention, encouragement, discourse with himself; he will say thus to himself, Take care that you are guilty of nothing base, languid, or unmanly. He will turn over in his mind
XXIII. Even as in a battle, the dastardly and timorous soldier throws away his shield on the first appearance of an enemy, and runs as fast as he can, and on that account loses his life sometimes, though he has never received even one wound, when he who stands his ground has nothing of the sort happen to him; so, they who cannot bear the appearances of pain, throw themselves away, and give themselves up to affliction and dismay; but they that oppose it, often come off more than a match for it. For the body has a certain
XXIV. What! they who would speak louder than ordinary, are they satisfied with working their jaws, sides, or tongue, or stretching the common organs of speech and utterance? the whole body and every muscle is at full stretch, if I may be allowed the expression, every nerve is exerted to assist their voice. I have actually seen the knees of Marcus Antonius touch the ground when he was speaking with vehemence for himself, with relation to the Varian law. For as the engines you throw stones or darts with, throw them out with the greater force the more they are strained and drawn back; so it is in speaking, running, or boxing, the more people strain themselves, the greater their force. Since, therefore, this exertion has so much influence—if in a moment of pain groans help to strengthen the mind, let us use them; but if they be groans of lamentation, if they be the expression of weakness or abjectness, or unmanly weeping, then I should scarcely call him a man who yielded to them. For even supposing that such groaning could give any ease, it still
XXV. You may ask, how the case is in peace? what is to be done at home? how we are to behave in bed? You bring me back to the philosophers, who seldom go to war. Among these, Dionysius of Heraclea, a man certainly of no resolution, having learned fortitude of Zeno, quitted it on being in pain; for, being tormented with a pain in his kidneys, in bewailing himself he cried out, that those things were false which he had formerly conceived of pain. And when his fellow-disciple, Cleanthes, asked him why he had changed his opinion, he answered, He meant Zeno: he was sorry the other had degenerated from him. But it was not so with our friend Posidonius, whom I have often seen myself, and I will tell you what Pompey used to say of him: that when he came to Rhodes, after his departure from Syria, he had a great desire to hear Posidonius, but was informed that he was very ill of a severe fit of the gout; yet he had great inclination to pay a visit to so famous a philosopher. Accordingly, when he had seen him, and paid his compliments, and had spoken with great respect of him, he said he was very sorry that he could not hear him lecture. But indeed you may, replied the other, nor will I suffer any bodily pain to occasion so great a man to visit me in vain. On this Pompey relates that, as he lay on his bed, he disputed with great dignity and fluency on this very subject—That nothing was good but what was honest; and that in his paroxysms he would often say, XXVI. Do we not observe, that where those exercises called gymnastic are in esteem, those who enter the lists never concern themselves about dangers: that where the praise of riding and hunting is highly esteemed, they who practise these arts decline no pain. What shall I say of our own ambitious pursuits, or desire of honours? What fire have not candidates run through to gain a single vote? Therefore Africanus had always in his hands Xenophon, the pupil of Socrates, being particularly pleased with his saying, that the same labours were not equally heavy to the general and to the common man, because the honour itself made the labour lighter to the general. But yet, so it happens, that even with the illiterate vulgar, an idea of honour is of great influence, though they cannot understand what it is. They
XXVII. And let this be principally considered, that this bearing of pain, which I have often said is to be strengthened by an exertion of the soul, should be the same in everything. For you meet with many who, through a desire of victory, or for glory, or to maintain their rights, or their liberty, have boldly received wounds, and borne themselves up under them; and yet those very same persons, by relaxing that intenseness of their minds, were unequal to bearing the pain of a disease. For they did not support themselves under their former sufferings by reason or philosophy, but by inclination and glory. Therefore some barbarians and savage people are able to fight very stoutly with the sword, but cannot bear sickness like men: but the Grecians, men of no great courage, but as wise as human nature will admit of, cannot look an enemy in the face, yet the same will bear to be visited with sickness tolerably, and with a sufficiently manly spirit; and the Cimbrians and Celtiberians are very alert in battle, but bemoan themselves in sickness; for nothing can be consistent which has not reason for its foundation. But when you see those who are led by inclination or opinion, not retarded by pain in their pursuits, nor hindered by it from succeeding in them, you may conclude, either that pain is no
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
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,
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
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. V. Nor were they less ingenious in calling the state of the soul devoid of the light of the mind, VI. I think you said that it was your opinion that a wise man was liable to grief. 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
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 IX. So that Dionysius of Heraclea is right when, upon this complaint of Achilles in Homer— The Greek is— Ἀλλά μοι οἰδάνεται κραδίν χόλω ὅπποτ ἐκείνου I have given Pope’s translation in the text. 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 ( where the Latin is 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
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
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!— 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? 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
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— This is from the Theseus— Ἐγὼ δὲ τοῦτο παρὰ σοφοῦ τινος μαθὼν But Euripides says that of himself, which Theseus said he had heard from some learned man, for the poet had been a
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
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
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
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
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: 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:— 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:— We should assist her, for she looks out for help. You know what should follow, and particularly this:— 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?— 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
XXI. And indeed the Epicureans, those best of men, for there is no order of men more innocent, complain, that I take
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, 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, 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
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 This refers to the speech of Agamemnon in Euripides, in the Iphigenia in Aulis— … Ζηλῶ σε, γέρον, of that
XXV. For this reason Carneades, as I see our friend Antiochus writes, used to blame Chrysippus for commending these verses of Euripides,— This is a fragment from the Hypsipyle— Ἔφυ μὲν οὐδεις ὅστις οὐ πονεῖ βροτῶν; 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,
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;— Ητοι ο καππεδιον το Αληιον οιος αλατο 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,— This is a translation from Euripides— Ὥσθ᾽ ἵμερος μ᾽ ὑπῆλθε γῇ τε κ᾽ οὐρανῷ 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
He determines to be miserable: and can any one determine on anything against his will? 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,— Λίην γὰρ πολλοὶ καὶ ἐπήτριμοι ἤυατα πάντα 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
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— This is one of the fragments of Euripides which we are unable to assign to any play in particular; it occurs Var. Ed. Tr. Inc. 167. Εἰ μέν τόδ᾽ ἦμαρ πρῶτον ἦν κακουμένω 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
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
This is only a fragment preserved by Stobæus— Τοὺς δ᾽ ἄν μεγίστους καὶ σοφωτάτους φρενὶ 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
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
answers, Ωκ. Οὐκοῦν Προμηθεῦ τοῦτο γιγνώσκεις ὅτι Æsch. Prom. v. 378. 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
XXXIII. Nor is that consolation much to be relied on, though it is frequently practised, and sometimes has some effect, namely, 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,
I. I have often wondered, Brutus, on many occasions, at the ingenuity and virtues of our countrymen; but nothing has surprised me more than their development in those studies, which, though they came somewhat late to us, have been transported into this city from Greece. For the system of auspices, and religious ceremonies, and courts of justice, and appeals to the people, the senate, the establishment of an army of cavalry and infantry, and the whole military discipline, were instituted as early as the foundation of the city by royal authority, partly too by laws, not without the assistance
II. So far we proceed on conjecture. As to the vestiges of the Pythagoreans, though I might collect many, I shall use but a few; because they have no connexion, with our present purpose. For, as it is reported to have been a custom with them to deliver certain precepts in a more abstruse manner in verse, and to bring their minds from severe
III. The study of philosophy is certainly of long standing with us; but yet I do not find that I can give you the names of any philosopher before the age of Lælius and Scipio: in whose younger days we find that Diogenes the Stoic, and Carneades the Academic, were sent as ambassadors by the Athenians to our senate. And as these had never been concerned in public affairs, and one of them was a Cyrenean, the other a Babylonian, they certainly would never have been forced from their studies, nor chosen for that employment, unless the study of philosophy had been in vogue with some of the great men at that time; who, though they might employ their pens on other subjects, some on civil law, others on oratory, others on the history of former times, yet promoted this most extensive of all arts, the principle of living well, even more by their life than by their writings. So that of that true and elegant
IV. But let every one defend his own opinion, for every one is at liberty to choose what he likes; I shall keep to my old custom; and being under no restraint from the laws of any particular school, which in philosophy every one must necessarily confine himself to, I shall always inquire what has the most probability in every question, and this system, which I have often practised on other occasions, I have adhered closely to in my Tusculan Disputations. Therefore, as I have acquainted you with the disputations of the three former days, this book shall conclude the discussion of the fourth day. When we had come down into the Academy, as we had done the former days, the business was carried on thus. The two remaining perturbations are, a joy elate above measure, and lust; and, if a wise man is not subject to these, his mind will be always at rest. V. VI. Zeno’s definition, then, is this: VII. But they insist upon it that all perturbations depend on opinion and judgment; therefore they define them more strictly, in order not only the better to show how blameable they are, but to discover how much they are in our power. Grief, then is a recent opinion of some present evil, in which it seems to be right that the mind should shrink and be dejected. Joy is a recent opinion of a present good, in which it seems to be right that the mind should be elated. Fear is an opinion of an impending evil, which we apprehend will be intolerable. Lust is an opinion of a good to come, which would be of advantage were it already come, and present with us. But however I have named the judgments and opinions of perturbations, their meaning is, not that merely the perturbations consist in them, but that the effects likewise of these perturbations do so; as grief occasions a kind of painful pricking, and fear engenders a recoil or sudden abandonment of the mind; joy gives rise to a profuse mirth, while lust is the parent of an unbridled habit of coveting. But that imagination, which I have included in all the above definitions, they would have to consist in assenting without warrantable grounds. Now, every perturbation has many subordinate parts annexed to it of the same kind. Grief is attended with enviousness ( But they define these in this manner: VIII. Enviousness ( fainting is the associate and constant attendant on dread: confusion, a fear that drives away all thought: alarm, a continued fear. IX. The different species into which they divide pleasure come under this description; so that malevolence is a pleasure in the misfortunes of another, without any advantage to yourself: delight, a pleasure that soothes the mind by agreeable impressions on the ear. What is said of the ear, may be applied to the sight, to the touch, smell, and taste. All feelings of this kind are a sort of melting pleasure that dissolves the mind. Boastfulness is a pleasure that consists in making an appearance, and setting off yourself with insolence.—The subordinate species of lust they define in this manner. Anger is a lust of punishing any one who, as we imagine, has injured us without cause. Heat is anger just forming and beginning to exist, which the Greeks call θύμωσις. Hatred is a settled anger. Enmity is anger waiting for an opportunity of revenge. Discord is a sharper anger conceived deeply in the mind and heart. Want, an insatiable lust. Regret is when one eagerly wishes to see a person who is absent. Now here they have a distinction; so that with them regret is a lust conceived on hearing of certain things reported of some one, or of many, which the Greeks call κατηγορήματα, or predicaments; as that they are in possession of riches and honours: but want is a lust for those very honours and riches.—But these definers make intemperance the fountain of all these perturbations; which is an absolute revolt from the mind and right reason: a state so averse to all rules of reason, that the appetites of the mind can by no means be governed and restrained. As, therefore, temperance appeases these desires, making them obey right reason, and maintains the well-weighed judgments of the mind; so intemperance, which is in opposition to this, inflames, confounds, and puts every state of the mind into a violent motion. Thus, grief and fear, and every other perturbation of the mind, have their rise from intemperance. X. Just as distempers and sickness are bred in the body
XI. What I say here may be distinguished in thought, though they are in fact the same; inasmuch as they both have their rise from lust and joy. For should money be the object of our desire, and should we not instantly apply to reason, as if it were a kind of Socratic medicine to heal this desire, the evil glides into our veins, and cleaves to our bowels, and from thence proceeds a distemper or sickness, which, when it is of any continuance, is incurable, and the name of this disease is covetousness. It is the same with other diseases; as the desire of glory, a passion for women, to which the Greeks give the name of φιλογυνεία; and thus all other diseases and sicknesses are generated. But those feelings, which are the contrary of these, are supposed to have fear for their foundation, as a hatred of women, such as is displayed in the Woman-hater of Atilius: or the hatred of the whole human species, as Timon is reported to have done, whom they called the Misanthrope. Of the same kind is inhospitality; and all these diseases proceed from a certain dread of such things as they hate and avoid. But they define sickness of mind to be an overweening opinion, and that fixed and deeply implanted in the heart, of something as very desirable, which is by no
XII. But to come to the analogy of the state of body and mind, which I shall sometimes make use of, though more sparingly than the Stoics: some men are more inclined to particular disorders than others. And, therefore, we say, that some people are rheumatic, others dropsical, not because they are so at present, but because they are often so: some are inclined to fear, others to some other perturbation. Thus in some there is a continual anxiety, owing to which they are anxious; in some a hastiness of temper, which differs from anger, as anxiety differs from anguish: for all are not anxious who are sometimes vexed; nor are they who are anxious always uneasy in that manner: as there is a difference betwixt being drunk, and drunkenness; and it is one thing to be a lover, another to be given to women. And this disposition of particular people to particular disorders is very common: for it relates to all perturbations; it appears in many vices, though it has no name: some are therefore said to be envious, malevolent, spiteful, fearful, pitiful, from a propensity to those perturbations, not from their being always carried away by them. Now this propensity to these particular disorders may be called a sickness, from analogy with the body; meaning, that is to say, nothing more than a propensity towards sickness. But with regard to whatever is good, as
XIII. Even as there may be, with respect to the body, a disease, a sickness, and a defect; so it is with the mind. They call that a disease where the whole body is corrupted: they call that sickness, where a disease is attended with a weakness: and that a defect, where the parts of the body are not well compacted together; from whence it follows, that the members are mis-shapen, crooked, and deformed. So that these two, a disease and sickness, proceed from a violent concussion and perturbation of the health of the whole body; but a defect discovers itself, even when the body is in perfect health. But a disease of the mind is distinguishable only in thought from a sickness. But a viciousness is a habit or affection discordant and inconsistent with itself through life. Thus it happens, that in the one case a disease and sickness may arise from a corruption of opinions; in the other case the consequence may be inconstancy and inconsistency. For every vice of the mind does not imply a disunion of parts; as is the case with those who are not far from being wise men: with them there is that affection which is inconsistent with itself whilst it is foolish, but it is not distorted, nor depraved. But diseases and sicknesses are parts of viciousness: but it is a question whether perturbations are parts of the same: for vices are permanent affections: perturbations are such as are restless; so that they cannot be parts of permanent ones. As there is some analogy between the nature of the body and mind in evil, so is there in good: for the distinctions of the body are beauty, strength, health, firmness, quickness of motion; the same may be said of the mind. The body is said to be in a good state, when all those things on which health depends are consistent: the same may be said of the mind, when its judgments and opinions are not at variance with one another. And this union is the virtue of the mind: which, according to some people, is temperance itself; others make it consist in an obedience to the precepts of temperance, and a compliance with them, not allowing it to be any distinct species of itself: but be it one or the other, it is to be found only in a wise man. But there is a certain soundness of
XIV. Herein indeed the mind and body are unlike: that though the mind when in perfect health may be visited by sickness, as the body may, yet the body may be disordered without our fault, the mind cannot. For all the disorders and perturbations of the mind proceed from a neglect of reason; these disorders, therefore, are confined to men; the beasts are not subject to such perturbations, though they act sometimes as if they had reason. There is a difference, too, betwixt ingenious and dull men; the ingenious, like the Corinthian brass, which is long before it receives rust, are longer before they fall into these perturbations, and are recovered sooner: the case is different with the dull. Nor does the mind of an ingenious man fall into every kind of perturbation, for it never yields to any that are brutish and savage: and some of their perturbations have at first even the appearance of humanity, as mercy, grief, and fear. But the sicknesses and diseases of the mind are thought to be harder to eradicate, than those leading vices which are in opposition to virtues: for vices may be removed, though the diseases of the mind should continue, which diseases are not cured with that expedition with which vices are removed. I have now acquainted you with the arguments which the Stoics put forth with such exactness: which they call logic, from their close arguing; and since my discourse has got clear of these rocks, I will proceed with the remainder of it, provided I have been sufficiently clear in what I have already said, considering the obscurity of the subject I have treated. XV. XVI. For what is not only more miserable, but more base and sordid, than a man afflicted, weakened, and oppressed with grief? And little short of this misery is one who dreads some approaching evil, and who, through faintheartedness, is under continual suspense. The poets, to express the greatness of this evil, imagine a stone to hang over the head of Tantalus, as a punishment for his wickedness, his pride, and his boasting. And this is the common punishment of folly; for there hangs over the head of every one whose mind revolts from reason some similar fear. And as these perturbations of the mind, grief and fear, are of a most wasting nature; so
XVII. Whoever, then, through moderation and constancy, is at rest in his mind, and in calm possession of himself, so as neither to pine with care, nor be dejected with fear, nor to be inflamed with desire, coveting something greedily, nor relaxed by extravagant mirth,—such a man is that identical wise man whom we are inquiring for, he is the happy man: to whom nothing in this life seems intolerable enough to depress him; nothing exquisite enough to transport him unduly. For what is there in this life that can appear great to him, who has acquainted himself with eternity, and the utmost extent of the universe? For what is there in human knowledge, or the short span of this life, that can appear great to a wise man? whose mind is always so upon its guard, that nothing can befal him which is unforeseen, nothing which is unexpected, nothing, in short, which is new. Such a man takes so exact a survey on all sides of him, that he always knows the proper place and spot to live in free from all the troubles and annoyances of life, and encounters every accident that fortune can bring upon him with a becoming calmness. Whoever conducts himself in this manner, will be free from grief, and from every other perturbation: and a mind free from these feelings renders men completely happy: whereas a mind disordered and drawn off from right and unerring reason, loses at once, not only its resolution, but its health.—Therefore the thoughts and declarations of the Peripatetics are soft and effeminate, for they say that the mind must necessarily be agitated, but at the same time they lay down certain bounds beyond which that agitation is not to proceed. And do you set bounds to vice? or is it novice to disobey reason?
XVIII. The man who attempts to set bounds to vice, acts like one who should throw himself headlong from Leucate, persuaded that he could stop himself whenever he pleased. Now, as that is impossible, so a perturbed and disordered mind cannot restrain itself, and stop where it pleases. Certainly whatever is bad in its increase, is bad in its birth: now grief, and all other perturbations, are doubtless baneful in their progress, and have therefore no small share of evil at the beginning; for they go on of themselves when once they depart from reason, for every weakness is self-indulgent, and indiscreetly launches out, and does not know where to stop. So that it makes no difference whether you approve of moderate perturbations of mind, or of moderate injustice, moderate cowardice, and moderate intemperance. For whoever prescribes bounds to vice, admits a part of it, which, as it is odious of
XIX. Why should I say more? Why should I add that the Peripatetics say that these perturbations, which we insist upon it should be extirpated, are not only natural, but were given to men by nature for a good purpose? They usually talk in this manner. In the first place, they say much in praise of anger; they call it the whetstone of courage, and they say that angry men exert themselves most against an enemy or against a bad citizen: that those reasons are of little weight which are the motives of men who think thus, as,—It is a just war, it becomes us to fight for our laws, our liberties, our country; they will allow no force to these arguments unless our courage is warmed by anger.—Nor do they confine their argument to warriors: but their opinion is, that no one can issue any rigid commands without some bitterness and anger. In short, they have no notion of an orator either accusing or even defending a client, without he is spurred on by anger. And though this anger should not be real, still they think his words and gestures ought to wear the appearance of it, so that the action of the orator may excite the anger of his hearer. And they deny that any man has ever been seen, who does not know what it is to be angry: and they name what we call lenity, by the bad appellation of indolence: nor do they commend only this lust, (for anger is, as I defined it above, the lust of revenge,) but they maintain that kind of lust or desire to be given us by nature for very good purposes: saying that no one can execute anything well but what he is in earnest about. Themistocles used to walk in the public places in the night, because he could not sleep: and when asked the reason, his answer was, that Miltiades’ trophies kept him awake. Who has not heard how Demosthenes used to watch; who said that it gave him pain, if any mechanic was up in a morning at his work before him? Lastly, they urge that some of the greatest philosophers would never have made that progress in their studies, without some ardent desire spurring them on.—We are informed that Pythagoras, Democritus, and Plato, visited the remotest parts of the world; for they thought that they ought to go whereever anything was to be learned. Now it is not conceivable
XX. They say that even grief, which we have already said ought to be avoided as a monstrous and fierce beast, was appointed by nature, not without some good purpose: in order that men should lament when they had committed a fault, well knowing they had exposed themselves to correction, rebuke, and ignominy. For they think that those who can bear ignominy and infamy without pain, have acquired a complete impunity for all sorts of crimes: for with them, reproach is a stronger check than conscience. From whence we have that scene in Afranius, borrowed from common life; for when the abandoned son saith, Wretched that I am! the severe father replies, And they say the other divisions of sorrow have their use; that pity incites us to hasten to the assistance of others, and to alleviate the calamities of men who have undeservedly fallen into them: that even envy and detraction are not without their use; as when a man sees that another person has attained what he cannot, or observes another to be equally successful with himself: that he who should take away fear, would take away all industry in life; which those men exert in the greatest degree who are afraid of the laws and of the magistrates, who dread poverty, ignominy, death, and pain. But while they argue thus, they allow indeed of these feelings being retrenched, though they deny that they either can, or should be plucked up by the roots: so that their opinion is that mediocrity is best in everything. When they reason in this manner, what think you? is what they say worth attending to or not? XXI. XXII. But we see Ajax in Homer advancing to meet Hector in battle cheerfully, without any of this boisterous wrath. For he had no sooner taken up his arms, than the first step which he made inspired his associates with joy, his enemies with fear: so that even Hector, as he is represented by Homer, Cicero alludes here to Il. vii. 211, which is thus translated by Pope— His massy javelin quivering in his hand, But Melmoth (Note on the Familiar Letters of Cicero, book ii. Let. 23) rightly accuses Cicero of having misunderstood Homer, who Τὸν δὲ καὶ Ἀργεῖοι μέγ᾽ ἐγήθεον εἰσορόωντες, But there is a great difference, as Dr. Clarke remarks, between θυμὸς ἐνὶ στήθεσσι πάτασσεν and καρδίη ἔξω στηθέων ἔθρωσκεν, or τρόμος αἶνος ὑπήλυθε γυῖα.— trembling condemned himself for having challenged
XXIII. We ought to hold all things here in contempt; death is to be looked on with indifference; pains and labours must be considered as easily supportable. And when these sentiments are established on judgment and conviction, then will that stout and firm courage take place: unless you attribute to anger whatever is done with vehemence, alacrity, and
Shall we say, then, that madness has its use? XXIV. Examine the definitions of courage: you will find it does not require the assistance of passion. Courage is, then, an affection of mind, that endures all things, being itself in proper subjection to the highest of all laws; or, it may be called a firm maintenance of judgment in supporting or repelling everything that has a formidable appearance, or a knowledge of what is formidable or otherwise, and maintaining
XXV. Anger is in no wise becoming in an orator, though it is not amiss to affect it. Do you imagine that I am angry when in pleading I use any extraordinary vehemence and sharpness? What? when I write out my speeches after all is over and past, am I then angry while writing? or do you think
But he spoke this of a debauched and dissolute youth; but we are inquiring into the conduct of a constant and wise man. We may even allow a centurion, or standard-bearer, to be angry, or any others, whom, not to explain too far the mysteries of the rhetoricians, I shall not mention here; for to touch the passions, where reason cannot be come at, may have its use; but my inquiry, as I often repeat, is about a wise man. XXVI. But even envy, detraction, pity, have their use. Why should you pity rather than assist, if it is in your power to do so? Is it because you cannot be liberal without pity? We should not take sorrows on ourselves upon another’s account; but we ought to relieve others of their grief if we can. But to detract from another’s reputation, or to rival him with that vicious emulation, which resembles an enmity, of what use can that conduct be? Now envy implies being uneasy at another’s good because one does not enjoy it oneself; but detraction is the being uneasy at another’s good, merely because he enjoys it. How can it be right that you should voluntarily grieve, rather than take the trouble of acquiring what you want to have; for it is madness in the highest degree to desire to be the only one that has any particular happiness. But who can with correctness speak in praise of a mediocrity of evils? Can any one in whom there is lust or desire, be otherwise than libidinous or desirous? or can a man who is occupied by anger avoid being angry? or can one who is exposed to any vexation escape
XXVII. All these assertions proceed from the roots of errors, which must be entirely plucked up and destroyed, not pared and amputated. But as I suspect that your inquiry is not so much respecting the wise man as concerning yourself, (for you allow that he is free from all perturbations, and you would willingly be so too yourself,) let us see what remedies there are which may be applied by philosophy to the diseases of the mind. There is certainly some remedy; nor has nature been so unkind to the human race, as to have discovered so many things salutary to the body, and none which are medicinal to the mind. She has even been kinder to the mind than to the body; inasmuch as you must seek abroad for the assistance which the body requires; while the mind has all that it requires within itself. But in proportion as the excellency of the mind is of a higher and more divine nature, the more diligence does it require; and therefore reason, when it is well applied, discovers what is best, but when it is neglected it becomes involved in many errors. I shall apply, then, all my discourse to you; for though you pretend to be inquiring about the wise man, your inquiry may possibly be about yourself. Various, then, are the cures of those perturbations which I have expounded, for every disorder is not to be appeased the same way;—one
XXVIII. But any perturbation of the mind of this sort may be, as it were, wiped away by this method of appeasing the mind, if you succeed in showing that there is no good in that which has given rise to joy and lust, nor any evil in that which has occasioned fear or grief. But certainly the most effectual cure is to be achieved by showing that all perturbations are of themselves vicious, and have nothing natural or necessary in them. As we see grief itself is easily softened when we charge those who grieve with weakness and an effeminate mind; or when we commend the gravity and constancy of those who bear calmly whatever befals them here, as accidents to which all men are liable; and, indeed, this is generally the feeling of those who look on these as real evils, but yet think they should be borne with resignation. One imagines pleasure to be a good, another money; and yet the one may be called off from intemperance, the other from covetousness. The other method and address, which, at the same time that it removes the false opinion, withdraws the disorder, has more subtilty in it; but it seldom succeeds, and is not applicable to vulgar minds, for there are some diseases which that medicine can by no means remove. For, should any one be uneasy because he is without virtue, without courage, destitute of a sense of duty, or honesty; his
XXIX. Wherefore, as I before said, the philosophers have all one method of cure, so that we need say nothing about what sort of thing that is which disturbs the mind, but we must speak only concerning the perturbation itself. Thus, first, with regard to desire itself, when the business is only to remove that the inquiry is not to be, whether that thing be good or evil which provokes lust, but the lust itself is to be removed; so that whether whatever is honest is the chief good, or whether it consists in pleasure, or in both these things together, or in the other three kinds of goods, yet should there be in any one too vehement an appetite for even virtue itself, the whole discourse should be directed to the deterring him from that vehemence. But human nature, when placed in a conspicuous point of view, gives us every argument for appeasing the mind, and to make this the more distinct, the laws and conditions of life should be explained in our discourse. Therefore, it was not without reason that Socrates is reported, when Euripides was exhibiting his play called Orestes, to have repeated the first three verses of that tragedy— In the original they run thus:— Οὔκ ἐστιν οὐδὲν δεινὸν ὧδ᾽ εἰπεῖν ἔπος, But, in order to persuade those to whom any misfortune has happened, that they can and ought to bear it, it is very useful to set before them an enumeration of other persons who have borne similar calamities. Indeed, the method of appeasing grief was explained in my dispute of yesterday, and in my book on Consolation, which I wrote in the midst of my own grief; for I was not myself so wise a man as to be insensible to grief, and I used this, notwithstanding Chrysippus’s advice to the contrary, who is against applying a medicine to the agitations of the mind while they are fresh; but I did it, and committed a violence on nature, that the greatness of my grief might give way to the greatness of the medicine. XXX. But fear borders upon grief, of which I have already said enough; but I must say a little more on that. Now, as grief proceeds from what is present, so does fear from future evil; so that some have said that fear is a certain part of grief: others have called fear the harbinger of trouble, which, as it were, introduces the ensuing evil. Now, the reasons that make what is present supportable, make what is to come very contemptible; for, with regard to both, we should take care to do nothing low or grovelling, soft or effeminate, mean or abject. But, notwithstanding we should speak of the inconstancy, imbecility, and levity of fear itself, yet it is of very great service to speak contemptuously of those very things of which we are afraid. So that it fell out very well, whether it was by accident or design, that I disputed the first and second day on death and pain,—the two things that are the most dreaded: now, if what I then said was approved of, we are in a great degree freed from fear. And this is sufficient, as far as regards the opinion of evils. XXXI. Proceed we now to what are goods—that is to say, to joy and desire. To me, indeed, one thing alone seems to embrace the question of all that relates to the perturbations of the mind—the fact, namely, that all perturbations are in our own power; that they are taken up upon opinion, and are voluntary. This error, then, must be got rid of; this opinion must be removed: and, as with regard to imagined evils, we are to make them more supportable, so with respect to goods, we are to lessen the violent effects of those things which are called great and joyous. But one thing is to be
but that of the character in Trabea another:— Now he will tell you how excellent he thinks this:— XXXII. Any one who attends the least to the subject will be convinced how unbecoming this joy is. And as they are very shameful who are immoderately delighted with the enjoyment of venereal pleasures, so are they very scandalous who lust vehemently after them. And all that which is commonly called love (and, believe me, I can find out no other name to call it by) is of such a trivial nature that nothing, I think, is to be compared to it: of which Cæcilius says— An excellent corrector of life this same poetry, which thinks that love, the promoter of debauchery and vanity, should have a place in the council of the Gods! I am speaking of comedy, which could not subsist at all without our approving of these debaucheries. But what said that chief of the Argonauts in tragedy?— What, then, are we to say of this love of Medea?—what a train of miseries did it occasion! and yet the same woman has the assurance to say to her father, in another poet, that she had a husband— XXXIII. However, we may allow the poets to trifle, in whose fables we see Jupiter himself engaged in these debaucheries: but let us apply to the masters of virtue,—the philosophers who deny love to be anything carnal; and in this they differ from Epicurus, who, I think, is not much mistaken. For what is that lore of friendship? How comes it that no one is in love with a deformed young man, or a handsome old one? I am of opinion that this love of men had its rise from the Gymnastics of the Greeks, where these kinds of loves are admissible and permitted; therefore Ennius spoke well:— Now, supposing them chaste, which I think is hardly possible, they are uneasy and distressed, and the more so because they contain and refrain themselves. But, to pass over the
XXXIV. Now we see that the loves of all these writers were entirely libidinous. There have arisen also some amongst us philosophers (and Plato is at the head of them, whom Dicæarchus blames not without reason), who have countenanced love. The Stoics in truth say, not only that their wise man may be a lover, but they even define love itself as an endeavour to originate friendship out of the appearance of beauty. Now, provided there is any one in the nature of things without desire, without care, without a sigh,—such a one may be a lover; for he is free from all lust: but I have nothing to say to him, as it is lust of which I am now speaking. But should there be any love,—as there certainly is,—which, is but little, or perhaps not at all, short of madness, such as his is in the Leucadia,— it is incumbent on all the Gods to see that he enjoys his amorous pleasure. Nothing is more true, and he says very appropriately— He seems even to his friends to be out of his senses: then how tragical he becomes! He thinks that the whole world ought to apply itself to help his love: he excludes Venus alone as unkind to him. He thinks Venus too much employed in her own lust, to have regard to anything else, as if he himself had not said and committed these shameful things from lust. XXXV. Now the cure for one who is affected in this manner, is to show, how light, how contemptible, how very trifling he is in what he desires; how he may turn his affections to another object, or accomplish his desires by some other means; or else to persuade him that he may entirely disregard it; sometimes he is to be led away to objects of another kind, to study, business, or other different engagements and concerns: very often the cure is effected by change of place, as sick people, that have not recovered their strength, are benefited by change of air. Some people think an old love may be driven out by a new one, as one nail drives out another: but above all things the man thus afflicted should be advised what madness love is: for of all the perturbations of the mind, there is not one which is more vehement; for, (without charging it with rapes, debaucheries, adultery, or even incest, the baseness of any of these being very blameable; not, I say, to mention these,) the very perturbation of the mind in love is base of itself, for, to pass over all its acts of downright madness, what weakness do not those very things which are looked upon as indifferent argue? Now is not this inconstancy and mutability of mind enough to deter any one by its own deformity? We are to demonstrate, as was said of every perturbation, that there are no such feelings which do not consist entirely of opinion and judgment, and are not owing to ourselves. For if love were natural, all would be in love, and always so, and all love the same object; nor would one be deterred by shame, another by reflection, another by satiety. XXXVI. Anger, too, when it disturbs the mind any time, leaves no room to doubt its being madness: by the instigation of which, we see such contention as this between brothers: You know what follows: for abuses are thrown out by these brothers, with great bitterness, in every other verse: so that you may easily know them for the sons of Atreus, of that Atreus who invented a new punishment for his brother: Now what were these inventions? Hear Thyestes. To what length now will not anger go? even as far as madness. Therefore we say properly enough, that angry men have given up their power, that is, they are out of the power of advice, reason, and understanding: for these ought to have power over the whole mind. Now you should put those out of the way, whom they endeavour to attack, till they have recollected themselves; but what does recollection here imply, but getting together again the dispersed parts of their mind into their proper place? or else you must beg and entreat them, if they have the means of revenge, to defer it to another opportunity, till their anger cools. But the expression of cooling implies, certainly, that there was a heat raised in their minds in opposition to reason: from which consideration that saying of Archytas is commended: who being somewhat provoked at his steward, XXXVII. Where, then, are they who say that anger has its use? Can madness be of any use? But still it is natural. Can anything be natural that is against reason? or how is it, if anger is natural, that one person is more inclined to anger than another? or that the lust of revenge should cease before it has revenged itself? or that any one should repent of what he had done in a passion? as we see that Alexander the king did, who could scarcely keep his hands from himself, when he had killed his favourite Clytus: so great was his compunction! Now who, that is acquainted with these instances, can doubt that this motion of the mind is altogether in opinion and voluntary? for who can doubt that disorders of the mind, such as covetousness, and a desire of glory, arise from a great estimation of those things, by which the mind is disordered? from whence we may understand, that every perturbation of the mind is founded in opinion. And if boldness, that is to say, a firm assurance of mind, is a kind of knowledge and serious opinion, not hastily taken up: then diffidence is a fear of an expected and impending evil: and if hope is an expectation of good, fear must of course be an expectation of evil. Thus fear and other perturbations are evils. Therefore as constancy proceeds from knowledge, so does perturbation from error. Now they who are said to be naturally inclined to anger, or to pity, or to envy, or to any feeling of this kind; their minds are constitutionally, as it were, in bad health, yet they are curable, as the disposition of Socrates is said to have been; for when Zopyrus, who professed to know the character of every one from his person, had heaped a great many vices on him in a public assembly, he was laughed at by others, who could perceive no such vices in Socrates; but Socrates kept him in countenance, by declaring that such vices were natural to him, but that he had got the better of them by his reason. Therefore, as any one who has the appearance of the best constitution, may yet appear to be naturally rather inclined to some particular disorder, so different minds may be more particularly inclined to different diseases. But as to those men who are said to be vicious, not by nature, but their own fault; their vices proceed from wrong opinions of good and bad things, so that one is more prone than another to different motions and perturbations. But, just as it is in the case of the body, an inveterate disease is harder to be got rid of than a sudden disorder; and it is more easy to cure a fresh tumour in the eyes, than to remove a defluxion of any continuance. XXXVIII. But as the cause of perturbations is now discovered, for all of them arise from the judgment or opinion, or volition, I shall put an end to this discourse. But we ought to be assured, since the boundaries of good and evil are now discovered, as far as they are discoverable by man, that nothing can be desired of philosophy greater, or more useful, than the discussions which we have held these four days. For besides instilling a contempt of death, and relieving pain so as to enable men to bear it; we have added the appeasing of grief, than which there is no greater evil to man. For though every perturbation of mind is grievous, and differs but little from madness: yet we are used to say of others, when they are under any perturbation, as of fear, joy, or
I. This fifth day, Brutus, shall put an end to our Tusculan Disputations: on which day we discussed your favourite subject. For I perceive from that book which you wrote for me, with the greatest accuracy, as well as from your frequent conversation, that you are clearly of this opinion, that virtue is of itself sufficient for a happy life: and though it may be difficult to prove this, on account of the many various strokes of fortune, yet it is a truth of such a nature, that we should endeavour to facilitate the proof of it. For among all the topics of philosophy, there is not one of more dignity or importance. For as the first philosophers must have had some inducement, to neglect everything for the search of the best state of life: surely, the inducement must have been the hope of living happily, which impelled them to devote so
II. But the amendment of this fault, and of all our other vices and offences, is to be sought for in philosophy: and as my own inclination and desire led me, from my earliest youth upwards, to seek her protection; so, under my present misfortunes, I have had recourse to the same port from whence I set out, after having been tossed by a violent tempest. O Philosophy, thou guide of life! thou discoverer of virtue, and expeller of vices! what had not only I myself, but the whole life of man been without you? To you it is that we owe the origin of cities; you it was who called together the dispersed race of men into social life; you united them
III. But indeed, who can dispute the antiquity of philosophy, either in fact or name? for it acquired this excellent name from the ancients, by the knowledge of the origin and causes of everything, both divine and human. Thus those seven Σόφοι, as they were considered and called by the Greeks, have always been esteemed and called wise men by us: and thus Lycurgus many ages before, in whose time, before the building of this city, Homer is said to have lived, as well as Ulysses and Nestor in the heroic ages, are all handed down to us by tradition as having really been what they were called, wise men; nor would it have been said that Atlas supported the heavens, or that Prometheus was bound to Caucasus, nor would Cepheus, with his wife, his son-in-law, and his daughter, have been enrolled among the constellations, but that their more than human knowledge of the heavenly bodies had transferred their names into an erroneous fable. From whence, all who occupied themselves in the
IV. Nor was Pythagoras the inventor only of the name, but he enlarged also the thing itself, and, when he came into Italy after this conversation at Phlius, he adorned that Greece, which is called Great Greece, both privately and publicly, with the most excellent institutions and arts; but of his school and system, I shall, perhaps, find another opportunity to speak. But numbers and motions, and the
V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. This is the point which Theophrastus was unable to maintain: for after he had once laid down the position, that stripes, torments, tortures, the ruin of one’s country, banishment, the loss of children, had great influence on men’s living miserably and unhappily, he durst not any longer use any high and lofty expressions, when he was so low and abject in his opinion. How right he was is not the question; he certainly was consistent. Therefore I am not for objecting to consequences where the premises are admitted. But this most elegant and learned of all the philosophers, is not taken to task very severely when he asserts his three kinds of good; but he is attacked by every one for that book which he wrote on a happy life, in which book he has many arguments, why one who is tortured and racked cannot be happy. For in that book he is supposed to say, that a man who is placed on the wheel, (that is a kind of torture in use among the Greeks,) cannot attain to a completely happy life. He nowhere, indeed, says so absolutely, but what he says amounts to the same thing. Can I, then, find fault with him; after having allowed, that pains of the body are evils, that the ruin of a man’s fortunes is an evil, if he should say that every good
They say, never did philosopher assert anything so languid. They are right, indeed, in that: but I do not apprehend anything could be more consistent: for if there are so many good things that depend on the body, and so many foreign to it that depend on chance and fortune, is it inconsistent to say that fortune, which governs everything, both what is foreign and what belongs to the body, has greater power than counsel. Or would we rather imitate Epicurus? who is often excellent in many things which he speaks, but quite indifferent how consistent he may be, or how much to the purpose he is speaking. He commends spare diet, and in that he speaks as a philosopher; but it is for Socrates or Antisthenes to say so, and not for one who confines all good to pleasure. He denies that any one can live pleasantly unless he lives honestly, wisely, and justly. Nothing is more dignified than this assertion, nothing more becoming a philosopher, had he not measured this very expression of living honestly, justly, and wisely, by pleasure. What could be better than to assert that fortune interferes but little with a wise man? But does he talk thus, who after he has said that pain is the greatest evil, or the only evil, might himself be afflicted with the sharpest pains all over his body, even at the time he is vaunting himself the most against fortune? And this very thing, too, Metrodorus has said, but in better language: X. But it is the duty of one who would argue accurately, to consider not what is said, but what is said consistently. As in that very opinion which we have adopted in this discussion, namely, that every good man is always happy; it is clear what I mean by good men: I call those both wise and good men, who are provided and adorned with every virtue. Let us see, then, who are to be called happy. I imagine, indeed, that those men are to be called so, who are possessed of good without any alloy of evil: nor is there any other notion connected with the word that expresses happiness, but an absolute enjoyment of good without any evil. Virtue cannot attain this, if there is anything good besides itself: for a crowd of evils would present themselves, if we were to allow poverty, obscurity, humility, solitude, the loss of friends, acute pains of the body, the loss of health, weakness, blindness, the ruin of one’s country, banishment, slavery, to be evils: for a wise man may be afflicted by all these evils, numerous and important as they are, and many others also may be added; for they are brought on by chance, which may attack a wise man: but if these things are evils, who can maintain that a wise man is always happy, when all these evils may light on him at the same time? I therefore do not easily agree with my friend Brutus, nor with our common masters, nor those ancient ones, Aristotle, Speusippus, Xenocrates, Polemon, who reckon all that I have mentioned above as evils, and yet they say that a wise man is always happy; nor can I allow them, because they are charmed with this beautiful and illustrious title, which would very well become Pythagoras, Socrates, and Plato, to persuade my mind, that strength, health, beauty, riches, honours, power, with the beauty of which they are ravished, are contemptible, and that all those things which are the opposites of these are not to be regarded. Then might they declare openly, with a loud voice, that neither the attacks of fortune, nor the opinion of the multitude, nor pain, nor poverty, occasion them any apprehensions; and that they have everything within themselves, and that there is nothing whatever which they consider as good but what is within their own power. Nor can I by any means allow the same person, who falls into the vulgar opinion of good and evil, to make use of these expressions, which can only become a great and exalted man. Struck with which glory, up starts
XI. XII. Though Zeno the Cittiæan, a stranger and an inconsiderable coiner of words, appears to have insinuated himself into the old philosophy; still the prevalence of this opinion
XIII. From Plato, therefore, all my discourse shall be deduced, as if from some sacred and hallowed fountain. Whence can I, then, more properly begin than from nature, the parent of all? For whatsoever she produces (I am not speaking only of animals, but even of those things which have sprung from the earth in such a manner as to rest on their own roots) she designed it to be perfect in its respective kind. So that among trees and vines, and those lower plants and trees which cannot advance themselves high above the earth, some are evergreen, others are stripped of their leaves in winter, and, warmed by the spring season, put them out afresh, and there are none of them but what are so quickened by a certain interior motion, and their own seeds enclosed in every one, so as to yield flowers, fruit, or berries, that all may
XIV. To me such are the only men who appear completely happy; for what can he want to a complete happy life who relies on his own good qualities, or how can he be happy who does not rely on them? But he who makes a threefold division of goods must necessarily be diffident, for how can he depend on having a sound body, or that his fortune shall continue? but no one can be happy without an immovable, fixed, and permanent good. What, then, is this opinion of theirs? So that I think that saying of the Spartan may be applied to them, who, on some merchant’s boasting before him, that he had despatched ships to every maritime coast, replied, that a fortune which depended on ropes was not very desirable. Can there be any doubt that whatever may be lost, cannot be properly classed in the number of those things which complete a happy life? for of all that constitutes a
XV. But as the perturbations of the mind make life miserable, and tranquillity renders it happy; and as these perturbations are of two sorts, grief and fear, proceeding from imagined evils, and as immoderate joy and lust arise from a mistake about what is good, and as all these feelings are in opposition to reason and counsel; when you see a man at ease, quite free and disengaged from such troublesome commotions, which are so much at variance with one another
XVI. I forbear to mention riches, which, as any one, let him be ever so unworthy, may have them, I do not reckon amongst goods; for what is good is not attainable by all. I pass over notoriety, and popular fame, raised by the united
XVII. A wicked life has nothing which we ought to speak of or glory in: nor has that life which is neither happy nor miserable. But there is a kind of life that admits of being
And Africanus boasts,— If, then, there is such a thing as a happy life, it is to be gloried in, spoken of, and commended by the person who enjoys it: for there is nothing excepting that which can be spoken of, or gloried in; and when that is once admitted, you know what follows. Now, unless an honourable life is a happy life, there must of course be something preferable to a happy life: for that which is honourable, all men will certainly grant to be preferable to anything else. And thus there will be something better than a happy life; but what can be more absurd than such an assertion? What! when they grant vice to be effectual to the rendering life miserable, must they not admit that there is a corresponding power in virtue to make life happy? For contraries follow from contraries. And here I ask, what weight they think there is in the balance of Critolaus, who, having put the goods of the mind into one scale, and the goods of the body and other external advantages into the other, thought the goods of the mind outweighed the others so far, that they would require the whole earth and sea to equalise the scale. XVIII. What hinders Critolaus, then, or that gravest of philosophers, Xenocrates (who raises virtue so high, and who lessens and depreciates everything else), from not only placing a happy life, but the happiest possible life, in virtue? and, indeed, if this were not the case, virtue would be absolutely lost. For whoever is subject to grief, must necessarily be subject to fear too; for fear is an uneasy apprehension of future grief: and whoever is subject to fear is liable to dread, timidity, consternation, cowardice. Therefore, such a person may, some time or other, be defeated, and not think himself concerned with that precept of Atreus,— But such a man, as I have said, will be defeated; and not only defeated, but made a slave of. But we would have virtue always free, always invincible; and were it not so, there
XIX. Look but on the single consulship of Lælius,—and that, too, after having been set aside (though when a wise and good man, like him, is outvoted, the people are disappointed of a good consul, rather than he disappointed by a vain people); but the point is, would you prefer, were it in your power, to be once such a consul as Lælius, or be elected four times, like Cinna? I have no doubt in the world what answer you will make, and it is on that account I put the question to you. I would not ask every one this question; for some one perhaps might answer that he would not only prefer four consulates to one, but even one day of Cinna’s life to whole ages of many famous men. Lælius would have suffered had he but touched any one with his finger; but Cinna ordered the head of his colleague consul, Cn. Octavius, to be struck off; and put to death P. Crassus XX. Dionysius exercised his tyranny over the Syracusans thirty-eight years, being but twenty-five years old when he seized on the government. How beautiful and how wealthy a city did he oppress with slavery! And yet we have it from good authority, that he was remarkably temperate in his manner of living, that he was very active and energetic in carrying on business, but naturally mischievous and unjust; from which description, every one who diligently inquires into truth must inevitably see that he was very miserable. Neither did he attain what he so greatly desired, even when he was persuaded that he had unlimited power; for, notwithstanding he was of a good family and reputable parents (though that is contested by some authors), and had a very large acquaintance of intimate friends and relations, and also some youths attached to him by ties of love after the fashion of the Greeks, he could not trust any one of them, but committed the guard of his person to slaves, whom he had selected from rich men’s families and made free, and to strangers and barbarians. And thus, through an unjust desire of governing, he in a manner shut himself up in a prison. Besides, he would not trust his throat to a barber, but had his daughters taught to shave; so that these royal virgins were forced to descend to
XXI. This tyrant, however, showed himself how happy he really was: for once, when Damocles, one of his flatterers, was dilating in conversation on his forces, his wealth, the greatness of his power, the plenty he enjoyed, the grandeur of his royal palaces, and maintaining that no one was ever happier,— This story is alluded to by Horace— Districtus ensis cui super impiâ Does not Dionysius, then, seem to have declared there can be no happiness for one who is under constant apprehensions? But it was not now in his power to return to justice, and restore his citizens their rights and privileges; for, by the indiscretion of youth, he had engaged in so many wrong steps, and committed such extravagances, that had he attempted to have returned to a right way of thinking he must have endangered his life.
XXII. Yet, how desirous he was of friendship, though at the same time he dreaded the treachery of friends, appears from the story of those two Pythagoreans: one of these had been security for his friend, who was condemned to die; the other, to release his security, presented himself at the time appointed for his dying: XXIII. Shall I not, then, prefer the life of Plato and Archytas, manifestly wise and learned men, to his, than which nothing can possibly be more horrid, or miserable, or detestable? I will present you with an humble and obscure mathematician of the same city, called Archimedes, who lived many years after; whose tomb, overgrown with shrubs and briars, I in my quæstorship discovered, when the Syracusans knew nothing of it, and even denied that there was any such thing remaining: for I remembered some verses, which I had been informed were engraved on his monument, and these set forth that on the top of the tomb there was placed a sphere with a cylinder. When I had carefully examined all the monuments (for there are a great many tombs at the gate Achradinæ), I observed a small column standing out a little above the briars, with the figure of a sphere and a cylinder upon it; whereupon I immediately said to the Syracusans, for there were some of their principal men with me there, that I imagined that was what I was inquiring for. Several men being sent in with scythes, cleared the way, and made an opening for us. When we could get at it, and were come near to the front of the pedestal, I found the inscription, though the latter parts of all the verses were effaced almost half away. Thus one of the noblest cities of Greece, and one which at one time likewise had been very celebrated for learning, had known nothing of the monument of its greatest genius, if it had not been discovered to them by a native of Arpinum. But to return to the subject from which I have been digressing. Who is there in the least degree acquainted with the Muses, that is, with liberal knowledge, or that deals at all in learning, who would not choose to be this mathematician rather than that tyrant? If we look into their methods of living and their employments, we shall find the mind of the one strengthened and improved with tracing the deductions of reason, amused with his own ingenuity, which is the one most delicious food of the mind; the thoughts of the other engaged in continual murders and injuries, in constant fears
XXIV. But that what I propose to demonstrate to you may not rest on mere words only, I must set before you the picture of something, as it were, living and moving in the world, that may dispose us more for the improvement of the understanding and real knowledge. Let us, then, pitch upon some man perfectly acquainted with the most excellent arts; let us present him for a while to our own thoughts, and figure him to our own imaginations. In the first place, he must necessarily be of an extraordinary capacity; for virtue is not easily connected with dull minds. Secondly, he must have a great desire of discovering truth, from whence will arise that threefold production of the mind; one of which depends on knowing things, and explaining nature: the other in defining what we ought to desire, and what to avoid: the third in judging of consequences and impossibilities: in which consists both subtilty in disputing, and also clearness of judgment. Now with what pleasure must the mind of a wise man be affected, which continually dwells in the midst of such cares and occupations as these, when he views the revolutions and motions of the whole world, and sees those innumerable stars in the heavens, which, though fixed in their places, have yet one motion in common with the whole universe, and observes the seven other stars, some higher, some lower, each maintaining their own course, while their motions, though wandering, have certain defined and appointed spaces to run through, the sight of which doubtless urged and encouraged those
XXV. A mind employed on such subjects, and which night and day contemplates them, contains in itself that precept of the Delphic God, so as to The third qualification of our wise man is the next to be considered, which goes through and spreads itself over every part of wisdom; it is that whereby we define each particular thing, distinguish the genus from its species, connect consequences, draw just conclusions, and distinguish
XXVI. XXVII. But to dismiss the subtleties of the Stoics, which I am sensible I have employed more than was necessary, let us admit of three kinds of goods: and let them really be kinds of goods, provided no regard is had to the body, and to external circumstances, as entitled to the appellation of good in any other sense than because we are obliged to use them: but let those other divine goods spread themselves far in every direction, and reach the very heavens. Why, then, may I not call him happy, nay, the happiest of men, who has attained them? Shall a wise man be afraid of pain? which is, indeed, the greatest enemy to our opinion. For I am persuaded that we are prepared and fortified sufficiently, by the disputations of the foregoing days, against our own death, or that of our friends, against grief and the other perturbations of the mind. But pain seems to be the sharpest adversary of virtue: that it is which menaces us with burning torches; that it is which threatens to crush our fortitude, and greatness of mind, and patience. Shall virtue then yield to this? Shall the happy life of a wise and consistent man succumb to this? Good Gods! how base would this be! Spartan boys will bear to have their bodies torn by rods
XXVIII. But let us not dwell too much on these questions, but rather let us return to our subject. I say, and say again, that happiness will submit even to be tormented; and that in pursuit of justice, and temperance, and still more especially and principally fortitude, and greatness of soul, and patience, it will not stop short at sight of the executioner; and when all other virtues proceed calmly to the torture, that one will
XXIX. XXX. These then are the opinions, as I think, that are held and defended: the first four are simple ones; XXXI. For even as trading is said to be lucrative, and farming advantageous, not because the one never meets with any loss, nor the other with any damage from the inclemency of the weather, but because they succeed in general: so life may be properly called happy, not from its being entirely made up of good things, but because it abounds with these to a great and considerable degree. By this way of reasoning, then, a happy life may attend virtue even to the moment of execution; nay, may descend with her into Phalaris’s bull, according to Aristotle, Xenocrates, Speusippus, Polemon; and will not be gained over by any allurements to forsake her. Of the same opinion will Calliphon and Diodorus be: for they are both of them such friends to virtue, as to think that all things should be discarded and far removed that are incompatible with it. The rest seem to be more hampered with these doctrines, but yet they get clear of them; such as Epicurus, Hieronymus, and whoever else thinks it worth while to defend the deserted Carneades: for there is not one of them who does not think the mind to be judge of those goods, and able sufficiently to instruct him how to despise what has the appearance only of good or evil. For what seems to you to be the case with Epicurus, is the case also with Hieronymus and Carneades, and indeed with all the rest of them: for who is there who is not sufficiently prepared against death and pain? I will begin, with your leave, with him whom we call soft and voluptuous. What! does he seem to you to be afraid of death or pain, when he calls the day of
XXXII. But with how little is this man himself satisfied? No one has said more on frugality. For when a man is far removed from those things which occasion a desire of money, from love, ambition, or other daily extravagance, why should he be fond of money, or concern himself at all about it? Could the Scythian Anacharsis Xenocrates, when some ambassadors from Alexander had brought him fifty talents, which was a very large sum of money in those times, especially at Athens, carried the ambassadors to sup in the Academy; and placed just a sufficiency before them, without any apparatus. When they asked him, the next day, to whom he wished the money which they had for him to be paid: XXXIII. You see, I imagine, how Epicurus has divided his kinds of desires, not very acutely perhaps, but yet usefully: saying, that they are XXXIV. For who does not see this, that an appetite is the best sauce? When Darius, in his flight from the enemy, had drunk some water which was muddy and tainted with dead bodies, he declared that he had never drunk anything more pleasant; the fact was, that he had never drunk before when he was thirsty. Nor had Ptolemy ever eaten when he was hungry: for as he was travelling over Egypt, his company not keeping up with him, he had some coarse bread presented him in a cottage: upon which he said, XXXV. They report of Timotheus, a famous man at Athens, and the head of the city, that having supped with Plato, and being extremely delighted with his entertainment, on seeing him the next day, he said, XXXVI. Let us inquire, then, if obscurity, the want of power, or even the being unpopular, can prevent a wise man from being happy. Observe if popular favour, and this glory which they are so fond of, be not attended with more uneasiness than pleasure. Our friend Demosthenes was certainly very weak in declaring himself pleased with the whisper of a woman who was carrying water, as is the custom in Greece, and who whispered to another, XXXVII. If, then, honour and riches have no value, what is there else to be afraid of? Banishment, I suppose; which is looked on as the greatest evil. Now, if the evil of banishment proceeds not from ourselves, but from the froward disposition of the people, I have just now declared how contemptible it is. But if to leave one’s country be miserable, the provinces are full of miserable men; very few of the settlers in which ever return to their country again. But exiles are deprived of their property! What, then! has there not been enough said on bearing poverty? But with regard to banishment, if we examine the nature of things, not the ignominy of the name, how little does it differ from constant travelling? in which some of the most famous philosophers have spent their whole life: as Xenocrates, Crantor, Arcesilas, Lacydes, Aristotle, Theophrastus, Zeno, Cleanthes, Chrysippus, Antipater, Carneades, Panætius, Clitomachus, Philo, Antiochus, Posidonius, and innumerable others; who from their first setting out never
Socrates, indeed, when he was asked where he belonged to, replied, XXXVIII. Besides the emotions of the mind, all griefs and anxieties are assuaged by forgetting them, and turning our thoughts to pleasure. Therefore, it was not without reason that Epicurus presumed to say that a wise man abounds with good things, because he may always have his pleasures: from whence it follows, as he thinks, that that point is gained, which is the subject of our present inquiry, that a wise man is always happy. What! though he should be deprived of the senses of seeing and hearing? Yes; for he holds those things very cheap. For, in the first place, what are the pleasures of which we are deprived by that dreadful thing, blindness? For though they allow other pleasures to be confined to the senses, yet the things which are perceived by the sight do not depend wholly on the
XXXIX. When I was a boy, Cn. Aufidius, a blind man, who had served the office of prætor, not only gave his opinion in the senate, and was ready to assist his friends, but wrote a Greek history, and had a considerable acquaintance with literature. Diodorus the Stoic was blind, and lived many years at my house. He, indeed, which is scarcely credible, besides applying himself more than usual to philosophy, and playing on the flute, agreeably to the custom of the Pythagoreans, and having books read to him night and day, in all which he did not want eyes, contrived to teach geometry, which, one would think, could hardly be done without the assistance of eyes, telling his scholars how and where to draw every line. They relate of Asclepiades, a native of Eretria, and no obscure philosopher, when some one asked him what inconvenience he suffered from his blindness, that his reply was, The fact of Homer’s blindness rests on a passage in the Hymn to Apollo, quoted by Thucydides as a genuine work of Homer, and which is thus spoken of by one of the most accomplished scholars that this country or this age has ever produced:— Χαίρετε δ᾽ υμεῖς πᾶσαι, ἐμεῖο δὲ καὶ μετόπισθε Virgins, farewell,—and oh! remember me — was blind, but we observe his painting, as well as his poetry. What country, what coast, what part of Greece, what military attacks, what dispositions of battle, what army, what ship, what motions of men and animals can be mentioned which he has not described in such a manner as to enable us to see what
XL. Now, as to the evil of being deaf: M. Crassus was a little thick of hearing; but it was more uneasiness to him that he heard himself ill spoken of, though, in my opinion, he did not deserve it. Our Epicureans cannot understand Greek, nor the Greeks Latin: now, they are deaf reciprocally as to each other’s language, and we are all truly deaf with regard to those innumerable languages which we do not understand. They do not hear the voice of the harper; but then they do not hear the grating of a saw when it is setting, or the grunting of a hog when his throat is being cut, nor the roaring of the sea when they are desirous of rest. And if they should chance to be fond of singing, they ought in the first place to consider that many wise men lived happily before music was discovered; besides, they may have more pleasure in reading verses than in hearing them sung. Then, as I before referred the blind to the pleasures of hearing, so I may the deaf to the pleasures of sight: moreover, whoever can converse with himself doth not need the conversation of another. But suppose all these misfortunes to meet in one person: suppose him blind and deaf,—let him be afflicted with the sharpest pains of body, which, in the first place, generally of themselves make an end of him; still, should they continue so long, and the pain be so exquisite, that we should be unable to assign any reason for our being so afflicted,—still, why, good Gods! should we be under any difficulty? For there is a retreat at hand: death is that retreat—a shelter where we shall for ever be insensible. Theodoras said to Lysimachus,
That custom which is common among the Grecians at their banquets should, in my opinion, be observed in life:—Drink, say they, or leave the company: and rightly enough; for a guest should either enjoy the pleasure of drinking with others, or else not stay till he meets with affronts from those that are in liquor. Thus, those injuries of fortune which you cannot bear, you should flee from. XLI. This is the very same which is said by Epicurus and Hieronymus. Now, if those philosophers, whose opinion it is that virtue has no power of itself, and who say that the conduct which we denominate honourable and laudable is really nothing, and is only an empty circumstance set off with an unmeaning sound, can nevertheless maintain that a wise man is always happy, what, think you, may be done by the Socratic and Platonic philosophers. Some of these allow such superiority to the goods of the mind, as quite to eclipse what concerns the body and all external circumstances. But others do not admit these to be goods; they make everything depend on the mind: whose disputes Carneades used, as a sort of honorary arbitrator, to determine. For, as what seemed goods to the Peripatetics were allowed to be advantages by the Stoics, and as the Peripatetics allowed no more to riches, good health, and other things of that sort, than the Stoics, when these things were considered according to their reality, and not by mere names, his opinion was that there was no ground for disagreeing. Therefore, let the philosophers of other schools see how they can establish this point also. It is very agreeable to me that they make some professions worthy of being uttered by the mouth of a philosopher, with regard to a wise man’s having always the means of living happily. XLII. But as we are to depart in the morning, let us
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