CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
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SENECA'S MORALS 
 
 A HAPPY LIFE, BENEFITS, ANGER 
 AND CLEMENCY. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY SIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE. 
 
 NEW EDITION. 
 
 CHICAGO: 
 BELFORD, CLARKE & CO., 
 
 1882, 
 
BELFORD . CLARKE & CO., 
 1881. 
 
 PRINTED AND BOT7ND BT 
 
 DONOHUE & HEN-NEBERRr. 
 Chicago, III. 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 It has been a long time my thought to turn Seneca 
 into English; but whether as a translation or an 
 abstract, was the question. A translation, I per- 
 ceive, it must not be, at last, for several reasons. 
 First, it is a thing already done to my hand, and of 
 above sixty years' standing; though with as little 
 credit, perhaps, to the Author, as satisfaction to the 
 Eeader. Secondly, There is a great deal in him, that 
 is wholly foreign to my business: as his philosophi- 
 cal treatises of Meteors, Earthquakes, the Original 
 of Rivers, several frivolous disputes betwixt the 
 Epicureans and the Stoics, etc., to say nothing of his 
 frequent repetitions of the same thing again in other 
 words, (wherein he very handsomely excuses him- 
 self, by saying, " That he does but inculcate over and 
 over the same counsels to those that over and over 
 commit the same faults.") Thirdly, His excellency 
 consists rather in a rhapsody of divine and extraor- 
 dinary hints and notions, than in any regulated 
 method of discourse; so that to take him as he lies, 
 and so to go through with him, were utterly incon- 
 sistent with the order and brevity which I propound; 
 my principal design, being only to digest, and com- 
 
viii To the Reader. 
 
 monplace his Morals, in such sort, that any man, 
 upon occasion, may know where to find them. And 
 I have kept myself so close to this proposition, that 
 I have reduced all his scattered Ethics to their 
 proper heads, without any additions of my own, 
 more than of absolute necessity for the tacking of 
 them together. Some other man in my place would 
 perhaps make you twenty apologfes for his want of 
 skill and address, in governing this affair; but these 
 are formal and pedantic fooleries, as if any man 
 that first takes himself for a coxcomb in his own 
 heart, would afterwards make himself one in print 
 too. This Abstract, such as it is, you are extremely 
 welcome to; and I am sorry it is no better, both for 
 your sakes and my own, for if it were written up to 
 the spirit of the original, it would be one of the most 
 valuable presents that ever any private man be- 
 stowed upon the public; and this, too, even in the 
 judgment of both parties, as well Christian as 
 Heathen, of which in its due place. 
 
 Next to my choice of the Author and of the subject, 
 together with the manner of handhng it, I have 
 likewise had some regard, in this publication, to the 
 timing of it, and to the preference of this topic of 
 Benefits above all others, for the groundwork of my 
 first essay. We are fallen into an age of vain philos- 
 ophy (as the holy apostle calls it) and so desperately 
 overrun with Drolls and Sceptics, that there is hardly 
 any thing so certain or so sacred, that is not exposed 
 to question and contempt, insomuch, that betwixt 
 the hypocrite and the Atheist, the very foundations 
 of religion and good manners are shaken, and the 
 two tables of the Decalogue dashed to pieces the one 
 Eigainst the other; the laws of government are sub- 
 jected to the fancies of the vulgar; public authority 
 
To the Header. ix 
 
 to the private passions and opinions of the people; 
 and the supernatural motions of grace confounded 
 with the comnaon dictates of nature. In this state 
 of corruption, who so fit as a good honest Christian 
 Pagan for a moderator among Pagan Christians? 
 
 To pass now from the general, scope of the whole 
 work to the particular argument of the first part of 
 it, I pitched upon the theme of Benefits, Gratitude, 
 and Ingratitude, to hegin withal, as an earnest 
 of the rest, and a lecture expressly calculated iot 
 the unthankfulness of these times; the fouleS't un- 
 doubtedly, and the most execrable of all others, 
 since the very apostasy of the angels: nay, if I durst 
 but suppose a possibility of mercy for those damned 
 spirits, and that they might ever be taken into favor 
 again, my charity would hope even better for them 
 than we have found from some of our revolters, and 
 that they would so behave themselves as not to incur 
 a second forfeiture. And to carry the resemblance 
 yet one point farther, they do both of them agree in 
 an implacable malice against those of their fellows 
 that keep their stations. But, alas! what could 
 Ingratitude do without Hypocrisy, the inseparable 
 companion of it, and, in effect, the bolder and 
 blacker devil of the two? for Lucifer himself never 
 had the face to lift up his eyes to heaven, and talk 
 to the Almighty at the familiar rate of our pre- 
 tended patriots and zealots, and at the same time to 
 make him party to a cheat. It is not for nothing 
 that the Holy Ghost has denounced so many woes, 
 and redoubled so many cautions against hypocrites; 
 plainly intimating at once how dangerous a snare 
 they are to mankind, and no less odious to God him- 
 self; which is sufficiently denoted in the force of 
 that dreadful expression, And your portion shall 
 
S To ihe Reader. 
 
 be with hypocrites. You will find in the holy scrip- 
 tures (as I have formerly observed) that God has 
 given the grace of repentance to persecutors, idola- 
 ters, murderers, adulterers, etc., but I am mistaken 
 if the whole Bible affords you any one instance of a 
 converted hypocrite. 
 
 To descend now from truth itself to our own ex- 
 perience have we not seen, even in our days, a 
 most pious (and almost faultless) Prince brought 
 to the scaffold by his own subjects? The most 
 glorious constitution upon the face of the earth, 
 both ecclesiastical and civil, torn to pieces and 
 dissolved? The happiest people under the sun en- 
 slaved? Our temples sacrilegiously profaned, and 
 a license given to all sorts of heresy and outrage? 
 And by whom but by a race of hypocrites? who 
 had nothing in their mouths all this while but the 
 purity of the gospel, the honor of the king, and 
 the liberty of the people, assisted underhand with 
 defamatory papers, which were levelled at the 
 king himself through the sides of his most faith- 
 ful ministers. This project succeeded so well 
 against one government, that it is now again set 
 afoot against another; and by some of the very 
 actors too in that tragedy, and after a most gracious 
 pardon also, when Providence had laid their necks 
 and their fortunes at his majesty's feet. ' It is a 
 wonderful thing that libels and libellers, the most 
 infamous oi practices and of men; the most unmanly 
 sneaking methods and instruments of mischief; the 
 very bane of human society, and the plague of all 
 governments; it is a wonderful thing (I say) that 
 these engines and engineers should ever find credit 
 enough in the world to engage a party; but it would 
 be still more wonderful if the same trick should pass 
 
To the Reader. xi 
 
 twice upon the same people, in the same age, and 
 from the same impostors. This contemplation has 
 carried me a little out of my way, but it has at length 
 brought me to my text again, for there is in the bot- 
 tom of it the highest opposition imaginable of 
 ingratitude and obligation. 
 
 The reader will, in some measure, be able to judge 
 by this taste what he is farther to expect; that is to 
 say, as to the cast of my design, and the simplicity 
 of the style and dress; for that will still be the same, 
 only accompanied with variety of matter. Whether 
 it pleases the world or no, the care is taken; and yet 
 I could wish that it might be as delightful to others 
 upon the perusal, as it has been to me in the specu- 
 lation. Next to the gospel itself, I do look upon it 
 as the most sovereign remedy against the miseries 
 of human nature: and I have ever found it so, in all 
 the injuries and distresses of an unfortunate life. 
 You may read more of him, if you please, in the 
 Appendix, which I have here subjoined to this Pre- 
 face, concerning the authority of his writings, and 
 the circumstances of his life; as I have extracted 
 them out of Lipsius. 
 
OF SENECA'S WRITlNaS. 
 
 It appears that our author had among the ancients 
 three professed enemies. In the first place Caligula, 
 who called his writings, sand without lime; alluding 
 to the starts of his fancy, and the incoherence of his 
 sentences. But Seneca was never the worse for the 
 censure of a person that propounded even the sup- 
 pressing of Homer himself; and of casting Virgil 
 and Livy out of all public libraries. The next was 
 Fabius, who taxes him for being too bold with the 
 eloquence of former times, and failing in that point 
 himself; and likewise for being too quaint and finical 
 in his expressions; which Tacitus imputes, in part to 
 the freedom of his own particular inclination, and 
 partly to the humor of the times. He is also charged 
 by Fabius as no profound philosopher; but with all 
 this, he allows him to be a man very studious and 
 learned, of great wit and invention, and well read 
 in all sorts of literature; a severe reprover of vice; 
 most divinely sententious; and well worth the read- 
 ing, if it were only for his morals; adding, that if 
 his judgment had been answerable to his wit, it had 
 been much the more for his reputation; but he wrote 
 whatever came next; so that I would advise the 
 reader (says he) to distinguish where he himself did 
 not, for there are many things in him, not only to 
 be approved, but admired; and it was great pity that 
 he that could do what he would, should not always 
 make the best choice. His third adversary is Agellius, 
 
Of Seneca's Writings. xiii 
 
 who falls upon him for his style, and a kind of tink- 
 ling in his sentences,^ but yet commends him for his 
 piety and good counsels. On the other side, Colu- 
 mela calls him a man of excellent wit and learning; 
 Pliny, the prince of erudition; Tacitus gives him the 
 character of a wise man, and a fit tutor for a prince; 
 Dio reports him to have been the greatest man of his 
 age.' 
 
 Of those pieces of his that are extant, we shall not 
 need to give any particular account: and of those 
 that are lost, we cannot, any farther than by lights 
 to them from other authors, as we find them cited 
 much to his honor; and we may reasonably compute 
 them to be the greater part of his works. That he 
 wrote several poems in his banishment, may be 
 gathered partly from himself, but more expressly out 
 of Tacitus, who says, " that he was reproached with 
 his applying himself to poetry, after he saw that 
 TSevo took pleasure in it, out of a design to curry 
 favor." St. Jerome refers to a discourse of his con- 
 cerning matrimony. Lactantius takes notice of his 
 history, and his books of Moralities: St. Augustine 
 quotes some passages of his out of a book of Super- 
 stition; some references we meet with to his books 
 of Exhortations: Fabius makes mention of his Dia- 
 logues: and he himself speaks of a treatise of his 
 own concerning Earthquakes, which he wrote in his 
 youth, but the opinion of an epistolary correspon- 
 dence that he had with St. Paul, does not seem to 
 have much color for it. 
 
 Some few fragments, however, of those books of 
 his that are wanting, are yet preserved in the writ- 
 ings of other eminent authors, sufficient to show the 
 world how great a treasure they have lost by the ex- 
 cellency of that little that is left. 
 
xiv Of Seneca's Writings. 
 
 Seneca, says Lactantius, that was the sharpest of 
 all the Stoics, how great a veneration has he for the 
 Almighty! as for instance, discoursing of a violent 
 death; "Do you not understand?" says he, "the 
 majesty and the authority of your Judge; he is the 
 supreme Governor of heaven and earth, and the God 
 of all your gods; and it is upon him that all those 
 powers depend which we worship for deities. " More- 
 over, in his Exhortations, "This God," says he, 
 " when he laid the foundations of the universe, and 
 entered upon the greatest and the best work in na- 
 ture, in the ordering of the government of the world, 
 though he was himself All in all, yet he substituted 
 other subordinate ministers, as the servants of his 
 commands." And how many other things does this 
 Heathen speak of God like one of us! 
 
 Which the acute Seneca, says Lactantius again, 
 saw in his Exhortations. "We," says he, "have 
 our dependence elsewhere, and should look up to 
 that power, to which we are indebted for all that we 
 can pretend to that is good." 
 
 And again, Seneca says very well in his Morals, 
 "They worship the images of the God," says he, 
 "kneel to them, and adore them, they are hardly 
 ever from them, either plying them with offerings or 
 sacrifices, and yet, after all this reverence to the 
 image, they have no regard at all to the workman 
 that made it." 
 
 Lactantius again. "An invective," says Seneca 
 in his Exhortations, ' 'is the masterpiece of most of our 
 philosophers; and if they fall upon the subject of 
 avarice, lust, ambition, they lash out into such 
 excess of bitterness, as if railing were a mark of 
 their profession. They make me think of gallipots 
 
Of Seneca's Writings. xv 
 
 in an apothecary's shop, that have remedies without 
 and poison within." 
 
 Lactantius still. "He that would know all things, 
 let him read Seneca; the most lively describer of 
 public vices and manners, and the smartest repre- 
 hender of them." 
 
 And again; as Seneca has it in the books of Moral 
 Philosophy, "He is the brave man, whose splendor 
 and authority is the least part of his greatness, that 
 can look death in the face without trouble or sur- 
 prise; who, if his body were to be broken upon the 
 wheel, or melted lead to be poured down his throat, 
 would be less concerned for the pain itself, than for 
 the dignity of bearing it." 
 
 Let no man, says Lactantius, think himself the 
 safer in his wickedness for want of a witness; for 
 God is omniscient, and to him nothing can be a 
 secret. It is an admirable sentence that Seneca 
 concludes his Exhortations withal: "God," says he, 
 "is a great, (I know not what), an incomprehensible 
 Power; it is to him that we live, and to him that we 
 must approve ourselves. What does it avail us that 
 our consciences are hidden from men, when our souls 
 lie open to God?" What could a Christain have 
 spoken more to the purpose in this case than this 
 divine Pagan? And in the beginning of the same 
 work, says Seneca, "What is it that we do? to what 
 end is it to stand contriving, and to hide ourselves? 
 We are under a guard, and there is no escaping from 
 our keeper. One man may be parted from another 
 by travel, death, sickness; but there is no dividing 
 us from ourselves. It is to no purpose to creep into 
 a corner where nobody shall see us. Ridiculous 
 madness! Make it the case, that no mortal eye 
 
xvi Of Seneca's Writings. 
 
 could find us out, he that has a conscience gives evi- 
 dence against himself." 
 
 It is truly and excellently spoken of Seneca, says 
 Lactantius, once again; "Consider," says he "the 
 majesty, the goodness, and the venerable mercies of 
 the Almighty; a friend that is always at hand. 
 What delight can it be to him the slaughter of inno- 
 cent creatures or the worship of bloody sacrifices? 
 Let us purge our minds, and lead virtuous and hon- 
 est lives. His pleasure lies not in the magnificence 
 of temples made with stone, but in the pity and 
 devotion of consecrated hearts." 
 
 In the book that Seneca wrote against Supersti- 
 tions, treating of images, says St. Austin, he writes 
 thus: "They represent the holy, the immortal, and 
 the inviolable gods in the basest matter, and with- 
 out life or motion; in the forms of men, beasts, fishes, 
 some of mixed bodies, and those figures they caU 
 deities, which, if they were but animated, would 
 affright a man, and pass for monsters." And then, 
 a little farther, treating of Natural Theology, after 
 citing the opinions of philosophers, he supposes an 
 objection against himself: "Somebody will perhaps 
 ask me, would you have me then to beUeve the 
 heavens and the earth to be gods, and some of them 
 above the moon, and some below it? Shall I ever 
 be brought to the opinion of Plato, or of Strabo the 
 Peripatetic? the one of which would have GJod to be 
 without a body, and the other without a mind." To 
 which he replies, "And do you give more credit 
 then to the dreams of T. Tatius, Romulus, HostUius, 
 who caused, among other deities, even Fear and 
 Paleness to be worshipped? the vilest of human affec- 
 tions; the one being the motion of an affrighted 
 mind, and the other not so much the disease as the 
 
Of Seneca's Writings. xvii 
 
 color of a disordered body. Are these the deities 
 that you will rather put your faith in, and place in 
 the heavens?" And speaking afterward of their 
 abominable customs, with what liberty does he 
 write! "One," says he, "out of zeal, makes himself 
 an eunuch, another lances his arms; if this be the 
 way to please their gods, what should a man do if 
 he had a mind to anger them? or, if this be the way 
 to please them, they do certainly deserve not to be 
 worshipped at all. What a frenzy is this to imagine 
 that the gods can be delighted with such cruelties, 
 as even the worst of men would make a conscience 
 to inflict! The most barbarous and notorious of ty- 
 rants, some of them have perhaps done it them- 
 selves, or ordered the tearing of men to pieces by 
 others; but they never went so far as to conmaand 
 any man to torment himself. We have heard of 
 those that have suffered castration to gratify the lust 
 of their imperious masters, but never any man that 
 was forced to act it upon himself. They murder 
 themselves in their very temples, and their prayers 
 are offered up in blood. Whosoever shall but 
 observe what they do, and what they suffer, will 
 find it so misbecoming an honest man, so unworthy 
 of a freeman, and so inconsistent with the action of 
 a man in his wits, that he must conclude them all to 
 be mad, if it were not that there are so many of 
 them; for only their number is their justification and 
 their protection. 
 
 When he comes to reflect, says St. Augustine, 
 upon those passages which he himself had seen in 
 the Capitol, he censures them with liberty and reso- 
 lution; and no man will believe that such things 
 would be done unless in mockery or frenzy. What 
 lamentation is there in the Egyptian sacrifices for 
 
xviii Of Seneca's Writings. 
 
 the loss of Osiris? and then what joy for the finding 
 of him again? Which he makes himself sport with; 
 for in truth it is all a fiction; and yet those people 
 that neither lost any thing nor found any thing, 
 must express their sorrows and their rejoicings to 
 the highest degree. " But there is only a certain 
 time," says he, " for this freak, and once in a year 
 people may be allowed to be mad. I came into the 
 Capitol," says Seneca, " where the several deities 
 had their several servants and attendants, their 
 lictors, their dressers, and all in posture and action, 
 as if they were executing their offices; some to hold 
 the glass, others to comb out Juno's and Minerva's 
 hair; one to tell Jupiter what o'clock it is; some 
 lasses there are that sit gazing upon the image, and 
 fancy Jupiter has a kindness for them. All these 
 things," says Seneca, a while after, "a wise man 
 will observe for the law's sake more than for the 
 gods; and all this rabble of deities, which the super- 
 stition of many ages has gathered together, we are 
 in such manner to adore, as to consider the worship 
 to be rather matter of custom than of conscience."' 
 Whereupon St. Augustine observes, that this illus- 
 trious senator worshipped what he reproved, acted 
 what he disliked, and adored what he condemned. 
 
SENECA'S LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 It has been an ancient custom to record the actions 
 and the writings of eminent men, with all their cir- 
 cumstances, and it is but a right that we owe to the 
 memory of our famous author. Seneca was.by birth 
 a Spaniard of Cordova, (a Eoman colony of great 
 fame and antiquity.) He was of the family of An- 
 nseus, of the order of knights; and the father, 
 Lucius Annseus Seneca, was distinguished from the 
 son, by the name of the Orator. His mother's name 
 was Helvia, a women of excellent qualities. His 
 father came to Rome in the time of Augustus, and his 
 wife and children soon followed him, our Seneca yet 
 being in his infancy. There were three brothers of 
 them, and never a sister. Marcus Annseus Novatus, 
 Lucius Annseus Seneca, and Lucius Annaetft Mela; 
 the first of these changed his name for Junius Gal- 
 lic, who adopted him; to him it was that he dedicated 
 his treatise of Anger, whom he calls Novatus too; 
 and he also dedicated his discourse of a Happy Life 
 to his brother Gallio. The young.est brother (An- 
 nseus Mela) was Lucan's father. Seneca was about 
 twenty years of age in the fifth year of Tiberius, 
 when the Jews were expelled from Rome. His father 
 trained him up to rhetoric, but his genius led him 
 rather to philosophy j and he applied his wit to mor- 
 ality and virtue. He was a great hearer of the 
 celebrated men of those times; as Attalus, Sotion, 
 
XX Seneca's Life and Death. 
 
 Papirius, Fabianus, (of whom he makes often men- 
 tion,) and he was much an admirer also of Demetrius 
 the Cynic, whose conversation he had afterwards in 
 the Court, and both at home also and abroad, for 
 they often travelled together. His father was not 
 at all pleased with his humor of philosophy, but 
 forced him upon the law, and for a while he prac- 
 ticed pleading. After which he would needs put 
 him upon public employment: and he came first to 
 be qucestor, then prcetor, and some will have it that 
 he was chosen consulj but this is doubtful. 
 
 Seneca finding that he had iU offices done him at 
 court, and that Nero's favor began to cool, he went 
 directly and resolutely to Nero, with an offer to 
 refund all that he had gotten, which Nero would 
 not receive; but however, from that time he changed 
 his course of life, received few visits, shimned com- 
 pany, went little abroad; still pretending to be kept 
 at home, either by indisposition or by his study. 
 Being Nero's tutor and governor, all things were 
 well so long as Nero followed his counsel. His two 
 chief favorites were Burrhus and Seneca, who were 
 both of them excellent in their ways: Burrhus, in 
 his care of military affairs, and severity of discip- 
 line; Seneca for his precepts and good advice in the 
 matter of eloquence, and the gentleness of an honest 
 mind; assisting one another, in that slippery age of 
 the prince (says Tacitus) to invite him, by the allow- 
 ance of lawful pleasures, to the love of virtue. 
 Seneca had two wives; the name of the first is not 
 mentioned; his second was Paulina, whom he often 
 speaks of with great passion. By the former he had 
 his son Marcus. 
 
 In the first year of Claudius he was banished into 
 Corsica, when Julia, the daughter of Germanicus, 
 
Beneca^s Life and Death, xxi 
 
 was accused by Messalina of adultery and banished 
 too, Seneca being charged as one of the adulterers. 
 After a matter of eight years or upwards in exile, 
 he was called back, and as much in favor again as 
 ever. His estate was partly patrimonial, but the 
 greatest part of it was the bounty of his prince. His 
 gardens, villas, lands, possessions, and incredible 
 sums of money, are agreed upon at all hands; which 
 drew an envy upon him. Dio reports him to have 
 had 250,000/. sterling at interest in Britanny alone, 
 which he called in all at a sum. The Court itself 
 could not bring him to flattery; and for his piety, 
 submission, and virtue, the practice of his whole life 
 witnesses for him. "So soon," says he, "as the 
 candle is taken away, my wife, that knows my cus- 
 tom, lies still, without a word speaking, and then 
 do I recollect all that I have said or done that day, 
 and take myself to shrift. And why should I con- 
 ceal or reserve anything, or make any scruple of in- 
 quiring into my errors, when I can say to myself. 
 Do so no more, and for this once I will forgive thee?" 
 And again, what can be 'more pious and self-deny- 
 ing than this passage, in one of his epistles? "Be- 
 lieve me now, when I tell you the very bottom of my 
 soul: in all the difiiculti'es and crosses of my life, this 
 is my consideration— since it is God's will, I do not 
 only obey, but assent to it; nor do I comply out of 
 necessity, but inclination." 
 
 "Here follows now," says Tacitus, "the death of 
 Seneca, to Nero's great satisfaction; not so much for 
 any pregnant proof against him that he was of 
 Piso's conspiracy; but Nero was resolved to do that 
 by the sword which he could not effect by poison. 
 For it is reported, that Nero had corrupted Cleonicus 
 (a freeman of Seneca's) to give his master poison, 
 
xxii Seneca's Life and Death. 
 
 which did not succeed. Whether that the servant had 
 discovered it to his master, or that Seneca, by his 
 own caution and jealousy, had avoided it; for he 
 lived only upon a simple diet, as the fruits of the 
 earth, and his drink, was most commonly river 
 water. 
 
 "Natalis, it seems, was sent upon a visit to him 
 (being indisposed) with a complaint that he would 
 not let Piso come at him; and advising him to the 
 continuance of their friendship and acquaintance as 
 formerly. To whom Seneca made answer, that fre- 
 quent meetings and conferences betwixt them could 
 do neither of them any good; but that he had a 
 great interest in Piso's welfare. Hereupon Granius 
 Silvanus (a captain of the guard) was sent to ex- 
 amine Seneca upon the discourse that passed betwixt 
 him and Natalis, and to return his answer. Seneca, 
 either by chance or upon purpose, came that day 
 from Campania, to a villa of his own, within foiu* 
 miles of the city; and thither the officer went the 
 next evening, and beset the place. He found Seneca 
 at supper with his wife Paulina, and two of his 
 friends; and gave him immediately an account of 
 his commission. Seneca told him, that it was true 
 that Natalis had been with him in Piso's name, 
 with a complaint that Piso could not be admitted 
 to see him; and that he excused himself by reason 
 of his want of health, and his desires to be quiet and 
 private; and that he had no reason to prefer another 
 man's welfare before his own. Caesar himself, he 
 said, knew very well that he was not a man of com- 
 pliment, having received more proofs of his freedom 
 than of his flattery. This answer of Seneca's was 
 delivered to Caesar in the presence of Popp3ea,and 
 Tigellinus, the intimate confidants of this barbarous 
 
Seneca's Life and Death. xxiii 
 
 prince: and Nero aske4 him whether he could gather 
 anything from Seneca as if he intended to make 
 himself away? The tribune's answer was, that he 
 did not find him one jot moved with the message: 
 but that he went on roundly with his tale, and never 
 so much as ^hanged countenance for the matter. 
 Go back to him then, says Nero, and tell him, that 
 he is condemned to die. Fabius Rusticus delivers it, 
 that the tribune did not return the same way he 
 came, but went aside to Fenius (a captain of that 
 name) and told him Csesar's orders, asking his ad- 
 vice whether he should obey them or not; who bade 
 him by all means to do as he was ordered. Which 
 want of resolution was fatal to them ail; for Silvanus 
 also, that was one of the conspirators, assisted now 
 to serve and to increase those crimes, which he had 
 before complotted to revenge. And yet he did not 
 think fit to appear himself in the business, but sent 
 a centurion to Seneca to tell him his doom. 
 
 Seneca, without any surprise or disorder, calls for 
 his wilt; which being refused him by the oflflcer, he 
 turned to his friends, and told them that since he 
 was not permitted to requite them as they deserved, 
 he was yet at liberty to bequeath them the thing of 
 all others that he esteemed the most, that is, the 
 image of his life; which should give them the repu- 
 tation both of constancy and friendship, if . they 
 would but imitate it; exhorting them to a firmness 
 of mind, sometimes by good counsel, otherwhile by 
 reprehension, as the occasion required. Where, 
 says he, is all your philosophy now? all your pre- 
 meditated resolutions against the violences of For- 
 tune? Is there any man so ignorant of Nero's cru- 
 elty, as to expect, after the murder of his mother 
 and his brother, that he should ever spare the life of 
 his governor and tutor? After some general expres- 
 
Xxiv Seneca's Life And ^eai%i 
 
 feiong to this purpose, he took his wife in kis arm§, 
 and having somewhat fortified her against the pres- 
 ent calamity, he besought and conjured her to mod- 
 erate her sorrows, and betake herself to the contem- 
 plations and comforts of a virtuous life; which 
 would be a fair and ample consolation to her for the 
 loss of her husband. Paulina, on the other side, 
 tells him her determination to bear him company, 
 and wills the executioner to do his office. Well, says 
 Seneca, if after the sweetness of life, as I have rep- 
 resented it to thee, thou hadst rather entertain an 
 honorable death, I shall not envy thy example; con- 
 sulting, at the same time, the fame of the person he 
 loved, and his own tenderness, for fear of the inju- 
 ries that might attend her when he was gone. Our 
 resolution, says he, in this generous act, may be 
 equal, but thine will be the greater reputation. 
 After this the veins of both their arms were opened 
 at the same time. Seneca did not bleed so freely, 
 his spirits being wasted with age and a thin diet; so 
 that he was forced to cut the veins of his thighs and 
 elsewhere, to hasten his dispatch. When he was 
 far spent, and almost sinking under his torments, 
 he desired his wife to remove into another chamber, 
 lest the agonies of the one might work upon the 
 courage of the other. His eloquence continued to 
 the last, as appears by the excellent things he de- 
 livered at his death; which being taken in writing 
 from his own mouth, and published in his own 
 words, I shall not presume to deliver them in any 
 other. Nero, in the meantime, who had no particu- 
 lar spite to Paulina, gave orders to prevent her 
 death, for fear his cruelty should grow more and 
 more insupportable and odious. Whereupon the 
 soldiers gave all freedom and encouragement to her 
 servants to bind up her wounds, and stop the blood, 
 
&6mca}s Life and Deaik SX? 
 
 which they did accordingly; but whether she was 
 sensible of it or not is a question. For among the. 
 conimon people, who are apt to judge the worst, 
 there were some of opinion, that as long as she de- 
 spaired of Nero's mercy, she seemed to court the 
 glory of dying with her husband for company; but 
 that upon the likelihood of better quarter she was 
 prevailed upon to outlive him; and so for some years 
 she did survive him, with all piety and respect to 
 his memory; but so miserably pale and wan, that 
 everybody might read the loss of her blood and 
 spirits in her very countenance. 
 
 "Seneca finding his death slow and lingering, de- 
 sires Statins Annseus (his old friend and physician) 
 to give him a dose of poison, which he had provided 
 beforehand, being the same preparation which was 
 appointed for capital offenders in Athens. This was 
 brought him, and he drank it up, but to little pur- 
 pose; for his body was already chilled, and bound 
 up against the force of it. He went at last into a 
 hot bath, and sprinkling some of his servants that 
 were next him, this, says he, is an oblation to Jupi- 
 ter the deliverer. The fume of the bath soon dis- 
 patched him, and his body was burnt, without any 
 funeral solemnity, as he had directed in his testa- 
 ment: though this will of his was made in the height 
 of his prosperity and power. There was a rumor 
 that Subrius Flavins, in a private consultation with 
 the centurions, had taken up this following resolu- 
 tion, (and that Seneca himself was no stranger to it) 
 that is to say, that after Nero should- have been 
 slain by the help of Piso, Piso himself should have 
 been killed too; and the empire delivered up to Sen- 
 eca, as one that well deserved it, for his integrity 
 and virtue." 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OP BENEFITS IN GENERAL. 
 
 It is, perhaps, one of the most pernicious errors of 
 a rash and inconsiderate life, the common ignorance 
 of the world in the matter of exchanging benefits. 
 And this arises from a mistake, partly in the person 
 that we would oblige, and partly in the thing itself. 
 To begin with the latter: "A benefit is a good office, 
 done with intention and judgment;" that is to say, 
 with a due regard to all the circumstances of what, 
 how, why, when, where, to whom, how much, and the 
 like; or otherwise: " It is a voluntary and benevolent 
 action that delights the giver in the comfort it brings 
 to the receiver." It will be hard to draw this sub- 
 ject, either into method or compass: the one, because 
 of the infinite variety and complication of cases; the 
 other, by reason of the large extent of it: for the 
 whole business (almost) of mankind in society falls 
 under this head; the duties of kings and subjects, 
 husbands and wives, parents and children, masters 
 and servants, natives and strangers, high and low, 
 rich and poor, strong and weak, friends and enemies. 
 
S8 kmt6A. 6& b^-rnvm. 
 
 The very meditation of it breeds good blood and 
 generous thoughts; and instructs Us in honor, 
 humanity, friendship, piety, gratitude, prudence, 
 and justice. In short, the art and skill of conferring 
 benefits, is, of all human duties, the most absolutely 
 necessary to the well-being, both of reasonable na- 
 ture, and of every individual; as the very cement of 
 all communities, and the blessing of particulars. He 
 that does good to another man does good also to him- 
 self; not only in the consequence, but in the very act 
 of doing it; for the conscience of well-doing is an 
 ample reward. 
 
 Of benefits in general, there are several sorts; as 
 necessary, profitable, and delightful. Some things 
 there are, without which we canno^ive; others with- 
 out which we ought not to live; and some, again, 
 without which we will not live. In the first rank are 
 those which deliver us from capital dangers, or ap- 
 prehensions of death: and the favor is rated accord- 
 ing to the hazard; for the greater the extremity, the 
 greater seems the obligation. The next is a case 
 wherein we may indeed live, but we had better die; 
 as in the question of liberty, modestj-, and a good 
 conscience. In the third place, follow those things 
 which custom, use, affinity, and acquaintance, have 
 made dear to us; as husbands, wives, children, 
 friends, etc., which an honest man will preserve at 
 his utmost peril. Of things profitable there is a large 
 field, as money, honor, etc., to which might be added, 
 matters of superfluity and pleasure. But we shall 
 open a way to the circumstances of a benefit by some 
 previous and more general deliberations upon the 
 thing itself. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 SEVERAL SORTS OF BENEFITS. 
 
 We shall divide benefits into absolute and vulgai 
 the one appertaining to good life, the other is only 
 matter of commerce. The former are the more ex- 
 cellent, bec*ausethey can never be made void; where- 
 as all material benefits are tossed back and forward, 
 and change their master. There are some offices 
 that look like benefits, but are only desirable con- 
 veniences, as wealth, etc., and these a wicked man 
 may receive from a good, or a good man from an 
 evil. Others, again, that bear the face of injuries, 
 which are only benefits ill taken; as cutting, lancing, 
 burning, under the hand of a surgeon. The greatest 
 benefits of all are those of good education,, which 
 we receive from our parents, either in the state of 
 ignorance or perverseness; as, their care and tender- 
 ness in our infancy; their discipline in our childhood, 
 to keep us to our duties by fear; and, if fair means 
 will not do, their proceeding afterwards to severity 
 and punishment, without which we should neveiS 
 have come to good. There are matters of great val- 
 ue, many times, that are but of small price; as in- 
 structions from a tutor, medicine from a physician, 
 etc. And there are small matters again, which are 
 of great consideration to us: the gift is small, and 
 the consequence great; as a cup of cold water in 
 
30 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 a time of need may save a man's life. Some things 
 are of great moment to the giver, others to the re- 
 ceiver: one man gives me a house; another snatches 
 me out when it is falling upon my head; one gives 
 me an estate; another takes me out of the fire, or 
 casts me out a rope when I am sinking. Some good 
 ofiices we do to friends, others to strangers; but 
 those are the noblest that we do without pre-desert. 
 There is an obligation of bounty, and an obligation 
 of charity; this in case of necessity, and that in 
 point of convenience. Some benefits are common, 
 others are personal; as if a prince (out of pure grace) 
 grant a privilege to a city, the obUgation lies upon 
 the community, and only upon every individual as 
 a part of the whole; but if it be done particularly for 
 my sake, then am I singly the debtor for it. The 
 cherishing of strangers is one of the duties of hos- 
 pitality, and exercises itself in the relief and protec- 
 tion of the distressed. There aje benefits of good 
 counsel, reputation, life, fortune, liberty, health, 
 nay, and of superfluity and pleasure. One man 
 obliges me out of his pocket; another gives me 
 matter of ornament and curiosity; a third, consola- 
 tion. To say nothing of negative benefits; for there 
 are that reckon it an obligation if they do a body no 
 hurt; and place it to account, as if they saved a 
 man, when they do not undo him. To shut up all 
 in one word; as benevolence is the most sociable of 
 all virtues, so it is of the largest extent; for there is 
 not any man, either so great or so little, but he is 
 yet capable of giving and of receiving benefits. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 A SON MAT OBLIGE HIS FATHER, AND A SEEVANT HIS MASTER. 
 
 The question is (in the first place) whether it may 
 not be possible for a father to owe more to a son, in 
 other respects, than the son owes to his father for 
 his being? That many sons are both greater and 
 better than their fathers, there is no question; as 
 there are many other things that derive their beings 
 from others, which yet are far greater than their 
 original. Is not the tree larger than the seed? the 
 river than the fountain? The foundation of all 
 things lies hid, and the superstructure obscures it. 
 If I owe all to my father, because he gives me life, 
 I may owe as much to a physician that saved his 
 life; for if my father had not been cured, I had never 
 been begotten : or, if I stand indebted for all that I 
 am to my beginning, my acknowledgment must run 
 back to the very original of all human beings. My 
 father gave me the benefit of life: which he had 
 never done, if his father had not first given it to him. 
 He gave me life, not knowing to whom; and when 
 I was in a condition neither to feel death nor to fear 
 it. That is the great benefit, to give life to one that 
 knows how to use it, and that is capable of the ap- 
 prehension of death. It is true, that without a 
 father I could never have had a being; and so, with- 
 out a nurse, that being had never been improved; 
 
32 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 but I do not therefore owe my virtue either to my 
 nativity or to her that gave me suck. The genera- 
 tion of me was the last part of the benefit: for to 
 live is conunon with brutes; but to live well is the 
 main business; and thafr virtue is all my own, sav- 
 ing what I drew from my education. It does not 
 follow that the first benefit must be the greatest, 
 because without the first the greatest could never 
 have been. The father gives life to the son but 
 once; but if the son save the father's life often, 
 though he do but his duty, it is yet a greater benefit. 
 And again, the benefit that a man receives is the 
 greater, the more he needs it; but the living has 
 more need of life than he that is not yet born; so 
 that the father receives a greater benefit in the con- 
 tinuance of his life than the son in the beginning of 
 it. What if a son deliver his father from the rack; 
 or, which is more, lay himself down in his place? 
 The giving of him a being was but the office of a 
 father; a simple act, a benefit given at a venture: 
 beside that, he had a participant in it, and a regard 
 to his family. He gave only a single life, and he 
 received a happy one. My mother brought me into 
 the world naked, exposed, and void of reason; but 
 my reputation and my fortune are advanced by my 
 virtue. Scipio (as yet in his minority) rescued 
 his father in a battle with Hannibal, and after- 
 ward from the practices and persecution of a pow- 
 erful faction; covering him with consulary hon- 
 ors, and the spoils of public enemies. He made 
 himself as eminent for his moderation as for his 
 piety and military knowledge: he was the de- 
 fender and the establisher of his country: he lett 
 the empire without a competitor, and made himself 
 as well the ornament of Eome as the securitv of it: 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 33 
 
 and did not Scipio, in all this, more than requite his 
 father barely for begetting of him? Whether did 
 Anchises more for ^neas, in dandling the child in 
 his arms; or ^neas for his father, when he carried 
 him upon his back 'through the .flames of Troy, and 
 made his name famous, to future ages among the 
 founders of the Roman Empire? T. Manlius was the 
 son of a sour and imperious father, who banished 
 him his house as a blockhead, and a scandal to the 
 family. This Manlius, hearing that his father's life 
 was in question, and a day set for his trial, went to 
 the tribune that was concerned in his cause, and 
 discoursed with him about it: the tribune told him 
 the appointed time, and withal (as an obligation 
 upon the young man) that his cruelty to his son 
 would be part of his accusation. Manlius, upon this, 
 takes the tribune aside, and presenting a poniard to 
 his breast, "Swear," says he, "that you will let this 
 cause fall, or you shall have this dagger in the heart 
 of you; and now it is at your choice which way you 
 will deliver my father." The tribune swore and 
 kept his word, and made a fair report of the whole 
 matter to the council. He that makes himself famous 
 by his eloquence, justice, or arms, illustrates his ex- 
 traction, let it be never so mean; and gives ines- 
 timable reputation to his parents. We should never 
 have heard of Sophroniscus, but for his son Socrates; 
 nor for Aristo and Gryllus, if it had not been for 
 Xenophon and Plato. 
 
 This is not to discountenance the veneration we 
 owe to parents; nor to make children the worse, but 
 the better; and to stir up generous emulations: for, 
 in contests of good offices, both parties are happy; 
 as well the vanquished as those that overcome. It 
 is the only honorable dispute that can arise betwixt 
 
34 SENECA OP BENEFITS. 
 
 a father and son, which of the two shall have the 
 better of the other in the point of benefits. 
 
 In the question betwixt a master and a servant, 
 we must distinguish betwixt benefits, duties, and ac- 
 tions ministerial. By benefits, we understand those 
 good offices that we receive from strangers, which 
 are voluntary, and may be forborne without blame. 
 Duties are the parts of a son and wife, and incum- 
 bent upon kindred and relations. Offices ministerial 
 belong to the part of a servant. Now, since it is the 
 mind, and not the condition of a person, that prints 
 the value upon the benefit, a servant may oblige his 
 master, and so may a subject his sovereign, or a 
 common soldier his general, by doing more than he 
 is expressly bound to do. Some things there are, 
 which the law neither commands nor forbids; and 
 here the servant is free. It would be very hard for 
 a servant to be chastised for doing less than his duty, 
 and not thanked for it when he does more. His 
 body, it is true, is his master's, but his mind is his 
 own: and there are many commands which a servant 
 ought no more to obey than a master to impose. 
 There is no man so great, but he may both need the 
 help and service, and stand in fear of the power and 
 unkindness, even of the meanest of mortals. One 
 servant kills his master; another saves him, naj', pre- 
 serves his master's life, perhaps, with the loss of his 
 own: he exposes himself to torment and death; he 
 stands firm against all threats and batteries: which 
 is not only a benefit in a servant, but much the 
 greater for his being so. 
 
 When Domitius was besieged in Corfinium, and 
 the place brought to great extremity, he pressed his 
 servant so earnestly to poison him, that at last he 
 ■yvas prevailed upon to give him a potion; which, it 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 35 
 
 seems, was an innocent opiate, and Domitius outlived 
 it: Caesar took the town, and gave Domitius his life, 
 but it was his servant that gave it him first. 
 
 There was another town besieged, and when it 
 was upon the last pinch, two servants made their es- 
 cape, and went over to the enemy: upon the Romans 
 entering the town, and in the heat of the soldiers' 
 fury, these two fellows ran directly home, took their 
 mistress out of her house, and drove her before them, 
 telling every body how barbarously she had used 
 them formerly, and that they would now have their 
 revenge; when they had her without the gates, they 
 kept her close till the danger was over; by which 
 means they gave their mistress her life, and she gave 
 them their freedom. This was not the action of a 
 servile mind, to do so glorious a thing, under an ap- 
 pearance of so great a villainy; for if they had not 
 passed for deserters and parricides, they could not 
 have gained their end. 
 
 With one instance more (and that a very brave 
 one) I shall conclude this chapter. 
 
 In the civil wars of Rome, a party coming to search 
 for a person of quality that was proscribed, a ser- 
 vant put on his master's clothes, and delivered him- 
 self up to the soldiers as the master of the house; he 
 was taken into custody, and put to death, without 
 discovering the mistake. What could be more glo- 
 rious, than for a servant to die for his master, in that 
 age, when there were not many servants that would 
 not betray their masters? So generous a tenderness 
 in a public cruelty; so invincible a faith in a general 
 corruption; what could be more glorious, I say, than 
 so exalted a virtue, as rather to choose death for the 
 reward of his fidelity, than the greatest advantages 
 he might otherwise have had for the violation of it? 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IT IS THE INTENTION, NOT THE MATTER, THAT MAKES THE 
 BENEFIT. 
 
 The good-will of the benefactor is the fountain of 
 all benefits; nay it is the benefit itself, or, at least, 
 the stamp that makes it valuable and current. Some 
 there are, I know, that take the matter for the bene- 
 fit, and tax the obligation by weight and measure. 
 When anything is given them, they presently cast 
 it up; "What may such a house be worth? such an 
 office? such an estate?" as if that were the benefit 
 which is only the sign and mark of it: for the obli- 
 gation rests in the mind, not in the matter; and all 
 those advantages which we see, handle, or hold in 
 actual possession by the courtesy of another, are but 
 several modes or ways of explaining and putting the 
 good-will in execution. There needs no great sub- 
 tlety to prove, Ihat both benefits and injuries re- 
 ceive their value from the intention, when even 
 brutes themselves are able to decide this question. 
 Tread upon a dog by chance, or put him to pain upon 
 the dressing of a wound; the one he passes by as an 
 accident; and the other, in his fashion, he acknowl- 
 edges as a kindness: but, offer to strike at him, 
 though you do him no hurt at all, he flies yet in the 
 face of you, even for the mischief that you barely 
 meant him. 
 
SENECA OP BENEFITS. 37 
 
 It is further to be observed, that all benefits are 
 good; and (like the distributions of Providence) 
 made up of wisdom and bounty; whereas the gift 
 itself is neither good nor bad, but may indifferently 
 be applied, either to the one or to the other. The 
 benefit is immortal, the gift perishable: for the bene- 
 fit itself continues when we have no longer either 
 the use or the matter of it. He that is dead was 
 alive; he that has lost his eyes, did see; and, what- 
 ■ soever is done, cannot be rendered undone. My 
 friend (for instance) is taken by pirates; I redeem 
 him; and after that he falls into other pirates' 
 hands; his obligation to me is the same still as if he 
 had preserved his freedom. And so, if I save a man 
 from any misfortune, and he falls into another; if I 
 give him a sum of money, which is afterwards taken 
 away by thieves; it comes to the same case. For- 
 tune may deprive us of the matter of a benefit, but 
 the benefit itself remains inviolabl*. If the benefit 
 resided in the matter, that which is good for one man 
 would be so for another; whereas many times the 
 very same thing, given to several persons, work con- 
 trary effects, even to the difference of life or death; 
 and that which is one body's cure proves another 
 body's poison. Beside that, the timing of it alters 
 the value; and a crust of breads upon a pinch, is a 
 greater present than an imperial crown. What is 
 more familiar than in a battle to shoot at an enemy 
 and kill a friend? or, instead of a friend, to save an 
 enemy? But yet this disappointment, in the event, 
 does not at all operate upon the intention. What if 
 a man cures me of a wen. with a stroke that was de- 
 signed to cut off my head? or, with a malicious 
 blow upon my stomach, breaks an imposthume? or, 
 what if he saves my life with a draught that was 
 
38 SENfiCA OF BENEFITS- 
 
 prepared to poison me? The providence of the issue 
 does not at all discharge the obliquity of the intent. 
 And the same reason holds good even in religion it- 
 self. It is not the incense, or the offering, that is 
 acceptable to God, but the purity and devotion of 
 the worshipper: neither is the bare will, without 
 action, sufficient, that is, where we have the means 
 of acting; for, in that case, it signifies as little to 
 wish well, without well-doing, as to do good without 
 willing it. There must be effect as well as intention, 
 to make me owe a benefit; but, to will against it, 
 does wholly discharge it. In fine, the conscience 
 alone is the judge, both of benefits and injuries. 
 
 It does not follow now, because the benefit rests 
 in the good- will, that therefore the good- will should 
 be always a benefit; for if it be not accompanied 
 with government and discretion, those offices, which 
 we call benefits, are but the works of passion, or of 
 chance; and man;f times, the greatest of all injiu-ies. 
 One man does me good by mistake; another ignor- 
 antly; a third upon force: but none of these cases do 
 I take to be an obligation; for they were neither di- 
 rected to me, nor was there any kindness of inten- 
 tion: we do uot thank the seas for the advantages 
 we receive by navigation; or the rivers with supply- 
 ing us with fish and flowing of our grounds; we do 
 not thank the trees either for their fruits or shades, 
 or the winds for a fair gale; and wl'-at is the differ- 
 ence betwixt a reasonable creature that does not 
 know and an inanimate that cannot? A good horse 
 saves one man's life; a good suit of arms another's; 
 and a man, perhaps, that never intended it. saves a 
 third. Where is the difference now betwixt the ob- 
 ligation of one and of the other? A man falls into 
 a river, and the fright cures him of the ague; we 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 39 
 
 may call this a kind of lucky mischance, but not a 
 remedy. And so it is with the good we receive, 
 either without, or beside, or contrary to intention. 
 It is the mind, and not the event, that distinguishes 
 a benefit from an injury. 
 
Chapter v. 
 
 5:heee mtjst be judgment in a benefit, as well as mattes 
 
 and intention; and especially in the choice 
 
 of the person. 
 
 As it is the will that designs the benefit, and the 
 matter that conveys it, so ii\Bth.e judgment that per- 
 fects it; which depends upon so many critical nice- 
 ties, that the least error, either in the person, the 
 matter, the manner, the quality, the quantity, the 
 time, or the place, spoils all. 
 
 The consideration of the person is a main point: 
 for we are to give by choice, and not by hazard. My 
 inclination bids me oblige one man; I am bound in 
 duty and justice to serve another; here it is a charity, 
 there it is pity; and elsewhere, perhaps, encourage- 
 ment. There are some that want, to whom I would 
 not give; because, if I did, they would want still. 
 To one man I would barely offer a benefit; but I 
 would press it upon another. To say the truth, we 
 do not employ any more profit than that which we 
 bestow; and it is not to our friends, our acquain- 
 tances or countrymen, nor to this or that condition 
 of men, that we are to restrain our bounties: but 
 wheresoever there is a man, there is a place and oc- 
 casion for a benefit. We give to some that are good 
 already; to others, in hope to make them so: but we 
 must do all with discretion; for we are as well an- 
 swerable for what we give as for what we receive; 
 
SENECA OF BENIPITS. 41 
 
 bay, the misplacing of a benefit is worse than the 
 not' receiving of it; for the one is another man's 
 fault; but the other is mine. The error of the giver 
 does oft-times excuse the ingratitude of the receiver: 
 for a favor ill-placed is rather a profusion than a 
 benefit. It is the most shameful of losses, an incon- 
 siderate bounty. I will choose a man of integrity, sin- 
 cere, considerate, grateful, temperate, well-natured, 
 neither covetous nor sordid: and when I have obliged 
 such a man, though not worth a groat in the world, I 
 have gained my end. If we give only to receive, we 
 lose the fairest objects of our charity: the absent, the 
 sick, the captive, and the needy. When we oblige 
 those that can never pay us again in kind, as a 
 stranger upon his last farewell, or a necessitous per- 
 son upon his death-bed, we make Providence our 
 debtor, and rejoice in the conscience even of a fruit- 
 less benefit. So long as we are affected with pas- 
 sions, and distracted with hopes and fears, and (the 
 most unmanly of vices) with our pleasures, we are 
 incompetent judges where to place' our bounties: but 
 when death presents itself, and that we come to our 
 last will and testament, we leave our fortunes to the 
 most worthy. He that gives nothing, but in hopes 
 of receiving, must die intestate. It is the honesty 
 of another man's mind that moves the kindness of 
 mine; and I would sooner oblige a grateful man than 
 an ungrateful: but this shall not hinder me from do- 
 ing good also to- a person that is known to be un- 
 grateful: only with this difference, that I will serve 
 the one in all extremities with my life and fortune, 
 and the other no farther than stands with my conve- 
 nience. But what shall I do, you will say, to know 
 whether a man will be grateful or not? I will follow 
 probability, and hope the best. He that sows is not 
 
42 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 sure to reap; nor the seaman to reach his port; noi* 
 the soldier to win the field : he that weds is not sure 
 his wife shall be honest, or his children dutiful: but 
 shall we therefoj-e neither sow, sail, bear arms, nor 
 marry? Nay, if I knew a n;aan to be incurably thank- 
 less, I would yet be so kind as to put him in his way, 
 or let him light a candle at mine, or draw water at 
 my well; which may stand him perhaps in great 
 stead, and yet not be reckoned as a benefit from me; 
 for I do it carelessly, and not for his sake, but my 
 own; as an office of humanity, without any choice or 
 kindness. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE MATTER OF OBLIGATIONS, WITH ITS CIRCUMSTANCES. 
 
 Next to the choice of the person follows that of 
 the matters wherein a regard must be had to time, 
 place, proportion, quality; and to the very nicks of 
 opportunity and humor. One man values his peace 
 above his honor, another his honor above his safety; 
 and not a few there are that (provided they may 
 save their bodies) never care what becomes of their 
 souls. So that good offices depend much upon con- 
 struction. Some take themselves to be obliged, 
 when they are not; others will not believe it, when 
 they are; and some again take obligations and inju- 
 ries, the one for 'the other. 
 
 For our better direction, let it be noted, "That a 
 benefit is a common tie betwixt the giver and re- 
 ceiver, with respect to both:" wherefore it must be 
 accommodated to the rules of discretion; for all 
 things have their bounds and measures, and so must 
 liberality among the rest; that it be neither too much 
 for the one nor too little for the other; the excess 
 being every jot as bad as the defect. Alexander be- 
 stowed a city upon one of his favorites; who modest- 
 ly excusing himself, " That it was too much for him 
 to receive." "Well, but," says Alexander, "it is 
 not too much for me to give." A haughty certainly, 
 and an imprudent speech; for that which was not fit 
 
44 . SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 for the one to take could not be fit for the other to 
 give. It passes in the world for greatness of mind 
 to be perpetually giving and loading of people with 
 bounties; but it is one thing to know how to give, 
 and another thing not to know how to keep. Give 
 me a heart that is easy and open, but I will have no 
 holes in it; let it be bountiful with judgment, but I 
 will have nothing run out of it I know not how. 
 How much greater was he that refused the city than 
 the other that offered it? Some men throw away 
 their money as if they were angry with it, which is 
 the error commonly of weak minds and large for- 
 tunes. No man esteems of anything that comes to 
 him by chance; but when it is governed by reason, 
 it brings credit both to the giver and receiver; 
 whereas those favors are, in some sort, scandalous, 
 that make a man ashamed of his patron. 
 
 It is a matter of great prudence, for the benefactor 
 to suit the benefit to the condition of the receiver: 
 who must be either his superior, his inferior, or his 
 equal; and that which would be the highest obliga- 
 tion imaginable to the one, would perhaps be as 
 great a mockery and affront to the other; as a plate 
 of broken meat (for the purpose) to a rich man were 
 an indignity, which to a poor man is a charity. The 
 benefits of princes and of gfeat men, are honors, of- 
 fices, monies, profitable commissions, countenance, 
 and protection: the poor man has nothing to present 
 but good-will, good advice, faith, industry, the ser- 
 vice and hazard of his person, an early apple, perad- 
 venture, or some other cheap curiosity: equals in- 
 deed may correspond in kind; but whatsoever the 
 present be, or to whomsoever we offer it, this gen- 
 eral rule must be observed, that we always design 
 the good and satisfaction of the receiver, and never 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 45 
 
 grant anything to his detriment. It is not for a man 
 to say, I was overcome by importunity; for when 
 the fever is off, we detest the man that was prevailed 
 upon to our destruction. I will no more undo a man 
 with his will, than forbear saving him against it. It 
 is a benefit in some cases to grant, and in others to 
 deny; so that we are rather to consider the advan- 
 tage than the desire of the petitioner. For we may 
 in a passion earnestly beg for (and take it ill to be 
 denied too) that very thing, which, upon second 
 thoughts, we may come to curse, as the occasion of 
 a raost pernicious bounty. Never give anything 
 that shall turn to mischief, infamy, or shame. I 
 will consider another man's want or safety; but so 
 as not to forget my own; unless in the case of a very 
 excellent person, and then I shall not much heed 
 what becomes of myself. There is no giving of 
 water to a man in a fever; or putting a sword into 
 a madman's hand. He that lends a man money to 
 carry him to a bawdy-house, or a weapon for his re- 
 venge, makes himself a partaker of his crime. 
 
 He that would make an acceptable present, will 
 pitch upon something that is desired, sought for, and 
 hard to be found; that which he sees nowhere else, 
 and which few have; or at least not in that place or 
 season; something that may be always in his eye, 
 and mind him of his benefactor. If it be lasting and 
 durable, so much the better; as plate, rather than 
 money; statues than apparel; for it will serve as a 
 monitor to mind the receiver of the obligation, 
 which the presenter cannot so handsomely do. How- 
 ever, let it not be improper, as arms to a woman, 
 books to a clown, toys to a philosopher: I will not 
 give to any man that which he cannot receive, as if 
 I threw a ball to a man without hands; but I will 
 
46 SENECA OP BENEFIT.^. 
 
 make a return, though he cannot receive it; for my 
 business is not to oblige him, but to free myself: nor 
 anything that may reproach a man of his vice or in- 
 firmity; as false dice to a cheat; spectacles to a man 
 that is blind. Let it not be unseasonable neither; 
 as a furred gown in summer, an umbrella in winter. 
 It enhances the value of the present, if it was never 
 given to him by anybody else, nor by me to any 
 other; for that which we give to everybody is wel- 
 come to nobody. 
 
 The particularity does much, but yet the same 
 thing may receive a different estimate from several 
 persons; for there are ways of marking and recom- 
 mending it in such a manner, that if the same good 
 office be done to twenty people, every one of them 
 shall reckon himself peculiarly obliged as a cunning 
 whore, if she has a thousand sweethearts, will per- 
 suade every one of them she loves him best. But 
 this is rather the artifice of conversation than the 
 virtue of it. 
 
 The citizens of Megara send ambassadors to Alex- 
 ander in the height of his glory, to offer him, as a 
 compliment, the freedom of their city. Upon Alex- 
 ander's smihng at the proposal, they told him, that 
 it was a present which they had never made but 
 to Hercules and himself. Whereupon Alexander 
 treated them kindly, and accepted of it ; not for the 
 presenters' sake, but because they had joined him 
 with Hercules; now unreasonably soever; for Her- 
 cules conquered nothing for himself, but made his 
 business to vindicate and to protect the miserable, 
 without any private interest or design; but this in- 
 temperate young man (whose virtue was nothing 
 else but a successful temerity) was trained up from 
 his youth jn the trade of yiolence; the common 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 47 
 
 enemy of mankind, as well of his friends as of his 
 foes, and one that valued himself upon being terrible 
 to all mortals: never considering, that the dullest 
 creatures are as dangerous and as dreadful, as the 
 fiercest; for the poison of a toad, or the tooth of a 
 snake, will do a man's business, as sure as the paw 
 of a tiger. 
 
CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 THE MANNER OF OBMGING. 
 
 There is not any benefit so glorious in itself, but 
 it may yet be exceedingly sweetened and improved 
 by the manner of conferring it. The virtue, I know, 
 rests in the intent, the profit in the judicious appli- 
 cation of the matter; but the beauty and ornament 
 of an obligation lies in the manner of it; and it is 
 then perfect when the dignity of the office is accom- 
 panied with all the charms and delicacies of hu- 
 manity, good-nature, and address; and with dispatch 
 too; for he that puts a man off from time, to time, 
 was never right at heart. 
 
 In the first place, whatsoever we give, let us do it 
 frankly: a kind benefactor makes a man happy as 
 soon as he can, and as much as he can. There should 
 be no delay in a benefit but the modesty of the re- 
 ceiver. If we cannot f orsee the request, let us, how- 
 ever, immediately grant it, and by no means suffer 
 the repeating of it. It is so grievous a thing to say, 
 I BEG J the very word puts a man out of counten- 
 ance; and it is a double kindness to do the thing, 
 and save an honest man the confusion of a blush. It 
 comes too late that comes for the asking: for noth- 
 ing costs us so dear as that we purchase with our 
 prayers: it is all we give, even for heaven itself; 
 and even there too, where our petitions are at the 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 49 
 
 fairest, we choose rather to present them in secret 
 ejaculations than by word of mouth. That is the 
 lasting and the acceptable benefit that meets the re- 
 ceiver half-way. The rule is, we are to give, as we 
 would receive, cheerfully, quickly, and without hesi- 
 tation; for there is no grace in a benefit that sticks 
 to the fingers. Nay, if there should be occasion for 
 delay, let us, however, not seem to deliberate; for 
 demurring is next door to denying; and so long as 
 we suspend, so long are we unwilling. It is a court- 
 humor to keep people upon the tenters; their injur- 
 ies are quick and sudden, but their benefits are slow. 
 Great ministers love to rack men with attendance, 
 and account it an ostentation of their power to hold 
 their suitors in hand, and to have many witnesses 
 of their interest. A benefit should be made accepta- 
 able by all possible means, even to the end that the 
 receiver, who is never to forget it, may bear it in his 
 mind with satisfaction. There must be no mixture 
 of sourness, severity, contumely, or reproof, with 
 our obligations; nay, in case there should beany oc- 
 casion for so much as an admonition, let it be re- 
 ferred to another time. We are a great deal apter 
 to.remember injuries than benefits; audit is enough 
 to forgive an obligation that has the nature of an of- 
 fence. 
 
 There are some that spoil a good office after it is 
 done 'and others, in the very instant of doing it. 
 There be so much entreaty and importunity; nay, if 
 we do but suspect a petitioner, we put on a sour face; 
 look another* way; pretend haste, company, business; 
 talk of other matters, and keep him off with artifi- 
 cial delays, let his necessities be never so pressing; 
 and when we are put to it at last, it comes so hard 
 from us that it is rather extorted than obtained; and 
 
50 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 not SO properly the giving of a bounty, as the quit- 
 ting of a man's hold upon the tug, when another is 
 too strong for him; so that this is but doing one 
 kindness for me, and another for himself: he gives 
 for his own quiet, after he has tormented me with 
 difficulties and delays. The manner of saying or of 
 doing any thing, goes a great way in the value of 
 the thing itself. It was well said of him that called 
 a good office, that was done harshly, and with an ill 
 will, a stony piece of bread; it is necessary for him 
 that is hungry to receive it, but it almost chokes a 
 man in the going down. There must be no pride, 
 arrogance of looks, or tumor of words, in the be- 
 stowing of benefits; no insolence of behavior, but a 
 modesty of mind, and a diligent care to catch at oc- 
 casions and prevent necessities. A pause, an unkind 
 tone, word, look, or action, destroys the grace of a 
 courtesy. It corrupts a bounty, when it is accom- 
 panied with state, haughtiness, and elation of mind, 
 in the giving of it. Some have a trick of shifting 
 off a suitor with a point of wit, or a cavil. As in the 
 case of the Cynic that begged a talent of Antigonus: 
 " That is too much," says he, "for a Cynic to ask;" 
 and when he fell to a penny, "That is too little." 
 says he, "for a prince to give." He might have 
 found a way to have compounded this controversy, 
 by giving him a penny as to a Cynic and a talent as 
 from a prince. Whatsoever we bestow, let it be 
 done with a frank and cheerful countenance: a man 
 must not give with his hand, and deny with his 
 looks. He that gives quickly, gives willingly. 
 
 We are likewise to accompany good deeds with 
 good words, and say, (for the purpose.) " Why should 
 you make such a matter of this? why did not you 
 come to me sooner? why would you make use of 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 51 
 
 any body else? I take it ill that you should bring me 
 a recommendation; pray let there be no more of this, 
 but when you have occasion hereafter, come to me 
 upon your own account." That is the glorious 
 bounty, when the receiver can say to himself; "What 
 a blessed day has this been to me! never was any 
 thing done so generously, so tenderly, with so good 
 a grace. What is it I would not do to serve this 
 man? A thousand times as much another way could 
 not have given me this satisfaction." In such a case, 
 let the benefit be never so considerable, the manner 
 of conferring it is yet the noblest part. Where there 
 is harshness of language, countenance, or behavior, 
 a man had better be without it. A flat denial is in- 
 finitely before a vexatious delay: as a quick death is 
 a mercy, compared with a lingering torment. B,ut 
 to be -put to waitings and intercessions, after a 
 promise is passed, is a cruelty intolerable. It is 
 troublesome to stay long for a benefit, let it be never 
 so great; and he that holds me needlessly in pain, 
 loses two precious things, time, and the proof of 
 friendship. Nay, the very hint of a man's want 
 comes many times too late. "If I had money," said 
 Socrates, "I would buy me a cloak." They that 
 knew he wanted one should have prevented the very 
 intimation of that want. It is not the value of the 
 present, but the benevolence of the mind, that we 
 are to consider. "He gave me but a little, but it 
 was generously and frankly done; it was a little out 
 of a little: he gave it me without asking; he pressed 
 it upon me; he watched the opportunity of doing it, 
 and took it as an obligation upon himself." On the 
 other side, many benefits are great in show, but little 
 or nothing perhaps in effect, when they come hard, 
 slow, or at unawares. That which is given with 
 
53 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 pride and ostentation, is rather an ambition than a 
 bounty. 
 
 Some favors are to be conferred in public, others 
 in private. In. public the rewards of great actions; 
 as honors, charges, or whatsoever else gives a man 
 reputation in the world; but the good offices we do 
 for a man in want, distress, or under reproach, these 
 should be known only to those that have the benefit 
 of them. Kay, not to them neither, if we can hand- 
 somely conceal it from whence the favor came; for 
 the secrecy, in many cases, is a main part of the 
 benefit. There was a good man that had a friend, 
 who was both poor and sick, and ashamed to own 
 his condition: he privately conveyed a bag of money 
 under his pillow, that he might seem rather to find 
 than receive it. Provided I know that I give it, no 
 matter for his knowing from whence it comes that 
 receives it. Many a man stands in need of help that 
 has not the face to confess it: if the discovery may 
 give offence, let it lie concealed: he that gives to be 
 seen would never relieve a man in the dark. It 
 would be too tedious to run through all the niceties 
 that may occur upon this subject; but, in two 
 words, he must be a wise, a friendly, and a well- 
 bred man, that perfectly acquits himself in the art 
 and duty of obliging: for all his actions must be 
 squared according to the measures of civility, good- 
 nature and discretion. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE DIFPERBNCE AND VALUE OF BENEFITS. 
 
 We have already spoken of benefits in general; the 
 matter and the intention, together with the manner 
 of conferring them. It follows now, in course, to 
 say something of the value of them; which is rated, 
 either by the good they do us, or by the inconven- 
 ience they save us, and has no other standard than 
 that of a judicious regard to circumstance and 
 occasion. Suppose I save a man from drowning, the 
 advantage of life is all one to him, from what hand 
 soever it comes, or by what means; but yet there 
 may be a vast difference in the obligation. I may 
 do it with hazard, or with security, with trouble, or 
 with ease; willingly, or by compulsion; upon inter- 
 cession, or without it: I may have a prospect of 
 vain-glory or profit: I may do it in kindness to 
 another, or an hundred by-ends to myself; and every 
 point does exceedingly vary the case. Two persons 
 may part with the same sum of money, and yet not 
 the same benefit: the one had it of his own, and it 
 was but a little out of a great deal; the other bor- 
 rowed it, and bestowed upon me that which he 
 wanted for himself. Two boys were sent out to 
 fetch a certain person to their master: the one of 
 them hunts up and down, and comes home again 
 weary, without finding him; the other falls to play 
 with his companions at the wheel of Fortune, sees 
 
S4 ■ SENECA OB" BENEFITS. 
 
 him by chance passing by, delivers him his errand, 
 and brings him. He that found him by chance de- 
 serves to be punished; and he that sought for him, 
 and missed him, to be rewarded for his good-will. 
 
 In some cases we value the thing, in others the 
 labor and attendance. What can be more precious 
 than good manners, good letters, life, and health? 
 and yet we pay our physicians and tutors only for 
 their service in the professions. If we buy things 
 cheap, it matters not, so long as it is a bargain: it is 
 no obligation from the seller, if nobody else will 
 give him more for it. What would not a man give 
 to be set ashore in a tempest? for a house in a 
 wilderness? a shelter in a storm? a fire, or a bit of 
 meat, when a man is pinched with hunger or cold? 
 a defence against thieves, and a thousand other 
 matters of moment, that cost but little? And yet 
 we know that the skipper has but his freight for our 
 passage; and the carpenters and bricklayers do their 
 work by the day. Those are naany times the greatest 
 obligations in truth, which in vulgar opinions are 
 the smallest: as comfort to the sick, poor captives; 
 good counsel, keeping of people from wickedness, 
 etc. Wherefore we should reckon ourselves to ewe 
 most for the noblest benefits. If the physician adds 
 care and friendship to the duty of his calling, and 
 the tutor to the common method of his business; I 
 am to esteem them as the nearest of my relations: 
 for to watch with" me, to be troubled for me, and to 
 put off all other patients for nly sake, is a particular 
 kindness : and so it is in my tutor, if he takes more 
 pains with me than with the rest of my fellows. It 
 is not enough, in this case, to pay the one his fees, 
 and the other his salary; but I am indebted to them 
 over and above for their friendship. The meanest 
 
SENECA OP BENEFITS. 55 
 
 of mechanics, if he does his work with industry and 
 care, it is an usual thing to cast in something by 
 way of reward more than the bare agreement: and 
 shall we deal worse with the preservers of our lives, 
 and the reformers of our manners? He that gives 
 me himself (if he be worth taking) gives the greatest 
 benefit: and this is the present which ^schines, a 
 poor disciple of Socrates, made to his master, and 
 as a matter of great consideration: "Others may 
 have given you much," says, he, " but I am the only 
 man that 'has left nothing to himself." "This gift," 
 says Socrates, "you shall never repent of; for I will 
 take care to return it better than I found it." So 
 that a brave mind can never want matter for liber- 
 ality in the meanest condition; for Nature has been 
 so kind to us, that where we have nothing of For- 
 tune's, we may bestow something of our own. 
 
 It falls out often, that a benefit is followed with an 
 injury; let which will be foremost, it is with the lat- 
 ter as with one writing upon another; it does in a 
 great measure hide the former, and keep it from ap- 
 pearing, but it does not quite take it away. We 
 may in some cases divide thena, and both requite the 
 one, and revenge the other; or otherwise compare 
 them, to know whether I am creditor or debtor, 
 "i'ou have obliged me in my servant, but wounded 
 me in my brother; you have saved my son, but have 
 destroyed my father; in this instance, I will allow 
 as much as piety, and justice, and good nature, will 
 bear; but I am not willing to set an injury against a 
 benefit. I would have some respect to the time: 
 the obligation came first; and then, perhaps, the one 
 was designed, the other against his will: under these 
 considerations I would ara.plify the benefit, and 
 lessen the injury; and extinguish the one with the 
 
56 SENECA OP BENEEITS. 
 
 other; nay, I would pardon the injury even without 
 the benefit, but much more after it. Not that a man 
 can be bound by one benefit to suffer all sorts of in- 
 juries; for there are some cases wherein we lie under 
 no obligation for a benefit; because a greater injury 
 absolves it: as, for example, a man helps me out of 
 a law-suit, and afterwards commits a rape upon my 
 daughter; where the following impiety cancels the 
 antecedent obligation. A man lends me a little 
 money, and then sets my house on fire; the debtor 
 is here turned creditor, when the injury outweighs 
 the benefit. Nay, if a man does but so much as re- 
 pent the good office done, and grow sour and inso- 
 lent upon it, and upbraid me with it; if he did it 
 only for his own sake, or for any other reason than 
 for mine, I am in some degree, more or less, acquit- 
 ted of the obligation. I am not at all beholden to 
 him that makes me the instrument of his own ad- 
 vantage. He that does me good for his own sake, I 
 will do him good for mine. 
 
 Suppose a man makes suit for a place, and cannot 
 obtain it, but upon the riansom of ten slaves out of 
 the galleys. If there be ten, and no more, they owe 
 him nothing for their redemption; but they are in- 
 debted to him for the choice, where he might have 
 taken ten others as well as these. Put the case 
 again, that by an act of grace so many prisoners are 
 to be released, their names to be drawn by lot, and 
 mine happens to come out among the rest : one part 
 of my obligation is to hina that put me in a capacity 
 of freedom, and the other is to Providence for my 
 being one of that number. The greatest benefits of 
 all have no witnesses, but lie concealed in the eon- 
 science. 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 57 
 
 There is a great difference betwixt a common ob- 
 ligation and a particular; he that lends my country 
 money, obliges me only as a part of the whole. 
 Plato crossed the river, and the ferry-man would 
 take no money of him: he reflected upon it as honor 
 done to himself; and told him, " That Plato was in 
 debt." But Plato, when he found it to be no more 
 than he did for others, recalled his words, "For," 
 says he, " Plato will owe nothing in particular for a 
 benefit in common; what I owe with others, I will 
 pay with others. " 
 
 Some will have it that the necessity of wishing a 
 man well is some abatement to the obligation in the 
 doing of him a good office. But I say, on the con- 
 trary, that it is the greater; because the good- will 
 cannot be changed. It is one thing to say, that a 
 man could not but do me this or that civility, be- 
 cause he was forced to do it; and another thing, that 
 he could not quit the good-will of doing it. In the 
 former case, I am a debtor to him that imposeth the 
 force, in the other to himself. The unchangeable 
 good- will is an indispensable obligation : and, to say, 
 that nature cannot go out of her course, does not 
 discharge us of what ive owe to Providence. Shall 
 he be said to will, that may change his mind the 
 next moment? and shall we question the will of the 
 Almighty, whose nature admits no change? Must 
 the stars quit their stations, and fall foul one upon 
 another? must the sun stand still in the middle 
 of his c-ourse, and heaven and earth drop into con- 
 fusion? must a devouring fire seize upon the uni- 
 verse; the harmony of the creation be dissolved; and 
 the whole frame of nature swallowed up in a dark 
 abyss; and will nothing less than this serve to con- 
 vince the world of their audacious and impertinent 
 
58 SENECA OP BENEFITS. 
 
 follies? It is not to say, that these heavenly bodies 
 are not made for us; for in part they are so; and we 
 are the better for their virtues and motions, whether 
 we will or not; though, undoubtedly, the principal 
 cause is the unalterable law of God. Providence is 
 not moved by anything from without; but the Di- 
 vine will is an everlasting law, an immutable 
 decree; and the impossibility of variation proceeds 
 from God's purpose of preserving; for he never re- 
 pents of his first counsels. It is not with our 
 heavenly as with our earthly father. God thought 
 of us and provided for us, before he made us: (for 
 unto him all future events are present.) Man was 
 not the work of chance; his mind carries him above 
 the slight of fortune, and naturally aspires to the 
 contemplation of heaven and divine mysteries. How 
 desperate a frenzy is it now to undervalue, nay, to 
 contemn and to disclaim these divine "blessings, 
 without which we are utterly incapable of enjoying 
 any other! 
 
CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 AN HONEST MAN CANNOT BE OUTDONE IN COUBTEST. 
 
 It passes in the world for a generous and magnifi- 
 cent saying, that " it is a shame for a man to be out- 
 done in courtesy;" and it is worth the while to ex- 
 amine, both the truth of it, and the mistake. First, 
 there can be no shame in a virtuous emulation; and, 
 secondly, there can be no victory without crossing 
 the cudgels, and yielding the cause. One man may 
 have the advantage of strength, of means, of for- 
 tune; and this will undoubtedly operate upon the 
 events of good purposes, but yet without any dimi-/ 
 nution to the virtue. The good will may be the same 
 in both, and yet one may have the heels of the other; 
 for it is not in a good office as in a course, where he 
 wins the plate that comes first to the post: and even 
 there also, chance has many times a great hand in 
 the success. Where the contest is about benefits; and 
 that the one has not only a good will, but matter to 
 work upon, and a power to put that good intent in 
 execution; and the other has barely a good-will, 
 without either the means, or the occasion, of a re- 
 quital; if he does but affectionately wish it, and en- 
 deavor it, the latter is no more overcome in courtesy 
 than he is in courage that dies with his sword in his 
 hand, and his face to the enemy, and without shrink- 
 ing maintains his station: for where fortune is par- 
 
60 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 tial, it is enough that the good-will is equal. There 
 are two errors in this proposition: first, to imply that 
 a good man may be overcome; and then to imagine 
 that anything shameful can befall him. The Spar- 
 tans prohibited all those exercises where the victory 
 was declared by the confession of the contendant. 
 The 300 Fabii were never said to be conquered, but 
 slain; nor Regulus to be overcome, though he was 
 taken prisoner by the Carthaginians. The mind 
 may stand firm under the greatest malice and in- 
 iquity of fortune; and yet the giver and receiver 
 continue upon equal terms : as we reckon it a drawn 
 battle, when two combatants are parted, though the 
 one has lost more blood than the other. He that 
 knows how to owe a courtesy, and heartily wishes 
 that he could requite it, is invincible; so that every 
 man may be as grateful as he pleases. It is your 
 happiness to give, it is my fortune that I can only 
 receive. What advantage now has your chance 
 over my virtue? But there are some men that have 
 philosophized themselves almost out of the sense of 
 human affections; as Diogenes, that walked naked 
 and unconcerned through the middle of Alexander's 
 treasures, and was, as well in other men's opinions 
 as in his own, even above Alexander himself, who 
 at that time had the whole world at his feet: for 
 there was more that the one scorned to take than 
 that the other had it in his power to give: and it is a 
 greater generosity for a beggar to refuse money than 
 for a prince to bestow it. This is a remarkable in- 
 stance of an immovable mind, and there is hardly 
 any contending with it; but a man is never the less 
 valiant for being worsted by an invulnerable enemy: 
 nor the fire one jot the weaker for not consuming an 
 incombustible body; nor a sword ever a whit the 
 
SBNBgA OF BENEFITS. 61 
 
 worse for not cleaving a rock that is impenetrable; 
 neither is a grateful mind overcome for want of an 
 answerable fortune. No matter for the inequality 
 of the things given and received, so long as, in point 
 of good affection, the two parties stand upon the 
 same level. It is no shame not to overtake a man, 
 if we foUojv him as fast as we can. That tumor of 
 a man, the vain-glorious Alexander, was used to 
 make his boast, that never any man went beyond 
 him in benefits; and yet he lived to see a poor fellow 
 in a tub, to whom there was nothing that he could 
 give, and from whom there was nothing that he 
 could take away. 
 
 Nor is it always necessary for a poor man to fly to 
 the sanctuary of an invincible mind to quit scores 
 with the bounties of a plentiful fortune; but it does 
 often fall out, that the returns which he cannot 
 make in kind are more than supplied in dignity and 
 value. Archelaus, a king of Macedon, invited Soc- 
 rates to his palace: but he excused himself, as un- 
 willing to receive greater benefits than he was able 
 to requite. This perhaps was not pride in Socrates, 
 but craft; for he was afraid of being forced to ac- 
 cept of something wiich might possibly have been 
 unworthy of him; beside, that he was a man of lib- 
 erty, and loath to make himself a voluntary slave. 
 The truth of it is, that Archelaus had more need of 
 Socrates than Socrates of Archelaus; for he wanted 
 a man to teach him the art of life and death, and the 
 skill of government, and to read the book of Nature 
 to him, and show him the light at noon-day: he 
 wanted a man that, when the sun was in an eclipse, 
 and he had locked, himself up in all the horror and 
 despair imaginable; he wanted a man, I say, to- de- 
 liver bini from his apprehensions, and to expound the 
 
62 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 prodigy to him, by telling him, that there was no 
 more in it than only that the moon was got betwixt 
 the sun and the earth, and all would be well again 
 presently. Let the world judge now, whether Ar- 
 chelaus' bounty, or Socrates' philosophy, would have 
 been the greater present: he does not understandthe 
 value of wisdom and friendship that doe^ not know 
 a wise friend to be the noblest of presents. A rarity 
 scarce to be found, not only in a family, but in an 
 age; and nowhere more wanted than where there 
 seems to be the greatest store. The greater a man 
 is, the more need he has of him; and the more dif- 
 ficulty there is both of finding and of knowing him. 
 Nor is it to be said, that "I cannot requite such a 
 benefactor because I am poor, and have it not;" I can 
 give good counsel; a conversation wherein he may 
 take both delight and profit; freedom of discourse, 
 without flattery; kind attention, where he deliber- 
 ates; and faith inviolable where he trusts; I may 
 bring him to a love and knowledge of truth; deliver 
 him from the errors of his credulity, and teach him 
 to distinguish betwixt friends and parasites. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE QUESTION DISCUSSED, WHETHER OK NOT A MAN MAY GIVE 
 OE KBTURN A BENEFIT TO HIMSELF ? 
 
 There are many cases, wherein a man speaks of 
 himself as of another. As, for example, " I may 
 thank myself for this; I am angry at myself; I hate 
 ■myself for that." And this way of speaking has 
 raised a dispute among the Stoics, "whether or not 
 a man may give or return a "benefit to himself?" 
 For, say they, if I may hurt myself, I may oblige 
 myself; and that which were a benefit to another 
 body, why is it not so to myself? And why am I 
 not as criminal in being ungrateful to myself as if I 
 were so to another body? And the case is the same 
 in flattery and several other vices; as, on the other 
 side, it is a 'point of great reputation for a man to 
 command himself. Plato thanked Socrates for what 
 he had learned of him; and why might not Socrates 
 as well thank Plato for that which he had taught 
 him? " That which you want," says Plato, " borrow 
 it of yourself." And why may not I as well give to 
 myself as lend? If I may be angry with myself, I 
 may thank myself; and if I chide myself, I may as 
 well commend myself, and do myself good as well 
 as hurt; there is the same reason of contraries: it is 
 a common thing to say, " Such a man hath done 
 himself an injury." If an injury, why not a bene- 
 fit? But I say, that no man can be a debtor to 
 
64 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 himself; for the benefit must naturally precede the 
 acknowledgment; and a debtor can no more be 
 without a creditor than a husband without a wife. 
 Somebody must give, that sonaebody may rfeceive; 
 and it is neither giving nor receiving, the passing of 
 a thing from one hand to the other. What if a 
 man should be ungrateful in the case? there is noth- 
 ing lost; for he that gives it has it: and he that 
 gives and he that receives are one and the same 
 person. Now, properly speaking, no man can be 
 said to bestow any thing upon himself, for he obeys 
 his nature, that prompts every man to do himself all 
 the good he can. Shall I call him liberal, that gives 
 to himself; or good-natured, that pardons himself; 
 or pitiful, that is affected with his own misfortunes ? 
 That which were bounty, clemency, compassion, to 
 another, to myself is nature. A benefit is a volun- 
 tary thing; but to do good to myself is a thing 
 necessary. Was ever any man commended for get- 
 ting out of a ditch, or for helping himself against 
 thieves? Or what if I should allow, that a man 
 might confer a benefit upon himself; yet he cannot 
 owe it, for he returns it in the same instant that he 
 receives it. No man gives, owes, or makes a return, 
 but to another. How can one man do that to which 
 two parties are requisite m so many respects? Giv- 
 ing and receiving must go backward and forward 
 betwixt two persons. If a man give to himself, he 
 may sell to himself; but to sell is to alienate a thing, 
 and to translate the right of it to another; now, to 
 make a man both the giver and the receiver is to 
 unite two contraries. That is a benefit, which, when 
 it is given, may possibly not be requited; but he that 
 gives to himself, must necessarily receive what he 
 gives; beside, that all benefits are given for th§ 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 65 
 
 receiver's sake, but that which a man does for him- 
 self, is for the sake of the giver. 
 
 This is one of those subtleties, which, though 
 hardly worth a man's while, yet it is not labor abso- 
 lutely lost neither. There is more of trick and arti- 
 fice in it than solidity; and yet there is matter of 
 diversion too; enough perhaps to pass away a win- 
 ter's evening, and keep a man waking that is 
 heavy-headed. . 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 HOW FAB ONE MAN MAY BB OBLIGED FOR A BENEFIT DONE TO 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 The question now before us requires distinction 
 and caution. For though it be both natural and 
 generous to wish well to my friend's friend, yet a 
 second-hand benefit does not bind me any further 
 than to a second-hand gratitude: so that I may 
 receive great satisfaction and advantage from a 
 good office done to my friend, and yet lie under no 
 obligation myself; or, if any man thinks otherwise, 
 I must ask him, in the first place, Where it begins? 
 and. How it extends? that it may not be boundless. 
 Suppose a man obliges the son, does that obligation 
 work upon the father? and why not upon the uncle 
 too? the brother? the wife? the sister? the mother? 
 nay, upon all that have any kindness for him? and 
 upon all the lovers of his friends? and upon all 
 that love tbem too? and so in infinitum. In this 
 case we must have recourse, as is said heretofore, to 
 the intention of the benefactor, and fix the obliga- 
 tion upon him unto whom the-kindness was directed. 
 If a man manures my ground, keeps my house from 
 burning or falling, it is a benefit to me, for I am the 
 better for it, and my house and land are insensible. 
 But if he save the life of my son. the benefit is to 
 my son; it is a joy and a comfort to me, but no obli- 
 gation, I am as much concerned as I ought to be in 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 67 
 
 the health, the felicity, and the welfare of my son, 
 as happy in the enjoyment of him; and. I should be 
 as unhappy as is possible in his loss; but it does not 
 follow that I must of necessity lie under an obliga- 
 tion for being either happier or less miserable, by 
 another body's means. There are some benefits, 
 which although conferred upon one man, may yet 
 work upon others; as a sum of money may be given 
 to a poor man for his own sake, which in the conse- 
 quence proves the relief of his whole family; but 
 still the immediate receiver is the debtor for it; for 
 the question is not, to whom it comes afterward to 
 be transferred, but who is the principal? and upon 
 whom it was first bestowed? My son's life is as dear 
 to me as my own; and in saving him you preserve me 
 too: in this case I will acknowledge myself obliged to 
 you, that is to say, in my son's name; for in my 
 own, and in strictness, I am not; but I am content 
 to make myself a voluntary debtor. What if he 
 had borrowed money? my paying of it does not at 
 all make it my debt. It would put me to the blush 
 perhaps to have him taken in bed with another 
 man's wife; but that does not make me an adulterer. 
 It is a wonderful delight and satisfaction that I 
 receive in his safety; but still this good is not a ben- 
 efit. A man may be the better for an animal, a 
 plant, a stone; but there must be a will, an inten- 
 tion, to make it an obligation. You. save the son 
 without so much as knowing the father, nay, with- 
 out so much as thinking of him; and, perhaps you 
 would have done the same thing even if you had 
 hated him. 
 
 But without any futher alteration of dialogue, the 
 conclusion is this; if you meant him the kindness, 
 he is answerable for it, and I may enjoy the fruit of 
 
68 SENECA OP BENEFITS, 
 
 it without being obliged by it: but if it was done for 
 my sake, then I am accountable; or howsoever, upon 
 any occasion, I am ready to do you all the kind 
 offices imaginable; not as the return of a benefit, 
 but as the earnest of a friendship; which you are 
 not to challenge neither, but to entertain as an act 
 of honor and of justice, rather than of gratitude. 
 If a man find the body of my dead father in a des- 
 ert, and give it a burial; if he did it as to my father, 
 I am beholden to him: but if the body was unknown 
 to him, and that he would have done the same thing 
 for any other body, I am no farther concerned in it 
 than as a piece of public humanity. 
 
 There are, moreover, some cases wherein an un- 
 worthy person may be obliged and for the sake of 
 others: and the sottish extract of an ancient nobilty 
 may be preferred before a better man that is but of 
 yesterday's standing. And it is but reasonable to 
 pay a reverence even to the memory of eminent 
 virtues. He that is not illustrious in himself, may 
 yet be reputed so in the right of his ancestors: and 
 there is a gratitude to be entailed upon the offspring 
 of famous progenitors. Was it not for the father's 
 sake that Cicero the son was made counsel? and was 
 it not the eminence of one Pompey that raised and 
 dignified the rest of his family? How came Caligula 
 to be emperor of the world? a man so cruel, that he 
 spilt blood as greedily as if he were to drink it: the 
 empire was not given to himself, but to his father 
 Germanicus. A brave man deserved that for him, 
 which he could never have challenged upon his own 
 merit. What was it that preferred Fabius Persicus, 
 (whose very mouth was the uncleanest part about 
 him,) what was it but the 300 of that family that so 
 
generously opposed the enemy for the safety of the 
 commonwealth ? 
 
 Nay, Providence itself is gracious to the wicked 
 posterity of an honorable race. The counsels of 
 heaven are guided by wisdom, mercy, and justice. 
 Some men are made kings of their proper virtues, 
 without any respect to their predecessors: others for 
 their ancestors' sakes, whose virtues, though neg- 
 lected in their lives, come to be afterward rewarded 
 in their issues. And it is but equity, that our grati- 
 tude should extend as far as the influence of their 
 heroical actions and examples. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE BENEFACTOR MUST HAVE NO BY-ENDS. 
 
 We come now to the main point of the matter in 
 question: that is to say, whether or not it be a thing 
 desirable in itself, the giving and receiving of 
 benefits? There is a sect of philosophers that 
 accounts nothing valuable but what is profitable, and 
 so makes all virtue mercenary; an unmanly mistake 
 to imagine, that the hope of gain, or fear of loss, 
 should make a man either the more or less honest. 
 As who should say, ' ' What will I get by it, and I 
 will be an honest man?" Whereas, on the contrary, 
 honesty is a thing in itself to be purchased at any 
 rate. It is not for a body to say, "It will be a charge, 
 a hazard, I shall give offence," etc. My business is 
 to do what I ought to do: all other considerations 
 are foreign to the office. Whensoever my duty calls 
 me, it is my part to attend, without scrupulizing 
 upon forms or difficulties. Shall I see an honest 
 man oppressed at the bar, and not assist him, for 
 fear of a court faction? or not second him upon the 
 highway against thieves, for fear of a broken head? 
 and choose rather to sit still, the quiet spectator of 
 fraud and violence? Why will men be just, tem- 
 perate, generous, brave, but because it carries along 
 with it fame and a good conscience? and for the 
 same reason, and no other, (to apply it to the sub- 
 
SENECA OP BENEFITS. 71 
 
 ject in hand,) let a man also be bountiful. The 
 school of Epicurus, I am sure, will never swallow 
 this doctrine: (that effeminate tribe of lazy and 
 voluptuous philosophers;) they will tell you, that 
 virtue is but the servant and vassal of pleasure. 
 "No," says Epicurus, " I am not for pleasure neither 
 without virtue." But, why then for pleasure, say I, 
 before virtue? Not that the stress of the controversy 
 lies upon the order only; for the power of it, as well 
 as the dignity, is now under debate. It is the office 
 of virtue to superintend, to lead, and to govern; but 
 the parts you have assigned it, are to submit, to fol- 
 low, and to be under command. But this, you will 
 say, is nothing to the purpose, so long as both sides 
 are agreed, that there can be no happiness without 
 virtue: "Take away that," says Epicurus, "and I 
 am as little a friend to pleasure as you." The pinch, 
 in short, is this, whether virtue itself be the supreme 
 good or the only cause of it? It is not the inverting 
 of the order that will clear this point; (though it is a 
 very preposterous error, to set that first which should 
 be last.) It does not half so much offend me; rang- 
 ing of pleasure before virtue, as the very comparing 
 of them; and the bringing of the two opposites, and 
 professed enemies, into any sort of competition. 
 
 The drift of this discourse is, to support the cause 
 of benefits; and to prove, that it is a mean and dis- 
 honorable thing to give for any other end than for 
 giving's sake. He that gives for gain, profit, or any 
 by-end, destroys the very intent of bounty; for it 
 falls only upon those that do not want, and perverts 
 the charitable inclinations of princes and of great 
 men, who cannot reasonably propound to themselves 
 any such end. What does the sun get by travelling 
 about the universe; by visiting and comforting all 
 
72 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 the quarters of the earth? Is the whole creation 
 made and ordered for the good of mankind, and 
 every particular man only for the good of himself? 
 There passes not an hour of our lives, wherein we do 
 not enjoy the blessings of Providence, without meas- 
 ure and without intermission. And what design 
 can the Almighty have upon us, who is in himself 
 full, safe, and inviolable? If he should give only for 
 his own sake, what would become of poor mortals, 
 that have nothing to return him at best but dutiful 
 acknowledgments? It is putting out of a benefit to 
 interest only to bestow where we may place it to ad- 
 vantage. 
 
 Let us be liberal then, after the example of our 
 great Creator, and give to others with the same con- 
 sideration that he gives to us. Epicurus's answer 
 will be to this, that God gives no benefits at all, but 
 turns his back upon the world; and without any con- 
 cern for us, leaves Nature to take her course: and 
 whether he does anything himself, or nothing, he 
 takes no notice, however, either of the good or of the 
 ill that is done here below. If there were not an 
 ordering and an over-ruling Providence, how comes 
 it (say I, on the other side) that the universality of 
 mankind should ever have so unanimously agreed 
 in the madness of worshipping a power that can 
 neither hear nor help us? Some blessings are freely 
 given us; others upon our prayers are granted us; 
 and every day brings forth instances of great and 
 of seasonable mercies. There never was yet any 
 man so insensible as not to feel, see, and understand, 
 a Deity in the ordinary methods of nature, though 
 many have been so obstinately ungrateful as not to 
 confess it; nor is any man so wretched as not to be 
 a partaker in that divine bounty. Some benefits, it 
 
SENECA Of benefits. '?'3 
 
 is true, may appear to be unequally divided; but it 
 is no small matter yet that we possess in common: 
 and which Nature has bestowed upon us in her very 
 self. If God be not bountiful, whence is it that we 
 have all that we pretend to? That which we give, 
 and that which we deny, that which we lay up, and 
 that which we squander away? Those innumer- 
 able delights for the entertainment of our eyes, 
 our ears, and our understandings? nay, that copious 
 matter even for luxury itself? For care is tr;ken, 
 not only for our necessities, but also for our pleas- 
 ures, and for the gratifying of all our senses and ap- 
 petites. So many pleasant groves; fruitful and 
 salutary plants; so many fair rivers that serve us, 
 both for recreation, plenty, and commerce: vicissi- 
 tudes of seasons; varieties of food, by nature made 
 ready to our hands, and the whole creation itself 
 subjected to mankind for health, medicine and do- 
 minion. We can be thankful to a friend for a few 
 acres, or a little money: and yet for the freedom and 
 command of the whole earth, and for the great bene- 
 fits of our being, as life, health, and reason, we look 
 upon ourselves as under no obligation. If a man 
 bestows upon us a house that is delicately beautified 
 with paintings, statues, gildings, and marble, we 
 make a mighty business of it, and yet it lies at the 
 mercy of a puff of wind, the snuff of a candle, and a 
 hundred other accidents, to lay it in the dust. And 
 is it nothing now to sleep under the canopy of 
 heaven, where we have the globe of the earth for 
 our place of repose, and the glories of the heavens 
 for our spectacle? How comes it that we should so 
 much value what we have, and yet at the same time 
 be so unthankful for it? Whence is it that we have 
 our breath, the comforts of light and of heat, the very 
 
74 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 blood that runs in our veins ? the cattle that feed us, 
 and the fruits of the earth that feed them? Whence 
 have we the growth of our bodies, the succession of 
 our ages, and the faculties of our minds? so many 
 veins of metals, quarries of marble, etc. The seed 
 of everything is in itself, and it is the blessing of 
 God that raises it out of the dark into act and mo- 
 tion. To say nothing of the charming varieties of 
 music, beautiful objects, delicious provisions for the 
 palate, exquisite perfumes, which are cast in, over 
 and above, to the common necessities of our being. 
 All this, says Epicurus, we are to ascribe to Xa- 
 ture. And why not to God, I beseech ye? as if they 
 were not both of them one and the same power, 
 working in the whole, and in every part of it. Or, 
 if you call hina the Almighty Jupiter; the Thunder- 
 er; the Creator and Preserver of us all: it comes to 
 the same issue; some will express him under the 
 notion of Fate; which is only a connexion of causes, 
 and himself the uppermost and original, upon which 
 all the rest depend. The Stoics represent the several 
 functions oi the Almighty Power under several ojj- 
 pellations. When they speak of him as the father 
 and the fountain ©f all beings, they call him Bac- 
 chus: and under the name of Hercules, they denote 
 him to be indefatigable and invincible; and in the 
 contemplation of him in the reason, order, propor- 
 tion, and wisdom of his proceedings, they call him 
 Mercury; so that which way soever thej- look, and 
 under what name soever they couch their meaning, 
 they never fail of finding him; for he is everywhere, 
 and tills his own work. If a man should borrow 
 money of Seneca, and say that he owes it to An- 
 nseus or Lucius, he may change the name but noit 
 his creditor; for let him take which of the three 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 75 
 
 names he pleases, he is still a debtor to the same 
 person. As justice, integrity, prudence, frugality, 
 fortitude, are all of them goods of one and the same 
 mind, so that whichsoever of them pleases us^ we 
 cannot distinctly say that it is this or that, but the 
 mind. 
 
 But, not to carry this digression too far; that which 
 God himself does, we are sure is well done; and we 
 are no less sure, that for whatsoever he gives, he 
 neither wants, expects, nor receives, anything, in 
 return; so that the end of a benefit ought to be the 
 advantage of the receiver; and that must be oui scope 
 without any by-regard to ourselves. It is objected 
 to us, the singular caution we prescribe in the choice 
 of the person: for it were a madness, we say, for a 
 husbandman to sow the sand: which, if true, say 
 they, you have an eye upon profit, as well in giving 
 as in plowing and sowing. And thenthey say again, 
 that if the conferring of a benefit were desirable in 
 itself, it would have no dependence upon the choice 
 of a man; for let us give it when, how, or whereso- 
 ever we please, it would be still a benefit. This does 
 not at all affect our assertion; for the person, the 
 matter, the manner, and the time, are circumstances 
 absolutely necessary to the reason of the action: 
 there must be a right judgment in all respects to 
 make it a benefit. It is my duty to be true to a trust, 
 and yet there may be a time or a place, wherein I 
 would make little difference betwixt the renouncing 
 of it and the delivering of it up; and the same rule 
 holds in benefits; I will neither render the one, nor 
 bestow the other, to the damage of the receiver. A 
 wicked man will run all risks to do an injury, and to 
 compass his revenge; and shall not an honest man 
 venture as far to do a good office? All benefits must 
 
76 SENfiCA OB" BENEFITS. 
 
 be gratuitous. A merchant sells me the com that 
 keeps me and my family from starving; but he sold 
 it for his interests, as well as I bought it for mine; 
 and so I owe him nothing for it. He that gives for 
 profit, gives to himself; as a physician or a lawyer, 
 gives counsel for a fee, and only makes use of me 
 for his own ends; as a grazier fats his cattle to bring 
 them to a better market. This is more properly the 
 driving of a trade than the cultivating of a generous 
 commerce. This for that, is rather a truck than a 
 benefit; and he deserves to be cozened that gives any 
 thing in hope of a return. And in truth, what end 
 should a man honorably propound? not profit; sure 
 that is vulgar and mechanic; and he that does not 
 contemn it can never be grateful. And then for 
 glory, it is a mighty matter indeed for a man to boast 
 of doing his duty. We are to give, if it were only to 
 avoid not giving; if any thing comes of it, it is clear 
 gain; and, at worst, there is nothing lost; beside, 
 that one benefit well placed makes amends for a 
 thousand miscarriages. It is not that I would ex- 
 clude the benefactor neither for being himself the 
 better for a good ofiice he does for another. Some 
 there are that do us good only for their own sakes; 
 others for ours; and some again for both. He that 
 does it for me in common with himself, if he had a 
 prospect upon both in the doing it, I am obliged to 
 him for it; and glad with all my heart that he had a 
 share in it. Nay, I were ungrateful and unjust if I 
 should not rejoice, that what was beneficial to me 
 might be so likewise to himself. 
 
 To pass now to the matter of gratitude and in- 
 gratitude. There never was any man yet so wicked 
 as not to approve of the one, and detest the other; 
 as the two things in the whole world, the one to be 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 77 
 
 the most abominated, the other the most esteemed. 
 The very story of an ungrateful action puts us out 
 of all patience, and gives us a loathing for the author 
 of it. "That inhuman villain," we cry, "to do so 
 horrid a thing:" not, "that inconsiderate fool for. 
 omitting so profitable a virtue;" which plainly 
 shows the sense we naturally have, both of the one 
 and of the other, and that we are led to it by a com- 
 mon impulse of reason and of conscience. Epicurus 
 fancies God to be without power, and without arms; 
 above fear himself, and as little to be feared. He 
 places him betwixt the orbs, solitary and idle, out of 
 the reach of mortals, and neither hearing our 
 prayers nor minding our concerns; and allows him 
 only such a veneration and respect as we pay to our 
 parents. If a man should ask him now, why any 
 reverence at all, if we have no obligation to him, or 
 rather, why that greater reverence to his fortuitous 
 atoms? his answer would be, that it was for their 
 majesty and their admirable nature, and not out of 
 any hope or expectation from them. So that by his 
 proper confession, a thing may be desirable for its 
 own worth. But, says he, gratitude is a virtue that 
 has commonly profit annexed to it. And where is 
 the virtue, say I, that has not? but still the virtue is 
 to be valued for itself, and not for the profit that 
 attends it. There is no question, but gratitude for 
 benefits received is the ready way to procure more; 
 and in requiting one friend we encourage many: but 
 these accessions fall in by the by; and if I were sure 
 that the doing of good ofiices would be my ruin, I 
 would yet pursue them. He that visits the sick, in 
 hope of a legacy, let him be never so friendly in all 
 other cases, I look upon him in this to be no better 
 than a raven, that watches a weak sheep only to 
 
78 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 peck out the eyes of it. We never give with so much 
 judgment or care, as when we consider the honesty 
 of the action, without any regard to the profit of it; 
 for our understandings are corrupted by fear, hope, 
 and pleasure. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THERE ABE MANY CASES WHEREIN A MAN MAY BE MINDED 
 OF A BENEFIT, BUT IT IS VERY RARELY TO BE CHAL- 
 LENGED, AND NEVER TO BE UPBRAIDED. 
 
 If the world were wise, and as honest as it should 
 be, there would be no need of caution or precept how 
 to behave ourselves in our several stations and duties; 
 for both the giver and the receiver would do what 
 they ought to do on their own accord: the one would 
 be bountiful, and the other grateful, and the only 
 way of minding a man of one good turn would be 
 the following of it with another. But as the case 
 stands, we must take other measures, and consult 
 the best we can, the common ease and relief of 
 mankind. 
 
 As there are several sorts' of ungrateful men, so 
 there must be several ways of dealing with them, 
 either by artifice, counsel, admonition, or reproof, 
 according to the humor of the person, and the degree 
 of the offence: provided always, that as well in the 
 reminding a man of a benefit, as in the bestowing 
 of it, the good of the receiver be the principal thing 
 intended. There is a curable ingratitude, and an 
 incurable; there is a slothful, a neglectful, a proud, 
 a dissembling, a disclaiming, a heedless, a forgetful, 
 and a malicious ingratitude; and the application 
 must be suited to the matter we have to work upon. 
 A gentle nature may be reclaimed by authoritj^^ ad- 
 
80 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 vice, or reprehension; a father, a husband, a friend 
 may do good in the case. There are a sort of lazy 
 and sluggish people, that live as if they were asleep, 
 and must be lugged and pinched to wake them. 
 These men are betwixt grateful and ungrateful; 
 they will neither deny an obligation nor return it, 
 and only want quickening. I will do all I can to 
 hinder any man from ill-doing, but especially a 
 friend; and yet more especially from doing ill to me. 
 I will rub up his memory with new benefits: if that 
 will not serve, I will proceed to good counsel, and 
 from thence to rebuke: if all fails, I will look upon 
 him as a desperate debtor, and even let him alone in 
 his ingratitude, without making him my enemy: 
 for no necessity shall ever make me spend time in 
 wrangling with any man upon that point. 
 
 Assiduity of obligation strikes upon the conscience 
 as well as the memory, and pursues an ungrateful 
 man till he becomes grateful: if one good office will 
 not do it, try a second, and then a third, ^o man 
 can be so thankless, but either shame, occasion, or 
 example, will, at some time or other, prevail upon 
 him. The very beasts themselves, even lions and 
 tigers, are gained by good usage: beside, that one 
 obligation does naturally draw on another; and a 
 man would not willingly leave his own work im- 
 perfect. " I have helped him thus far, and I will 
 even go through with it now." So that, over and 
 above the delight and the virtue of obliging, one 
 good turn is a shouting-horn to another. This, of all 
 hints, is perhaps the most effectual, as well as the 
 most generous. 
 
 In some cases it must be carried more home: as in 
 that of Julius Csesar, who, as he was hearing a 
 cause, the defendant finding himself pinched; "Sir»" 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 81 
 
 says he, "do not you remember a strain you got in 
 your ankle when you commanded in Spain; and that 
 a soldier lent you his cloak for a cushion, upon the 
 top of a craggy rock, under the shade of a little tree, 
 in the heat of the day?" "I remember it perfectly 
 well," says Csesar, "and that when I was ready to 
 choke with thirst, an honest fellow fetched me a 
 draught of water in his helmet." But that man, and 
 that helmet," says the soldier, "does Csesar think 
 that he could not know them again, if he saw 
 them?" "The man, perchance, I might," says Cse- 
 sar, somewhat offended, "but not the helmet. But 
 what is the story to my business? you are none of 
 the man." "Pardon me, Sir," says the soldier, 
 "I am that very man; but Csesar may well forget me: 
 for I have been trepanned since, and lost an eye at 
 the battle of Munda, where that helmet too had the 
 honor to be cleft with a Spanish blade." Csesar took 
 it as it was intended: and it was an honorable and a 
 prudent way of refreshing his memory. But this 
 would not have gone down so well with Tiberius: 
 for when an old acquaintance of- his began his ad- 
 dress to him with, " You remember, Csesar." "No," 
 says Csesar, (cutting him short,) " I do not remem- 
 ber what I WAS." Nov, with him, it was better to 
 be forgotten than remembered; for an old friend 
 was as bad as an informer. It is a common thing 
 for men to hate the authors of their preferment, as 
 the witnesses of their mean original. 
 
 There are some people well enough disposed to be 
 grateful, but they cannot hit upon it without a 
 prompter; they are a little like school-boys that 
 have treacherous memories; it is but helping them 
 here and there with a word, when they stick, and 
 they will go through with their lesson; they must be 
 
82 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 taught to be thankful, and it is a fair step, if we can 
 but bring them to be willing, and only oflfer at it. 
 Some benefits we have neglected; some we are not 
 willing to remember. He is ungrateful that dis- 
 owns an obligation, and so is he that dissembles it, 
 or to his power does not requite it; but the worst of 
 all is he that forgets it. Conscience, or occasion, 
 may revive the rest; but here the very memory of it 
 is lost. Those eyes that cannot endure the light are 
 weak, but those are stark blind that cannot see it. I 
 do not love to hear people say, "Alas! poor man, he 
 has forgotten it," as if that were the excuse of in- 
 gratitude, which is the very cause of it: for if he 
 were not ungrateful, he would not be forgetful, and 
 lay that out of the way which should be always up- 
 permost and in sight. He that thinks as he ought 
 to do, of requiting a benefit, is in no danger of for- 
 getting it. There are, indeed, some benefits so great 
 that they can never slip the memory; but those 
 which are less in value, and more in number, do 
 commonly escape us. We are apt enough to 
 acknowledge that "such a man has been the mak- 
 ing of us;" so long as we are in possession of the ad- 
 vantage he has brought us; but new appetites 
 deface old kindnesses, and -^e carry our prospect 
 forward to something more, without considering 
 what we have obtained already. All that is past we 
 give for lost; so that we are only intent upon the 
 future. When a benefit is once out of sight, or out 
 of use, it is buried. 
 
 It is the freak of many people, they cannot do a 
 good office but they are presently boasting of it, 
 drunk or sober: and about it goes into all companies 
 what wonderful things they have done for this man, 
 ftnd what for the other. A foolish and a dangerous 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 83 
 
 vanity, of a doubtful friend to make a certain ene- 
 my. For these reproaches and contempts will set 
 everybody's tongue a walking; and people will con- 
 clude that these things would never be, if there 
 were not something very extraordinary in the bot- 
 tonx of it. When it comes to that once, there is not 
 any calumny but fastens more or less, nor any false- 
 hood so incredible, but in some part or other of it, 
 shall pass for a truth. Our great mistake is this, we 
 are still inclined to make the most of what we give, 
 and the least of what we receive;- whereas we should 
 do the clean contrary, "It might have been more, 
 biit he had a great many to oblige. It was as much 
 as he cpuld well spare; but he will make it up some 
 other time," etc. Nay, we should be so far from 
 making publication of our bounties, as not to hear 
 them so much as mentioned without sweetening 
 the matter: as, "Alas, I owe him a great deal more 
 than that comes to. If it were in my power to serve 
 him, I should be very glad of it." And this, too, 
 not with the figure of a compliment, but with all 
 humanity and truth. There was a man of quality, 
 that in the triumviral proscription, was saved by one 
 of Csesar's friends, who would be still twitting him 
 with it; who it was that preserved him, and telling 
 him over and over, " you had gone to pot, friend, 
 but for me." " Pr'ythee," says the proscribed, " let 
 me hear no more of this, or even leave me as you 
 found me: I am thankful enough of myself to 
 acknowledge that I owe you my life, but it is death 
 to have it rung in my ears perpetually as a reproach; 
 it looks as if you had only saved me to carry me 
 about for a spectacle. I would fain forget the mis- 
 fortune that I was once a prisoner, without being 
 led in triumph every day of my life." 
 
84: SENECA OP BENEFITS. 
 
 Oh! the pride and folly of a great fortune, that 
 turns benefits into injuries! that delights in excesses, 
 and disgraces every thing it does! Who would 
 receive any -thing from it upon these terms? the 
 higher it raises us, the more sordid it makes us. 
 Whatsoever it gives it corrupts. What is there in it 
 that should thus puff us up? by what magic is it 
 that we are so transformed, that we do no longer 
 know ourselves? Is it impossible for greatness to be 
 liberal without insolence? The benefits that we 
 receive from our superiors are then welcome when 
 they come with an open hand, and a clear brow;; 
 without either contumely or state; and so as to pre- 
 vent our necessities. The benefit is never the 
 greater for the making of a bustle and a noise 
 about it: but the benefactor is much the less for the 
 ostentation of his good deeds; which makes that 
 odious to us, which would otherwise be delightful. 
 Tiberius had gotten a trick, when any man begged 
 money of him, to refer him to the senate, where all 
 the petitioners were to deliver up the names of their 
 creditors. His end perhaps was, to deter men from 
 asking, by exposing the condition of their fortunes 
 to an examination. But it was, however, a benefit 
 turned unto a reprehension, and he made a reproach 
 of a bounty. 
 
 But it is not enough yet to forbear the casting of a 
 benefit in a man's teeth; for there are some that will 
 not allow it to be so much as challenged. For an Ul 
 man, say they, will not make a return, though it be 
 demanded, and a good man will do it of himself: 
 and then the asking of it seems to turn it into a debt. 
 It is a kind of injury to be too quick with the former: 
 foi: to call upon him too soon reproaches him, as if 
 be would not have done it otherwise. Nor would I 
 
SENECA OF BENBICITS. 85 
 
 recall a benefit from any man so as to force it, but 
 only to receive it. If I let him quite alone, I make 
 myself guilty of his ingratitude: and undo him for 
 want of plain dealing. A father reclaims a disobe- 
 dient son, a wife reclaims a dissolute husband; and 
 one friend excites the languishing kindness of 
 another. How many men are lost for want of be- 
 ing touched to the quick? So long as I am not pressed, 
 I will rather desire a favor, than so much as mention 
 a requital; but if my country, my family, or my 
 liberty, be at stake, my zeal and indignation shall 
 overrule my modesty, and the world shall then un- 
 derstand that I have done all I could, not to stand in 
 need of an ungrateful man. And in conclusion the 
 necessity of receiving a benefit shall overcome the 
 shame of recalling it. Nor is it only allowable upon 
 some exigents to put the receiver in mind of a good 
 turn, but it is many times for the common advantage 
 of both parties. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 HOW PAE TO OBLIGE OR BEQUITE A WICKED MAN. 
 
 There are some benefits whereof a wicked man is 
 wholly incapable; of which hereafter. There are 
 others, which are bestowed upon him, not for his 
 own sake, but for secondary reasons; and of these 
 we have spoken in part already. There are, more- 
 over, certain common offices of humanity, which 
 are only allowed him as he is a man, and without 
 any regard either to vice or virtue. To pass over 
 the first point; the second must be handled with care 
 and distinction, and not without some seeming ex- 
 ceptions to the general rule; as first, here is no choice 
 or intention in the case, but it is a good office done 
 him for some by-interest, or by chance. Secondly, 
 There is no judgment in it neither, for it is to a 
 luicked man. But to shorten the matter: without 
 these circumstances it is not properly a benefit; or at 
 least not to him; for it looks another way. I rescue 
 a friend from thieves, and the other escapes for com- 
 pany. I discharge a debt for a friend, and the other 
 comes off too: for they were both in a bond. The 
 third is of a great latitude, and varies according to 
 the degree of generosity on the one side, and of 
 wickedness on the other. Some benefactors will su- 
 pererogate, and do more than they are bound to do; 
 and some men are so lewd, that it is dangerous to dp 
 
SENECA Op BEKTEFITS. 87 
 
 them any sort of good; no, not so much as by way 
 of return or requital. 
 
 If the benefactor's bounty must extend to the bad 
 as well as the good; put the case, that I promise a 
 good office to an ungrateful man; we are first to dis- 
 tinguish (as I said before) betwixt a common benefit 
 and a personal; betwixt what is given for merit and 
 what for company. Secondly, Whether or not we 
 know the person to be ungrateful, and can reasonably 
 conclude, that this vice is incurable. Thirdly, A con- 
 sideration must be had of the promise, how far that 
 may oblige us. The two first points are cleared both 
 in one: we cannot justify any particular kindness 
 for one that we conclude to be a hopelessly wicked 
 man: so that the force of the promise is in the single 
 point in question. In the promise of a good office to 
 a wicked or ungrateful man, I am to blame if I did 
 it knowingly; and I am to blame nevertheless, if I 
 did it otherwise: but I must yet make it good, (under 
 due qualifications,) because I promised it; that is to 
 say, matters continuing in the same state, for no 
 man is answerable for accidents. I will sup at such 
 a place though it be cold; I will rise at such an hour 
 though I be sleepy; but if it prove tempestuous, or 
 that I fall sick of a fever, I will neither do the one 
 nor the other. I promise to second a friend in a 
 quarrel, or to plead his cause; and when I come into 
 the field, or into the court, it proves to be against my 
 father or my brother: I promise to go a journey with 
 him, but there is no traveling upon the road for rob- 
 bing; my child is fallen sick; or my wife is in labor: 
 these circumstances are sufficient to discharge me; 
 for a promise against law or duty is void in its own 
 nature. 
 
88 BENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 The counsels of a wise man are certain, but events 
 are uncertain: and yet if I have passed a rash prom- 
 ise, I will in some degree punish the temerity of 
 making it with the damage of keeping it, unless it 
 turn very much to my shame or detriment, and then 
 I will he my own confessor in the point, and rather 
 be once guilty of denying, than always of giving. 
 It is not with a benefit as with a debt — it is one thing 
 to trust an ill paymaster, and another thing to oblige 
 an unworthy person — the one is an ill man, and the 
 other only an ill husband. 
 
 There was a valiant fellow in the army, that Philip 
 of Macedon took particular notice of, and he gave 
 him several considerable marks of the kindness he 
 had for him. This soldier put to sea and was cast 
 away upon a coast where a charitable neighbor took 
 him up half dead, carried him to the house, and 
 there, at his own charge maintained and provided 
 for him thirty days, until he was perfectly recovered, 
 and, after all, furnished him over and above, with a 
 viaticum at parting. The soldier told him the 
 mighty matters that he would do for him in return, 
 so soon as he should have the honor once again to 
 see his master. To court he goes, tells Philip of the 
 wreck, but not a syllable of his preserver, and begs 
 the estate of this very man that kept him alive. It 
 was with Philip as it was with many other princes, 
 they give they know not what, especially in a time 
 of war. He granted the soldier his request, contem- 
 plating at the same time, the impossibility of satisfy- 
 ing so many ravenous appetites as he had to please. 
 When the good maiU came to be turned out of all, he 
 was not so mealy-mouthed as to thank his majesty 
 for not giving away his person too as well as his 
 fortune; but in a bold, frank letter to Philip, made a 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 89 
 
 just report of the whole story. The king was so 
 incensed at the abuse, that he immediately com- 
 manded the right owner to be restored to his estate, 
 and the unthankful guest and soldier to be stigma- 
 tized for an example to others. 
 
 Should Philip now have kept this promise? First, 
 he owed the soldier nothing. Secondly, it would 
 have been injurious and impious; and, lastly, a pre- 
 cedent of dangerous consequence to human society; 
 for it would have been little less than an interdiction 
 of fire and water to the miserable, to have inflicted 
 such a penalty upon relieving them; so that there 
 must be always some tacit exception or reserve: if I 
 can, if I may; or, if matters continue as they were. 
 
 If it should be my fortune to receive a benefit 
 from one that afterwards betrays his country, I 
 should still reckon myself obliged to him for such a 
 requital as might stand with my public duty; I 
 would not furnish him with arms, nor with money 
 or credit, or levy or pay soldiers; but I should not 
 stick to gratify him at my own expense with such 
 curiosities as might please him one way without 
 doing mischief another. I would not do any thing 
 that might contribute to the support or, advantage 
 of his party. But what should I do now in the case 
 of a benefactor, that should afterwards become not 
 only mine and my country's enemy, but the common 
 enemy of mankind! I would here distinguish 
 betwixt the wickedness of a man and the cruelty of 
 a beast — betwixt a limited or a particular passion 
 and a sanguinary rage that extends to the hazard 
 and destruction of human society. In the former 
 case I would quit scores, that I might have no more 
 to do with him; but if he comes once to delight in 
 blood, and to act outrages with greediness— to study 
 
90 SENECA OP BENEFITS. 
 
 and invent tornaents, and to take pleasure in them— 
 the law of reasonable nature has discharged me of 
 such a debt. But this is an impiety so rare that it 
 might pass for a portent, and be reckoned among 
 comets and monsters. Let us therefore restrain our 
 discourse to such men as we detest without horror; 
 such men as we see every day in courts, camps, and 
 upon the seats of justice; to such wicked men I will 
 return what I have received, without making any 
 advantage of their unrighteousness. 
 
 It does not divert the Almighty from being still 
 gracious, though we proceed daily in the abuse of 
 his bounties. How many there are that enjoy the 
 comfort of the light that do not deserve it; that wish 
 they had never been born! and yet Nature goes 
 quietly on with her work, and allows them a being, 
 even in despite of their unthankfulness. Such a 
 knave, we cry, was better used than I : and the same 
 complaint we extend to Providence itself. How 
 many wicked men have good crops, when better than 
 themselves have their fruits blasted! Such a man, 
 we say, has treated me very ill. Why, what should 
 we do, but that very thing which is- done by God 
 himself? that is to say, give to the ignorant, and 
 persevere to the wicked. All our ingratitude, we 
 see, does not turn Providence from pouring down of 
 benefits, even upon those that question whence they 
 come. The wisdom of Heaven does all things with 
 a regard to the good of the universe, and the bless- 
 ings of nature are granted in common, to the worst 
 as well as to the best of men; for they live promis- 
 cuously together; and it is God's will, that the 
 wicked shall rather fare the better for the good, than 
 that the good shall fare the worse for the wicked. 
 It is true that a wise prince will confer peculiar hon- 
 
SEHECA OF BENiEPlTS. 91 
 
 ors only upon the worthy; but in the deahng of a 
 public dole, there is no respect had to the manners 
 of the man; but a thief or traitor shall put in for a 
 share as well as an honest man. If a good man and 
 a wicked man sail both in the same bottom, it is im- 
 possible that the same wind which favors the one 
 should cross the other. The common benefits of 
 laws, privileges, communities, letters, and medicines, 
 are permitted to the bad as well as to the good; and 
 no man ever yet suppressed a sovereign remedy for 
 fear a wicked man might be cured with it. Cities 
 are built for both sorts, and the same remedy works 
 upon both alike. In these cases, we are to set an 
 estimate upon the persons: there is a great differ- 
 ence betwixt the choosing of a man and the not ex- 
 cluding him: the law is open to the rebellious as well 
 as to the obedient: there are some benefits which, if 
 they were not allowed to all, could not be enjoyed 
 by any. The sun was never made for me, but for 
 the comfort of the world, and for the providential 
 order of the seasons; and yet I am not without my 
 private obligation also. To conclude, he that will 
 oblige the wicked and the ungrateful, must resolve 
 to oblige nobody; for in some sort or another we are 
 all of us wicked, we are all of us ungrateful, every 
 man of us. 
 
 We have been discoursing all this while how far a 
 wicked man may be obliged, and the Stoics tell us 
 at last, that he cannot be obliged at all. For they 
 make him incapable of any good, and consequently 
 of any benefit. But he has this advantage, that if 
 he cannot be obliged, he cannot be ungrateful: for 
 if he cannot receive, he is not bound to return. On 
 the other side, a good man and an ungrateful, are a 
 contradiction: so that at this rate there is no such 
 
93 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 thing as ingratitude in nature. They compare a 
 wicked man's mind to a vitiated stomach; he cor- 
 rupts whatever he receives, and the best nourish- 
 ment turns to the disease. But taking this for 
 granted, a wicked man may yet so far be obliged as 
 to pass for ungrateful, if he does not requite what 
 he receives: for though it be not a perfect benefit, 
 yet he receives something like it. There are goods 
 of the mind, the body, and of fortune. Of the first 
 sort, fools and wicked men are wholly incapable; to 
 the rest they may be admitted. But why should I 
 call any man ungrateful, you will say, for not re- 
 storing that which I deny to be a benefit? I answer, 
 that if the receiver take it for a benefit, and fails of 
 a return, it is ingratitude in him: for that which 
 goes for an obligation among wicked men, is an ob- 
 ligation upon them: and they may pay one another 
 in their own coin; the money is current, whether it 
 be gold or leather, when it comes once to be author- 
 ized. ISTay, Cleanthes carries it farther; he that is 
 wanting, says he, to a kind oflBce, though it be no 
 benefit, would have done the same thing if it had 
 been one; and is as guilty as a thief is, that has set 
 his booty, and is already armed and mounted with a 
 purpose to seize it, though he has not yet drawn 
 blood. Wickedness is formed in the heart; and the 
 matter of fact is only the discovery and the execu- 
 tion of it. Now, though a wicked man cannot either 
 receive or bestow a benefit, because he wants the 
 will of doing good, and for that he is no longer 
 wicked, when virtue has taken possession of him; 
 yet we commonly call it one, as we call a man illit- 
 erate that is not learned, and naked that is not well 
 clad; not but that the one can read, and the other is 
 covered. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A GENERAL VIEW OF THE PAKTS AND DTTTIES OP THE 
 BENEPACTOK. 
 
 The three main points in the question of benefits 
 are, first, a judicious choice in the object; secondly, 
 in the matter of our benevolence; and thirdly, a 
 grateful felicity in the manner of expressing it. But 
 there are also incumbent upon the benefactor other 
 considerations, which will ^deserve a place in this 
 discourse. 
 
 It is not enough to do one good turn, and to do it 
 with a good grace too, unless we follow it with more, 
 and without either upbraiding or repining. It is a 
 common shift, to charge that upon the ingratitude 
 of the receiver, which, in truth, is most commonly 
 the levity and indiscretion of the giver; for all cir- 
 cumstances must be duly weighed to consummate 
 the action. Some there are that we find ungrateful; 
 but what with our forwardness, change of humor 
 and reproaches, there are more that we raake so. 
 And this is the business : we give with design, and 
 most to those that are able to give most again. We 
 give to the covetous, and to the ambitious; to those 
 that can never be thankful, (for their desires are in- 
 satiable,) and to those that ivill not. He that is a 
 tribune would be praetor; the praetor, a consul; never 
 reflecting upon what he was, but only looking for- 
 ward to what he would be. People are still compute 
 
94 SENECA OP BENEFITS. 
 
 ing, Must I lose this or that benefit? If it be lost, 
 the fault lies in the ill bestowing of it; for rightly- 
 placed, it is as good as consecrated; if we be deceived 
 in another, let us not be deceived in ourselves too. 
 A charitable man will mend the matter: and say to 
 himself, Perhaps he has forgot it, perchance he could 
 not, perhaps he ivill yet requite it. A patient creditor 
 will, of an ill pay-master, in time make a good one; 
 an obstinate goodness overcomes an ill disposition, 
 as a barren soil is made fruitful by care and tillage. 
 But let a man be never so ungrateful or inhuman, 
 he shall never destroy the satisfaction of my having 
 done a good office. 
 
 But what if others will be wicked? does it follow 
 that we must be so too? If others will be ungrateful, 
 must ive therefore be inhuman? To give and to lose, 
 is nothing; but to lose and to give still, is the part 
 of a great mind. And the others in effect is the 
 greater loss; for the one does but lose his benefit, 
 and the other loses himself. The light shines upon 
 the profane and sacrilegious as well as upon the 
 righteous. How many disappointments do we meet 
 with in our wives and children, and yet we couple 
 still? He that has lost one battle hazards another. 
 The mariner puts to sea again after a wreck. An 
 illustrious mind does not propose the profit of a good 
 office, but the duty. If the world be wicked, we 
 should yet persevere in well-doing, even among evil 
 men. I had rather never receive a kindness than 
 never bestow one: not to return a benefit is the 
 greater sin, but not to confer it is the earlier. We 
 cannot propose to ourselves a more glorious example 
 than that of the Almighty, who neither needs nor 
 expects anything from us; and yet he is continually 
 sho'^ering down and distributing his mercies and 
 
SENECA OP BENEFITS. 95 
 
 his grace among us, not only for our necessities, but 
 also for our delights; as fruits and seasons, rain and 
 sunshine, veins of water and of metal; and all this 
 to the wicked as well as to the good, and without 
 any other end than the common benefit of the re- 
 ceivers. With what face then can we be mercenary 
 one to another, that have received all things from 
 Divine Providence gratis? It is a common saying, 
 "I gave such or such a man so much money: I 
 would I had thrown it into the sea;" and yet the 
 merchant trades again after a piracy, and the banker 
 ventures afresh after a bad security. He that will 
 do no good offices after a disappointment, must stand 
 still, and do just nothing at all. The plow goes on 
 after a barren year: and while the ashes are yet 
 warm, we raise a new house upon the ruins of a 
 former. What obligations can be greater than those 
 which children receive from their parents? and yet 
 should we give them over in their infancy, it were 
 all to no purpose. Benefits, like grain, must be fol- 
 lowed from the seed to the harvest. I will not so 
 much as leave any place for ingratitude. I will pur- 
 sue, and I will encompass the receiver with benefits; 
 so that let him look which way he will, his bene- 
 factor shall be still in his eye, even when he would 
 avoid his own memory: and then I will remit to one 
 man because he calls for it; to another, because he 
 does not; to a third, because he is wicked; and to a 
 fourth, because he is the contrary. I will cast away 
 a good turn upon a bad man, and I will requite a good 
 one; the- one because it is my duty, and the other 
 that I may not be in debt. 
 
 I do not love to hear any man complain that he 
 has met with a thankless man. If he has met but 
 with one, he has either been very fortunate or very 
 
96 SENECA OP BENEFITS. 
 
 careful. And yet care is not sufficient: for there is 
 no way to escape the hazard of losing a benefit but 
 the not bestowing of it, and to neglect a duty to my- 
 self for fear another should abuse it. It is another's 
 fault if he be ungrateful, but it is mine if I do not 
 give. To find one thankful man, I avIU oblige a great 
 many that are not so. The bu:-iness of mankind 
 would be at a stand, if we should do nothing for fear 
 of miscarriages in matters of certain event. I will 
 try and believe all things, before I give any man 
 over, and do all that is possible that I may not lose a 
 good office and a friend together. What do I know 
 but he may misunderstand the obligation? business 
 may have put it out of his head, or taken him off 
 from it: he may have slipt his opportunity. I will 
 say, in excuse of human weakness, that one man's 
 memory is not sufficient for all things; it is but a 
 limited capacity, so as to hold only so much, and no 
 more: and when it is once full, it must let out part 
 of what it had. to take in anything beside; and the 
 last benefit ever sits closest to us. In our youth we 
 forget the obligations of our infancy, and when we 
 are men we forget those of our youth. If nothing 
 will prevail, let him keep what he has and welcome; 
 but let him have a care of returning evil for good, 
 and making it dangerous for a man to do lus duty. 
 I would no more give a benefit for such a man, than 
 I would lend money to a beggarly spendthrift; or de- 
 posit any in the hands of a known knight of the post. 
 However the case stands, an ungrateful person is 
 never the better for a reproach; if he be already 
 hardened in his wickedness, he gives no heed to it; 
 and if he be not, it turns a doubtful modesty into an 
 incorrigible impudence: beside that, he watches for 
 all jU words to pick a quarrel with them. 
 
SENECA OP BENEFITS. 97 
 
 As the benefactor is not to upbraid a benefit, so 
 neither to delay it: the one is tiresome, and the other 
 odious. We naust not hold men in hand, as phy- 
 sicians and surgeons do their patients, and keep them 
 longer in fear and pain than needs, only to magnify 
 the cure. A generous man gives easily, and receives 
 as he gives, but never exacts. He rejoices in the re- 
 turn, and judges favorably of it whatever it be, and 
 contents himself with bare thanks for a requital. It 
 is a harder matter with some to get the benefit after 
 it is promised than the first promise of it, there must 
 be so many friends made in the case. One must be 
 desired to solicit another; and he must be entreated 
 to move a third; and a fourth must be at last be- 
 sought to receive it; so that the author, upon the up- 
 shot, has the least share in the obligation. It is then 
 welcome when it comes free, and without deduction; 
 and no man either to intercept or hinder, or to detain 
 it. And let it be of such a quality too, that it be not, 
 only delightful in the receiving, but after it is re-. 
 ceived; which it will certainly be, if we do but ob-. 
 serve this rule, never to do any thing for another 
 which we would not hQnestly desire fgr ourselves.. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 HOW THE KECBIVER OUGHT TO BEHAVE HIMSELF. 
 
 There are certain rules in common betwixt the 
 giver and the receiver. We must do both cheerfully, 
 that the giver may receive the fruit of his benefit in 
 the very act of bestowing it. It is a just ground of 
 satisfaction to see a friend pleased; but it is much 
 more to make him so. The intention of the one is 
 to be suited to the intention of the other; and there 
 must be an emulation betwixt them, whether shall 
 oblige most. Let the one say, that he has received 
 a benefit, and let the other persuade himself that he 
 has not returned it. Let the one say, I am paid, and 
 the other, I am yet in your debt; let the benefactor 
 acquit the receiver, and the receiver bind himself. 
 The frankness of the discharge heightens the obh- 
 gation. It is in conversation as in a tennis-court; 
 benefits are to be tossed like balls; the longer the 
 rest, the better are the gamesters. The giver, in 
 some respect, has the odds, because (as in a race) he 
 starts first, and the other must use great diligence to 
 overtake him. The return must be larger than the 
 first obligation to come up to it; and it is a kind of 
 ingratitude not to render it with interest. In a mat- 
 ter of money, it is a common thing to pay a debt out 
 of course, and before it be due; but we account our- 
 selves to owe nothing for a good pfiice; whereas th^ 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 99 
 
 benefit increases by delay. So insensible are we of 
 the most important affair of human life! That man 
 were doubtless in a miserable condition, that could 
 neither see, nor hear, nor taste, nor feel, nor smell; 
 but how much more unhappy is he then that, want- 
 ing a sense of benefits, loses the greatest comfort in 
 nature in the bliss of giving and receiving them? 
 He that takes a benefit as it is meant is in the right; 
 for the benefactor has then his end, and his only 
 end, when the receiver is grateful. 
 
 The more glorious part, in appearance, is that of 
 the giver; but the receiver has undoubtedly the 
 harder game to play in many regards. There are 
 some from whom I would not accept of a benefit; 
 that is to say, from those upon whom I would not 
 bestow one. For why should I not scorn to receive 
 a benefit where I am ashamed to own it? and I 
 would yet be more tender too, where I receive, than 
 where I give; for it is no torment to be in debt 
 where a man has no mind to pay; as it is the 
 greatest delight imaginable to be engaged by a 
 friend," whom I should yet have a kindness for; if 
 I were never so much disobliged. It is a pain to an 
 honest and a generous mind to lie under a duty of 
 affection against inclination. I do not speak here 
 of wise men, that love to do what they ought to do; 
 that have their passions at command; that prescribe 
 laws to themselves, and keep them when they have 
 done; but of men in a state of imperfection, that 
 may have a good will perhaps to be honest, and yet 
 be overborne by the contumacy of their affections. 
 We must therefore have a care to whom we become 
 obliged; and I would be much stricter yet in the 
 choice of a creditor for benefits than for money. In 
 th© one casej it i§ but paying what I had, and the 
 
100 SENECA OF BENEFITS 
 
 debt is discharged; in the other, I do not only owe 
 more, but when I have paid that, I am still in ar- 
 rear: and this law is the very foundation of friend- 
 ship. I will suppose myself a prisoner; and a 
 notorious villain offers to lay down a good sum of 
 money for my redemption. First, Shall I make use 
 of this money or not? Secondly, If I do, what re- 
 turn shall I make him for it? To the first point, I 
 will take it; but only as a debt; nol as a benefit, 
 that shall ever tie me to a friendship with him; and, 
 secondly, my acknowledgment shall be only corres- 
 pondent to such an obligation. It is a school ques- 
 tion, whether or not Brutus, that thought Caesar not 
 fit to live, (and put himself at the head of a con- 
 spiracy against him,) could honestly have received 
 his life from Csesar, if he had fallen into Caesar's 
 power, without examining what reason moved him 
 to that action? How great a man soever he was in 
 other cases, without dispute he was extremely out 
 in this, and below the dignity of his profession. 
 For a Stoic to fear the name of a king, when yet 
 monarchy is the best state of government; or there 
 to hope for liberty, where so great rewards are pro- 
 pounded, both for tyrants and their slaves; for him 
 to imagine ever to bring the laws to their former 
 state, where so many thousand lives had been lost 
 in the contest, not so much whether they should 
 serve or not, but who should be their master: he was 
 strangely mistaken, in the nature and reason of 
 tilings, to fancy, that when Julius was gone, some- 
 body else would not start up in his place, when 
 there was yet a Tarquin found, after so many kings 
 that were destroyed, either by sword or thunder: 
 and yet the resolution is, that he might have 
 received it, but not as a benefit; for at that rate I 
 
SENECA OP BENEFITS. 101 
 
 owe my life to every man that does not take it 
 away. 
 
 Grsecinus Julius (whom Caligula put to death out 
 of a pure malice to his virtue) had a considerable 
 sum of money sent him from Fabius Persicus (a 
 man of great and infamous example) as a contribu- 
 tion towards the expense of plays and other public 
 entertainments; but Julius would not receive it; and 
 some of his friends that had an eye more upon the 
 present than the presenter, asked him, with some 
 freedom, what he meant by refusing it? "Why," 
 says he, " do you think that I will take money 
 where I would not take so much as a glass of wine?" 
 After this Rebilus (a man of the same stamp) sent 
 him a greater sum upon the same score. "You 
 must excuse me," says h^ to the messenger, " for I 
 would not take any thing of Persicus neither." 
 
 To match this scruple of receiving money with 
 another of keeping it; and the sum not above three 
 pence, or a groat at most. There was a certain 
 Pythagorean that contracted with a cobbler for a 
 pair of shoes, and some three or four days after, go- 
 ing to pay him his money, the shop was shut up; 
 and when he had knocked a great while at the door, 
 "Friend," says a fellow, "you may hammer your 
 heart out there, for the man that you look for is 
 dead. And when our friends are dead, we hear no 
 more news of them; but yours, that are to live 
 again, will shift well enough," (alluding to Pytha- 
 gora's transmigration). Upon this the philosopher 
 went away, with his money chinking in his hand, 
 and well enough content to save it: at last, his con- 
 science took check at it; and, upon reflection, 
 "Though the man be dead," says he, "to others, he 
 is alive to thee; pay him what thou owest him:" and 
 
102 SENBCA Of BENEflTS. 
 
 SO he went back presently, and thrust it into his 
 shop through the chink of the door. Whatever we 
 owe, it is our part to find where to pay it, and to do 
 it without asking too; for whether the creditor be 
 good or bad, the debt is still the same. 
 
 If a benefit be forced upon me, as from a tyrant, 
 or a superior, where it may be dangerous to refuse, 
 this is rather obeying than receiving, where the ne- 
 cessity destroys the choice. The way to know what 
 I have a mind to do, is to leave me at liberty 
 whether I will do it or not; but it is yet a benefit, if 
 a man does me good in spite of my teeth; as it is 
 none, if I do any man good against my will. A 
 man may both hate and yet receive a benefit at 
 the same time; the money is never the worse, be- 
 cause a fool that is not rSad in coins refuses to take 
 it. If the thing be good for the receiver, and so in- 
 tended, no matter how ill it is taken. Nay, the 
 receiver may be obliged, and not know it; but there 
 can be no benefit which is unknown to the giver. 
 Neither will I, upon any terms, receive a benefit 
 from a worthy person that may do hiin a mischief: 
 it is the part of an enemy to save himself by doing 
 another man harm. 
 
 But whatever we do, let us be sure always to keep 
 a grateful mind. It is not enough to say, what re- 
 quital shall a poor man offer to a prince; or a slave 
 to his patron; when it is the glory of gratitude that 
 it depends only upon the good will? Suppose a man 
 defends my fame; delivers me from beggary; saves 
 my life; or gives me liberty, that is more than life; 
 how shall I be grateful to that man? I will receive, 
 cherish, and rejoice in the benefit. Take it kindly, 
 and it is requited: not that the debt itself is dis- 
 charged, but it is nevertheless a discharge of the 
 
SENECA 01? BENEFITS. 103 
 
 conscience. I will yet distinguish betwixt the debt- 
 or that becomes insolvent by expenses upon whores 
 and dice, and another that is undone by fire or 
 thieves; nor do I take this gratitude for a payment, 
 but there is no danger, I presume, of being arrested 
 for such a debt. 
 
 In the return of benefits let us be ready and cheer- 
 ful but not pressing. There is as much greatness of 
 mind in the owing of a good turn as in doing of it; 
 and we must no more force a requital out of season 
 than be wanting in it. He that precipitates a re- 
 turn, does as good as say, "I am weary of being in 
 this man's debt:" not but that the hastening of a re- 
 quital, as a good office, is a commendable disposi- 
 tion, but it is another thing to do it as a discharge; 
 for it looks like casting off a heavy and a trouble- 
 some burden. It is for the benefactor to say when 
 he will receive it; no matter f-or the opinion of the 
 world, so long as I gratify my own conscience; for 
 I cannot be mistaken in myself, but another may. 
 He that is over solicitous to return a benefit, thinks 
 the other so likewise to receive it. If he had rather 
 we should keep it, why should we refuse, and pre- 
 suine to dispose of his treasure, who may call it in, 
 or let it lie out, at his choice? It is as much a fault 
 to receive what I ought not, as not to give what I 
 ought; for the giver has the privilege of choosing 
 his own time of receiving. 
 
 Some are too proud in the conferring of benefits; 
 others, in the receiving of them; which is, to say the 
 truth, intolerable. The same rule serves both sides, 
 as'in the case of a father and a son; a husband and 
 a wife; one friend or acquaintance and another, 
 where the duties are known and common. There 
 are some that will not receive a benefit but in pri- 
 
104 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 vate, nor thank you for it but in your ear, or in a 
 corner; there must be nothing under hand and seal, 
 no brokers, notaries, or witnesses, in the case: that 
 is not so much a scruple of modesty as a kind of de- 
 nying the obligation, and only a less hardened in- 
 gratitude. Some receive benefits so coldly and in- 
 differently, that a man would think the obligation 
 lay on the other side: as who should say, "Well, 
 since you will needs have it so, I am content to take 
 it." Some again so carelessly, as if they hardly 
 knew of any such thing, whereas we should rather 
 aggravate the matter: "You cannot imagine how 
 many you have obliged in this act: there never was 
 so great, so kind, so seasonable a courtesy." Fur- 
 nius never gained so much upon Augustus as by a 
 speech, upon the getting of his father's pardon for 
 siding with Antony: "This grace," says he, "is the 
 only injury that ever Csesar did me: for it has put 
 me upon a necessity of living and dying ungrate- 
 ful." It is safer to affront some people than to ob- 
 lige them; for the better a man deserves, the worse 
 they will speak of him: as if the possessing of open 
 hatred to their benefactors were an argument that 
 they lie under no obligation. Some people are so sour 
 and ill-natured, that they take it for an affront to 
 have an obligation or a return offered them, to the 
 discouragercent both of bounty and gratitude to- 
 gether. The not doing, and the not receiving, of 
 benefits, are equally a mistake. He that refuses a 
 new one, seems to be offended at an old one: and 
 yet sometimes I would neither return a benefit, no, 
 nor so much as receive it, if I might. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 OF GRATITUDE. 
 
 He that preaches gratitude, pleads the cause both 
 of God and man; for without it we can neither be 
 sociable nor religious. There is a strange delight in 
 the very purpose and contemplation of it, as well as 
 in the action; when I can say to myself, " I love my 
 benefactor; what is there in this world that I would 
 not do to oblige and serve him?" Where I have not 
 the means of a requital, the very meditation of it is 
 sufficient. A man is nevertheless an artist for not 
 having his tools about him; or a musician, because 
 he wants his fiddle: nor is he the less brave because 
 his hands are bound; or the worse pilot for being 
 upon dry ground. If I have only ivill to be grateful, 
 I am so. Let me be upon the wheel, or under the 
 hand of the executioner; let me be burnt limb by 
 limb, and my whole body dropping in the fiames, 
 a good conscience supports me in all extremes; nay, 
 it is comfortable even in death itself; for when we 
 come to approach that point, what care do we take 
 to summon and call to mind all our benefactors, and 
 the good offices they have done us, that we leave the 
 world fair, and set our minds in order? Without 
 gratitude, we can neither have security, peace, nor 
 reputation: and it is not therefore the less desirable, 
 because it draws many adventitious benefits along 
 
106 SENECA Of BENEFITS. 
 
 with it. Suppose the sun, the moon, and the stars, 
 had no other business than only to pass over our 
 heads, without any effect upon our minds or bodies; 
 without any regard to our healtli, fruits, or seasons; 
 a [man could hardly lift up his eyes towards the 
 heavens without wonder and veneration, to see so 
 many millions of radiant lights, and to observe their 
 courses and revolutions, even without any respect to 
 the common good of the universe. But Avhen we 
 come to consider that Providence and Xatm-e aie 
 still at work when we sleep, with the admirable force 
 and operation ^of their influences and motions, we 
 cannot then but acknowledge their ornament to be 
 the least part of their value; and that they are more 
 to be esteemed for their virtues than for their splen- 
 dor. Their main end and use is luatter of life and 
 necessity, though they may seem to us more consid- 
 erable for their majesty and beauty. And so it is 
 with gratitude ; we love it rather for secondary ends, 
 than for itself. 
 
 No man can be grateful without contemning those 
 things that put the common people out of their wits. 
 We must go into banishment; lay down our lives; 
 beggar and expose ourselves to reproaches; nay. it 
 is often seen, that loyalty suffers the punishment 
 duo to rebellion, and that treason receives the re- 
 wards of fidelity. As the benefits of it are many and 
 great, so are the hazards; which is the case more or 
 less of all other virtues: and it were hard, if this, 
 above the rest, should be both painful and fruitless: 
 so that though we may go currently on with it in a 
 smooth way, we must yet prepare and resolve (if 
 need be) to force our passage to it. even if the way 
 were covered with thorns and serpents; and fall 
 back, fall edge, we must be grateful still:- grateful 
 
SENECA OE' BENEB*MS. 107 
 
 for the virtue's sake, and grateful over and above 
 upon the point of interest; for it preserves old friends, 
 and gains new ones. It is not our business to fish 
 for one benefit with another; and by bestowing a 
 little to get more; or to oblige for any sort of expe- 
 dience, but because I ought to do it, and because I 
 love it, and that to such a degree, that if I could not 
 be grateful without appearing the contrary, if I 
 could not return a benefit without being suspected 
 of doing an injury; in despite <f^ infamy itself, I 
 would yet be grateful. No man is greater in my 
 esteem than he that ventures the fame to preserve 
 the conscience of an honest man; the one is but im- 
 aginary, the other solid and inestimable. I cannot 
 call him grateful, who in the instant of returning 
 one benefit has his eye upon another. He that is 
 grateful for profit or fear, is like a woman . that is 
 honest only upon the score of reputation. 
 
 As gratitude is a necessary and a glorious, so it is 
 also an obvious, a cheap, and an easy virtue; so 
 obvious, that wheresoever there is a life there is a 
 place for it — so cheap that the covetous man may be 
 grateful without expense — and so easy that the slug- 
 gard may be so, likewise, without labor. And yet it 
 is not without its niceties too; for there may be a 
 time, a place or occasion wherein I ought not to 
 return a benefit; nay, wherein I may better disown 
 it than deliver it. 
 
 Let it be understood, by the way, that it is one 
 thing to be grateful for a good office, and another 
 thing to return it— the good will is enough in one 
 case, being as much as the one side demands and the 
 other promises; but the effect is requisite in the 
 other. The physician that has done his best is ac- 
 quitted though the patient dies, and so is the advo- 
 
108 SENECA OV BENEFITS. 
 
 cate, though the client may lose his cause. The 
 general of an army, though the battle be lost, is yet 
 worthy of commendation, if he has discharged all 
 the parts of a prudent commander; in this case, the 
 one acquits himself, though the other be never the 
 better for it. He is a grateful man that is always 
 willing and ready: and he that seeks for all means 
 and occasions of requiting a benefit, though without 
 attaining his end, does a great deal more than the 
 man that, without any trouble, makes an immediate 
 return. Suppose my friend a prisoner, and that I 
 have sold my estate for his ransom; I put to sea in 
 foul weather, and upon a coast that is pestered with 
 pirates; my friend happens to be redeemed before I 
 come to the place; my gratitude is as much to be es- 
 teemed as if he had been a prisoner; and if I 
 had been taken and robbed myself, it would still 
 have been the same case. Naj', there is a grati- 
 tude in the very countenance; for an honest man 
 bears his conscience in his face, and propounds 
 the requital of a good turn in the very moment 
 of receiving it; he is cheerful and confident; and, 
 in the possession of a true friendship, delivered 
 from all anxiety. There is this difference betwixt a 
 thankful man and an unthankful, the one is always 
 pleased in the good he has done, and the other only 
 once in what he has received. There must be a be- 
 nignity in the estimation even of the smallest offices; 
 and such a modesty as appears to be obliged in what- 
 soever it gives. As it is indeed a very great benefit, 
 the opportunity of doing a good office to a worthy 
 man. He that attends to the present, and remem- 
 bers what is past, shall never be ungrateful. But 
 who shall judge in the case? for a man may be grate- 
 ful without making a return, and ungrateful with 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 109 
 
 it. Our best way is to help every thing by a 
 fair interpretation; and wheresoever there is a 
 doubt, to allow it the most favorable construction; 
 for he that is exceptions at words, or looks, has a 
 mind to pick a quarrel. For my own part, when I 
 come to cast up my account, and know what I owe, 
 and to wh-oia, though I make my return sooner to 
 some, and later to others, as occasion or fortune will 
 give me leave, yet I will be just to all: I will be 
 grateful to God, to man, to those that have obliged 
 me: nay, even to those that have obliged my friends. 
 I am bound in honor and in conscience to be thank- 
 ful for what I have received; and if it be not yet 
 full, it is some pleasure still that I may hope for 
 more. For the requital of a favor there must be vir- 
 tue, occasion, means, and fortune. 
 
 It is a comrnon thing to screw up justice to the 
 pitch of an injury. A man may be over-righteous; 
 and why not over-grateful too? There is a mischie- 
 vous excess, that borders so close upon ingratitude, 
 that it is no easy matter to distinguish the one from 
 the other: but, in regard that there is good-will in 
 the bottom of it, (however distempered, for it is 
 effectually but kindness out of the wits,) we shall 
 discourse it under the title of Qratitude mistaken. 
 
CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 GRATITUDE MISTAKEN. 
 
 To refuse a good office, not so much because we, 
 do not need it, as because we would not be indebted 
 for it, is a kind of fantastical ingratitude, and some- 
 what akin to that nicety of humor, on the other side, 
 of being over-grateful; only it lies another way, and 
 seems to be the more pardonable ingratitude of the 
 two. Some people take it for a great instance of 
 their good-will to be wishing their benefactors such 
 or such a mischief; only, forsooth, that they them- 
 selves may be the happy instruments of their i-elease. 
 
 These men do like extravagant lovers, that take it 
 for a great proof of their affection to wish one 
 another banished, beggared, or diseased, that they 
 might have the opportunity of interposing to their 
 relief. What difference is there betwixt such wish- 
 ing and cursing? such an affection and a mortal 
 hatred? The intent is good, you will say. but this 
 is a misapplication of it. Let such a one fall into 
 my power, or into the hands of his enemies, his 
 creditors, or the common people, and no mortal be 
 able to rescue him but myself: let his life, his lib- 
 erty, and his reputation, lie all at stake, and no 
 creature but myself in condition to succor him; 
 and why all this, but because he has obliged me, 
 and I would requite him? If this be gratitude to 
 propound jails, shackles, slavery, war, beggary, to 
 
SENECA OP BENEFITS. Ill 
 
 the man that you would requite, what would you 
 do where you are ungrateful? This way of pro- 
 ceeding, over and above that it is impious in itself, 
 is likewise over-hasty and unseasonable: for he 
 that goes too fast is as much to blame as he that does 
 not move at all, (to say nothing of the injustice,) for 
 if I had never been obliged, I should never have 
 wished it. 
 
 There are seasons wherein a benefit is neither to 
 be received nor requited. To press a return upon 
 me when I do not desire it, is unmannerly; but it is 
 worse to force me to desire it. How rigorous would 
 he be to exact a requital; who is thus eager to 
 return it! To wish a man in distress that I may 
 relieve him, is first to wish him miserable: to wish 
 that he may stand in need of anybody, is against 
 him; and to wish that he may stand in need of me, 
 is fo7' myself: so that my business is not so much a 
 charity to my friend as the cancelling of a bond; 
 nay, it is half-way the wish of an enemy. It is 
 barbarous to wish a man in chains, slavery, or 
 want, only to bring him out again: let me rather 
 wish him powerful and happy, and myself indebted 
 to him! By nature we are prone to mercy, human- 
 ity compassion; may we be excited to be more so 
 by the number of the grateful! may their number 
 increase, and may we have no need of trying 
 them! 
 
 It is not for an honest man to make way to a good 
 office by a crime: as if a pilot should pray for a 
 tempest, that he might prove his skill: or a gen- 
 eral wish his army routed, that he may show him- 
 self a great commander in recovei-ing the day. It 
 is throwing a man into a river to take him out 
 again, It js an obligation, I oonf ess, ■ to cure a 
 
113 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 ■wound or a disease; but to make that wound or dis- 
 ease on purpose to cure it, is a most perverse ingrat- 
 itude. It is barbarous even to an enemy, much 
 more to a friend; for it is not so much to do- him 
 a kindness, as to put him in need of it. Of the 
 two, let me rather be a scar than a wound; and 
 yet it would be better to have it neither. Rome 
 had been little beholden to Scipio if he had pro- 
 longed the Punic war that he might have the fin- 
 ishing of it at last, or to the Decii for dying for their 
 country^ if they had first brought it to the last ex- 
 tremity of needing their devotion. It may be a good 
 contemplation, but it is a lewd wish. .^Eneas had 
 never been surnamed the Pious, if he had wished 
 the ruin of his country, only that he might have the 
 honor of taking his father out of the fire. It is the 
 scandal of a physician to make work, and irritate a 
 disease, and to torment his patient, for the reputa- 
 tion of his cure. If a man should openly imprecate 
 poverty, captivity, fear, or danger, upon a person 
 that he has been obliged to, would not the whole 
 world condemn him for it? And what is the differ- 
 ence, but the one is only a private wish, and the 
 other a public declaration? Rutilius was told in his 
 exile, that, for his comfort, there would be ere-long 
 a civil war, that would bring all the banished men 
 home again. "God forbid," says he, "for I had 
 rather my country should blush for my banishment 
 than mourn for my return." How much more hon- 
 orable it is to owe cheerfully, than to pay dishon- 
 estly? It is the wish of an enemy to take a town 
 that he may preserve it, and to be victorious that he 
 may forgive; but the mercy comes after the cruelty; 
 beside that it is an injury both to God and man; for 
 the man must be first afflicted by Heaven to be 
 
SENECA OP BENEFITS. 113 
 
 relieved by me. So that we impose the cruelty upon 
 God, and take the compassion to ourselves; and at 
 the best, it is but a curse that makes way for a 
 blessing; the bare, wish is an injury; and if it does 
 not take effect, it is because Heaven has not heard 
 our prayers; or if they should succeed, the fear 
 itself is a torment; and it is much more desirable 
 to have a firm and unshaken security. It is friendly 
 to wish it in your power to oblige me, if ever I 
 chance to need it; but it is unkind to wish me miser- 
 able that I may need it. How much more pious is 
 it, and humane, to wish that I may never want the 
 occasion of obligmg, nor the means of doing it; nor 
 ever have reason to repent of what I have done? 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 OF INGEATi'i'UJDE. 
 
 Ingratitude is of all the crimes, that which we 
 are to account the most venial in others, and the 
 most unpardonable in ourselves. It is impious to 
 the highest degree; for it makes us fight against our 
 children and our altars. There are, there ever were, 
 and there ever will be criminals of all sorts, as mui 
 derers, tyrants, thieves, adulterers, traitors, robbers 
 and sacrilegious persons; but there is hardly any 
 notorious crime without a mixture of ingratitude. It 
 disunites mankind, and breaks the very pillars of 
 society; and yet so far is this prodigious wickedness 
 from being any wonder to us. that even thankful- 
 ness itself were much the greater of the two; for 
 men are deterred from it by labor, expense, laziness, 
 business; or else diverted from it by lust, envy, ambi- 
 tion, pride, levity, rashness, fear; nay, by the very 
 shame of confessing what they have received. And 
 the unthankful man has nothing to say for himself 
 all this while, for there needs neither pains or for- 
 tune for the discharge of his duty, beside the inward 
 anxiety and torment when a man's conscience makes 
 him afraid of his own thoughts. 
 
 To speak against the ungrateful is to rail against 
 mankind, for even those that complain are guilty: 
 nor do I speak only of those that do not live up to 
 
SENECA OF BENEFITS. 115 
 
 the strict rule of virtue; but mankind itself is de- 
 generated and lost. We live unthankf uUy in this 
 world, and we go struggling and murmuring out of 
 it, dissatisfied with our lot, whereas we should be 
 grateful for the blessings we have enjoyed, and 
 account that sufficient which Providence has pro- 
 vided for us; a little more time may make our lives 
 longer but not happier, and whensoever it is the 
 pleasure of God to call us, we must obey; and yet all 
 this while we go on quarreling at the world for what 
 we find in ourselves, and we are yet more unthank- 
 ful to Heaven than we are to one another. What 
 benefit can be great now to that man that despises 
 the bounties of his Maker? We would be as strong 
 as elephants, as swift as bucks, as light as birds — 
 and we complain that we have not the sagacity of 
 dogs, the sight of eagles, the long life of ravens — nay, 
 that we are not immortal, and endued with the 
 knowledge of things to come : nay, we take it ill that 
 we are not gods upon earth, never considering the 
 advantages of our condition, or the benignity of 
 Providence in the comforts that we enjoy. We sub- 
 due the strongest of creatures and overtake the 
 fleetest — we reclaim the fiercest and outwit the 
 craftiest. We are within one degree of heaven itself, 
 and yet we are not satisfied. 
 
 Since there is not any one creature which we had 
 rather be, we take it ill that we cannot draw the 
 united excellencies of all other creatures into our- 
 selves. Why are we not rather thankful to that 
 goodness which has subjected the whole creation to 
 our use and service. 
 
 The principal causes of ingratitude are pride and 
 self-conceit, avarice, envy, etc. It is a familiar ex- 
 clamation, " It is true he did this or that for me, but 
 
|116 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 'i 
 
 it came so late, and it was so little, I had even as 
 good have been without it — if he had not given it to 
 me, he must have given it to somebody else — it was 
 nothing out of his pocket." Nay, we are so ungrate- 
 ful, that he that gives us all we have, if he leaves 
 any thing to himself, we reckon that he does us an 
 injury. 
 
 It cost Julius Csesar his life by the disappointment 
 of his insatiable companions; and yet he reserved 
 nothing of all that he got to himself but the liberty 
 of disposing of it. There is no benefit so large but 
 malignity will still lessen it; none so narrow, which 
 a good interpretation will not enlarge. No man 
 shall ever be grateful that views a benefit on the 
 wrong side, or takes a good office by the wrong 
 handle. The avaricious man is naturally ungrate- 
 ful, for he never thinks he has enough, but, without 
 considering what he has, only minds what he covets. 
 Some pretend want of power to make a competent 
 return, and you shall find in others a kind of grace- 
 less modesty, that makes a man ashamed of requit- 
 ing an obligation, because it is a confession that he 
 has received one. 
 
 Not to return one good office for another is in- 
 human; but to return evil for good is diabolical. 
 There are too many even of this sort, who, the more 
 they owe, the more they hate. There is nothing 
 more dangerous than to oblige those people; for 
 when they are conscious of not paying the debt, 
 they wish the creditor out of the way. It is a mortal 
 hatred, that which arises from the shame of an 
 abused benefit. When we are on the asking side, 
 what a deal of cringing there is, and profession! 
 " Well, I shall never forget this favor, it will be an 
 eternal obligation to me. " But within a while the 
 
SiENEcA OP BENEFITS. 117 
 
 note is changed, and we hear no more words of it, 
 until, by little and little, it is all quite forgotten. So 
 long as we stand in need of a benefit, there is noth- 
 ing dearer to us; nor anything cheaper, when we 
 have received it. And yet a man may as well re- 
 fuse to deliver up a sum of money that is left him in 
 trust without a suit, as not to return a good office 
 without asking; and when Ave have no value any 
 farther for the benefit, we do commonly care as little 
 for the author. People follow their interest: one 
 man is grateful for his convenience, and another 
 man is ungrateful for the same reason. 
 
 Some are ungrateful to their own country, and 
 their country no less ungrateful to others; so that 
 the complaint of ingratitude reaches all men. Doth 
 not the son wish for the death of his father, the hus- 
 band for that of his wife, etc. But who can look for 
 gratitude in an age of so many gaping and craving 
 appetites, where all people take, and none give? In 
 an age of license to all sorts of vanity and wicked- 
 ness, as lust, gluttony, avarice, envy, ambition, 
 sloth, insolence, levity, contumacy, fear, rashness, 
 private discords and public evils, extravagant and 
 groundless wishes, vain confidences, sickly affec- 
 tions, shameless impieties, rapine authorized, and- 
 the violation of all things, sacred and profane: obli- 
 gations are pursued with sword and poison; benefits 
 are turned into crimes, and that blood most sedi- 
 tiously spilt for which every honest man should ex- 
 pose his own. Those that should be the preservers 
 of their country are the destroyers of it; and it is a 
 matter of dignity to trample upon the government: 
 the sword gives the law, and mercenaries take up 
 arms against their masters. Among these turbulent 
 and unruly motions, what hope is there of finding 
 
lis SENECA Of BENEFITS. 
 
 honesty or good faith, which is the quietest of all vir- 
 tues? There is no more lively image of human life 
 than that of a conquered city; there is neither mercy, 
 modesty, nor religion; and if we forget our lives, we 
 may well forget our benefits. The world abounds 
 with examples of ungrateful persons, and no less 
 with those of ungrateful governments. Was not 
 Catiline ungrateful? whose malice aimed, not only 
 at the mastering of his country, but at the total de- 
 struction of it, by calling in an inveterate and vin- 
 dictive enemy from beyond the Alps, to wreak their 
 long-thirsted-for revenge, and to sacrifice the lives 
 of as many noble Romans as might serve to answer 
 and appease the ghosts of the slaughtered Gauls? 
 Was not Marius ungrateful, that, from a common 
 soldier, being raised up to a consul, not only gave 
 the world for civil bloodshed and massacres, but was 
 himself the sign of the execution ; and every man he 
 met in the streets, to whom he did not stretch out his 
 right hand, was murdered? And was not Sylla un- 
 grateful too? that when he had waded up to the 
 gates in human blood, carried the outrage into the 
 city, and there most barbarously cut two entire 
 legions to pieces in a corner, not only after the 
 victory, but most perfidiously after quarter given 
 them? Good God! that ever any man should not 
 only escape with impunity, but receive a reward for 
 so horrid a. villainy! Was not Pompey ungrateful 
 too? who, after three consulships, three triumphs, 
 and so many honors, usurped before his time, split 
 the commonwealth into three parts, and brought it 
 to such a pass, that there was no hope of safety but 
 by slavery only; forsooth, to abate the envy of his 
 power, he took other partners with him into the 
 government, as if that which was not lawful for 
 
SENECA OP BENEFITS. 119 
 
 any one might have been allowable for more; divid- 
 ing and distributing the provinces, and breaking all 
 into a triumvirate, reserving still two parts of the 
 three in his own family. And was not Csesar un- 
 , grateful also, though to give him his due, he was 
 a man of his word; merciful in his victories, and 
 never killed any man but with his sword in his 
 hand? Let us therefore forgive one another. Only 
 one word more now for the shame of ungrateful 
 Governments. Was not Camillus banished? Scipio 
 dismissed? and Cicero exiled and plundered? But, 
 what is all this to those who are so mad, and to dis- 
 pute even the goodness of Heaven, which gives us 
 all, and expects nothing again, but continues giving 
 to the most unthankful and complaining? 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THERE CAN BE NO LAW AGAINST INGEATITUBE. 
 
 Ingratitude is so dangerous to itself, and so de- 
 testable to other people, that nature, one would 
 think, had sufficiently provided against it, without 
 need of any other law. For every ungrateful man 
 is his own enemy, and it seems supertiuous to compel 
 a man to be kind to himself, and to follow in his 
 own inclinations. This, of all wickedness imagina- 
 ble, is certainly the vice which does the most divide 
 and distract human nature. Without the exercise 
 and the commerce of mutual offices, we can be 
 neither happy nor safe for it is only society that se- 
 cures us: take us one by one, and we are a prey 
 even to brutes as well as to one another. 
 
 Nature has brought us into the world naked and 
 unarmed; we have not the teeth or the paws of lions 
 or bears to make ourselves terrible; but by the two 
 blessings of reason and union, we secure and defend 
 ourselves against violence and fortune. This it is 
 that makes man the master of all other creatures, 
 who otherwise were scarce a match for the weakest 
 of them. This it is that comforts us in sickness, in 
 age, in misery, in pains, and in the worst of calam- 
 ities. Take away this combination, and mankind is 
 dissociated, and falls to pieces. It is true, that there 
 is no law established against this abominable vice; 
 
SENECA OP BBNEMTS. ISl 
 
 but we cannot say yet that it escapes unpunished, 
 for a pubUc hatred is certainly the greatest of all 
 penalties; over and above that we lose the most val- 
 uable blessings of life, in the not bestowing and re- 
 ceiving of benefits. If ingratitude were to be pun- 
 ished by a law, it would discredit the obligation; for 
 a benefit to be given, not lent: and if we have no re- 
 turn at all, there is no just cause of complaint: for 
 gratitude were no virtue, if there were any danger 
 in being ungrateful. There are halters, I know, 
 hooks and gibbets, provided for homicide poi- 
 son, sacrilege, and rebellion; but ingratitude (here 
 upon earth) is only punished in the schools; all 
 farther pains and inflictions being wholly remitted 
 to divine justice. And, if a man may judge of 
 the conscience by the countenance the ungrate- 
 ful man is never without a canker at his heart; his 
 mind an aspect is sad and solicitous; whereas the 
 other is always cheerful and serene. 
 
 As there are no laws extant against ingratitude, so 
 is it utterly impossible to contrive any, that in all 
 circumstances shall reach it. If it were actionable, 
 there would not be courts enough in the whole world 
 to try the causes in. There can be no setting a day 
 for the requiting of benefits as for the payment of 
 money, nor any estimate upon the benefits them- 
 selves; but the whole matter rests in the conscience 
 of both parties: and then there are so many degrees 
 of it, that the same rule will never serve all. Beside 
 that, to proportion it as the benefit is greater or less, 
 will be both impracticable and-without reason. One 
 good turn saves my life; another, my freedom, or 
 peradventure my very soul. How shall any law now 
 suit a punishment to an ingratitude under these dif- 
 fering degrees? It must not be said in benefits as in 
 
122 SENECA OF BENEFITS. 
 
 bonds, Pay tvhat you oive. How shall a man pay life, 
 health, credit, security, in kind? There can be no 
 set rule to bound that infinite variety of cases, which 
 are more properly the subject of humanity and re- 
 ligion than of law and public justice. There would 
 be disputes also about the benefit itself, which must 
 totally depend upon the courtesy of the judge; for 
 no law imaginable can set it forth. One man gives 
 me an estate; another only lends me a sword, and 
 that sword preserves my life. Nay, the very same 
 thing, several ways done, changes the quality of the 
 obligation. A word, a tone, a look, makes a great 
 alteration in the case. How shall we judge then, 
 and determine a matter which does not depend upon 
 the fact itself, but upon the force and intention of it? 
 Some things are reputed benefits, not for their value, 
 but because we desire them: and there are oflBces of 
 as much greater value, that we do not reckon upon 
 at all. If ingratitude were liable to a law, we must 
 never give but before witnesses, which would over- 
 throw the dignity of the benefit: and then the pun- 
 ishment must either be equal where the crimes are 
 unequal, or else it must be unrighteous, so that blood 
 must answer for blood. He that is ungrateful for 
 my saving his life must forfeit his own. And what 
 can be more inhuman than that benefits should con- 
 clude in sanguinary events? A man saves my life, 
 and I am ungrateful for it. Shall I be punished in 
 my purse? that is too little; if it be less than the 
 benefit, it is unjust, and it must be capital to be made 
 equal to it. There are, moreover, certain privileges 
 granted to parents, that can never be reduced to a 
 common rule. Their injuries may be cognizable, 
 but not their benefits. The diversity of cases is too 
 large and intricate to be brought within the prospect 
 
SENfiCA OF BENEFITS. 123 
 
 of a law: so that it is much more equitable to pun- 
 ish none than to punish all alike. What if a man 
 follows a good office with an injury; whether or no 
 shall this quit scores? or who shall compare them, 
 and weigh the one against the other? There is 
 another thing yet which perhaps we do not dream 
 of: not one man upon the face of the earth would 
 escape, and yet every man would expect to be his 
 judge. Once again, we are all of us ungrateful; and 
 the number does not only take away the shame, but 
 gives authority and protection to the wickedness. 
 
 It is. thought reasonable by some, that there should 
 be a law against ingratitude; for, say they, it is 
 common for one city to upbraid another, and to 
 claim that of posterity which was bestowed upon 
 their ancestors; but this is only clamor without rea- 
 son. It is objected by others, as a discouragement 
 to good offices, if men shall not be made answerable 
 for them; but I say, on the other side, that no main 
 would accept of a benefit upon those terms. He 
 that gives is prompted to it by a goodness of mind, 
 and the generosity of the action is lessened by the 
 caution: for it is his desire that the receiver should 
 please himself, and owe no more than he thinks fit. 
 But wh:,t if this might occasion fewer benefits, so 
 long as they would be franker? nor is there any hurt 
 in putting a check upon rashness and profusion. In 
 answer to this; men will be careful enough when 
 they oblige without a law: nor is it possible for a 
 judge ever to set us right in it; or indeed, anything 
 else, but the faith of the receiver. The honor of a 
 benefit is this way preserved, which is otherwise 
 profaned, when it comes to the mercenary, and 
 made matter of contention. "We are even forward 
 enough of ourselves to wrangle, without necessary 
 
124 SENECA 0& SENEMTS. 
 
 provocations. It would be well, I think, if moneys 
 might pass upon the same conditions with other 
 benefits, and the payment remitted to the conscience, 
 without formalizing upon bills and securities: but 
 human wisdom has rather advised with convenience 
 than virtue; and chosen rather to force honesty than 
 expect it. For every paltry sum of money there 
 must be bonds, witnesses, counterparts, powers, etc., 
 which is no other than a shameful confession of 
 fraud and wickedness, when more credit is given to 
 our seals than to our minds; and caution taken lest 
 he that has received the money should deny it. 
 Were it not better now to be deceived by some than 
 to suspect all? what is the difference, at this rate, 
 betwixt the benefactor and the usurer, save only 
 that in the benefactor's case there is nobody stands 
 bound? 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF A HAPPY LIFE, AND WHEREIN IT CONSISTS. 
 
 There is not any thing in this world, perhaps, that 
 is more talked of, and less understood, than the busi- 
 ness of a happy life. It is every man's wish and de- 
 sign; and yet not one of a thousand that knows 
 wherein that happiness consists. We live, however, 
 in a blind and eager pursuit of it; and the more 
 haste we make in a wrong way, the further we are 
 from our journey's end. Let us therefore, first, con- 
 sider "what it is we should be at;" and, secondly, 
 "which is the readiest way to compass it." If we 
 be right, we shall find every day how much we im- 
 prove; but if we either follow the cry, or the track, 
 of people that are out of the way, we must expect to 
 be misled, and to continue our days in wandering 
 in error. Wherefore, it highly concerns us to take 
 along with us a skilful guide; for it is not in this, 
 as in other voyages, where the highway brings us 
 to our place of repose; or if a man should happen to 
 be out, where the inhabitants might set him right 
 again: but on the contrary, the beaten road is here 
 
136 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 the most dangerous, and the people, instead of help- 
 ing us, misguide us. Let us not therefore follow, 
 like beasts, but rather govern ourselves by reason, 
 than by example. It fares with us in human life as 
 in a routed army; one stumbles first, and then an- 
 other falls upon him, and so they follow, one upon 
 the neck of another, until the whole field comes to 
 be but one heap of miscarriages. And the mischief 
 is^ "that the number of the multitude carries it 
 against truth and justice;" so that we must leave 
 the crowd, if we would be happy : for the question of 
 a happy life is not to be decided by vote: nay, so far 
 from it, that plurality of voices is still an argument 
 of the wrong; the common people find it easier to 
 believe than, to judge, and content themselves with 
 what is usual, never examining whether it be good or 
 not. 'By t\\e common people is intended f/ie ??m?i o/ 
 title as well as the clouted shoe : for I do not distin- 
 guish them by the eye, but by the mind, which is the 
 proper judge of the man. Worldly felicity, I know, 
 makes the head giddy; but if ever a man comes to 
 himself again, he will confess, that "whatsoever he 
 has done, he wishes undone;" and that " the things 
 he feared were better than those he prayed for." 
 
 The true felicity of life is to be free from perturb- 
 ations, to understand our duties towards God and 
 man: to enjoy the present without any anxious 
 dependence upon the future. Not to ^muse our- 
 selves with either hopes or fears, but to rest satis- 
 fied with what we have, which is abundantly 
 sufficient; for he that is so, wants nothing. The 
 great blessings of mankind are within us, and 
 within our reach; but we shut>our eyes, and, like 
 people in the dark, we fall foul upon the very thing 
 which we search for without finding it. "Tran- 
 
SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 127 
 
 quillity is a certain equality of mind, which no 
 condition of fortune can either exalt or depress." 
 Nothing can make it less: for it is the state of 
 human perfection: it raises us as high as we can 
 go; and makes every man his own supporter; 
 whereas he that is borne up by any thing else may 
 fall. He that judges aright, and perseveres in it, 
 enjoys a perpetual calm: he takes a true prospect 
 of things; he observes an order, measure, a deco- 
 rum in all his actions; he has a benevolence in his 
 nature; he squares his life according to reason; 
 and draws to himself love and admiration. With- 
 out a certain and an unchangeable judgment, all 
 the rest is but fluctuation: but "he that always 
 wills and nills the same thing, is undoubtedly in the 
 right." Liberty and serenity of mind must necessa- 
 rily ensue upon the mastering of those things which 
 either allure or affright us; when instead of those 
 iiashy pleasures, (which even at the best are both 
 vain and hurtful together,) we shall find ourselves 
 possessed of joy transporting and everlasting. It 
 must be a sound mind that makes a happy man; 
 there must be a constancy in all conditions, a care 
 for the things of this world, but without trouble; 
 and such an indifferency for the bounties of fortune, 
 that either with them, or without them, we may live 
 contentedly. There must be neither lamentation, 
 nor quarrelling, nor sloth, nor fear; for it makes a 
 discord in a man's life. "He that fears, serves." 
 The joy of a wise man stands firm without inter- 
 ruption; in all places, at all times, and in all condi- 
 tions, his thoughts are cheerful and quiet. As it 
 never came in to him from wUhout, so it will never 
 leave him; but it is born within him, and inseper- 
 able from him. It is a solicitous life that is egged 
 
138 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 on with the hope of any thing, though never so open 
 and easy, nay, though a man should never suffer 
 any sort of disappointment. I do not speak this 
 either as a bar to the fair enjoyment of lawful pleas- 
 ures, or to the gentle flatteries of reasonable ex- 
 pectations: but, on the contrary, I would have men 
 to be always in good humor, provided that it arises 
 from their own souls, and be cherished in their own 
 breasts. Other delights are trivial; they may 
 smooth the brow, but they do not fill and affect the 
 heart. " True joy is a serene and sober motion;" 
 and they are miserably out that take laughing for 
 rejoicing. The seat of it is within, and there is no 
 cheerfulness like the resolution of a brave mind, 
 that has fortune under his feet. He that can look 
 death in the face, and bid it welcome; open his door 
 to poverty, and bridle his appetites; this is the man 
 whom Providence has established in the possession 
 of inviolable delights. The pleasures of the vulgar 
 are ungrounded, thin, and superficial; but the others 
 are solid and eternal. As the body itself is rather a 
 necessary thing, than a great; so the comforts of it 
 are but temporary and vain; beside that, without 
 extraordinary moderation, their end is only pain and 
 repentance; whereas a peaceful concience, honest 
 thoughts, virtuous actions, and an indifference for 
 casual events, are blessings without end, satiety, or 
 measure. This consummated state of felicity is 
 only a submission to the dictate of right nature; 
 "The foundation of it is wisdom and virtue; the 
 knowledge of what we ought to do, and the confor- 
 mity of the will to that knowledge," 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 HUMAN HAPPINESS IS FOUNDED UPON WISDOM AND VIBTUE; 
 AND FIKST, OF WISDOM. 
 
 Taking for granted that human happiness is 
 founded upon wisdom and virtue we shall treat of 
 these two points in order as they lie: and, ^rs^, of 
 ivisdomj not in the latitude of its various operations 
 but as it has only a regard to good life, and the 
 happiness of mankind. 
 
 "Wisdom is a right understanding, a faculty of dis- 
 cerning good from evil; what is to be chosen, and 
 what rejected; a judgment grounded upon the value 
 of things, and not the common opinion of them; an 
 equality of force, and a strength of resolution. It 
 sets a watch over our words and deeds, it takes us 
 up with the contemplation of the works of nature, 
 and makes us invincible by either good or evil for- 
 tune. It is large and spacious, and requires a great 
 deal of room to work in; it ransacks heaven and 
 earth; it has for its object things past and to come, 
 transitory and eternal. It examines all the circum- 
 stances of time; "what it is, when it began, and 
 how long it will continue: and so for the mind; 
 whence it came; what it is; when it begins; how long 
 it lasts; whether or not it passes from one form to 
 .another, or serves only one and wanders when it 
 Jeaves us; whether it abides in a state of separation, 
 and.what the action of it; what use it makes of its 
 
130 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 liberty; whether or not it retains the memory of 
 things past, and comes to the knowledge of itself." 
 It is the habit of a perfect mind, and the perfection 
 of humanity, raised as high as Nature can carry it. 
 It differs from philosophy, as avarice and money; 
 the one desires, and the other is desired; the one is 
 the effect and the reward of the other. To be wise 
 is the use of wisdom, as seeing is the use of eyes, 
 and well-speaking the use of eloquence. He that is 
 perfectly wise is perfectly happy; nay, the very be- 
 ginning of wisdom makes life easy to us. Neither 
 is it enough to know this, unless we print it in our 
 minds by daily meditation, and so bring a good-will 
 to a good habit. And we must practice what we 
 preach: for philosophy is not a subject for popular 
 ostentation; nor does it rest in words, but in things. 
 It is not an entertainment taken up for delight, or to 
 give a taste to our leisure; but it fashions the mind, 
 governs our actions, tells us what we are to do, and 
 what not. It sits at the helm, and guides us through 
 all hazards; nay, we cannot be safe without it, for 
 every hour gives us occasion to make use of it. It 
 informs us in all duties of life, piety to our parents, 
 faith to our friends, charity to the miserable, judg- 
 ment in counsel; it gives us peace by fearing noth- 
 ing, and riches by coveting nothing. 
 
 There is no condition of life that excludes a wise 
 man from discharging his duty. If his fortune be 
 good, he tempers it; if bad, he masters it; if he has 
 an estate, he will exercise his virtue in plenty; if 
 none, in poverty: if he cannot do it in his country, 
 he will do it in banishment; if he has no command, 
 he will do the office of a common soldier. Some 
 people have the skill of reclaiming the fiercest of 
 beasts; they will make a lion embrace bjs keeper, a 
 
SENECA OP A HAPPT LIFE. 131 
 
 tiger kiss him, and an elephant kneel to him. This 
 is the case of a wise man in the extremest difficulties; 
 let them be never so terrible in themselves, when 
 they come to him once, they are perfectly tame. 
 They that ascribe the invention of tillage, architec- 
 ture, navigation, etc., to wise men, may perchance 
 be in the right, that they were invented by wise 
 men, as wise men; for wisdom does not teach our 
 fingers, but our minds: fiddling and dancing, arms 
 and fortifications, were the works of luxury and dis- 
 cord; but wisdom instructs us in the way of nature, 
 and in the arts of unity and concord, not in the in- 
 struments, but in the government of life; not to make 
 us live only, but to live happily. She teaches us 
 what things are good, what evil, and what only ap- 
 pear so; and to distinguish betwixt true greatness 
 and tumor. She clears our minds of dross and vanity; 
 she raises up our thoughts to heaven, and carries 
 them down to hell: she discourses of the nature of 
 the soul, the powers and faculties of it; the first prin- 
 ciples of things; the order of Providence: she exalts 
 us from things corporeal to things incorporeal, and 
 retrieves the truth of all: she searches nature, gives 
 laws to life; and tells us, " That it is not enough to 
 God, unless we obey him:" she looks upon all acci- 
 dents as acts of Providence: sets a true value upon 
 things; delivers us from false opinions, and condemns 
 all pleasures that are attended with repentance. She 
 allows nothing to be good that will not be so forever; 
 no man to be happy but that needs no other happi- 
 ness than what he has within himself. This is the 
 felicity of human life; a felicity that can neither be 
 corrupted nor extinguished: it inquires into the na- 
 ture of the heavens, the influence of the stars; how 
 far they operate upon our minds and bodies: which 
 
133 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 thoughts, though they do not form our manners, 
 they do yet raise and dispose us for glorious things. 
 
 It is agreed upon all hands that " right reason is 
 the perfection of human nature," and wisdom only 
 the dictate of it. The greatness that arises from it is 
 solid and unmovable, the resolutions of wisdom being 
 free, absolute and constant; whereas folly is never 
 long pleased with the same thing, but still shifting 
 of counsels and sick of itself. There can be no hap- 
 piness without constancy and prudence, for a wise 
 man is to write without a blot, and what he likes 
 once he approves for ever. He admits of nothing 
 that is either evil or slippery, but marches without 
 staggering or stumbling, and is never surprised; he 
 lives always true and steady to himself, and whatso- 
 ever befalls him, this great artificer of both fortunes 
 turns to advantage; he that demurs and hesitates is 
 not yet composed; but wheresoever virtue interposes 
 upon the main, there must be concord and consent 
 in the parts; for all virtues are in agreement, as well 
 as all vices are at variance. A wise man, in what 
 condition soever he is wiU be still happy, for he sub- 
 jects all things to himself, because he submits himself 
 to reason, and governs his actions by council, not by 
 passion. 
 
 He is not moved with the utmost violence of for- 
 tune, nor with the extremities of fire and sword; 
 whereas a fool is afraid of his own shadow, and sur- 
 prised at ill accidents, as if they were all levelled at 
 him. He does nothing unwillingly, for whatever he 
 finds necessary, he makes it his choice. He pro- 
 pounds to himself the certain scope and end of 
 human life: he follows that which conduces to it, 
 and avoids that which hinders it. He is content 
 with his lot whatever it be, without wishing what 
 
SENECA OP A HAPPY LIEE. 133 
 
 he has not, though, of the two, he had rather abound 
 than want. The great business of his Ufe Uke that 
 of nature, is performed without tumult or noise. He 
 neither fears danger or provokes it, but it is his 
 caution, not any want of courage — for captivity, 
 wounds and chains, he only looks upon as false and 
 lymphatic terrors. He does not pretend to go 
 through with whatever he undertakes, but to do that 
 well which he does. Arts are but the servants — 
 wisdom commands — and where the matter fails it is 
 none of the workman's fault. He is cautelous in 
 doubtful cases, in prosperity temperate, and resolute 
 in adversity, still making the best of every condition 
 and improving all occasions to make them service- 
 able to his fate. Some accidents there are, which I 
 confess may affect him, but not overthrow him, as 
 bodily pains, loss of children and friends, the ruin 
 and desolation of a man's country. One must be 
 made of stone or iron, not to be sensible of these 
 calamities; and, beside, it were no virtue to bear 
 them, if a body did not feel them. 
 
 There are three degrees of proficients in the school 
 of wisdom. The first are those that come within 
 sight of it, but not up to it— they have learned what 
 they ought to do, but they have not put their know- 
 ledge in practice— they are past the hazard of a 
 relapse, but they have still the grudges of a disease, 
 though they are out of the danger of it. By a dis- 
 ease I do understand an obstinacy in evil, or an ill 
 habit, that makes us over eager upon things which 
 are either not much to be desired, or not at all. A 
 second sort are those that have subjected their 
 appetites for a season, but are yet in fear of faUing 
 back. A third sort are those that are clear of many 
 vices but not of all. They are not covetous, but per- 
 
iBi SENfiCA 6f A HAPf? LIFE; 
 
 haps they are choleric— nor lustful, but perchance 
 ambitious; they are firm enough in some cases but 
 weak enough in others: there are many that despise 
 death and yet shrink at pain. There are diversities 
 in wise men, but no inequalities — one is more affable, 
 another more ready, a third a better speaker; but 
 the felicity of them all is equal. It is in this as in 
 heavenly bodies, there is a certain state in greatness. 
 In civil and domestic affairs, a wise man may 
 stand in need of counsel, as of a physician, an advo- 
 cate, a solicitor; but in greater matters, the blessing 
 of wise men rests in the joy they take in the com- 
 munication of their virtues. If there were nothing 
 else in it, a man would apply himself to wisdom, 
 because it settles him in a perfect tranquillity of 
 mind. 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 THERE CAN BE NO HAPPINESS WITHOUT VIKTUE. 
 
 Virtue is that perfect good which is the comple- 
 ment of a happy life; the only immortal thing that 
 belongs to mortality — it is the knowledge both of 
 others and itself — it is an invincible greatness of 
 mind, not to be elevated or dejected with good or ill 
 fortune. It is sociable and gentle, free, steady, and 
 fearless, content within itself, full of inexhaustible 
 delights, and it is valued for itself. One may be a 
 good physician, a good governor, a good gramma- 
 rian, without being a good man, so that all things 
 from without are only accessories, for the seat of it 
 is a pure and holy mind. It consists in a congruity 
 of actions which we can never expect so long as we 
 are distracted by our passions: not but that a man 
 may be allowed to change color and countenance, 
 and suffer such impressions as are properly a kind 
 of natural force upon the body, and not under the 
 dominion of the mind; but all this while I will have 
 his judgment firm, and he shall act steadily and 
 boldly, without wavering betwixt the motions of his 
 body and those of his mind. 
 
 It is not a thing indifferent, I know, whether a 
 man lies at ease upon a bed, or in torment upon a 
 wheel— and yet the former may be the worse of the 
 two if he suffer the latter with honor, and enjoy the 
 
136 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 other with infamy. It is not the matter, but the 
 virtue, that makes the action good or ill; and he 
 that is led in triumph may be yet greater than his 
 conqueror. 
 
 When we come once to value our flesh above our 
 honesty we are lost: and yet I would not press upon 
 dangers, no, not so much as upon inconveniences, 
 unless where the man and the brute come in compe- 
 tition; and in such a case, rather than make a for- 
 feiture of my credit, my reason, or my faith, I would 
 run all extremities. 
 
 They are great blessings to have tender parents, 
 dutiful children, and to live under a just and well- 
 ordered government. Now, would it not trouble 
 even a virtuous man to see his children butchered 
 before his eyes, his father made a slave, and his 
 country overrun by a barbarous enemy? There is a 
 great difference betwixt the simple loss of a blessing 
 and the succeeding of a great mischief in the place 
 of it, over and above. The loss of health is fol- 
 lowed with sickness, and the loss of sight with 
 blindness; but this does not hold in the loss of 
 friends and children, where there is rather some- 
 thing to the contrary to supply that loss: that is to 
 say, virtue, which fills the mind, and takes away 
 the desire of what we have not. What matters it 
 whether the water be stopped or not, so long as the 
 fountain is safe? Is a man ever the wiser for a 
 multitude of friends, or the more foolish for the 
 loss of them? so neither is he the happier, nor the 
 more miserable. Short life, grief and pain are 
 accessions that have no effect at all upon virtue. It 
 consists in the action and not in the things we do — 
 in the choice itself, and not in the subject-matter of 
 it. It is not a despicable body or condition, nor 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. IS^ 
 
 poverty, infamy or scandal, that can obscure the 
 glories of virtue; but a man may see her through all 
 oppositions: and he that looks diligently into the 
 state of a wicked man will see the canker at his 
 heart, through all the false and dazzling splendors 
 of greatness and fortune. We shall then discover 
 our childishness, in setting our hearts upon things 
 trivial and contemptible, and in the selling of our 
 very country and parents for a rattle. And what is 
 the difference (in effect) betwixt old men and children, 
 but that the one deals in paintings and statues, and 
 the other in babies, so that we ourselves are only the 
 more expensive fools. 
 
 If one could but see the mind of a good man, as it 
 is illustrated with virtue; the beauty and the majesty 
 of it, which is a dignity not so much as to be thought 
 of without love and veneration — would not a man 
 bless himself at the sight of such an object as at the 
 encounter of some supernatural power — a power so 
 miraculous that it is a kind of charm upon the souls 
 of those that are truly affected with it. There is so 
 wonderful a grace and authority in it that even the 
 worst of men approve it, and set up for the reputa- 
 tion of being accounted virtuous themselves. They 
 covet the fruit. indeed, and the profit of wickedness; 
 but they hate and are ashamed of the imputation of 
 it. It is by an impression of Nature that all men 
 have a reverence for virtue — they know it and they 
 have a respect for it though they do not practice it — 
 nay, for the countenance of their very ivickedness, 
 they miscall it virtue. Their injuries they call bene- 
 fits, and expect a man should thank them for doing 
 him a mischief — they cover their most notorious 
 iniquities with a pretext of justice. 
 
138 sekteca of a Happy life. 
 
 He that robs upon the highway had rather find his 
 booty than force it; ask any of them that Uve upon 
 rapine, fraud, oppression, if they had not rather 
 enjoy a fortune honestly gotten, and their con- 
 sciences will not suffer them to deny it. Men are 
 vicious only for -the proof of villainy; for at the 
 same time that they commit it they condemn it; 
 nay, so powerful is virtue, and so gracious is Provi- 
 dence, that every man has a light set up within him 
 for a guide, which we do, all of us, both see and 
 acknowledge, though we do not pursue it. This it is 
 that makes the prisoner upon the torture happier 
 than the executioner, and sickness better than health, 
 if we bear it without yielding or repining — this it is 
 that overcomes ill-fortune and moderates good — for 
 it marches betwixt the one and the other, with an 
 equal contempt for both. It turns (like fire) all 
 things into itself, our actions and our friendships 
 are tinctured with it, and whatever it touches be- 
 comes amiable. 
 
 That which is frail and mortal rises and falls, 
 grows, wastes, and varies from itself; but the state 
 of things divine is always the same; and so is virtue, 
 let the matter be what it will. It is never the worse 
 for the difficulty of the action, nor the better for the 
 easiness of it. It is the same in a rich man as in a 
 poor; in a sickly man as in a sound; in a strong as 
 in a weak; the virtue of the besieged is as great 
 as that of the besiegers. There are some vir- 
 tues, I confess, which a good man cannot be with- 
 out, and yet he had rather have no occasion to em- 
 ploy them. If there were any difference. I should 
 prefer the virtues of patience before those of pleas- 
 ure; for it is braver to break through difficulties 
 than to temper our delights. But though the subject 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 139 
 
 of virtue may possibly be against nature, as to be 
 burnt or wounded, yet the virtue itself of an invin- 
 cible patience is according to nature. We may seem, 
 perhaps, to promise more than human nature is able 
 to perform; but we speak with a respect to the mind, 
 and not to the body. 
 
 If a man does not live up to his own rules, it is 
 something yet to have virtuous meditations and 
 good purposes, even without acting; it is generous, 
 the very adventure of being good, and the bare pro- 
 posal of an eminent course of life, though beyond 
 the force of human frailty to accomplish. There is 
 something of honor yet in the miscarriage; nay, in 
 the naked contemplation of it. I would receive my 
 own death with as little trouble as I would hear of 
 another man's; I would bear the same mind whether 
 I be rich or poor, whether I get or lose in the world ; 
 what I have, I will neither sordidly spare, or prodi- 
 gally squander away, and I will reckon upon bene- 
 fits well-placed as the fairest part of my possession: 
 not valuing them by number or weight, but by the 
 profit and esteem of the receiver; accounting myself 
 never the poorer for that which I give to a worthy 
 person. What I do shall be done for conscience, not 
 ostentation. I will eat and drink, not to gratify my 
 palate, or only to fill and empty, but to satisfy na- 
 ture: I will be cheerful to my friends, mild and placa- 
 ble to my enemies: I will prevent an honest request 
 if I can foresee it, and I will grant it without asking: 
 I will look upon the whole world as my country, and 
 upon the gods, both as the witnesses and the judges 
 of my words and deeds. I will live and die with 
 this testimony, that I loved good studies, and a good 
 conscience; that I never invaded another man's lib- 
 erty; and that I preserved my own. I will govern 
 
140 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 my life and iliy thoughts as if the whole world wer6 
 to see the one, and to read the other; for "what 
 does it signify to make anything a secret to my 
 neighbor, when to God (who is the searcher of our 
 hearts) all our privacies are open." 
 
 Virtue is divided into two parts, contemplation 
 and action. The one is delivered by institution, the 
 other by admonition : one part of virtue consists in 
 discipline, the other in exercise: for we must first 
 learn, and then practice. The sooner we begin to 
 apply ourselves to it, and the more haste we make, 
 • the longer shall we enjoy the comforts of a rectified 
 mind; nay, we have the fruition of it in the very act 
 of forming it: but it is another sort .of delight, I 
 must confess, that arises from a contemplation of a 
 soul which is advanced into the possession of wisdom 
 and virtue. If it was so great a comfort to us to 
 pass from the subjection of our childhood into a 
 state of liberty and business, how much greater will 
 it be when we come to cast off the boyish levity of 
 our minds, and range ourselves among the philoso- 
 phers? We are past our minority, it is true, but not 
 our indiscretions; and, which is yet worse, we have 
 the authority of seniors, and the weaknesses of chil- 
 dren, (I might have said of infants, for every little 
 thing frights the one, and every trivial fancy the 
 other.) Whoever studies this point well will find 
 that many things are the less to be feared the more 
 terrible they appear. To think anything good that 
 is not honest, were to reproach Providence; for good 
 men suffer many inconveniences; but virtue, like 
 the sun, goes on still with her work, let the air be 
 never so cloudy, and finishes her course, extinguish- 
 ing likewise all other splendors and oppositions; in- 
 somuch that calamity is no more to a virtuous mind, 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 141 
 
 than a shower into the sea. That which is right, is 
 not to be valued by quantity, number, or time; a life 
 of a day may be as honest as a life of a hundred 
 years: but yet virtue in one man may have a larger 
 field to show itself in than in another. One man, 
 ■perhaps, may be in a station to administer unto 
 cities and kingdoms; to contrive good laws, create 
 friendships, and do beneficial ofiices to mankind; 
 For virtue is open to all; as well to servants and 
 exiles, as to princes: it is profitable to the world and 
 to itself, at all distances and in all conditions; and 
 there is no difliculty can excuse a man from the ex- 
 ercise of it; and it is only to be found in a wise man, 
 though there may be some faint resemblances of it 
 in the common people. The Stoics hold all virtues 
 to be equal; but yet there is great variety in the 
 matter they have to work upon, according as it is 
 larger or narrower, illustrious or less noble, of more 
 or less extent; as all good men are equal, that is to 
 say, as they are good; but yet one may be young, 
 another old; one may be rich, another poor; one 
 eminent and powerful, another unknown and ob- 
 scure. There are many things which have little or 
 no grace in themselves, and are yet glorious and re- 
 markable by virtue. Nothing can be good which 
 gives neither greatness nor security to the mind; but, 
 on the contrary, infects it with insolence, arrogance, 
 and tumor: nor does virtue dwell upon the tip of the 
 tongue, but in the temple of a purified heart. He 
 that depends upon any other good becomes covetous 
 of life, and what belongs to it; which exposes a man 
 to appetites that are vast, unlimited, and intolerable. 
 Virtue is free and indefatigable, and accompanied 
 with concord and gracefulness; whereas pleasure is 
 piean, servile, transitory, tiresome, and sickly and, 
 
143 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 scarce outlives the tasting of it: it is the good of the 
 belly, and not of the man; and only the felicity of 
 brutes. Who does not know that fools enjoy their 
 pleasures, and that there is great variety in the en- 
 tertainments of wickedness? Nay, the mmd itself 
 has its variety of perverse pleasures as well as the 
 body: as insolence, self-conceit, pride, garrulity, 
 laziness, and the abusive wit of turning everything 
 into ridicule, whereas virtue weighs all this, and 
 corrects it. It is the knowledge both of otners and 
 of itself; it is to be learned from itself; and the very 
 will itself may be taught; which will cannot be right, 
 unless the whole habit of the mind be right from 
 whence the will comes. It is by the impulse of 
 virtue that we love virtue, so that the very way to 
 virtue, lies by virtue, which takes in also, at a view, 
 the laws of human life. 
 
 Neither are we to value ourselves upon a day, or 
 an hour, or any one action, but upon the whole habit 
 of the mind. Some men do one thing bravely, but 
 not another; they will shrink at infamy, and bear 
 up against poverty: in this case, we commend the 
 fact, and despise the man. The soul is never in the 
 right place until it be delivered from the cares of 
 human affairs; we must labor and climb the hill, if 
 we will arrive at virtue, whose seat is upon the top 
 of it. He that masters avarice, and is truly good, 
 stands firm against ambition; he looks upon his last 
 hour not as a punishment, but as the equity of a 
 common fate; he that subdues his carnal lusts shall 
 easily keep himself untained with any other: so that 
 reason does not encounter this or that vice by itself, 
 but beats down all at a blow. What does he care 
 for ignominy that only values himself upon con- 
 science, and not opinion? Socrates looked a scan- 
 
SENECA QP A HAPPY LIFE. 143 
 
 dalous death in the face with the same constancy 
 that he had before practiced towards the thirty 
 tyrants: his virtue consecrated the very dungeon: as 
 Gate's repulse was Cato's honor, and the reproach 
 of the government. He that is wise will take de- 
 light even in an ill opinion that is well gotten; it is 
 ostentation, not virtue, when a man will have his 
 good deeds published; and it is not enough to be 
 just where there is honor to be gotten, but to con- 
 tinue so, in defiance of infamy and danger. 
 
 But virtue cannot lie hid, for the time will come 
 that shall raise it again (even after it is buried) and 
 deliver it from the malignity of the age that op- 
 pressed it: immortal glory is the shadow of it, and 
 keeps it company whether we will or not; but some- 
 times the shadow goes before the substance, and 
 other whiles it follows it; and the later it comes, the 
 larger it is, when even envy itself sTiall have given 
 way to it. It was a long time that Democritus was 
 taken for a madman, and before Socrates had any 
 esteem in the world. How long was it before Cato 
 could be understood? Nay, he was affronted, con- 
 temned, and rejected; and the people never knew 
 the value of him until they had lost him: the integ- 
 rity and courage of mad Rutilius had been forgotten 
 but for his sufferings. I speak of those that fortune 
 has made famous for their persecutions: and there 
 are others also that the world never took notice of 
 until they were dead; as Epicurus and Metrodorus, 
 that were almost wholly unknown, even in the place 
 where they lived. Now, as the body is to be kept in 
 upon the down-hill, and forced upwards, so there are 
 some virtues that require the rein and others the 
 spur. In liberality, temperance, gentleness of nature, 
 
144 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 we are to check ourselves for fear of falling; but in 
 patience, resolutions, and perserverance, where we 
 are to mount the hill, we stand in need of encourage- 
 ment. Upon this division of the matter, I had rather 
 steer the smoother course than pass through the ex- 
 periments of sweat and blood: I know it is my duty 
 to be content in all conditions; but yet, if it were at 
 my election, I would choose the fairest. When a 
 man comes once to stand in need of fortune, his life 
 is anxious, suspicious, timorous, dependent upon 
 every moment, and in fear of all accidents. How 
 can that man resign himself to God, or bear his lot, 
 whatever it be, without murmuring, and cheerfully 
 submit to Providence, that shrinks at every motion 
 of pleasure or pain? It is virtue alone that raises us 
 above griefs, hopes, fears and chances; and makes 
 us not only patient, but willing, as knowing that 
 whatever we suffer is according to the decree of 
 Heaven. He that is overcome with pleasure, (so 
 contemptible and weak aa enemy) what will become 
 of him when he comes to grapple with dangers, 
 necessities, torments, death, and the dissolution of 
 nature itself? Wealth, honor, and favor, may come 
 upon a man by chance; nay, they may be cast upon 
 him without so much as looking after them: but vir- 
 tue is the work of industry and labor; and certainly 
 it is worth the while to purchase that good which 
 brings all others along with it. A good man is happy 
 within himself, and independent upon fortune: kind 
 to his friend, temperate to his enemy, religiously just, 
 indefatigably laborious; and he discharges all (Juties 
 with a constancy and congruity of actions. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PHILOSOPHY IS THE GUIDE OF .LIFE. 
 
 If it be true, that the understanding find the will 
 are the two eminent faculties of the reasonable soul, 
 it follows necessarily, that wisdom and virtue, 
 (which are the best improvements of these two 
 faculties,) must be the perfection also of our reason- 
 able being; and consequently, the undeniable foun- 
 dation of a happy life. There is not any duty to 
 which Providence has not annexed a blessing; nor 
 any institution of Heaven which, even in this life, 
 we may not be the better for; not any temptation, 
 either of fortune or of appetite, that is not subject 
 to our reason; nor any passion or affliction for which 
 virtue has not provided a remedy. So that it is our 
 own fault if we either fear or hope for anything; which 
 two affections are the root of all our miseries. From 
 this general prospect of the foundation of our tran- 
 quillity, we shall pass by degrees to n particular con- 
 sideration of the means by which it may be procured, 
 and of the impediments that obstruct it; beginning 
 with that philosophy which principally regards our 
 manners, and instructs us in the measures of a vir- 
 tuous and quiet life. 
 
 Philosophy is divided into moral, natural, and ra- 
 tional: the first concerns our manners; the second 
 searches the works of Nature; and the third fur- 
 
146 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 nishes us with propriety of words and arguments, 
 and the faculty of distinguishing, that we may not 
 be imposed upon with tricks and fallacies. The 
 causes of things fall undiev natural philosophy, argu- 
 ments under rational, and actions under moral. 
 Moral philosophy is again divided into matter ot jus- 
 tice, which arises from the estimation of things and 
 of men; and into affections and actions; and a fail- 
 ing in any one of these, disorders all the rest: for 
 what does it profit us to know the true value of 
 things, if we be transported by our passion? or to 
 master our appetites without understanding the when , 
 the what, the hoiv, and other circumstances of our 
 proceedings? For it is one thing to know the rate 
 and dignity of things, and another to know the little 
 nicks and springs of acting. Naturcd philosophy is 
 conversant about things corporeal and incorporeal; 
 the disquisition of causes and effects, and the con- 
 templation of the cause of causes. Rational philoso- 
 phy is divided into logic and rhetoric; the one looks 
 after ivords, sense, and order; the other treats barely 
 of words, and the signiji cations of them. Socrates 
 places all philosophy in morals; and wisdom in the 
 distinguishing of good and evil. It is the art and law 
 of life, and it teaches us what to do in all cases, and, 
 like good marksmen, to hit the white at any dis- 
 tance. The force of it is incredible; for it gives us 
 in the weakness of a man the security of a spirit: in 
 sickness it is as good as a remedy to us; for whatso- 
 ever eases the mind is profitable also to the body. 
 The physician may prescribe diet and exercise, and 
 accommodate his rule and medicine to the disease, 
 but it is philosophy that must bring us to a contempt 
 of death, which is the remedy of all diseases. In 
 poverty it gives us riches, or such a state of mind as 
 
SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 14? 
 
 makes them superfluous to us. It arms us against 
 all difficulties: one man is pressed with death, anoth, 
 er with poverty; some with envy, others are offend- 
 ed at Providence, and unsatisfied with the condition 
 of mankind: but philosophy prompts us to relieve 
 the prisoner, the infirm, the necessitous, the con- 
 demned ; to show the ignorant their errors, and 
 rectify their affections. It makes us inspect and 
 govern our manners; it rouses us where we are faint 
 and drowsy: it binds up what is loose, and humbles 
 in us that which is contumacious: it delivers the 
 mind from the bondage of the body, and raises it up 
 to the contemplation of its divine original. Honors, 
 monuments, and all the works of vanity and ambi- 
 tion are demolished and destroyed by time; but the 
 reputation of wisdom is venerable to posterity, and 
 those that were envied or neglected in their lives are 
 adored in their- memories, and exempted from .the 
 very laws of created nature, which has set bounds 
 to all other things. The very shadow of glory car- 
 ries a man of honor upon all dangers, to the contempt 
 of fire and sword; and it were a shame if right rea- 
 son should not inspire as generous resolutions into a 
 man of virtue. 
 
 Neither is philosophy only profitable to the public, 
 but one wise man helps another, even in the exercise 
 of the virtues; and the one has need of the other, 
 both for conversation and counsel; for they kindle a 
 mutual emulation in good offices. We are not so 
 perfect yet, but that many new things remain still 
 to be found out, which will give us the reciprocal 
 advantages of instructing one another: for as one 
 wicked man is contagious to another, and the more 
 vices are mingled, the worse it is, so is it on the con- 
 trary with good men and their virtues. As men of 
 
148 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 letters are the most useful and excellent of friends, 
 so are they the best of subjects; as being better 
 judges of the blessings they enjoy under -a well-ord- 
 ered government, and of what they owe to the mag- 
 istrate for their freedom and protection. They are 
 men of sobriety and learning, and free from boast- 
 ing and insolence; they reprove the vice without 
 reproaching the person; for they have learned to be 
 without either pomp or envy. That which we see in 
 high mountains, we find in philosophers; they seem 
 taller near at hand than at a distance. They are 
 raised above other men, but their greatness is sub- 
 stantial. Nor do they stand upon tiptoe, that they 
 may seem higher than they are, but, content with 
 their own stature, they reckon themselves tall 
 enough when fortune cannot reach them. Their 
 laws are short, and yet comprehensive too, for they 
 bind all. 
 
 It is the bounty of nature that we livej but oi phi- 
 losophy that we live well, which is in truth a greater 
 benefit than life itself. Not but that philosophy 
 is also the gift of Heaven, so far as to the 
 faculty, but not to the science; for that must be the 
 business of industry. No man is born wise; but 
 wisdom and virtue require a tutor, though we cau 
 easily learn to be vicious without a master. It is 
 philosophy that gives us a veneration for God, a 
 charity for our neighbor, that teaches us our duty 
 to Heaven, and exhorts us to an agreement one with 
 another; it unmasks things that are terrible to us, 
 assuages our lusts, refutes our errors, restrains our 
 luxury, reproves our avarice, ajid works strangely 
 upon tender natures. I could never hear Attains 
 (says Seneca) upon the vices of the age and the 
 errors of life, without a compassion for mankind; 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIEE. t4& 
 
 and in his discourses upon poverty, there was some- 
 thing methought that was more than human. "More 
 than we use," says he, " is more than we need, and 
 only a burden to the bearer.". That saying of his 
 put me out of countenance at the superfluities of my 
 own fortune. And so in his invectives against vain 
 pleasures, he did at such a rate advance the felici- 
 ties of a sober table, a pure mind, and a chaste body 
 that a man could not hear him without a love for 
 continence and moderation. Upon these lectures of 
 his, I denied myself, for a while after, certain deli- 
 cacies that I had formerly used: but in a short time 
 I fell to thena again, though so sparingly, that the 
 proportion came little short of a total abstinence. 
 
 Now, to show you (says our author) how much 
 earnester my entrance upon philosophy was than 
 my progress, my tutor Sotion gave me a wonderful 
 kindness for Pythagoras, and after him for Sextius: 
 the former forbore shedding of blood upon his ine- 
 tempsychosis : and put men in fear of it, lest they 
 should offer violence to the souls of some of their 
 departed friends or relations. " Whether," says he, 
 there be a transmigration or not; if it be true, there 
 is no hurt; if false, there is frugality: and nothing 
 is gotten by cruelty neither, but the cozening a 
 wolf, perhaps,- or a vulture, of a supper." 
 
 Now, Sextius abstained upon another account, 
 which was, that he would not have men inured to 
 hardness of heart by the laceration and torment- 
 ing of living creatures; beside, that Nature had 
 sufficiently provided for the sustenance of man- 
 kind without blood." This wrought upon me so 
 far that I gave over eating of flesh, and in one 
 year I made it not only easy to me but pleasant; 
 my mind methought was more at liberty, (and I 
 
150 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE, 
 
 am still of the same opinion,) but I gave it over 
 nevertheless; and the reason was this: it was im- 
 puted as a superstition to the Jews, the for- 
 bearance of some sorts of flesh, and my father 
 brought me back again to my old custom, that I 
 might not be thought tainted with their superstition. 
 Nay, and I had much ado to prevail upon myself to 
 suffer it too. I make use of this instance to show 
 the aptness of youth to take good impressions, if 
 there be a friend at hand to press them. Philosophers 
 are the tutors of mankind; if they have found out 
 remedies for the mind, it must be our part to employ 
 them, I cannot think of Cato, Lelius, Socrates, 
 Plato, without veneration: their very names are sa- 
 cred to me. Philosophy is the health of the mind; 
 let us look to that health first, and in the second place 
 to that of the body, which may be had upon easier 
 terms; for a strong arm, a robust constitution, or the 
 skill of procuring this, is not a philosopher's busi- 
 ness. He does some things as a wise man, and other 
 things as he is a man; and he may have strength of 
 body as well as of mind; but if he runs, or casts the 
 sledge, it were injurious to ascribe that to his wisdom 
 which is common to the greatest of fools. He studies 
 rather to fill his mind than his coffers; and he knows 
 that gold and silver were mingled with dirt, until 
 avarice or ambition parted them. His life is ordi- 
 nate, fearless, equal, secure; he stands firm in all ex- 
 tremities, and bears the lot of his humanity with a 
 divine temper. There is a great difference betwixt 
 the splendor of philosophy and of fortune; the one 
 shines with an original light, the other with a bor- 
 rowed one; beside that it makes us happy and im- 
 mortal: for learning shall outlive palaces and monu- 
 ments. The house of a wise man is safe, though 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 151 
 
 narrow; there is neither noise nor furniture in it, no 
 porter at the door, nor anything that is either vendi- 
 ble or mercenary, nor any business of fortune, for 
 she has nothing to do where she has nothing to look 
 after. This is the way to Heaven which Nature ha;, 
 chalked out, and it is both secure and pleasant; there 
 needs no train of servants, no pomp or equipage, to 
 make good our passage; no money or letters of cred- 
 it, for expenses upon the voyage; but the graces of 
 an honest mind will serve us upon the way, and 
 make us happy at our journey's end. 
 
 To tell you my opinion now of the liberal sciences; 
 I have no great esteem for any thing that terminates 
 in profit or money; and yet I shall allow them to be 
 so far beneficial, as they only prepare the under- 
 standing without detaining it. They are but the 
 rudiments of wisdom, and only then to be learned 
 when the mind is capable of nothing better, and the 
 knowledge of them is better worth the keeping than 
 the acquiring. They do not so much as pretend to 
 the making of us virtuous, but only to give us an 
 aptitude of disposition to be so. The grammarian's 
 business lies in a syntax of speech; or if he proceed 
 to history, or the measuring of a verse, he is at the 
 end of his line; but what signifies a congruity of pe- 
 riods, the computing of syllables, or the modifying 
 of numbers, to the taming of our passions, or the re- 
 pressing of our lusts? The philosopher proves the 
 body of the sun to be large, but for the true dimen- 
 sions of it we must ask the mathematician: geometry 
 and music, if they do not teach us to master our 
 hopes and fears, all the rest is to little purpose. 
 What does it concern us which was the elder of the 
 two, Homer or Hesiod? or which was the taller, 
 
152 SENECA OF A HAtPY LIFE, 
 
 Helen or Hecuba? We take a great deal of pains to 
 trace Ulysses in his wanderings, but were it not 
 time as well spent to look to ourselves that we may 
 not wander at all? Are not we ourselves tossed with 
 tempestuous passions? and both assaulted by terri- 
 ble monsters on the one hand, and tempted by syrens 
 on the other? Teach me my duty to my country, to 
 my father, to my wife, to mankind. What is it to 
 me whether Penelope was honest or not? teach me to 
 know how to be so myself, and to live according to 
 that knowledge. What am I the better for putting 
 BO many parts together in music, and raising a har- 
 mony out of so many different tones? teach me to 
 tune my affections, and to hold constant to myself. 
 Geometry teaches me the art of measuring acres; 
 teach me to measure my appetites, and to know 
 when I have enough; teach me to divide with my 
 brother, and to rejoice in the prosperity of my 
 neighbor. You teach me how I may hold my own, 
 and keep my estate; but I would rather learn how I 
 may lose it all, and yet be contented. " It is hard," 
 you will say, "for a man to be forced from the for- 
 tune of his family." This estate, it is true, was my 
 father's; but whose was it in the time of my grand- 
 father? I do not only say, what man's was it? but 
 what nation's? The astrologer tells me of Saturn 
 and Mars in opposition; but I say, let them be as 
 they will, their courses and their positions are order- 
 ed them by an unchangeable decree of fate. Either 
 they produce and point out the effects of all things, 
 or else they signify them; if the former, what are we 
 the better for the knowledge of that which must of 
 necessity come to pass? If the latter, what does it 
 avail us to foresee what we cannot avoid? So that 
 
SENECA OV A tlAtPY LIFE. 153 
 
 whether we know or not know, the event will still 
 be the same. 
 
 He that designs the institution of human life 
 should not be over-curious of his words; it does not 
 stand with his dignity to be solicitous about sounds 
 and syllables, and to debase the mind of man with 
 trivial things; placing wisdom in matters that are 
 rather 'difficult than great. If it be eloquent, it is 
 his good fortune, not his business. Subtle disputa- 
 tions are only the sport of wits, that play upon the 
 catch, and are fitter to be contemned than resolved. 
 Were not I a madman to sit wrangling about words, 
 and putting of nice and impertinent questions, when 
 the enemy has already made the breach, the town 
 fired over my head, and the mine ready to play that 
 shall blow me up into the air? were this a time for 
 fooleries? Let me rather fortify myself against 
 death and inevitable necessities; let me understand 
 that the good of life does not consist in the length or 
 space, but in the use of it. When I go to sleep, who 
 knows whether I shall ever wake again? and when 
 I wake, whether ever I shall sleep again? When I 
 go abroad, whether ever I shall come home again? 
 and when I return, whether ever I shall go abroad 
 again? It is not at sea only that life and death are 
 within a few inches one of another; but they are as 
 near everywhere else too, only we do not take so 
 much notice of it. What have we to do with frivo- 
 lous and captious questions, and impertinent nice- 
 ties? Let us rather study how to deliver ourselves 
 from sadness, fear, and the burden of all our secret 
 lusts: let us pass over all our most solemn levities, 
 and make haste to a good life, which is a thing that 
 presses us. Shall a man that goes for a midwife, , 
 stand gaping upon a post to see what play to-day? 
 
154 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 or, when his house is on fire, stay the curhng of a 
 periwig before he calls for help? Our houses are on 
 fire, our country invaded,^ our goods taken away, 
 our children in danger; and, I might add to these, 
 the calamities of earthquakes, shipwrecks, and 
 whatever else is most terrible. Is this a time for us 
 now to be playing fast and loose with idle questions, 
 which are in effect so many unprofitable riddles? 
 Our duty is the cure of the mind rather than the de- 
 light of it; but we have only the words of wisdom 
 without the works; and turn philosophy into a plea- 
 sure that was given for a remedy. What can be 
 more ridiculous than for a man to neglect his man- 
 ners and compose his style? We are sick and ulcer- 
 ous, and must be lanced and scarified, and every 
 man has as much business within himself as a phy- 
 sician in a common pestilence. " Misfortunes," in 
 fine, " cannot be avoided; but they may be sweet- 
 ened, if not overcome; and our lives may be made 
 happy by philosophy." 
 
OHAPTEE V. 
 
 THE FORCE OF PRECEPTS. 
 
 There seems to be so near an affinity betwixt wis- 
 dom, philosophy, and good counsels, that it is rather 
 matter of curiosity than of profit to divide them; 
 philosophy, being only a limited wisdom; and good 
 counsels a communication of that wisdom, for the 
 good of others, as well as of ourselves; and to pos- 
 terity, as well as to the present. The wisdom of the 
 ancients, as to the government of life, was no more 
 than certain precepts, what to do and what not: and 
 men. were much better in that simplicity; for as they 
 came to be more learned, they grew less careful of 
 being good. That plain and open virtue is now 
 turned into a dark and intricate science; and we are 
 taught to dispute rather than to live. So long as 
 wickedness was simple, simple remedies also were 
 sufficient against it; but now it has taken root, and 
 spread, we must make use of stronger. 
 
 There are some dispositions that embrace good 
 things as soon as they hear them; but they will 
 still heed quickening by admonition and precept. 
 We are rash and forward in some cases, and dull in 
 others; and there is no repressing of the one humor, 
 or raising of the other, but by removing the 
 causes of them; which are (in one word) false ad- 
 miration and false fear. 
 
156 SENECA OF A ttAPPY LWE. 
 
 Every man knows his duty to his country, to his 
 friends, to his guests; and yet when he is called upon 
 to draw his sword for the one, or to labor for the 
 other, he finds himself distracted betwixt his appre- 
 hensions and his delights: he knows well enough 
 the injury he does his wife in the keeping of a 
 wench, and yet his lust overrules him; so that it is 
 not enough to give good advice, unless we can take 
 away that which hinders the benefit of it. If a man 
 does what he ought to do, he will never do it con- 
 stantly or equally, without knowing why he does it: 
 and if it be only chance or custom, he that does well 
 by chance, may do ill so too. And farther, a precept 
 may direct us what we ought to do, and yet fall 
 short in the manner of doing it: an expensive en- 
 tertainment may, in one case be extravagance or 
 gluttony, and yet a point of honor and discretion in 
 another. Tiberius Caesar had a huge mullet pre- 
 sented him, which he sent to the market to be sold: 
 "and now," says he, "my masters," to some com- 
 pany with him, "you shall see that either Apicius 
 or Octavius will be the chapman for this fish." Octa- 
 vius beat the price, and gave about thirty pounds 
 sterling for it. Now, there was a great difference 
 between Octavius, that bought it for his luxury, and 
 the other that purchased it for a compliment to 
 Tiberius. Precepts are idle, if we be not first taught 
 what opinion we are to have of the matter in ques- 
 tion; whether it be jyoverti/. riches, disgrace, sick- 
 ness, banishment, etc. Let us therefore examine 
 them one by one; not what they are called, but 
 what in truth they are. And so for the virtues; it 
 is to no purpose to set a high esteem upon prudence, 
 fortitude, temperance, justice, if we do not first 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 167 
 
 know what virtue is; whether one or more; or if he 
 that has one, has all; or how they differ. 
 
 Precepts are of great weight; and a few useful 
 ones at hand do more toward a happy life than 
 whole volumes or cautions, that we know not where 
 to find. These salutary precepts should be our daily 
 meditation, for they are the rules by which we 
 ought to square our lives. When they are contracted 
 into sentences, they strike the affections: whereas 
 admonition is only blowing of the coal; it moves the 
 vigor of the mind, and excites virtue: we have the 
 thing already, but we know not where it lies. It isr 
 by precept that the understanding is nourished and 
 augmented: the oflBces of prudence and justice are 
 guided by them, and they lead us to the execution 
 of our duties. A precept delivered in verse has a 
 much greater effect than in prose: and those very 
 people that never think they have enough, let them 
 but hear a sharp sentence against avarice, how will 
 they clap and admire it, and bid open defiance to 
 money? So soon as we find the affections struck, 
 we must follow the blow; not with syllogisms or 
 quirks of ivit; but with plain and weighty reason 
 and we must do it with kindness too, and respect 
 for "there goes a blessing along with counsels ana 
 discourses that are bent wholly upon the good of the 
 hearer:" and those are still the most efiicacious that 
 take reason along with them; and tell us as well 
 why we are to do this or that, as what we are to do: 
 for some understandings are weak, and need an in- 
 structor to expound to them what is good and what 
 is evil. It is a great virtue to love, to give, and to 
 follow good counsel; if it does not lead us to honesty, 
 it does at least prompt us to it. As several parts 
 Hiake up but one harmony, and the most agreeable 
 
158 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE 
 
 music arises from discords; so should a wise man 
 gather many acts, many precepts, and the examples 
 of many arts, to inform his own life. Our fore- 
 fathers have left us in charge to avoid three things; 
 hatred, envy, and contempt; now, it is hard to avoid 
 envy and not incur contempt; for in taking too much 
 care not to usurp upon others, we become many 
 times liable to be trampled upon ourselves. Some 
 people are afraid of others, because it is possible 
 that others may be afraid of them: but let us secure 
 ourselves upon all hands; for flattery is as dangerous 
 as contempt. It is not to say, in case of admonition, 
 I knew this before, for we know many things, but 
 we do not think of them; so that it is the part of a 
 monitor, not so much to teach as to 7nind us of our 
 duties. Sometimes a man oversees that which lies 
 just under his nose; otherwhile he is careless, or 
 pretends not to see it: we do all know that friend- 
 ship is sacred, and yet we violate it; and the great- 
 est libertine expects that his own wife should be 
 honest. 
 
 Good counsel is the most needful service that we 
 can do to mankind; and if we give it to many, it 
 will be sure to j)rofit some: for of many trials, some 
 or other will undoubtedly succeed. He that places 
 a man in the possession of himself does a great 
 thing; for wisdom does not show itself so much in 
 precept as in life; in a firmness of mind and a 
 mastery of appetite: it teaches us to do as well as to 
 talk: and to make our words and actions all of a 
 color. If that fruit be pleasantest which we gather 
 from a tree of our own planting, how much greater 
 delight shall we take in the growth and increase of 
 good manners of our own forming! It is an eminent 
 mark of wisdom for a man to be always like him- 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 159 
 
 self. You shall have some that keep a thrifty table, 
 and lavish out upon building; profuse upon them- 
 selves, and forbid to others; niggardly at home, and 
 lavish abroad. This diversity is vicious, and the 
 effect of a dissatisfied and uneasy mind; whereas 
 every wise man lives by rule. This disagreeraent of 
 purposes arises from hence, either that we do not 
 propound to ourselves what we would be at; or if 
 we do, that we do not pursue it, but pass from one 
 thing to another; and we do not only change neither 
 but return to the very thing which we had both 
 quitted and condemned. 
 
 In all our undertakings, . let us first examine 
 our own strength; the enterprise next; and, thirdly, 
 the persons with whom we have to do. The first point 
 is most important; for we are apt to overvalue our- 
 selves, and reckon that we can do more than indeed 
 we can. One man sets up for a speaker, and is out 
 as soon as he opens his mouth; another overcharges 
 his estate, perhaps, or his body: a bashful man is 
 not fit for public business: some again are too stiff 
 and peremptory for the court: many people are apt 
 to fly out in their anger, nay, and in a frolic too; if 
 any sharp thing fall in their way, fhey will rather 
 venture a neck than lose a jest. These people had 
 better be quiet in the world than busy. Let him 
 that is naturally choleric and impatient avoid all 
 provocations, and those affairs also that multiply 
 and draw on more; and those also from which there 
 is no retreat. When we may come off at pleasure, 
 and fairly hope to bring our matters to a period, it 
 is well enough. If it so happen that a man be tied 
 up to business, which he can neither loosen nor 
 break off, let him imagine those shackles upon his 
 mind to be irons upon his legs: they are troublesome 
 
160 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 at first; but when there is no remedy but patience, 
 custom makes them easy to us, and necessity gives 
 us courage. We are all slaves to fortune: some only 
 in loose and golden chains, others in strait ones, and 
 coarser: nay, and they that bind us are slaves too 
 themselves; some to honor, others to wealth; some 
 to offices, and others to contempt; some to their 
 superiors, others to themselves: nay, life itself is a 
 servitude: let us make the best of it then, and with 
 our philosophy mend our fortune. Difficulties may 
 be softened, and heavy burdens disposed of to our 
 ease. Let us covet nothing out of our reach, but 
 content ourselves with things hopeful and at hand; 
 and without envying the advantages of others; for 
 greatness stands upon a craggy precipice, and it is 
 much safer and quieter living upon a level. How 
 ma'ny great men are forced to keep their station up- 
 on mere necessity; because they find there is no 
 coming down from it but headlong? These men 
 should do well to fortify themselves against ill con- 
 sequences by such virtues and meditations as may 
 make them less sohcitous for the future. The surest 
 expedient in this case is to bound our desires, and to 
 leave nothing to fortune which we may keep in our 
 own power. Neither will this course wholly com- 
 pose us, but it shows us at worst the end of our 
 troubles. 
 
 It is but a main point to take care that we pro- 
 pose nothing but what is hopeful and honest. For 
 it will be equally troublesome to us, either not to 
 succeed, or to be ashamed of the success. Where- 
 fore let us be sure not to admit any ill design into 
 our heart; that we may lift up pure hands to heaven 
 and ask nothing which another shall be a loser by. 
 Let us pray for a good mind, which is a wish to no 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 161 
 
 man's injury. I will remember always that I am a 
 man, and then consider, that if I am happy, it will 
 not last always; if unhappy, I may be other if I 
 please. I will carry my life in my hand, and deliv- 
 er it up readily when it shall be called for. I will 
 have a care of being a slave to myself; for it is a 
 perpetual, a shameful, and the heaviest of all servi- 
 tudes: and this may be done by moderate desires. I 
 will say to myself, " What is it that I labor, sweat, 
 and solicit for, when it is but very little that I want, 
 and it will not be long that I will need any thing?" 
 He that would make a trial of the firmness of his 
 mind, let him set certain days apart for the practice 
 of his virtues. Let him mortify himself with fast- 
 ing, coarse clothes, and hard lodging; and then say 
 to himself, "Is this the thing now that I was afraid 
 of?" In a state of security, a man may thus pre- 
 pare himself against hazards, and in plenty fortify 
 himself against want. If you will have a man 
 resolute when he comes to the push, train him iip to 
 it beforehand. The soldier does duty in peace, that 
 he may be in breath when he comes to battle. How 
 many great and wise men have made experiment of 
 their moderation by a practice of abstinence, to the 
 highest degree of hunger and thirst; and convinced 
 themselves that a man may fill his belly without be- 
 ing beholden to fortune; which never denies any of 
 us wherewith to satisfy our necessities, though she 
 be never so angry! It is as easy to suffer it always 
 as to try it once;, and it is no more than thousands of 
 servants and poor people do every day in their lives. 
 He that would live happily, must neither trust to 
 good fortune nor submit to bad: he must stand upon 
 his guard against all assaults; he must stick to him- 
 self, without any dependence upon other people, 
 
163 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 Where the mind is tinctured with philosophy, there 
 is no place for grief, anxiety, or superfluous vexa- 
 tions. It is prepossessed with virtue to the neglect 
 of fortune, which brings us to a degree of security 
 not to be disturbed. It is easier to give counsel than 
 to take it; and a common thing for one choleric man 
 to condemn another. We may be sometimes earn- 
 est in advising, but not violent or tedious. Few 
 words, with gentleness and efficacy, are best: the 
 misery is, that the wise do not need counsel, and 
 fools will not take it. A good man, it is true, de- 
 lights in it; and it is a mark of folly and ill-nature 
 to hate reproof. 
 
 To a friend I would be always frank and plain; 
 and rather fail in the success than be wanting in the 
 matter of faith and trust. There are some precepts 
 that serve in common both to the rich and poor, but 
 they are too general; as "Cure your avarice, and the 
 work is done." It is one thing not to desire money, 
 and another thing not to understand how to use it. 
 In the choice of the persons we have to do withal, 
 we should see that they be worth our while; in the 
 choice of our business, we are to consult nature, and 
 follow our inclinations. He that gives sober advice 
 to a witty droll must look to have every thing turned 
 into ridicule. "As if you philosophers," says Mar- 
 cellinus, "did not love your whores and your guts 
 as well as other people:" and then he tells you of such 
 and such that were taken in the manner. We are 
 all sick, I must confess, and it is not for sick men to 
 play the physicians; but it is yet lawful for a man in 
 an hospital to discourse of the common condition and 
 distempers of the place. He that should pretend to 
 teach a madman how to speak, walk, and behave 
 himself, were not he the most mad man of the two? 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 163 
 
 He that directs the pilot, makes him move the helm, 
 order the sails so or so, and makes the best of a scant 
 wind, after this or that manner. And so should we 
 do in our counsels. 
 
 Do not tell me what a man should do in health or 
 poverty, but show me the way to be either sound or 
 rich. Teach me to master my vices: for it is to no 
 purpose, so long as I am under their government, to 
 tell me what I must do when I am clear of it. In 
 case of an avarice a little eased, a luxury moderated, 
 a temerity restrained, a sluggish humor quickened; 
 precepts will then help us forward, and tutor us how 
 to behave ourselves. It is the first and the main tie 
 of a soldier his military oath, which is an engage- 
 ment upon him both of religion and honor. In like 
 manner, he that pretends to a happy life must first 
 lay a foundation of virtue, as a bond upon him, to 
 live and die true to that cause. We do not find fe- 
 licity in the veins of the earth where we dig for gold, 
 nor in the bottom of the sea where we fish for pearls, 
 but in a pure and untainted mind, which, if it were 
 not holy, were not fit to entertain the Deity. "He 
 that would be truly happy, must think his own lot 
 best, and so live with men, as considering that God 
 sees him, and so speak to God as if men heard him." 
 
CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 NO FELICITY LIKE PEACE OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 "A GOOD conscience is the testimony of a good 
 life, and the reward of it. " This is it that fortifies 
 the mind against fortune, when a man has gotten 
 the mastery of his passions; placed his treasure and 
 security within himself; learned to be content with 
 his condition; and that death is no evil in itself, but 
 only the end of man. He that has dedicated his 
 mind to virtue, and to the good of human society," 
 whereof he is a member, has consummated all that 
 is either profitable or necessary for him to know or 
 to do toward the establishment of his peace. Every 
 man has a judge and a witness within himself of all 
 the good and ill that he does, which inspires us with 
 great thoughts, and administers to us wholesome 
 counsels. We have a veneration for all the works 
 of Nature, the heads of rivers, and the springs of 
 medicinal waters; the horrors of groves and of caves 
 strike us with an impression of religion and worship. 
 To see a man fearless in dangers, untainted with 
 lusts, happy in adversity, composed in a tumult, and 
 laughing at all those things which are generally 
 either coveted or feared; all men must acknowledge 
 that this can be nothing else but a beam of divinity 
 that influences a mortal body. And this is it that 
 carries us to the disquisition of tilings divine and 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 165 
 
 human; what the state of the world was before the 
 distribution of the first matter into parts; what 
 power it was that drew order out of that confusion, 
 and gave laws both to the whole, and to every parti- 
 cle thereof; what that space is beyond the world; 
 and whence proceed the several operations of 
 Nature. 
 
 Shall any man see the glory and order of the uni- 
 verse; so many scattered parts and qualities 
 wrought into one mass; such a medley of things, 
 which are yet distinguished: the world enlightened, 
 and the disorders of it so wonderfully regulated; and 
 shall he not consider the Author and Disposer of all 
 this; and whither we ourselves shall go, when our 
 souls shaU be delivered from the slavery of our flesh? 
 The whole creation we see conforms to the dictates 
 of Providence, and follows God both as a governor 
 and as a guide. A great, a good, and a right mind, 
 is a kind of divinity lodged in fiesh, and may be the 
 blessing of a slave as well as of a prince; it came 
 from heaven, and to heaven it must return; and it 
 is a kind of heavenly felicity, which a pure and vir- 
 tuous mind enjoys, in some degree, even upon earth: 
 whereas temples of honor are but empty names, 
 which, probably, owe their beginning either to am- 
 bition or to violence. 
 
 I am strangely transported with the thoughts of 
 eternity; nay, with the belief of it; for I have a pro- 
 found veneration for the opinions of great men, 
 especially when they promise things so much to my 
 satisfaction: for they do promise them, though they 
 do not prove them. In the question of the immor- 
 tality of the soul, it goes very far with me, a general 
 consent to the opinion of a future reward and pun- 
 ishment; which meditation raises me to the con- 
 
166 SENECA OF A. HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 tempt of this life, in hopes of a better. But still, 
 though we know that we have a soul; yet what the 
 soul is, how, and from whence, we are utterly ig- 
 norant: this only we understand, that all the good 
 and ill we do is under the dominion of the mind; 
 that a clear conscience states us in an inviolable 
 peace; and that the greatest blessing in Nature is 
 that which every honest man may bestow upon him- 
 self. The body is but the clog and prisoner of the 
 mind; tossed up and down, and persecuted with 
 punishments, violences, and diseases; but the mind 
 itself is sacred and eternal, and exempt from the 
 danger of all actual impression. 
 
 Provided that we look to our consciences, no mat- 
 ter for opinion: let me deserve well, though I hear 
 ill. The common people take stomach and audacity 
 for the marks of magnanimity and honor; and if a 
 man be soft and modest, they look upon him as an 
 easy fop; but when they come once to observe the 
 dignity of his mind in the equality and firmness of 
 his actions; and that his external quiet is founded 
 upon an internal peace, the very same people who 
 have him in esteem and admiration ; for there is no 
 man- but approves of virtue, though but few pursue 
 it; we see where it is, but we dare not venture to 
 come at it: and the reason is, we overvalue that 
 which we must quit to obtain it. 
 
 A good conscience fears no witnesses, but a guilty 
 conscience is solicitous even of solitude. If we do 
 nothing but what is honest, let all the world know 
 it; but if otherwise, what does it signify to have no- 
 body else know it, so long as I know it myself? 
 Miserable is he that slights that witness! Wicked- 
 ness, it is true, may escape the law, but not the con- 
 science; for a private conviction is the first and the 
 
SENECA OP A SAtPy LIFE 167 
 
 greatest punishment to offenders; so that sin plagues 
 itself; and the fear of vengeance pursues even those 
 that escape the stroke of it. It were ill for good 
 men that iniquity may so easily evade the law, the 
 judge, and the execution, if Nature had not set up 
 torments and gibbets in the consciences of trans- 
 gressors. He that is guilty lives in perpetual terror; 
 and while he expects to be punished, he punishes 
 himself; and whosoever deserves it expects it. 
 What if he be not detected? he is still in apprehen- 
 sion yet that he may be so. His sleeps are painful, 
 and never secure; and he cannot speak of another 
 man's wickedness without thinking of his own, 
 whereas a good conscience is a continual feast. 
 
 Those are the only certain and profitable delights, 
 which arise from the consciousness of a well-acted 
 life; no matter for noise abroad, so long as we are 
 quiet within: but if our passions be seditious, that is 
 enough to keep us waking without any other tumult. 
 It is not the posture of the body, or the composure 
 of the bed, that will give rest to an uneasy mind: 
 there is an impatient sloth that may be roused by 
 action, and the vices of laziness must be cured by 
 business. True happiness is not to be found in ex- 
 cesses of wine, or of women, or in the largest prodi- 
 galities of fortune; what she has given to me, she 
 may take away, but she shall not tear it from me; 
 and, so long as it does not grow to me, I can part 
 with it without pain. He that would perfectly know 
 himself, let him set aside his money, his fortune, 
 his dignity, and examine himself naked, without 
 being put to learn from others the knowledge of 
 himself. 
 
 It is dangerous for a man too suddenly, or too 
 easily, to believe himself. Wherefore let us examine, 
 
168 SENECA Off A HAPPY LIM, 
 
 observe, and inspect our own hearts, fof we ouf- 
 selves are our own greatest flatterers: we should 
 every night call ourselves to account, "What in- 
 firmity have I mastered to-day? what passion op- 
 posed? what temptation resisted? what virtue ac- 
 quired?" Our vices will abate of themselves, if they 
 be brought every day to the shrift. Oh the blessed 
 sleep that follows such a diary! Oh the tranquillity, 
 liberty, and greatness of that mind that is a spy 
 upon itself, and a private censor of its own manners! 
 It is my custom (says our author) every night, so 
 soon as ,the candle is out, to run over all the words 
 and actions of the past day; and I let nothing escape 
 me; for why should I fear the sight of my own 
 errors, when I can admonish and forgive myself? 
 "I was a little too hot in such a dispute: my opinion 
 might have been as well spared, for it gave offence, 
 and did no good at all. The thing was true, but all 
 truths are not to be spoken at all times; I would I 
 had held my tongue, for there is no contending 
 either with fools or our superiors. I have done ill, 
 but it shall be so no more." If every man would 
 but thus look into himself, it would be the better for 
 us all. What can be more reasonable than this daUy 
 review of a life that we cannot warrant for a mo- 
 ment? Our fate is set, and the first breath we draw 
 is only the first motion ' toward our last: one cause 
 depends upon another; and the course of all things, 
 public and private, is but a long connection of pro- 
 vidential appointments. There is a great variety in 
 our lives, but all tends to the same issue. Nature 
 may use her own bodies as she pleases; but a good 
 man has this consolation, that nothing perishes 
 which he can call his own. It is a great comfort 
 that we are only condemned to the same fate with. 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY li&t. 169 
 
 the universe; the heavens themselves are inDTftal as 
 well as our bodies; Nature has made us passive, and 
 to suffer is our lot. While we are in flesh, every 
 man has his chain and his clog, only it is looser and 
 lighter to one man than to another; and he is more 
 at ease that takes it up and carries it, than he that 
 drags it. We are born, to lose and to perish, to hope 
 and to fear, to vex ourselves and others; and there 
 is no antidote against a common calamity but virtue; 
 for "the foundation of true joy is in the conscience." 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A GOOD MAN CAN NEVER BE MISBRABLB,«NOR A WICKED MAN 
 HAPPY. 
 
 There is not in the scale of nature a more insep- 
 arable connection of cause and effect, than in the 
 case of happiness and virtue; nor anything that 
 more naturally produces the one, or more necessarily 
 presupposes the other. For what is it to be happy, 
 but for a man to content himself with his lot, in a 
 cheerful and quiet resignation to the appointments 
 of God? All the actions of our lives ought to be 
 governed with respect to good and evil: and it is 
 only reason that distinguishes; by which reason we 
 are in such manner influenced, as if a ray of the 
 Divinity were dipt in a mortal body, and that is the 
 perfection of mankind. It is true, we have not the 
 eyes of eagles or the sagacity of hounds: nor if we 
 had, could we pretend to value ourselves upon any- 
 thing which we have in common with brutes. What 
 are we the better for that which is foreign to us, and 
 may be given and taken away? As the beams of 
 the sun irradiate the earth, and yet remain where 
 they were; so is it in some proportion with a holy 
 mind that illustrates all our actions, and yet it ad- 
 heres to its original. Why do we not as well com- 
 mend a horse for his glorious trappings, as a man 
 for his pompous additions? How much a braver 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LlEE. 171 
 
 creature is a lion, (which by nature- ought to be 
 fierce and terrible) how much braver (I say) in his 
 natural horror than in his chains? so that everything 
 in its pure nature pleases us best. It is not health, 
 nobility, riches, that can justify a wicked man: nor 
 is it the want of all these that can discredit a good 
 one. That is the sovereign blessing, which makes 
 the possessor of it valuable without anything else, 
 and him that wants it contemptible, though he had 
 all the world besides. It is not the painting, gild- 
 ing, or carving, that makes a good ship; but if she 
 be a nimble sailer, tight and strong to endure the 
 seas; that is her excellency. It is the edge and 
 temper of the blade that makes a good sword, not 
 the richness of the scabbard: and so it is not money 
 or possessions, that makes a man considerable, but 
 his virtue. 
 
 It is every man's duty to make himself 'profitable 
 to mankind — if he can, to many — if not, to fewer — 
 if not so neither, to his neighbor — but, however, to 
 himself. There are two republics: a great one, 
 which is human nature; and a less, which is the 
 place where we were born. Some serve both at a 
 time, some only the greater, and some again only 
 the less. The greater may be served in privacy,, 
 solitude, contemplation, and perchance that way 
 better than any other; but it was the intent of 
 Nature, however, that we should serve both. A good 
 man may serve the public, his friend, and himself 
 in any station: if he be not for the sword, let him 
 take the gown; if the bar does not agree with him, 
 let him try the pulpit; if he be silenced abroad, let 
 him give counsel at home, and discharge the part of 
 a faithful friend and a temperate companion. When 
 he is no longer a citizen, he is yet a man; but the 
 
173 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 whole world k his country, and human nature never 
 wants matter to work upon: but if nothing will serve 
 a man in the civil government unless he be prime 
 minister, or in the field but to command in chief, it 
 is his own fault. 
 
 The common soldier where he cannot use his 
 hands, fights with his looks, his example, his encour- 
 agement, his voice, and stands his ground even when 
 he has lost his hands, and does service too with his 
 very clamor, so that in any condition whatsoever, 
 he still discharges the duty of a good patriot — nay, 
 he that spends his time well even in a retirement, 
 gives a great example. 
 
 We may enlarge, indeed, or contract, according 
 to the circumstances of time, place, or abilities; but 
 above all things we must be sure to keep ourselves in 
 action, for he that is slothful is dead even while he 
 lives. Was there ever any state so desperate as that 
 of Athens under the thirty tyrants — where it was 
 capital to be honest, and the senate-house was 
 turned into a college of hangmen? Never was any 
 government so wretched and so hopeless; and yet 
 Socrates at the same time preached temperance to the 
 tyrants, and courage to the rest, and afterwards 
 died an eminent example of faith and resolution, and 
 a sacrifice for the common good. 
 
 It is not for a wise man to stand shifting and 
 fencing with fortune, but to oppose her barefaced, 
 for he is sufficiently convinced that she can do him 
 no hurt; she may take away his servants, posses- 
 sions, dignity, assault his body, put out his eyes, cut 
 off his hands, and strip him of all the external com- 
 forts of life. But what does all this amount to 
 more than the recalling of a trust which he has 
 received, with condition to deliver it up again upon 
 
SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 173 
 
 demand? He looks upon himself as precarious, and 
 only lent to himself, and yet he does not value him- 
 self ever the less because he is not his own, but 
 takes such care as an honest man should do of a 
 thing that is committed to him in trust. Whenso- 
 ever he that lent me myself and what I have, shall 
 call for all back again, it is not a loss but a restitu- 
 tion, and I must willingly deliver up what most 
 undeservedly was bestowed upon me, and it will 
 become me to returii my mind better than I received 
 it. 
 
 Demetrius, upon the taking of Megara, asked 
 Stilpo, the philosopher what he had lost. ' ' Nothing " 
 said he, "for I had all that I could call my own 
 about me." And yet the enemy had then made 
 himself master of his patrimony, his children, and 
 his country; but these he looked upon as only adven- 
 titious goods, and under the command of fortune. 
 Now, he that neither lost any thing nor feared any 
 thing in a public ruin, but was safe and at peace in 
 the middle of the flames, and in the heat of a mili- 
 tary intemperance and fury — what violence or pro- 
 vocation imaginable can put such a man as this out 
 of the possession of himself? Walls and castles 
 may be mined and battered, but there is no 
 art or engine that can subvert a steady mind. 
 "I have made my way," says Stilpo, "through 
 fire and blood — what has become of my child- 
 ren I know not; but these are transitory bless- 
 ings, and servants that are bound to change 
 their masters; what was my own before is my own 
 still. Some have lost their estates, others their dear- 
 bought mistresses, their commissions and offices: 
 the usurers have lost their bonds and securities: but, 
 Pemetrius, for my part I have saved all, and do not 
 
174 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 imagine after all this, either that Demetrius is a 
 conqueror, or that Stilpo is overcome — it is only thy 
 fortune has been too hard for mine." 
 
 Alexander took Babylon, Scipio took Carthage, the 
 capitol was burnt; but there is no fire or violence 
 that can discompose a generous mind; and let us not 
 take this character either for a chimera, for all ages 
 afford some, though not many, instances of this 
 elevated virtue. 
 
 A good man does his duty, let it be never so pain- 
 ful, so hazardous, or never so great a loss to him; 
 and it is not all the money, the power, and the pleas- 
 ure in the world; not any force of necessity, that 
 can make him wicked: he considers what he is to do, 
 not what he is to suffer, and will keep on his course, 
 though there should be nothing but gibbets and tor- 
 ments in the way. And in this instance of StUpo, 
 who, when he had lost his country, his wife, his 
 children, the town on fire over his head, himself 
 escaping very hardly and naked out of the flames; 
 " I have saved all my goods," says he, " my justice, 
 my courage, my temperance, my prudence;" ac- 
 counting nothing his own, or valuable, and showing 
 how much easier it was to overcome a nation than 
 one wise man. It is a certain mark of a brave mind 
 not to be moved by any accidents: the upper region 
 of the air admits neither clouds nor tempests; the 
 thunder, storms, and meteors, are formed below; and 
 this is the difference betwixt a mean and an exalted 
 mind; the former is rude and tumultuary; the latter 
 is modest, venerable, composed, and always quiet in 
 its station. In brief, it is the conscience that pro- 
 nounces upon the man whether he be happy or mis- 
 erable. But, though sacrilege and adultery be gen- 
 erally con4emned, how many are there still that do 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 175 
 
 not SO much as blush at the one, and in truth that 
 take a glory in the other? For nothing is more com- 
 mon than for great thieves to ride in triumph when 
 the little ones are punished. But let "wickedness 
 escape as it may at the bar, it never fails of doing 
 justice upon itself; for every guilty person is his own 
 hangman." 
 
CHAPTER VIIJ 
 
 THE DUE CONTEMPLATION OF DIVINB PROVIDENCE IS THE CEB- 
 TAIN CUBE OF ALL MISFORTUNES. 
 
 Whoever observes the world, and the order of it, 
 will find all the motions in it to be only vicissitudes 
 of falling and rising; nothing extinguished, and 
 even those things which seem to us to perish are in 
 truth but changed. The seasons go and return, day 
 and night follow in their courses, the heavens roll, 
 and Nature goes on with her work: all things suc- 
 ceed in their turns, storms and calms; the law of 
 Nature will have it so, which we must follow and 
 obey, accounting all things that are done to be well 
 done; so that what we cannot mend we must suffer, 
 and wait upon Providence without repining. It is 
 the part of a cowardly soldier to follow his com- 
 mander groaning: but a generous man delivers him- 
 self up to God without struggling; and it is only for 
 a narrow mind to condemn the order of the world, 
 and to propound rather the mending of Nature than 
 of himself. No man has any cause of complaint 
 against Providence, if that which is right pleases 
 him. Those glories that appear fair to the eye, their 
 lustre is but false and superficial; and they are only 
 vanity and delusion: they are rather the goods of a 
 dream than a substantial possession: they may coz- 
 en us at a distance, but bring them once to the touch, 
 they are rotten and counterfeit. There are no 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 177 
 
 greater wretches in the world than many of those 
 which the people take to be happy. Those are the 
 only true and incorruptible comforts that will abide 
 all trials, and the more we turn and examine them, 
 the more valuable we find them; and the greatest 
 felicity of all is, not to stand in need of any. What 
 is poverty? No man lives so poor as he was born. 
 What is pain? It will either have an end itself, or 
 make an end of us. In short, Fortune has no weapon 
 that reaches the mind: but the bounties of Provi- 
 dence are certain and permanent blessings; and they 
 are the greater and the better, the longer we consider 
 them; that is to say, "the power of contemning 
 things terrible, and despising what the common peo- 
 ple covet." In the very methods of Nature we can- 
 not but observe the regard that Providence had to 
 the*good of mankind, even in the disposition of the 
 world, in providing so amply for our maintenance 
 and satisfaction. It is not possible for us to compre- 
 hend what the Power is which has made all things: 
 some few sparks of that Divinity are discovered, but 
 infinitely the greater part of it lies hid. We are all of 
 us, however, thus far agreed, first, in the acknowl- 
 edgement and belief of that almighty Being; and, 
 secondly, that we are to ascribe to it all majesty 
 and goodness. 
 
 " If there be a Providence," say some, " how comes 
 it to pass that good men labor under affliction and 
 adversity, and wicked men enjoy themselves in ease 
 and plenty? " My answer is, that God deals by us as 
 a good father does by his children; he tries us, he 
 hardens us, and fits us for himself. He keeps a 
 strict hand over those that he loves; and by the rest 
 he does as we do by our slaves; he lets them go on 
 in license and boldness. 
 
178 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 As the master gives his most hopeful scholars the 
 hardest lessons, so does God deal with the most gen- 
 erous spirits; and the cross encounters of fortune we 
 are not to look upon as a cruelty, but as a contest: 
 the familiarity of dangers brings us to the contempt 
 of them, and that part is strongest which is most 
 exercised: the seaman's hand is callous, the soldier's 
 arm is strong, and the tree that is most exposed to 
 the wind takes the best root: there are people that 
 live in a perpetual winter, in extremity of frost and 
 penury, where a cave, a lock of straw, or a few 
 leaves, is all their covering, and wild beasts their 
 nourishment; all this by custom is not only made 
 tolerable, but when it is once taken up upon neces- 
 sity, by little and little, it becomes pleasant to them. 
 Why should we then count that condition of life a 
 calamity which is the lot of many nations? There 
 is no state of life so miserable but that there ^re in 
 it remissions, diversions, nay, and delights too; such 
 is the benignity of Nature towards us, even in the 
 severest accidents of human life. There were no 
 living if adversity should hold on as it begins, and 
 keep up the force of the first impression. We are 
 apt to murmur at many things as great evils, that 
 have nothing at all of evil in them besides the com- 
 plaint, which we should more reasonably take up 
 against ourselves. If I be sick, it is part of my fate; 
 and for other calamities, they are usual things; they 
 ought to be; nay, which is more, they must be, for 
 they come by divine appointment. So that we should 
 not only submit to God, but assent to him, and obey 
 him out of duty, even if there were no necessity. All 
 those terrible appearances that make us groan and 
 tremble are but the tribute of life; we are neither to 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY. LIFE. 179 
 
 wish, nor to ask, nor to hope to escape them; for it 
 is a kind of dishonesty to pay a tribute unwillingly. 
 Am I troubled with the stone, or afflicted with con- 
 tinual losses? nay, is my body in danger? All this 
 is no more than what I prayed for when I prayed for 
 old age. All these things are as familiar in a long 
 life, as dust and dirt in a long way. Life is a war- 
 fare; and what brave man would not rather choose 
 to be in a tent than in shambles ? Fortune does like 
 a swordsman, she scorns to encounter a fearful man: 
 there is no honor in the victory where there is no 
 danger in the way to it; she tries Mucins by fire; 
 Rutilius by exile; Socrates hj poison; Ca,to hj death. 
 It is only in adverse fortune, and in bad times, 
 that we find great examples. "Mucius thought him- 
 self happier with his hand in the flame, than if it 
 had been in the bosom of his mistress. Fabricius 
 took more pleasure in eating the roots of his own 
 planting than in all the delicacies of luxury and ex- 
 pense. Shall we call Rutilius miserable, whom his 
 very enemies have adored? who, upon a glorious 
 and a public principle, chose rather to lose his 
 country than to return from banishment? the only 
 man that denied any thing to Sylla the dictator, who 
 recalled him. Nor did he only refuse to come, but 
 drew himself further off: " Let them," says he, "that 
 think banishment a misfortune, live slaves at Rome, 
 under the imperial cruelties of Sylla: he that sets a 
 price upon the heads of senators; and after a law of 
 his own institution against cut-throats, becomes the 
 greatest himself." Is it not better for a man to live 
 in exile abroad than to be massacred at home? In 
 suffering for virtue, it is not the torment but the 
 cause, that we are to consider; and the more pain, 
 the more renown. When any hardship befalls us, 
 
180 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 we must look upon it as an act of Providence, which 
 many times suffers particulars to be wounded for the 
 conservation of the whole: beside that, God chas- 
 tises some people under an appearance of blessing 
 them, turning their prosperity to their ruin as a 
 punishment for abusing his goodness. And we are 
 further to consider, that many a good man is 
 afflicted, only to teach others to suffer; for we are 
 born for example; and likewise that where men are 
 contumacious and refractory, it pleases God many 
 times to cure greater evils by less, and to turn our 
 miseries to our advantage. 
 
 How many casualties and difficulties are there 
 that we dread as insupportable mischiefs, which, 
 upon farther thoughts, we find to be mercies and 
 benefits? as banishment, poverty, loss of relations, 
 sickness, disgrace. Some are cured by the lance; 
 by fire, hunger, thirst; taking out of bones, lopping 
 off limbs, and the like: nor do we only fear things 
 that are many times beneficial to us; but, on the 
 other side, we hanker after and pursue things that 
 are deadly and pernicious: we are poisoned in the 
 very pleasure of our luxury, and betrayed to a 
 thousand diseases by the indulging of our palate. 
 To lose a child or a limb, is only to part with what 
 we have received, and Nature may do what she 
 pleases with her own. We are frail ourselves, and 
 we have received things transitory — that which was 
 given us may be taken away — calamitj- tries virtue 
 as the fire does gold, nay, he that lives most at ease 
 is only delayed, not dismissed, and his portion is to 
 come. When we are visited with sickness or other 
 afflictions we are not to murmur as if we were ill 
 used — it is a mark of the general's esteem when he 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. l8l 
 
 puts US upon a post of danger: we do not say "My 
 captain uses me ill," but "he does me honor;" and 
 so should we say that are commanded to encounter 
 difficulties, for this is our case with God Almighty; 
 What was Regulus the worse, because Fortune 
 made choice of him for an eminent instance both of 
 faith and patience? He was thrown into a case of 
 wood stuck with pointed nails, so that which way 
 soever he turned his body, it rested upon his wounds; 
 his eyelids were cut off to keep him waking; and 
 yet Mecsenas was not happier upon his bed than 
 Regulus upon his torments. Nay, the world is not 
 yet grown so wicked as not to prefer Regulus before 
 Mecsenas: and can any man take that to be an evil 
 of which Providence accounted this brave man 
 worthy? " It has pleased God," says he, " to single 
 me out for an experiment of the force of human na- 
 ture." No man knows his own strength or value 
 but by being put to the proof. The pilot is tried in a 
 storm; the soldier in a ^battle; the rich man knows 
 not how to behave himself in poverty: he that has 
 lived in popularity and applause, knows not how he 
 would bear infamy and reproach: nor he that never 
 had children how he would bear the loss of them. 
 Calamity is the occasion of virtue, and a spur to a 
 great mind. The very apprehension of a wound 
 startles a man when he first bears arms; but an old^ 
 soldier bleeds boldly, because he knows that a man 
 may lose blood, and yet win the day. Nay, many 
 times a calamity turns to our advantage; and great 
 ruins have but made way to greater glories. The 
 crying out of fire has many times quieted a fray, 
 and the interposing of a wild beast has parted the 
 thief and the traveller; for we are not at leisure for 
 
182 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 less mischiefs while we are under the apprehensions 
 of greater. One man's life is saved by a disease: 
 another is arrested, and taken out of the way, just 
 when his house was falling upon his head. 
 
 To show now that the favors or the crosses of for- 
 tune, and the accidents of sickness and of health, 
 are neither good nor evil, God permits them indif- 
 ferently both to good and evil men. "It is hard," 
 you will say, "for a virtuous man to suffer all sorts 
 of misery, and for a wicked man not only to go free, 
 but to enjoy himself at pleasure." And is it not the 
 same thing for men of prostituted impudence and 
 wickedness to sleep in a whole skin, when men of 
 honor and honesty bear arms; lie in the trenches, 
 and receive wounds? or for the vestal virgins to rise 
 in the night to their prayers, when common strum- 
 pets lie stretching themselves in their beds? We 
 should rather say with Demetrius, " If I had known 
 the will of Heaven before I W9.S called to it, I would 
 have offered myself." If it be the pleasure of God 
 to take my children, I have brought them up to that 
 end: if my fortune, any part of my body, or my life, 
 I would rather present it than yield it up: I am 
 ready to part with all, and to suffer all; for I know 
 that nothing comes to pass but what God appoints: 
 our fate is decreed, and things do not so much hap- 
 pen, as in their due time proceed, and every m.an's 
 portion of joy and sorrow is predetermined. 
 
 There is nothing falls amiss to a good man that 
 can be charged upon Providence; for wicked actions, 
 lewd thoughts, ambitious projects, blind lusts, and 
 insatiable avarice — against all these he is armed by 
 the benefit of reason: and do we expect now that 
 God should look to our luggage too ? (I mean our 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIEE. 183 
 
 bodies.) Demetrius discharged himself of his 
 treasure as the clog and burden of his mind: shall 
 we wonder then if God suffers that to befall a good 
 man which a good man sometimes does to himself? 
 I lose a son, and why not, when it may sometimes 
 so fall out that I myself may kill him? Suppose he 
 be banished by an order of state, is it not the same 
 thing with a man's voluntarily leaving his country 
 never to return? Many afflictions may befall a good 
 man, but no evil, for contraries will never incorpo- 
 rate — all the rivers in the world are never able to_ 
 change the taste or quality of the sea. Prudence 
 and religion are above accidents, and draw good out 
 of every thing — affliction keeps a man in use, and 
 makes him strong, patient, and hardy. Providence 
 treats us like a generous father, and brings us up to 
 labors, toils, and dangers; whereas the indulgence 
 of a fond mother makes us weak and spiritless. 
 
 God loves us with a masculine love, and turns us 
 loose to injuries and indignities: he takes delight to 
 see a brave and a good man wrestling with evil for- 
 tune, and yet keeping himself upon his legs, when 
 the whole world is in disorder about him. And are 
 not we ourselves delighted, to see a bold fellow press 
 with his lance upon a boar or lion? and the con- 
 stancy and resolution of the action is the grace and 
 dignity of the spectacle. No man can be happy 
 that does not stand firm against all contingencies; 
 and say to himself in all extremities, " I should have 
 been content, if it might have been so or so, but 
 since it is otherwise determined, Go.d will provide 
 better." The more we struggle with our necessities, 
 we draw the knot the harder, and the worse it is 
 with us: and the more a bird flaps and flutters in 
 
184 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 the snare, the surer she is caught: so that the best 
 way is to submit and lie still, under this double con- 
 sideration, that "the proceedings of God are un- 
 questionable, and his decrees are not to be resisted." 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 OF LEVITY OF MIND, AND OTHER IMPEDIMENTS OF A HAPPY 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Now, to sum up what is already delivered, we 
 have showed what happiness is, and wherein it con- 
 sists: that it is founded upon wisdom and virtue; 
 for we must first know what we ought to do, and then 
 live according to that knowledge. We have also 
 discoursed the helps of philosophy and precept 
 toward a happy life; the blessing of a good con- 
 science; that a good man can never be miserable, 
 nor a wicked man happy; nor any man unfortunate 
 that cheerfully submits to Providence. We shall 
 now examine, how it comes to pass that, when the 
 certain way to happiness lies so fair before us, men 
 will yet steer their course on the other side, which 
 as manifestly leads to ruin. 
 
 There are some that live without any design at 
 all, and only pass in the world like straws upon a 
 river; they do not gb, but they are carried. Others 
 only deliberate upon the parts of life, and not upon 
 the whole, which is a great error: for there is no 
 disposing of the circumstances of it, unless we first 
 propound the main scope. How shall any man take 
 his aim withqut a mark? or what wind will serve 
 him that is not yet resolved upon his port? We live 
 as it were by chance, and by chance we are gov- 
 erned. Some there are that torment themselves 
 
186 SENECA OE A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 afresh with the memory of what is past: "Lord! 
 what did I endure? never was any man in my con- 
 dition; everybody gave me over; my very heart was 
 ready to break," etc. Others, again, afflict them- 
 selves with the apprehension of evils to come; and 
 very ridiculously : for the one does not now concern 
 us, and the other not yet: beside that, there may be 
 remedies for mischiefs likely to happen; for they 
 give us warning by signs and symptoms of their ap- 
 proach. Let him that would be quiet take heed not 
 to provoke men that are in power, but live without 
 giving offence; and if we cannot make all great 
 men our friends, it will suffice to keep them from 
 being our enemies. This is a thing we must avoid, 
 as a mariner would do a storm. 
 
 A rash seaman never considers what wind blows, 
 or what course he steers, but runs at a venture, as if 
 he would brave the rocks and the eddies; whereas 
 he that is careful and considerate, informs himself 
 beforehand where the danger lies, and what weather 
 it is like to be : he consults his compass, and keeps 
 aloof from those places that are infamous for wrecks 
 and miscarriages; so does a wise man in the com- 
 mon business of life; he keeps out of the way from 
 those that may do him hurt: but it is a point of pru- 
 dence not to let them take notice that he does it on 
 purpose; for that which a man shuns he tacitly con- 
 demns. Let him have a care also of listeners, neics- 
 mongers, and meddlers in other people's matters; for 
 their discourse is commonly of such things as are 
 never profitable, and most commonly dangerous 
 either to be spoken or heard. 
 
 Levity of min,d is a great hindrance of repose, and 
 the very change of wickedness is an addition to the 
 wickedness itself; for it is inconstancy added to 
 
SENECA OF A.HAPPY LIFE. 187 
 
 iniquity; we relinquish the thing we sought, and 
 then we take it up again; and so divide our Hves be- 
 tween our lust and our repentances. From one ap- 
 petite we pass to another, not so much upon choice 
 as for change; and there is a check of conscience 
 that casts a damp upon all our unlawful pleasures, 
 which makes us lose the day in expectation of the 
 night, and the night itself for fear of the approach- 
 ing light. 
 
 Some people are never at quiet, others are alivays 
 so, and they are both to blame: for that which looks 
 like vivacity and industry in the one is only a rest- 
 lessness and agitation; and that which passes in the 
 other for moderation and reserve is but a drowsy and 
 unactive sloth. Let motion and rest both take their 
 turns, according to the order of Nature, which makes 
 both the day and the night. Some are perpetually 
 shifting from one thing to another; others, again, 
 make their whole life but a kind of uneasy 
 sleep: some lie tossing and turning until very 
 weariness brings them to rest; others, again, 
 I cannot so properly call inconstant as lazy. There 
 are many proprieties and diversities of vice; but it 
 is one never-failing effect of it to live displeased. 
 We do all of us labor under inordinate desires; we 
 are either timorous, and dare not venture, or ventur- 
 ing we do not succeed; or else we cast ourselves 
 upon uncertain hopes, where we are perpetually so- 
 licitous, and in suspense. In this distraction we are 
 apt to propose to ourselves things dishonest and 
 hard; and when we ha,ve taken great pains to no 
 purpose, we come then to repent of our undertak- 
 ings: we are afraid to go on, and we can neither 
 master our appetites nor obey them: we live and die 
 restless and irresolute; and, which is worst of all, 
 
188 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 when we grow weary of the public, and betake our- 
 selves to solitude for relief, our minds are sick and 
 wallowing, and the very house and walls are trouble- 
 some to us; we grow impatient and ashamed of our- 
 selves, and suppress our inward vexation until it 
 breaks our heart for want of vent. This is it that 
 makes us sour and morose, envious of others, and 
 dissatisfied with ourselves; until at last, betwixt our 
 troubles for other people's successes and the despair 
 of our own, we fall foul upon Fortune and the times, 
 and get into a corner perhaps, where we sit brood- 
 ing over our own disquiets. In these dispositions 
 there is a kind of puriginous fancy, that makes some 
 people take delight in labor and uneasiness, like the 
 clawing of an itch until the blood starts. 
 
 This is it that puts us upon rambling voyages: 
 one while by land; but still disgusted with the 
 present: the town pleases us to-day, the country to- 
 morrow: the splendors of the court at one time, the 
 horrors of a wilderness at another, but all this while 
 we carry our plague about us; for it is not the place 
 we are weary of, but ourselves. Nay, our weakness 
 extends to everything; for we are impatient equally 
 of toil and of pleasure. This trotting of the ring, 
 and only treading the same steps over and over 
 again, has made many a man lay violent hands upon 
 himself. It must be the change of the mind, not of 
 the climate, that will remove the heaviness of the 
 heart; our vices go along with us, and we carry in 
 ourselves the causes of our disquiets. There is a 
 great weight lies upon us, and the bare shocking of 
 it makes it the more uneasy; changing of countries, 
 in this case, is not travelling, but wandering. We 
 must keep on our course, if we would gain our 
 journey's end. " He that cannot live happily any- 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 189 
 
 where, will live happily nowhere." What is a man 
 the better for travelling? as if his cares could not 
 find him out wherever he goes? Is there any retir- 
 ing from the fear of death, or of torments? or from 
 those difficulties which beset a man wherever he is? 
 It is only philosophy that makes the mind invinci- 
 ble, and places us out of the reach of fortune, so that 
 all her arrows fall short of us. This it is that re- 
 claims the rage of our lusts, and sweetens the 
 anxiety of our fears. Frequent changing of places 
 or councils, shows an instability of mind; and we 
 must fix the body before we can fix the soul. We 
 can hardly stir abroad, or look about us, without en- 
 countering something or other that revives our 
 appetites. As he that would cast off an unhappy 
 love avoids whatsoever may put him in mind of the 
 person, so he that would wholly deliver himself from 
 his beloved lusts must shun all objects that may put 
 them in his head again, and remind him of them. 
 We travel, as children run up and down after strange 
 sights, for novelty, not profit; we return neither the 
 better nor the sounder; nay, and the very agitation 
 hurts us. We learn to call towns and places by their 
 names, and to tell stories of mountains and of rivers; 
 but had not our time been better spent in the study 
 of wisdom and of virtue? in the learning of what is 
 already discovered, and in the quest of things not 
 yet found out? If a man break his leg, or strain his 
 ankle, he sends presently for a surgeon to set all 
 right again, and does not take horse upon it, or put 
 himself on ship-board; no more does the change of 
 place work upon our disordered minds than upon our 
 bodies. It is not the place, I hope, that makes eith- 
 er an orator or a physician. Will any man ask upon 
 the road, Pray, which is the way to prudence, to jus- 
 
190 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 tice, to temperance, to fortitudet No matter whith- 
 er any man goes that carries his affections along 
 with him. He that would make his travels delight- 
 ful must make himself a temperate companion. 
 
 A great traveller was complaining that he was 
 never the better for his travels; "That is very- 
 true," said Socrates, " because you travelled with 
 yourself." Now, .had not he better have made him- 
 self another man than to transport himself to anoth- 
 er place? It is no matter what manners we find 
 anywhere; so long as we carry our own. But we 
 have all of us a natural curiosity of seeing fine 
 sights, and of making new discoveries, turning over 
 antiquities, learning the customs of nations, etc. 
 We are never quiet; to-day we seek an office, to- 
 uaorrow we are sick of it. We divide our lives be- 
 twixt a dislike of the present and a desire of the 
 future : but he that lives as he should, orders himself 
 so, as neither to fear nor to wish for to-morrow; if it 
 comes, it is welcome; but if not, there is nothing 
 lost; for that which is come, is but the same over 
 again with what is past. As levity is a pernicious 
 enemy to quiet, so pertinacity is a great one too. 
 The one changes nothing, the other sticks to noth- 
 ing; and which of the two is the worse, may be a 
 question. It is many times seen, that we beg earn- 
 estly for those things, which, if tliey were offered 
 us, we would refuse; and it is but just to punish tliis 
 easiness of asking with an equal facility of granting. 
 There are some things we would be thought to 
 desire, which we are sO far from desiring that we 
 dread them. "I shall tire you," says one, in the 
 middle of a tedious storJ^ •' Nay, pray be pleased 
 to go on," we cry, though we wish his tongue 
 out at half-way: nay, we do not deal candidly even 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 191 
 
 with God himself. We should say to ourselves in 
 these cases, " This I have drawn upon myself. I 
 could never be quiet until I had gotten this woman, 
 this place, this estate, this honor, and now see what 
 is come of it." 
 
 One sovereign remedy against all misfortunes is 
 constancy of, mind: the changing of parties and 
 countenances looks as if a man were driven with the 
 wind. Nothing can be above him that is above for- 
 tune. It is not violence, reproach, contempt, or 
 whatever else from without, that can make a wise 
 man quit his ground: but he is proof against calam- 
 ities, both great and small: only our error is, that 
 what we cannot do ourselves, we think nobody else 
 canj so that we judge of the wise by the measures of 
 the weak. Place me among princes or among beg- 
 gars, the one shall not make me proud, nor the other 
 ashamed. I can take as sound a sleep in a barn as 
 in a palace, and a bundle of hay makes me as good 
 a lodging as a bed of down. Should every day suc- 
 ceed to my wish, it should not transport me; nor 
 would I think myself miserable if I should not have 
 one quiet hour in my life. I will not transport my- 
 self with either pain or pleasure; but yet for all that, 
 I could wish that I had an easier game to play, and 
 that I were put rather to moderate my joys than my 
 sorrows. If I were an imperial prince, I had rather 
 take than be taken; and yet I would bear the same 
 mind under the chariot of my conqueror that I had 
 in my own. It is no great matter to trample upon 
 those things that are most coveted or feared by the 
 common people. There are those that will laugh 
 upon the wheel, and cast themselves upon a certain 
 death, only upon a transport of love, perhaps anger, 
 avarice, or revenge; how much more then upon an 
 
192 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 instinct of virtue, which is invincible and steady! 
 If a short obstinacy of mind can do this, how much 
 more shall a composed and deliberate virtue, whose 
 force is equal and perpetual. 
 
 To secure ourselves in this world, first, we must 
 aim at nothing that men count worth the wrangling 
 for. Secondly, we must not value the possession of 
 any thing which even a common thief would think 
 worth the stealing. A man's body is no booty. Let 
 the way be never so dangerous for robberies, the 
 poor and the naked pass quietly. A plain-dealing 
 sincerity of manners makes a man's life happy, even 
 in despite of scorn and contempt, which is every 
 clear man's fate. But we had better yet be con- 
 temned for simplicity than lie perpetually upon the 
 torture of a counterfeit; provided that care be taken 
 not to confound simplicity with negligence; and it 
 is, moreover, an uneasy life that of a disguise; for a 
 man to seem to be what he is not, to keep a perpet- 
 ual guard upon himself, and to live in fear of a dis- 
 covery. He takes every man that looks upon him 
 for a spy, over and above the trouble of being put 
 to play another man's part. It is a good remedy in 
 some cases for a man to apply himself to civil af- 
 fairs and public business; and yet, in this state of 
 life too, what betwixt ambition and calumny, it is 
 hardly safe to be honest. There are, indeed, some 
 cases wherein a wise man will give way; but let him 
 not yield over easily neither; if he marches off, let 
 him have a care of his honor, and make his retreat 
 with his sword in his hand, and his face to the ene- 
 my. Of all others, a studious life is the least tire- 
 some: it makes us easy to ourselves and to others, 
 and gains us both friends and reputation. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 HE THAT SETS UP HIS REST UPON CONTINGBNCTES SHALL NEVER 
 BE QUIET. 
 
 Never pronounce any man happy that depends 
 upon fortune for his happiness; for nothing can be 
 more preposterous than to place the good of a reas- 
 onable creature in unreasonable things. If I have 
 lost any thing, it was adventitious; and the less 
 money, the less trouble; the less favor, the less en- 
 vy; nay, even in those cases that put us out of 
 their wits, it is not the loss itself, but the opinion 
 of the loss, that troubles us. It is a common mis- 
 take to account those things necessary that are 
 superfluous, and to depend upon fortune for the fe- 
 licity of life, which arises only from virtue. There 
 is no trusting to her smiles; the sea swells and rages 
 in a moment, and the ships are swallowed at night, 
 in the very place where they sported themselves in 
 the morning. And fortune has the same power over 
 princes that it has over empires, over nations that 
 it has over cities, and the same power over cities 
 that it has over private men. Where is that estate 
 that may not be followed upon the heel with famine 
 and beggary? that dignity which the next moment 
 may not be laid in the dust? that kingdom that is 
 secure from desolation and ruin? The period of all 
 things is at hand, as well that which casts out the 
 fortunate as the other that delivers the uuhappyj 
 
194 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 and that which may fall out at any time may fall 
 out this very day. What shall come to pass I know 
 not, but what may come to pass I know: so that I 
 will despair of nothing, but expect everything; and 
 whatsoever Providence remits is clear gain. Every 
 moment, if it spares me, deceives me; and yet in 
 some sort it does not deceive me; for though I 
 know that any thing may happen, yet I know like- 
 wise that everything will not. I will hope the best, 
 and provide for the worst. Methinks we should not 
 find so much fault with Fortune for her inconstancy 
 when we ourselves suffer a change every moment 
 that we live; only other changes make more noise, 
 and this steals upon us like the shadow upon a dial, 
 every jot as certainly, but more insensibly. 
 
 The burning of Lyons may serve to show us that 
 we are never safe, and to arm us against all sur- 
 prises. The terror of it must needs be great, for the 
 calamity is almost without example. If it had been 
 fired by an enemy, the flame would have left some 
 further mischief to have been done by the soldiers; 
 but to be wholly consumed, we have not heard of 
 many earthquakes so pernicious: so many rarities 
 to be destroyed in one night; and in the depth of 
 peace to suffer an outrage beyond the extremity of 
 war; who would believe it? but twelve hours be- 
 twixt so fair a city and none at all! It was laid in 
 ashes in less time than it would require to tell the 
 story. 
 
 To stand unshaken in such a calamity is hardly to 
 be expected, and our wonder can but be equal to our 
 grief. Let this accident teach us to provide against 
 all possibilities that fall within the power of fortune. 
 All external things are under her dominion: one 
 while she calls our hands to her assistance; another 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 195 
 
 while she contents herself with her own force, and 
 ■destroys us with mischiefs of which we cannot find 
 the author. No time, place, or condition, is except- 
 ed; she makes our very pleasures painful to us; she 
 makes war upon us in the depth of peace, and turns 
 the means of our security into an occasion of fear; 
 she turns a friend into an enemy, and makes a foe 
 of a companion; we suffer the effects of war with- 
 out any adversary; and rather than fail, our felicity 
 shall be the cause of our destruction. Lest we 
 should either forget or neglect her power, every day 
 produces something extraordinary. She persecutes 
 the most temperate with sickness, the strongest con- 
 stitutions with the phthisis; she brings the innocent 
 to punishment, and the most retired she assaults 
 with tumults. Those glories that have grown up 
 with many ages, with infinite labor and .^expense, 
 and under the favor of many auspicious providences, 
 one day scatters and brings to nothing. He that 
 pronounced a day, nay, an hour, sufficient for the 
 destruction of the greatest empire, might have fallen 
 to a moment. 
 
 It were some comfort yet to the frailty of mankind 
 and of human affairs, if things might but decay as 
 slowly as they rise; but they grow by degrees, and 
 they fall to ruin in an instant. There is no felicity 
 in anything either private or public; men, nations, 
 and cities, have all their fates and periods; our very 
 entertainments are not without terror, and our ca- 
 lamity rises there where we least expect it. Those 
 kingdoms that stood the shock both of foreign wars 
 and civil, come to destruction without the sight of 
 an enemy. Nay, we are to dread our peace and fe^ 
 licity more than violence, because we are here taken 
 unprovided; unless fn a state of peace we do the 
 
196 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 duty of men in war, and say to ourselves, Whatso- 
 ever may be, iVill he. I am to-day safe and happy in 
 the love of my country; I am to-morrow banished: 
 to-day in pleasure, peace, health; to-morrow broken 
 upon a wheel, led in triumph, and in the agony of 
 sickness. Let us therefore prepare for a shipwreck 
 in the port, and for a tempest in a cahn. One vio- 
 lence drives me from my country, another ravishes 
 that from me; and that very place where a man can 
 hardly pass this day for a crowd may be to-morrow 
 a desert. Wherefore let us set before our eyes the 
 whole condition of human nature, and consider as 
 well what may happen as what commonly does. 
 The way to make future calamities easy to us in the 
 sufferance, is to make them familiar to us in the con- 
 templation. How many cities in Asia, Achaia, As- 
 syria, Macedonia, have been swallowed up by earth- 
 quakes? nay, whole countries are lost, and large 
 provinces laid under water; but time brings all tilings 
 to an end; for all the works of mortals are mortal; 
 all possessions and their possessors are uncertain and 
 perishable; and what wonder is it to lose anything 
 at any time, when we must one day lose all? 
 
 That which we call our own is but lent us; and 
 what we have received gratis we must return with- 
 out complaint. That which Fortune gives us this 
 hour she may take away the next; and he that trusts 
 to her favors, shall either find himself deceived, or if 
 he be not, he will at least be troubled, because he 
 may be so. There is no defence in walls, fortifica- 
 tions, and engines, against the power of fortune; we 
 must provide ourselves within, and when we are safe 
 there, we are invincible; we may be battered, but 
 not taken. She throws her gifts among us, and we 
 sweat and scuffle for them: never considering how 
 
SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. lOf 
 
 few are the better for that which is expected by all. 
 Some are transported with what they get; others tor- 
 mented for what they miss; and many times there is 
 a leg or an arm broken in a contest for a counter. 
 She gives us honors, riches, favors, only to take them 
 away again, either by violence or treachery: so that 
 they frequently turn to the damage of the receiver. 
 She throws out baits for us, and sets traps as we do 
 for birds and beasts; her bounties are snares and 
 lime-twigs to us; we think that we take, but we are 
 taken. If they had any thing in them that was sub- 
 stantial, they would some time or other fill and quiet 
 us; but they serve only to provoke our appetite with- 
 out anything more than pomp and show to allay it. 
 But the best of it is, if a man cannot mend his fortune, 
 he may yet mend his manners, and put himself so 
 far out of her reach, that whether she gives or takes, 
 it shall be all one to us; for we are neither the 
 greater for the one, nor the less for the other. We 
 call this a dark room, or that a light one; when it is 
 in itself neither the one nor the other, but only as the 
 day and the night render it. And so it is in riches, 
 strength of body, beauty, honor, command: and like- 
 wise in pain, sickness, banishment, death: which 
 are in themselves middle and indifferent things, and 
 only good or bad as they are influenced by virtue. 
 To weep, lament, and groan, is to renounce our duty; 
 and it is the same weakness on the other side to 
 exult and rejoice. I would rather make my fortune 
 than expect it; being neither depressed with her in- 
 juries, nor dazzled with her favors. When Zeno was 
 told, that all his goods were drowned; " Why then," 
 says he, " Fortune has a mind to make me a philos- 
 opher." It is a great matter for a man to advance 
 
198 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 his mind above her threats or flatteries; for he that 
 has once gotten the better of her is safe forever. 
 
 It is some comfort yet to the unfortunate, that 
 great men lie under the lash for company; and that 
 death spares the palace no more than the cottage, 
 and that whoever is above me has a power also above 
 him. Do we not daily see funerals without trouble, 
 princes deposed, countries depopulated, towns 
 sacked; without so much as thinking how soon it 
 may be our own case? whereas, if we would but 
 prepare and arm ourselves against the iniquities of 
 fortune, we should never be surprised. 
 
 When we see any man banished, beggared, tor- 
 tured, we are to account, that though the mischief 
 fell upon another, it was levelled at us. What won- 
 der is if if, of so many thousands of dangers that are 
 constantly hovering about us, one comes to hit us at 
 last? That which befalls any man, may befall every 
 man; and then it breaks the force of a present cala- 
 mity to provide against the future. Whatsoever our 
 lot is, we must bear it: as suppose it be contumely, 
 cruelty, fire, sword, pains, diseases, or a prey to wild 
 beasts; there is no struggling, nor any remedy but 
 moderation. It is to no purpose to bewail any part 
 of our life, when life itself is miserable throughout; 
 and the whole flux of it only a ccfurse of transition 
 from one misfortune to another. 
 
 A man may as well wonder that he should be cold 
 in winter, sick at sea, or have his bones clatter to- 
 gether in a wagon, as at the encounter of ill acci- 
 dents and crosses in the passage of human life; and 
 it is in vain to run away from fortune, as if there 
 were any hiding-place wherein she could not find 
 us; or to expect any quiet from her; for she makes 
 life a perpetual state of war, without so much as any 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 199 
 
 respite or truce. This we may conclude upon, that 
 her empire is but imaginary, and that whosoever 
 serves her, makes himself a voluntary slave; for 
 " the things that are often contemned by the incon- 
 siderate, and always by the wise, are in themselves 
 neither good nor evil:" as pleasure and pains; pros- 
 perity and adversity; which can only operate upon 
 our outward condition, without any proper and 
 necessary effect upon the mind. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A SENSUAL LIFE IS A MISEKABLE LIFE. 
 
 The sensuality that we here treat of falls natural- 
 ly under the head of luxury ; which extends to all 
 the excesses of gluttony, lust, effeminacy of man- 
 ners; and, in short, to whatsoever concerns the over- 
 great care of the carcass. 
 
 To begin now with the pleasures of the palate, 
 (which deal with us like Egyptian thieves, that 
 strangle those they embrace), what shall we say of 
 the luxury of Nomentanus and Apicius, that enter- 
 tained their very souls in the kitchen: they have the 
 choicest music for their ears; the most diverting 
 spectacles for their eyes; the choicest variety of 
 meats and drinks for their palates. What is all this, 
 I say, but a merry madness? It is true, they have 
 their delights, but not without heavy and anxious 
 thoughts, even in their v^ry enjoyments, beside 
 that, they are followed with repentance, and their 
 frolics are little more than the laughter of so many 
 people out of their wits. Their felicities are full of 
 disquiet, and neither sincere nor well grounded: but 
 they have need of one pleasure to support an- 
 other; and of new prayers to forgive the errors of 
 their former. Their life must needs be wretched 
 that get with great pains what they keep with 
 greater. 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 201 
 
 One diversion overtakes another; hope excites 
 hope; ambition begets ambition; so that they only 
 change the matter of their miseries, without seeking 
 any end of them; and shall never be without either 
 prosperous or unhappy causes of disquiet. What if 
 a body might have all the pleasures in the world for 
 the asking? who would so much unman himself, as 
 by accepting of them, to desert his soul, and become 
 a perpetual slave to his senses? Those false and 
 miserable palates, that judge of meats by the price 
 and difficulty, not by the healthf ulness of taste, they 
 vomit that they may eat, and they eat tl^at they 
 may fetch it up again. They cross the seas for rari- 
 ties, and when they have swallowed them, they will 
 not so much as give them time to digest. Whereso- 
 ever Nature has placed men, she has provided them 
 aliment: but we rather choose to irritate hunger by 
 expense than to allay it at an easier rate. 
 
 What is it that we plow the seas for; or arm our- 
 selves against men and beasts? To what end do we 
 toil, and labor, and pile bags upon bags? We may- 
 enlarge our fortunes, but we cannot our bodies; so 
 that it does but spill and run over, whatsoever we 
 take more than we can hold. Our forefathers (by 
 the force of whose virtues we are now supported in 
 our vices) lived every jot as well as we, when they 
 provided and dressed their own meat with their own 
 hands; lodged upon the ground, and were not as yet 
 come to the vanity- of gold and gems; when they 
 swore by their earthen gods, and kept their oath, 
 though they died for it. 
 
 Did not our consuls live more happily when they 
 cooked their own meat with those victorious hands 
 that had conquered so many enemies and won so 
 many laurels? Did they not live more happily, I 
 
202 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 say, than our Apicius (that corrupter of youth, and 
 plague of the age he Uved in) who, after he had 
 spent a prodigious fortune upon his belly, poisoned 
 himself for fear of starving, when he had yet 250,- 
 000 crowns in his coffers? which may serve to show 
 us, that it is the mind, and not the sum, that makes 
 any man rich; when Apicius with all his treasure 
 counted himself in a state of beggary, and took 
 poison to avoid that condition, which another would 
 have prayed for. But why do we call it poison, 
 which was the wholesomest draught of his life? His 
 daily gluttony was poison rather, both to himself 
 and others. His ostentation of it was intolerable; 
 and so was the infinite pains he took to mislead 
 others by his example, who went even fast enough 
 of themselves without driving. 
 
 It is a shame for a man to place his felicity in 
 those entertainments and appetites that are stronger 
 in brutes. Do not beasts eat with a better stomach? 
 Have they not more satisfaction in their lusts? And 
 they have not only a quicker relish of their pleas- 
 ures, but they enjoy them without either scandal or 
 remorse. If sensuality were happiness, beasts were 
 happier than men; but human felicity is lodged in 
 the soul, not in the flesh. They that deliver them- 
 selves up to luxury are stiU either tormented with 
 too little, or oppressed with too much; and equally 
 miserable, by being either deserted or overwhelmed: 
 they are like men in a dangerous sea; one while cast 
 a-dry upon a rock, and another while swallowed up 
 in a whirlpool;' and all this from the mistake of not 
 distinguishing good from evil. The huntsman, that 
 with which labor and hazard takes a wild beast, 
 runs as great a risk afterwards in the keeping of 
 him; for many times he tears out the throat of Ills 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 203 
 
 master; and it is the same thing with inordinate 
 pleasures : the more in number, and the greater they 
 are, the more general and absolute a slave is the ser- 
 vant of them. Let the common people pronounce 
 him as happy as they please, he pays his liberty for 
 his delights, and sells himself for what he buys. 
 
 Let any man take a view of our kitchens, the 
 number of our cooks, and the variety of our meats; 
 will he not wonder to see so much provision made 
 for one belly? We have as many diseases as we 
 have cooks or meats; and the service of the appetite 
 is the study now in vogue. To say nothing of our 
 trains of lackeys, and our troops of caterers and 
 sewers: Good God! that ever one belly should employ 
 so many people! How nauseous and fulsome are 
 the surfeits that follow these excesses? Simple meats 
 are out of fashion, and all are collected into one; so 
 that the cook does the office of the stomach; nay, 
 and of the teeth too; for the meat looks as if it were 
 chewed beforehand: here is the luxury of all tastes 
 in one dish, and liker a vomit than a soup. From 
 these compounded dishes arise compounded dis- 
 eases, which require compounded medicines. It is 
 the same thing with our minds that it is with our 
 tables; simple vices are curable by simple counsels, 
 but a general dissolution of manners is hardly over- 
 come; we are overrun with a public as well as with 
 a private madness. The physicians of old under- 
 stood little more than the virtue of some herbs to 
 stop blood, or heal a wound; and their firm and 
 healthful bodies needed little more before they were 
 corrupted by luxury and pleasure; and when it came 
 to that once, their business was not to allay hunger, 
 but to provoke it by a thousand inventions and 
 sauces. That which was aliment to a craving 
 
204 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 stomach is become a burden to a full one. From 
 hence came paleness, trembling, and worse effects 
 from crudities than famine; a weakness in the joints, 
 the belly stretched, suffusion of choler, the torpor of 
 the nerves, and a palpitation of the heart. To say 
 nothing of megrims, torments of the eyes and ears, 
 head-ache, gout, scurvy, several sorts of fevers and 
 putrid ulcers, with other diseases that are but the 
 punishment of luxury. So long as our bodies were 
 hardened with labor, or tired with exercise or hunt- 
 ing, our food was plain and simple; many dishes 
 have made many diseases. 
 
 It is an ill thing for a man not to know the measure 
 of his stomach, nor to consider that men do many 
 things in their drink that they are ashamed of sober; 
 drunkenness being nothing else but a voluntary mad- 
 ness. It emboldens men to do all sorts of mischiefs; 
 it both irritates wickedness and discovers it; it does 
 not make men vicious, but it shows them to be so. It 
 was in a drunken fit that Alexander killed Clytus. 
 It makes him that is insolent prouder, him that is 
 cruel fiercer, it takes away all shame. He that is 
 peevish breaks out presently into ill words and 
 blows. The lecher, without any regard to decency 
 or scandal, turns up his whore in the market-place. 
 A man's tongue trips, his head runs round, he stag- 
 gers in his pace. To say nothing of the crudities 
 and diseases that follow upon this distemper, consid- 
 er the public naischiefs it has done. How many 
 warlike nations and strong cities, that have stood 
 invincible to attacks and sieges, has drunkenness 
 overcome! Is it not a great honor to drink the com- 
 pany dead? a magnificent virtue to swallow more 
 wine than the rest, and yet at last to be outdone by 
 a hogshead? What shall we say of those men that 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 205 
 
 invert the oflSces of day and night? as if our eyes 
 were only given us to make use of in the dark? Is it 
 day? "It is time to go to bed." Is it night? It is 
 time to rise." Is it toward morning? " Let us go to 
 supper." When other people lie down they rise, and 
 lie till the next night to digest the debauch of the 
 day before. It is an argument of clownery, to do as 
 other people do. 
 
 Luxury steals upon us by degrees; first, it shows 
 itself in a more than ordinary care of our bodies, it 
 slips next into the furniture of our houses; and it 
 gets then into the fabric, curiosity, and expense of 
 the house itself. It appears, lastly, in the fantastical 
 excesses of our tables. We change and shuffle our 
 meats, confound our sauces, serve that in first that 
 used to be last, and value our dishes, not for the 
 taste, but for the rarity. Nay, we are so delicate, 
 that we must be told when we are to eat or drink; 
 when we are hungry or weary; and we cherish some 
 vices as proofs and arguments of our happiness. 
 The most miserable mortals are they that deliver 
 themselves up to their palates, or to their l^ists: the 
 pleasure is short and turns presently nauseous, and 
 the end of it is either shame or repentance. It is a 
 brutal entertainment, and unworthy of a man, to 
 place his felicity in the service of his senses. As to 
 the wrathful, the contentious, the ambitious, though 
 the distemper be great, the offence has yet something 
 in it that is manly; but the basest of prostitutes are 
 those that dedicate themselves wholly to lust; what 
 with their hopes and fears, anxiety of thought, and 
 perpetual disquiets, they are never well, full nor 
 fasting. 
 
 What a deal of business is now made about our 
 houses and diet, which was at first both obvious and 
 
206 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 of little expense? Luxury led the way, and we have 
 employed our wits in the aid of our vices. First we 
 desired superfluities, our next step was to wicked- 
 ness, and, in conclusion, we delivered up our minds 
 to our bodies, and so became slaves to our appetites, 
 which before were our servants, and are now be- 
 come our masters. What was it that brought us to 
 the extravagance of embroideries, perfumes, tire- 
 women, etc. We passed the bounds of Naiure, and 
 launched out into superfluities; insomuch, that it is 
 now-a-days only for beggars and clowns to content 
 themselves with what is suflBcient; our luxury makes 
 us insolent and mad. We take upon us like princes, 
 and fly out for every trifle, as though there were life 
 and death in the case. What a madness is it for a 
 man to lay out an estate upon a table or a cabinet, a 
 patrimony upon a pain of pendants, and to inflame 
 the price of curiosities according to the hazard eith- 
 er of breaking or losing of them? To wear garments 
 that will neither defend a woman's body, nor her 
 modesty: so thin that one could make a conscience 
 of swearing she were naked: for she hardly shows 
 more in the privacies of her amour than in public? 
 How long shall we covet and oppress, enlarge our 
 possessions, and account that too little for one man 
 which was formerly enough for a nation? And our 
 luxury is as insatiable as our avarice. Where is that 
 lake, that sea, that forest, that spot of land; that is 
 not ransacked to gratify our palate? The very earth 
 is burdened with our buildings; not a river, not a 
 mountain, escapes us. Oh, that there should be such 
 boundless desires in our little bodies! Would not 
 fewer lodgings serve us? We lie but in one, and 
 where we are not, that is not properly ours. What 
 with our hooks, snares, nets, dogs, etc. , we are at war 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 207 
 
 with all living creatures; and nothing comes amiss 
 but that which is either too cheap, or too common; 
 and all this is to gratify a fantastical palate. Our 
 avarice, our ambition our lusts, are insatiable; we 
 enlarge our possessions, swell our families, we rifle 
 sea and land for matter of ornament and luxury. 
 A bull contents himself with one meadow, and one 
 forest is enough for a thousand elephants; but the lit- 
 tle body of a man devours more than all other liv- 
 ing creatures. We do not eat to satisfy hunger, 
 but ambition; we are dead while we are alive, and 
 our houses are so much our tombs, that a man might 
 write our epitaphs upon our very doors. 
 
 A voluptuous person, in fine, can neither be a good 
 man, a good patriot, nor a good friend; for he is 
 transported with his appetites, without considering, 
 that the lot of man is the law of Nature. A good 
 man (like a good soldier) will stand his ground, re- 
 ceive wounds, glory in his scars, and in death itself 
 love his master for whom he falls; with that divine 
 precept always in his mind, " Follow good: " where- 
 as he that complains, laments, and groans, must 
 yield nevertheless, and do his duty though in spite 
 of his heart. Now, what a madness is it for a man 
 to choose rather to be lugged than to follow, and 
 vainly to contend with the calamities of human 
 life? Whatsoever is laid upon us by necessity, we 
 should receive generously; for it is foolish to strive 
 with what we cannot avoid. We are born subjects, 
 and to obey God is perfect liberty. He that does this 
 shall be free, safe, and quiet: all his actions shall 
 succeed to his wish: and what can any man desire 
 more than to want nothing from without, and to 
 have all things desirable within himself? Pleasures 
 
208 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 do but weaken our minds, and send us for our sup- 
 port to Fortune, who gives us money only as the 
 wages of slavery. We must stop our eyes and our 
 ears. Ulysses had but one rock to fear, but human 
 life has many. Every city, nay, every man, is one; 
 and there is no trusting even to our nearest friends. 
 Deliver me from the superstition of taking those 
 things which are light and vain for felicities. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 AVARICE AND AMBITION ARE INSATIABLE AND RESTLESS. 
 
 The man that would be truly rich must not in- 
 crease his fortune, but retrench his appetites: for 
 riches are not only superfluous, but mean, and little 
 more to the possessor than to the looker-on. What 
 is the end of ambition and avarice, when at best we 
 are but stewards of what wie falsely call our own? 
 All those things that we pursue with so much hazard 
 and expense of blood, as well to keep as to get, for 
 which we break faith and friendship, what are they 
 but the mere cleposita of Fortune? and not ours, but 
 already inclining toward a new master. There is 
 nothing our own but that which we give to ourselves, 
 and of which we have a certain and an inexpugnable 
 possession. Avarice is so insatiable, that it is not in 
 the power of liberality to content it; and our desires 
 are so boundless, that whatever we get is but in the 
 way to getting more without end: and so long as 
 we are solicitous for the increase of wealth, we lose 
 the true use of it; and spend our time in putting out, 
 calling in, and passing our accounts, without any 
 suhstantial benefit, either to the world or to our- 
 selves. What is the difference betwixt old men and 
 children? the one cries for nuts and apples, and the 
 other for gold and silver: the one sets up courts of 
 justice, hears and determines, acquits and con- 
 
310 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 demns, in jest; the other in earnest: the one makes 
 houses of clay, the other of marble: so that the 
 works of old men are nothing in the world but the 
 progress and improvement of children's errors; and 
 they are to be admonished and punished too like 
 children, not in revenge for injuries received, but as 
 a correction of injuries done, and to make them give 
 over. There is some substance yet in gold and sil- 
 ver; but as to judgments and statutes, procuration 
 and continuance-money, these are only the visions 
 and dreams of avarice. Throw a crust of bread to 
 a dog, he takes it open-mouthed, swallows it whole, 
 and presently gapes for more: just so do we with the 
 gifts of Fortune; down they go without chewing, 
 and we are immediately ready for another chop. 
 But what has avarice now to do with gold and silver, 
 that is so much outdone by curiosities of a far greater 
 value? Let us no longer complain that there was 
 not a heavier load laid upon those precious metals, 
 or that they were not buried deep enough, when we 
 have found out ways by wax and parchments, and 
 by bloody usurious contracts, to undo one another. 
 It is remarkable, that Providence has given us all 
 things for our advantage near at hand; but iron, 
 gold, and silver, (being both the instrument of blood 
 and slaughter, and the price of it) Nature has hid- 
 den in the bowels of the earth. 
 
 There is no avarice without some punisliment, over 
 and above that which it is to itself. How miserable 
 is it in the desire! how miserable even in the attain- 
 ing of our ends ! For money is a greater torment in 
 the possession than it is in the pursuit. The fear of 
 losing it is a great trouble, the loss of it a greater, 
 and it is made a greater yet by opinion. Nay, even 
 in the case of no direct loss at all, the covetous man 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 211 
 
 loses what he does not get. It is true, the people 
 call the rich man a happj^ man, and wish themselves 
 in his condition; but can any condition be worse 
 than that which carries vexation and envy along 
 with it ? Neither is any man to boast of his fortune, 
 his herds of cattle, his number of slaves, his lands 
 and palaces; for comparing that which he has to 
 that which he further covets, he is a beggar. No 
 man can possess all things, but any man may con- 
 temn them; and the contempt of riches is the 
 nearest way to the gaining of them. 
 
 Some magistrates are made for money, and those 
 commonly are bribed with money. We are all turn- 
 ed merchants, and look not into the quality of 
 things, but into the price of them; for reward we 
 are pious, and for reward again we are impious. We 
 are honest so long as we may thrive upon it; but if 
 the devil himself gives better wages, we change our 
 party. Our parents have trained iis up into an ad- 
 miration of gold and silver, and the love of it is 
 grown up with us to that degree that when we 
 would show our gratitude to Heaven, we make pres- 
 ents of those metals. This it is that makes poverty 
 look like a curse and a reproach; and the poets help 
 it forward; the chariot of the sun must be all of 
 gold; the best of times must be the Golden Age, and 
 thus they turn the greatest misery of mankind into 
 the greatest blessings. 
 
 Neither does avarice make us only unhappy in 
 ourselves, but malevolent also to mankind. The sol- 
 dier wishes for war; the husbandman would have 
 his corn dear; the lawyer prays for dissension; the 
 physician for a sickly year; he that deals in curiosi- 
 ties, for luxury and excess, for he makes up his for- 
 tunes out of the corruptions of the age. High 
 
212 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 winds and public conflagrations make work for the 
 carpenter and bricklayer, and one man lives by the 
 loss of another; some few, perhaps, have the fortune 
 to be detected, but they are all wicked alike. A 
 great plague makes work for the sexton; and, in 
 one word, whosoever gains by the dead has not 
 much kindness for the living. Demades of Athens 
 condemned a fellow that sold necessaries for funer- 
 als, upon proof that he wished to make himself a 
 fortune by his trade, which could not be but by a 
 great mortality; but perhaps he did not so much de- 
 sire to have many customers, as to sell dear, and 
 buy cheap; besides, that all of that trade might 
 have been condemned as well as he. Whatsoever 
 whets our appetites, flatters and depresses the mind, 
 and, by dilating it, weakens it; first blowing it up, 
 and then filling and deluding it with vanity. 
 
 To proceed now from the most prostitute of all 
 vices, sensuality and avarice, to that which passes 
 in the world for the most generous, the thirst 
 of glory and dominion. If they that run mad after 
 wealth and honor, could but look into the hearts of 
 them that have already gained these points, how 
 would it startle them to see those hideous cares and 
 crimes that wait upon ambitious greatness: all those 
 acquisitions that dazzle the eyes of the vulgar are 
 but false pleasures, slippery and uncertain. They 
 are achieved with labor, and the very guard of them 
 is painful. Ambition puffs us up with vanity and 
 wind: and we are equally troubled either to see any 
 body before us, or nobody behind us; so that we lie 
 under a double envy; for whosoever envies another 
 is also envied himself. What matters it how far 
 Alexander extended his conquests, if he was not 
 yet satisfied with what he had? Every man wants 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 213 
 
 as much as he covets; and it is lost labor to pour in- 
 to a vessel that will never be full. He that had sub- 
 dued so many princes and nations, upon the killing 
 of Clytus (one friend) and the loss of Hyphestion 
 (another) delivered himself up to anger and sadness; 
 and when he was master of the world, he was yet a 
 slave to his passions. Look into Cyrus, Cambyses, 
 and the whole Persian line, and you shall not find 
 so much as one man of them that died satisfied with 
 what he had gotten. Ambition aspires from great 
 things to greater; and propounds matters even im- 
 possible, when it has once arrived at things beyond 
 expectation. It is a kind of dropsy; the more a man 
 drinks, the more he covets. Let any man but ob- 
 serve the tumults and the crowds that attend pal- 
 aces; what affronts must we endure to be admitted, 
 and how much greater when we are in! The passage 
 to virtue is fair, but the way to greatness is craggy 
 and it stands not only upon a precipice, but upon ice 
 too; and" yet it is a hard matter to convince a great 
 man that his station is slippery, or to prevail with 
 him not to depend upon his greatness; but all super- 
 fluities are hurtful. A rank crop lays the corn; too 
 great a burden of fruit breaks the bough; and our 
 minds may be as well overcharged with an immod- 
 erate happiness. Nay, though we ourselves would 
 be at rest, our fortune will not suffer it: the way 
 that leads to honor and riches leads to troubles; and 
 we find the source of our sorrows in the very objects 
 of our delights. 
 
 What joy is there in feasting and luxury; in am- 
 bition and a crowd of clients; in the arms of a mis- 
 tress, or in the vanity of an unprofitable knowledge? 
 These short and false pleasures deceive us, and, like 
 drunkenness, revenge the jolly madness of one hour 
 
214 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 with the nauseous and sad repentance of many. Am- 
 bition is like a gulf: everything is swallowed up in 
 it and buried, beside the dangerous consequences of 
 it; for that which one has taken from all, may be 
 easily taken away again by all from one. It was 
 not either virtue or reason, but the mad love of a 
 deceitful greatness, that animated Pompey in his 
 wars, either abroad or at home. What was it but 
 his ambition that hurried him to Spain, Africa, and 
 elsewhere, when he was too great already in every- 
 body's opinion but his own? And the same motive 
 had Julius Csesar, who could not, even then, brook a 
 superior himself, when the commonwealth had sub- 
 mitted unto two already. 
 
 Nor was it any instinct of virtue that pushed on 
 Marius, who at the head of an army was himself led 
 on under the command of ambition: but he came at 
 last to the deserved fate of other wicked men, and 
 to drink himself of the same cup that he had filled to 
 others. We impose upon our reason, when we siif- 
 fer ourselves to be transported with titles; for we 
 know that they are nothing but a more glorious 
 sound; and so for ornaments and gildings, though 
 there be a lustre to dazzle our eyes, our understand- 
 ing tells us that it is only outside, and the matter 
 under it is only coarse and common. 
 
 I will never envy those that the people call great 
 and happy. A sound mind is not to be shaken with a 
 popular and vain applause; nor is it in the power of 
 their pride to disturb the state of our happiness. An 
 honest man is known now-a-days by the dust he 
 raises upon the way, and it is become a point of 
 honor to overrun people, and keep all at a distance; 
 though he that is put out of the way may perchance 
 be happier than he that takes it. He that would ex- 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 315 
 
 eicise a power profitable to himself, and grievous to 
 nobody else, let him practice it upon his passion. 
 They that have burnt cities, otherwise invincible, 
 driven armies before them, and bathed [themselves 
 in human blood, after they have overcome all open 
 enemies, they have been vanquished by their lust, 
 by their cruelty, and witlaout any resistance. 
 
 Alexander was possessed with the madness of 
 laying kingdoms waste. He began with Greece, 
 where he was brought up; and there he quarried 
 himself upon that in it which was the best; he en- 
 slaved Lacedemon, and silenced Athens: nor was he 
 content with the destruction of those towns which 
 his father Philip had either conquered or bought; 
 but he made himself the enemy of human nature; 
 and, like the worst of beasts, he worried what he 
 could not eat. 
 
 ' Felicity is an unquiet thing; it torments itself, and 
 puzzles the brain. It makes some people ambitious, 
 others luxurious; it puffs up some, and softens 
 others; only (as it is with wine) some heads bear it 
 better than others; but it dissolves all. Greatness 
 stands upon a precipice: and if prosperity carries a 
 man never so little beyond his poise, it overbears 
 and dashes him to pieces. It is a rare thing for a 
 man in a great fortune to lay down his happiness 
 gently; it being a common fate for a man to sink 
 under the weight of those felicities that raise him. 
 How many of the nobility did Marius bring down to 
 herdsmen and other mean offices! Nay, in the very 
 moment of our despising servants, we may be made 
 so ourselves. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 HOPE AND FEAR ARE THE DANE OF HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 No man can be said to be perfectly happy that 
 runs the risk of disappointment : which is the case 
 of every man that fears or hopes for anything. For 
 hope and fear, how distant soever they may seem to 
 be the one from the other, they are both of them 
 yet coupled in the same chain, as the guard and the 
 prisoner; and the one treads upon the heels of the 
 other. The reason of this is obvious, for they are 
 passions that look forward, and are ever solicitous 
 for the future; only hope is the more plausible weak- 
 ness of the two, which in truth, upon the main, are 
 inseparable; for the one cannot be without the 
 other: but where the hope is stronger than the fear, 
 or the fear than the hope, we call it the one or the 
 other; for without fear it were no longer hope, but 
 certainty; as without hope it were no longer fear but 
 despair. 
 
 We may come to understand whether our disputes 
 are vain or not, if we do but consider that we are 
 either troubled about t\\B present, the future or both. 
 If the present, it is easy to judge, and the futpre is 
 uncertain. It is a foolish thing to be miserable be- 
 forehand for fear of misery to come; for a man loses 
 the present, which he might enjoy, in expectation of 
 the future: nay, the fear of losing anything is as bad 
 
SENECA OV A KAPPif LIFE, il7 
 
 as the loss itself. I will be as prudent as I can, but 
 not timorous or careless; and I will bethink myself, 
 and forecast what inconveniences may happen be- 
 fore they come. It is true, a man may fear, and yet 
 not be fearful; which is no more than to have the 
 affection of fear without the vice of it; but yet a 
 frequent admittance of it runs into a habit. It is a 
 shameful and an unmanly thing to be doubtful, tim- 
 orous, and uncertain; to set one step forward, and 
 another backward; and to be irresolute. Can there 
 be any man so fearful, that had npt rather fall once 
 than hang always in suspense? 
 
 Our miseries are endless, if we stand in fear of all 
 possibilities; the best way, in such a case, is to drive 
 out one nail with another, and a little to qualify fear 
 with hope; which may serve to palliate a misfortune; 
 though not to cure it. There is not anything that 
 we fear, which is so certain to come, as it is certain 
 that many things which we do fear will not come; 
 but we are loth to oppose our credulity when it be- 
 gins to move us, and so to bring our fear to the test. 
 Well! but "what if the thing we fear should come to 
 pass?" Perhaps it will be the better for us. Sup- 
 pose it be death itself, why may it not prove the 
 glory of my life? Did hot poison make Socrates 
 famous? and was not Gate's sword a great part of 
 his honor? "Do we fear any misfortune to befall 
 us?" We are not presently sure that it will happen. 
 How many deliverances have come unlocked for? 
 and how many mischiefs that we looked for have 
 never come to pass? It is time enough to lament 
 when it comes, and, in the interim, to promise our- 
 selves the best. What do I know but something or 
 other may delay or divert it? Some have escaped 
 out of the fire; others, when a house has fallen over 
 
218 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 their head, have received no hurt: one man has been 
 saved when a sword was at his throat; another has 
 been condemned, and outlived his headsman: so 
 that ill-fortune, we see, as well as good, has her 
 levities; peradventure it will be, perad venture not; 
 and until it comes to pass, we are not sure of it: we 
 do many times take woj-ds in a worse sense than 
 they were intended, and imagine things to be worse 
 taken than they are. It is time enough to bear a 
 misfortune when it comes, without anticipating it. 
 He that would deliver himself from all apprehen- 
 sions of the future, let him first take for granted, 
 that all fears will fall upon him; and then examine 
 and measure the evil that he fears, which he will 
 find to be neither great nor long. Beside, that the 
 ills which he fears he may suffer, he suffers in the 
 very fear of them. As in the symptoms of an ap- 
 proaching disease, a man shall find himself lazy and 
 listless: a weariness in his limbs, with a yawning 
 and shuddering all over him; so it is in the case of 
 a weak mind, it fancies misfortunes, and makes a 
 man wretched before his time. Why should I tor- 
 ment myself at present with what, perhaps, may fall 
 out fifty years hence? This humor is a kind of vol- 
 untary disease, and an industrious contrivance of 
 our own unliappiness, to complain of an affliction 
 that we do not feel. Some are not onl}- moved with 
 grief itself, but with the mere opinion of it; as 
 children will start at a shadow, or at the sight of a 
 deformed person. If we stand in fear of violence 
 from a powerful enemy, it is some comfort to us, 
 that whosoever makes himself terrible to others is 
 not without fear himself: the least noise makes a 
 lion start; and the fiercest of beasts, whatsoever 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 219 
 
 enrages them, makes them tremble too: a shadow, 
 a voice, an unusual odor, rouses them. 
 
 The things most to be feared I take to be of three 
 kinds; want, sickness, and those violences that may 
 be imposed upon us by a strong hand. The last of 
 these has the greatest force, because it comes 
 attended with noise and tumult; whereas the incom- 
 modities of poverty and diseases are raore natural, 
 and steal upon us in silence, without any external 
 circumstances of horror: but the other marches in 
 pomp, with fire and sword, gibbets, racks, hooks; 
 wild beasts to devour us; stakes to impale us; engines 
 to tear us to pieces; pitched bags to burn us in, and 
 a thousand other exquisite inventions of cruelty. 
 No wonder then, if that be the most dreadful to us 
 that presents itself in so many uncouth shapes; and 
 by the very solemnity is rendered the most formida- 
 ble. The more instruments of bodily pain the exe- 
 cutioner shows us, the more frightful he makes 
 himself: for many a man that would have en- 
 countered death in any generous form, with resolu- 
 tion enough, is yet overcome with the manner of it. 
 As for the calamities of hunger and thirst, inward 
 ulcers, scoi'ching fevers, tormenting fits of the stone, 
 I look upon these miseries to be at least as grievous 
 as any of the rest; only they do not so much affect 
 the fancy, because they lie out of sight. Some 
 people talk high of danger at a distance; but (like 
 cowards) when the executioner comes to do his duty, 
 and show us the fire, the ax, the scaffold, and death 
 at hand, their courage fails them upon the very 
 pinch, when they have most need of it. Sickness, 
 (I hope) captivity, fire, are no new things to us; the 
 fall of houses, funerals, and conflagrations, are 
 every day before our eyes. The man that I supped 
 
2S0 SEUaCA 0» A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 with last night is dead before morning; why should 
 I wonder then, seeing so many fall about me, to be 
 hit at last myself? What can be greater madness 
 than to cry out, "Who would have dreamed of this?" 
 And why not, I beseech you? Where is that estate 
 that may not be reduced to beggary? that dignity 
 which may not be followed with banishment, dis- 
 grace, and extreme contempt? that kingdom that 
 may not suddenly fall to ruin; change its master, 
 and be depopulated? that prince that may not pass 
 the hand of a common hangman? That which is 
 one man's fortune may be another's; but the fore- 
 sight of calamities to come breaks the violence of 
 them. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 IT IS ACCORDING TO THE TRUE OR FALSE ESTIMATE OP THINGS 
 THAT WE ARE HAPPY OR MISERABLE. 
 
 How many things are there that the fancy makes 
 terrible by night, which the day turns into ridicu- 
 lous ! What is there in labor, or in death, that a man 
 should be afraid of? They are much slighter in act 
 than in contemplation; and we may contemn them, 
 but we will not: so that it is not because they are 
 hard that we dread them, but they are hard because 
 we are first afraid of them. Pains, and other vio- 
 lences of Fortune, are the same thing to us that gob- 
 lins are to children: we are more scared with them 
 than hurt. We take up our opinions upon trust, and 
 err for company, still judging that to be best that has 
 most competitors. We make a false calculation of 
 matters, because we ad.vise with opinion, and not 
 with Nature; and this misleads us to a higher esteem 
 for riches, honor, and power, than they are worth: 
 we have been used to admire and recommend them, 
 an a private error is quickly turned into a public. 
 The greatest and the smallest things are equally 
 hard to be comprehended; we account many things 
 great, for want of understanding what effectually is 
 so: and we reckon other things to be small, which 
 we find frequently to be of the highest value. Vain 
 things only move vain minds. The accidents that 
 we so much boggle at are not terrible in themselves. 
 
222 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 but they are made so by our infirmities; but we con- 
 sult rather what we hear than what we feel, without 
 examining, opposing, or discussing the things we 
 fear; so that we either stand still and tremble, or 
 else directly run for it, as those troops did, that, upon 
 the raising of the dust, took a flock of sheep for the 
 enemy. When the body and mind are corrupted, it 
 is no wonder if all things prove intolerable; and not 
 because they are so in truth, but because we are dis- 
 solute and foolish: for we are infatuated to such a 
 degree, that, betwixt the common madness of men, 
 and that which falls under the care of the physician, 
 there is but this difference, the one labors of a dis- 
 ease, and the other of a false opinion. 
 
 The Stoics hold, that all those torments that com- 
 monly draw from us groans and ejaculations, are in 
 themselves trivial and contemptible. But these high- 
 flown expressions apart (how true soever) let us dis- 
 course the point at the rate of ordinary men, and 
 not make ourselves miserable before our time; for 
 the things we apprehend to be at hand may possibly 
 never come to pass. Some things trouble us more 
 than they should, other things sooner; and some 
 things again disorder us that ought not to trouble us 
 at all; so that we either enlarge, or create, or antici- 
 pate our disquiets. For the first part, let it rest as 
 a matter in controversy; for that which I account 
 light, another perhaps will judge insupportable I One 
 man laughs under the lash, and another whines for 
 a fillip. How sad a calamity is poverty to one man, 
 which to another appears rather desirable than in- 
 convenient? For the poor man, who has nothing to 
 lose, has nothing to fear: and he that would enjoy 
 himself to the satisfaction of his soul, must be either 
 poor indeed, or at least look as if he were so. Some 
 
SENECA Of a happy LIFE. 233 
 
 people are extremely dejected with sickness and 
 pain; whereas Epicurus blessed his fate with his las$ 
 breath, in the acutest torments of the stone imagin- 
 able. And so for banishment, which to one man is 
 so grievous, and yet to another is no more than a 
 bare change of place: a thing that we do every day 
 for our health, pleasure, nay, and upon the account 
 even of common business. 
 
 How terrible is death to one man, which to anoth- 
 er appears the greatest providence in nature, even 
 toward all ages and conditions! It is the wish of 
 some, the relief of many, and the end of all. It sets 
 the slave at liberty, carries the banished man home, 
 and places all mortals upon the same level: inso- 
 much, that life itself were a punishment without it. 
 When I see tyrants, tortures, violences, the prospect 
 of death is a consolation to me, and the only remedy 
 against the injuries of life. 
 
 Nay, so great are our mistakes in the true estimate 
 of things, that we have hardly done any thing that we 
 have not had reason to wish undone; and we have 
 found the things we feared to be more desirable than 
 those we coveted. Our very prayers have been more 
 pernicious than the curses of our enemies; and we 
 must pray to have our former prayers forgiven. 
 Where is the wise man that wishes to himself the 
 wishes of his mother, nurse, or his tutor; the worst 
 of enemies, with the intention of the best of friends. 
 We are undone if their prayers be heard; and it is 
 our duty to pray that they may not; for they are no 
 other than well-meaning execrations. They take 
 evil for good, and one wish fights with another: give 
 me rather the contempt of all those things whereof 
 they wish me the greatest plenty. We are equally 
 hurt by some that pray for us, and by others that 
 curse us; the one imprints in us a false fear, and th^ 
 
224 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE, 
 
 other does us mischief by a mistake: so that it is no 
 wonder if mankind be miserable, when we are 
 brought up from the very cradle under the impreca- 
 tions of our parents. We pray for trifles, without 
 so much as thinking of the greatest blessings; and 
 we are not ashamed many times to ask God for that 
 which we should blush to own to our neighbor. 
 
 It is with us as with an innocent that my father 
 had in his family; she fell blind on a sudden, and 
 nobody could persuade her she was blind. "She 
 could not endure the house," she cried, "it was so 
 dark," and was still calling to go abroad. That 
 which we laughed at in her we find to be true in 
 ourselves, we are covetous and ambitious; but the 
 world shall never bring us to acknowledge it, and 
 we impute it to the place: nay, we are the worse of 
 the two; for that blind fool called for a guide, and 
 we wander about without one. It is a hard matter 
 to cure those that will not believe they are sick. We 
 are ashamed to admit a master, and we are too old 
 to learn. Vice still goes before virtue: so that we 
 have two works to do: we must cast oif the one, and 
 learn the other. By one evil we make way to an- 
 other, and only seek things to be avoided, or those 
 of which we are soon weary. That which seemed 
 too much when we wished for it, proves too little 
 when we have it; and it is not, as some imagine, , 
 that felicity is greedy, but it is little and narrow, 
 and cannot satisfy us. That which we take to be 
 very high at a distance, we find to be but low when 
 we come at it. And the business is, we do not un- 
 derstand the true state of things: we are deceived 
 by rumors; when we have gained the thing we 
 aimed at, we find it to be either ill or empty; or per- 
 chance less than we expect, of otherwise perhaps 
 great, but not good. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE BLESSINGS OF TEMPERANCE AND MODERATION. 
 
 There is not anything that is necessary to us but 
 we have it either cheap or gratis: and this is the pro- 
 vision that our heavenly Father has made for us, 
 whose bounty was never wanting to our needs. It 
 is true the belly craves and calls upon us, but then a 
 small matter contents it: a little bread and water is 
 suflBcient, and all the rest is but superfluous. He 
 that lives according to reason shall never be poor, 
 and he that governs his life by opinion shall never 
 be rich: for nature is limited, but fancy is boundless. 
 As for meat, clothes, and lodging, a little feeds the 
 body, and as little covers it; so that if mankind 
 would only attend human nature, without gaping at 
 superfluities, a cook would be found as needless as a 
 soldier: for we may have necessaries upon very easy 
 terms; whereas we put ourselves to great pains for 
 excesses. When we are cold, we may cover our- 
 selves with skins of beasts; and, against violent 
 heats, we have natural grottoes; or with a few 
 osiers and a little clay we may defend ourselves 
 against all seasons. Providence has been kinder to 
 us than to leave us to live by our wits, and to stand 
 in need of invention and arts. 
 
 It is only pride and curiosity that involve us in 
 difficulties: if nothing will serve a man' but rich 
 
226 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 clothes and furniture, statues and plate, a numer- 
 ous train of servants, and the rarities of all nations, 
 it is not Fortune's fault, but his own, that he is not 
 satisfied: for his desires are insatiable, and this is 
 not a thirst, but a disease; and if he were master of 
 the whole world, he would be still a beggar. It is 
 the mind that makes us rich and happy, in what 
 condition soever we are; and money signifies no 
 more to it than it does to the gods. If the religion 
 be sincere, no matter for the ornaments it is only 
 luxury and avarice that make poverty grievous to 
 us; for it is a very small matter that does our busi- 
 ness; and when we have provided against cold, 
 hunger, and thirst, all the rest is but vanity and ex- 
 cess: and there is no need of expense upon foreign 
 delicacies, or the artifices of the kitchen. What is 
 he the worse for poverty that despises these things? 
 nay, is he not rather the better for it, because he is 
 not able to go to the price of them? for he is kept 
 sound whether he will or not: and that which a man 
 cannot do, looks many times as if he would not. 
 
 When I look back into the moderation of past 
 ages, it makes me ashamed to discourse, as if pov- 
 erty had need of any consolation; for we are now 
 come to that degree of intemperance, that a fair 
 patrimony is too little for a meal. Homer had but 
 one servant, Plato three, and Zeno (the master of 
 the masculine sect of Stoics) had none at all. The 
 daughters of Scipio had their portions out of the 
 common treasury, for their father left them not a 
 penny: how happy were the husbands that had the 
 people of Rome for their father-in-law I Shall any 
 man now contemn poverty after these eminent ex- 
 amples, which are sufficient not only to justify but 
 to recommend it? Upon Diogenes' only servant 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 227 
 
 running away from him, he was told where he was, 
 and persuaded to fetch him back again: " What," 
 says he, "can Manes live without Diogenes, and 
 not Diogenes without Manes?" and so let him go. 
 
 The piety and moderation of Scipio have made 
 his memory more venerable than his arms; and 
 more yet after he left his country than while he 
 defended it: for matters were come to that pass, 
 that either Scipio must be injurious to Rome or 
 Rome to Scipio. Coarse bread and water to a 
 temperate man is as good as a feast; and the 
 very herbs of the field yield a nourishment to man 
 as well as to beasts. It was not by choice meats 
 and perfumes that our forefathers recommended 
 themselves, but in virtuous actions, and the sweat of 
 honest, military, and of manly labors. 
 
 While Nature lay in common, and all her bene- 
 fits were promiscuously enjoyed, what could be 
 happier than the state of mankind, when people 
 lived without avarice or envy? What could be 
 richer than when there was not a poor man to be 
 found in the world? So soon as this impartial 
 bounty of Providence came to be restrained by 
 covetousness, and that particulars appropriated to 
 themselves that which was intended for all, then did 
 poverty creep into the world, when some men, by 
 desiring more than came to their share, lost their 
 title to the rest; a loss never to be repaired; for 
 though we may come yet to get much, we once had 
 all. The fruits of the earth were in those days 
 divided among the inhabitants of it, without either 
 want or excess. So long as men contented them- 
 selves with their lot, there was no violence, no en- 
 grossing or hiding of those benefits for particular 
 advantages, which were appointed for the commu- 
 
328 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 nity; but every man had as much care for his 
 neighbor as for himself. No arms or bloodshed, 
 no war, but with wild beasts: but under the pro- 
 tection of a wood or a cave, they spent their days 
 without cares, and their nights without groans; 
 their innocence was their security and their pro- 
 tection. There were as yet no beds of state, no 
 ornaments, of pearl or embroidery, nor any of those 
 remorses that attend them; but the heavens were 
 their canopy, and the glories of them their spec- 
 tacle. The motions of the orbs, the courses of the 
 stars, and the wonderful order of Providence, was 
 their contemplation. There was no fear of the 
 house falling, or the rustling of a rat behind the 
 arras; they had no palaces then like cities; but they 
 had open air, and breathing room, crystal fountains, 
 refreshing shades, the meadows dressed up in their 
 native beauty, and such cottages as were according 
 to nature, and wherein they lived contentedly, with- 
 out fear either of losing or of falling. These people 
 lived without either solitude or fraud; and yet I 
 must call them rather happy than wise. 
 
 That men were generally better before they were 
 corrupted than after, I make no doubt; and I am apt 
 to believe that they were both stronger and hardier 
 too but their wits were not yet come to maturity; for 
 Nature does not give virtue; and it is a kind of art 
 to become good. They had not as yet torn up the 
 bowels of the earth for gold, silver, or precious 
 stones; and so far were they from killing any man, 
 as we do, for a spectacle, that they were not as yet 
 come to it, either in fear or anger; nay, they spared 
 the very fishes. But, after all this, they were inno- 
 cent because they were ignorant: and there is a 
 great difference betwixt not knowing how to offend 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 239 
 
 and not being willing to do it. They had, in that 
 rude life, certain images and resemblances of virtue, 
 but yet they fell short of virtue itself, v^rhich comes 
 only by institution, learning, and study, as it is per- 
 fected by practice. It is indeed the end for which 
 we were born, but yet it did not come into the world 
 with us; and in the best of men, before they are in- 
 structed, we find rather the matter and the seeds of 
 virtue than the virtue itself. It is the wonderful 
 benignity of Nature that has laid open to us all 
 things that may do us good, and only hid those 
 things from us that may hurt us; as if she durst not 
 trust us with gold and silver, or with iron, which is 
 the instrument of war and contention, for the other. 
 It is we ourselves that have drawn out of the earth 
 both the causes and the instruments of our dangers: 
 and we are so vain as to set the highest esteem upon 
 those things to which Nature has assigned the lowest 
 place. What can be more coarse and rude in the 
 mine than these precious metals, or more slavish 
 and dirty than the people that dig and work them? 
 and yet they defile our minds more than our bodies, 
 and make the possessor fouler than the artificer of 
 them. Rich men, in fine, are only the greater slaves; 
 both the one and the other want a great deal. 
 
 Happy is that man that eats only for hunger, and 
 drinks only for thirst; that stands upon his own legs, 
 and lives by reason, not by example; and provides 
 for use and necessity, not for ostentation and pomp! 
 Let us curb our appetites, encourage virtue, and 
 rather be beholden to ourselves for riches than to 
 Fortune, who when'a man draws himself into a nar- 
 row compass, has the least mark at him. Let my 
 bed be plain and clean, and my clothes so too: my 
 meat without much expense, or many waiters, and 
 
230 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 neither a burden to my purse nor to my body, not to 
 go out the same way it came in. That which is too 
 little for luxury, is abundantly enough for nature. 
 The end of eating and drinking is satiety; now, what 
 matters it though one eats and drinks more, and 
 another less, so long as the one is not a-hungry, nor 
 the other athirst? Epicurus, who limits pleasure to 
 nature, as the Stoics do virtue, is undoubtedly in the 
 right; and those that cite him to authorize their vo- 
 luptuousness do exceedingly mistake him, and only 
 seek a. good authority for an evil cause: for their 
 pleasures of sloth, gluttony, and lust, have no affin- 
 ity at all with his precepts or meaning. It is true, 
 that at first sight his philosophy seems effeminate; 
 but he that looks nearer him will find him to be a 
 very brave man only in a womanish dress. 
 
 It is a common objection, I know, that these phi- 
 losophers do not live at the rate they talk; f«r they 
 can flatter their superiors, gather estates, and be as 
 much concerned at the loss of fortune, or of friends, 
 as other people: as sensible of reproaches, as luxu- 
 rious in their eating and drinking, their furniture, 
 their houses; as magnificent in their plate, servants, 
 and officers; as profuse and curious in their gardens, 
 etc. Well! and what of all this, or if it were twenty 
 times more? It is some degree of virtue for a man 
 to condemn himself; and if he cannot come up to 
 the best, to be yet better than the worst; and if he 
 cannot wholly subdue his appetites, however to check 
 and diminish them. If I do not live as I preach, take 
 notice that I do not speak of myself, but of virtue, 
 nor am I so much offended with other men's vices as 
 with my own. All this was objected to Plato, Epi- 
 curus, Zeno; nor is any virtue so sacred as to escape 
 malevolence. The Cynic Demetrius was a great in- 
 
SfiJjECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 331 
 
 stance of severity and mortification; and one that 
 imposed upon himself neither to possess anything, 
 nor so much as to ask it: and yet he had this scorn 
 put upon him, that his profession was poverty, not 
 virtue. Plato is blamed for asking money ; Aristotle 
 for receiving it; Democritus for neglecting it; Epi- 
 curus for consuming it. How happy were we if we 
 could but come to imitate these men's vices; for if 
 we knew our own condition, we should find work 
 enough at home. But we are like people that are 
 making merry at a play or a tavern when their own 
 houses are on fire, and yet they know nothing of it. 
 Nay, Cato himself was said to be a drunkard; but 
 drunkenness itself shall sooner be proved to be no 
 crime than Cato dishonest. They that demolish 
 temples, and overturn altars, show their good-will, 
 though they can do the gods no hurt, and so it fares 
 with those that invade the reputation of great men. 
 
 If the professors of virtue be as the world calls 
 them, avaricious, libidinous, ambitious — what are 
 they then that have a detestation for the very name 
 of it: but malicious natures do not want wit to abuse 
 honester men than themselves. It is the practice of 
 the multitude to bark at eminent men as little dogs 
 do at strangers; for they look upon other men's vir- 
 tues as the upbraiding of their own wickedness. We 
 should do well to commend those that are good, if 
 not, let us pass them over; but, however, let us spare 
 ourselves: for beside the blaspheming of virtue, our 
 rage is to no purpose. But to return now to my text. 
 
 We are ready enough to limit others but loth to 
 put bonds and restraints upon ourselves, though we 
 know that many times a greater evil is cured by a 
 less; and the mind that will not be brought to virtue 
 by precepts, comes to it frequently by necessity. 
 
233 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 Let us try a little to eat upon a joint stool, to serve 
 ourselves, to live within compass, and accommodate 
 our clothes to the end they were made for. Occa- 
 sional experiments of our moderation give us the 
 best proof of our firmness and virtue. A well- 
 governed appetite is a great part of liberty, and it is 
 a blessed lot, that since no man can have all things 
 that he would have, we ma}' all of us forbear desir- 
 ing what we have not. It is tlie office of temperance 
 to overrule us in our pleasures; some she rejects, 
 others she qualifies and keeps within bounds. Oh! 
 the delights of rest when a man comes to be weary, 
 and of meat when he is heartily hungry. 
 
 I have learned (says our author) by one journey 
 how many things we have that are superfluous, and 
 how easily they might be spared, for when we are 
 without them upon necessity, we do not so much as 
 feel the want of them. This is the second blessed 
 day (says he) that m}' friend and I have travelled 
 together: one wagon carries ourselves and our 
 servants; my mattress lies upon the ground and I 
 upon that: our diet answerable to our lodging, and 
 never without our figs and our table-books. The 
 muleteer without shoes, and the mules only prove 
 themselves to be alive by their walking. In this 
 equipage, I am not willing I perceive, to own myself, 
 but as often as we happen into better company, I 
 presently fall a blushing, which shows that I am not 
 yet confirmed in. those things which I approve and 
 commend. I am not yet come to own my frugality, 
 for he that is ashamed to be seen in a mean condition 
 would be proud of a splendid one. I value myself 
 upon what passengers think of me, and tacitly 
 renounce my principles, whereas I should rather lift 
 up my voice to be heard by mankind, and tell them 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 233 
 
 " You are all mad — your minds are set upon super- 
 fluities and you value no man for his virtues." 
 
 I came one night weary home, and threw myself 
 upon the bed with this consideration about me: 
 " There is nothing ill that is well taken." My baker 
 tells me he has no bread; but, says he, I may get 
 some of your tenants, though I fear it is not good. 
 No matter, said I, for I will stay until it be better — 
 that is to say until my stomach will be glad of worse. 
 It is discretion sometimes to practice temperance and 
 wont ourselves to a little, for there are many dif- 
 ficulties both of time and place that may force us 
 upon it. 
 
 When we come to the matter of patrimony, how 
 strictly do we examine what every man is worth be- 
 fore we will trust him with a penny! "Such a man," 
 we cry, "has a great estate, but it is shrewdly 
 encumbered — a ver^ fair house, but it was built with 
 borrowed money — a numerous family, but he does 
 not keep touch with his creditors — if his debts were 
 paid he would not be worth a groat." Why do we 
 not take the same course in other things, and 
 examine what every man is worth? It is not enough 
 to have a long train of attendants, vast possessions, 
 "or an incredible treasure in money and jewels — a 
 man may be poor for all this. There is only this 
 difference at best — one man borrows of the usurer, 
 and the other of fortune. What signifies the carv- 
 ing or gilding of the chariot; is the master ever the 
 better of it? 
 
 We cannot close up this chapter with a more 
 generous instance of moderation than that of Fab- 
 ricius. Pyrrhus tempted him with a sum of money 
 to betray his country, and Pyrrhus's physician 
 offered Fabricius, for a sum of money, to poison his 
 
234 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 master; but he was too brave either to be overcome 
 by gold, or to be overcome by poison, so that he 
 refused the money, and advised Pyrrhus to have a 
 care of treachery: and this too in the heat of a licen- 
 tious war. Fabricius valued himself upon his 
 poverty, and was as much above the thought of 
 riches as. of "poison. "Live Pyrrhus," says he "by 
 my friendship; and turn that to thy satisfaction 
 which was before thy trouble:" that is to say that 
 Fabricius could not be corrupted. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 CONSTANCY OF MIND GIVES A MAN EEPTTTATION, AND MAKES 
 HIM HAPPY IN DESPITE OF ALL MISFORTUNE. 
 
 The whole duty of man may be reduced to the two 
 points of abstinence and patience; temperance in 
 prosperity, and courage in adversity. We have 
 already treated of the former: and the other follows 
 now in course. 
 
 Epicurus will have it, that a wise man will bear 
 all injuries; but the ' Stoics will not allow those 
 things to be injuries which Epicurus calls so. Now, 
 betwixt these tivo, there is the same difference that 
 we find betwixt two gladiators; the one receives 
 wounds, but yet maintains his ground, the other 
 tells the people, when he is in blood, that it is but 
 a scratch, and will not suffer anybody to part them. 
 An injury cannot be received, but it must be done; 
 but it may be done and yet not received; as a man 
 may be in the water, and not swim, but if he 
 swims, it is presumed that he is in the water. 
 Or if a blow or a shot be levelled at us, it may 
 so happen that a man may miss his aim, or 
 some accident interpose that may divert the mis- 
 chief. That which is hurt is passive, and in- 
 ferior to that which hurts it. But you will say, that 
 Socrates was condemned and put to death, and so 
 received an injury; but I answer, that the tyrants 
 did him an injury, and yet he received none. He 
 
336 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 that steals anything from me and hides it in my own 
 house, though I have not lost it, yet he has stolen it. 
 He that lies with his own wife, and takes her for 
 another woman, though the woman be honest, the 
 man is an adulterer. Suppose a man gives me a 
 draught of poison and it proves not strong enough 
 to kill me, his guilt is nevertheless for the disap- 
 pointment. He that makes a pass at me is as much 
 a murderer, though I put it by, as if he had struck 
 me to the heart. It is the intention, not the effect, " 
 that makes the wickedness. He is a thief that has 
 the will of killing and slaying, before his hand is 
 dipt in blood; as it is sacrilege, the very intention of 
 laying violent hands upon holy things. If a philo- 
 sopher be exposed to torments, the ax over his head, 
 his body wounded, his guts in his hands, I will allow 
 him to groan; for virtue itself cannot divest him of 
 the nature of a man; but if his mind stand firm, he 
 has discharged his part. A great mind enables a 
 man to maintain his station with honor; so that he 
 only maks use of what he meets in his way, as a 
 pilgrim that would fain be at his journey's end. 
 
 It is the excellency of a great mind to ask noth- 
 ing, and to want nothing; and to say, " I will have 
 nothing to do with fortune, that repulses Cato, and 
 prefers Vatinius." He that quits his hold, and 
 accounts anything good that is not honest, runs 
 gaping after casualties, spends his days in anxiety 
 and vain expectation, that man is miserable. And 
 yet it is hard, you will say, to be banished or cast 
 into prison: nay, what if it were to be burnt, or any 
 other way destroyed? We have examples in all ages 
 and cases, of great men that have triumphed over all 
 misfortunes. Metellus suffered exile resolutely, 
 Eutilius cheerfully; Socrates disputed in the dun- 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 237 
 
 geofi"; and though he might have made his escape, 
 refused it; to show the world how easy a thing it 
 was to subdue the two great terrors of mankind, 
 death and a jail. Or what shall we say of Mucins 
 Scevola, a man only of a military courage, and 
 without the help either of philosophy or letters? 
 who, when he found that he had killed the Secretary 
 instead of Porsenna, (the prince,) burnt his right 
 hand to ashes for the mistake; and held his arm in 
 the flame until it was taken away by his very ene- 
 mies. Porsenna did more easily pardon Mucins for 
 his intent to kill him than Mucius forgave himself 
 for missing of his aim. He might have a luckier 
 thing, but never a braver. 
 
 Did not Cato, in the last night of his life, take 
 Plato to bed with him, with his sword at his bed's 
 head; the one that he might have death at his will, 
 the other, that he might have it in his power; being 
 resolved that no man should be able to say, either 
 that he killed or that he saved Cato? So soon as he 
 had composed his thoughts, he took his sword; 
 "Fortune," says he, " I have hitherto fought for my 
 country's liberty, and for my own, and only that I 
 might live free among freemen; but the cause is 
 now lost, and Cato safe." With that word he cast 
 himself upon his sword; and after the physicians 
 that pressed in upon him had bound up his wound, 
 he tore it up again, and expired with the same 
 greatness of soul that he lived. But these are the 
 examples, you will say, of men famous in their gen- 
 erations. 
 
 Let us'but consult history, and we shall find, even 
 in the most effeminate of nations, and the most dis- 
 solute of times, men of all degrees, ages, and for- 
 tunes, nay, even women themselves, that have pver^ 
 
238 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 come the fear of death: which, in truth, is so little 
 to be feared, that duly considered, it is one of the 
 greatest benefits of nature. It was as great an hon- 
 or for Cato, when his party was broken, that he 
 himself stood his ground, as it would have been 
 if he had carried the day, and settled an universal 
 peace: for, it is an equal prudence, to make the best 
 of a bad game, and to mana,ge a good one. The day 
 that he was repulsed, he played, and the night that 
 he killed himself, he read, as valuing the loss of his 
 life, and the missing of an office at the same rate. 
 People, I know, are apt to pronounce upon other 
 men's infirmities by the measure of their own, and 
 to think it impossible that a man should be content 
 to be burnt, wounded, killed, or shackled, though in 
 some cases he may. It is only for a great mind to 
 judge of great things; for otherwise, that which is 
 our infirmity will seem to be another body's, as a 
 straight stick in the water appears to be crooked: he 
 that yields, draws upon his own head his own ruin; 
 for we are sure to get the better of Fortune, if we do 
 but struggle with her. Fencers and wrestlers, we 
 see what blows and bruises they endure, not only for 
 honor, but for exercise. If we turn our backs once, 
 we are routed and pursued; that man only is happy 
 that draws good out of evil, that stands fast in his 
 judgment, and unmoved by any external violence; 
 or however, so little moved, that the keenest arrow 
 in the quiver of Fortune is but as the prick of a 
 needle to him rather than a wound; and all her oth- 
 er weapons fall upon him only as hail upon the 
 roof of a house, that crackles and skips off again, 
 without any damage to the inhabitant. 
 
 A generous and clear-sighted young man will take 
 it for a happiness to encounter ill fortune. It is 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 239 
 
 nothing for a man to hold up his head in a calm; but 
 to maintain his post when all others have quitted 
 their ground, and there to stand upright where other 
 men are beaten down, this is divine and praisewor- 
 thy. What ill is there in torments, or in those 
 things which we commonly account grievous crosses? 
 The great evil is the want of courage, the bowing 
 and submitting to them, which can never happen to 
 dk wise man; for he stands upright under any weight; 
 nothing that is to be borne displeases him; he knows 
 his strength, and whatsoever may be any man's lot, 
 he never complains of, if it be his own. Nature, he 
 says, deceives nobody; she does not tell us whether 
 our children shall be fair or foul, wise or foolish, 
 good subjects or traitors, nor whether our fortune 
 shall be good or bad. We must not judge of a man 
 by his ornaments, but strip him of all the advan- 
 tages and the impostures of Fortune, nay, of his very 
 body too, and look into his mind. If he can see a 
 naked sword at his eyes without so much as winking; 
 if he make it a thing indifferent to him whether his 
 life go out at his throat or at his mouth; if he can 
 hear himself sentenced to torments or exiles, and 
 under the very hand of the executioner, says thus to 
 himself, "All this I am provided for, and it is no 
 more than a man that is to suffer the fate of human- 
 ity." This is the temper of mind that speaks a 
 man happy; and without this, all the confluences of 
 external comforts signify no more than the person- 
 ating of a king upon the stage; when the curtain is 
 drawn, we are players again. Not that I pretend to 
 exempt a wise man out of a number of men, as if he 
 had no sense of pain; but I reckon him as compound- 
 ed of body and soul; the body is irrational, and may 
 be galled, burnt, tortured; but the rational part is 
 
340 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 fearless, invincible, and not to be shaken. This it is 
 that I reckon upon as the- supreme good of man; 
 which until it be perfected, is but an unsteady agita- 
 tion of thought, and in the perfection an immovable 
 stability. It is not in our contentions with Fortune 
 as in those of the theatre, where we may throw 
 down our arms, and pray for quarter; but here we 
 must die firm and resolute. There needs no encour- 
 agement to those things which we are inclined to by 
 a natural instinct, as the preservation of ourselves 
 with ease and pleasure; but if it comes to the trial of 
 our faith by torments, or of our courage by wounds, 
 these are difficulties that we must be armed against 
 by philosophy and precept; and yet all this is no 
 more than what we were born to, and no matter of 
 wonder at all; so that a wise man prepares him- 
 self for it, as expecting whatsoever may be will be. 
 My body is frail, and liable not only to the impres- 
 sions of violence, but to aflBictions also, that natu- 
 rally succeed our pleasures. Full meals bring crud- 
 ities; whoring and drinking make the hands to shake 
 and the knees to tremble. It is only the surprise 
 and newness of the thing which makes that misfor- 
 tune terrible, which, by premeditation, might be 
 made easy to us: for that which some people make 
 light by sufferance, others do by foresight. What- 
 soever is necessary, we must bear patiently. It is no 
 hew thing to die, no new thing to mourn, and no 
 new thing to be merry again. Must I be poor? I 
 shall have company: in banishment? I will think 
 myself born there. If I die, I shall be no more sick ; 
 and it is a thing I cannot do but once. 
 
 Let us never wonder at anything we are born to; 
 for no man has reason to complain, where we are all 
 in the same condition. He that escapes might have 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 341 
 
 suffered; and it is but equal to submit to the law of 
 mortality. We must undergo the colds of winter, 
 the heats of summer; the distempers of the air, and 
 the diseases of the body. A wild beast meets us in 
 one place, and a man that is more brutal in another; 
 we are here assaulted by fire, there by water. De- 
 metrius was reserved by Providence for the age he 
 lived in, to show, that neither the times could cor- 
 rupt him, nor he reform the people. He was a man 
 of an exact judgment, steady to his purpose, and of 
 a strong eloquence; not finical in his words, but his 
 sense was masculine and vehement. He was so 
 qualified in his life and discourse, that he served 
 both for an example and a reproach. If fortune 
 should have offered that man the government and 
 possession of the whole world, upon condition not to 
 lay it down again, I dare say he would have refused 
 it: and thus have expostulated the matter with you: 
 "Why should you tempt a freeman to put his shoul- 
 der under a burden; or an honest man to pollute 
 himself with the dregs of mankind? Why do you 
 offer me the spoils of princes, and of nations, and 
 the price not only of your- blood, but of your souls?" 
 It is the part of a great mind to be temperate in 
 prosperity, resolute in adversity; to despise what the 
 vulgar admire, and to prefer a mediocrity to an ex- 
 cess. Was not Socrates oppressed with poverty, 
 labor, nay, the worst of wars in his own family, a 
 fierce and turbulent woman for his wife? were not 
 his children indocile, and like their mother? After 
 seven-and-twenty years spent in arms, he fell under 
 a slavery to the thirty tyrants, and most of them his 
 bitter enemies: he came at last to be sentenced as ' a 
 violator of religion, a corrupter of youth, and a com- 
 raon enemy to God and man." After this he was 
 
242 SENECA OF A IIAPrY LIFE. 
 
 imprisoned, and put to death by poison, which was 
 all so far from working upon his mind, that it never 
 so much as altered his countenance. We are to bear 
 ill accidents as unkind seasons, distempers, or dis- 
 eases; and why may we not reckon the actions of 
 wicked men even among those accidents; their de- 
 liberations are not counsels but frauds, snares, and 
 inordinate motions of the mind; and they are never 
 without a thousand pretences and occasions of doing 
 a man mischief. They have their informers, their 
 knights of the post; they can make an interest with 
 powerful men, and one may be robbed as well upon 
 the bench as upon the highway. They he in wait 
 for advantages, and live in perpetual agitation be- 
 twixt hope and fear; whereas he that is truly com- 
 posed will stand all shocks, either of violences, flat- 
 teries, or menaces, without perturbation. It is an in- 
 ward fear that makes us curious after what we hear 
 abroad. 
 
 It is an error to attribute either good or ill to For- 
 tune; but the matter of it we may; and we ourselves 
 are the occasion of it, being in effect the artificers of 
 our own happiness or misery: for the mind is above 
 fortune; if that be evil, it makes everything else so 
 too; but if it be right and sincere, it corrects what is 
 wrong, and mollifies what is hard, with modesty and 
 courage. There is a great difference among those 
 that the world calls wise men. Some take up pri- 
 vate resolutions of opposing Fortune, but they can- 
 not go through with them; for they are either daz- 
 zled with splendor on the one hand, or affrighted 
 with terrors on the other; but there are others that 
 will close and grapple with Fortune, and still come 
 off victorious. 
 
SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 243 
 
 Mucius overcame the fire; Eegulus, the gibbet; 
 Socrates, poison; Rutilius, banishment; Cato, death; 
 Fabricius, riches; Tubero, poverty; and Sextius, 
 honors. But there are some again so dehcate, that 
 they cannot so much as bear a scandalous report; 
 which is-the same thing as if a man should quarrel 
 for being jostled in a crowd, or dashed as he walks 
 in the streets. He that has a great way to go must 
 expect a slip, to stumble, and to be tired. To the 
 luxurious man frugality is a punishment; labor and 
 industry to the sluggard; nay, study itself is a tor- 
 ment to him; not that these things are hard to us by 
 nature, but we ourselves are vain and irresolute; 
 nay, we wonder many of us, how any man can live 
 without wine, or endure to rise so early in a morn- 
 ing. 
 
 A brave man must expect to be tossed; for he is to 
 steer his course in the teeth of Fortune, and to work 
 against wind and weather. In the suffering of tor- 
 ments, though there appears but one virtue, a man 
 exercises many. That which is most eminent is pa- 
 tience, (which is but a branch of fortitude.) But there 
 is prudence also in the choice of the action, and in 
 the bearing what we cannot avoid; and there is con- 
 stancy in bearing it resolutely: and there is the 
 same concurrence also of several virtues in other 
 generous undertakings. 
 
 When Leonidas was to carry his 300 men into the 
 Straits of Thermopylae, to put a stop to Xerxes's huge 
 army: "Come, fellow-soldiers," says he, ''eat your 
 dinners here as if you were to sup in another world. " 
 And they answered his resolution. How plain and 
 imperious was that short speech of Cseditius to his 
 men upon a desperate action! and how glorious a 
 mixture w£(,s there in it both of bravery and pr,u- 
 
244 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE, 
 
 dence! "Soldiers," says he, "it is necessary for us to 
 go, but it is not necessary for us to return." This 
 brief and pertinent harangue was worth ten thou- 
 sand of the frivolous cavils and distinctions of the 
 schools, which rather break the mind than fortify it; 
 and when it is once perplexed and pricked with diffi- 
 culties and scruples, there they leave it. Our pas- 
 sions are numerous and strong, and not to be 
 mastered with quirks and tricks, as if a man 
 should undertake to defend the cause of God and 
 man with a bulrush. It was a remarkable piece 
 of honor and policy together, that action of Caesar's 
 upon the taking of Pompey's cabinet at the battle 
 of Pharsalia: it is probable that the letters in it 
 might have discovered who were his friends, and 
 who his enemies; and yet he burnt it without so 
 much as opening it; esteeming it the noblest way of 
 pardoning, to keep himself ignorant both of the of- 
 fender and of the offense. It was a brave presence 
 of mind also in Alexander, who, upon advice that 
 his physician Philip intended to poison him, took the 
 letter of advice in one hand and the cup in the oth- 
 er; delivering Philip the letter to read while he 
 himself drank the potion. 
 
 Some are of opinion that death gives a man cour- 
 age to support pain, and that pain fortifies a man 
 against death: but I say rather, that a wise man de- 
 pends upon himself against both, and that he does 
 not either suffer with patience, in hopes of death, or 
 die willingly, because he is weary of life; but he 
 bears the one, and waits for the other, and carries a 
 divine mind through all the accidents of human life. 
 He looks upon faith and honesty as the most sacred 
 good of mankind, and neither to be forced by neces- 
 sity nor corrupted hj reward; kill, burn, tear him in 
 
SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 345 
 
 pieces, he will be true to his trust; and the more any 
 man labors to make him discover a secret, the 
 deeper will he hide it. Eesolution is the inexpugn- 
 able defence of human weakness, and it is a won- 
 derful Providence that attends it. 
 
 Horatius Oocles opposed his. single body to the 
 whole army until the bridge was cut down behind 
 him and then leaped into the river with his sword in 
 his hand and came off safe to his party. There was 
 a fellow questioned about a plot upon the life of a 
 tyrant, and put to the torture to declare his confed- 
 erates: he named, by one and one, all the tyrant's 
 friends that were about him: and still as they were 
 named, they were put to death: the tyrant asked 
 him at last if there were any more. "Yes," says he, 
 "yourself were in the plot; and now you have never 
 another friend left in the world:" whereupon the ty- 
 rant cut the throats of his own guards. "He is the 
 happy man that is the master of himself, and 
 triumphs over the fear of death, which has over- 
 come the conquerors of the world." 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 OUB HAPPINESS DEPENDS IN A GREAT MEASURE UPON THE 
 CHOICE OF OUK COMPANY. 
 
 The comfort of life depends upon conversation. 
 Good offices, and concord, and human society, is 
 like the working of an arch of stone; all would fall 
 to the ground if one piece did not support another. 
 Above all things let us have a tenderness for blood; 
 and it is yet too little not to hurt, unless we profit 
 one another, We are to relieve the distressed; to 
 put the wanderer into his way; and to divide our 
 bread with the hungry: which is but the doing of 
 good to ourselves; for we are only several mem- 
 bers of one great body. Nay, we are all of a con- 
 sanguinity; formed of the same materials, and 
 designed to the same end; this obliges us to a 
 mutual tenderness and converse; and the other, to 
 live with a regard to equity and justice. The love 
 of society is natural; but the choice of our com- 
 pany is matter of virtue and prudence. Noble ex- 
 amples stir us up to noble actions; and the very 
 history of large and public souls, inspires a man 
 with generous thoughts. It makes a man long to 
 be in action, and doing something that the world 
 may be the better for; as protecting the weak, deliv- 
 ering the oppressed, punishing the insolent. It is a 
 great blessing the very conscience of giving a good 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 347 
 
 example; beside, that it is the greatest obligation 
 any man can lay upon the age he lives in. 
 
 He that converses with the proud shall be puffed 
 up; a lustful acquaintance makes a man lascivious; 
 and the way to secure a man from wickedness is to 
 withdraw from the examples of it. It is too much 
 to have them near us, but more to have them within 
 us — ill examples, pleasure and ease, are, no doubt of 
 it, great corrupters of manners. 
 
 A rocky ground hardens the horse's hoof; the 
 mountaineer makes the best soldier; the miner makes 
 the best pioneer, and severity of discipline fortifies 
 the mind. In all excesses and extremities of good 
 and of ill fortune, let us have recourse to great 
 examples that have contemned both. " These are 
 the best instructors that teach in their lives, and 
 prove their words by their actions." 
 
 As an ill air may endanger a good constitution, so 
 may a place of ill example endanger a good man, 
 nay, there are some places that have a kind of privi- 
 lege to be licentious, and where luxury and dissolu- 
 tion of manners seem to be lawful; for great 
 examples give both authority and excuse to wicked- 
 ness. Those places are to be avoided as dangerous 
 to our manners. Hannibal himself was unmanned 
 by the looseness of Campania, and though a con- 
 queror by his arms, he was overcome by his 
 pleasures. I would as soon live among butchers as 
 among cooks — not but a man may be temperate in 
 any place — but to see drunken men staggering up 
 and down everywhere, and only the spectacle of 
 lust, luxury and excess before our eyes, it is not safe 
 to expose ourselves to the temptation. If the victor- 
 ious Hannibal himself could not resist it, what shall 
 become of us then that are subdued, and give ground 
 
848 SENECA 01* A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 to our lusts already? He that has to do with an 
 enemy in his breast, has a harder task upon him 
 than he that is to encounter one in the field; his 
 hazard is greater if he loses ground, and his duty is 
 perpetual, for he has no place or time for rest. If I 
 give way to pleasure, I must also yield to grief, to 
 poverty, to labor, ambition, anger, until I am torn to 
 pieces by my misfortunes and lusts. But against all 
 this philosophy propounds a liberty, that is to say, a 
 liberty from the service of accii^ents and fortune. 
 There is not anything that does more mischief to 
 mankind than mercenary masters and philosophy, 
 that do not live as they teach — they give a scandal 
 to virtue. How can any man expect that' a ship 
 should steer a fortunate course, when the pilot lies 
 wallowing in his own vomit? It is a usual thing 
 first to learn to do ill ourselves, and then to instruct 
 others to do so: but that man must needs be very 
 wicked that has gathered into himself the wicked- 
 ness of other people. 
 
 The best conversation is with the philosophers — 
 that is to say, with such of them as teach us matter, 
 not words — that preach to us things necessary and 
 keep us to the practice of them. There can be no 
 peace in human life without the contempt of all 
 events. There is nothing that either puts better 
 thoughts into a man, or sooner sets him right that is 
 out of the way, than a good companion, for the 
 example has the force of a precept, and touches the 
 heart with an affection to goodness; and not only 
 the frequent hearing and seeing of a wise man de- 
 lights us, but the very encounter of him suggests 
 profitable contemplation such as a man finds himself 
 moved with when he goes into a holy place. I will 
 
SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 249 
 
 take more care with whom I eat and drink than 
 what, for without a friend the table is a manger. 
 
 Writing does well, but personal discourse and con- 
 versation does better; for men give great credit to 
 their ears, and take stronger impressions from 
 example than precept. Cleanthes had never hit 
 Zeno so to the life if he had not been in with him at 
 all his privacies, if he had not watched and observed 
 him whether or not he practised as he taught. Plato 
 got more from Socrates' manners than from his 
 words, and it was not the school, but the company 
 and familiarity of Epicurus that made Metrodorus, 
 Hermachus and Polysenus so famous. 
 
 Now, though it be by instinct that we covet 
 society, and avoid solitude^ we should yet take this 
 . along with us, that the more acquaintance the more 
 danger: nay, there is not one man of a hundred that 
 is to be trusted with himself. If company cannot 
 alter us, it may interrupt us, and he that so much as 
 stops upon the way loses a great deal of a short life, 
 which we yet make shorter by our inconstancy. If 
 an enemy were at our heels, what haste should we 
 make! — but death is so, and yet we never mind it. 
 There is no venturing of tender and easy natures 
 among the people, for it is odds that they will go 
 over to the major party. It would, perhaps, shake 
 the constancy of Socrates, Cato, Lselius, or any of 
 us all, even when our resolutions are at the height, 
 to stand the shock of vice that presses upon us with 
 a kind of public authority. 
 
 It is a world of mischief that may be done by one 
 single example of avarice or luxury. One voluptu- 
 ous palate makes a great many. A wealthy neigh- 
 bor stirs up envy,.and a fleering companion moves 
 ill-nature wherever he comes. What will become of 
 
250 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 those people then that expose themselves to a popu- 
 lar violence? which is ill both ways; either if they 
 comply with the wicked, because they are many, or 
 quarrel with the multitude because they are not 
 principled alike. The best way is to retire, and as- 
 sociate only with those that may be the better for us, 
 and we for them. These respects are mutual; for 
 while we teach, we learn. To deal freely, I dare not 
 trust myself in the hands of much company: I nev- 
 er go abroad that I come home again the same man 
 I went out. Something or other that I had put in 
 order is discomposed; some passion that I had sub- 
 dued gets head again; and it is just with our minds 
 as it is after a long indisposition with our bodies; we 
 are grown so tender, that the least breath of air ex- 
 poses us to a relapse. And it is no wonder if a 
 numerous conversation be dangerous, where there is 
 scarce any single man but by his discourse, example, 
 or behavior, does either recommend to us, or im- 
 print in us, or, by a kind of contagion, insensibly 
 infect us with one vice or other; and the more peo- 
 ple the greater is the peril. Especially let us have a 
 care of public spectacles where wickedness insinu- 
 ates itself with pleasure; and, above all others, let 
 us avoid spectacles of cruelty and blood; and have 
 nothing to do with those that are perpetually whin- 
 ing and complaining; there may be faith and kind- 
 ness there, but no peace. People that are either sad 
 or fearful, we do commonly, for their own sakes, set 
 a guard upon them, for fear they should make an ill 
 use of being alone; especially the imprudent, who 
 are still contriving of mischief, either for others 
 or for themselves, in cherishing their lusts, or 
 forming their designs. So mucji for the choice of 
 a companion; we shall now proceed to that of a 
 friend. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE BLESSINGS OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Of all felicities, the most charming is that of a 
 firm and gentle friendship. It sweetens all our cares, 
 dispels our sorrows, and counsels us in all extremi- 
 ties. Nay, if there were no other comfort in it than 
 the bare exercise of so generous a virtue, even for 
 that single reason, a man would not be without it. 
 Beside, that it is a sovereign antidote against all 
 calamities, even against the fear of death itself. 
 
 But we are not to number our friends by the visits 
 that are made us; and to confound the decencies of 
 ceremony and commerce with the offices of united 
 affections. Caius Gracchus, and after him Livius 
 Drusus, were the men that intr-oduced among the 
 Eomans the fashion of separating their visitants; 
 some were taken into their closet, others were only 
 admitted into the antechamber: and some, again, 
 were fain to wait in the hall perhaps, or in the court. 
 So that they had their first, their second, and their 
 third rate friends; but none of them true: only they 
 are called so in course, as we salute strangers with 
 some title or other of respect at a venture. There 
 is no depending upon those men that only take their 
 compliment in their turn, and rather slip through 
 the door than enter at it. He will find himself in a 
 
aSa SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 great mistake, that either seeks for a friend in a pal- 
 ace, or tries him at a feast. 
 
 The great difficulty rests in the choice of him; that 
 is to say, in the ilrst place, let him be virtuous, for 
 vice is contagious,'' and there is no trusting the 
 sound and the sick together; and he ought to be a 
 wise man too, if a body knew where to find him; but 
 in this case, he that is least ill is best, and the highest 
 degree of human prudence is only the most venial 
 folly. That friendship where men's affections are 
 cemented by an equal and by a common lov6 of 
 goodness, it is not either hope or fear, or any pri- 
 vate interest, that can ever dissolve it: but we carry 
 it with us to our graves, and lay down our lives for 
 it with satisfaction. Paulina's good and mine (says 
 our author) were so wrapped up together, that in 
 consulting her comfort I provided for my own; and 
 when I could not prevail upon her to take less care 
 for me, she prevailed upon me to take more care for 
 myself. 
 
 Some people make it a question, whether is the 
 greatest delight, the enjoying of an old friendship, 
 or the acquiring of a new one ? but it is in the pre- 
 paring of a friendship, and in the possession of it, as 
 it is with the husbandman in sowing and reaping; 
 his delight is the hope of his labor in the one case, 
 and the fruit of it in the other. My conversation 
 lies among my books, but yet in the letters of a 
 friend, methinks I have his company; and when I 
 answer them, I do not only write, but speak: and, in 
 effect, a friend is an eye, a heart, a tongue, a hand, 
 at all distances. When friends see one another per- 
 sonally, they do not see one another as they do 
 when they are divided, where the meditation digni- 
 fies the prospect; but they are effectually in a great 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 253 
 
 measure absent even when they are present. Con- 
 sider their nights apart, their private studies, their 
 separate employments, and necessary visits; and 
 they are almost as much together divided as pres- 
 ent. True friends are the whole world to one an- 
 other; and he that is a friend to himself is also a 
 friend to mankind. Even in my very studies,the great- 
 est delight I take in what I learn is the teaching of 
 it to others; for there is no relish, methinks, in the 
 possession of anything without a partner; nay, if 
 wisdom itself were offered me upon condition only 
 of keeping it to myself, I should undoubtedly re- 
 fuse it. 
 
 Lucilius tells me, that he was written to by a 
 friend, but cautions me withal not to say anything 
 to him of the affair in question; for he himself 
 stands upon the same guard. What is this but to 
 affirm and to deny the same thing in the same 
 breath, in calling a naan a friend, whom we dare not 
 trust as our own soul? For there must be no re- 
 serves in friendship: as much deliberation as you 
 please before the league is struck, but no doubtings 
 or jealousies after. It is a preposterous weakness to 
 love a man before we know him, and not to care for 
 him after. It requires time to consider of a friend- 
 ship, but the resolution once taken, entitles him to 
 my very heart. I look upon my thoughts to be as safe 
 in his breast as in my own: I shall, without any 
 scruple, make him the confidant of my most secret 
 cares and counsels. 
 
 It goes a great way toward the making of a man* 
 faithful, to let him understand that you think him 
 so: and he that does but so much as suspect that I 
 will deceive him gives me a kind of right to cozen 
 Jiini, When I am with my friend, methinks I am 
 
254 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFEi. 
 
 f 
 
 alone, and as much at liberty to speak anything as 
 to think it, and as our hearts are one, so must be 
 our interest and convenience; for friendship lays all 
 things in common, and nothing can be good to the 
 one that is ill to the other. I do not speak of such a 
 community as to destroy one another's propriety; 
 but as the father and the mother have two children, 
 not one apiece, but each of them two. 
 
 But let us have a care, above all things, that our 
 kindness be rightfully founded; for where there is 
 any other invitation to friendship than the friend- 
 ship itself, that friendship will be bought and sold. 
 He derogates upon the majesty of it that makes it 
 only dependent upon good fortune. It is a narrow 
 consideration for a man to please himself in the 
 thought of a friend, "because," says he, "I shall 
 have one to help me when I am sick, in prison, or in 
 want." A brave man should rather take delight in 
 the contemplation of doing the same offices for an- 
 other. He that loves a man for his own sake is in 
 an error. A friendship of interest cannot last any 
 longer than the interest itself, and this is the reason 
 that men in prosperity are so much followed, and 
 when a man goes down the wind, nobody comes 
 near him. 
 
 Temporary friends will never stand the test. One 
 man is forsaken for fear of profit, another is be- 
 trayed. It is a negotiation, not a friendship, that 
 has an eye to advantages; only, through the corrup- 
 tion of times, that which was formerly a friendship 
 is now become a design upon a booty: alter your tes- 
 tament, and you lose your friend. But my end of 
 friendship is to have one dearer to me than myself, 
 and for the saving of whose life I would cheerfully 
 lay down my own; taking this along with me, that 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIEE. 255 
 
 only wise men can be friends, others are but com- 
 panions; and that there is a great difference also be- 
 twixt love and friendship; the one may sometimes 
 do us hurt, the other always does us good, for the 
 one friend is hopeful to another in all cases, as well 
 in prosperity as in affliction. We receive comfort, 
 even at a distance, from those we love, but then it 
 is light and faint; whereas, presence and conversa- 
 tion touch us to the quick, especially if we find the 
 man we love to be such a person as we wish. 
 
 It is usual with princes to reproach the living by 
 commending the dead, and to praise those people 
 for speaking truth from whom there is no longer 
 any danger of hearing it. This is Augustus's case: 
 he was forced to banish his daughter Julia for her 
 common and prostituted impudence; and still upon 
 fresh informations, he was often heard to say, "If 
 Agrippa or Mecenas had been now alive, this would 
 never have been." But yet where the fault lay may 
 be a question; for perchance it was his own, that 
 had rather complain for the want of them than seek 
 for others as good. The Roman losses by war and 
 by fire, Augustus could quickly supply and repair; 
 but for the loss of two friends he. lamented his whole 
 life after. 
 
 Xerxes, (a vain and a foolish prince) when he 
 made war upon Greece, one told him, "It would 
 never come to a battle;' another, "That he would 
 find only empty cities and countries, for they 
 would not so much as stand the very fame of his 
 coming;" others soothed him in the opinion of his 
 prodigious numbers; and they all concurred to puff 
 him up to his destruction; only Damaratus advised 
 him not to depend too much upon his numbers, for 
 be would rather flpd them a burden to him th^n 
 
'256 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 an advantage; and that three hundred men in the 
 straits of the mountains would be sufficient to give 
 a check to his whole army; and that such an acci- 
 dent would undoubtedly turn his vast numbers to 
 his confusion. It fell out afterward as he foretold, 
 and he had thanks for his fidelity. A miserable 
 prince, that among so many thousand subjects had 
 but one servant to tell him the truth! 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 HE THAT WOULD BE HAPPY MUST TAKE AN ACCOUNT 
 OF HIS TIME. 
 
 In the distribution of human life, we find tkat a 
 great part of it passes away in evil doing; a greater 
 yet in doing just nothing at all : and effectually the 
 whole in doing things beside our business. Some 
 hours we bestow upon ceremony and servile attend- 
 ances; some upon our pleasures, and the remainder 
 runs at waste. What a deal of time is it that we 
 spend in hopes and fears, love and revenge, in balls, 
 treats, making of interests, suing for offices, solicit- 
 ing of causes, and slavish flatteries I The shortness 
 of life, I knov/, is the common complaint both of 
 fools and philosophers; as if the time we have were 
 not sufficient for our duties. But it is with our lives 
 as with our estates, a good husband makes a little 
 go a great way; whereas, let the revenue of a prince 
 fall into the hands of a prodigal, it is gone in a mo- 
 ment. So that the time allotted us, if it were well 
 employed, were abundantly enough to answer all 
 the ends and purposes of mankind. But we squan- 
 der it away in avarice, drink, sleep, luxury, 
 ambition, fawning addresses, envy, rambling, voy- 
 ages, impertinent studies, change of counsels, and 
 the like; and wben our portion is spent, we find the 
 
258 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 "want of it, though we gave no heed to it in the pas- 
 sage; insomuch, that we have rather made our life 
 short'than found it so. You shall have some people 
 perpetually playing with their fingers, whistling, 
 humming, and talking to themselves; and others 
 consume their days in the composing, hearing, or 
 reciting of songs and lampoons. How many pre- 
 cious morning' hours do we spend in consultation 
 with barbers, tailors, and tire-women, patching and 
 painting betwixt the comb and the glass I A council 
 must be called upon every hair we cut; and one curl 
 amiss is as much as a body's life is worth. The truth 
 is, we are more solicitous about our dress than our 
 manners, and about the order of our periwigs than 
 that of the government. At this rate, let us but 
 discount, out of a life of a hundred years, that 
 time which has been spent upon popular negotia- 
 tions, frivolous amours, domestic brawls, sauntering 
 up and down to no purpose, diseases that we have 
 brought upon ourselves, and this large extent of life 
 will not amount perhaps to the minority of another 
 man. It is a long being, but perchance a short life. 
 And what is the reason of all this? We live as 
 we should never die, and without any thought of 
 human frailty, when yet the very moment we be- 
 stow upon this man or thing, may, peradventure, be 
 our last. But the greatest loss of time is delay 
 and expectation, which depend upon the future. We 
 let go the present, which we have in our own power; 
 we look forward to that which depends upon For- 
 tune; and so quit a certainty for an uncertainty. 
 We should do by time as we do by a torrent, make 
 use of it while we have it, for it will not last always. 
 The calamities of human nature may be divided 
 into the fear of death, and the miseries and errors 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 259 
 
 of life. And it is the great work of mankind to 
 master the one, and to rectify the other; and so live 
 as neither to make life irksome to us, nor death ter- 
 rible. It should be our care, before we are old, to 
 live well, and when we are so, to die well; that we 
 may expect our end without sadness: for it is the 
 duty of life to prepare ourselves for death; and there 
 is not an hour we live that does not mind us of our 
 mortality. 
 
 Time runs on, and all things have their fate, though 
 it lies in the dark. The period is certain to nature, 
 but what am I the better for it if it be not so to me? 
 We propound travels, arms, adventures, without 
 ever considering that death lies in the way. Our 
 term is set, and none of us know how near it is; but 
 we are all of us agreed that the decree is unchange- 
 able. Why should we wonder to have that befall us 
 to-day which might have happened to us any 
 minute since we were born? Let us therefore live as 
 if every moment were to be our last, and set our 
 accounts right every day that passes over our heads. 
 We are not ready for death, and therefore we fear it, 
 because we do not know what will become of us 
 when we are gone, and that consideration strikes us 
 with an inexplicable terror. The way to avoid this 
 distraction is to contract our business and our 
 thoughts — when the mind is once settled, a day or 
 an age is all one to us; and the series of time, which 
 is now our trouble will be then our delight; for he 
 that is steadily resolved against all uncertainties, 
 shall never be disturbed with the variety of them. 
 Let us make haste, therefore, to live, since every day 
 to a wise man is a new life — for he has done his busi- 
 ness the day before, and so prepared himself for the 
 
260 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 next, that if it be not his last, he knows yet that it 
 might have been so. No man enjoys the true taste 
 of Hfe but he that is wiUing and ready to quit it. 
 
 The wit of man is not able to express the bhndness 
 of human folly in taking so much more care of our 
 fortunes, our houses, and our money, than we do of 
 our lives — everybody breaks in upon the one gratis, 
 but we betake ourselves to fire and sword if any 
 man invades the other. There is no dividing in the 
 case of patrimony, but people share our time with 
 us at pleasure, so profuse are we of that only thing 
 whereof we may be honestly covetous. It is a com- 
 mon practice to ask an hour or two of a friend for 
 such or such a business, and It is as easily granted, 
 both parties only considering the occasion, and not 
 the thing itself. They never put time to account, 
 which is the most valuable of all precious things; 
 but because they do not see it they reckon upon it as 
 nothing: and yet these easy men when they come to 
 die would give the whole world for those hours again 
 which they so inconsiderately cast away before; but 
 there is no recovering of them. If they could num- 
 ber their days that are yet to come as they can those 
 that are already past, how would those very people 
 tremble at the apprehension of death, though a hun- 
 dred years hence, that never so much as think of it 
 at present, though they know not but it may take 
 them away the next immediate minute! 
 
 It is an usual saying " I would give my life for 
 such or such a friend," when, at the same time, we 
 do give it without so much as thinking of it; nay. 
 when that friend is never the better for it, and we 
 ourselves the worse. Our time is set, and day and 
 pight we travel on, There is no baiting by the way, 
 
SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 361 
 
 and it is not in the power of either prince or people 
 to prolong it. Such is the love of life, that even 
 those decrepit dotards that have lost the use of it will 
 yet beg the continuance of it, and make themselves 
 younger than they are, as if they could cozen even 
 Fate itself! When they fall sick, what promises of 
 amendment if they escape that bout! What exclama- 
 tions against the folly of their misspent time — and 
 yet if they recover, they relapse. No man takes 
 care to live well, but long; when yet it is in every- 
 body's power to do the former, and in no man's to do 
 the latter.. We consume our lives in providing the 
 very instruments of life, and govern ourselves still 
 with a regard to the future, so that we do not 
 properly live, but we are about to live. How great 
 a shame is it to be laying new foundations of life at 
 our last gasp, and for an old man (that can only 
 prove his age by his beard,) with one foot in the 
 grave, to go to school again! While we are young 
 we may learn; our minds are tractable and our 
 bodies fit for labor and study; but when age comes 
 on, we are seized with languor and sloth, afflicted 
 with diseases, and at last we leave the world as 
 ignorant as we came into it — only we die worse than 
 we were horn, which is none of Nature's fault, but 
 ours; for our fears, suspicions, perfidy, etc., are from 
 ourselves. 
 
 I wish with all my soul that I had thought of my 
 end sooner, but I must make the more haste now and 
 spur on like those that set out late upon a journey — 
 it will be better to learn late than not at all — though 
 it be but only to instruct me how I may leave the 
 stage with honor. 
 
 In the division of life, there is time present, past, 
 and to come. What we do is short, what we shall do 
 
^62 SENECA OF A HAttY LIFE. 
 
 is doubtful, but what we have done is certain, and 
 out of the power of fortune. The passage of time 
 is wonderfully quick, and a man must look back- 
 ward to see it; and, in that retrospect, he has all past 
 ages at a view; but the present gives us the slip un- 
 perceived. It is but a moment that we live, and yet 
 we are dividing it into childhood, youth, man's es- 
 tate, and old age, all which degrees we bring into 
 that narrow compass. If we do not watch, we lose 
 our opportunities; if we do not make haste, we are 
 left behind ; our best hours escape us, the worst are 
 to come. The purest part of our life runs first, and 
 leaves only the dregs at the bottom; and " that time 
 which is good for nothing else, we dedicate to vir- 
 tue; " and only propound to begin to live at an age 
 that very few people arrive at. What greater folly 
 can there be in the world than this loss of time, the 
 future being so uncertain, and the damages so irre- 
 parable? If death be necessary, why should any 
 man fear it? and if the time of it be uncertain, why 
 should not we always expect it? We should there- 
 fore first prepare ourselves by a virtuous life against 
 the dread of an inevitable death; and it is not for us 
 to put off being good until such or such a business is 
 over, for one business draws on another,' and we do 
 as good as sow it, one grain produces more. It is not 
 enough to philosophize when we have nothing else 
 to do, but we must attend wisdom even to the neg- 
 lect of all things else; for we are so far from leav- 
 ing time to spare, that the age of the world would 
 be yet too narrow for our business; nor is it sufficient 
 not to omit it, but we must not so much as intermit 
 it. 
 
 There is nothing that we can properly call our 
 own but our time, and yet every body fools us out of 
 
SEKECA Off A HAPPY LIFE. 263 
 
 it that has a mind to it. If a man borrows a paltrj^ 
 sum of money, there must be bonds and securities, 
 and every common civility is charged upon account; 
 but he that has my time, thinks he owes me nothing 
 for it, though it be a debt that gratitude itself can nev- 
 er repay. 1 cannot call any man poor that has enough 
 still left, be it never so little: it is good advice yet to 
 those that have the world before them, to play the 
 good husbands betimes, for it is too late to spare at 
 the bottom, when all is drawn out to the lees. He 
 that takes away a day from me, takes away what 
 he can never restore me. But our time is either 
 forced away from us, or stolen from us, or lost; of 
 which the last is the foulest miscarriage. It is in 
 life as in a journey; a book or a companion brings 
 us to our lodging before we thought we were half- 
 way. Upon the whole matter we consume ourselves 
 one upon another, without any regard at all to our 
 own particular. I do not speak of such as live in 
 notorious scandal, but even those men themselves, 
 whom the world pronounces happy, are smothered 
 in their felicities, servants to their professions and 
 clients, and drowned in their lusts. "We are apt to 
 complain of the haughtiness of great men, when yet 
 there is hardly any of thern all so proud but that, at 
 some time or other, a man may yet have access to 
 him, and perhaps a good word or look into the bar- 
 gain. Why do we not rather complain of ourselves, 
 for being- of all others, even to ourselves, the most 
 deaf and inaccessible. 
 
 Company and business are great devourers of 
 time, and our vices destroy our lives as well as our 
 fortunes. The present is but a moment, and perpet- 
 ually in flux; the time past, we call to mind when 
 we please, and it will abide the examination and in- 
 
264 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 spection. But the busy man has not leisure to look 
 back, or if he has, it is an unpleasant thing to 
 reflect upon a life to be repented of, whereas the 
 conscience of a good life puts a man into a secure 
 and perpetual possession of a felicity never to be 
 disturbed or taken away: but he that has led a wick- 
 ed life is afraid of his own memory; and, in the 
 review of himself, he finds only appetite, avarice, or 
 ambition, instead of virtue. But still he that is not 
 at leisure many times to live, must, when his fate 
 comes, whether he will or not, be at leisure to die. 
 Alas! what is time to eternity? the age of a man to 
 the age of the world? And how much of this little' 
 do we spend in fears, anxieties, tears, childhood"! 
 nay, we sleep away the one half. How great a part 
 of it runs away in luxury and excess: the ranging 
 of our guests, our servants, and our dishes! As if 
 we were to eat and drink not for satiety, but ambi- 
 tion. The nights may well seem short that are so 
 dear bought, and bestowed upon wine and women; 
 the day is lost in expectation of the night, and the 
 night in the apprehension of the morning. There is 
 a terror in our very pleasures; and this vexatious 
 thought in the very height of them, that they will 
 not last always: which is a canker in the delights, 
 even of the greatest and the most fortunate of men. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 HAPPT IS THE MAN THAT MAY CHOOSE HIS OWN BUSINESS. 
 
 Oh the blessings of privacy and leisure! The 
 wish of the powerful and eminent, but the privi- 
 lege only of inferiors; who are the only people 
 that live to themselves: nay, the very thought and 
 hope of it is a consolation, even in the middle of all 
 the tumults and hazards that attend greatness. It 
 was Augustus' prayer, that he might live to retire 
 and deliver himself from public business: his dis- 
 courses were still pointing that way, and the high- 
 est felicity which this mighty prince had in pros- 
 pect, was the divesting himself of that illustrious 
 state, which, how glorious soever in show, had at 
 the bottom of it only anxiety and care. But it is 
 one thing to retire for pleasure, and another thing 
 for virtue, which must be active even in that re- 
 treat, and give proof of what it has learned: for a 
 good and a wise man does in privacy consult the 
 well-being of posterity. Zeno and Chrysippus did 
 greater things in their studies than if they had led 
 armies, borne offices, or given laws; which in truth 
 they did, not to one city alone, but to all mankind: 
 their qiiiet contributed more to the common benefit 
 than the sweat and labor of other people. That re- 
 treat is not worth the while which does not afford a 
 man greater and nobler work than business. There 
 
26G SENECA Oli' A HAtPY LIEE. 
 
 is no slavish attendance upon great officers, no can- 
 vassing for places, no naaking of parties, no disap- 
 pointments in my pretension to this charge, to that 
 regiment, or to such or such a title, no envy of any 
 man's favor or fortune; but a calm enjoyment of the 
 general bounties of Providence in company with a 
 good conscience. A wise man is never so busy as in 
 the solitary contemiplation of God and the works of 
 Nature. He withdraws himself to attend the ser- 
 vice of future ages: and those counsels which he 
 finds salutary to himself, he commits to writing for 
 the good of after-times, as we do the receipts of 
 sovereign antidotes or balsams. He that is well em- 
 ployed in his study, though he may seem to do noth- 
 ing at all, does the greatest things yet of all others, 
 in affairs both human and divine. To supply a 
 friend with a sum of money, or give my voice for 
 an office, these are only private and particular obli- 
 gations: but he that lays down precepts for the gov- 
 erning of our lives and the moderating of our 
 passions, obliges human nature not only in the 
 present, but in all succeeding generations. 
 
 He that would be at quiet, let him repair to his 
 philosophy, a study that has credit with all sorts of 
 men. The eloquence of the bar, or whatsoever else 
 addresses to the people, is never without enemies; 
 but philosophy minds its own business, and even the 
 worst have an esteem for it. There can never be 
 such a conspiracy against virtue, the world can 
 never be so wicked, but the very name of a ph ilos- 
 opher shall still continue venerable and sacred. And 
 yet philosophy itself must be handled modestly and 
 with caution. But what shall we say of Cato then, 
 for his meddling in the broil of a civil war, and in- 
 
SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 267 
 
 terposing himself in the quarrel betwixt two enrag- 
 ed princes? He that, when Rome was split into two 
 factions betwixt Pompey and Caesar, declared 
 himself against both. I speak this of Cato's last 
 part; for in his former time the commonwealth was 
 made unfit for a wise man's administration. All he 
 could do then was but bawling and beating of the 
 air: one while he was lugged and tumbled by the 
 rabble, spit upon and dragged out of the forum, and 
 then again hurried out of the senate-house to pris- 
 on. There are some things which we propound 
 originally, and others which fall in as accessory to 
 another proposition. If a wise man retire, it is no 
 matter whether he does it because the common- 
 wealth was wanting to him, or because he was 
 wanting to it. But to what republic shall a man be- 
 take himself? Not to Athens, where Socrates was 
 condemned, and whence Aristotle fled, for fear he 
 should have been condemned too, and where virtue 
 was oppressed by envy: not to Carthage, where 
 there was nothing but tyranny, injustice, cruelty, 
 and ingratitude. There is scarce any government 
 to be found that will either endure a wise man, or 
 which a wise man will endure; so that privacy is 
 made necessary, because the only thing which is 
 better is nowhere to be had. A man may com- 
 mend navigation, and yet caution us against those 
 seas that are troublesome and dangerous: so that he 
 does as good as command me not to weigh anchor 
 that commends sailing only upon these terms. He 
 that is a slave to business is the most wretched of 
 slaves. 
 
 "But how shall I get myself at liberty? We can 
 run any hazards for money: take any pains for 
 
368 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 honor; and why do we not venture also something for 
 leisure and freedom? without which we must expect 
 to live and die in a tumult: for so long as we live in 
 public, business breaks in upon us, as one billow 
 drives on another; and there is no avoiding it with 
 either modesty or quiet. It is a kind of whirlpool, 
 that sucks a man in, and he can never disengage 
 himself. A man of business cannot in truth be said 
 to live, and not one of a thousand understands how 
 to do it: for how to live, and how to die, is the lesson 
 of every moment of our lives: all other arts have 
 their masters. 
 
 As a busy life is always a miserable life, so it is 
 the greatest of all miseries to be perpetually em- 
 ployed upon o^/ier people's business; for to sleep, to 
 eat, to drink, at their hour; to walk their pace, and 
 to love and hate as they do, is the vilest of servi- 
 tudes. Now, though business must be quitted, let it 
 not be done unseasonably; the longer we defer it, 
 the more we endanger our liberty; and yet we must 
 no more fly before the time than linger when the 
 time comes : or, however, we must not love business 
 for business' sake, nor indeed do we, but for the 
 profit that goes along with it: for we love the i-eward 
 of misery, though we hate the misery itself. Many 
 people, I know, seek business without choosing it, 
 and they are even weary of their lives without it for 
 want of entertainment in their own thoughts; the 
 hours are long and hateful to them when they are 
 alone, and they seem as short on the other side in 
 their debauches. When they are no longer candi- 
 dates, they are suffragants; when they give over 
 other people's business, they do their own; and pre- 
 tend business, but they make it, and value them- 
 selves upon being thought men of employment. 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 269 
 
 Liberty is the thing which they are perpetually 
 a-wishing,and never come to obtain: a thing never to 
 be bought nor sold, but a man must ask it of him- 
 self, and give it to himself. He that has given proof 
 of his virtue in public, should do well to make a trial 
 of it in private also. It is not that solitude, or a 
 country life, teaches innocence or frugality; but 
 vice falls of itself, without witnesses and spectators, 
 for the thing it designs is to be taken notice of. Did 
 ever any man put on rich clothes not to be seen? or 
 spread the pomp of his luxury where nobody was to 
 take notice of it? If it were not for admirers and 
 spectators there would be no temptations to excess: 
 the very keeping of us from exposing them cures us 
 of desiring them, for vanity and intemperance are 
 fed with ostentation. 
 
 He that has lived at sea in a storm, let him retire 
 and die in the haven; but let his retreat be without 
 ostentation, and wherein he may enjoy himself with 
 a good conscience, without the want, the fear, the 
 hatred, or the desire, of anything, not out of malev- 
 olent detestation of mankind, but for satisfaction 
 and repose. He that shuns both business and men, 
 either out of envy, or any other discontent, his re- 
 treat is but to the life of a mole: nor does he live to 
 himself, as a wise man does, but to his bed, his 
 belly, and his lusts. Many people seem to retire out 
 of a weariness of public affairs, and the trouble of 
 disappointments; and yet ambition finds them out 
 even in that recess into which fear and weariness 
 had cast them; and so does luxury, pride, and most 
 of the distempers of a public life. 
 
 There are many that lie close, not that they may 
 live securely, but that they may transgress more 
 privately: it is their conscience, not their states, 
 
370 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 that makes them keep a porter; for they live at such 
 a rate, that to be seen before they be aware is to be 
 detected. Crates saw a young man walking by him- 
 self; "Have a care," says he "of lewd company." 
 Some men are busy in idleness, and make peace 
 more laborious and troublesome than war; nay, and 
 more wicked too, when they bestow it upon such 
 lusts, and other vices, which even the license of a 
 military life would not endure. We cannot call 
 these people men of leisure that are wholly taken up 
 with their pleasures. A troublesome life is much to 
 be preferred before a slothful one; and it is a strange 
 thing, methinks, that any man should fear death 
 that has buried himself alive; as privacy without 
 letters is but the burying of a man quick. 
 
 There are some that make a boast of their retreat, 
 which is but a kind of lazy ambition; they retire to 
 make people talk of them, whereas I would rather 
 withdraw to speak to myself. And what shall that 
 be, but that which we are apt to speak of one anoth- 
 er? I will speak ill of myself: I will examine, accuse, 
 and punish my infirmities. I have no design to be 
 cried up for a great man, that has renounced the 
 world in a contempt of the vanity and madness of 
 human life; I blame nobody but myself, and I ad- 
 dress only to myself. He that conges to me for help 
 is mistaken, for I am not a physician, but a patient: 
 and I shall be well enough content to have it said, 
 when any man leaves me, " I took him for a happj^ 
 and a learned man, and truly I find no such matter."' 
 I had rather have my retreat pardoned than envied. 
 There are some creatures that confound their foot- 
 ing about their dens, that they may not be found 
 out, and so should a wise man in the case of his 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 271 
 
 retirement. When the door is open, tlie thief passes 
 it by as not worth his wliile; but when it is bolted 
 t and sealed, it is a temptation for people to be prying. 
 To have it said "that such a one is never out of his 
 study, and sees nobody," etc. ; this furnishes matter 
 for discourse. He that makes his retirement too 
 strict and severe, does as good as call company to 
 take notice of it. 
 
 Every man knows his own constitution; one eases 
 his stomach by vomit — another supports it with 
 good nourishment; he that has the gout forbears 
 wine and bathing, and every man applies to the part 
 that is most infirm. He that shows a gouty foot, a 
 lame hand, or contracted nerves, shall be permitted 
 to lie still and attend his cure; and why not so in the 
 vices of his mind! We must discharge all impedi- 
 ments and make way for philosophy, as a study 
 inconsistent with common business. To all other 
 things we must deny ourselves openly and frankly, 
 when we are sick refuse visits, keep ourselves close, 
 and lay aside all public cares, and shall we not do as 
 much when we philosophize? Business is the 
 drudgery of the world, and only fit for slaves, but 
 contemplation is the work of wise men. Not but 
 that solitude and company may be allowed to take 
 their turns: the one creates in us the love of man- 
 kind, the other that of ourselves; solitude relieves 
 us when we are sick of company, and conversation 
 when we are weary of being alone; so that the one 
 cures the other. "There is no man," in fine, "so 
 miserable as he that is at a loss how to spend his 
 time." He is restless in his thoughts, unsteady in 
 his counsels, dissatisfied with the present, solicitous 
 for the future; whereas he that prudently computes 
 
273 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 his hours and his business, does not only fortify him- 
 self against the common accidents of life, but im- 
 proves the most rigorous dispensations of Providence 
 to his comfort, and stands firm under all the trials of 
 human weakness. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE CONTEMPT OP DEATH MAKES ALL THE MISERIES OP LIFE 
 EASY TO US. 
 
 It is a hard task to master the natural desire of 
 life by a philosophical contempt of death, and to 
 convince the world that there is no hurt in it, and 
 crush an opinion that was brought up with us from 
 our cradles. What help? what encouragement? 
 what shall we say to human frailty, to carry it fear- 
 less through the fury of flames, and upon the points 
 of swords? what rhetoric shall we use to bear down 
 the universal consent of people to so dangerous an 
 error? The captious and superfine subleties of the 
 schools will never do the work: these speak many 
 things sharp, but utterly unnecessary, and void of 
 effect. The truth of it is, there is but one chain that 
 holds all the world in bondage, and that is the 
 love of life. It is not that I propound the making 
 of death so indifferent to us, as it is, whether a 
 man's hairs be even or odd; for what with self-love, 
 and an implanted desire in every being of preserving 
 itself, and a long acquaintance betwixt the soul and 
 b(53y, friends may be loth to part, and death may 
 carry an appearance of evil, though in truth it is 
 itself no evil at all. Beside, that we are to go to a 
 strange place in the dark, and under great uncer- 
 tainties of our future state; so that people die in 
 
374 SENECA OP A HAPPy LIFE. 
 
 terror, because they do not know whither they are 
 to go, and they are apt to fancy the worst of what 
 they do not understand: these thoughts are indeed 
 sufficient to startle a man of great resolution with- 
 out a wonderful support from above. And, more- 
 over, our natural scruples and infirmities are assist- 
 ed by the wits and fancies of all ages, in their infa- 
 mous and horrid description of another world: nay, 
 taking it for granted that there will be no reward 
 and punishment, they are yet more afraid of an an- 
 nilation than of hell itself. 
 
 But what is it we fear? " Oh! it is a terrible 
 thing to die." Well; and is it not better once to suf- 
 fer it, than always to fear it? The earth itself suf- 
 fers both ivith me, and before me. How many 
 islands are swallowed up in the sea! how many 
 towns do we sail over! nay, how many nations are 
 wholly lost, either by inundations or earthquakes! 
 and shall I be afraid of my little body? why should 
 I, that am sure to die, and that all other things are 
 mortal, be fearful of coming to my last gasp myself? 
 It is the fear of death that makes us base, and trou- 
 bles and destroys the life we would preserve; that 
 aggravates all circumstances, and makes them for- 
 midable. We depend but upon a flying moment. 
 Die we must; but when? what is that to us? It is 
 the law of Nature, the tribute of mortals, and the 
 remedy of all evils. It is only the disguise that 
 affrights us; as children that are terrified with a 
 vizor. Take away the instruments of death, the fire, 
 the ax, the guards, the executioners, the whips, and 
 the racks; take away the pomp, I say, and the cir- 
 cumstances that accompany it, and death is no more 
 than what my slave yesterday contemned; the pain 
 is nothing to a, fit of the stone; if it be tolerable, it 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE, 375 
 
 is not great; and if intolerable, it cannot last long. 
 There is nothing that Nature has made necessary 
 which is more easy than death: we are longer 
 a-coming into the world than going out of it; and 
 there is not any minute of our lives wherein we may 
 not reasonably expect it. Nay, it is but a moment's 
 work, the parting of the soul and body. What a 
 shame is it then to stand in fear of anything so long 
 that is over so soon! 
 
 Nor is it any great matter to overcome this fear; 
 for we have examples as well of the meanest of men 
 as of the greatest that have done it. There was a 
 fellow to be exposed upon the theatre, who in dis- 
 dain thrust a stick down his own throat, and choked 
 himself; and another on the same occasion^ pre- 
 tended to nod upon the chariot, as if he were asleep, 
 cast his head betwixt the spokes of the wheel, and 
 kept his seat until his neck was broken. Caligula, 
 upon a dispute with Canius Julius; "Do not flatter 
 yourself," says he, "for I have given orders to put 
 you to death." "I thank your most gracious Maj- 
 esty for it," says Canius, giving to understand, per- 
 haps, that under his government death was a mercy: 
 for he knew that Caligula seldom failed of being as 
 good as his word in that case. He was at play when 
 the officer carried him away to his execution, and 
 beckoning to the centurion, "Pray," says he, "will 
 you bear me witness, when I am dead and gone, 
 that I had the better of the game?" He was a man 
 exceedingly beloved and lamented, and, for a fare- 
 well, after, he had preached moderation to his 
 friends; "You," says he, "are here disputing 
 about the immortality of the soul, and I am now 
 going to learn th^ truth of it. If I discover any 
 thing upon that point, you shall hear of it." Naj^, 
 
276 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 the most timorous of creatures, when they see there 
 is no esc aping, they oppose themselves to all dan- 
 gers; the despair gives them courage, and the neces- 
 sity overcomes the fear. Socrates was thirty days 
 in prison after his sentence, and had time enough to 
 have starved himself, and so to have prevented the 
 poison: but he gave the world the blessing of his life 
 as long as he could, and took that fatal draught in 
 the meditation and contempt of death. 
 
 Marcellinus, in a deliberation upon death, called 
 several of his friends about him: one was fearful, 
 and advised what he himself would have done in the 
 case; another gave the counsel which he thought 
 Marcellinus would like best; but a friend of his that 
 was a Stoic, and a stout man, reasoned the matter 
 to him after this manner; Marcellinus do not trouble 
 yourself, as if it were such almighty business that 
 you have now in hand; it is nothing to live; all 
 your servants do it, nay, your very beasts too; but 
 to die honestly and resolutely, that is a great point. 
 Consider with yourself there is nothing pleasant in 
 life but what you have tasted already, and that 
 which is to come is but the same over again; and 
 how many men are there in the world that rather 
 choose to die than to suffer the nauseous tediousness 
 of the repetition? Upon which discourse he fasted 
 himself to death. It was the custom of Pacuvius to 
 solemnize, in a kind of pageantry, every day his 
 own funeral. When he had swilled and gormand- 
 ized to a luxurious and beastly excess, he was car- 
 ried away from supper to bed with this song and 
 acclamation, "He has lived, he has lived." That 
 which he did in lewdness, will become us to do in 
 sobriety and prudence. If it shall please God to 
 add another day to our lives, let us thankfully re- 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 277 
 
 ceive it; but, however, it is our happiest and 
 securest course so to compose ourselves to-night, 
 that we may have no anxious dependence on to- 
 morrow. "He that can say, I have hved this day,* 
 makes the next clear again." 
 
 Death is the worst that either the severity of laws 
 or the cruelty of tyrants can impose upon us; and it 
 is the utmost extent of the dominion of Fortune. He 
 that is fortified against that, must, consequently, be 
 superior to all other difficulties that are put in the 
 way to it. Nay, and on some occasions, it requires 
 more courage to live than to die. He that is not 
 prepared for death shall be perpetually troubled, as 
 well with vain apprehensions, as with real dangers. 
 It is not death itself that is dreadful, but the fear of 
 it that goes before it. When the mind is under a 
 consternation, there is no state of life that can 
 please us; for we do not so endeavor to a^oid mis- 
 chiefs as to run away from them, and the greatest 
 slaughter is upon a flying enemy. Had not a man 
 better breathe out his last once for all, than lie ago 
 nizing in pains, consuming by inches, losing of his 
 blood by drops? and yet how many are there that 
 are, ready to betray their country, and their friends, 
 and to prostitute their very wives and daughters, to 
 preserve a miserable carcass! Madmen and children 
 have no apprehension of death; and it were a shame 
 that our reason should not do as much toward our 
 security as their folly. But the great matter is to die 
 considerately and cheerfully upon the foundation of 
 virtue; for life in itself is irksome, and only eating 
 and drinking in a circle. 
 
 How many are there that, betwixt the apprehen- 
 sions of death and the miseries of life, are at their 
 wits' end what to do with themselves? Wherefore 
 
278 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 let us fortify ourselves against those calamities from 
 which the prince is no more exempt than the beggar. 
 Pompey the Great had his head taken off by a boy 
 and a eunuch, (young Ptolemy and Photinus.) Cali- 
 gula commanded the tribune Dsecimus to kill 
 Lepidus; and another tribune (Chsereus) did as much 
 for Caligula. Never was a man so great but he was 
 as liable to suffer mischief as he was able to do it. 
 Has not a thief, or an enemy, your throat at his 
 mercy? nay, and the meanest of servants has the 
 power of life and death over his master; for whoso- 
 ever contem.ns his own life may be master of anoth- 
 er body's. You will find in story, that the displeas- 
 ure of servants has been as fatal as that of tyrants: 
 and what matters it the power of him we fear, when 
 the thing we fear is in every body's power? Suppose 
 I fall into the hands of an enemy, and the conquer- 
 or condejjins me to be led in triumph; it is but car- 
 rying me thither whither I should have gone without 
 him, that is to say, toward death, whither I have 
 been marching ever since I was born. It is the 
 fear of our last hour that disquiets all the rest. By 
 the justice of all constitutions, mankind is con- 
 demned to a capital punishment; now, how despic- 
 able would that man appear, who, being sentenced 
 to death in common with the whole world, should 
 only petition that he might be the last man brought 
 to the block? 
 
 Some men are particularly afraid of thunder, and 
 yet extremely careless of other and of greater 
 dangers: as if that were all they have to fear. 
 Will not a sword, a stone, a fever, do the work 
 as well? Suppose the bolt should hit us. it were 
 yet braver to die with a stroke than with the bare 
 apprehension of it: beside the vanity of imagining 
 
SENECA Off A HAtPY LIFE. 279 
 
 that heaven and earth should be put into such a 
 disorder only for the death of one man. A good 
 and a brave man is not moved with lightning, 
 tempest, or earthquakes; but perhaps he would vol- 
 untarily plunge himself into that gulf, where other- 
 wise he should only fall. The cutting of a corn, or 
 the swallowing of a fly, is enough to dispatch a 
 man; and it is no matter how great that is that 
 brings me to my death, so long as death itself is but 
 little. Life is a small matter; but it is a matter of 
 importance to contemn it. Nature, that begat us, 
 expels us, and a better and a safer place is provided 
 for us. And what is death but a ceasing to be what 
 we were before? We are kindled and put out: to 
 cease to be, and not to begin to be, is the same 
 thing. We die daily, and while we are growing, our 
 life decreases; every moment that passes takes 
 away part of it; all that is past is lost; nay, we di- 
 vide with death the very instant that we live. As 
 the last sand in the glass does not measure the hour, 
 but finishes it; so the last moment that we live does 
 not make up death, but concludes. There are some 
 that pray more earnestly for death than we do for 
 life; but it is better to receive it cheerfully when it 
 comes than to hasten it before the time. 
 
 "But what is it that we would live any longer 
 for?" Not for our pleasures; for those we have tast- 
 ed over and over, even to satiety: so that there is no 
 point of luxury that is new to us. "But a man 
 would be loth to leave his country and his friends 
 behind him;" that is to say, he woiild have ■them 
 go first; for that is the least part of his care. "Well; 
 but I would fain live to do more good, and discharge 
 myself in the offices of life;" -as if to die were not 
 the duty of every man that lives. We are loth to 
 
280 SENECA Of* a Happy life. 
 
 leave our possessions; and Ho man swims well with 
 his luggage. We are all of us equally fearful of 
 death, and ignorant of life; but what can be more 
 shameful than to be solicitous upon the brink of se- 
 curity? If death be at any time to be feared, it is 
 always to be feared; but the way never to fear it, is 
 to be often thinking of it. To what end is it to put 
 off for a little while that which we cannot avoid? 
 He that dies does but follow him that is dead. 
 " Why are we then so long afraid of that which 
 is so little awhile of doing? How miserable are 
 those people that spend their lives in the dismal 
 apprehensions of death! tor they are beset on all 
 hands, and every minute in dread of a surprise. 
 We must therefore look about us, as if we were in 
 an enemy's country; and consider our last hour, not 
 as a punishment, but as the law of Nature: the fear 
 of it is a continual palpitation of the heart, and he 
 that overcomes that terror shall never be troubled 
 with any other. 
 
 Life is a navigation; we are perpetually wallowing 
 and dashing one against another; sometimes we 
 suffer shipwreck, but we are always in danger and 
 in expectation of it. And what is it when it comes, but 
 either the end of a journey, or a passage? It is as 
 great a folly to fear death as to fear old age; nay, as 
 to fear life itself; for he that would not die ought 
 not to live, since dekth is the condition of life. Be- 
 side that it is a madness to fear a thing that is cer- 
 tain; for where there is no doubt, there is no place 
 for fear. 
 
 We are still chiding of Fate, and even those that 
 exact the most rigorous justice betwixt man and 
 man are yet themselves unjust to Providence. 
 "Why was such a one taken away in the prime of 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 281 
 
 his years?" As if it were the number of years that 
 makes death easy to us, and not the temper of the 
 mind. He that would Uve a little longer to-day, 
 would be as loth to die a hundred years hence. But 
 which is more reasonable for us to obey Nature, or 
 for Nature to obey us? Go we must at last, and no 
 matter how soon. It is the work of Fate to make 
 us live long, but it is the business of virtue to make 
 a short life sufficient. Life is to be measured by 
 action, not by time; a man may die old at thirty, 
 and young at fourscore: nay, the one lives after 
 death, and the other perished before he died. I look 
 upon age among the effects of chance. How long I 
 shall live is in the power of others, but it is in my 
 own how well. The largest space of time is to live 
 till a man is wise. He that dies of old age does no 
 more than go to bed when he is weary. Death is the 
 test of life, and it is that only which discovers what 
 we are, and distinguishes betwixt ostentation and 
 virtue. A man may dispute, cite great authorities, 
 talk learnedly, huff it out, and yet be rotten at 
 heart. But let us soberly attend our business: and 
 since it is uncertain when, or where, we shall die, let 
 us look for death in all places, and at all times : we 
 can never study that point too much, which we can 
 never come to experiment whether we know it or 
 not. It is a blessed thing to dispatch the business of 
 life before we die, and then to expect death in the 
 possession of a happy life. He is the great maji 
 who is willing to die when his life is pleasant to him. 
 An honest life is not a greater good than an honest 
 death. How many brave young men, by an instinct 
 of Nature, are carried on to great actions, and even 
 to the contempt of all hazards! 
 
283 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 It is childish to go out of the world groaning and 
 wailing as we came into it. Our bodies must be 
 thrown away, as the secundine that wraps up the 
 infant, the other being only the covering of the soul; 
 we shall then discover the secrets of Nature; the 
 darkness shall be discussed, and our souls irradiated 
 with light and glory: a glory without a shadow; a 
 glory that shall surround us, and from whence we 
 shall look down and see day and night beneath us. 
 If we cannot lift up our eyes toward the .lamp of 
 heaven without dazzling, what shall we do when we 
 come to behold the divine light in its illustrious orig- 
 inal? That death which we so much dread and 
 decline, is not the determination, but the intermis- 
 sion of a life, which will return again. All those 
 things, that are the very cause of life, are the way 
 to death: we fear it as we do fame; but it is a great 
 folly to fear words. Some people are so impatient 
 of life, that they are still wishing for death; but he 
 that wishes to die does not desire it: let us rather 
 wait God's pleasure, and pray for health and life. 
 If we have a mind to live, why do we wish to die? 
 If we have a mind to die, we may do it without 
 talking of it. Men are a great deal more resolute 
 in the article of death itself than they are about the 
 circumstances of it: for it gives a man courage to 
 consider that his fate is inevitable: the slow ap- 
 proaches of death are the naost troublesome to us; 
 as we see many a gladiator, who upon his wounds, 
 will direct his adversary's weapon to his very heart, 
 though but timorous perhaps in the combat. There 
 are some that have not the heart either to live or 
 die; that is a sad case. But this we are sure of, "the 
 fear of death is a continual slavery, as the contempt 
 of it is certain liberty." 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 CONSOLATIONS AGAINST DEATH, FROM THE PBOVIDENCE AND 
 THE NECESSITY OF IT. 
 
 This life is only a prelude to eternity, where we 
 are to expect another original, and another state of 
 things; we have no prospect of heaven here but at a 
 distance; let us therefore expect our last and decre- 
 tory hour with courage. The last (I say) to our 
 bodies, but not to our minds: our luggage we leave 
 behind us, and return as naked out of the world as 
 we came into it. The day which we fear as our last 
 is but the birth-day of our eternity; and it is the 
 only way to it. So that what we fear as a rock, 
 proves to be but a port, in many cases to be desired, 
 never to be refused; and he that dies young has only 
 made a quick voyage of it. Some are becalmed, 
 others cut it away before wind; and we live just as 
 we sail: first, we rub our childhood out of sight; our 
 youth next; and then our middle age: after that fol- 
 lows old age, and brings us to the common end of 
 mankind. 
 
 It is a great providence that we have more ways 
 out of the world than we have into it. Our security 
 stands upon a point, the very article of death. It 
 draws a great many blessings into a very narrow 
 compass : and although the fruit of it does not seem 
 to extend to the defunct, yet the difficulty of it is 
 more than balanced by the contemplation of the 
 
284 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 future. Nay, suppose that all the business of this 
 world should be forgotten, or my memory, traduced, 
 what* is all this to me? "I have done my duty." 
 Undoubtedly that which puts an end to all other 
 evils, cannot be a very great evil itself, and yet it is 
 no easy thing for flesh and blood to despise life. 
 What if death comes ? If it does not stay with us 
 why should we fear it? One hangs himself for a 
 mistress; another leaps the garret- window to avoid a 
 choleric master; a third runs away and stabs him- 
 self, rather than he will be brought back again. We 
 see the force even of our infirmities, and shall we 
 not then do greater things for the love of virtue? To 
 suffer death is but the law of nature; and it is a 
 great comfort that it can be done but once; in the 
 very convulsions of it we have this consolation, that 
 our pain is near an end, and that it frees us from all 
 the miseries of life. 
 
 What it is we know not, and it were rash to con- 
 demn what we do not understand; but this we pre- 
 sume, either that we shall pass out of this into a better 
 life, where we shall live with tranquillity and splen- 
 dor, in diviner mansions, or else return to our first 
 principles, free from the sense of any inconveni- 
 ence. There is nothing immortal, nor manj- things 
 lasting; by but divers ways everything comes to an 
 end. What an arrogance is it then, when the world 
 itself stands condemned to a dissolution, that man 
 alone should expect to live forever! It is unjust not 
 to allow unto the giver the power of disposing of his 
 own bounty, and a folly only to value the present. 
 Death is as much a debt as naoney, and life is but a 
 journey towards it: some dispatch it sooner, others 
 later, but we must all have the same period. The 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 285 
 
 thunderbolt is undoubtedly just that draws even 
 from those that are struck with it a veneration. 
 
 A great soul takes no delight in staying with the 
 body: it considers whence it came, and knows 
 whither it is to go. The day will come that shall 
 separate this mixture of soul and body, of divine and 
 human; my body I will leave where I found it, my 
 soul I will restore to heaven, which would have been 
 there already, but for the clog that keeps it down: 
 and beside, how many men have been the worse for 
 longer living, that might have died with reputation 
 if they had been sooner taken away! How many 
 disappointments of hopeful youths, that have proved 
 dissolute men! Over and above the ruins, ship- 
 wrecks, torments, prisons, that attend long life; a 
 blessing so deceitful, that if a child were in condition 
 to judge of it, and at liberty to refuse it, he would 
 not take it. 
 
 What Providence has made necessary, human 
 prudence should comply with cheerfully: as there is 
 a necessity of death, so that necessity is equal and 
 invincible. No man has cause of complaint for that 
 which every man must suffer as well as himself. 
 When we should die, we will not, and when we 
 would not we must: but our fate is fixed, and un- 
 avoidable is the decree. Why do we then stand 
 trembling when the time comes? Why do we not as 
 well lament that we did not live a thousand years 
 ago, as that we shall not be alive a thousand years 
 hence? It is but traveling the great road, and to 
 the place whither we must all go at last. It is but 
 stibmitting to the law of Nature, and to that lot 
 which the whole world has suffered that is gone be- 
 fore us; and so must they too that are to come after 
 US. Nay, how many thousands, when our time 
 
286 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 comes, will expire in the same moment with usl He 
 that will not follow shall be drawn by force: and is 
 it not much better now to do that willingly which we 
 shall otherwise be made to do in spite of our hearts? 
 The sons of mortal parents must expect a mortal 
 posterity — death is the end of great and small. We 
 are born helpless, and exposed to the injuries of all 
 creatures and of all weathers. The very necessaries 
 of life are deadly to us; we meet with our fate in our 
 dishes, in our cups, and in the very air we breathe; 
 nay, our very birth is inauspicious, for we come into 
 the world weeping, and in the middle of our designs, 
 while we are meditating great matters, and stretch- 
 ing of ^ur thoughts to after ages, death cuts us off, 
 and our longest date is only the revolution of a few 
 years. One man dies at the table; another goes 
 away in his sleep, a third in his mistress's arms, a 
 fourth is stabbed, another is stung with an adder, 
 or crushed with the fall of a house. We have 
 several ways to our end, but the end itself, which is 
 death, is still the same. Whether we die by a 
 sword, by a halter, by a potion,. or by a disease, it is 
 all but death. A child dies in the swaddling-clout-s, 
 and an old man at a hundred — they are both mortal 
 alike, though the one goes sooner than the other. 
 All that lies betwixt the cradle and the grave is 
 uncertain. If we compute the troubles, the life even 
 of a child is long: if the sweetness of thepassage, that 
 of an old man is short; the whole is slippery and 
 deceitful, and only death certain; and yet all people 
 complain of that which never deceived any man. 
 Senecio raised himself from a small beginning to a 
 vast fortune, being very well skilled in the faculties 
 both of getting and of keeping, and either of them 
 was sufficient for the doing of his business. He wei§ 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 287 
 
 a man infinitely careful both of his patrimony and of 
 his body. He gave me a morning's visit, (says our 
 author,) and after that visit he went away and spent 
 the rest of the day with a friend of his that was 
 desperately sick. At night, he was merry at supper, 
 and seized immediately after with a quinsy which 
 dispatched him in a few hours. This man that had 
 money at use in all places, and in the very course 
 and height of his prosperity was thus cut off. How 
 foolish a thing is it then for a man to flatter himself 
 with long hopes, and to pretend to dispose of the 
 future: nay, the very present slips through our 
 fingers, and there is not that moment which we can 
 call our own. 
 
 How vain a thing is it for us to enter upon pro- 
 jects, and to say to ourselves, "Well, I will go build, 
 purchase, discharge such offices, settle my affairs, 
 and then retire!" We are all of us born to the same 
 casualties — all equally frail and uncertain of to- 
 morrow. At the very altar where we pray for life, 
 we learn to die, by seeing the sacrifices killed before 
 us. But .there is no need of a wound, or searching 
 the heart for it, when the noose of a cord, or the 
 •smothering of a pillow will do the work. All things 
 have their seasons — they begin, they increase, and 
 they die. The heavens and the earth grow old, and 
 are appointed their periods. 
 
 That which we call death is but a pause or sus- 
 pension; and, in truth, a progress to life, only our 
 ihoughts look downward upon the body, and not 
 forward upon things to come. All things under the 
 sun are m.ortal — cities — empires — and the time will 
 come when it shall be a question where they were, 
 and, perchance, whether ever they had a being or 
 not. Some will be destroyed by war, others by lux- 
 
288 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 ury, fire, inundations, earthquakes — why should it 
 trouble me then to die, as a forerunner of an uni- 
 versal dissolution? A great mind submits itself to 
 God, and suffers willingly what the law of the 
 universe will otherwise bring to pass upon necessity. 
 
 That good old man Bassus, (though with one foot 
 in the grave,) how cheerful a mind does he bear. 
 He lives in the view of death, and contemplates his 
 own end with less concern of thought or counten- 
 ance, than he would do another man's. It is a hard 
 lesson, and we are a long time a learning of it, to 
 receive our death without trouble, especially in the 
 case of Bassus: in other deaths there is a mixture of 
 hope — a disease may be cured, a fire quenched, a 
 falling house either propped or avoided, the sea may 
 swallow a man and throw him up again, a pardon 
 may interpose twixt the ax and the body — but in the 
 case of old age there is no place for either hope or 
 intercession. 
 
 Let us live in our bodies, therefore, as if we were 
 only to lodge in them this night, and to leave them 
 to-morrow. It is the frequent thought of death that 
 must fortify us against the necessity of it. He that 
 has armed himself against poverty, may, perhaps; 
 come to live in plenty. A man may strengthen him- 
 self against pain and yet live in a state of health; 
 against the loss of friends, and never lose any, but 
 he that fortifies himself against the fear of death 
 shall most certainly have occasion to employ that 
 virtue. It is the care of a wise and a good man to 
 look to his manners and actions; and rather how 
 well he lives than how long, for to die sooner or later 
 is not the business, but to die well or ill, for " death 
 brings us to immortality," 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 AGAINST IMMODBBATE SOEEOW FOE THE DEATH OF FEIENDS. 
 
 Next to the encounter of death in our own bodies, 
 the most sensible calamity to an honest man is the 
 death of a friend; and we are not in truth without 
 some generous instances of those that have prefer- 
 red a friend's life before their own; and yet this 
 affliction, which by nature is so grievous to us, is by 
 virtue and Providence made familiar and easy. 
 
 To lament the death of a friend is both natural and 
 just; a sigh or a tear I would allow to his memory: 
 but no profuse or obstinate sorrow. Clamorous and 
 public lamentations are not so much the effects of 
 grief as of vain-glory. He that is sadder in com- 
 pany than alone, shows rather the ambition of his 
 sorrow than the piety of it. Nay, and in the vio- 
 lence of his passion there fall out twenty things that 
 set him a-laughing. At the long-run, time cures all, 
 but it were better done by moderation and wisdom. 
 Some people do as good as set a watch upon them- 
 selves, as if they were afraid that their grief would 
 raake an escape. The ostentation of grief is many 
 times more than the grief itself. When any body is 
 within hearing, what groans and outcries! when 
 they are alone and private, all is hush and quiet: so 
 soon as any body comes in, they are at it again; and 
 down they throw themselves upon the bedj fall to 
 
290 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 wringing of their hands, and wishing of themselves 
 dead; which they might have executed by them- 
 selves; but their sorrow goes off with the company. 
 We forsake nature, and run over to the practices of 
 the people, that never were the authors of anything 
 that is good. If destiny were to be wrought upon 
 by tears, I would allow you to spend your days and 
 nights in sadness and mourning, tearing of your 
 hair, and beating of your breast; but if Fate be in- 
 exorable, and death will keep what it has taken, 
 grief is to no purpose. And yet I would not advise 
 insensibility and hardness; it were inhumanity, and 
 not virtue, not to be moved at the separation of 
 familiar friends and relations: now, in such cases, 
 we cannot command ourselves, we cannot forbear 
 weeping, and we ought not to forbear: but let us not 
 pass the bounds of affection, and run into imitation; 
 within these limits it is some ease to the mind. 
 
 A wise man gives way to tears in some cases, and 
 cannot avoid them in others. When one is struck 
 with the surprise of ill-news, as the death of a 
 friend, or the like; or upon the last embrace of an 
 acquaintance under the hand of an executioner, he 
 lies under a natural necessity of weeping and trem- 
 bling. In another case, we may indulge our sorrow, 
 as upon the memory of a dead friend's conversation 
 or kindness, one may let fall tears of generosity and 
 joy. We favor the one, and we are overcome by the 
 other; and this is well: but we are not upon any 
 terms to force them: they may flow of their own ac- 
 cord, without derogating from the dignity of a wise 
 man; who at the same time both preserves his grav- 
 ity, and obeys nature. Nay, there is a certain 
 decorum even in weeping f for excess of sorrow is as 
 foolish as profuse laughter. Why dp we not as w©U 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 291 
 
 cry, when our trees that we took pleasure in, shed 
 their leaves, as at the loss of our satisfactions; when 
 the next season repairs them, either with the same 
 again, or others in their places. We may accuse 
 Fate, but we cannot alter it; for it is hard and inex- 
 orable, and not to be removed either with reproaches 
 or tears. They may carry lis to the dead, but never 
 bring them back again to us. If reason does not put 
 an end to our sorrows, fortune never will: one is 
 pinched with poverty; another solicited with am- 
 bition, and fears the very wealth that he coveted. 
 One is troubled for the loss of children; another for 
 the want of them: so that we shall sooner want 
 tears than matter for them; let us therefore spare 
 that for which we have so much occasion. I do 
 confess, that in the very parting of friends there is 
 something of uneasiness and trouble; but it is rather 
 voluntary than natural; and it is custom more than 
 sense that affects us: we do rather impose a sorrow 
 upon ourselves than submit to it; as people cry 
 when they have company, and when nobody looks 
 on, all is well again. To mourn without measure is 
 f oUy, and not to mourn at all is insensibility. The 
 best temper is betwixt piety and reason; to be sensi- 
 ble, but neither transported nor cast down. He that 
 can put a stop to his tears and pleasures when he 
 will is safe. It is an equal infelicity to be either too 
 soft or too hard: we are overcome by the one, and 
 put to struggle with the other. There is a certain 
 intemperance in that sorrow that passes the rules of 
 modesty; and yet great piety is, in many cases, a 
 dispensation to good manners. The loss of a son or 
 of a friend, cuts a man to the heart, and there is no 
 opposing the first violence of his passion; but when 
 a, man comes once to deliver himself wholly up to 
 
293 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 lamentations, he is to understand, that though some 
 tears deserve compassion, others are yet ridiculous. 
 A grief that is fresh finds pity and comfort, but 
 when it is inveterate it is laughed at, for it is either 
 counterfeit or foolish. Beside that, to weep exces- 
 sively for the dead is an affront to the living. The 
 most justifiable cause of mourning is to see good 
 men come to ill ends, and virtue oppressed by the 
 iniquity of Fortune. But in this case, too, they 
 either suffer resolutely, and yield us delight in their 
 courage and example, or meanly, and so give us the 
 less trouble for the loss. He that dies cheerfully, 
 dries up my tears; and he that dies wLiningly, does 
 not deserve them. I would bear the death of friends 
 and children with the same constancy that I would 
 expect my own, and no more lament the one than 
 fear the other. He that bethinks himself, how often 
 friends have been parted, will find more time lost 
 among the living, than upon the dead; and the most 
 desperate mourners are they that cared least for 
 their friends when they were living; for they think 
 to redeem their credits, for want of kindness to the 
 living, by eetravagant ravings after the dead. Some 
 (I know) will have grief to be only the perverse de- 
 light of a restless mind, and sorrows and pleasures 
 to be near akin; and there are, I am confident, that 
 find joy even in their tears. But which is more bar- 
 barous, to be insensible of grief for the death of a 
 friend, or to fish for pleasure in grief, when a son 
 perhaps is burning, or a friend expiring? To forget 
 one's friend, to bury the memory with the body, to 
 lament out of measure, is all inhuman. He that is 
 gone either would not have his friend tormented, or 
 does not know that he is so: if he does not feel it, it 
 is superfluous; if he does, it is unacceptable to him. 
 
SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 393 
 
 If reason cannot prevail, reputation may; for im- 
 moderate mourning lessens a man's character: it is 
 a shameful thing for a wise man to make the ivear- 
 iness of grieving^ the remedy of it. In time, the 
 most stubborn grief will leave us, if in prudence we 
 do not leave thd,t first. 
 
 But do I grieve for my friend's sake or for my 
 own? Why should I afflict myself for the loss of 
 him that is either happy or not at all in being? In 
 the one case it is envy, and in the other it is mad- 
 ness. . We are apt to say, "What would I give to see 
 him again, and to enjoy his conversation! ~I was 
 never sad in his conapany : my heart leaped when- 
 ever I met him; I want him wherever I go." All 
 that is to be said is, "The greater the loss, the great- 
 er is the virtue to overcome it." If grieving will do 
 no good, it is an idle thing to grieve; and if that 
 which has befallen one man remains to all, it is as 
 unjust to complain. The whole world is upon the 
 march towards the same point; why do we not cry 
 for ourselves that are to follow, as well as for him 
 that has gone first? Why do we not as well lament 
 beforehand for that which we know will be, and can 
 not possibly but be? He is not gone, but sent before. 
 As there are many things that he has lost, so there 
 are many things that he does not fear; as anger, 
 jealousy, envy, etc. Is he not more happy in desir- 
 ing nothing than miserable in what he has lost? We 
 do not mourn for the absent, why then for the dead, 
 who are effectually no other? We have lost one 
 blessing, but we have many left; and shall not all 
 these satisfactions support us against one sorrow? 
 
 The comfort of having a friend may be taken 
 away, but not that of having had one. As the^e is 
 a sharpness in some fruits, and a bitterness in some 
 
394 SBlfECA OF A SAPPY LlFB. 
 
 wines that please us, so there is a mixture in the re- 
 membrance of friends, where the loss of their com- 
 pany is sweetened again by the contemplation of 
 their virtues. In some respects, I have lost what I 
 had, and in others, I retain still what I have lost. It 
 is an ill construction of Providence to reflect only 
 upon my friend's being taken away, without any re- 
 gard to the benefit of his being once given me. Let 
 us therefore make the best of our friends while we 
 have them; for how long we shall keep them is un- 
 certain. I have lost a hopeful son, but how many 
 fathers have been deceived in their expectations! 
 and how many noble families have been destroyed by 
 luxury and riot! He that grieves for the loss of a 
 son, what if he had lost a friend? and yet he 
 that has lost a friend has more cause of joy 
 that he once had him, than of grief that he is 
 taken away. Shall a man bury his friendship 
 with his friend? We are ungrateful for that 
 which is past, in hope of what is to come; 
 as if that which is to come would not quickly 
 be past too. That which is past we are sure of. We 
 may receive satisfaction, it is true, both from the 
 future and what is already past; the one by expec- 
 tation, and the other by memory; only the one may 
 possibly not come to pass, and it is impossible to 
 make the other not to have been. 
 
 But there is no applying of consolation to fresh 
 and bleeding sorrow; the very discourse irritates the 
 grief and inflames it. It is like an unseasonable 
 medicine in a disease; when the first violence is 
 over, it will be more tractable, and endure the 
 handling. Those people whose minds are weak- 
 ened -by long felicity may be allowed to groan and 
 complain, but it is otherwise with those that have 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 295 
 
 led their days in misfortunes. A long course of ad- 
 versity has this good in it, that though it vexes a 
 body a great while, it conies to harden us at last; as 
 a raw soldier shrinks at every wound, and dreads 
 the surgeon more than an enemy; whereas a veteran 
 sees his own body cut and lamed with as little con- 
 cern as if it were another's. With the same resolu- 
 tion should we stand the shock and cure of all mis- 
 fortunes; we are never the better for our experience, 
 if we have not yet learned to be miserable. And 
 there is no thought of curing us by the diversion of 
 sports and entertainments; we are apt to fall into 
 relapses; wherefore we had better overcome our 
 sorrow than delude it. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 CONSOLATION AGAINST BANISHMENT AND BODILY PAIN. 
 
 It is a masterpiece to draw good out of evil; and, 
 by the help of virtue, to improve misfortunes into 
 blessings. "It is a sad condition," you will say, 
 "for a man to be barred the freedom of his own 
 country." And is not this the case of thousands 
 that we meet every day in the streets? Some for 
 ambition; others, to negotiate, or for curiosity, de- 
 light, friendship, study, experience, luxury, vanity, 
 discontent: some to exercise their virtues, others 
 their vices; and not a few to prostitute either their 
 bodies or their eloquence? To pass now from pleas- 
 ant countries into the worst of islands; let them be 
 never so barren or rocky, the people never so bar- 
 barous, or the clime never so intemperate, he that 
 is banished thither shall find many strangers to live 
 there for their pleasure. The mind of man is nat- 
 urally curious and restless; which is no wonder, con- 
 sidering their divine original; for heavenly things 
 are always in motion : witness the stars, and the orbs, 
 which are perpetually moving, rolling, and changing 
 of place and according to the law and appointment of 
 Nature. But here are no woods, you will say, no 
 rivers, n-o gold nor pearl, no commodity for traffic or 
 commerce; nay, hardly provision enough to keep the 
 inhabitants from starving. It is very right; here 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 297 
 
 are no palaces, no artificial grottoes, or materials 
 for luxury and excess ; but we lie under the protec- 
 tion of Heaven; and a poor cottage for a retreat is 
 more worth than the most magnificent temple, when 
 that cottage is consecrated by an honest man under 
 the guard of his virtue. Shall any man think ban- 
 ishment grievous, when he may take such company 
 along with him! Nor is there any banishment but 
 yields enough for our necessities, and no kingdom 
 is sufficient for superfluities. It is the mind that 
 makes us rich in a desert; and if the body be but 
 kept alive, the soul enjoys all spiritual felicities in 
 abundance. What signifies the being banished from 
 one spot of ground to another, to a man that has his 
 thoughts above, and can look forward and back- 
 ward, and wherever he pleases; and that, wherever 
 he is, has the same matter to work upon? The body 
 is but the prison or the clog of the mind, subjected 
 to punishments, robberies, diseases; but the mind is 
 sacred and spiritual, and liable to no violence. Is it 
 that, a man shall want garments or covering in 
 banishment? The body is as easily clothed as fed; 
 and Nature has made nothing hard that is neces- 
 sary. But if nothing will serve us but rich embroi- 
 deries and scarlet, it is none of Fortune's fault that 
 we are poor, but our own. Nay, suppose a man 
 should have all restored him back again that he has 
 lost, it will come to nothing, for he will want more 
 after that to satisfy his desires than he did before to 
 supply his necessities. Insatiable appetites are not 
 so much a thirst as a disease. 
 
 To come lower now; where is the people or nation 
 that have not changed their place of abode? Some 
 by the fate of war; others have been cast by temp- 
 ests, shipwrecks, or want of provisions, upon un- 
 
298 SEJffiCA OS' A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 known coasts. Some have been forced abroad by 
 pestilence, sedition, earthquakes, surcharge of peo- 
 ple at home. Some travel to see the World, others 
 for commerce; but, in fine, it is clear, that, upon 
 some reason or other, the whole race of mankind 
 have shifted their quarters; changed their very 
 names as well as their habitations; insomuch that 
 we have lost the very memorials of what they were. 
 All these transportations of people, what are they 
 but public banishments? The very founder of the 
 Roman empire was an exile : briefly, the whole 
 world has been transplanted, and one mutation 
 treads upon the heel of another. That which one 
 man desires, turns another man's stomach; and he 
 that proscribes me to-day, shall himself be cast 
 out to-morrow. We have, however, this comfort in 
 our misfortune; we have the same nature, the same 
 Providence, and we carry our virtues along with us. 
 And this blessing we owe to that almighty Power, 
 call it what you will; either a God, or an Incor- 
 poreal Reason, a Divine Spirit, or Fate, and the 
 unchangeable Course of causes and effects: it is, 
 however, so ordered, that nothing can be taken from 
 us but what we can well spare: and that which is 
 most magnificent and valuable continues with us. 
 Wherever we go, we have the heavens over our 
 heads, and no farther from us than they were 
 before; and so long as we can entertain our eyes 
 and thoughts with those glories, what matter is it 
 what ground we tread upon? 
 
 In the case of pain or sickness, it is only the body 
 that is affected; it may take off the speed of a foot- 
 man, or bind the hands of a cobbler, but the mind 
 is still at liberty to hear, learn, teach, advise, and 
 to do other good offices. It is an example of public 
 
SENECA OS' A HAtfY LIFE. 299 
 
 benefit, a man that is in pain and patient. Virtue 
 may show itself as well in the bed as in the field; 
 and he that cheerfully encounters the terrors of 
 death and corporal anguish, is as great a man as he 
 that most generously hazards himself in a battle. 
 A disease, it is true, bars us of some pleasures, but 
 procures us others. Drink is never so grateful to us 
 as in a burning fever; nor meat, as when we have 
 fasted ourselves sharp and hungry. The patient 
 may be forbidden some sensual satisfaction, but no 
 physician will forbid us the delight of the mind, 
 ahall we call any sick man miserable, because he 
 must give over his intemperance of wine and glut- 
 tony, and betake himself to a diet of more sobriety, 
 and less expense; and abandon his luxury, which is 
 the distemper of the mind as well as of the body? 
 It is troublesome, I know, at first, to abstain from 
 the pleasures we have been used to, and to endure 
 hunger and thirst; but in a little time we lose the 
 very appetite, arid it is no troul^le then to be without 
 ■ that which we do not desire. In diseases there are 
 great pains; but if they be long they remit, and give 
 us some intervals of ease; if short and violent, 
 either they dispatch us, or consume themselves; so 
 that either their respites make them tolerable, or 
 the extremity makes them short. So merciful is 
 Almighty God to us, that our torments cannot be 
 very sharp and lasting. The acutest pains are those 
 that affect the nerves, but there is this comfort in 
 them too, that they will quickly make us stupid and 
 insensible. In cases of extremity, let us call to 
 mind the most eminent instances of patience and 
 courage, and turn our thoughts from our afflictions 
 to the contemplation of virtue. Suppose it be the 
 stone, the gout, nay, the rack itself; how many 
 
300 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 have endured it without so much as a groan or 
 word speaking; without so much as asking for 
 relief, or giving an answer to a question! Nay, 
 they have laughed at the tormentors upon the very 
 torture, and provoked them to new experiments of 
 their cruelty, which they have had still in derision. 
 The asthma I look upon as of all diseases the most 
 importunate; the physicians call it the meditation 
 of death, as being rather an agony than a sickness; 
 the fit holds one not above an hour, as nobody is 
 long in expiring. Are there not three things grie- 
 vous in sickness, the fear of death, bodily pain, and 
 the intermission of our pleasures? the first is to be 
 imputed to nature, not to the disease; for we do not 
 die because we are sick, but because we live. Nay, 
 sickness itself has preserved many a man from 
 dying. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 POVERTY TO A WISE MAN IS KATHEK A BLESSING THAN A MIS- 
 FOKTUNE. 
 
 No man shall ever be poor that goes to himself for 
 what he wants; and that is the readiest way to 
 riches. Nature, indeed, will have her due; but yet 
 whatsoever is beyond necessity is precarious, and not 
 necessary. It is not her business to gratify the 
 palate, but to satisfy a craving stomach. Bread, 
 when a man is hungry, does his work, let it be never 
 so coarse; and water when he is dry; let his thirst 
 be quenched, and Nature is satisfied, no matter 
 whence it comes, or whether he drinks in gold, 
 silver, or in the hollow of his hand. To promise a 
 man riches, and to teach him poverty, is to deceive 
 him: but shall I call him poor that wants nothing; 
 though he maybe beholden for it to his patience, 
 rather than to his fortune? Or shall any man deny 
 him to be rich, whose riches can never be taken 
 away. Whether is it better to have much or 
 enough? He that has much desires more, and shows 
 that he has not yet enough; but he that has enough 
 is at rest. Shall a man be reputed the less rich for 
 not having that for which he shall be banished; for 
 which his very wife, or son, shall poison him: that 
 which gives him security in war, and quiet in peace; 
 ■which he possesses without danger, and disposes of 
 
303 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE, 
 
 without trouble? No man can be poor that has 
 enough; nor rich, that covets more than he has. 
 Alexander, after all his conquests, complained that 
 he wanted more worlds; he desired something more, 
 even when he had gotten all: and that which was 
 suflBcient for human nature was not enough for one 
 man. Money never made any man rich; for the 
 more he had, the more he still coveted. The richest 
 man that ever lived is poor in my opinion, and in 
 any man's may be so : but he that keeps himself to 
 the stint of Nature, does neither feel poverty nor 
 fear it; nay, even in poverty itself there are some 
 things superfluous. Those which the world calls 
 happy, their felicity is a false splendor, that dazzles 
 the eyes of the vulgar; but our rich man is glorious 
 and happy within. There is no ambition in htmger 
 or thirst: let there be food, and no matter for the 
 table, the dish, and the servants, nor with what 
 meats nature is satisfied. Those are the torments of 
 luxury, that rather stuff the stomach than fill it: it 
 studies rather to cause an appetite than to allay it. 
 It is not for us to say, " This is not handsome; that 
 is common; the other offends my eye." Nature pro- 
 vides for health, not delicacy. When the trumpet 
 sounds a charge, the poor man knows that he is not 
 aimed at; when they cry out fire, his body is all he 
 has to look after: if he be to take a journey, there is 
 no blocking up of streets, and thronging of passages, 
 for a parting compliment: a small matter fills his 
 belly, and contents his mind: he lives from hand to 
 mouth, without caring or fearing for to-morrow. 
 The temperaie rich man is but his counterfeit; his 
 wit is quicker and his appetite calmer. 
 
 No man finds poverty a trouble to him, but he that 
 thinks it so; and he that thinks it so, makes it so. 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. . 303 
 
 Does not a rich man travel more at ease with less 
 luggage, and fewer servants ? Does he not eat many 
 times as little and as coarse in the field as a poor 
 man? Does he not for his own pleasure, sometimes, 
 and for variety, feed upon the ground, and use only 
 earthen vessels? Is not he a madman then, that 
 always fears what he often desires, and dreads the 
 thing that he takes delight to imitate: he that would 
 know the worst of poverty, let him but compare the 
 looks of the rich and of the poor, and he shall find 
 the poor man to have a smoother brow, and to be 
 more merry at heart; or if any trouble befalls him, it 
 passes over like a cloud: whereas the other, either 
 his good humor is counterfeit, or his melancholy 
 deep and ulcerated, and the worse, because he dares 
 not publicly own his misfortune; but he is forced to 
 play the part of a happy man even with a cancer in 
 his heart. His felicity is but personated; and if he 
 were but stripped of his ornaments, he would be 
 contemptible. In buying of a horse, we take off his 
 clothes and his trappings, and examine his shape 
 and body for fear of being cozened; and shall we 
 put an estimate upon a man for being set off by his 
 fortune and quality? Nay, if we see anything of 
 ornament about him, we are to suspect him the 
 more for some infirmity under it. He that is not 
 content in poverty, would not be so neither in 
 plenty; for the fault is not in the thing, but in the 
 mind. If that be sickly, remove him from a kennel 
 to a palace, he is at the same pass; for he carries 
 his disease along with him. 
 
 What can be happier than the condition both of 
 mind .and of fortune from which we cannot fall — 
 what can be a greater felicity than in a covetous, 
 designing age, for a roan to live safe among inform- 
 
304 SENECA OP A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 ers and thieves? It puts a poor men into the very 
 condition of Providence, that gives all, without 
 reserving anything to itself. How happy is he that 
 owes nothing but to himself, and only that which he 
 can easily refuse or easily pay! I do not reckon him 
 poor that has but a little, but he is so that covets 
 more — it is a fair degree of plenty to have what is 
 necessary. Whether had a man better find satiety 
 in want, or hunger in plenty? It is not the augment- 
 ing of our fortunes, but the abating of our appetites 
 that makes us rich. 
 
 Why may not a man as well contemn riches in his 
 own coffers as in another man's, and rather hear 
 that they are his than feel them to be so, though it 
 is a great matter not to be corrupted even by having 
 them under the same roof. He is the grej,ter man 
 that is honestly poor in the middle of plenty— but he 
 is the more secure that is free from the temptation 
 of that plenty, and has the least matter for another 
 to design upon. It is no great business for a poor 
 man to preach the contempt of riches, or for a rich 
 man to extol the benefits of poverty, because we do 
 not know how either the one or the other would 
 behave himself in the contrary condition. The best 
 proof is the doing of it by choice and not by neces- 
 sity; for the practice of poverty in jest is a prepara- 
 tion toward the bearing of it in earnest; but it is yet 
 a generous disposition so to provide for the worst of 
 fortunes as what may be easily borne — the premedi- 
 tation makes them not only tolerable but delightful 
 to us, for there is that in them without which nothing 
 can be comfortable, that is to say, security. If there 
 were nothing else in poverty but the certain know- 
 ledge of our friends, it were yet a most desirable 
 blessing, when every man leaves us but those that 
 
SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 305 
 
 love US. It is a shame to place the happiness of life 
 in gold and silver, for which bread and water is 
 sufficient; or, at the worst, hunger puts an end to 
 hunger. 
 
 For the honor of poverty, it was both the founda- 
 tion and the cause of the Roman empire; and no 
 man was ever yet so poor but he had enough to carry 
 him to his journey's end. 
 
 All I desire is that my property may not be a bur- 
 den to myself, or make me so to others; and that is 
 the best state of fortune that is neither directly 
 necessitous, nor far from it. A mediocricity of for- 
 tune with a gentleness of mind, will preserve us~ 
 from fear or envy, which is a desirable condition, 
 for no man wants power to do mischief. "We never 
 consider the blessing of coveting nothing, and the 
 glory of being full in ourselves, without depending 
 upon Fortune. With parsimony a little is sufficient 
 and without it nothing; whereas frugality makes a 
 poor man rich. If we lose an estate, we had better 
 never have had it — he that has least to lose has least 
 to fear, and those are better satisfied whom For- 
 tune never favored, than those whom she has 
 forsaken. 
 
 The state is most commodious that lies betwixt 
 poverty and plenty. Diogenes understood this very 
 well when he put himself into an incapacity of 
 losing any thing. That course of life is most com- 
 modious which is both safe and wholesome — the 
 body is to be indulged no farther than for health, 
 and rather mortified than not kept in subjection to 
 the mind. It is necessary to provide against hunger, 
 thirst, and cold; and somewhat for a covering to 
 shelter us against other inconveniences; but not a 
 
306 SENECA OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 pin matter whether it be of turf or of marble — a man 
 may lie as warm and as dry under a thatched as 
 under a gilded roof. Let the mind be great and 
 glorious, and all other things are despicable in com- 
 parison. " The future is uncertain, and I had rather 
 beg of myself not to desire any thing, than of For- 
 tune to bestow it." 
 
SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ANGER DESCKIBED, IT IS AGAINST NATURE, AND ONLY TO BE 
 FOUND IN MAN. 
 
 We ake here to encounter the most outrageous, 
 brutal, dangerous, and intractable of all passions; 
 the most loathsome and unmannerly; nay, the 
 most ridiculous too; and the subduing of this mon- 
 ster will do a great deal toward the establishment 
 of human peace. It is the method of physicians 
 to begin with a description of the disease, before 
 they meddle with the cure : and I know not why this 
 may not do as well in the distempers of the mind as 
 in those of the body. 
 
 The Stoics will have anger to be a " desire of pun- 
 ishing another for some injury done." Against 
 which it is objected, that we are many times angry 
 with those that never did hurt us, but possibly may, 
 though the harm be not as yet done. But I say, 
 that they hurt us already in conceit: and the very 
 purpose of it is an injury in thought before it 
 breaks out into act. It is opposed again, that if 
 anger were a desire %f punishing, mean people 
 
308 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 would not be angry with great ones that are out of 
 their reach; for no man can be said to desire any- 
 thing which he judges impossible to compass. But 
 I answer to this, That anger is the desire, not the 
 poioer and faculty of revenge; neither is any man 
 so low, but that the greatest man alive may perad- 
 venture lie at his mercy. 
 
 Aristotle takes anger to be, "a desire of paying 
 sorrow for sorrow;" and of plaguing those that have 
 plagued us. It is argued against both, that beasts 
 are angry; though neither provoked by any injury, 
 nor moved with a desire of any body's grief or pun- 
 ishment. Nay, though they cause it, they do not 
 design or seek it. Neither is anger (how unreason- 
 able soever in itself) found anywhere but in reason- 
 able creatures. It is true, the beasts have an 
 impulse of rage and fierceness; as they are more 
 affected also than men with some pleasures; but we 
 may as well call them luxurious and ambitious as 
 angry. And yet they are not without certain im- 
 ages of human affections. They have their likings 
 and their loathings; but neither the passions of 
 reasonable nature, nor their virtues, nor their vices. 
 They are moved to fury by some objects; they are 
 quieted by others; they have their terrors and their 
 disappointments, but without reflection: and let 
 them be never so much irritated or affrighted, so 
 soon as ever the occasion is removed they fall to 
 their meat again, and lie down and take their rest. 
 Wisdom and thought are the goods of the mind, 
 whereof brutes are wholly incapable ; and we are as 
 unlike them within as we are without: they have an 
 odd kind of fancy, and they have a voice too; but 
 inarticulate and confused, ^d incapable of those 
 variations which are familiar to us, 
 
&ENECA OJ- ANGER. 309 
 
 Anger is not only a vice, but a vice point-blank 
 against nature, for it divides instead of joining; and 
 in some measure, frustrates the end of Providence 
 in human society. One man was born to help an- 
 other; anger makes us destroy one another; the one 
 unites, the other separates; the one is beneficial to 
 us, the other mischievous; the one succors even 
 strangers, the other destroys even the most intimate 
 friends; the one ventures all to save another, the 
 other ruins himself to undo another. Nature is 
 bountiful, but anger is pernicious: for it is not fear, 
 but mutual love that binds up mankind. 
 
 There are some motions that look like anger, 
 which cannot properly be called so; as the passion 
 of the people against the gladiators, when they 
 hang off, and will not make so quick a dispatch 
 as the spectators would have them: there is some- 
 thing in it of the humor of children, that if they 
 get a fall, will never leave bawling until the 
 naughty ground is beaten, and then all is well 
 again. They are angry without any cause or in- 
 jury; they are deluded by an imitation of strokes, 
 and pacified with counterfeit tears. A false and a 
 childish sorrow is appeased with as false and as 
 childish a revenge. They take it for a contempt, 
 if the gladiators do not immediately cast them- 
 selves upon the sword's point. They look present- 
 ly about them from > one to another, as who should 
 say; " Do but see, my masters, how these rogues 
 abuse us." 
 
 To descend to the particular branches and varieties 
 would be unnecessary and endless. There is a stub- 
 born, a vindictive, a quarrelsome, a violent, a fro- 
 ward, a sullen, a morose kind of anger; and then we 
 have this variety in complication too. One goes no 
 
310 SENECA OE ANGER. 
 
 further than words; another proceeds immediately 
 to blows, without a word speaking; a third sort 
 breaks out into cursing and reproachful language; 
 and there are that content themselves with chiding 
 and complaining. There is a confiliable anger and 
 there is an implacable; but in what form or degree 
 soever it appears, all anger, without exception, is 
 vicious. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE RISE OF ANGER. 
 
 The question will be here, whether anger takes its 
 rise from impulse or judgment; that is, whether it 
 be moved of its own accord, or, as many other things 
 are, from within us, that arise we know not how? 
 The clearing of this point will lead us to greater 
 matters. 
 
 The first motion of anger is in truth involuntary, 
 and only a kind of menacing preparation towards it. 
 The second deliberates; as who should say, " This 
 injury should not pass without a revenge," and 
 there it stops. The third is impotent; and, right or 
 wrong, resolves upon vengeance. The first motion 
 is not to be avoided, nor indeed the second, any 
 more than yawning for company; custom and care 
 may lessen it, but reason itself cannot overcome it. 
 The third, as it rises upon consideration, it must fall 
 so too, for that motion which proceeds with judg- 
 ment may be taken away with judgment. A man 
 thinks himself injured, and hath a mind to be 
 revenged, but for some reason lets it rest. This is 
 not properly anger, but an affection overruled by 
 reason; a kind of proposal disapproved — and what 
 are reason and affection, but only changes of the 
 mind for the better or for the worse? Reason 
 deliberates before it judges; but anger passes sen- 
 
312 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 tence without deliberation. Reason only attends the 
 matter in hand; but anger is startled at every acci- 
 dent; it passes the bounds of reason, and carries it 
 away with it. In short, " anger is an agitation of 
 the mind that proceeds to the resolution of a revenge, 
 the mind assenting to it." 
 
 There is no doubt but anger is moved by the 
 species of an injury; but whether that motion be 
 voluntary or involuntary is the point in debate; 
 though it seems manifest to me that anger does 
 nothing but where the mind goes along with it, 
 for, first, to take an offence, and then to meditate a 
 revenge, and after that to lay both propositions 
 together, and say to myself, " This injury ought not 
 to have been done ; but as the case stands, I must do 
 myself right." This discourse can never proceed 
 without the concurrence of the will. 
 
 The first motion indeed is single; but all the rest 
 is deliberation and superstructure — there is some- 
 thing understood and condemned — an indignation 
 conceived and a revenge propounded. This can 
 never be without the agreement of the mind to the 
 matter in deliberation. The end of this question is 
 to know the nature and quality of anger. If it be 
 bred in us it will never yield to reason, for all invol- 
 untary motions are inevitable and invincible; as a 
 kind of horror and shrugging upon the sprinkling of 
 cold water; the hair standing on end at ill news; 
 giddiness at the sight of a precipice; blushing at 
 lewd discourse. In these cases reason can do no 
 good, but anger may undoubtedly be overcome by 
 caution and good counsel, for it is a voluntary vice, 
 and not of the condition of those accidents that 
 befall us as frailties of our humanity, amongst which 
 must be reckoned the first motions of the mind 
 
SENECA OF ANGER. 3l3 
 
 Sifter the opinion of an injury received, which it is 
 not in the power of human nature to avoid, and this 
 is it that affects us upon the stage, or in a story. 
 
 Can any man read the death of Pompey, and not 
 be touched with an indignation? The sound of a 
 trumpet rouses the spirits and provokes courage. It 
 makes a man sad to see the shipwrecli even of an 
 enemy; and we are much surprised by fear in other 
 cases — all these motions are not s© much affections 
 as preludes to them. The clashing of arms or the 
 beating of a drum excites a war-horse: nay, a song 
 from Xenophantes would make Alexander take his 
 sword in his hand. 
 
 In all these cases the mind rather suffers than 
 acts, and therefore it is not an affection to be moved, 
 but to give way to that motion, and to follow wil- 
 lingly what was started by chance — these are not 
 affections, but impulses of the body. The bravest 
 man in the world may look pale when he puts on his 
 armor, his knees knock, and his heart work before 
 the battle is joined: but these are only motions; 
 whereas anger is an excursion, and proposes revenge 
 or punishment, which cannot be without the mind. 
 As fear flies, so anger assaults; and it is not possible 
 to resolve, either upon violence or caution, without 
 the concurrence of the wiU. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 ANGER MAY BE SUPPRESSED. 
 
 It is an idle thing to pretend that we cannot 
 govern our anger; for some things that we do are 
 much harder than others that we ought to do; the 
 wildest affections may be tamed by discipline, and 
 there is hardly anything which the mind will do but 
 it may do. There needs no more argument in this 
 case than the instances of several persons, both 
 powerful and impatient, that have gotten the abso- 
 lute mastery of themselves in this point. 
 
 Thrasippus in his drink fell foul upon the cruelties 
 of Pisislratus; who, when he was urged by several 
 about him to make an example of him, returned 
 this answer, "Why should I be angry with a man 
 that stumbles upon me blindfold?" In effect most 
 of our quarrels are of our own making, either by 
 mistake or by aggravation. Anger comes some- 
 times upon us, but we go oftener to it, and instead 
 of rejecting it we call it. 
 
 Augustus was a great master of his passion: for 
 Timagenus, an historian, wrote several bitter things 
 against his person and his family: which passed 
 among the people plausibly enough, as pieces of 
 rash wit commonly do. Cfesar advised him several 
 times to forbear; and when that would not do. for^ 
 bade him his roof. After this, Asinius PoUio gave 
 
SENECA OV ANGBE. 315 
 
 him entertainment; and he was so well beloved in 
 the city, that every man's house was open to him. 
 Those things that he had written in honor of Augus- 
 tus, he recited and burnt, and publicly professed 
 himself Caesar's enemy. Augustus, for all this, 
 never fell out with any man that received him; only 
 once, he told PoUio, that he had taken a snake into 
 his bosom: and as PoUio was about to excuse him- 
 self; "No," says Csesar, interrupting him, "make 
 your best of him." And offering to cast him off at 
 that very moment, if Caesar pleased: "Do you 
 think," says Caesar, "that I will ever contribute to 
 the parting of you, that made you friends?" for 
 Pollio was angry with him before, and only enter- 
 tained him now because Caesar had discarded him. 
 
 The moderation of Antigonus was remarkable. 
 Some of his soldiers were railing at him one night, 
 where there was but a 'hanging betwixt them. 
 Antigonus overheard themj and putting it gently 
 aside; "Soldiers," says he, "stand a little further 
 off, for fear the king should hear you." And we 
 are to consider, not only violent examples, but 
 moderate, where there wanted neither cause of dis- 
 pleasure nor power of revenge: as in the case of 
 Antigonus, who the same night hearing his soldiers 
 cursing him for bringing them into so foul a way, 
 he went to them, and without telling them who he 
 was, helped them out of it. "Now," says he, "you 
 may be allowed to curse him that brought you into 
 the mire, provided you bless him that took you out 
 of it." 
 
 It was a notable story that of Vedius Pallio, upon 
 his inviting of Augustus to supper. One of his boys 
 happened to break a glass: and his master, in a 
 rage, commanded him to be thrown in a pond to 
 
316 SfiNECA OJ' ANGEft. 
 
 feed his lampreys. This action of his might be 
 taken for luxury, though, in truth, it was cruelty. 
 The boy was seized, but brake loose and threw him- 
 self at Augustus' feet, only desiring that he might 
 not die that death. Caesar, in abhorence of the bar- 
 barity, presently ordered all the rest of the glasses 
 to be broken, the boy to be released, and the pond 
 to be filled up, that there might be no further occa- 
 sion for an inhumanity of that nature. This was an 
 authority well employed. Shall the breaking of a 
 glass cost a man his life? Nothing but a predom- 
 inant fear could ever have mastered his choleric and 
 sanguinary disposition. This man deserved to die 
 a thousand deaths, either for eating human flesh at 
 second-hand in his lampreys, or for keeping of his 
 fish to be so fed. 
 
 It is written of Prsexaspes (a favorite of Camby- 
 ses, who was much given to wine) that he took the 
 freedom to tell this prince of his hard diinking, and 
 to lay before him. the scandal and the inconveni- 
 ences of his excesses; and how that, in those dis- 
 tempers, he had not the command of himself. 
 "Now," says Cambyses, "to show you your mis- 
 take, you shall see me drink deeper than ever I 
 did, and yet keep the use of my eyes, and of my 
 hands, as well as if I were sober." Upon this he 
 drank to a higher pitch than ordinary, and order- 
 ed Prsexaspes' son to go out, and stand on the 
 other side of the threshold, with his left arm over 
 his head; "And," says he, " If I have a good aim, 
 have at the heart of him." He shot, and upon 
 cutting up the young man, they found indeed that 
 the arrow had struck him through the middle of 
 the heart. "What do you think now," says Cam- 
 byses, "is my hand steady or not?"" "Apollo him- 
 
SENECA OP ANGER. 317 
 
 self," says Praexaspes, "could, not have outdone it." 
 It may be a question now, which was the greater 
 impiety, the murder itself, or the commendation of 
 it; for him to take the heart of his son, while it 
 was yet reeking and panting under the wound, for 
 an occasion of flattery: why was there not anoth- 
 er experiment made upon the father, to try if 
 Cambyses could not have yet mended his shot? 
 This was a most unmanly violation of hospitality; 
 but the approbation of the act was still worse than 
 the crime itself. This example of Prsexaspes 
 proves sufficiently that a man may repress his 
 anger; for he returned not one ill word, no not so 
 much as a complaint; but he paid dear for his 
 good counsel. He had been wiser, perhaps, if he 
 had let the king alone in his cups, for he had bet- 
 ter have drunk wine than blood. It is a dangerous 
 office to give good advice to intemperate princes. 
 
 Another instance of anger suppressed, we have 
 in Harpagus, who was commanded to expose Cy- 
 rus upon a mountain. But the child was preserved; 
 which, when Astyages came afterwards to under- 
 stand, he invited Harpagus to a dish of meat; and 
 when he had eaten his fill, he told him it was a piece 
 of his son, and asked him how he liked the season- 
 ing. "Whatever pleases your Majesty," says Har- 
 pagus, "must please me:" and he made no more 
 words of it. It is most certain, that we might 
 govern our anger if we would; for the same thing 
 that galls us at home gives us no offence at all 
 abroad; and what is the reason of it, but that we 
 are patient in one place, and froward in another? 
 
 It was a strong provocation that which was given 
 to Philip of Macedon, the father of Alexander. . The 
 Athenia,ris sent their ambassadors to him, and they 
 
318 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 were received with this compliment, "Tell me, gen- 
 tlemen," says Philip, "what is there that I can do to 
 oblige the Athenians?" Democharas, one of the 
 ambassadors, told him, that they would take it for a 
 great obligation if he would be pleased to hang him- 
 self. This insolence gave an indignation to the by- 
 standers; but Philip bade them not to meddle with 
 him, but even to let that foul-mouthed fellow go as 
 he came. "And for you, the rest of the ambassadors," 
 says he, "pray tell the Athenians, that it is worse 
 to speak such things than to hear and forgive them." 
 This wonderful patience under contumelies was a 
 great means of Philip's security. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IT IS A SHORT MADNESS, AND A DEFORMED VICE. 
 
 He WAS much in the right, whoever it was, that 
 first called anger a short madness ; for they have 
 both of them the same symptoms; and there is so 
 wonderful a resemblance betwixt the transports of 
 choler and those of frenzy, that it is a hard matter 
 to know the one from the other. A bold, fierce, and 
 threatening countenance, as pale as ashes, and, in 
 the same moment, as red as blood; a glaring eye, a 
 wrinkled brow," violent motions, the hands restless 
 and perpetually in action, wringing and menacing, 
 snapping of the joints, stamping with the feet, the 
 hair starting, trembling of the lips, a forced and 
 squeaking voice; the speech false and broken, deep 
 and frequent sighs, and ghastly looks; the veins 
 swell, the heart pants, the knees knock; with a 
 hundred dismal accidents that are common to both 
 distempers. Neither is anger a bare resemblance 
 only of madness, but many times an irrevocable 
 transition into the thing itself. How many persons 
 have we known, read, and heard of, that have lost 
 their wits in a passion, and never came to them- 
 selves again? It is therefore to be avoided, not only 
 for moderation's sake, but also for health. Now, if 
 the outward appearance of anger be so foul and hid- 
 eous^ow deformed must that miserable mind be 
 
320 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 that is harassed with it? for it leaves no place either 
 for counsel or friendship, honesty or good manners; 
 no place either for the exercise of reason, or for the 
 offices of life. If I were to describe it, I would 
 draw a tiger bathed in blood, sharp set, and ready 
 to take a leap at his prey; or dress it up as the poets 
 represent the furies, with whips, snakes, and flames; 
 it should be sour, livid, full of scars, and wallowing 
 in gore, raging up and down, destroying, grinning, 
 bellowing, and pursuing; sick of all other things, 
 and most of all, itself. It turns beauty into deform- 
 ity, and the calmest counsels into fierceness: it dis- 
 orders our very garments, and fills the mind with 
 horror. How abominable is it in the soul then, 
 when it appears so hideous even through the bones, 
 the skin, and so many impediments! Is not he a 
 madman that has lost the government of himself, 
 and is tossed hither and thither by his fury as by a 
 tempest? the executioner and the murderer of his 
 nearest friends? The smallest matter moves it, and 
 makes us unsociable and inaccessible. It does all 
 things by violence, as well upon itself as others; and 
 it is, in short; the master of all passions. 
 
 There is not any creature so terrible and danger- 
 ous by nature, but it becomes fiercer by anger. N ot 
 that beasts have human affections, but certain im- 
 pulses they have which come very near them. The 
 boar foams, champs, and whets his tusks; the bull 
 tosses his horns in the air, bounds, and tears up the 
 ground with his feet; the lion roars and swinges him- 
 self with his tail; the serpent swells; and there is a 
 ghastly kind of f ellness in the aspect of a mad dog. 
 How great a wickedness is it now to indulge a vio- 
 lence, that does not only turn a man into a beast, 
 but makes even the most outrageous of beasts them.- 
 
SENECA OF ANGER. 321- 
 
 selves to be more dreadful and mischievous! A vice 
 that carries along with it neither pleasure nor profit, 
 neither honor nor security; but on the contrary, des- 
 troys us to all the comfortable and glorious purposes 
 of our reasonable being. Some there are, that will 
 have the root of it to be the greatness of mind. And, 
 why may we not as well entitle impudence to cour- 
 age, whereas the one is proud, the other brave; the 
 one is gracious and gentle, the other rude and 
 furious? At the same rate we may ascribe mag- 
 nanimity to avarice, luxury, and ambition, which 
 are all but splendid impotences, without measure 
 and without foundation. There is nothing great 
 but what is virtuous, nor indeed truly great, but 
 what is also composed and quiet. Anger, alas! is 
 but a wild impetuous blast, an empty tumor, the 
 very infirmity of woman and children; a brawling, 
 clarmorous evil: and the more noise the less courage; 
 as we find it commonly, that the boldest tongues 
 have the faintest hearts. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 ANGER IS NEITHER WARRANTABLE NOR USEFPIi. 
 
 In the first place, Anger is unwarrantable as it is 
 unjust: for it falls many times upon the wrong per- 
 son, and discharges itself upon the innocent instead 
 of the guilty: beside the disproportion of making the 
 most trivial offences to be capital, and punishing an 
 inconsiderate word perhaps with torments, fetters, 
 infamy, or death. It allows a man neither time nor 
 means for defence, but judges a cause without hear- 
 ing it, and admits of no mediation. It flies into the 
 face of truth itself, if it be of the adverse party; and 
 turns obstinacy in an error, into an argument of 
 justice. It does every thing with agitation and 
 tumult; whereas reason and equity can destroy 
 whole families, if there be occasion for it, even to 
 the extinguishing of their names and memories, 
 without any indecency, either of countenance or 
 action. 
 
 Secondly, It is unsociable to the highest point; for 
 it spares neither friend nor foe; but tears all to 
 pieces, and casts human nature into a perpetual 
 state of war. It dissolves the bond of mutual society, 
 insomuch that our very companions and relations 
 dare not come near us; it rendsrs us unfit for the 
 ordinary oflBces of life: for we can neither govern 
 our tongues, our hands, nor any part of our body. 
 
SENECA OF ANGEE. 323 
 
 It tramples upon the laws of hospitality, and of na- 
 tions, leaves every man to be his own carver, and 
 all things, public and private, sacred and profane, 
 suffer violence. 
 
 Thirdly, It is to no purpose. "It is a sad thing," 
 we cry, "to put up with these injuries, and we are 
 not able to bear them;" as if any man that can bear 
 anger could not bear an injury, which is much more 
 supportable. You will say that anger does some 
 good yet, for it keeps people in awe, and secures a 
 man from contempt; never considering, that it is 
 more dangerous to be feared than despised. Sup- 
 pose that an angry man could do as much as he 
 threatens; the more terrible, he is still the more 
 odious; and on the other side, if he wants power, he 
 is the more despicable for his anger; for there is 
 nothing more wretched than a choleric huff, that 
 makes a noise, and nobody cares for it. 
 
 If anger would be valuable because men are afraid 
 of it, why not an adder, a toad, or a scorpion as well? 
 It makes us lead the life of gladiators; we live, and 
 we fight together. We hate the happy, despise the 
 miserable, envy our superiors, insult our inferiors, 
 and there is nothing in the world which we will not 
 do, either for pleasure or profit. To be angry at of- 
 fenders is to make ourselves the common enemies of 
 mankind, which is both weak and wicked; and we 
 may as well be angry that our thistles do not bring 
 forth apples, or that every pebble in our ground is 
 not an oriental pearl. If we are angry both with 
 young men and with old, because they do offend, 
 why not with infants too, because they will offend? 
 It is laudable to rejoice for anything that is well 
 done; but to be transported for another man's doing 
 
324: SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 ill, is narrow and sordid. Nor is it for the dignity 
 of virtue to be either angry or sad. 
 
 It is with a tainted mind as with an ulcer, not 
 only the touch, but the very offer at it, makes us 
 shrink and complain; when we come once to be 
 carried off from our poise, we are lost. In the choice 
 of a sword, we take care that it be wieldy and well 
 mounted; and it concerns us as much to be wary of 
 engaging in the excesses of ungovernable passions. 
 It is not the speed of a horse altogether that pleases 
 us unless we find that he can stop and turn at 
 pleasure. It is a sign of weakness, and a kind of 
 stumbling, for a man to run when he intends only 
 to walk; and it behoves us to have the same com- 
 mand of our mind that we have of our bodies. Be- 
 sides that the greatest punishment of an injury is 
 the conscience of having done it; and no man suffers 
 more than he that is turned over to the pain of a re- 
 pentance. How much better is it to compose in- 
 juries than to revenge them? For it does not only 
 spend time, but the revenge of one injury exposes 
 to more. In fine, as it is unreasonable to be angry 
 at a crime, it is as foolish to be angry without one. 
 
 But "may not an honest man then be allowed to 
 be angry at the murder of his father, or the ravish- 
 ing of his sister or daughter before his face?" No, 
 not at all. I will defend my parents, and I will re- 
 pay the injuries that are done them; but it is mj^ 
 piety and not my anger, that moves me to it. I 
 will do my duty without fear or confusion, I wiU not 
 rage, I will not weep; but discharge the office of a 
 good man without forfeiting- the dignity of a man. 
 If my father be assaulted, I will endeavor to rescue 
 him; if he be killed, I will do right to his memory; 
 a,nd all this, not in any transport of passion, but in 
 
SENECA OP ANGER, 335 
 
 honor and conscience. Neither is there any need of 
 anger where reason does the same thing. 
 
 A man may he temperate, and yet vigorous, and 
 raise his mind according to the occasion, more or 
 less, as a stone is thrown according to the discretion 
 and intent of the caster. How outrageous have I 
 seen some people for the loss of a monkey or a 
 spaniel! And were it not a shame to have the same 
 sense for a friend that we have for a puppy; and to 
 cry like children, as much for a bauble as for the 
 ruin of our country? This is not the effect of reason, 
 but of infirmity. For a man indeed to expose his 
 person for his prince, or his parents, or his friends, 
 out of a sense of honesty, and judgment of duty, it 
 is, without dispute, a worthy and a glorious action; 
 but it must be done then with sobriety, calmness, 
 and resolution. 
 
 It is high time to convince the world of the indig- 
 nity and uselessness of this passion, when it has the 
 authority and recommendation of no less than 
 Aristotle himself, as an affection very much conduc- 
 ing to all heroic actions that require heat and vigor: 
 now, to show, on the other side, that it is not in any 
 case profitable, we shall lay open the obstinate and 
 unbridled madness of it: a wickedness neither sensi- 
 ble of infamy nor of glory, without either modesty 
 or fear; and if it passes once from anger into a 
 hardened hatred, it is incurable. It is either stronger 
 than reason, or it is weaker. If stronger, there is 
 no contending with it; if weaker, reason will do the 
 business without it. Some will have it that an angry 
 man is good-natured and sincere; whereas, in truth, 
 he only lays himself open out of heedlessness and 
 want of caution. If it were in itself good the more 
 of it the better; but in this case, the more the worse; 
 
326 SENECA OS' ANGEE. 
 
 and a wise man does his duty, without the aid of 
 anything that is ill. It is objected hy some, that 
 those are the most generous creatures which are the 
 most prone to anger. But, first, reason in man is 
 impetuous in beasts. Secondly, without discipline 
 it runs into audaciousness and temerity; over and 
 above that, the same thing does not help all. If 
 anger helps the lion, it is fear that saves the stag, 
 swiftness the hawk, and flight the pigeon: but man 
 has God for his example (who is never angry) and 
 not the creatures. And yet it is not amiss some- 
 times to counterfeit anger; as upon the stage; nay, 
 upon the bench, and in the pulpit, where the imita- 
 tion of it is more effectual than the thing itself. 
 
 But it is a great error to take this passion either 
 for a companion or for an assistant to virtue; that 
 makes a man incapable of those necessary counsels 
 by which virtue is to govern herself. Those are 
 false and inauspicious powers, and destructive of 
 themselves, which arise only from the accession and 
 fervor of disease. Reason judges according to right; 
 anger will have every thing seem right, whatever it 
 does, and when it has once pitched upon a mistake, 
 it is never to be convinced, but prefers a pertinacity, 
 even in the greatest evil, before the most necessary 
 repentance. 
 
 Some people are of opinion that anger inflames 
 and animates the soldier; that it is a spur to bold 
 and arduous undertakings; and that it were better 
 to moderate than to wholly suppress it, for fear of 
 dissolving the spirit and force of the mind. To this 
 I answer, that virtue does not need the help of vice; 
 but where there is any ardor of mind necessary, we 
 may rouse ourselves, and be more or less brisk and 
 vigorous as there is occasion: but aU without anger 
 
SENECA OP ANGER. 327 
 
 still. It is a mistake to say, that we may make use 
 of anger as a common soldier, but not as a com- 
 mander; for if it hears reason, and follows orders, it 
 is not properly anger; and if it does not, it is contu- 
 macious and miitinous. By this argument a man 
 must be angry to be valiant; covetous to be indus- 
 trious; timorous to be safe, which makes our reason 
 confederate with our affections. And it is all one 
 whether passion be inconsiderate without reason, or 
 reason ineffectual without passion; since the one 
 cannot be without the other. It is true, the less the 
 passion, the less is the mischief; for a little passion 
 is the smaller evil. Nay, so far is it from being of 
 use or advantage in the field, that it is in place of 
 all others where it is the most dangerous; for the ac- 
 tions of war are to be managed with order and cau- 
 tion, not precipitation and fancy; whereas anger is 
 heedless and heady, and the virtue only of harha- 
 rous nations; which, though their bodies were much 
 stronger and more hardened, were still worsted by 
 the moderation and discipline of the Romans. There 
 is not upon the face of the earth a bolder or a more 
 indefatigable nation than the Germans; not a braver 
 upon a charge, nor a hardier against colds and 
 heats; their only delights and exercise is in arms, to 
 the utter neglect of all things else: and, yet upon 
 the encounter, they are broken and destroyed 
 through their own undisciplined tenaerity, even by 
 the most effeminate of men. The huntsman is not 
 angry with the wild boar when he either pursues or 
 receives him; a go(5d swordsman watches his oppor- 
 tunity, and keeps himself upon his guard, whereas 
 passion lays a man open: nay, it is one of the prime 
 lessons in a fencing-school to learn not to be angry. 
 If Fabius had been choleric, Rome had been lost; 
 
328 SENECA OP ANGER. 
 
 and before he conquered Hannibal he overcame 
 himself. If Scipio had been angry, he would never 
 have left Hannibal and his army (who were the 
 proper objects of his displeasure) to carry the war 
 into Afric and so compass his end by a more tem- 
 perate way. Nay, he was so slow, that it was 
 charged upon him for want of mettle and resolution. 
 And what did the other Scipio? (Africanus I mean:) 
 how much time did he spend before Numantia, to 
 the common grief both of his country and himself? 
 Though he reduced it at last by so miserable a 
 famine, that the inhabitants laid violent hands 
 upon themselves, and left neither man, woman, nor 
 child, to survive the ruins of it. If anger makes a 
 man fight better, so does wine, frenzy, nay, and fear 
 itself; for the greatest coward in despair does the 
 greatest wonders. No man is courageous in his an- 
 ger that was not so without it. But put the case, 
 that anger by accident may have done some good, 
 and so have fevers removed some distempers; but it 
 is an odious kind of remedy that makes us indebted 
 to a disease for a cure. How many men have been 
 preserved by poison; by a fall from a precipice; by 
 a shipwreck; by a tempest! does it therefore follow 
 that we are to recommend the practice of these 
 experiments? 
 
 "But in case of an exemplary and prostitute dis- 
 solution of manners, when Clodius shall be prefer- 
 red, and Cicero rejected; when loyalty shall be 
 broken upon the wheel, and treason sit triumphant 
 upon the bench; is not this a' subject to move the 
 choker of any virtuous man?" No, by no means, 
 virtue will never allow of the correcting of one vice 
 by another; or that anger, which is the greater 
 crime of the two, should presume to punish the less. 
 
SENECA OP ANGER. 339 
 
 It is the natural property of virtue to make a man 
 serene and cheerful; and it is not for the dignity of 
 a philosopher to be transported either with grief or 
 anger; and then the end of anger is sorrow, the 
 constant effect of disappointment and repentance. 
 But, to my purpose. If a man should be angry at 
 wickedness, the greater the wickedness is, the 
 greater must be his anger; and, so long as there is 
 wickedness in the world he must never be pleased: 
 which makes his quiet dependent upon the humor 
 or manners of others. 
 
 There passes not a day over our heads but he that 
 is choleric shall have some cause or other of dis- 
 pleasure, either from men, accidents, or business. 
 He shall never stir out of his house but he shall 
 meet with criminals of all sorts; prodigal, impudent, 
 covetous, perfidious, contentious, children persecut- 
 ing their parents, parents cursing their children, the 
 innocent accused, the delinquent acquitted, and the 
 judge practicing that in his chamber which he con- 
 demns upon the bench. In fine, wherever there are 
 men there are faults; and upon these terms, Socrates 
 himself should never bring the same countenance 
 home again that he carried out with him. 
 
 If anger was sufferable in any case, it might be 
 allowed against an incorrigible criminal under the 
 hand of justice: but punishment is not matter of 
 anger but of caution. The law is without passion, 
 and strikes malefactors as we do serpents and 
 venomous creatures, for fear of greater mischief. 
 It is not for the dignity of a judge, when he comes 
 to pronounce the fatal sentence, to express any mo- 
 tions of anger in his looks, words, or gestures: for 
 he condemns the vice, not the man; and looks upon 
 the wickedness without anger, as he does upon the 
 
330 SENECA Of ANGEE. 
 
 prosperity of wicked men without envy. But though 
 he be not angry, I would have him a little moved in 
 point of humanity; but yet without any offence, 
 either to his place or wisdom. Our passions vary, 
 but reason is equal; and it were a great folly for 
 that which is stable, faithful, and sound, to repair 
 for succor to that which is uncertain, false, and dis- 
 tempered. If the offender be incurable, take him 
 out of the world, that if he will not be good he may 
 cease to be evil; but this must be without anger too. 
 Does any man hate an arm, or a leg, when he cuts 
 it off; or reckon that a passion which is only a mis- 
 erable cure? We knock mad dogs on the head, and 
 remove scabbed sheep out of the fold: and this is 
 not anger still, but reason, to separate the sick from 
 the sound. Justice cannot be angry; nor is there 
 any need of an angry magistrate for the punish- 
 ment of foolish and wicked men. The power of life 
 and death must not be managed with passion. We 
 give a horse the spur that is restive or jadish, and 
 tries to cast his rider; but this is without anger too, 
 and only to take down his stomach, and bring him, 
 by correction, to obedience. 
 
 It is true, that correction is necessary, yet within 
 reason and bounds; for it does not hurt, but profits 
 us under an appearance of harm. Ill dispositions in 
 the mind are to be dealt with as those in the body: 
 the physician first tries purging and abstinence; if 
 this will not do, he proceeds to bleeding, nay, to dis- 
 membering rather than fail; for there is no operation 
 too severe that ends in health. The public magistrate 
 begins with persuasion, and his business is to beget 
 a detestation for vice, and a veneration for virtue; 
 from thence, if need be, he advances to admonition 
 and reproach, and then to punishments; but mod- 
 
SENECA Of ANGER. 331 
 
 erate and revocable, unless the wickedness be in- 
 curable, and then the punishment must be so too. 
 There is only this difference, the physician when he 
 cannot save his patient's life, endeavors to make his 
 death easy; but the magistrate aggravates the death 
 of the criminal with infamy and disgrace; not as 
 delighting in the severity of it, (for no good man 
 can be so barbarous) but for example, and to the 
 end that they that will do no good living may do 
 some dead. The end of all correction is either the 
 amendment of wicked men, or to prevent the in- 
 fluence of ill example: for men are punished with a 
 respect to the future; not to expiate offenses com- 
 mitted, but for fear of worse to come. Public 
 offenders must be a terror to others; but still, all 
 this while, the power of life and death nnust not be 
 managed with passion. The medicine, in the mean 
 time must be suited to the disease; infamy cures 
 one, pain another, exile cures a third, beggary a 
 fourth; but there are some that are only to be cured 
 by the gibbet. I would be no more angry with a 
 thief, or a traitor, than I am angry with myself 
 when I open a vein. All punishment is but a moral 
 or civil remedy. I do not do anything that is very 
 ill, but yet I transgress often. Try me first with a 
 private reprehension, and then with a public; if that 
 will not serve, see what banishment will do; if not 
 that neither, load me with chains, lay me in prison : 
 but if I should prove wicked for wickedness' sake, 
 and leave no hope of reclaiming me, it would be a 
 kind of mercy to destroy me. Vice is incorporated 
 with me; and there is no remedy but the taking of 
 both away together; but still without anger. 
 
CHAPTER VI, 
 
 ANGER IN GENERAL, WITH THE DANGER AND EFFECTS OP IT. 
 
 There is no surer argument of a great mind than 
 not to be transported to anger by any accident; the 
 clouds and the tempests are formed below, but all 
 above is quiet and serene; which is the emblem of a 
 brave man, that suppresses all provocations, and 
 lives within himself, "modest, venerable, and com- 
 posed : whereas anger is a turbulent humor, which, 
 at first dash, casts off all shame, without any regard 
 to order, measure, or good manners; transporting a 
 man into misbecoming violences with his tongue, 
 his hands, and every part of his body. And whoever 
 considers the foulness and the brutality of this vice, 
 must acknowledge that there is no such monster in 
 Nature as one man raging against another, and la- 
 boring to sink that which can never be drowned but 
 with himself for company. It renders us incapable 
 either of discourse or of other common duties. It is 
 of all passions the most powerful; for it makes a 
 man that is in love to kill his mistress, the ambitious 
 man to trample upon his honors, and the covetous 
 to throw away his fortune. 
 
 There is not any mortal that lives free from the 
 danger of it; for it makes even the heavy and the 
 good-natured to be fierce and outrageous: it invades 
 us like a pestilence, the lusty as well as the weak; 
 and it is not either strength of body, or a good diet, 
 
SENECA OF ANGEE. 333 
 
 that can secure us against it; nay, the most learned, 
 and men otherwise of exemplary sobriety, are in- 
 fected with it. It is so potent a passion that Socrates 
 durst not trust himself with it. "Sirrah," says he to 
 his man, "now would I beat you, if I were not angry 
 with you!" There is no age or sect of men that 
 escapes it. Other vices take us one by one; but this, 
 like an epidemical contagion, sweeps all: men, 
 women, and children, princes and beggars, are car- 
 ried away with it in shoals and troops as one man. 
 It was never seen that a whole nation was in love 
 with one woman, or unanimously bent upon one 
 vice: but here and there some particular men are 
 tainted with some particular crimes; whereas in 
 anger, a single word many times inflames the whole 
 multitude, and men betake themselves presently to 
 fire and sword upon it; the rabble take upon them to 
 give laws to their governors; the common soldiers to 
 their officers, to the ruin, not only of private fami- 
 lies, but of kingdoms: turning their arms against 
 their own leaders, and choosing their ow;n generals. 
 There is no public council, no putting things to the 
 vote; but in a rage the mutineers divide from the 
 senate, name their head, force the nobility in their 
 own houses, and put them to death with their own 
 hands. The laws of nations are violated, the per- 
 sons of public ministers affronted, whole cities in- 
 fected with a general madness, and no respite al- 
 lowed for the abatement or discussing of this public 
 tumor. The ships are crowded with tumultuary sol- 
 diers; and in this rude and ill-boding manner they 
 march, and act under the conduct only of their own 
 passions. Whatever comes next serves them for 
 arms, until at last they pay for their licentious rash- 
 
334 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 ness with the slaughter of the whole party: this is 
 the event of a heady and inconsiderate war. 
 
 When men's minds are struck with the opinion of 
 an injury, they fall on immediately wheresoever 
 their passion leads them, without either order, fear, 
 or caution: provoking their own mischief; never at 
 rest till they come to blows; and pursuing their re- 
 venge, even with their bodies, upon the points of 
 their enemies' weapons. So that the anger itself is 
 much more hurtful for us than the injury that pro- 
 vokes it; for the one is bounded, but where the other 
 will stop, no man living knows. There are no 
 greater slaves certainly, than those that serve anger; 
 for they improve their misfortunes by an impatience 
 more insupportable than the calamity that causes it. 
 
 Nor does it rise by degrees, as other passions, but 
 flashes like gunpowder, blowing up all in a moment. 
 Neither does it only press to the mark, but overbears 
 everything in the way to it. Other vices drive us, 
 but this hurries us headlong; other passions stand 
 firm themselves, though perhaps we cannot resist 
 them; but this consumes and destroys itself: it falls 
 like thunder or a tempest, with an irrevocable vio- 
 lence, that gathers strength in the passage, and then 
 evaporates in the conclusion. Other vices are un- 
 reasonable, but this is unhealthful too; other dis- 
 tempers have their intervals and degrees, but in this 
 we are thrown down as from a precipice: there is 
 not anything so amazing to others, or so destructive 
 to itself; so proud and insolent if it succeeds, or 
 so extravagant if it be disappointed. No repulse 
 discourages it, and, for want of other matter to 
 work upon, it falls foul upon itself; and, let the 
 ground be never so trivial, it is sufficient for the 
 
SENECA OF ANGEK. • 335 
 
 wildest outrage imaginable. It spares neither age, 
 sex, nor quality. 
 
 Some people would be luxurious perchance, but 
 that they are poor; and others lazy, if they were 
 not perpetually kept at work. The simplicity of a 
 country life, keeps many men in ignorance of the 
 frauds and impieties of courts and camps: but no 
 nation or condition of men is exempt from the im- 
 pressions of anger; and it is equally dangerous, as 
 well in war as in peace. We find that elephants 
 will be made familiar; bulls will suffer children to 
 ride upon their backs, and play with their horns; 
 bears and lions, by good usage, will be brought to 
 fawn upon their masters; how desperate a madness 
 is it then for men, after the reclaiming of the fierc- 
 est of beasts, and the bringing of them to be tract- 
 able and domestic, to become yet worse than beasts 
 one to another! Alexander had two friends, Clytus 
 and Lysimachus; the one he exposed to a lion, the 
 I • other to himself; and he that was turned loose to 
 the beast escaped. Why do we not rather make the 
 best of a short life, and render ourselves ami- 
 able to all while we live, and desirable when we die? 
 Let us bethink ourselves of our mortality, and not 
 squander away the little time that we have upon 
 animosities and feuds, as if it were never to be at 
 an end. Had we not better enjoy the pleasure of 
 our own life than to be still contriving how to gall 
 and torment another's? in all our brawlings and 
 contentions never so much as dreaming of our 
 weakness. Do we not know that these implacable 
 enmities of ours lie at the mercy of a fever, or 
 any petty accident, to disappoint? Our fate is at 
 hand, and the very hour that we have set for an- 
 other man's death may peradventure be prevented 
 
336 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 by our own. What is it that we make all this 
 bustle for, and so needlessly disquiet our minds ? 
 We are offended with our servants, our masters, 
 our princes, our clients: it is but a little patience, 
 and we shall be all of us equal; so that there is 
 no need either of ambushes or of combats. Our 
 wrath cannot go beyond death; and death will 
 most undoubtedly come whether we be peevish or 
 quiet. It is time lost to take pains to do that 
 which will infallibly be done without us. But sup- 
 pose that we would only have our enemy banished, 
 disgraced, or damaged, let his punishment be more 
 or less, it is yet too long, either for him to be inhu- 
 manly tormented, or for us ourselves to be most bar- 
 barously pleased with it. It holds in anger as in 
 mourning, it must and it will at last fall of itself; 
 let us look to it then betimes, for when it is once 
 come to an ill habit, we shall never want matter to 
 feed it; and it is much better to overcome our pas- 
 sions than to be overcome by them. Some way or 
 other, either our parents, children, servants, ac- 
 quaintance, or strangers, will be continually vexing 
 us. We are tossed hither and thither by our affec- 
 tions, like a feather in a storm, and by fresh provo- 
 cations the madness becomes perpetual. Miserable 
 creatures! that ever our precious hours should be so 
 ill employed! How prone and eager are we in our 
 hatred, and how backward in our love! Were it not 
 much better now to be making of friendships, paci- 
 fying of enemies, doing of good offices both public 
 and private, than to be still meditating of mischief, 
 and designing how to wound one man in his fame, 
 another in his fortune, a third in his person? the 
 one being so easy, innocent, and safe, and the other 
 60 difficult, impious, and hazardous. Nay, take a 
 
SENECA OF ANGEK. 337 
 
 man in chains, and at the foot of his oppressor; 
 how many are there, who, even in this case, have 
 maimed themselves in the heat of their violence 
 upon others. 
 
 This untractable passion is much more easily kept 
 out than governed when it is once admitted; for the 
 stronger will give laws to the weaker; and make 
 reason a slave to the appetite. It carries us head- 
 long; and in the course of our fury, we have no 
 more conunand of our minds, than we have of 
 our bodies down a precipice: when they are once in 
 motion, there is no stop until they come to the bot- 
 tom. Not but that it is possible for a man to be 
 warm in winter, and not to sweat in the summer, 
 either by the benefit of the place, or the hardiness 
 of the body: and in like manner we may provide 
 against anger. But certain it is, that virtue and 
 vice can never agree in the same subject; and one 
 may as well be a sick man and a sound at the same 
 time, as a good man, and an angry. Besides, if we 
 will needs be quarrelsome, it must be either with our 
 superior, our equal, or inferior. To contend with 
 our superior is folly and madness: with our equals, 
 it is doubtful and dangerous: and with our inferiors, 
 it is base. For does any man know but that he that 
 is now our enemy may come hereafter to '.be our 
 friend, over and above the reputation of clemency 
 and good nature? And what can be more honorable 
 or comfortable, than to exchange a feud for a friend- 
 ship? the people of Rome never had more faithful 
 allies than those that were at first the most obstinate 
 enemies; neither had the Roman Empire ever 
 arrived at that height of power, if Providence had 
 not mingled the vanquished with the conquerors. 
 
 There is an end of the contest when one side de- 
 
338 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 serts it; so that the paying of anger with benefits 
 puts a period to the controversy. But, however, if 
 it be our fortune to transgress, let not our anger 
 descend to the children, friends or relations, even of 
 our bitterest enemies. The very cruelty of Sylla 
 was heightened by that instance of incapacitating 
 the issue of the proscribed. It is inhuman to entail 
 the hatred we have for the father upon his posterity. 
 
 A good and a wise man is not to be an enemy of 
 wicked men, but a reprover of them; and he is to 
 look upon all the drunkards, the lustful, the thank- 
 less, covetous, and ambitious, that he meets with, 
 not otherwise than as a physician looks upon his 
 patients; for he that will be angry with any man 
 must be displeased with all; which were as ridi- 
 culous as to quarrel with a body for stumbling in 
 the dark; with one that is deaf, for not doing as you 
 bid him; or with a school-boy for loving his play 
 better than his book. Democritus laughed, and 
 Heraclitus ivept, at the folly and wickedness of the 
 world, but we never read of" any angry philosopher. 
 
 This is undoubtedly the most detestable of vices, 
 even compared with the worst of them. Avarice 
 scrapes and gathers together that which somebody 
 may be the better for: but anger la'shes out, and no 
 man cojnes off gratis. An angry master makes one 
 servant run uway, and another hang himself; and 
 his choler causes him a much greater loss than he 
 suffered in the occasion of it. It is the cause of 
 mourning to the father, and of divorce to the hus- 
 band: it makes the magistrate odious, and gives the 
 candidate a repulse. And it is worse than luxury 
 too, which only aims at its proper pleasure; whereas 
 the other is bent upon another body's pain. 
 
SENECA OF ANGER. 339 
 
 The malevolent and the envious content them- 
 selves only to wish another man miserable; but it 
 is the business of anger to make him so, and to 
 wreck the mischief itself; not so much desiring the 
 hurt of another, as to inflict it. Among the power- 
 ful, it breaks out into open war, and into a private 
 one with the common people, but without force or 
 arms. It engages us in treacheries, perpetual troubles 
 and contentions : it alters the very nature of a man, 
 and punishes itself in the persecution of others. 
 Humanity excites us to love, this to hatred; that to 
 be beneficial to others, this to hurt them: beside, 
 that, though it proceeds from too high a conceit of 
 ourselves, it is yet, in effect, but a narrow and con- 
 temptible affection; especially when it meets with a 
 mind that is hard and impenetrable, and returns the 
 dart upon the head of him that casts it. 
 
 To take a farther view, now, of the miserable con- 
 sequences and sanguinary effects of this hideous 
 distemper; from hence come slaughters and poisons, 
 wars, and desolations, the razing and burning of 
 cities; the unpeopling of nations, and the turning of 
 populous countries into deserts, public massacres 
 and regicides; princes led in triumph; some mur- 
 dered in their bed-chambers; others stabbed in the 
 senate or cut off in the security of their spectacles 
 and pleasures. Some there are that take anger for 
 a princely quality; as Darius, who, in his expedition 
 against the Scythians, being besought by a noble- 
 man, that had three sons, that he would vouchsafe 
 to accept of two of them into his service, and leave 
 the third at home for a comfort to his father. " I 
 will do more for you than that," says Darius, "for 
 you shall bav§ them all three again;" so he ordered 
 
340 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 them to be slain before his face, and left him their 
 bodies. But Xerxes dealt a little better with Pythius, 
 who had five sons, and desired only one of them for 
 himself. Xerxes bade him take his choice, and he 
 named the eldest, whom he immediately commanded 
 to be cut in halves; and one half of the body to be 
 laid on each side of the way when his army was to 
 pass betwixt them; undoubtedly a most auspicious 
 sacrifice; but he came afterward to the end that he 
 deserved; for he lived to see that prodigious power 
 scattered and broken: and instead of military and 
 victorious troops, to be encompassed with carcasses. 
 But these, you will say, were only barbarous princes 
 that knew neither civility nor letters; and these 
 savage cruelties will be imputed perchance to their 
 rudeness of manners, and want of discipline. But 
 what will you say then of Alexander the Great, that 
 was trained up under the institution of Aristotle 
 himself, and killed Clytus, his favorite and school- 
 fellow, with his oicii hand, under his oivn roof, and 
 over the freedom of a cup of tcine? And what was 
 his crime? He was loth to degenerate from a Mace- 
 donian liberty into a Persian slavery; that is to say, 
 he could not flatter. 
 
 Lysimachus, another of his friends, he exposed to 
 a lion; and this very Lysimachus, after he had 
 escaped this danger, was never the more merciful 
 when he came to reign himself; for he cut off the 
 ears and nose of his friend Telesphorous; and when 
 he had so disfigured him that he had no longer the 
 face of a man, he threw him into a dungeon, and 
 there kept him to be showed for a monster, as a 
 strange sight. The place was so low that he was 
 fain to creep upon all fours, and his sides were galled 
 too with the straitness of it. In this misery he lay 
 
SENECA OF ANGER. 341 
 
 half -famished in his own filth; so odious, so terrible, 
 and so loathsome a spectacle, that the horror of his 
 condition had even extinguished all pity for him. 
 "Nothing was ever so unlike a man as the poor 
 wretch that suffered this, saving the tyrant that 
 acted it." 
 
 Nor did this merciless hardness only exercise itself 
 among foreigners, but the fierceness of their out- 
 rages and punishments, as well as their vices, brake 
 in upon the Eomans. C. Marius, that had his statue 
 set up everywhere, and was adored as a God, L. 
 Sylla commanded his bones to be broken, his eyes to 
 be pulled out, his hands to be cut off; and, as if 
 every wound had been a several death, his body to 
 be torn to pieces, and Catiline was the executioner. 
 A cruelty that was only fit for Marius to suffer, Sylla 
 to command, and Catiline to act; but most dishonor- 
 able and fatal to the commonwealth, to fall indiffer- 
 ently upon the sword's point both of citizens and of 
 enemies. 
 
 It was a severe instance, that of Piso too. A sol- 
 dier that had leave to go abroad with his comrade, 
 came back to the camp at his time, but without his 
 companion. Piso condemned him to die, as if he 
 had killed him, and appoints a centurion to see the 
 execution. Just as the headsman was ready to 
 do his office, the other soldier appeared, to the great 
 joy of the whole field, and the centurion bade the 
 executioner hold his hand. Hereupon Piso, in a 
 rage, mounts the tribunal, and sentences all three 
 to death: the one because he was condemned, the 
 other because it was for his sake that his fellow-sol- 
 dier was condemned, the centurion for not obeying 
 the order of his superior. An ingenious piece of in- 
 
342 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 humanity, to contrive how to make three criminals, 
 where effectively there were none. 
 
 There was a Persian king that caused the noses of 
 a whole nation to be cut off, and they were to thank 
 him that he spared their heads. And this, perhaps, 
 would have been the fate of the Macrobii, (if Provi- 
 dence had not hindered it,) for the freedom they 
 used to Cambyses' ambassadors, in not accepting the 
 slavish terms that were offered them. This put 
 Cambyses into such a rage, that he presently listed 
 into his service every man that was able to bear 
 arms; and, without either provisions or guides, 
 marched immediately through dry and barren des- 
 erts, and where never any man had passed before 
 him, to take his revenge. Before he was a third 
 part of the way, his provisions failed him. His men, 
 at first, made shift with the buds of trees, boiled 
 leather, and the like; but soon after there was not so 
 much as a root or a plant to be gotten, nor a living 
 creature to be seen; and then by lot every tenth man 
 was to die for a nourishment to the rest, which was 
 still worse than the famine. But yet this passionate 
 king went on so far, until one part of his army was 
 lost, and the other devoured, and until he feared 
 that he himself might come to be served with the 
 same sauce. So that at last he ordered a retreat, 
 wanting no delicates all this while for himself, while 
 his soldiers were taking their chance who should die 
 miserably, or live worse. Here was an anger taken 
 up against a whole nation, that neither deserved any 
 ill from him, nor was so much as known to him. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE OBDINAEY GROUNDS AND OCCASIONS OF ANGER. 
 
 In this "wandering state of life we meet with many 
 occasions of trouble and displeasure, both great and 
 trivial; and not a day passes but, from men or 
 things, we have some cause or other for offense; as 
 a man must expect to be jostled, dashed, and crowd- 
 ed, in a populous city. One man deceives our ex- 
 pectation; another delays it; and a third crosses it; 
 and if everything does not succeed to our wish, we 
 presently fall out either with the person, the busi- 
 ness, the place, our fortune, or ourselves. Some 
 men value themselves upon their wit, and will never 
 forgive anyone that pretends to lessen it; others are 
 inflamed by wine: and some are distempered by 
 sickness, weariness, watchings, love, care, etc. 
 Some are prone to it, by heat of constitution; but 
 moist, dry, and cold complexions are more liable to 
 other affections; as suspicion, despair, fear, jeal- 
 ousy, etc. But most of our quarrels are of our own 
 contriving. One while we suspect upon mistake; 
 and another while we make a great matter of tri- 
 fles. To say the truth, most of those things that 
 exasperate us are rather subjects of disgust than of 
 mischief: there is a large difference betwixt oppos- 
 ing a raan's satisfaction and not assisting it: betwixt 
 taking aivay and not giving ; but we reckon upon 
 
344 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 denying and deferring as the same thing; and inter- 
 pret another's being for himself as if he were 
 against us. Nay, we do many times entertain an 
 ill opinion of well doing, and a good one of the 
 contrary: and we hate a man for doing that very 
 thing which we should hate him for on the other 
 side, if he did not do it. 
 
 We take it ill to be opposed when there is a father 
 perhaps, a brother, or a friend, in the case against 
 us; when we should rather love a man for it; and 
 only wish that he could be honestly of our party. 
 We approve of the fact, and detest the doer of it. 
 It is a base thing to hate the person whom we can- 
 not but commend; but it is a great deal worse yet if 
 we hate him for the very thing that deserves com- 
 mendation. The things that we desire, if they be 
 such as cannot be given to one without being taken 
 away from another, must needs set those people to- 
 gether by the ea,rs that desire the same thing. One 
 man has a design upon my mistress, another upon 
 mine inheritance; and that which should make 
 friends makes enemies, our being all of a mind. 
 The general cause of anger is the sense or opinion 
 of an injury; that is, the opinion either of an in- 
 jury simply done, or of an injury done, which we 
 have not deserved. Some are naturally given to 
 anger, others are provoked to it by occasion; the 
 anger of women and children is commonly sharp, 
 but not lasting: old men are rather querulous and 
 peevish. Hard labor, diseases, anxiety of thought, 
 and whatsoever hurts the body or the mind, disposes 
 a man to be froward, but we must not add fire to 
 fire. 
 
 He that duly considers the subject-matter of all 
 our controversies and quarrels, will find them low 
 
SENECA OP ANGER. 345 
 
 and mean, not worth the thought of a generous 
 mind; but the greatest noise of all is about money. 
 This is it that sets fathers and children together by 
 the ears, husbands and wives; and makes way for 
 sword and poison. This is it that tires out courts of 
 justice, enrages princes, and lays cities in the dust, 
 to seek for gold and silver in the ruins of them. 
 This is it that finds work for the judge to determine 
 which side is least in the wrong; and whose is the 
 more plausible avarice, the plaintiff's or the defend- 
 ant's. And what is it that we contend for all this 
 while, but those baubles that make us cry when we 
 should laugh? To see a rich old cuff, that has no- 
 body to leave his estate to, break his heart for a 
 handful of dirt; and a gouty usurer, that has no oth- 
 er use of his fingers left him but to count withal; to 
 see him, I say in the extremity of his fit, wrangling 
 for the odd money in his interest. If all that is 
 precious in Nature were gathered into one mass, it 
 were not worth the trouble of a sober mind. It were 
 endless to run over all those ridiculous passions that 
 are moved about meats and drinks, and the matter 
 of our luxury; nay, about words, looks, actions, 
 jealousies, mistakes, which are all of them as con- 
 temptible fooleries as those very baubles that child- 
 ren scratch and cry for. There is nothing great or 
 serious in all that which we keep such a clutter 
 about; the madness of it is, that we set too great a 
 value upon trifles. One man flies out upon a salute, 
 a letter, a speech, a question, a gesture, a wink, a 
 look. An action moves one man; a word affects an- 
 other; one man is tender of his family; another of 
 his person; one sets up for an orator, another for a 
 philosopher: this man will not bear pride, nor that 
 man opposition. He that plays the tyrant at home, 
 
346 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 is gentle as a lamb abroad. Some take offense if a 
 man ask a favor of them, and others, if he does 
 not. Every man has his weak side; let ns learn 
 which that is, and take a care of it; for the same 
 thing does not work upon all men alike. We are 
 moved like beasts at the idle appearances of things, 
 and the fiercer the creature, the more is it startled. 
 The sight of a red coat enrages a bull; a shadow 
 provokes the asp; nay, so unreasonable are some 
 men, that they take moderate benefits for injuries, 
 and squabble about it with their nearest relations: 
 "They have done this and thdt for others," they cry; 
 "and they might have dealt better with us if they 
 had pleased." Very good! and if it be less than we 
 looked for, it may be yet more than we deserve. Of 
 all unquiet humors this is the worst, that will never 
 suffer any man to be happy, so long as he sees a 
 happier man than himself. I have known some men 
 so weak as to think themselves contemned if ahorse 
 did but play the jade with them, that is yet obedient 
 to another rider. A brutal folly to be offended at a 
 mute animal; for no injury can be done us without 
 the concurrence of reason. A beast may hurt us, as 
 a sword or a stone, and no otherwise. Nay, there 
 are that will complain of "foul weather, a raging 
 sea, a biting winter," as if it were expressly directed 
 to them; and this they charge upon Providence, 
 whose operations are all of them so far from being 
 injurious, that they are beneficial to us. 
 
 How vain and idle are many of those things that 
 make us stark mad ! A resty horse, the overturning 
 of a glass, the falling of a key, the dragging of a 
 chair, a jealousy, a misconstruction. How shall 
 that man endure the extremities of hunger and 
 thirst that flies out into a rage for putting of a little 
 
SENECA, OP ANGER. 347 
 
 too much water in his wine ? What haste is there 
 to lay a servant by the heels, or break a leg or an 
 arm immediately for it, as if he were not to have 
 the same power over him an hour after, that he has 
 at that instant? The answer of a servant, a wife, a 
 tenant, puts some people out of all patience; and 
 yet they can quarrel with the government, for not 
 allowing them the same liberty in public, which 
 they themselves deny to their own families. If they 
 say nothing, it is contumacy: if they speak or laugh, 
 it is insolence. As if a man had his ears given him 
 only for music ; whereas we must suffer all sorts of 
 noises, good and bad, both of man and beast. How 
 idle is it to start at the tinkling of a bell, or the 
 creaking of a door, when, for all this delicacy, we 
 must endure thunder! Neither are our eyes less 
 curious and fantastical than our ears. When we 
 are abroad, we can bear well enough with foul 
 ways, nasty streets, i^oisome ditches; but a spot 
 upon a dish at home, or an unswept hearth, abso- 
 lutely distracts us. And what is the reason, but 
 that we are patient in the one place, and fantas- 
 tically peevish in the other? Nothing makes us 
 more intemperate than luxury, that shrinks at every 
 stroke, and starts at every shadow. It is death to 
 some to have another sit above them, as if a body 
 were ever the more or the less honest for the cushion. 
 But they are only weak creatures that think them- 
 selves wounded if they be but touched. One of the 
 Sybarites, that saw a fellow hard at work a digging, 
 desired him to give over, for it made him weary to 
 see him: and it was an ordinary complaint with him, 
 that "he could take no rest because the rose-leaves 
 lay double under him." When we are once weak 
 ened with our pleasures, everything grows intolera- 
 
348 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 ble. And we are angry as well with those things 
 that cannot hurt us as with those that do. We tear 
 a book because it is blotted; and our clothes, because 
 they are not well made: things that neither deserve 
 our anger nor feel it: the tailor, perchance, did his 
 best, or, however, had no intent to displease us: if 
 so, first, why should we be angry at all? Secondly, 
 why should we be angry with the thing for the 
 man's sake? Nay, our anger extends even to dogs, 
 horses, and other beasts. 
 
 It was a blasphemous and a sottish extravagance, 
 that of Caius Caesar, who challenged Jupiter for 
 making such a noise with his thunder, that he could 
 not hear his mimics, and so invented a machine in 
 imitation of it to oppose thunder to th wider; a brutal 
 conceit, to imagine, either that he could reach the 
 Almighty, or that the Almighty could not reach 
 him! 
 
 And every jot as ridiculous, though not so im- 
 pious, was that of Cyrus; who, in his design upon 
 Babylon, found a river in his way that put a stop to 
 his march: the current was strong, and carried 
 away one of the horses that belonged to his own 
 chariot: upon this he swore, that since it had ob- 
 structed his passage, it should never hinder any 
 body's «lse; and presently set his whole army to 
 work upon it, which diverted it into a hundred and 
 fourscore channels, and laid it dry. In this ignoble 
 and unprofitable employment he lost his time, and 
 the soldiers their courage, and gave his adversaries 
 an opportunity of providing themselves, while he 
 was waging war with a river instead of an enemy. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ADVICE IN THE CASES OF CONTUMELY AND KBVENGE. 
 
 Of provocations to anger there are two sorts; 
 there is an injury, and there is a contumely. The 
 former in its own nature is the heavier; the other 
 sHght in itself, and only troublesome to a wounded 
 imagination. And yet some there are that will bear 
 blows, and death itself, rather than contumelious 
 words. A contumely is an indignity below the con- 
 sideration of the very law; and not worthy either of 
 a revenge, or so much as a complaint. It is only 
 the vexation and infirmity of a weak mind, as well as 
 the practice of a haughty and insolent nature, and 
 signifies no more to a wise and sober man than an 
 idle dream, that is no sooner past than forgotten. 
 It is true, it implies contempt; but what needs any 
 man care for being contemptible to others, if he be 
 not so to himself? For a child in the arms to strike 
 the mother, tear her hair, claw the face of her, and 
 call her names, that goes for nothing with us, be- 
 cause the child knows not what he does. Neither 
 are we moved at the impudence and bitterness of a 
 buffoon, though he fall upon his own master as well 
 as the guests; but, on the contrary, we encourage 
 and entertain the freedom. 
 
 Are we not mad then, to be delighted and dis- 
 pleased with the same thing, and to take that as au 
 
350 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 injury from one man, which passes only for a rail- 
 lery from another? He that is wise will behave 
 himself toward all men as we do to our children; 
 for they are but children too, though they have gray 
 hairs: they are indeed of a larger size, and their er- 
 rors are grown up with them; they live without rule, 
 they covet without choice, they are timorous and 
 unsteady; and if at any time they happen to be 
 quiet, it is more out of fear than reason. It is a 
 wretched condition to stand in awe of everybody's 
 tongue; and whosoever is vexed at a reproach would 
 be proud if he were commended. We should look 
 upon contumelies, slanders, and ill words, only as 
 the clamor of enemies, or arrows shot at a distance, 
 that make a clattering upon our arms, but do no exe- 
 cution. A man makes himself less than his adver- 
 sary by fancying that he is contemned. Things are 
 only ill that are ill taken; and it is not for a man of 
 worth to think himself better or worse for the 
 opinion of others. He that thinks himself injured, 
 let him say, "Either I have deserved this, or I have 
 not. If I have, it is a judgment; if I have not, it is 
 an injustice: and the doer of it has more reason to 
 be ashamed than the sufferers." 
 
 Nature has assigned every man his post, which he 
 is bound in honor to maintain, let him be never so 
 much pressed. Diogenes was disputing of anger, 
 and an insolent young fellow, to try if he could put 
 him beside his philosophy, spit in his face: "Young 
 man," says Diogenes, "this does not make me angry 
 yet; but I am in some doubt whether I should be so 
 or not." Some are so impatient that they cannot 
 bear a contumely, even from a woman; whose very 
 beauty, greatness, and ornaments, are all of them 
 little enough to vindicate her from any indecencies, 
 
SENECA OF ANGER. 351 
 
 without much modesty and discretion; nay, they 
 will lay it to heart even from the meanest of ser- 
 vants. How wretched is that man whose peace lies 
 at the mercy of the people? 
 
 A physician is not angry at the intemperance of a 
 mad patient; nor does he take it ill to be railed at by 
 a man in a fever; just so should a wise man treat all 
 mankind as a physician does his patient; and look- 
 ing upon them only as sick and extravagant, let 
 their words and actions, whether good or bad, go 
 equally for nothing, attending still his duty even in 
 the coarsest offices that may conduce to their recov- 
 ery. Men that are proud, froward, and powerful, 
 he values their scorn as little as their quality, and 
 looks upon them no otherwise than as people in the 
 excess of a fever. If a beggar worships him, or if 
 he takes no notice of him, it is all one to him; and 
 with a rich man he makes it the same case. Their 
 honors and their injuries he accounts much alike; 
 without rejoicing at the one, or grieving at the 
 other. 
 
 In these cases, the rule is to pardon all offenses, 
 where there is any sign of repentance, or hope of 
 amendment. It does not hold in injuries as in bene- 
 fits, the requiting of the one with the other; for it is 
 a shame to overcome in the one, and in the other to 
 be overcome. It is the part of a great mind to de- 
 spise injuries; and it is one kind of revenge to 
 neglect a man as not worth it: for it makes the first 
 aggressor too considerable. Our philosophy, me- 
 thinks, might carry us up to the bravery of a gener- 
 ous mastiff, that can hear the barking of a thousand 
 curs without taking any notice of them. He that 
 receives an injury from his superior, it is not 
 enough for him to bear it with patience, and with- 
 
352 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 out any thought of revenge, but he must receive it 
 witli a cheerful counteiiance, and look as if he did 
 not understand it too; for if he appear too sensible, 
 he shall be sure to have more of it. "It is a damned 
 humor in great men, that whom they wrong they 
 will hate." 
 
 It is well answered of an old courtier, that was 
 asked how he kept so long in favor? ''Why," says 
 he, "by receiving injuries, and crying your humble 
 servant for them." Some men take it for an argu- 
 ment of greatness to have revenge in their power; 
 but so far is he that is under the dominion of anger 
 from being great, that he is not so much as free. 
 Not but that anger is a kind of pleasure to some in 
 the act of revenge; but the very word is inhuman, 
 though it may pass for honest. "Virtue," in short, 
 "is impenetrable, and revenge is only the confession 
 of an infirmity." 
 
 It is a fantastical humor, that the same jest in pri- 
 vate should make us merry, and yet enrage us in 
 public; nay, we will not allow the liberty that we 
 take. Some railleries we account pleasant, others 
 bitter: a conceit upon a squint-eye, a hunch-back, or 
 any personal defect, passes for a reproach. And 
 why may we not as well hear it as see it? Nay, if a 
 man imitates our gait, speech, or any natural imper- 
 fection, it puts us out of all patience; as if the 
 counterfeit were more grievous than the doing of 
 the thing itself. Some cannot endure to hear of 
 their age, nor others of their poverty; and they 
 make the thing the more taken notice of the more 
 they desire to hide it. Some bitter jest (for the pur- 
 pose) was broken upon you at the table: keep better 
 company then. In the freedom of cups, a sober 
 man will hardly contain himself within bounds, It 
 
SENECA OF ANGER. 353 
 
 sticks with us extremely sometimes, that the porter 
 will not let us in to his great master. Will any but 
 a madman quarrel with a cur for barking, when he 
 may pacify him with a crust? What have we to do 
 but to keep further off, and laugh at him? Fidus 
 Cornelius (a tall slim fellow) fell downright a-crying 
 in the senate-house at Corbulo's saying that "he 
 looked like an ostrich." He was a man that made 
 nothing of a lash upon his life and naanners; but it 
 was worse than death to him a reflection upon his 
 person. No man was ever ridiculous to others that 
 laughed at himself first: it prevents mischief, and 
 it is a spiteful disappointment of those that take 
 pleasure in such abuses. Vatinius, (a man that was 
 made up for scorn and hatred, scurrilous and impu- 
 dent to the highest degree, but most abusively witty 
 and with all this he was diseased, and deformed to 
 extremity), his way, was always to make sport with 
 himself, and so he prevented the mockeries of other 
 people. There are none more abusive to others than 
 they that lie most open to it themselves; but the hu- 
 mor goes round, and he that laughs at me to-day 
 will have somebody to laugh at him to-morrow, and 
 revenge my quarrel. But, however, there are some 
 liberties that will never go down with some men. 
 
 Asiaticus Valerius, (one of Caligula's particular 
 friends, and a man of stomach, that would not eas- 
 ily digest an affront) Caligula told him in public 
 what kind of bedfellow his wife was. Good God! 
 that ever any man should hear this, or a prince 
 speak it, especially to a man of consular authority, 
 a friend, and a husband: and in such a manner too 
 as at once to own his disgust and his adultery. The 
 ti'ibune Chsereas had a weak broken voice, like an 
 hermaphrodite; when he came to Caligula for the 
 
354 SENECA OF ANGBB. 
 
 word, he would give him sometimes Venus, other- 
 whiles Priapus, as a slur upon him both ways. Val- 
 erius was afterwards the principal instrument in the 
 conspiracy against him; and Chsereas, to convince 
 him of his manhood, at one blow cleft him down the 
 chin with his sword. No man was so forward as 
 Caligula to break a jest, and no man so unwilling to 
 bear it. 
 
I CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CAUTIONS AGAINST ANGER IN THE MATTER OF EDUCATION, CON- 
 
 VEBSE, AND OTHER GENERAL RULES OF PREVENTING IT, 
 
 BOTH IN OURSELVES AND OTHERS. 
 
 All, that we have to say in particular upon this 
 subject lies under these two heads; first, that we do 
 not fall into anger; and secondly, that we do not 
 transgress in it. As in the case of our bodies, we 
 have some medicines to preserve us when we are 
 well, and others to recover us when we are sick; so 
 it is o]ie thing not to admit it, and another thing to 
 overcome it. We are, in the first place, to avoid all 
 provocations, and the beginnings of anger: for if 
 we be once down, it is a hard task to get up again. 
 When our passion has got the better of our reason, 
 and the enemy is received into the gate, we cannot 
 expect that the conqueror should take conditions 
 from the prisoner. And, in truth, our reason, when 
 it is thus mastered, turns effectually into passion. A 
 careful education is a great matter; for our minds 
 are easily formed in our youth, but it is a harder 
 business to cure ill habits: beside that, we are 
 inflamed by climate, constitution, company, and a 
 thousand other accidents, that we are not aware of. 
 
 The choice of a good nurse, and a well-natured 
 tutor, goes a great way: for the sweetness both of 
 the. blood and of the manners will pass into the 
 
356 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 child. There is nothing breeds anger more than a 
 soft and effeminate education; and it is very seldom 
 seen that either the mother's or the school-master's 
 darling ever comes to good. But my young master, 
 when he comes into theworld, behaves himself like 
 a choleric coxcomb; for flattery, and a great for- 
 tune, nourish touchiness. But it is a nice point so 
 to check the seeds of anger in a child as not to take 
 ofif his edge, and quench his spirits; whereof a prin- 
 cipal care must be taken betwixt license and 
 severity, that he be neither too much emboldened 
 nor depressed. Commendation gives him courage 
 and confidence; but then the danger is, of blowing 
 him up into insolence and wrath: so that when to 
 use, the bit, and when the spur, is the main difficulty. 
 Never put him to a necessity of begging anything 
 basely: or if he does, let him go without it. Inure 
 him to a familiarity where he has any emulation; 
 and in all his exercises let him understand that it is 
 generous to overcome his competitor, but not to hurt 
 him. Allow him to be pleased when he does well, 
 but not transported; for that will puff him up into 
 too high a conceit of himself. Give him nothing 
 that he cries for till the dogged fit is over, but then 
 let him have it when he is quiet; to show him that 
 there is nothing to be gotten by being peevish. 
 Chide him for whatever he does amiss, and make 
 him betimes acquainted with the fortune that he 
 was born to. Let his diet be cleanly, but sparing; 
 and clothe him like the rest of his fellows: for by 
 placing him upon that equality at first, he will be 
 the less proud afterward: and, consequently the less 
 waspish and quarrelsome. 
 
 In the next place, let us have a care of tempta- 
 tions that we cannot resist, and provocations that 
 
BENBOA OF ANGER. 357 
 
 We cannot bear; and especially of sour and excep- 
 tions company: for a cross l.umor is contagious. Nor 
 is it all that a man shall be the better for the ex- 
 ample of a quiet conversation; but an angry dispo- 
 sition is troublesome, because it has nothing else to 
 work upon. We should therefore choose a sincere, 
 easy, and temperate companion, that will neither 
 provoke anger nor return it; nor give a man any 
 occasion of exercising his distempers. Nor is it 
 enough to be gentle, submissive, and humane, with- 
 out integrity and plain-dealing; for flattery is as 
 offensive on the other side. Some men would take 
 a curse from you better than a compliment. Cselius, 
 a passionate orator, had a friend of singular patience 
 that supped with him, who had no way to avoid a 
 quarrel but by saying amen to all that Cselius said. 
 Cselius, taking this ill: "Say something against me," 
 says he, "that you and I may be two;" and he was 
 angry with him because he would not: but the dis- 
 pute fell, as it needs must, for want of an opponent. 
 He that is naturally addicted to anger, let him use 
 a moderate diet, and abstain from wine; for it is but 
 adding fire to fire. Gentle exercises, recreations, 
 and sports, temper and sweeten the mind. Let him 
 have a care also of long and obstinate disputes; for 
 it is easier not to begin them than to put an end to 
 them. Severe studies are not good for him either, 
 as law, mathematics; too much attention preys upon 
 the spirits, and makes him eager: but poetry, history 
 and those lighter entertainments, may serve him 
 for diversion and relief. He that would be quiet, 
 must not venture at things out of his reach, or be- 
 yond his strength; for he shall either stagger under 
 the burden, or discharge it upon the next man he 
 m.eets: which is the same case in civil and domestic 
 
358 SENfiCA O^ AlJGfift. 
 
 affairs. Business that is ready and practicable goes 
 off with ease; but when it is too heavy for the bearer, 
 they fall both together. Whatsoever we design, we 
 should first take a measure of ourselves, and com- 
 pare our force with the undertaking; for it vexes a 
 man not to go through with his work: a repulse in- 
 flames a generous nature, as it makes one that is 
 phlegmatic, sad. I have known some that have ad- 
 vised looking in a glass when a man is in the fit, 
 and the very spectacle of his own deformity has 
 cured him. Many that are troublesome in their 
 drink, and know their own infirmity, give their ser- 
 vant order beforehand to take them away by force 
 for fear of mischief, and not to obey their masters 
 themselves when they are hot-headed. If the thing 
 were duly considered we should need no other cure 
 than the bare consideration of it. We are not angry 
 at madmen, children, and fools, because they do not 
 know what they do: and why should not impru- 
 dence have an equal privilege in other cases? If a 
 horse kick, or a dog bite, shall a man kick or bite 
 again? The one, it is true, is wholly void of reason, 
 but it is also an equivalent darkness of mind that 
 possesses the other. So long as we are among men, 
 let us cherish humanity, and so live that no man 
 may be either in fear or in danger of us. Losses, in- 
 juries, reproaches, calumnies, they are but short in- 
 conveniences, and we should bear them with reso- 
 lution. Beside that, some people are above our 
 anger, others below it. To contend with our supe- 
 riors were a folly, and with our inferiors an indig- 
 nity. 
 
 There is hardly a more effectual remedy against 
 anger than patience and consideration. Let but the 
 first fervor abate, and that mist which darkens the 
 
SENECA OF ANGER. 359 
 
 mind will be either lessened or dispelled; a day, nay, 
 an hour, does much in the most violent cases, and 
 perchance totally suppresses it; time discovers the 
 truth of things, and turns that into judgment which 
 at first was anger. Plato was about to strike his ser- 
 vant, and while -his hand was in the air, he checked 
 himself, but still held it in that menacing posture. 
 A friend of his took notice of it, and asked him what 
 he meant? '• I am now," says Plato, " punishing of 
 an angry man;" so that he had left his servant to 
 chastise himself. Another time his servant having 
 committed a great fault: 'Speusippus," says he, "do 
 you beat that fellow, for I am angry," so that he 
 >f orebore striking him for the very reason that would 
 have made another man have done it. "I am an- 
 gry," says he, " and shall go further than becomes 
 me." Nor is it fit that a servant should be in his pow- 
 er that is not his own master. Why should any one 
 venture now to trust an angry man with a revenge, 
 when Plato durst not trust himself? Either he must 
 govern that, or that will undo him. Let us do our 
 best to overcome it, but let us, however, keep it close, 
 without giving it any vent. An angry man,, if he 
 gives himself liberty at all times, will go too far. 
 If it comes once to show itself in the eye or counte- 
 nance, it has got the better of us. Nay, we should 
 so oppose it as to put on the very contrary disposi- 
 tions; calm looks, soft and slow speech, an easy and 
 deliberate march, and by little and little, we may 
 possibly bring our thoughts into sober conformity 
 with our actions. When Socrates was angry, he 
 would take himself in it, and speak low, in opposi- 
 tion to the motions of his displeasure. His friends 
 would take notice of it; and it was not to his disad- 
 vantage neither, but rather to his credit, that so 
 
360 SENECA OP ANGEB. 
 
 many should knoiv that he was angiy, and nobody 
 feel it; which could not have been, if he had not given 
 his friends the same liberty of admonition which he 
 himself took. And this course should we take; we 
 should desire our friends not to flatter us in our fol- 
 lies, but to treat us with all liberties of reprehension, 
 even when we are least willing to bear it, against so 
 powerful and so insinuating an evil; we should call 
 for help while we have our eyes in our head, and are 
 yet masters of ourselves. Moderation is profitable 
 for subjects, but more for princes, who haA'e the 
 means of executing all that their anger prompts 
 them to. When that power comes once to be exer- 
 cised to a common mischief, it can never long con- 
 tinue; a common fear joining. in one cause all their 
 divided complaints. In a word now, how we may 
 prevent, moderate, or master this impotent passion 
 in others. 
 
 It is not enough to be sound ourselves, unless we 
 endeavor to make others so, wherein we must accom- 
 modate the remedy to the temper of the patient. 
 Some are to be dealt with by artifice and address: as, 
 for example, " Why will you gratify your enemies 
 to show yourself so much concerned? It is not worth 
 your anger: it is below you: I am as much troubled 
 at it myself as you can be; but you had better say 
 nothing, and take your time to be even with them." 
 Anger in some people is to be openly opposed; in 
 others, there must be a little yielding, according to 
 the disposition of the person. Some are won by en- 
 treaties, others are gained by mere shame and con- 
 viction, and some by delay; a dull way of cure for a 
 violent distemper, but this must be the last experi- 
 ment. Other affections may be better dealt with at 
 leisure; for they proceed gradually: but this com 
 
SENECA OP ANGER. 361 
 
 mences and perfects itself in the same moment. It 
 does not, like other passions, soUcit and mislead us, 
 but it runs away with us by force, and hurries us on 
 with an irresistible temerity, as well to our own as 
 to another's ruin; not only flying in the face of him 
 that provokes us, but like a torrent, bearing down all 
 before it. There is no encountering the first heat and 
 fury of it : for it is deaf and mad, the best way is (in 
 the beginning) to give it time and rest, and let it 
 spend itself: while the passion is too hot to handle, 
 we may deceive it; but, however, let all instruments 
 of revenge be put out of the way. It -is not amiss 
 sometimes to pretend to be angry too; and join with 
 him, not only in the opinion of the injury, but in the 
 seeming contrivance of a revenge. But this must 
 be a person then that has some authority over him. 
 This is a way to get time, and, by advising upon 
 some greater punishment to delay the present. If 
 the passion be outrageous, try what shame or fear 
 can do. If weak, it is no hard matter to amuse 
 it by strange stories, grateful news, or pleasant 
 , discourses. Deceit, in this case, is friendship; for 
 men must be cozened to be cured. 
 
 The injuries that press hardest upon us are those 
 which either we have not deserved, or not expected, 
 or, at least, not in so high a degree. This arises 
 from the love of ourselves: for every man takes up- 
 on him, like a prince, in this case, to practice all 
 liberties, and to allow none, which proceeds either 
 from ignorance or insolence. What news is it for 
 people to do ill things? for an enemy to hurt us; 
 nay, for a friend or a servant to transgress, and to 
 prove treacherous, ungrateful, covetous, impious? 
 What we find in one man we may in another, aiid 
 
363 SEKECA OP ANGER. 
 
 there is more security in fortune than in men. Our 
 joys are mingled with fear, and a tempest may 
 arise out of a calm; but a skilful pilot is always 
 provided for it. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 AGAINST RASH JUDGMENT. 
 
 It is good for every man to fortify himself on his 
 weak side: and if he loves his peace he must not be 
 inquisitive, and hearken to tale-bearers; for the man 
 that is over-curious to hear and see everything, mul- 
 tiplies troubles to himself: for a man does not feel 
 what he does not know. He that is listening after 
 private discourse, and what people say of him, shall 
 never be at peace. How many things that are in- 
 nocent in themselves are made injuries yet by mis- 
 construction! Wherefore, some things we are to 
 pause upon, others to laugh at, and others again to 
 pardon. Or, if we cannot avoid the sense of indig- 
 nities, let us however shun the open profession of it, 
 which may easily be done, as appears by many ex- 
 amples of those that have suppressed their anger 
 under the awe of a greater fear. It is a good cau- 
 tion not to believe any thing until we are very 
 certain of it; for many probable things prove false, 
 and a short time will make evidence of the un- 
 doubted truth. We are prone to believe many 
 things which we are willing to hear, and so we 
 conclude, and take up a prejudice before we can 
 judge. Never condemn a friend unheard; or with- 
 out letting him know his accuser, or his crime. 
 It is a common thing to say, " Do not you tell 
 
364 SENfiCA Off aNGeB. 
 
 that you had it from me: for if you do, I will 
 deny it, and never tell you any thing again:" by 
 which means friends are set together by the ears, 
 and the informer slips his neck out of the collar. 
 Admit no stories upon these terms; for it is an 
 unjust thing to believe in private and to be angry 
 openly. He that delivers himself up to guess and 
 conjecture runs a great hazard; for therfe can be 
 no suspicion without some probable grounds; so 
 that without much candor and simplicity, and mak- 
 ing the best of every thing, there is no living in 
 society with mankind. Some things that offend 
 us we have by report; others we see or hear. In 
 the first case, let us not be too credulous: some 
 people frame stories that they may deceive us; 
 others only tell what they hear, and are deceived 
 themselves: some make it their spoi-t to do ill offices, 
 others do them only to pick a thank : there are some 
 that would part the dearest friends in the world; 
 others love to do mischief, and stand aloof off to see 
 what comes of it. If it be a small matter, I would 
 have witnesses; but if it be a greater, I would have 
 it upon oath, and allow time to the accused, and 
 counsel too, and hear over and over again. 
 
 In those cases where we ourselves are witnesses, 
 we should take into consideration all the circum- 
 stances. If a child, it was ignorance: if a woman, 
 a mistake: if done hy command a necessity ; if a 
 man be injured, it is but quod pro quo: if a judge, 
 he knotvs what he does: if a prince, I must submit; 
 either if guilty, to justice, or if innocent, to fortune: 
 if a brute, I make myself one by imitating it: if a 
 calamity or disease, my best relief is patience : if 
 providence, it is both impious and vain to be angry 
 at it: if a good man, I will make the best of it: if a 
 
SENECA OF ANGER. 365 
 
 bad, I will never wonder at it. Nor is it Only by 
 tales and stories that we are inflamed, but suspi- 
 cions, countenances, nay, a look or a smile, is enough 
 to blow us up. In these cases, let us suspend our 
 displeasure, and plead the cause of the absent. 
 "Perhaps he is innocent; or, if not, I have time to 
 consider of it, and may take my revenge at leisure:" 
 but when it is once executed it is not to be recalled. 
 A jealous head is apt to take that to himself which 
 was never meant him. Let us therefore trust to 
 nothing but what we see, and chide ourselves where 
 we are. over-credulous. By this course we shall not 
 be so easily imposed upon, nor put to trouble our- 
 selves about things not worth the while: as the loit- 
 ering of a servant upon an errand, and the tumbling 
 of a bed, or the spilling of a glass of drink. 
 
 It is a madness to be disordered at these fooleries; 
 we consider the thing done, and not the doer of it. 
 "It may be he did it unwillingly, or by chance. It 
 was a trick put upon him, or he was forced to it. 
 He did it for reward perhaps, not hatred; nor of his 
 own accord, but he was urged on to it." Nay, some 
 regard must be had to the age of the person, or to 
 fortune; and we must consult humanity and candor 
 in the case. One does me a great mischief at un- 
 awares; another does me a very small one by design, 
 or peradventure none at all, but intended me one. 
 The latter was more in fault, but I will be angry 
 with neither. We must distinguish betwixt what a 
 man cannot do and what he will not. "It is true he 
 has once offended me; but how often has he pleased 
 me! He has offended me often, and in other kinds; 
 and why should not I bear it as well now as I have 
 done?" Is he my friend? why then, "It was against 
 his will." Is he my enemy? It is "no more than I 
 
366 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 looked for." Let us give way to wise men, and not 
 squabble with fools; and say thus to ourselves, "We 
 have all of us our errors." No man is so circum- 
 spect, so cousidei-ate, or so fearful of offending, but 
 he has much to answer for. 
 
 A generous prisoner cannot immediately comply 
 with all the sordid and laborious offices of a slave. 
 A footman that is not breathed cannot keep pace 
 with his master's horse. He that is over-watched 
 may be allowed to be drowsy. All these things are 
 to be weighed before we give any ear to the first im- 
 pulse. If it be nay duty to love my country, I must 
 be kind also to my countrymen; if a veneration be 
 due to the whole, so is a piety also to the parts: and 
 it is the common interest to preserve them. We are 
 all members of one body, and it is as natural to help 
 one another as for the hands to help the feet, or the 
 eyes the hands. Without the love and care of the 
 parts, the whole can never be preserved, and we 
 must spare one another because we are born for 
 society, which cannot be maintained without a re- 
 gard to particulars. Let this be a rule to us, never 
 to deny a pardon, that does no hurt either to the 
 giver or receiver. That may be well enough in one 
 which is ill in another; and therefore we are not to 
 condemn anything that is common to a nation; for 
 custom defends it. But much more pardonable are 
 those things which are common to mankind. ^ 
 
 It is a kind of spiteful comfort, that whoever does 
 me an injury may receive one; and that there is a 
 power over him that is above me. A man should 
 stand as firm against all indignities as a rock does 
 against the waves. As it is some satisfaction to a 
 man in a mean condition that there is no security in 
 a more prosperous; and as the loss of a son in a cor- 
 
SENECA Op anger. 367 
 
 ner is bOrne with more patience upon the sight of a 
 funeral carried out of a palace; so are injuries and 
 contempts the more tolerable from a meaner person, 
 when we consider, that the greatest men and for- 
 tunes are not exempt. The wisest also of mortals 
 have their failings, and no man living is without the 
 same excuse. The difference is, that we do not all 
 of us transgress the same way; but we are obliged 
 in humanity to bear one with another. 
 
 We should, every one of us, bethink ourselves, 
 how remiss we have been in our duties, how immod- 
 est in our discourses, how intemperate in our cups; 
 and why not, as well, how extravagant we have been 
 in our passions? Let us clear ourselves of this evil, 
 purge our minds, and utterly root out all those vices, 
 which upon leaving the least sting, will grow again 
 and recover. We must think of everything, expect 
 everything, that we may not be surprised. It is a 
 shame, says Fsfbius, for a commander to excuse him- 
 self by saying, "I was not aware of it." 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 TAKE NOTHING ILL FROM ANOTHER MAN, UNTIL YOU HAVE 
 MADE IT YOUR OWN CASE. 
 
 It is not prudent to deny a pardon to any man, 
 without first examining if we stand not in need of it 
 ourselves; for it may be our lot to ask it, even at his 
 feet to whom we refuse it. But we are wilUng 
 enough to do what we are very unwilling to suffer. 
 It is unreasonable to charge public vices upon par- 
 ticular persons; for we are all of us wicked, and 
 that which we blame in others we find in ourselves. 
 It is not a paleness in one, or a leanness in another, 
 but a pestilence that has laid hold upon all. 
 
 It is a wicked world, and we make part of it; and 
 the way to be quiet is to bear one with another. 
 "Such a man," we cry, "has done me a shrewd 
 turn, and I never did him any hurt." Well, but it 
 may be I have mischieved other people, or at least, 
 I may live to do as much to him as that comes to. 
 "Such a one has spoken ill things of me;" but if I 
 first speak ill of him, as I do of many others, this is 
 not an injury, but a repayment. What if he did 
 overshoot himself? He was loth to lose his conceit 
 perhaps, but there was no malice in it; and if he had 
 not done me a mischief, he must have done himself 
 one. How many good oflBces are there that look 
 
SENECA OF ANGEK. 369 
 
 like injuries! Nay, how many have been reconciled 
 and good friends after a professed hatred! 
 
 Before we lay anything to heart, let us ask our- 
 selves if we have not done the same thing to others. 
 But where shall we find an equal judge ? He that 
 loves another man's wife (only because she is 
 another's) will not suffer his own to be so much 
 looked upon. No man is so fierce against calumny 
 as the evil speaker; none so strict exactors of 
 modesty in a servant as those that are most prodigal 
 of their own. We carry our neighbors' crimes in 
 sight, and we throw our own over our shoulders. 
 The intemperance of a bad son is chastised by a 
 worse father; and the luxury that we punish in 
 others, we allow to ourselves. The tyrant exclaims 
 against homicide; and sacrilege against theft. We 
 are angry with the persons, Dut not with the faults. 
 
 Some things there are that cannot hurt us, and 
 others will not; as good magistrates, parents, tutors, 
 judges; whose reproof or correction we are to take 
 as we do abstinence, bleeding, and other uneasy 
 things, which we are the better f of , in which cases, 
 we are not so much to reckon upon what we suffer 
 as upon what we have done. " I take it ill," says 
 one; and, "I have done nothing," says another: 
 when, at the same time, we make it worse, by add- 
 ing arrogance and contumacy to our first error. We 
 cry out presently, "What law have we trans- 
 gressed?" As if the letter of the law were the sum 
 of our duty, and that piety, humanity, liberality, 
 justice, and faith, were things beside our business. 
 No, no; the rule of human duty is of a greater lati- 
 tude; and we have many obligations upon us that 
 are not to be found in the statute-hooks. And yet 
 we fall short of the exactness even, of that legal 
 
370 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 innoeency. We have intended one thing and done 
 another; wherein only the want of success has kept 
 us from being criminals. This very thing, methinks, 
 should make us more favorable to delinquents, and 
 to forgive not only ourselves, but the gods too; of 
 whom we seem to have harder thoughts in taking 
 that to be a particular evil directed to us, that be- 
 falls us only by the common law of mortality. In 
 fine, no man living can absolve himself to his con- 
 science, though to the world, perhaps, he may. It 
 is true, that we are also condemned to pains and 
 diseases, and to death too, which is no more than 
 the quitting of the soul's house. But why should 
 any man complain of bondage, that, wheresoever 
 he looks, has his way open to liberty? That pre- 
 cipice, that sea, that river, that well, there is free- 
 dom in the bottom of it. It hangs upon every 
 crooked bow; and not only a man's throat, or his 
 heart, but every vein in his body, opens a passage 
 to it. 
 
 To conclude, where my proper virtue fails me, I 
 will have recourse to examples, and say to myself. 
 Am I greater than Philip or Augustus, 'who both of 
 them put up with greater reproaches? Many have 
 pardoned their enemies, and shall not I forgive a 
 neglect, a little freedom of the tongue? Nay, the 
 patience but of a second thought does the business : 
 for though the first shock be violent, take it in parts, 
 and it is subdued. And, to wind up all in one word, 
 the great lesson of mankind, as well in this as in all 
 other cases, is, "to do as we would be done by." 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 OF CRUELTY. 
 
 There is so near an affinity betwixt anger and 
 cruelty, that many people confound them; as if 
 cruelty were only the execution of anger in the pay- 
 ment of a revenge: which holds in some cases, but 
 not in others. There are a sort of men that take de- 
 light in the spilling of human blood, and in the death 
 of those that never did them any injury, nor were 
 ever so much suspected for it; as ApoUodorus, 
 Phalaris, Sinis, Procrustus, and others, that burnt 
 men alive; whom we cannot so properly call angry 
 as brutal, for anger does necessarily presuppose an in- 
 jury, either done, or conceived, or feared, but the other 
 takes pleasure in tormenting, without so much as 
 pretending any provocation to it, and kills merely 
 for killing sake. The original of this cruelty perhaps 
 was anger, which by frequent exercise and custom, 
 has lost all sense of humanity and mercy, and they 
 that are thus affected are so far from the counten- 
 ance and appearance of men in anger, that they will 
 laugh, rejoice, and entertain themselves with the 
 most horrid spectacles, as racks, jails, gibbets, 
 several sorts of chains and punishments, dilaceration 
 of members, stigtnatizing , and wild beasts, with 
 other exquisite inventions of torture; and yet, at 
 last the cruelty itself is more horrid ^nd odious than 
 
372 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 the means by which it works. It is a bestial mad- 
 ness to love mischief; beside, that it is womanish to 
 ?-age and tear. A generous beast will scorn to do it 
 when he has any thing at his mercy. It is a vice 
 for wolves and tigers, and no less abominable to the 
 world than dajigerous to itself. 
 
 The Romans had their morning and their meridian 
 spectacles, In the former, they had their combats 
 of men with wild beasts; and in the latter, the men 
 fought one tvith another. "I went," says our au- 
 thor, ' ' the other day to the meridian spectacles, in 
 hope of meeting somewhat of mirth and diversion 
 to sweeten the humors of those that had been enter- 
 tained with blood in the- morning; but it proved 
 otherwise, for, compared with this inhumanity, the 
 former was a mercy. The whole business was only 
 murder upon murder: the combatants fought naked, 
 and every blow was a wound. They do not contend 
 for victory, but for death; and he that kills one man 
 is to be killed by another. By wounds they are 
 forced upon wounds which they take and give upon 
 their bare breasts. Burn that rogue, they cry 
 What! Is he afraid of his flesh? Do but see how 
 sneakingly that rascal dies. Look to yourselves, my 
 masters, and consider of it: who knows but this 
 may come to be your own case? " Wicked examples 
 seldom fail of coming home at last to the authors. 
 To destroy a single man may be dangerous; but to 
 murder whole nations is only a more glorious 
 wickedness. Private avarice and rigor are con- 
 demned, but oppression, when it comes to be author- 
 ized by an act of state, and to be publicly command- 
 ed, though particularly forbidden, becomes a point 
 of dignity and honor. What a shame is it for men 
 to interworry one another, when yet the fiercest 
 
SENECA OF ANGER. 373 
 
 even of beasts are at peace with those of their own 
 kind? This brutal fury puts philosophy itself to a 
 stand. The drunkard, the glutton, the covetous, 
 may be reduced; nay, and the mischief of it is that 
 no vice keeps itself within its proper bounds. 
 Luxury runs into avarice, and when the reverence 
 of virtue is extinguished, men will stick at nothing 
 that carries profit along with it; man's blood is shed 
 in wantonness — his death is a spectacle for enter- 
 tainment, and his groans are music. When Alex- 
 ander delivered up Lysimachus to a lion, how glad 
 would he have been to have had nails and teeth to 
 have devoured him himself: it would have too much 
 derogated, he thought, from the dignity of his wrath, 
 to have appointed a man for the execution of his 
 friend. Private cruelties, it is true, cannot do much 
 mischief, but in princes they are a war against 
 mankind. 
 
 C. Caesar would commonly, for exercise and plea- 
 sure, put senators and Roman knights to the torture; 
 and whip several of them like slaves, or put them to 
 death with the most acute torments, merely for the 
 satisfaction of his cruelty. That Csesar that " wish- 
 ed the people of Rome had but one neck, that he 
 might cut it off at one blow; " — it was the employ- 
 ment, the study, and the joy of his life. He would 
 not so much as give the expiring leave to groan, but 
 caused their mouths to be stopped with sponges, or 
 for want of them, with rags of their own clothes, 
 that they might not breathe out so much as their 
 last agonies at liberty; or, perhaps, lest the tor- 
 mented should speak something which the tormentor 
 had no mind to hear. Nay, he was so impatient of 
 delay, that he would frequently rise from supper to 
 have men killed by torch-light, as if his life and 
 
374 SENECA OF ANGER. 
 
 death had depended upon their dispatch before the 
 next morning; to say nothing how many fathers 
 were put to death in the same night with their sons 
 (which was a kind of mercy in the prevention of 
 their mourning). And was not Sylla's cruelty pro- 
 digious too, which was only stopped for want of 
 enemies? He caused seven thousand citizens of 
 Rome to be slaughtered at once; and some of the 
 senators being startled at their cries that were heard 
 in the senate-house, "Let us mind our business," 
 says Sylla; "this is nothing but a few mutineers 
 that I have ordered to be sent out of the way." A 
 glorious spectacle! says Hannibal, when he saw 
 the trenches flowing with human blood; and if the 
 rivers had run blood too, he would have liked it so 
 much the better. 
 
 Among the famous and detestable speeches that 
 are committed to memory, I know none worse than 
 that impudent and tyrannical maxim, " Let them 
 hate me, so they fear me;" not considering that 
 those that are kept in obedience by fear, are both 
 malicious and mercenary, and only wait fgr an op- 
 portunity to change their master. Beside that, 
 whosoever is terrible to others is likewise afraid of 
 himself. What is more ordinary than for a tyrant 
 to be destroyed by his own guards? which is no 
 more than the putting those crimes into practice 
 which they learned of their masters. How many 
 slaves have revenged themselves of their cruel op- 
 pressors, though they were sure to die for it! but 
 when it comes once to a popular tyranny, whole 
 nations conspire against it. For " whosoever 
 threatens all, is in danger of all," over and above, 
 that the cruelty of the prince increases the nitniber 
 of his enemies, by destroying some of them; for it 
 
SENECA OF ANGEE. 375 
 
 entails an hereditary hatred upon the friends and 
 relations of those that are taken away. And then 
 it has this misfortune, that a man must be wicked 
 upon necessity; for there is no going back; so that 
 he must betake himself to arms, and yet he lives in 
 fear. He can neither trust to the faith of his' friends, 
 nor to the piety of his children; he both dreads death 
 and wishes it; and becomes a greater terror to him- 
 self than he is to his people. Nay, if there were 
 nothing else to make cruelty detestable, it were 
 enough that it passes all bounds, both of custom 
 and humanity; and is followed upon the heel with 
 sword or poison. A private malice indeed does not 
 move whole cities; but that which extends to all is 
 every body's mark. One sick person gives no great 
 disturbance in a family; but when it comes to a de- 
 populating plague, all people fly from it. And why 
 should a prince expect any man to be good whom he 
 has taught to be wicked? 
 
 But what if it were safe to be cruel ? were it not 
 still a sad thing, the very state of such a govern- 
 ment ? A government that bears the image of a 
 taken city, where there is nothing but sorrow, trouble, 
 and confusion. Men dare not so much as trust 
 themselves with their friends or with their pleasures. 
 There is not any entertainment so innocent but it 
 affords pretence of crime and danger. People are 
 betrayed at their tables and in their cups, and 
 drawn from the very theatre to the prison. How 
 horrid a madness is it to be still raging and killing j 
 to have the rattling of chains always in our ears : 
 bloody spectacles before our eyes ; and to carry ter- 
 ror and dismay wherever we go! If we had lions 
 anA. serpents, to rule over us, this would be the man- 
 ner of their government, saving that they agree bet- 
 
376 SENECA OF ANGEE. 
 
 ter among themselves. It passes for a mark of 
 greatness to burn cities, and lay whole kingdoms 
 waste; no-r is it for the honor of a prince to appoint 
 this or that single man to be killed, unless they have 
 whole troops, or (sometimes) legions, to work upon. 
 But it is not the spoils of war and bloody trophies 
 that make a prince glorious, but the divine power 
 of preserving unity and peace. Ruin without dis- 
 tinction is more properly the business of a general 
 deluge, or a conflagration. Neither does a fierce and 
 inexorable anger become the supreme magistrate ; 
 "Greatness of mind is always meek and humble; 
 but cruelty is a note and an effect of weakness, and 
 brings down a governor to the level of a competitor." 
 
SENECA OF CLEMENCY. 
 
 The humanity and excellence of this virtue is con- 
 fessed at all hands, as well by the men of pleasure, 
 and those that think every man was made for him- 
 self, as by the Stoics, that make "man a sociable 
 creature, and born for the common good of man- 
 kind:" for it is of all dispositions the most peaceable 
 and quiet. But before we enter any farther upon 
 the discourse, it should be first known what clemency 
 is, that we may distinguish it from pity; which is a 
 weakness, though many times mistaken for a virtue: 
 and the next thing will be, to bring the mind to the 
 habit and exercise of it. 
 
 "Clemency is a favorable disposition of the mind, 
 in the matter of inflicting punishment; or, a modera- 
 tion that remits somewhat of the penalty incurred; 
 as pardon is the total remission of a deserved pun- 
 ishment." We must be careful not to confound 
 clemency with pity; for as religion worships God, 
 and superstition prof anes that worship; so should we 
 distinguish betwixt clemency and pity; practicing 
 the one, and avoiding the other. For pity proceeds 
 from a narrowness of mind, that respects rather the 
 fortune than the cause. It is a kind of moral sick- 
 
378 SENECA OP CLEMENCY. 
 
 ness, contracted from other people's misfortune: 
 such another weakness as laughing or yawning for 
 company, or as that of sick eyes that cannot look 
 upon others that are bleared without dropping them- 
 selves. I will give a shipwrecked man a plank, a 
 lodging to a stranger, or a piece of money to him 
 that wants it: I will dry up the tears of my friend, 
 yet I will not weep with him, but treat him with 
 constancy and humanity, as one man ought to treat 
 another. 
 
 It is objected by some, that clemency is an insig- 
 nificant virtue; and that only the bad are the better 
 for it, for the good have no need of it. But in the 
 first place, as physic is in use only among the sick, 
 and yet in honor with the sound, so the innocent 
 have a reverence for clemency, though criminals are 
 properly the objects of it. And then again, a man 
 may be innocent, and yet have occasion for it too; 
 for by the accidents of fortune, or the condition of 
 times, virtue itself may come to be in danger. Con- 
 sider the most populous city or nation; what a soli- 
 tude would it be if none should be left there but those 
 that could stand the test of a severe justice! We 
 should have neither judges nor accusers; none either 
 to grant a pardon or to ask it. More or less, we are 
 all sinners; and he that has best purged his con- 
 cience, was brought by errors to repentance. And 
 it is farther profitable to mankind; for many de- 
 linquents come to be converted. There is a tender- 
 ness to be used even toward our slaves, and those 
 that we have bought with our money: how much 
 more then to free and to honest men, that are rather 
 under our protection than dominion! Not that I 
 would have it so general neither as not to distin- 
 guish betwixt the good and tlie bad : for that would 
 
SENECA OF CLEMENCY. 379 
 
 introduce a confusion, and give a kind of encourage- 
 ment to wickedness. It must therefore have a re- 
 spect to the quality of the offender, and separate the 
 curable from the desperate; for it is an equal cruelty 
 to pardon all and to pardon none. Where the matter 
 is in balance, let mercy turn the scale: if all wicked 
 men should be punished, who should escape? 
 
 Though mercy and gentleness of nature keeps all 
 in peace and tranquillity, even in a cottage; yet it is 
 much more beneficial and conspicuous in a palace. 
 Private men in their condition are likewise private 
 in their virtues and in their vices; but the words 
 and the actions of princes are the subject of public 
 rumor; and therefore they had need have a care, 
 what occasion they give people for discourse, of 
 whom people will be always a talking. There is the 
 qovernjiient of & prince over his people, a father over 
 his children, a master over his scholars, an officer 
 over his soldiers. He is an unnatural father, that 
 for every trifle beats his children. Who is the better 
 master, he that rages over his scholars for but miss- 
 ing a word in a lesson, or he that tries, by admoni- 
 tion and fair words, to instruct and reform them? 
 An outrageous officer makes his naen run from their 
 colors. A skilful rider brings his horse to obedience 
 by mingling fair means with foul; whereas to be 
 perpetually switching and spurring, makes him 
 vicious and jadish: and shall we not have more care 
 of men than of beasts? It breaks the hope of gener- 
 ous inclinations, when they are depressed by servil- 
 ity and terror. There is no creature so hard to be 
 pleased with ill usage as man. 
 
 Clemency does well with all, but best with princes; 
 for. it makes their power comfortable and beneficial, 
 which would otherwise be the pest of mankind. It 
 
o80 SENECA OP CLEMENCY. 
 
 establishes their greatness, when they make the 
 good of the public their particular care, and employ 
 their power for the safety of the people. The prince, 
 in effect, is but the soul of the community, as the 
 community is only the body of the prince; so that 
 being merciful to others, he is tender of himself: 
 nor is any man so mean but his naaster feels the 
 loss of him, as a part of his empire : and he takes 
 care not only of the lives of his people, but also of 
 their reputation. Now, giving for granted that all 
 virtues are in themselves equal, it will not yet be 
 denied, that they may be more beneficial to man- 
 kind in one person than in another. A beggar may 
 be as magnanimous as a king: for what can be 
 greater or braver than to baffle ill fortune? This 
 does not hinder but that a man in authority and 
 plenty has more matter for his generosity to work 
 upon than a private person; and it is also more taken 
 notice of upon the bench than upon the level. 
 
 When a gracious prince shows himself to his 
 people, they do not fly from him as from a tiger that 
 rouses himself out of his den, but they worship him 
 as a benevolent influence; they secure him against 
 all conspiracies, and interpose their bodies betwixt 
 him and danger. They guard him while he sleeps, 
 and defend him in the field against his enemies. 
 Nor is it without reason, this unanimous agreement 
 in love and loyalty, and this heroical zeal of aban- 
 doning themselves for the safety of their prince; 
 but it is as well the interest of the people. In the 
 breath of a prince there is life and death; and his 
 sentence stands good, right or wrong. If he be 
 angry, nobody dares advise him; and if he does 
 amiss, who shall call him to account? Now, for him 
 that has so much mischief in his power, and yet ap- 
 
SENECA OP CLEMENCY. 381 
 
 plies that power to the common utiHty and comfort 
 of his people, diffusing also clemency and goodness 
 into their hearts too, what can be a greater blessing 
 to mankind than such a prince? Any man may kill 
 another against the law, but only a prince can save 
 him so. Let him so deal with his own subjects as 
 he desires God should deal with him. If Heaven 
 should be inexorable to sinners, and destroy all 
 without mercy, what flesh could be safe? 
 
 But as the faults of great men are not presently 
 punished with thunder from above, let them have a 
 like regard to their inferiors here upon earth. He 
 that has revenge in his power, and does not use it, 
 is the great man. Which is the more beautiful and 
 agreeable state, that of a calm, a temperate, and a 
 clear day; or that of lightning, thunder, and tem- 
 pests? and this is the very difference betwixt a mod- 
 erate and turbulent government. It is for low and 
 vulgar spirits to brawl, storm, and transport them- 
 selves: but it is not for the majesty of a prince to 
 lash out into intemperance of words. Some will 
 think it rather slavery than empire to be debarred 
 liberty of speech: and what if it be, when govern- 
 ment itself is but a more illustrious servitude? 
 
 He that uses his power as he should, takes as 
 much delight in making it comfortable to his people 
 as glorious to himself. He is affable and easy of 
 access; his very countenance makes him the joy of 
 his people's eyes, and the delight of mankind. He 
 is beloved, defended, and reverenced by all his sub- 
 jects; and men speak as well of him in private as in 
 public. He is safe without guards, and the sword is 
 rather his ornament than his defence. In his duty, 
 he is like that of a good father, that sometimes 
 gently reproves a son, sometimes threatens him; 
 
382 SENECA OF CLEMENCY 
 
 nay, and perhaps corrects him: but no father in his 
 right wits will disinherit a son for the first fault- 
 there must be many and great offences, and only 
 desperate consequences, that should bring him to 
 that decretory resolution. He will make many ex- 
 periments to try if he can reclaim him first, and 
 nothing but the utmost despair must put him upon 
 extremities 
 
 It is not flattery that calls a prince the father of 
 his country; the titles of great and august aie matter 
 of compliment and of honor; but in calling him 
 father, we mind him of that moderation and indul- 
 gence which he owes to his children. His subjects 
 are his members; where, if there must be an ampu- 
 tation, let him come slowly to it; and when the part 
 is cut oft, let him wish it were on again: let him 
 grieve in the doing of it. He that passes a sentence 
 hastily, looks as if he did it willingly; and then 
 there is an injustice in the excess. 
 
 It is a glorious contemplation for a prince, first to 
 consider the vast multitudes of his people, whose 
 seditious, divided, and impotent passions, would 
 cast all in confusion, and destroy themselves, and 
 public order too, if the band of government did not 
 restrain them; and thence to pass the examination 
 of his conscience, saying thus to himself, "It is 
 by the choice of Providence that I am here made 
 God's deputy upon earth, the arbitrator of life and 
 death; and that upon my breath depends the fortune 
 of my people. My lips are the oracles of their fate, 
 and upon them hangs the destiny both of cities and 
 of men. It is under my favor that people seek eith- 
 er for prosperity or protection : thousands of swords 
 are drawn or sheathed at my pleasure. What 
 towns shall be advanced or destroyed; who shall be 
 
SENECA OP CLEMENCY. 383 
 
 slaves, or who free, depends upon my will; and yet, 
 in this arbitrary power of acting without control, I 
 was never transported to do any cruel thing, either 
 by anger or hot blood in myself or by the contum- 
 acy, rashness, or provocations of other men; though 
 sufficient to turn mercy itself into fury. I was nev- 
 er moved by the odious vanity of making myself 
 terrible by my power, (that accursed, though com- 
 mon humor of ostentation and glory that haunts im- 
 perious natures.) My sword has not only been 
 buried in the scabbard, but in a manner bound to 
 the peace, and tender even of the cheapest blood: 
 and where I find no other motive to compassion, 
 humanity itself is sufficient. I have been always 
 slow to severity, and prone to forgive;' and under as 
 strict a guard to observe the laws as if I were 
 accountable for the breaking of them. Some I par- 
 doned for their youth, others for their age. I spare 
 one man for his dignity, another for his humility; 
 and when I find no other matter to work upon, I 
 spare myself. So that if God should at this instant 
 call me to an account, the whole world agree to wit- 
 ness for me, that 1 have not by any force, either 
 public or private, either by myself or by any other, 
 defrauded the commonwealth; and the reputation 
 that I have ever sought for has been that which few 
 princes have obtained, the conscience of my proper 
 innocence. And I have not lost my labor neither; 
 for no man was ever so dear to another, as I have 
 made myself to the whole body of my people." 
 Under such a prince the subjects have nothing to 
 wish for beyond what they enjoy; their fears are 
 quieted, and their prayers heard, and there is noth- 
 ing can make their felicity greater, unless to make 
 
384 SENECA OF CLEMENCY. 
 
 it perpetual; and there is no liberty denied to the 
 people but that of destroying one another. 
 
 It is the interest of the* people, by the consent of 
 all nations, to run all hazards for the safety of their 
 prince, and by a thousand deaths to redeem that one 
 I'ife, upon which so many millions depend. Does 
 not the whole body serve the mind, though only the 
 one is exposed to the eye and the other not, but thin 
 and invisible, the very seat of it being uncertain? 
 Yet the hands, feet, and eyes, observe the motions 
 of it. We lie down, run about and ramble, as that 
 commands us. If we be covetous, we fish the seas 
 and ransack the earth for treasure: if ambitious, we 
 burn our own flesh with Scsevola; we cast ourselves 
 into the gulf with Curtius: so would that vast mul- 
 titude of people, which is animated but with one 
 soul, governed by one spirit, and moved by one 
 reason, destroy itself with its own strength, if it 
 were not supported by wisdom and government. 
 Wherefore, it is for their own security that the 
 people expose their lives for their prince, as the 
 very bond that ties the republic together; the vital 
 spirit of so many thousands, which would be noth- 
 ing else but a burden and prey without a governor. 
 
 When this union comes once to be dissolved, all 
 falls to pieces; for empire and obedience must stand 
 and fall together. It is no wonder then if a prince 
 be dear to his people, when the community is wrapt 
 up in him, and the good of both as inseparable as 
 the body and the head; the one for strength, and 
 the other for counsel; for what signifies the force of 
 the body without the direction of the understanding? 
 While the prince watches, his people sleep; his labor 
 keeps them at ease, and his business keeps them 
 quiet. The natural intent of monarchy appears even 
 
SENECA OF CLEMENCY. 385 
 
 from the very discipline of bees: they assign to their 
 master the fairest lodgings, the safest place; and his 
 oflBce is only to see that the rest perform their du- 
 ties. When their king is lost, the whole swarm dis- 
 solve: more than one they will not admit; and then 
 they contend who shall have the best. They are of 
 all creatures the fiercest for their bigness-; and leave 
 their stings behind them in their quarrels; only the 
 king himself has none, intimating that kihgs should 
 neither be vindictive nor cruel. 
 
 Is it not a shame, after such an example of mod- 
 eration in these creatures, that men should be yet 
 intemperate? It were well if they4ost their stings 
 too in their revenge, as well as the other, that they 
 might hurt but once, and do no mischief by their 
 proxies. It would tire them out, if either they were 
 to execute aU with their own hands, or to wound 
 others at the peril of their own lives. 
 
 A prince should behave himself generously in the 
 power which God has given him of life and death, 
 especially towards those that have been at any time 
 his equals; for the one has his revenge, and the 
 other his punishment in it. He that stands indebted 
 for his life has lost it; but he that receives his life at 
 the foot of his enemy, lives to the honor of his preser- 
 ver: he lives the lasting monument of his virtuet; 
 whereas, if he had been led in triumph, the spectacle 
 would have been quickly over Or what if he should 
 restore him to his kingdom again? would it not be 
 an ample accession to his honor to show that he 
 found nothing about the conquered that was worthy 
 of the conqueror? There is nothing more venerable 
 than a prince that does not revenge an injury. He 
 that is gracious is beloved and reverenced as a com- 
 iRQix father; but a tyrant steinds in fear and in 
 
386 SENECA OF CLEMENCY. 
 
 danger even of his own guards. No prince can be 
 safe himself of whom all others are afraid; for to 
 spare none is to enrage all. It is an error to im- 
 agine that any man can be secure that suffers 
 nobody else to be so too. How can any man endure 
 to lead an uneasy, suspicious, anxious life, when he 
 may be safe if he please, and enjoy all the blessings 
 of power, together with the prayers of his people? 
 Clemency protects a prince without a guard; there 
 is no need of troops, castles, or fortifications: se- 
 curity on the one side is the condition of security on 
 the other; and the affections of the subject are the 
 most invincible fortress. What can be fairer, than 
 for a prince to live the object of his people's love; 
 to have the vows of their heart as well as of their 
 lips, and his health and sickness their common 
 hopes and fears? There will be no danger of plots; 
 nay, on the contrary, who would not frankly ven- 
 ture his blood to save him, under whose govern- 
 ment, justice, peace, modesty, and dignity flourish? 
 under whose influence men grow rich and happy; 
 and whom men look upon with such veneration, as 
 they would do upon the immortal gods, if they were 
 capable of seeing them? And as the true represen- 
 tative of the Almighty they consider him, when he 
 is gracious and bountiful, and employs his power to 
 the advantage of his subjects. 
 
 When a prince proceeds to punishment, it must 
 be either to vindicate himself or others. It is a hard 
 matter to govern himself in his own case. If a man 
 should advise him not to be credulous, but to ex- 
 amine matters, and indulge the innocent, this is 
 rather a point of justice than of clemency: but in 
 case that he be manifestly injured, I would have 
 him. forgive, where he may safely do it: and be ten- 
 
SENECA OP CLEMENCY. 387 
 
 der even where he cannot forgive; but far more ex- 
 orable in his own case, however, than in another's. 
 
 It is nothing to be free of another man's purse, 
 and it is as little to be merciful in another man's 
 cause. He is the great man that masters his pas- 
 sion where he is stung himself, and pardons when he 
 might destroy. The end of punishment is either to 
 comfort the party injured, or to secure him for the 
 future. A prince's fortune is above the need of such 
 a comfort, and his power is too eminent to seek an 
 advance of reputation by doing a private man a 
 mischief. This I speak in case of an affront from 
 those that are below us; but he that of an equal has 
 made any man his inferior, has his revenge in the 
 bringing of him down. A prince has been killed by 
 a servant, destroyed by a serpent: but whosoever 
 preserves a man must be greater than the person 
 that he preserves. With citizens, strangers, and 
 people of low condition, a prince is not to contend, 
 for they are beneath him: he may spare some out of 
 good will, and others as he would do some little 
 creatures that a man cannot touch without fouling 
 his fingers: but for those that are to be pardoned or 
 exposed to public punishment, he may use mercy as 
 he sees occasion; and a generous mind can never 
 want inducements and niotives to it; and whether it 
 be age or sex, high or low, nothing comes amiss. 
 
 To pass now to the vindication of others, there 
 must be had a regard either to the amendment of 
 the person punished, or the making others better for 
 fear of punishment, or the taking the offender out 
 of the way for the security of others. An amend- 
 mentmay be procured by a small punishment, for he 
 lives more carefully that has something yet to lose — 
 it is 9, kind of impunity to be incapable of a farther 
 
388 SENECA OP CLEMENCY, 
 
 punishment. The corruptions of a city are best 
 cured by a few and sparing severities; for the multi- 
 tude . of offenders creates a custom of offending, 
 and company authorizes a crime, and there is 
 more good to be done upon a dissolute age by 
 patience than by rigor j provided that it pass not 
 for an approbation of ill-manners, but ordy as an 
 unwillingness to proceed to extremities. Under a 
 merciful prince, a man will be ashamed to offend, 
 because a punishment that is inflicted by a gentle 
 governor seems to fall heavier and with more re- 
 proach: and it is remarkable also, that "those sins 
 are often committed which are very often punished." 
 Caligula, in five years, condemned more people to 
 the sack than ever were before him: and there were 
 " fewer parricides before the law against them than 
 after;" for our ancestors did wisely presume that the 
 crime would never be committed, until by law for 
 punishing it, they found that it might be done. 
 Parricides began with the law against them, and 
 the punishment instructed men in the crime. Where 
 there are few punishments, innocency is indulged as 
 a public good, and it is a dangerous thing to show a 
 city how strong it is in delinquents. There is a cer- 
 tain contumacy in the nature of man that makes 
 him oppose difficulties. We are better to follow than 
 to drive; as a generous horse rides best with an easy 
 bit. People obey willingly where they are command- 
 ed kindly. 
 
 When Burrhus the prefect was to sentence two 
 malefactors, he brought the warrant to Nero to sign; 
 who, after a long reluctancy came to it at last with 
 this exclamation: "I would I could not write!" A 
 speech that deserved the whole world for an audi- 
 tory, but all princes especially; and that the hearts 
 
SENECA OF CLEMENCY. 389 
 
 o£ all the subjects would conform to the likeness of 
 their masters. As the head is well or ill, so is the 
 mind dull or merry. What is the difference betwixt 
 a king and a tyrant, but a diversity of ivtll under 
 one and the same power. The one destroys for his 
 pleasure, the other upon necessity; a distinction 
 rather in fact than in name. 
 
 A gracious prince is armed as well as a tyrant; 
 but it is for the defence of his people and not for the 
 ruin of them. No king can ever have faithful ser- 
 vants that accustoms them to tortures and execu- 
 tions; the very guilty themselves do not lead so 
 anxious a life as the persecutors: for they are not 
 only afraid of justice, both divine and human, but it 
 is dangerous for them to mend their manners; so 
 that when they are once in, they must continue to be^ 
 wicked upon necessity. An universal hatred unites 
 in a popular rage. A temperate fear may be kept 
 in order; but when it comes once to be continual 
 and sharp, it provokes people to extremities, and 
 transports them to desperate resolutions, as wild 
 beasts when they are pressed upon the toil, turn 
 back and assault the very pursuers. A turbulent 
 government is a perpetual trouble both to prince and 
 people; and he that is a terror to all otheTs is not 
 without terror also himself. Frequent punishments 
 and revenges may suppress the hatred of a few, but 
 then it stirs up the -detestation of all, so that there is 
 no destroying one enemy without making many. 
 It is good to master the will of being cruel, even 
 while there may be cause for it, and matter to work 
 upon. 
 
 Augustus was a gracious prince when he had the 
 power in his own hand; but in the triumviracy he 
 made use of his sword, and had his friends ready 
 
o'jO SENECA OP CLEMENCY. 
 
 armed to set upon Antony during that dispute. But 
 he behaved himself afterwards at another rate; for 
 when he was betwixt forty and fifty years of age he 
 was told that Cinna was in a plot to murder him, 
 with the time, place and manner of the design; and 
 this from one of the confederates. Upon this he 
 resolved upon a revenge, and sent for several of his 
 friends to advise upon it. The thought of it kept 
 him waking, to consider, that there was the life of a 
 young nobleman in the case, the nephew of Pompey, 
 and a person otherwise innocent. He was off and 
 on several times whether he should put him to death 
 or not. "What!" says he, "shall I live in trouble 
 and in danger myself, and the contriver of my death 
 walk free and secure? Will nothing serve him but 
 that life which providence has preserved in so many 
 civil wars — in so many battles both by sea and land; 
 and now in the state of an universal peace too — and 
 not a simple murder either, but a sacrifice; for I am 
 to be assaulted at the very altar — and shall the con- 
 triver of all this villany escape unpunished? " Here 
 Augustus made a little pause, and then recollecting 
 himself: "No, no, Csesar," says he, "it is rather 
 Caesar than Cinna that I am to be angry with: 
 why do I myself live any longer after that my death 
 is become the interest of so many people? And if I 
 go on, what end will there be of blood and of 
 punishment? If it be against my life that the 
 nobility arm itself, and level its weapons, my 
 single life is not worth the while, if so many must 
 be destroyed that I may be preserved." 
 
 His wife Livia gave him here an interruption, and 
 desired him that he would for once hear a woman's 
 counsel. "Do," says she, "like a physician, that 
 when common remedies fail, will try the contrary: 
 
&aNECA OF CLEMENCY. 391 
 
 you have got nothing hitherto by severity — after 
 Salvidianus there followed Lepidus — after him 
 Mursena — Csepio followed him, and Egnatius fol- 
 lowed Caepio — try now what mercy will do — forgive 
 Cijina. He is discovered, and can do no hurt to 
 your person; and it will yet advantage you in your 
 reputation." Augustus was glad of the advice, and 
 he gave thanks for it; and thereupon countermanded 
 the meeting of his friends, and ordered Cinna to be 
 brought to him alone; for whom he caused a chair 
 to be, set, and then discharged the rest of the com- 
 pany. "Cinna," says Augustus, "before I go any 
 farther, you must promise not to give me the inter- 
 ruption of one syllable until I have told you all I 
 have to say, and you shall have liberty afterwards 
 to say what you please. You cannot forget, that 
 when I found you in arms against me, and not only 
 made my enemy, but horn so, I gave you your life 
 and fortune. Upon your petition for the priesthood, 
 I granted it, with a repulse to the sons of those that 
 had been my fellow-soldiers; and you are at this day 
 so happy and so rich, that even the conquerors envy 
 him that is overcome; and yet after all this, you are 
 in a plot, Cinna, to murder me." At that word Cinna 
 started, and interposed with exclamations, "that 
 certainly he was far from being either so wicked or 
 so mad." "This is a breach of conditions, Cinna," 
 says Augustus, "it is not your time to speak yet: I 
 tell you again, that you are in a plot to murder me;" 
 and so he told him the time, the place, the confeder- 
 ates,' the order and manner of the design, and who 
 it was that was to do the deed. Cinna, upon this, 
 fixed his eye upon the ground without any reply: 
 not for his word's sake, but as in a confu- 
 sion of conscience: and so Augustus went on. 
 
392 SfiNE6A OB* CLEMENCY. 
 
 "What," says he, "may your design be in all this? Is 
 it that you would pretend to step into my place? 
 The commonwealth were in an ill condition, if only 
 Augustus were in the way betwixt you and the 
 government. You were cast the other day in a 
 cause by one of your own freemen, and do you ex- 
 pect to find a weaker adversary of Caesar? But 
 what if I were removed? There is ^milius Paulus, 
 Fabius Maximus, and twenty other families of great 
 blood and interest, that would never bear it." To 
 cut off the story short; (for it was a discourse of 
 above two hours; and Augustus lengthened the pun- 
 ishment in words, since he intended that should be 
 all;) "Well, Cinna," says he, "the life that I gave 
 to you once as an enemy, I will now repeat it to a 
 traitor and to a parricide j, and this shall be the last 
 reproach I will give you. For the time to come 
 there shall be no other contention betwixt you and 
 me, than which shall outdo the other in point of 
 friendship." After this Augustus made Cinna consul, 
 (an honor which he confessed he durst not so much 
 as desire) and Cinna was ever affectionately faithful 
 to him: he made Caesar his sole heir; and this was 
 the last conspiracy that ever was formed against 
 him. 
 
 This moderation of Augustus was the excellency 
 of his mature age; for in his youth he was passionate 
 and sudden; and he did many things which after- 
 ward he looked back upon with trouble: after the 
 battle of Actium, so many navies broken in Sicily, 
 both Roman and strangers: the Perusian altars, 
 where 300 lives were sacrificed to the ghost oi Julius;) 
 his frequent proscriptions, and other sverities; his 
 temperance at last seemed to be little more than a 
 weary cruelty. If he had not forgiven those that he 
 
SENECA OB- CLEMENCY. 393 
 
 Conquered, whom should he have governed? He 
 chose his very life-guard from among his enemies, 
 and the flower of the Romans owed their lives to his 
 clemency. Nay, he only punished Lepidus himself 
 with banishment, and permitted him to wear the 
 ensigns of his dignity, without taking the pontificate 
 to himself so long as Lepidus was living; for he 
 would not possess it as a spoil, but as an honor. 
 This clemency it was that secured him in his great- 
 ness, and ingratiated him to the people, though he 
 laid his hand upon the government before they had 
 thoroughly submitted to the yoke; and this clemency 
 it was that made his name famous to posterity. This 
 is it that makes us reckon him divine without the 
 authority of an apotheosis. He was so tender and . 
 patient, that though many a bitter jest was broken 
 upon him, (and contumelies upon princes are the 
 most intolerable of all injuries) yet he- never pun- 
 ished any man upon that subject. It is, then, gen- 
 erous to be merciful, when we have it in our power 
 to take revenge. 
 
 A son of Titus Arius, being examined and found 
 guilty of parricide, was banished Rome, and con- 
 fined to Marseilles, where his father allowed him the 
 same annuity that he had before; which made all 
 people conclude him guilty, when they saw that his 
 father had yet condemned the son that he could not 
 hate. Augustus was pleased to sit upon the fact in 
 the house of Arius, only as a single member of the 
 council that was to examine it: if it had been in 
 Caesar's palace, the judgment must have been 
 Csesar's and not the father's. Upon a full hearing 
 of the matter, Caesar directed that every nian should 
 write his opinion whether guilty or-not, and without 
 declaring of his own, for fear of a partial vote. 
 
394 SENECA OF CLEMENCY. 
 
 Before the opening of the books, Csesar passed an 
 oath, that he would not be Arius's heir: and to show 
 that he had no interest in his sentence, as appeared 
 afterward; for he was not condemned to the ordinary 
 punishments of parricides, nor to a prison, but, by 
 the mediation of Caesar, only banished Eome, and 
 confined to the place which his father should name; 
 Augustus insisting upon it, that the father should 
 content himself with an easy punishment: and argu- 
 ing that the young man was not moved to the 
 attempt by malice, and that he was but half resolved 
 upon the fact, for he wavered in it; and, therefore, 
 to remove him from the city, and from his father's 
 sight, would be sufficient. This is a glorious mercy, 
 and worthy of a prince, to make all things gentler 
 wherever he comes. 
 
 How miserable is that man in himself, who, when 
 he has employed his power in rapines and cruelty 
 upon others, is yet more unhappy in himself! He 
 stands in fear both of his domestics and of strangers; 
 the faith of his friends and the piety of his children, 
 and flies to actual violence to secure him from the 
 violence he fears. When he comes to look about 
 him, and to consider what he has done, what he 
 must, and what he is about to do; what with the 
 wickedness, and with the torments of his conscience, 
 many times he fears death, oftener he wishes for it; 
 and lives more odious to himself than to his sub- 
 jects; whereas on the contrary, he that takes a care 
 of the public, though of one part more perhaps than 
 of another, yet there is not any part of it but he 
 looks upon as part of himself. His mind is tender 
 and gentle; and even where punishment is necessarj- 
 and profitable, he conies to it unwillingly, and with- 
 out any rancor or enmity in his heart. Let the 
 
SENECA OF CLEMENCY. 305 
 
 authority, in fine, be what it will, clemency becomes 
 it; and the greater the power, the greater is the 
 glory of it. " It is a truly royal virtue for a prince 
 to deliver his people from other men's anger, and 
 not to oppress them with his own." 
 

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